Cooper Vengeance

by Paula Graves

  Mike glanced at the younger boy, wishing he’d left him back at his Uncle Clay’s house. Derek was only eleven, and small for his age. Plus, he had an annoying tendency to cry like a baby whenever something freaked him out, like a snake crawling in the woods ahead of him or, in this case, a spooky old restaurant.

  But the only way Derek would agree to let Mike borrow his new ten-speed was if Mike let him tag along. Derek had borrowed his sister’s, Lizzie’s, bike. It wouldn’t be a bad ride if it weren’t a girl’s bike. But it was a girl’s bike, and Derek looked like a dork riding it.

  “It’s just a building,” Mike said, trying not to let too much of his scorn show. It wasn’t really Derek’s fault that he was a wuss, the way Aunt Judy babied him all the time. And even though he knew where Mike wanted to go, Derek had refused to stay behind. Sure, he’d tried to talk Mike out of going, and he’d whined about their destination the whole trip here, but at least he didn’t chicken out. The kid had potential.

  “I’m going home,” Derek said, his voice lowering to a frantic hiss. “Some woman got killed here. Just a few weeks ago. What if the guy who killed her is in there right now?”

  “He’s not in there right now,” Mike scoffed, although there was a part of him that wondered if Derek could be right. Didn’t killers always come back to the scene of the crime?

  As far as he knew, nobody had ever come back to the scene of his mother’s murder. He’d gone there once, with Cissy, his sister. It was only three years ago, after she got her license. He’d overheard her tell her friend Anna that she was going to drive to the old abandoned warehouse where Belmont Trucking had once had its headquarters, and he’d blackmailed her into taking him with her.

  She remembered their mom. He didn’t, really, that was why it was hard to feel anything but bewilderment, standing on a winter-bare patch of ground where his Uncle Gabe had found his mother’s body. Cissy had cried a little that day, but Mike had only felt a vague, queasy sort of twisting in his gut, as if something dark and cold had crept up his spine to settle in his chest.

  “I want to go home, Mike. Come on!”

  “You can go, but I’m staying.”

  “Trade bikes.”

  “No way.” Mike wouldn’t be caught dead on a girl’s bike. He headed for the restaurant, forcing Derek to make a choice.

  Mike heard the sound of his cousin’s bike speeding away. He looked over his shoulder and saw that Derek was already halfway to the bend where the road wound through the woods. Uncle Clay’s house was only a couple of miles in that direction, an easy ride, even on a girl’s ten-speed. Derek would be okay.

  Meanwhile, Mike wanted to know just what it was that had fascinated his father and that cop lady enough to take them inside the abandoned restaurant. If his dad didn’t want to fill him in on the details, he’d just have to find out for himself.

  “HAMILTON GRAY?” J.D. stared at his father-in-law. “As in Carrie Gray’s husband?”

  George Teague nodded. “He was crazy about Brenda when he was younger. A lot of boys liked her, and I suppose she liked them well enough, too, but she never cared for Hamilton at all. Said he gave her a creepy feeling, always staring at her and trying to sit with her at lunch at school. He was a couple of years older than she was, and you know she was such a sensible girl—”

  “A lot of girls would’ve jumped at the chance to date Hamilton,” Lois added. “He was a handsome boy, and rich as Croesus. Girls always enjoyed the attention of a senior—”

  “What was a rich kid like Gray doing going to public high school?” J.D. asked.

  “I believe that was when his father was running for governor, wasn’t it, George?” Lois looked over at her husband, who nodded.

  “Old Milton Gray thought he’d have a better chance looking like a man of the people if his kids weren’t attending a private prep-school in Mobile, so he enrolled them in public school.” George looked at J.D. “It didn’t stop after he graduated. He deferred college for a few years, supposedly to work on his father’s later senate campaign—”

  “Also a failure,” Lois said with a hint of satisfaction that caught J.D. by surprise. Lois was about the least vindictive person he knew, so for her to take pleasure in someone else’s misfortune was notable. “But it kept Hamilton in Terrebonne for two more years. We thought things would finally get better when he went off to Harvard—”

  “But he came home on holidays and summers,” George finished for her. “Made Brenda absolutely miserable.”

