No One Left to Tell

by Karen Rose

  Something in the way she said it told him who it had been. “My mom? Why?”

  “She wanted to be sure you were okay, as you weren’t answering your cell phone. She asked me to remind you that you’re having dinner with her tomorrow tonight. I told her I’d fuss at you to call her. So call your mother, Grayson.” She smiled kindly, taking the edge off her admonition. “And have a muffin.”

  “Poppy seed?” he asked and she nodded.

  He used to be annoyed when Daphne brought baked goods into the office, but that was because she’d baked with peaches, which gave him hives. As soon as he’d come clean about his allergies, she’d made it a point to bake his favorite treats.

  Somewhere in her forties, she was brazen and bold, wore her hair too big and her suits too neon. She mothered the entire office, himself included. But she was smart and resourceful and a fierce combatant in the courtroom. She’d gone to law school when her son was in high school, which couldn’t have been easy. In the year they’d worked together, Grayson had come to respect her highly. He had also grown to like her far more than he’d ever admit.

  “I’ll hold off Anderson as long as I can, but please call him soon so he stops yelling.”

  Grayson snagged a muffin. “Soon,” he promised. He closed his office door and called the person he could trust to give him the truth. While the phone rang, he found the video on the news station’s Web site. By the time he heard “Hello?” he was staring once again at the woman with the dark eyes.

  “Stevie, it’s Grayson.”

  “Grayson?” Homicide detective Stevie Mazzetti’s voice was immediately concerned. “What’s wrong?”

  He frowned. “Why do you always ask me that when I call?”

  “Because you only call when something’s wrong.”

  He considered it. “So maybe I do. But you only call when you want a warrant.”

  She chuckled. “Fair enough. What’s up?”

  “The sniper shooting. I need everything you know.”

  “Hell.” All the humor fled from her voice. “Not much. The vic was shot at two different locations. Ballistics is still out, but it’s two different weapons. A woman walking her dog stopped to help the victim and narrowly avoided being shot herself.”

  On his screen the woman had jumped out of the minivan’s path and was now rushing to aid the victim. “I know. I’m watching the video.”

  “You and everyone else on the planet,” Stevie grumbled. “It looks like he shot her from a business park, one driveway up. But we’re still not sure.”

  “All those video cameras and nobody got the shooter?”

  “All the cameras were pointed at the victim in the minivan.”

  “Where were the first shots fired? Before she crashed?”

  “We don’t know yet. Right now, just about everyone’s searching for the sniper. I don’t have to tell you that tensions are high around here. Ten-year anniversary and all.”

  “Here, too.” He hesitated. “Has the victim been ID’d yet?”

  “Elena Muñoz. Grayson, what’s going on? What’s with all the questions?”

  Eyes on his screen, Grayson flinched once more when the shot was fired, waiting until the dark-eyed woman staggered out of the blurred zone. “I prosecuted Elena’s husband. Who’s primary?”

  “Perkins was the first on the scene, but as soon as Hyatt heard ‘sniper,’ he pulled him. Perkins’s partner hadn’t even made it to the scene yet. Hyatt made Bashears and Morton primary. It was simply a question of experience. Perkins has never dealt with a high-profile case and Bashears and Morton have.”

  Grayson searched his mental archive. “Morton was on the husband’s case.”

  “Really? When was that?” Stevie asked. “I don’t remember the Muñoz case.”

  “Six years ago.”

  Stevie’s breath came out in a little rush. “Oh. Well, that explains it.”

  Stevie’s husband and son had been killed six years ago, leaving Stevie seven months pregnant and grieving. She’d taken a leave of absence until after Cordelia had been born. There was a period of several months Stevie didn’t remember and nobody blamed her for it, Grayson least of all. Stevie’s husband had been his friend.

  “Why aren’t you and Fitzpatrick lead on this?”

  “Probably because we weren’t in the office yet when all this went down. We’ll get pulled in before it’s all over, but right now we’re on a case of our own. Gang shooting a few hours ago. We’re off to inform the parents of a seventeen-year-old boy. Which,” she added flatly, “is my very favorite thing to do in all the world.”

