Roaming Wild (Steele Ridge Book 6)

by Tracey Devlyn

  “Thank you—”

  He squeezed her hip. “Don’t thank me yet.” A different kind of hardness entered his eyes. One Reid had warned her about. “I’ll take you to my team, but they’re the ones who’ll decide whether or not you stay on the case.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s their lives I’m opening up to danger, and they should have a say in the matter.”

  She bit her lip. “What if they don’t like me?”

  “Then you’re off the team.”

  34

  Inch by slow inch, Dylan scraped his cage across the concrete floor, ignoring the pitiful wails of the cubs he’d left behind and the stinging cuts on his arms and legs. He could no longer afford to rot away in his cell, hoping someone would find him.

  Crazy ass Eli Harwood was hunting Deke. Time for action.

  The mystery surrounding his brother’s unusual lifestyle had been solved by people who wanted him dead. Black ops. Although Harwood’s snide revelation had thrown him for a few minutes, the label fit. Deke had always been a protector. Fearless. Smart.

  He hated bullies. When Peyton Collins and two of his friends started terrorizing kids in Dylan’s grade school class, Deke had put a stop to it. To this day, Dylan still didn’t know what his brother had used as leverage to get Peyton’s cooperation.

  When they used to hike to the lean-to, Deke would always point out and name the different shrubs, flowers, birds, insects, and anything else they passed. If he couldn’t identify it, he’d pull out one of a bazillion field guides he kept in his backpack.

  Glancing ahead, Dylan gauged the distance to the door and cursed. He fell back in exhaustion, sweat drenching his shirt. He gave himself a minute to recover, but no more. Who knew when one of the Harwoods would return. The last thing he needed was for them to find him trying to escape.

  The cubs—Moe, Larry, and Curly—began another round of baleful mewling. Their chorus had a haunting quality to it that gripped his chest.

  “I’m going to get us out of here, kiddos. Be brave.”

  Before leaving, Blaze Harwood had hung a set of keys in a gray metal box near the door. Dylan was banking on one of those silver beauties fitting the lock attached to his cage.

  He stared up at the metal box.

  Three feet above his head.

  35

  “Tina Armstrong?”

  Suspicion carved the brunette’s striking features. “Who’s asking?”

  Deke held up his Service badge, hoping she didn’t demand a closer inspection. “My partner and I would like to ask you a few questions about Gracie Gilbert.”

  A shadow of sadness dimmed her bravado. “I don’t know anything about Gracie’s death.”

  “We won’t take up much of your time. Ten minutes, and we’re out of here.”

  Retrieving a bag of groceries, she shut her trunk and nodded toward the front of her house. “I’ll meet you at the door.”

  “Wait—”

  She pointed. “Front door, Mr.—”

  “Conrad. Special Agent Conrad.”

  The garage door lowered.

  “Do you think she just ditched us?” Evie asked.

  “We’ll soon find out.” He slanted a glance her way. “I suppose I can’t talk you into waiting in the car?”

  “Nope.”

  “If she asks, I pulled you off vacation. That’s why you’re not appropriately dressed and don’t have your badge—Special Agent Williams.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The wait took far longer than a walk from the garage to the front door. He cursed his stupidity for letting her out of his sight. She’d either slipped out the back or contacted someone or flushed her stash. If ever he doubted bringing Evie along had been a bad idea, this situation proved it. Had he not been concerned about her, he would’ve kept the Armstrong woman in the garage or followed her inside.

  He ripped the screen door open and raised his fist. A dead bolt slid home and the door opened. Standing to the side, Tina motioned them in.

  “Thank you for speaking to us, Miss Armstrong.” Evie glanced around. Family pictures dotted the walls and flat surfaces. Warm yet airy yellows, tans, and greens decorated the living room and small dining area beyond. “What a charming home you have.”

  “My sister gets all the credit. If it’d been left up to me, the walls would be bare and white.”

  “You’re very lucky. I have four brothers and a tomboy sister.”

  Tina fixed her attention on a picture frame near the TV. “Belinda’s special.”

  “Cancer’s a hellish foe,” he said. “I’m sorry for her struggle.”

  “How do you know about Belinda’s illness?”

  “There’s little about you that I don’t know.” He prowled around the room. “When was the last time you had contact with Ms. Gilbert?”

  “We worked together the night before she died.”

  “What about your dinner date with her the next day?”

  “I didn’t have dinner with Gracie.”

  “That’s not what her phone indicated.”

  Confusion sliced across her features. “Did she have an appointment in her calendar?”

  “A text conversation.”

  “With me?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “Three days ago.”

  “No way. I admit that I could’ve forgotten a pre-arranged get-together. But not a text message from a few days ago.”

  “Has anyone borrowed your phone?” Evie asked. “I learned a long time ago not to leave my phone sitting unattended around my brothers. They would send weird texts to my friends or leave goofy photos for me to find.”

  “No. My phone’s never far from my side.”

  He cut in. “I’ll need a list of your customers.”

  “Customers?”

  He had to give her kudos for keeping it cool.

  “The people who get their heroin from you.”

  “I don’t deal in heroin.”