  “And nobody tried to stop him?” J.D. asked, anger roiling in his chest like lava.

  “Oh, we tried. But the Grays are influential, wealthy people. And Hamilton was subtle about it. What could the police do, arrest him every time he showed up somewhere Brenda was?”

  “Has he ever been one to get in trouble? Maybe playing with matches or killing stray dogs—”

  “You know, there was that spate of dog killings about twenty-five years ago,” Lois said to George. “Remember, the Lawson’s little Yorkie disappeared just down the street—found later in the street, torn apart, poor thing.”

  “Animal control figured a coyote or maybe a big owl had gotten him, but they weren’t looking hard,” George said. “I heard of at least a dozen other pets disappearing around that time.”

  “How old would Hamilton Gray have been?”

  “Maybe sixteen?” Lois answered. “Brenda was fourteen, I think—still riding a bike to school instead of driving. She’s the one who found the little Yorkie, right outside our house.”

  J.D. grimaced.

  George’s brow creased. “You think he killed the dog and put him in front of our house for Brenda to find, don’t you?”

  “Was he interested in her that far back?”

  “We suspected so,” Lois answered. “They were a good family, and we wouldn’t have objected at first, but Brenda had better sense than her folks.”

  J.D. pushed to his feet. “I’ve got to go. There’s something I need to look into—”

  George stood with him. “You’re not going after Hamilton Gray. You’d never get anywhere near him.”

  “We’ll see,” J.D. said with a grim smile. “But not yet.”

  First, he needed to track down Natalie and tell her the latest information. If what he was thinking was true, maybe they were both right about who killed her sister, Carrie, after all.

  NATALIE’S CELL PHONE vibrated on her desk. J. D. Cooper’s number again. She hit the ignore button and continued filing.

  At his desk nearby, Massey glanced her way. “Creditors?” he asked wryly. “Oh, wait, sorry. Beckers don’t do debt, do they?”

  Natalie flashed him a crude gesture that made him laugh.

  “If it’s not the credit bureau, must be a guy.” Massey craned his neck as if trying to see the display window on her phone. “Let me guess—tall, dark and widower calling?”

  She ignored the bait. “Wrong number.”

  The phone buzzed again. She jabbed the ignore button with a little more force.

  “I know you’re rich enough to buy yourself a dozen new phones, but think about the environment, Becker. Trash that phone and it’ll spend decades in a landfill—”

  She slammed the file drawer shut and glared at him. “You know, I thought we were getting along better these days, Massey, but right now you’re all over my nerves.”

  He held up his hands in defense. “Chill, Becker. It means you’re one of the guys. I thought you wanted that.”

  She softened her features. “You’re right. I do. And I appreciate the fact that you’re not treating me like I’m a rattlesnake in your sleeping bag anymore. But did you have to go straight from that to bratty little brother?”

  “I do have years of practice. Ask my sister, Dana.”

  “I’ll look her up and find out how to make you stop.” Her cell phone buzzed again. She shoved it in her pocket. “I think I’m going to take an early lunch. Want anything while I’m out?”

  “No, I’m meet
ing a friend for lunch later.”

  Natalie shot him a look. “Does Massey have a girlfriend?”

  “Becker?” a voice interrupted.

  Natalie looked up to see Travis Rayburn standing in the bullpen doorway. “Yeah?”

  “Your father just left a message at the front desk.” He handed her a slip of paper from a message pad.

  Natalie read the message. Father called—meet at Annabelle’s at eleven-thirty. She glanced at her watch. Eleven-fifteen. “Did he say what it was about?”

  Travis shook his head. “Daniels took the call, and he didn’t say. I just offered to pass along the message.”

  Maybe he’d found someone interested in buying the place, she thought. She grabbed her jacket and shrugged it on, turning to Massey. “I’m taking an early lunch. My father wants to see me. Be back in about an hour.”

