Near You

by Mary Burton

  Reynolds: No.

  Dana: Good. Keep it that way.

  Reynolds: Are you coming home?

  Dana: What are you wearing?

  Reynolds: Jeans. You?

  The killer followed with a blushing emoji, and the conversation continued as he or she fed Reynolds enough vague sexual comments to keep him talking. This went on for an hour, and then the texts stopped. Why the hell had the killer played games with Dana’s old boyfriend?

  Elijah sat in the coffee shop at the corner table. As always, his back was to the wall, and he faced the door. In prison he had learned quickly to protect his back. He supposed this quirk would never leave him.

  He often got out of his house or office simply to prove to himself that he could do whatever he wanted now. Freedom was a precious thing, and he intended to not only guard his but savor every moment of it going forward.

  When the door opened, he looked up over his book and noted the entry of the tall, thin man. He was only a few years older than Elijah, but the guy had a youthful energy that hinted he had never been tested by life. A bad day for this guy was a delayed flight or a cold latte.

  Elijah sipped his mug of black coffee. He dropped his gaze to his book, stealing a side glance here and there to track the man. No introductions were necessary. Since Ann had told him about Paul Thompson’s visit, Elijah had done his own research.

  He waited until Thompson was settled in a booth before he picked up his coffee and book and slid into the seat across from him.

  Thompson looked up from his phone, his expression mirroring first outrage, then shock, and finally interest. “Mr. Weston.”

  Elijah knitted his fingers together and rested them on the table. “Mr. Thompson. I understand you’ve been talking to some of my friends.”

  “I have.” He set his phone down but kept his hand close to the device, as if it would protect him from Elijah. “You’ve heard I’m doing a podcast.”

  “About me.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re fascinating. Yours is the classic tale of David and Goliath.”

  “Me being David?”

  “The system was stacked against you, and you did come out on top,” Thompson said.

  “There are plenty of stories like that. How did mine catch your attention?” Elijah asked.

  “My work has a following,” Thompson said. “I receive tips on stories like yours all the time.”

  Elijah’s eyes narrowed. “Who tipped you off about me?”

  “That doesn’t matter.”

  “It does to me.”

  “I can’t reveal my sources.”

  “A classic response.” Elijah sat back, sipping the coffee, disappointed it was no longer piping hot. “Have you spoken to Ann?”

  “I have. She’s promised to give me an interview on Saturday. You’re welcome to join us.”

  “Did you threaten her?” Elijah asked softly, setting his cup down.

  “I don’t threaten.”

  “Maybe not technically, but I’ll bet that you’re good with words and can dance right up to the line of a threat.” Elijah knew the technique well.

  “I didn’t say anything like that to her.”

  “Did you mention Nate?” Elijah asked carefully.

  Thompson sat back, looking a little like a cornered animal.

  Elijah smiled. “That, my friend, is a very dangerous card to play.”

  “What’s that mean?” Thompson challenged.

  Aware that Thompson could be taping this conversation, Elijah shrugged. “The boy is a minor.”

  “I’ve never been near the child,” Thompson countered.

  “Good. I would hate to see a child upset.” He rose, sensing if he lingered, he might say something he would deeply regret.

  “I want to interview you,” Thompson said.

  “No.”

  “What about Nate?”

  Elijah stilled. It took all his self-control not to smash the coffee cup into the man’s face.

  “Don’t you want to get ahead of this story and control it? I can help you do that,” Thompson said.

  Elijah gently tapped his fist on the table. “I don’t need you to do that.”

  “I’m going to tell the story regardless. Did you know two of your Fireflies have been murdered? Are the names Dana Riley and Sarah Cameron familiar to you?”

  Elijah refused to be sidetracked. “Leave Nate out of this.” He carried his cup to the counter, handed it to the woman behind the register, and, smiling, thanked her.

