Burn on the Western Slope (Crimson Romance)

by Smith, Angela

  “I found this in Ray’s condo.”

  Garret shoved the business card in Chayton’s face. Chayton stepped back and grabbed the card. His face paled as he glanced at Garret.

  “What is this?”

  “It’s a business card — ”

  “I know what it is,” Chayton said. “I just don’t understand.”

  “Yeah? Well, that makes two of us. Grant is the — ”

  “I know who he is,” Chayton interrupted again.

  “How do you know who he is?”

  “I mean, I know he was the guy I found the other night. The dead guy. With the jewels.”

  Garret forced out the air trapped in his lungs. “Remember when Buchanan called me the night before Reagan’s arrival?”

  Chayton shrugged. “I don’t know. Sure. Maybe.”

  “He called to inform me of Reagan’s arrival and assign me to investigate her.”

  “What?”

  Garret shouldn’t be telling Chayton any of this, but Chayton knew Ray better than anyone, and he trusted Chayton with his life. He had to do something, and telling Chayton seemed the next logical step.

  “My last mission involved a huge jewel heist. One of those jewels involved a multi-million dollar necklace. Part of that necklace was found on Gil Grant. Reagan was involved with a dirty cop who was involved with a large crime family involved in jewelry heists, that sort of thing. I happened to be talking about this necklace to Reagan and she told me she’d found a necklace in the dresser in Ray’s condo. She was adamant her ex didn’t stick it in her luggage. And when I showed her the picture of the necklace, she was adamant that it was the same one she’d found. Now it’s missing, and was found on Gil Grant. She came running to my condo one day thinking someone had broken in. And now, this business card.”

  Chayton sank to a chair. His face fell, but he kept his gaze on Garret, who refused to sit or move or do anything to indicate this was the hardest thing he’d ever had to tell his brother.

  “Are you kidding me right now?”

  “I wish I was.”

  “So the damn feds you work for asked you to investigate Reagan. I told you not to hurt her, that she’s family, blah blah blah. Yet this is what you do. Investigate her? Then you wanna blame Ray? A man we’ve known damn near our entire life?”

  “Yeah. Her brother, Ray.”

  “What?” His voice came out as a screech.

  “Ray was her brother, not her uncle. He knew and never said. Their mother was raped by Javier Mass, the man in charge of this organized crime family.” Yeah, that was the news he’d found out today. News he hadn’t yet told Reagan, if she didn’t already know. News that spurred him to further act on his instincts, which was that Reagan knew nothing about any of this and that her uncle — her brother, Ray, a man he’d known damn near his whole life — might not be the person he thought. “Why would he lie about that?” Garret asked.

  “God, I don’t know. Maybe because this woman you’re investigating says so and we’re supposed to believe her just because she has a vagina.”

  “Calm down, little brother.”

  Chayton shot out of his chair, his face screwing into all sorts of knots. “Are you listening to yourself right now?”

  “Of course I’m listening to myself,” Garret replied, his voice harsh and forced. “This is all I’ve thought about since I found out. This is Reagan we’re talking about. You’ve spent time with her. Do you think she’s capable of that kind of shit? Murder? Jewel theft? God knows what else.”

  “I know I don’t know her as well as I knew Ray, and I can vouch for Ray. And you know she’s involved with a dirty cop.”

  “Was involved. She’s not anymore and she didn’t know he was dirty. Still doesn’t have a clue.”

  “That’s what she says.”

  “She says something else, too,” Garret said.

  “What’s that?”

  “She said her mom said Ray was involved with a crime family.”

  “Well, if her mom says so, that’s probably the gospel truth.”

  “Think about it, Chay. Ray is dead. He was killed in an ice climbing accident. He never goes alone. Chris is dead. One of Ray’s best friends, dead only weeks later. Then this guy, Gil Grant, who has a necklace Reagan found in Ray’s condo.”

  “You saying Ray and Chris were murdered?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “You saying Ray and Chris were both involved in some fucking jewel heist, and we’ve known them for years, but Reagan is completely innocent?”