  She looked for Daniels at the front desk to see if her father had given him any more details, but another deputy manned the desk, ear to the phone as he took down information from someone on the other end of the line. Daniels must be at lunch.

  In her car, she tried her father’s cell phone. It went straight to voicemail. He was probably on the phone.

  As she started to put the phone down, she saw the handful of missed calls from J. D. Cooper. Should she call him back? What if he had new information about the case.

  With a sigh, she checked to see if he’d left her a voicemail. He had, on the last try. “Natalie, I need to see you. Call me when you get this.”

  Her finger hovered over the dial-back option, but she shut off the phone and stuck it back in her pocket. First, she’d see what her father wanted with her.

  She could always call J.D. later.

  NOW THAT HIS COUSIN Derek was well out of sight, Mike Cooper began to second-guess his decision to find a way inside the abandoned restaurant. He could practically hear his Uncle Aaron’s voice in his head, quoting Alabama laws on breaking and entering.

  Not that he was going to steal anything—he was no thief. In fact, he planned to join the Chickasaw County Sheriff’s Department as soon as he was old enough.

  He suddenly found himself missing his sister, Cissy, much to his surprise. Most of the time, she was a big, bossy pest. He supposed it was because she saw herself as a substitute mom, even though she wasn’t that much older than he was—just six and a half years. That was hardly anything at all.

  But Cissy was smart. And she was good at stuff like this—she’d know how to get into the restaurant and not leave any trace that she had been there. She was going to be an FBI agent, or at least, that was her latest ambition.

  Mike had a sneaking suspicion she’d make it, too.

  He dismounted his bike, hiding it behind the thicket of holly bushes planted at the back of the restaurant, the prickly leaves scratching his arms without drawing blood. Rubbing the scraped skin, he looked around to make sure nobody was watching before he scooted across the scrubby lot behind the restaurant to the screened-in back door.

  Using the hem of his T-shirt to protect the handle from his fingerprints, Mike pulled open the screen door—which made an alarmingly loud screech. With a wince, he darted a quick look around again. No sign of anyone watching.

  Still using the T-shirt, he tried the back door knob. It rattled uselessly in his hand—locked.

  He stepped back and eased the screen door back into position. Sneaking into an abandoned building was one thing—picking a lock was a whole other thing. It so happened that he knew a little about lock-picking—something else Cissy had taught him—but she’d pretty much pounded into his brain the importance of using the skill only in times of dire emergency.

  “You need to know how to do things,” she’d told him as they practiced on the back door of their dad’s house just a few weeks ago, “but you also need to know when to do them.”

  Slapping a mosquito nibbling at the back of his neck, he felt a twinge of guilt. Was this really a need-to situation?

  Yes. The man who killed his mother before he was even old enough to walk had killed another woman right here, just a few weeks ago. He couldn’t walk away from here without trying a little harder to get inside and see the crime scene for himself.

  Picking the lock on the door wasn’t really feasible—he didn’t have any of the tools Cissy had showed him how to use. But that didn’t mean there wasn’t another way in.

  There were six windows lining the back of the restaurant. Four of them were a little too high to be good bets, but the two flanking the back door were low enough to enable him to drag himself up and over the sill if he could get the windows open.

  He checked the window on the left. The lock was engaged, so he scooted over to the other window and checked the lock. A flutter of excitement darted through his belly. It was unlocked.

  Pulling his penknife from the pocket of his jeans, Mike pried the screen away from the window. With a little jiggling, he was able to pop open the latches and remove the screen, laying it on the ground propped against the wall of the restaurant.

  Mike pushed the window upward. It creaked and groaned, old paint cracking under the force, but it finally gave, inching up. With a low grunt, he pushed the window up further, creating an opening about eighteen inches high. He squeezed through the gap and landed with an awkward thud on the floor of the restaurant kitchen.

  He started to push to his feet when he realized he was looking straight at a pair of brown-leather shoes.