  “Sorry. Be safe.”

  “We will.” She hesitated. “Call me if you need me, Gray. I mean that.”

  “Thanks.” Grayson hung up and watched the video once again. Ramon Muñoz had been denied bail, so he’d been locked up ever since his arrest six years ago. Why did Elena come to see me last week? Why now?

  He wondered who she’d gone to see after she’d left his office, fighting back tears of despair. He wondered who else she’d sought out for help. He wondered whose applecart she’d upset badly enough to end up riddled with bullets.

  He picked up his phone. “Daphne, can you get a number for Detectives Bashears or Morton? They’re primary on the Muñoz murder.”

  “You want me to call them, tell them she was here last week?”

  “No, just have them call me. I’ll tell them. Thanks.”

  “Anything else? Another muffin?”

  “No, but thanks. Do we have word on the Samson jury?” They’d been deliberating another one of his murder cases for four days. He wished they’d hurry the hell up.

  “Just entering the jury room to resume deliberations. Sounds like they may be close, though. Hopefully this morning. Hey, Anderson called again. He knows you’re in the building. Said if you didn’t call him, he’d plead down Willis himself.”

  “Man has goddamn spies,” Grayson muttered. He hung up, closed the video of Elena and the dark-eyed woman, and dialed his boss, ready for a good fight.

  Detective Stevie Mazzetti slid her phone into her pocket with a frown.

  J. D. Fitzpatrick glanced away from the road to study her face. “So? Spill.”

  “It’s nothing,” she said. “Just Grayson being odd.”

  “Grayson isn’t odd. He’s always too mad.”

  “He’s not always mad. Just when he’s working.”

  J.D. gave her a pointed look. “He works always. Therefore he is mad always.”

  “Almost always. So you’re almost right. So what?”

  “I’m always right,” J.D. said smugly and Stevie grinned in spite of herself.

  “You’re full of yourself today. Why?”

  He grinned back, the look of a well-satisfied man. Which is how it should be. Her partner of one year was getting married in a month and she’d never seen him so happy. Still she “put on her grump,” as her six-year-old called it. “I hope you two are using birth control. Otherwise, you’re gonna be procreating like bunnies.”

  He said nothing and Stevie’s grump faded like mist. “Lucy’s pregnant.” She clapped her hands. “How long have you known?”

  “Since this morning,” he confessed. “Don’t tell Lucy I told you. And don’t tell anyone else yet. We want to keep it a secret for a few months.”

  “Good luck with that,” she said and laughed out loud.

  “I know. Tell me what’s making Smith odd today so I can practice my serious face.”

  “He asked about the sniper’s victim. Said he thought he recognized her. That he prosecuted her husband.”

  Abruptly he sobered. “Makes you wonder who Mr. Muñoz pissed off in jail. Still, it is odd that Grayson remembered the wife after all this time.”

  “Do you remember the faces of the spouses when you inform them of a murder?”

  “Every single one,” J.D. replied.

  “Grayson once told me that every conviction is a bit like a death to the family. When the jury says ‘gu
ilty,’ it’s like a piece of them dies, too.”

  “Except their loved one took away someone else’s loved one forever.”

  “He knows that and he’s more committed to getting justice for those victims than any prosecutor I know. But he remembers the mothers who cry when their children are hauled off to jail. It’s the price the bad guys pay. Unfortunately their families pay, too.”

  “Like Elena Muñoz.”

  “Maybe,” Stevie said. “I’ll guess we’ll see what Bashears and Morton dig up. Oh heck. That’s our exit, right there. Whose turn is it to inform the parents?”

  “Yours,” J.D. said grimly.

  Stevie sighed. “That’s what I thought. Let’s get this over with.”

  Three

  Tuesday, April 5, 7:45 a.m.

  With Clay safely out of sight, Paige opened her door and let Detective Morton and her partner in. With a hand signal, she sent Peabody to lie down at her side.

  Bashears looked impressed. “That’s some dog.” He started toward Peabody, but Paige held out her hand in warning.

  “He’s a protection dog. He knows I’m tense right now, so he’s tense, too.”