  Outside, he glanced at his hand and flexed the fingers into a fist. He had made hints about his relationship with Ann in a couple of his letters to the Fireflies. Nothing specific, but many were smart, and one look at the boy proved their genetic connection.

  Nate would find out the truth eventually, but Elijah did not want him learning on a social media account or from a stranger. That news needed to come from his parents.

  Ann did not want his protection, nor did she want him near Nate. But she was wrong on both counts. He would protect them both.

  Bryce received the call from the medical examiner as he drove through the front entrance to his ranch. As he approached a known cell-signal dead zone on the property, he stopped the car before he answered. “Dr. Christopher. You’re working late.”

  “No rest for the wicked,” he joked.

  Bryce laughed. “I hear you.”

  “I know the identity of the body found in Anaconda. The registration number on the ankle plate came through.” Papers rustled in the background. “Her name is Nena Lassiter, and she’s originally from San Diego, California.”

  He recognized the name from the list of Fireflies. “That’s one hell of a job. Can you email me the details?”

  “Sure.”

  “Thanks, Doc.”

  Bryce stared at the explosive oranges and yellows of the setting sun that skimmed the top of the mountain range in the distance. He had been looking for a reason to call Ann for hours. Not that he needed one. He was a grown man. Jesus. What the hell. He dialed.

  She picked up on the second ring. “Bryce.”

  “Are you doing all right?”

  “Yes, Nate is already asleep. Exhausted after school and a high-carbohydrate dinner.”

  He closed his eyes, trying to picture what she was wearing, if her hair was up or down, and the soft scent of her perfume. What they shared was new and fragile, and she was gun shy about commitment, so he kept the focus on work. “I just heard from Dr. Christopher. He’s identified the Anaconda victim.” He quickly detailed what he had learned.

  Papers rustled in the background. “I’m looking at the pictures Thompson gave me. Nena’s DMV picture looks a little like the woman in the Polaroid. She grew out her hair and dyed it blonder.”

  Making her look more like Ann. The idea that these women were mimicking Ann bothered him. “Ann, everything is really okay? No trouble from Thompson or Weston?”

  “It’s fine.” No missing the forced positivity coating the words.

  “Seriously?” He resented the hour-long drive separating them.

  “Don’t worry.”

  Christ, if she really needed him, he could race like a bat out of hell and still not get to her in time.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Missoula, Montana

  Wednesday, August 25

  12:30 p.m.

  Ann’s class had wrapped up five minutes late, and she had been delayed another fifteen by a student with questions. Then came a text from Maura asking what had happened to their ten o’clock meeting at the house. Ann canceled Maura, citing work and promising to get back to her by the end of the day. Maura responded immediately, reminding her that an organized life is a good life, so they rescheduled for five.

  After Ann made her way out of the building, she spotted Bryce standing by his vehicle. He walked toward her, his dark suit skimming his broad shoulders and flapping in the breeze enough to reveal his gun and badge
clipped to his belt. His trademark cowboy hat shadowed his eyes. He carried a manila folder. She moistened her lips as she approached.

  He opened the passenger-side door for her. “How was school this morning?”

  “I did get a late start, and I might have exceeded the speed limit when I was driving to work, but school went great. Nice to be back.”

  “Don’t be confessing to me,” he said.

  “Right. You’re a sworn officer.” She slid into the car.

  “Who would like nothing better than to call it a day and take you to a motel room.” He closed the door and got in the car.

  Oh, that idea did tempt.

  He handed her the manila folder, started the car, and turned on the air-conditioning. “I finally found Nena Lassiter’s social media account, and it looked like she was working in a local bar. I spent the morning showing her mug shot to a half dozen local bars. I hit pay dirt at the fourth establishment. Nena had been in town about a month and was working as a waitress. Apparently, she was working her way across the country and had stopped in Montana to take in the sights. She’d established a history of missing work, so when she didn’t show for work, no one went looking for her. They just assumed she had moved on to the next town.”