  “Not now, but you used to. Coke and ecstasy appear to be your product of choice nowadays.”

  “Whoever’s feeding you information about me should double-check their facts.”

  “I have the utmost confidence in my analyst.”

  “What agency did you say you’re with?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “We’re not here to arrest you or shut you down,” Evie interjected. “All we want to know is who killed Gracie.” She dropped her voice. “You want that too, right?”

  Tina closed her eyes. “Yes.”

  “Then help us. Please.”

  She nodded once, turning away a moment to collect herself. “I’ll do what I can, but I can’t give you a list of my customers. I-I need this job now more than ever.”

  “What you’re doing for your sister is admirable—but dangerous.”

  “Most of my clients are either spoiled college kids, experiencing the dark side for the first time, or wealthy businessmen, escaping the realities of a life they’ve created. I can’t think of one who’d be capable of murder.”

  He bent down to get a better view of a photo containing three women—a brunette, a blonde, and a redhead. Lifting the picture from the wall, he focused on the blonde.

  “How long have you known Leah Bristow?” he asked.

  “Since grade school. Why?”

  “Did she ever mention a guy by the name of Dylan?”

  A ghost of a smile appeared. “She and Dylan used to be inseparable. He was sweet, though constantly seeking something.”

  “He’s missing.”

  Her eyes widened. “For how long?”

  “Since the evening of Ms. Gilbert’s death.”

  “Dylan couldn’t have done that to Gracie. He’s misguided at times, but has a gentle soul.” She studied him. “Special Agent Conrad. Dylan spoke highly of an older brother. Deke, I believe.”

  “Spoke highly?”

  “With a few brotherly complaints mixed in.” She glanced between him and Evie.
“I’m beginning to understand why finding Gracie’s killer is so important.”

  “You can think of no one who would wish Gracie or Dylan harm?” Evie asked.

  Tina shook her head. “I have a few oddball clients. But capable of murder? Nothing comes to mind.”

  He held out a business card. “Call me if anything—anything—surfaces. My gut tells me you’re the link.”

  At the door, Evie placed a hand on Tina’s arm. “I hope your sister gets better soon.”

  Tears glistened in her eyes. “So do I.”

  “One other thing,” he said. “Ms. Gilbert’s autopsy report revealed signs of drug abuse.”

  “Gracie never touched the stuff. Not even in high school.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive. Her father died from an overdose, and her brother’s going to follow in his footsteps, especially now.”

  “Why now?”

  “Because he started experimenting with Krocodile.”

  “What’s Krocodile?” Evie asked after she and Deke got back on the road.

  “A new drug. Worse than Meth.”

  He hit a button on his phone and his dashboard displayed Calling Jax.

  “Worse?”

  “Google it. Beware, though. The images are disturbing.”

  “Whatcha got, Boss?” A feminine voice piped through the speakers.

  “I need you to run Gracie Gilbert’s brother—Kevin Cassidy. ”

  “Is that a scoop I smell?”

  “Tina Armstrong said he’s been a user for years, but now he’s into Krocodil.”

  “Krocodil? He wouldn’t do that to his sister, would he?”

  Evie could hear furious tapping on the other side of the line. She recognized the woman’s voice as the one she’d heard in Dylan’s apartment.

  “Anything’s possible. You know that.”

  “I’m putting this guy in the SOB queue.”

  “Anything else?” Jax asked.

  “Send what you find on Cassidy to Taj and Keone. I’m headed back to Fulton Road. Something she told me isn’t adding up.”

  “The girlfriend? You never did share the skinny on your last convo.”

  “And I’m not going to now.”

  “Wait a second—”

  He disconnected.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Jax.”

  She gave him a dirty look. “The girlfriend.”

  “Leah Bristow.”

  “Tina’s friend. The one in the picture.”

  “Yes.”

  “Dylan’s girlfriend?”

  He hooked an eyebrow in her direction. “Yes. Or was.”

  “Don’t give me the challenging eyebrow. I already told you that I came to my senses after I got my emotions under control.” She crossed her arms. “If you’re going to live a life of lies and deception, you can’t expect those around you to have a perfect response to every situation. We have to first weave through a bunch of crap.”

  He started to say something, stopped, resettled in his seat. “I’ve tried like hell not to lie to those I love.”

  “I know.” She tunneled her fingers with his. “Was that a declaration?”

  Lifting her hand, he kissed the backs of her fingers.

  They said nothing more until Deke pulled into Leah Bristow’s driveway.

  “I’ll stay here,” she said. “It might seem weird for me to appear for a follow-up interview.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Won’t I be an unnecessary distraction?”

  “A distraction, but not unnecessary.”

  He exited and came around to open her door.

  “Why do I get the feeling I’m about to be a human shield?”

  “Can’t imagine.”

  When Leah opened the door, her smile could’ve spanned the width of a yardstick. Until she saw Evie.

  “Hey, Deke. Back so soon?”

  “Leah, do you have a minute? I’d like to ask you a few more questions about Dylan.”

  “Sure.” She sized up Evie. “Who’s your little friend?”

  Little? At five-foot-ten, Evie could never be mistaken as little. However, Golden Girl had to be six foot in flats. Wearing those sassy cork-heeled sandals added at least four more inches. Dammit. She refused to resent her favorite orange walking shoes.