  Bashears studied her front door with its three brand-new dead bolts, then nodded. “Fair enough. I don’t suppose it’s every day you witness a murder.”

  If you only knew, she thought. And then she realized he probably did. It wouldn’t be hard to find out about her “incident.” Google was only a cell phone away.

  “Not every day,” she agreed evenly. “Look, I want to help you, but I’m really tired and I was about to take a shower. Can you ask me what you need to ask me?”

  “Of course,” Morton said. “Can we sit?”

  “I’d like to get this done fast. I prefer to stand,” she said and Morton frowned.

  “Of course.” Morton proceeded to ask the same questions that Perkins had asked.

  Paige sighed. “With all due respect, Detective Morton, I have answered all of these questions. I’m so tired I can’t think. Can we please be finished soon?”

  “If you’d sit down, you wouldn’t be so tired,” Morton said snidely.

  Paige had to bite back a snarl. “If I sit down, I won’t get back up again.” She moved to her door to show them out and Morton made a huffing noise, clearly annoyed.

  “Miss Holden, what do you do for a living?” she asked.

  “I work at a gym. I also work for a private investigator.”

  “Are you licensed?” Bashears asked. By the look in his eyes she knew he’d known exactly what she did for a living, just as he’d known about her “incident.”

  “Not yet.”

  Morton took a half step forward, stopping when Peabody growled. “Why do you think Elena Muñoz was shot in her vehicle, then shot again by a sniper?”

  “I don’t know,” Paige said, and even she would have believed herself.

  “You’re a PI,” Bashears said. “Were you working for her?”

  “No,” Paige said, and that was actually the truth. Technically. Maria had approached her, begging her for help. Not Elena. A cold shiver raced down her spine as she realized that Maria might be in danger, too. “Are we done?”

  “Almost,” Morton said. “Who do you work for, Ms. Holden?”

  “The Silver Gym. I’m a trainer there.”

  Morton leveled a stare that in a single blink had become hostile. “I’m talking about your PI job. Who do you work for?”

  Bashears cut in smoothly. “We’d like to know, in what capacity are you acquainted with Clay Maynard? He stood with you while you spoke with Detective Perkins.”

  “We’re associates. And friends.”

  Morton lifted a brow. “And he had nothing to do with the fact that Elena Muñoz happened to crash into the lamppost next to your apartment?”

  Paige didn’t back down. “No. Look, I’m tired and I’ve cooperated. Please leave.”

  “You haven’t told us the truth,” Morton bit out. “But I’ll go, for now. By the way, when you see Mr. Maynard next, tell him that Detective Skinner finally returned to work after months on disability. But he’ll never work Homicide again. He’ll sit at a damn desk until he’s old enough for his retirement Timex.” She leaned closer, this time ignoring Peabody’s warning growl. “And you tell your associate and your friend that I’ll be watching you both. Because something stinks here and it reeks of him.”

  Morton yanked Paige’s front door open, then turned for a parting jab. “If you know something you aren’t telling me, I’ll nail your ass to the wall. I don’t care how many YouTube hits you get or how many reporters are calling you a Good Samaritan.”

  Wide-eyed, Paige stared at the two detectives as they walked down the stairs. Bashears looked annoyed, but with his partner, not with Paige. At least there’s that, she thought, closing her door and locking all three dead bolts. She turned, unsurprised to see Clay standing behind her, even though he hadn’t made a sound. His jaw was hard, but his eyes were turbulent. And filled with guilt.

  Wearily, Paige sank into the chair at her desk. “So who is Detective Skinner?”

  Clay sat on her sofa, staring at her carpet. “Morton’s old partner. Skinner was shot by Nicki’s killer after I discovered her body. Because I didn’t tell the cops what I knew right away, Skinner almost died. When I heard Morton ID herself at the door, I thought that there might be trouble. She doesn’t like me much.”

  “Yeah,” Paige said dryly. “I got that. I have to tell someone. I don’t want a Skinner on my conscience. But I’m not gonna tell Morton. She scares the hell out of me.”