  Ann skimmed the woman’s police record and studied her mug shot, featuring a thin, angled face, pale skin, dark eyes, and brown hair. “Only she didn’t get far.”

  “Her phone is not sending a signal now,” he said. “She appears to have one credit card, which was used multiple times this week. Mostly small gas stations and food places that don’t have surveillance cameras.”

  “Did she get to know anyone while she was in town?” Ann asked.

  “She hooked up with a guy by the name of Jerry Cantrell. He works at the local garage. He wasn’t in yet this morning, but he should be at work by now.”

  “Can I join you?”

  “Sure.”

  He glanced up at the academic building, as if daring prying eyes, before he leaned over and kissed her.

  She savored his taste. “Hello.”

  “Been wanting to do that for as long as I can remember,” he said.

  “It hasn’t been that long.”

  “Feels like a lifetime.”

  “Maybe we can get away for a couple of hours of private time soon.” The heat simmering behind the words conjured memories of his body pressing against hers.

  “Soon. Very soon.”

  Drawing in a breath, he put the car in gear and drove to the auto repair shop on the north side of town. The two walked into the shop together. Bryce showed his badge to an older man behind the counter and asked for Cantrell. The whir of a pneumatic screwdriver blended with a Kid Rock song and drifted out from the garage when the old man opened the door.

  Bryce stepped in front of Ann and brushed back his jacket. Her brother had made it clear that moments like this could be dicey. No telling what kind of trouble a cop’s arrival could trigger.

  Inside the garage they found a short man with muscular arms covered in tattoos. He sported a white bandage at his right temple. He wiped grease from his hands as he eyed Bryce with suspicion and for Ann showed a flicker of appreciation. “I’m Cantrell. What can I do for you?”

  Bryce showed his badge and identified himself and Ann. “We have a couple of questions about Nena Lassiter.”

  Cantrell shook his head and dropped his gaze for a moment before asking, “What has she done?”

  “Why do you say that?” Bryce asked.

  “We hooked up three or four times while she was in town. And it was fun. Then she took off with a couple hundred bucks from my wallet. Did she rip off another guy?”

  “Not that we are aware of,” Bryce said. “Did she talk about herself?”

  Ann noted Bryce was avoiding a homicide notice, which likely would have put the man on guard. Once his defenses were in place, he would start filtering his responses.

  “She was from California,” Cantrell said. “She had dreams of seeing the country.”

  “What brought her to Missoula?” Bryce asked.

  “Said she was here to catch up with a friend. They met once or twice, and then he dropped her.”

  “Did you catch the friend’s name?” Ann asked.

  “Thompson, I think,” he said.

  “Paul Thompson?” she asked.

  “That’s right. Don’t tell me those two are on some kind of Bonnie-and-Clyde joyride.”

  “Nena is dead,” Bryce said.

  The news struck the smirk from Cantrell’s face. “Shit. How?”

  “Did you ever meet Paul Thompson?” Bryce asked.

  “A couple of weeks ago. He and Nena met at her bar before it opened. When I got there, they ended whatever it was they were doing. He gathered up his papers and left.”

  “Did she say what they were talking about?” Bryce asked.

  “No. And I didn’t press. Our relationship wasn’t based on conversation.”

  “Did Nena say anything else to you about Thompson?” Bryce asked.

  “No.”

  “What about Elijah Weston?” Bryce asked.

  “That crazy guy that got out of prison? Hell no. With Nena and me, it was just about the sex. We didn’t talk much. And I sure didn’t do anything illegal with her.” He ran his hand over his head. “How did Nena die?”

  “She was stabbed to death,” Bryce said.

  “She suffered a horrific death,” Ann said. “If there is anything you can tell us . . .”

  Cantrell rested his hands on his hips. “It sure as shit wasn’t me,” he said. “I don’t hurt people.”

  “How did you hurt yourself?” Bryce asked.