  Deke grasped her hand, giving it a quick, hard squeeze before hauling her inside. “A good friend.”

  “What’s up?” Leah indicated an ivory sofa before melting into a plush, sage-colored chair. One long, bare leg crossed the other.

  “When I was here last, you mentioned that Dylan had been distracted.”

  She began sliding the pad of her thumb over the nail of her middle finger. Back and forth. Back and forth. “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “Distracted how? By work? By a new hobby?”

  “By a new girlfriend?” Evie put in. Yeah, the “little” comment still stung.

  The anxious finger rubbing stopped. “Dylan didn’t fool around. He might have been a pain in the ass in other areas, but he wasn’t a tomcat.”

  “Why do you think he was distracted?”

  “I couldn’t tell you. All I know is that there were days when I wouldn’t see or hear from him.”

  “Did he ever mention anything about Gold Star?”

  “No, what’s that?”

  “Not sure. I was hoping you could tell me.”

  “Sorry, sweetcakes.”

  “Did my brother have a journal or keep a paper calendar?”

  Leah snorted. “Dylan wasn’t the organizing type.”

  “What about a pad of paper? A voice recorder? Or a filing system?”

  “You really don’t know your brother at all, do you?”

  “A man can change, given enough time.”

  “Or not at all.” She flicked her fingers as if shooing away a fly. “Listen, if Dylan had a secret file or notebook, he probably kept it in his gun case.”

  “I didn’t see a gun case at his apartment.”

  “That’s because it’s in storage.”

  “You never said anything about a storage unit last time.”

  “Didn’t cross my mind.” She sat forward. “You think he’s hiding something important in there? He made it sound like the unit housed nothing but a bunch of guy toys.”

  “Do you have a key? Can you get into it?”

  “Never had any reason to.” She melted back into her chair. “Go talk to his friend Leo. He can get you inside.”

  “Where do I find this Leo?”

  “Benetti’s Storage in Canton.”

  36

  “You were always an evil boy.”

  You were always a bitch.

  Eli watched his mother’s eyes widen, then glaze over as her chest rose one last time.

  Blood pooled beneath her blue top, soaking the threads, inch-by-inch. It had taken a while to kill her with the glass shard. Not until he’d hit the carotid artery in her neck had he made any real progress.

  He peered down at the bloody shard in his palm. Waited for shock to kick in. For his body to shudder from the impact of his actions.

  Nothing.

  No disgust or guilt or joy or relief.

  Dropping the glass, he stared at his steady fingers.

  Daddy wouldn’t be happy about the closed casket. A break in Harwood tradition. Friends and family wouldn’t be able to pay their proper respects to a polished wooden lid. Best to move the body to Daddy’s basin, instead. The old man hadn’t used it in a couple years. Time to start a new tradition.

  But not right now.

  Grasping the old woman’s ankles, he dragged her into the corner of the stall. He found a pitchfork resting against one of the barn’s thick support beams. Shoving the metal prongs into a stack of fetid, decaying straw, he lifted a hunk and tossed it onto the corpse. More followed until no sign of the woman remained.

  Wiping the grit from his face, he studied the mound and decided it would do until he returned. Before he
could take care of her properly and eliminate Conrad and his cronies, he had a score to settle with the hellcat who’d attacked him.

  Evie, the man had yelled before Eli had flown out the window.

  Not an everyday kind of name.

  Unique.

  Easily tracked down.

  Ignoring the throbbing in his lower back, he strode from the barn, a whistle building behind his lips.

  37

  Dylan stared up at his lock-pick kit high above him. The pouch lay half on, half off the metal shelf, as if someone had carelessly dropped it there.

  Rising on his knees, he pressed his shoulder against the bars overhead, giving him as much height as possible. He stuck his arm through the cage, reaching as far as he could.

  Not enough.

  Two inches still separated him from his kit. He tried several other positions—all attempts ended with the same result.

  Failure.

  A blast of disorientation forced him to stop. How long since he’d had food? Water? Not to mention blood loss.

  Perspiration pebbled his forehead and upper lip. He blinked several times to right himself. He couldn’t stay here much longer. The Harwoods could return any second.

  A yellow box cutter and ink pen stood in a black pencil caddy on the desk. He judged the distance to his kit—hope had him surging forward. His arm threaded through the bars and he grappled for the caddy. The tip of his middle finger grazed the base. It wasn’t enough to get a solid hold.

  The muscles in his arm, shoulder, and back stretched to their limits. A cramp began to form in his upper arm.

  Then the caddy moved. Not much, but enough to break the base’s hold on the desk.

  Closing his eyes, he concentrated on his finger’s effort and the feel of the caddy drawing closer. The process took an eternity. Adrenaline poured into his body when he grasped the pen.

  He shook off the pain screaming in his arm before attempting to retrieve his picks. All it took was one lift and pull maneuver with the pen, and his kit dropped to the floor. Satisfaction spiked through his veins. Time to get to work.

  The awkward position forced him to take it slow and rely on his sense of touch alone. Sweat rolled down his temple, and his arms shook.