  He glanced up to meet her eyes. “Me, too.”

  Paige sighed. “So Ramon’s alibi was true. There was no way he could have killed Crystal Jones in a gardener’s shed six years ago. Yet the murder weapon was found in his bedroom closet, wrapped in a canvas apron, stuck down in one of Elena’s boots. It was planted. Maybe by cops. God, we sound so O.J.”

  “It’s been known to happen,” Clay said. “Cops planting evidence.”

  She studied him shrewdly. “And someday you’ll tell me about it?”

  “Probably not,” he murmured. “Not one of my better memories.”

  “You didn’t…” Paige let the thought trail and watched him shake his head.

  “Never. And I tried to stop it, but it was too huge.”

  “So you left the force.”

  “Yeah. If cops were involved, this is already bigger than you and me, Paige.”

  “Well, cops are involved on some level—assuming they were chasing Elena this morning. Then Morton, who worked on the Crystal Jones murder, comes in as a pinch hitter. This does not bode well. I have no idea where to turn.”

  “I can call the cop I mentioned before. I think we can trust her.”

  “How do you know her?”

  “She worked Nicki’s homicide.”

  “So she works with Morton. Look, even if Morton hadn’t been the one to investigate Ramon’s murder, she has a vendetta for you, Clay. And I promised Elena I wouldn’t take this to the cops. Call me superstitious, but I don’t like to renege on a deathbed promise.” Paige rubbed her aching forehead. “So where do I go to do the right thing?”

  Clay shrugged. “What about a defense attorney?”

  “Elena contacted one of those innocence organizations that help wrongly convicted prisoners. They said she was so far back in line that it could be ten years before they even got to Ramon’s case. They told her that she needed new evidence. And so did I.”

  “You can’t blame yourself, Paige. Besides, you have that evidence. A defense attorney will listen to you now. Maybe the innocence organization would move Ramon up in line so he wouldn’t have to wait ten years.”

  “Ten minutes is too long for Ramon to stay in jail.” Peabody laid his head on Paige’s knee and she scratched behind his ears. “I could talk to the defense attorneys, but if dirty cops are involved… Someone in law enforcement needs to know.”

  “We could try the state�
��s attorney’s office.”

  “ASA Grayson Smith.” Paige considered the trial transcript she’d spent the last few weeks poring over. “He ran a clean trial. Cut-and-dried.”

  “Any indication he could have been corrupt?”

  “Not to my knowledge. He only used the evidence that Morton and her old partner collected. Maria said that he tried to get Ramon to take a deal but Ramon refused. When the case came to court, Smith was harsh with Ramon, but kind and respectful to Maria. Compassionate, even. She and Elena wanted to hate him, but couldn’t. Elena was even considering visiting him, asking for his help.” She bit her lip. “I’m going to have to trust someone. I’ve got enough ghosts haunting my mind. I don’t need someone dying because I held back.” She swiveled in the chair and opened her everyday laptop.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Pulling up my file on Grayson Smith.” The most recent photo she’d found had been taken on the courthouse steps the previous winter. He was a very handsome man, tall and linebacker-big. His double-breasted wool coat hung from his broad shoulders like it was custom-made for him. His hair was dark, his skin golden. “He doesn’t look like a Grayson. Or a Smith.”

  Clay looked over her shoulder. “What does it matter?”

  She lifted a shoulder. “It doesn’t. It’s a game I play. Just trying to figure out where people come from. Probably due to the fact that I was the only one with black hair and black eyes in a family of blond, blue-eyed Norwegians.”

  “Are you adopted?” Clay asked, interest in his tone.

  “No.” Although there had been a hell of a lot of days growing up that she wished she had been. “But I never knew my father, who I have to assume was not a blond, blue-eyed Norwegian. I think I’ll take a shower, then go meet Mr. Smith.”

  “What, you’re going to look into his eyes and see if he’s trustworthy?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Has it ever worked before?”

  Paige thought of the failed relationships that littered her life. “I wish. I would have run from about ninety percent of my old boyfriends.”

  “Then why even bother?”

  She considered her answer. “Because I don’t know what else to do.”