Page 25 of Just Friends
“Thanks, Jeremy, who hired Haunted Entertainment to follow Miss Gilbert?”
The door opened and in stepped Chief Ed Matheson. “Anderson.” Behind the chief stood two men wearing expensive suits: One, he assumed, was Murphy and the other his lawyer. “The clown has an attorney.”
“This is my client, and you must cease with questioning Detective Anderson. And that means stop.”
“I know what the fuck it means,” he snapped, jumping to his feet. The counselor took a step backward.
“Anderson, out,” the Chief barked.
“If you roughed up my client,” the lawyer added from out of arm’s reach.
“Your client was stalking a woman in my town and intentionally causing distress, and that means scaring her on purpose.”
“Detective, that’s enough,” the Chief said holding the door open. “Now out.” Weasel stormed past the Chief out of the room. Ed caught him at his desk, “You can’t work the case, being that your girlfriend is the victim,” he whispered. Weasel stopped, staring at him; Matheson laughed, slapping his back. “Man, everyone knows you’re after that girl.”
Weasel shook his head. “It’s not that…”
“Obvious? Yeah, it is… Just let us deal with Haunted Entertainment.”
“There’s no dealing with it. His lawyer will waltz him right out of here, and they’ll what? Pay a fine?”
Ed leaned in. “I’ll do what I can.”
“Her ex hired them.”
“Is she pressing charges?” To that, Weasel could only sigh. “Leave it alone,” Ed said.
He wanted to beg Rebecca to reconsider her stance. But she was correct, the bigger stink she made, the greater Kyle’s satisfaction. He contemplated how to make Kyle disappear off the planet and not get caught. Then, he exhaled and continued with paperwork while keeping one eye peeled on the interrogation room where the suspects and their lawyer were. His cell phone buzzed; the screen read Dalton. “Yo,” he answered.
“Huntin’ Saturday morning, you in?” Dalton didn’t waste words on the phone. He couldn’t have known how much Weasel needed some quiet time in the woods.
“Sounds good. Pick me up.”
“Will do.”
Eight
Bleary-eyed Rebecca answered the door to Weasel in full, dirty fatigues. “Morning,” he beamed. Again, roused from a deep slumber by his knocking.
She stared at him. “You have got to stop doing this. Some of us sleep, you know.”
“Come to the truck,” he said, ignoring her demeanor. “I brought you something.”
Yawning, she snatched her jacket from the hook and shoved her feet into a pair of shoes. She inventoried her ensemble: pajama pants were present. It didn’t occur to her until she was halfway across the walkway to question why he was dragging her outside in the cold to give her something.
At the end of the sidewalk, she spotted his brother in the driver’s seat of a parked pickup, the window lowered, one arm hanging out of the cab. “Hey, Dalton,” she called in greeting. He nodded. “Weasel, I’m half asleep. Why are you here?” Wearing hunting gear. Oh no. As the notion occurred, they arrived at the bed of the truck filled with…a dead deer.
“I bagged him for you,” Weasel announced. “Thought you’d like to cook him.”
Speechless, she stood there.
“Told ya, dumbass,” Dalton said.
“Fuck you,” Weasel retorted and crossed his arms over his chest.
Crap. This was a matter of pride for Weasel. He was proud of his kill and was giving it to her—wooing her with a dead animal. Rebecca bit back a laugh at this realization. It was odd but sweet, so she had to fix this quickly. “He’s beautiful,” she declared touching Weasel’s forearm; turned to face him.
“Yeah?” he came back.