  He damn sure hoped so. Ray was dead, God bless his soul, but Reagan was alive and breathing and he didn’t want her to be a criminal. He didn’t want to believe the worst about Ray, but if he had to choose, well, what would Ray have to lose now? “It’s all fucked up.”

  “Okay, well, have Chris’s friends been questioned?”

  “Not by me.”

  • • •

  What does an FBI agent do in his down time?

  Break his brother’s previous ski records, almost kill himself by ice climbing, freeze his balls off. Question his motives for bedding only one woman in the past while and worse, falling for said woman.

  Investigate a murder.

  Garret trolled through the snow-covered hills, phone attached to his belt loop, ear bud planted in his ear, and reported everything he knew to Buchanan thus far. Buchanan trusted Garret to finish the investigation, so he hadn’t called in other agents. He thought it best to keep a low profile.

  Garret sat on a knoll and spread his backpack out on the snow, placing his notes on the backpack. A normal person would be indoors, at a desk, his notes scattered everywhere, but Garret couldn’t function inside a normal environment. He had to get out, away from the artificial lights and sounds, and in with nature.

  He read over his notes and made more. Mr. Grant had obviously been murdered, but his murder opened up questions in Garret’s mind that he couldn’t let go. Not until he discovered the truth.

  Chris’s death had been accidental. So had Ray’s, or at least everyone thought so. Now, Garret wasn’t so sure. If he traced things back to Chris, maybe he could track down his killer. Gil Grant’s killer.

  Ray’s killer.

  No. Ray died while ice climbing. An accident. He hadn’t been murdered. He hadn’t been involved in jewels. So he may have known Gil Grant, a man who obviously had a love for jewels. A man who had obviously been killed for the jewel found in Ray’s dresser. That didn’t mean Ray was involved. That didn’t mean Ray knew Jonathan.

  Garret shoved his papers into his backpack and stood, stretching his back. That’s what this all boiled down to. He was still trying to solve Jonathan’s death, still trying to alleviate the pain at his inability to rein in the bad guys. And now he felt he had to prove Ray’s innocence, at least in his own mind.

  He had to finish this. He’d never rest, he’d never forgive himself for Jonathan’s death, he’d never be able to start a new life if he didn’t solve this.

  Shaking the numbness from his legs, Garret began his trek back to town. He’d talk to Chief Castro again, make him release every report he had on Chris’s death, Ray’s death, and Gil Grant’s death. If there was a tie, Garret wanted to know.

  “I want to see everything that came out of Grant’s pockets.”

  Garret hadn’t taken the time to stop at the reception desk to announce his arrival. He’d helped himself through the security doors when another cop came out, bursting into Chief Castro’s office without a knock.

  “His wallet, his pockets, every piece of his belongings. And I want every report written on Chris’s and Ray’s investigation.”

  “Under what authority?” The chief grumbled, easing back into his chair as if he didn’t plan on hurrying to appease Garret’s command.

  “Under the United States’ Government’s authority,” Garret bluffed. He hadn’t run any of this by Buchanan yet, but he was willing to take a risk that Chief Castro wouldn’t be smart enough to know any
better.

  “You fucking feds,” Castro said as he whipped his chair around and stood, hands clenched in fists, neck veins bulging. Garret was afraid he may have given the poor guy a heart attack. “It was an accident.”

  “Gil Grant’s murder wasn’t an accident.”

  Garret wanted to wrap his hands around the chief’s neck. He wouldn’t squeeze too hard, not hard enough to kill, just hard enough to watch his eyes bulge and comprehension to dawn. Garret was serious about this investigation, not only because it involved or could involve a very good friend, but because it involved the necklace his partner was killed over. He was desperate for the truth.

  He had to clear Ray’s name. He had to clear Reagan’s name.

  “The deaths aren’t related,” Chief Castro said. “Don’t you feds have anything better to do with your time than ruin our town?”

  “You were still obligated to write a report when Chris was reported missing,” Garret said. “When did he go missing? Who reported it? What were they doing?” Questions Garret should have asked when he first got here but didn’t, because like everyone else, he’d thought it was an accident.