  “The day Nena took off, I damn near got killed by a hit-and-run driver. Ran me off the road outside of town, and my truck ended up in a ditch. I got a gash on my head that took ten stitches to fix.” As proof, he peeled off his bandage and showed them the ragged healing scar along his hairline.

  Ann sensed the weight of Bryce’s stare on the man. “Did Nena mention anything that might have been a red flag to you?”

  Cantrell shifted his gaze to her. “She liked that I’d been in prison. It was a turn-on for her. Said she’d been really into a guy in the joint once. They wrote letters. She asked me a couple of times what it was like being behind bars.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Said she hoped to hook up with him one day soon.” He paused. “Shit, she was talking about that Weston guy, wasn’t she?”

  “Maybe,” Ann said.

  “Everybody in town knows Weston’s story.” He leveled his gaze on Ann. “And your story, now that I think about it. You were at his trial, right?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  Cantrell leaned a little closer to Ann. “In the right light, you look like Nena. Her hair was longer and blonder, but she looked like you.”

  Nervous energy coiled in her belly. How many of the Fireflies had altered their appearance to resemble her?

  Bryce pulled up the Polaroid image of Nena on his phone. “Is this Nena?”

  Cantrell studied the picture. “That’s Nena.”

  Bryce handed Cantrell his card. “Call me if you think of anything else.”

  “Sure.”

  Outside, Ann rubbed her hands over her arms. Everywhere she turned Elijah’s shadow lingered.

  “Don’t let him get to you,” Bryce said.

  “I haven’t,” Ann said.

  “You’re pale. You’re tense.”

  “It’s not like I see Elijah everywhere I turn. He’s not physically following me, but he’s always there. Do you think he could have killed those women?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “He’s so clever.”

  “He’s not going to get to you.”

  “I appreciate the sentiment, but no one can protect me twenty-four seven.”

  Bryce laid his hands on her shoulders. “That’s not going to happen.”

  But lessons learned had taught her if someone wanted to kill you, there was no
stopping them.

  I sit outside Ann’s house, knowing it is a matter of time before he shows. She is the center of his obsession, and sooner or later he will come sniffing around.

  The others have been a warm-up for him and for me. The main event is Ann.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Missoula, Montana

  Wednesday, August 25

  4:00 p.m.

  Bryce parked in front of Elijah Weston’s house. The one-story rancher had neatly cut grass, a large poplar tree in the front yard, and mulch bags piled high by the flower beds. It was also within walking distance of Ann’s house.

  He rose out of his car, settled his hat on his head, strode toward the front door, and rang the bell. Seconds later, footsteps echoed in the house, and the door opened to Elijah Weston. He was dressed in khakis and a blue T-shirt and wore dark-rimmed glasses. “Sergeant McCabe. This is a nice surprise.”

  “You’re smarter than that. You knew I’d be coming by sooner or later.”

  “The police do like to rope me into their investigations. What’s the latest case you are working on? Don’t tell me another dead Firefly.”

  “That’s right. Nena Lassiter.”

  Elijah seemed to search his memory. “Nena. From California.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Wait just a moment—I have something for you.” He vanished inside the house and returned quickly with a sheet of paper. “This is a copy of my calendar for the last three months. I’m assuming you’ll need to confirm my alibi. I have several copies in case any of your cop friends want one.”

  Bryce took the paper and studied the computer printout. He keyed in on the dates in early June, July, and last Tuesday. Elijah had been attending back-to-back summer classes in June and July and last week had been volunteering at the university. Beside the dates he had written the names and phone numbers of several individuals.

  “Call any of those names, and they can confirm I was either in class or working,” he said.

  “Do you always keep a detailed calendar like this?” Bryce asked.

  “Since the day I was released from prison,” Elijah said.

  “You moved mighty close to Ann Bailey.”

  “There’s no law against it,” Elijah said.

  “No law, just curious why you’re so near her.”