Sterling expected a lot out of this conversation, but that wasn't one of them. “How’d you know Nick was in here?”
“Small-town gossip, I guess.” Doyle shrugged. “What’s he here for, anyway?”
“Dove and Trent’s wedding," Sterling said. “He and Dove worked a couple of ops together years ago, and I guess Nick knew her uncle, who was with the Marshal's office.”
“Right, because Nick knows everybody.”
Sterling chuckled before taking another sip. “I really am sorry. I hope there are no hard feelings. I was looking forward to working with you again.”
“Then work with me. Take the fucking job.”
“I told you, I can’t.”
“You keep saying that, but you haven’t given me a real reason.”
Sterling tapped his temple with two fingers. “You know why.”
"Your memory isn’t a valid reason.”
“It is, when the things in there belong to the government.”
“You’re not selling state secrets on a street corner. You’d be helping a client identify whether old corridor ghosts are coming for him.”
“Those ghosts have names.”
“Exactly. Names you might remember.”
Sterling lowered his chin. “And the government wouldn’t like me pulling them out for a private job.”
“They won’t find out.”
“But they already have." Sterling arched a brow. “Remember how I thought you might have been sent here to warn me? Or check up on me?”
Doyle shook his head. “Nick?"
Sterling laughed. “Like the government would trust that crazy motherfucker with an assignment like that."
Doyle’s mouth tipped. “He always was a little unstable.”
“I won't argue that.” Sterling set his beer on the porch between his boots. “But seriously, I can’t do it. I’m sorry.”
Doyle picked at the label on his bottle. “This puts me in a bad spot.”
“I wish things were different.”
“My boss doesn’t love surprises.”
“Most bosses don’t.” Sterling stood. “Tell him I’m sorry. Tell him Buddy reviewed the circumstances, and I had to bow out.”
"Because my boss would believe that line of crap." Doyle sighed, waving a finger toward the dirt pavement. "Looks like we're getting a visit from the local police chief."
Dawson strolled down the road wearing jeans and a faded Calusa Cove Police Department T-shirt. His badge clipped to his belt loop. Gun holstered on his right side and flip-flops on his feet because Dawson Ridge could walk into a murder scene dressed like he was taking out the trash and still make people listen.
He lifted a hand. “Howdy fellas.”
“Hey, Chief,” Sterling said.
Dawson paused at the edge of the porch. “Mind if I have a word, Sterling.”