  “You know what they were doing, Garret. They were jumping out of a damn helicopter. Those men were tourists. They were here, now they’re gone, like most of our tourists.”

  “None of those men were from around here?” Garret asked.

  “No.”

  “Then what was Chris doing with them?”

  “I dunno. Chris knows a lot of people. He doesn’t stick around long after the snow melts. I think one of them said they were friends or something. Someone Chris knew back east.”

  Garret finally sat on the chair he’d declined when he first came in, folded his hands on the table, and looked Chief Castro straight in the eye. “I want those names and I want them now.”

  “Now Garret — ”

  “Don’t make me get official on you. Give me the names and give me your reports on Chris’s death and Gil Grant’s death.” He glanced at his watch. “You have ten minutes.”

  The chief left Garret alone in his office and Garret scanned the room, trying to decipher what he could from the surroundings. An old clock that must have hung for the fourteen years Castro had been chief. The time was right so the battery was probably regularly replaced. A few scattered papers in disassembly across his desk revealed Castro was what most officers of the law were — disorganized and too busy to worry. A few pens, most of them chewed, revealed Castro either liked to chew his writing implements or he was trying to stop smoking. Sunflower seed casings overflowed a coffee cup.

  “Harrumph,” Chief Castro said as he stepped in the room, his chest puffed out, his nose notched higher than when Garret first entered. He carried a box, which he dropped on the desk in front of Garret. “This is everything we found on Mr. Grant.”

  Garret sat the box his lap. Everything had been bagged as evidence but he removed the gloves he’d carried with him to be safe. He shoved aside the man’s beanie and a bag of change.

  “Have his things been dusted for prints?” he asked.

  “Of course,” the chief muttered.

  Garret turned on the phone through the secured plastic and scrolled through the dialed and received calls. One number had called three times in a row within thirty minutes. The name assigned to the number said Kate.

  “Who is Kate?” Garret asked, assuming Chief Castro had done his research.

  “That’s his wife.” The chief sounded like he didn’t like Garret’s interference, but he didn’t care. There weren’t many murders in Tanyon, and Garret wasn’t going to let the investigation lie with an inexperienced police force when jewels were involved.

  Garret turned off the phone and filtered through the rest of the man’s belongings. Anxiety twisted in his gut when he found a wallet, unsecured.

  “Is there a problem?” the chief asked.

  “Why in the hell isn’t this secure?”

  Castro reached for the wallet but Garret pulled it away. At least he was wearing gloves.

  “Oops.”

  “Oops? Is that the kind of investigation you run?”

  “It was late, Garret. We’re a small town police force. It’s just a wallet. He had it in his pocket and I don’t think anyone touched it but the officer who put it in the box.”

  This investigation was heading nowhere if Castro didn’t start doing things right. Leaving evidence exposed was the least of the chief’s mistakes. “Get an evidence bag and log this.”

  While he waited for Chief Castro to return, Garret flipped open the vic’s wallet, a rich, buttery brown leather, and leafed through his personal effects. Twenty-three dollars, mostly in ones and fives. A few photos of a blonde busty woman. Probably the wife. An American Express Gold.

  Chris’s business card.

  • • •

  Buildings faded as the helicopter climbed. Garret turned his attention to the horizon. Dillon Johnson only lived one hour as the crow flies, and Garret hoped he would be home.

  He hadn’t been warned company was coming.

  Dillon was one of the skiers who’d accompanied Chris on his outing the day he disappeared, and Garret planned on asking him what really happened that day. Reading the police reports wasn’t enough. He caught the deception in each gap of the letters. Deception that none of the other cops picked up on or they just didn’t care. He’d talk to every witness if he had to and from there, he’d draw his own conclusions.

  He’d discussed the investigation with Buchanan but hadn’t told him everything. He hadn’t admitted his feelings for Reagan, hadn’t admitted that he now knew her in ways most investigations would never reveal. He hadn’t mentioned his newfound vendetta and possible link to Jonathan’s killer.