  His heart skipping a beat, he stared at the tall, sandy-haired man gazing at him. “What are you doing here?” he blurted.

  The man’s lips curved into a faint smile. “You’re her son, aren’t you? You look just like her.”

  An ache settled low in Mike’s gut as he pushed to his feet, wishing he hadn’t pocketed his pen knife. Because the man standing in front of him was holding a gun.

  “I’m Hamilton Gray,” the man said. “I knew your mother well. Very well indeed.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Damn it!” J.D. shoved the phone in his pocket, refusing to leave another voicemail as he pulled into the parking lot of the Ridley County Sheriff’s Department. Clearly, Natalie didn’t want to talk to him on the phone.

  Too bad. He had to talk to her. Now.

  He left his SIG in the truck, locked safely in its case, knowing from his last, unwilling visit here that visitors had to go through a metal detector to enter the building. He made it through the check without incident and asked for Natalie Becker at the front desk. The deputy sent him down the hall into what was apparently the deputies’ communal office.

  He spotted Massey at one of the desks, but Natalie wasn’t there. He made his way through the room to Massey’s desk.

  Massey’s eyebrows quirked. “Mr. Cooper. Please don’t tell me you’ve been picked up for trespassing again.”

  “I’m looking for Natalie,” J.D. answered. “Is she here?”

  “No, she got a call from her father and headed out for an early lunch.”

  J.D. frowned. Based on what little Natalie had told him about her strained relationship with her father, a sudden lunch invitation seemed odd. “Are you sure she was meeting her father?”

  “That’s what she said.”

  “Did he call her directly?”

  “No, she got a message.” Massey frowned. “That’s odd, isn’t it? Why wouldn’t he call her cell phone?”

  “Who gave her the message?”

  “Rayburn, but he got it from Daniels at the front desk.”

  “Thanks.” J.D. headed back to the front of the sheriff’s station, where the deputy who’d directed him to the bullpen sat talking to a pretty blond file clerk.

  “Are you Daniels?” J.D. interrupted.

  The deputy shot him an irritated look. “Who’s asking?”

  Tamping down his frustration, J.D. told the man his name. “I’m trying to find Natalie Becker. You took a call for her from her father earlier—did he say what he wanted with her?”

  Daniels fr
owned. “I didn’t take any calls for Becker today, and especially not from her father.”

  J.D.’s gut tightened. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, I think I’d remember talking to one of the richest guys in the state.”

  “That’s odd.” Doyle Massey’s voice made J.D. turn. Massey stood nearby, looking worried. “Rayburn definitely said Daniels took the call.”

  “I can check the phone logs,” Daniels suggested.

  “Do that,” J.D. said. He pulled out his phone and dialed Natalie’s number again. It went directly to voicemail. He shut it off with a growl.

  “No calls came for Becker,” Daniels said.

  J.D.’s gut tightened as a new flurry of fear settled into the pit of his gut. Was he letting his imagination get the best of him? Fathers and daughters met for lunch all the time.

  But given the information he’d learned from the Teagues today, he didn’t dare ignore his gut feeling of dread.

  He turned to Massey. “Where’s Rayburn?”

  ANNABELLE’S LOOMED OUT of nowhere as Natalie rounded the curve on Sedge Road, the low-slung facade a bittersweet reminder, as always, of her sister. Carrie had held such high hopes for the place. Perhaps a little too high—her father had taken a certain paternal pleasure in reminding his younger daughter of the perils of the restaurant business.

  “Most restaurants fail,” Natalie murmured aloud in the silence of her car.

  Mine will succeed, Carrie had insisted. Natalie suspected her sister would have been right. Just about everything Carrie touched turned to gold.

  Everything but her marriage.

  She pulled into the parking lot, surprised that her father’s Mercedes sedan wasn’t waiting there for her already. She parked in front and checked her phone to see if her father had called to say he’d be late. She’d shut the phone off to avoid seeing J.D.’s name on her phone display, but she hadn’t considered that she’d also miss calls from her father.