Read Raven's Cove - Jenna Ryan for Free Online Page B

the heel of her boot had jammed itself between two slats. One good yank freed it, but by then, both the men and the dog had vanished into the bushes below.
    Catching hold of the planter that seemed determined to mow her down, Jasmine scanned the tangled greenery. “Rogan? Boris. Where are you?”
    “We’re here,” Rogan replied.
    Still growling, Boris mounted the stairs behind a large, heavyset man. Rogan brought up the rear.
    Recognition widened her eyes. “Boxman?”
    Sergeant Brent Boxman grunted. “See? She didn’t have to bounce me on my ass to know who I am. What’s the matter, Rogan? Your eyesight gone south because of a little rain shower?”
    “More likely because of the thirty pounds you’ve packed on since the last time I saw you.”
    Boxman showed his teeth. “You get a punch-drunk lawyer to fight your court battle against a divorce diva, an ex-wife from hell and two grown stepkids who tell you to your face to stuff your gun in your pants and blow your private parts sky-high, and see how you’re doing at the end of six frigging months. Your diet’s a conveyor belt of greasy burgers, beer and pizza.”
    “That’s bad?”
    The cop jabbed a resentful finger. “One day, pal, your lifestyle’s gonna catch up with you, and Jasmine here won’t be able to tell the difference between us, except that you’ll be lying in a pine box, and I’ll still be reeling in fish like Malcolm Wainwright.”
    “You think?”
    Rogan’s eyes glinted, but whether with humor or some kind of male challenge, Jasmine wasn’t sure. In any case, he was right about the weight. Boxman had developed a distinct paunch. He’d also grown a beard, added an earring and, unless her eyes were playing tricks in the glow from the flashlight, lost a lower tooth.
    His gaze left Rogan to brighten on her. “So, tell me, angel face, what brings you to this slice of New England paradise?”
    Reaching over, she straightened the bandanna he wore as a headband. “I got a feather and two phone calls, so Rogan made me come. You?”
    “I heard—” He blinked. “You got a what?”
    “Feather.” She used her hands to demonstrate. “About this long, black, probably stolen from a raven. My friend Lenny has two. That’s a bad thing in this town.”
    Boxman waved a hand in front of her face. “You on happy pills or something?”
    “Daniel found out about the recent murders,” Rogan explained. “He coupled them with the fact that there wasn’t much left of the helicopter that went down after the prison break and drew the same conclusion as the rest of us. It’s possible Wainwright’s not dead.”
    “Phoenix,” Jasmine reminded and saw his lips twitch.
    “It’s also possible that one of Wainwright’s subordinates has decided either to rise up and avenge his boss’s death—unlikely—or make it appear that Malcolm’s still running the show in an effort to pump fresh blood into the rapidly crumbling business.” He rested his shoulder on a post, kept his expression bland. “Your turn, Sergeant. What and why?”
    Boxman shook his head. “Crocker got in touch with me.”
    “Crocker’s incommunicado.”
    “Sent me a text yesterday just the same.”
    “What did it say?”
    “Verbatim? ‘Trouble brewing in Raven’s Cove, Maine. Daniel at risk. Go.”
    “Crocker’s Daniel’s contact,” Rogan told Jasmine.
    “I guess he got wind I was heading up to Vermont to visit my sister while my ex and her Lady Macbeth lawyer plot my financial demise. Guess he knows, too, that since Daniel’s no longer top of the most-likely-to-be-offed list, he could bend the rules and ask me to take a detour, make sure things were kosher with his charge. I figured what the hell, so here I am, doing a favor and getting double-teamed by a dog and a shadow cop.”
    Did she believe that? Jasmine wondered. More to the point, did Rogan?
    She couldn’t tell, but one thing was certain, she’d had enough of the wind and rain for one night. If it was still