  He’d admitted he couldn’t connect Reagan to the Mass family but had new leads to go on. Buchanan didn’t need to know those leads had nothing to do with Reagan and everything to do with her brother.

  He was beginning to like Reagan in more than just friendship terms, and he could almost see forever with her. Almost. He wanted to ask her for more, but the thing with Kyle hung over his head and this … this cheap shot that God dispensed on him.

  The only way to end this was to resolve it. The man who killed Jonathan did not deserve to go free, and if Ray or Gil Grant or Kyle or even Reagan was involved in any way … they had to face his terms.

  Even if they were already dead.

  Dillon Johnson was a man most people wouldn’t look at twice and remember. Average height, brown hair, appeared perfectly normal unless you got close enough to see the twitch in his eye. The twitch that told Garret he was lying.

  When Garret flashed his badge, Dillon said he was just leaving, so it had to be quick. Garret made it anything but quick. He stepped inside his house and asked for a glass of water, claiming he was famished from the ride over, with no intention of drinking something a stranger gave him.

  He claimed he had to use the restroom, using that time to look through the medicine cabinet. Shave cream, toothpaste, Scope, and generic shampoo were the extent of Dillon’s bathroom paraphernalia.

  When Garret finally sat down with Dillon and asked him questions, Dillon’s knee bobbed up and down as he held it in his hand and tilted back on the couch’s cushion. Garret started with easy questions but as Dillon grew more comfortable, Garret became more direct.

  “Do you know Kyle Maloney?”

  “I have no idea.” Dillon’s eyes shot up in a quizzical manner, but he wasn’t fazed. He had no idea who Kyle was.

  “What about Gil Grant?”

  “Gil Grant? No idea.” Dillon’s eyes shot to the right and he answered the question first with one of his own. His face paled, he wouldn’t look Garret straight in the eye and when he did, they were unfocused.

  “Okay, I didn’t think you would recognize the name,” Garret lied, trying to befriend him. “But I have to ask these things. My boss will ask me if I questioned you properly.” He held his hands up and open. Di
llon was becoming increasingly twitchy.

  Dillon mounted a hand over his mouth and coughed. Garret didn’t know him well enough to know if that was a habit or a cover-up.

  “What about Chris Boyce?”

  Dillon shot up from the couch as if a fire had been lit. “What is this? I don’t have to answer these questions.”

  “I take it you know Chris.”

  “Of course I knew Chris. You know I knew Chris.”

  “Okay.” Garret kept his posture relaxed and his face composed, but he remained prepared for the worst. “Sit down, it’s okay.”

  Dillon sat, but he didn’t keep still. His foot tapped on the floor and he kept glancing at the door as if ready to run at any moment.

  “I … I was torn up when Chris went missing. I haven’t been skiing since.”

  “Tell me what happened that day.”

  “Why?” Dillon’s brow furrowed, but he wouldn’t meet Garret’s eyes. “I already gave a written report, and it was weeks ago. I’m trying to live a normal life and you want to rehash bad memories?”

  “Tell me what happened that day,” Garret repeated.

  Dillon sighed. “It was snowing. We were heli-skiing. You ever been heli-skiing?” With that, Dillon’s movements stopped and his tiny slits of brown sifted directly into Garret’s eyes and darted away again. “All I was thinking about was my time on the mountain. I only found out he was missing later.”

  “How did you find out about his disappearance?”

  Dillon took a moment to answer. “We were supposed to meet at the base of the mountain later. We all met and waited for thirty minutes, but he never showed up. We assumed he found something else to do, you know? We found out about the avalanche later. The police sent out a search crew, but … ”

  “Why wasn’t he wearing protection on his face?”

  Dillon skulked rearward, slumping his shoulders and resting his back against the cushion of the sofa. He didn’t meet Garret’s gaze. “I don’t know, man. I didn’t know he wasn’t. I wasn’t paying much attention, you know. I was getting ready to jump myself.”

  “What was he wearing that day?” Garret knew it wasn’t ski gear, but that could easily be explained. In an avalanche, his clothing could have been torn off, his ski gear wrenched away.