by Lisa Jackson
“Listen, Mom, I have a big favor,” she said, and pulling Zena into the kitchen, told her mother about the call from Alvarez. She kept her voice low, and the girls, eager to see the presents their grandmother had brought them, held a temporary truce as they placed the wrapped packages under the tree.
Zena’s face drained of all color and she quickly made the sign of the cross over her chest even though she hadn’t been a practicing Catholic for over thirty years. “Oh, my God, you have to go. Of course you do! Who in their right mind would shoot Dan?”
Hattie was already at the back door of her condo, finding her boots. “That’s the thing, Mom. Obviously whoever’s done this is not in his right mind.” After stepping into her boots, she snagged her favorite down jacket from the rack over her shoes and scooped her purse from the kitchen table. Keys in hand, she took the time to tell the girls she’d be back soon, then kissed them each before heading toward the garage. “Thanks, Mom,” she said, her throat catching a bit. “You’re a life saver.”
“Over and over again,” Zena agreed, then made a quick little shooing motion with her hand. “You go. And don’t worry about a thing. The girls and I will get dinner started and make that gingerbread house. Now, Hattie, you’ve got your cell phone, right? So you can call and give me an update.”
“In my purse.”
Zena’s practiced smile fell slightly. “Give Dan my best. He was the one, you know. The one you should have married.”
Chapter 6
“Jesus H. Christ! Just what the hell happened?” In the waiting area outside the operating rooms of Northern General Hospital, Cade Grayson glared at Pescoli as if she were the devil incarnate. Long and lean, a cowboy type, Cade sported a three-day growth of beard, a faded pair of Levi’s, and an attitude that wouldn’t quit. Sunglasses hung from the frayed collar of his work shirt and, Pescoli guessed, they had been left there out of convenience rather than as a fashion statement. His battered Stetson and worn jacket were tossed over one of the low-slung couches in the waiting room.
Another woman sat by the window, staring out absently, obviously waiting for news on a loved one as she knitted, her needles softly clicking, her expression a mask of despair. Next to her was a man who looked to be a generation older. He was leafing through a well-read magazine, his expression taut, probably not taking in a word of text from the article he was perusing through rimless reading glasses perched on the end of his nose.
The bell for the elevator dinged quietly and two hospital workers in scrubs, a man and woman, fell into step, their conversation never lagging as they punched in a code and the wide door to the surgical unit opened.
Pescoli had hoped for word on her boss, but so far, there had been nothing. Jabbing a finger in her direction, Cade said, “Let me get this straight. On Christmas morning, you go up to see Dan and just as you get there, he gets shot?”
Cade was hot. As in angry. As in furious. As in needing to punch someone’s lights out. Pescoli understood his rage, even if it was misdirected at her. “We’re trying to sort it all out.”
“Do you think it might have something to do with you? I mean, that’s one helluva coincidence, don’t you think?”
The thought had crossed her mind more than once, and she couldn’t help a stab of guilt. “We’re still looking at all possibilities.”
“Don’t give me any of that police BS. It’s the company line and we all know it,” he declared, motioning toward his older brother, Zed, who stood near the window, one burly shoulder propped against a support post. Zed didn’t say much but was working a toothpick in the corner of his mouth as he squinted through the glass to the storm outside. The guy reading the old magazine looked up sharply over the tops of his readers.
“Who the hell took a potshot at my brother? Give me a name,” Cade demanded.
“I don’t know. But I intend to find out. Got any ideas?”
“Isn’t that your job? You’re the cop!”
“As I said, we’re working on it.”
He shook his head, his jaw taut. “Do your job. Find the son of a bitch.”
“Give her a break,” Zed suggested, then, leveling his deep-set eyes on Pescoli, added, “Cade’s not a big fan of law enforcement.”
“I got that,” Pescoli said, then to Cade, “Trust me, everyone in the sheriff’s office is making this attack priority one. We all are pretty attached to the sheriff.”
Cade looked about to say something else but somehow managed to keep it in.
“Anything we can do?” Zed offered.
“We could start with his enemies,” Pescoli suggested.
“Don’t you have that covered?” Cade demanded. “Dan’s the goddamn sheriff, and before that he worked as a detective and road deputy and he ran in more scumbags than you can count.”
Pescoli held up a hand. “It’s the family stuff I’m talking about. You know, friends who might not be what they seemed. Anyone Dan crossed on a personal level.”
Cade’s gaze shifted to a spot over her shoulder and his lips tightened a fraction. He said something under his breath that sounded like “speak of the devil,” and Pescoli turned to see what had caught his attention. She watched as Hattie Grayson hurried inside. She was breathless and her hair, usually so perfectly in place, was now tangled and mussed, brown strands wet from the snow. “How—how is he doing?” she asked, her question directed at Pescoli.
Pescoli threw a glance at Cade.
“Not great,” Cade said, lips barely moving as he slid another accusing glare Pescoli’s way. “Shot in the chest and head.”
“But he’s going to pull through.” She looked from one brother to the next for confirmation.
“Nothing’s for certain,” Pescoli said, though she hated how grim she sounded. “We’re waiting for the doctor.”
“Oh, God.” Hattie was pale, her cheeks, which had been ruddy from the cold, blanching. Slowly, she drew in a deep breath. “I just can’t believe it. Who would . . . ?” Swallowing hard, she blinked back tears and shook her head, as if she were trying to dislodge a bad, lingering dream.
“How about your sister?” Cade suggested in a dangerous voice.
“What?”
“Hey!” Big Zed pushed up from the pillar on which he’d been leaning and shook his head. “Not the place,” he warned his brother, but Cade was advancing on Hattie. With one hand, he swiped the air in Zed’s direction, silently telling the bigger man to back off as he came within an arm’s length of his ex-sister-in-law. “Cara played Dan like a damned puppet.”
“But she’s married to—”
“Nolan Banks, yeah, I know. Has been for years. Doesn’t mean she still didn’t dick around with Dan. Even when he started dating Akina, Cara still messed with him.”
“He married Akina,” Hattie reminded.
Cade glared at her and Pescoli sensed something pass between them. “And how long did that last?” Cade asked. “Ten months? A year?”
Hattie just shook her head.
“Not very damned long,” Cade said, as if Grayson’s failed second marriage were somehow Hattie’s fault.
“It wasn’t because of Cara,” Hattie said, suddenly bristling. She was nose to nose with Cade and refused to back down, but it was clear, being close to him was uncomfortable for her. “If I remember correctly, Akina ran off with her high-school boyfriend.”
“Because Cara kept showing up and Dan was too nice, or too emotionally attached to Cara, to tell Cara to ‘get lost’!”
Pescoli was processing the information. Grayson was a private man and had kept his personal life as out of the limelight as an elected official could. She’d known he’d been married to both women, but she’d never realized Hattie was a sister to Grayson’s first wife. She’d thought Hattie’s relationship with Dan stemmed from Hattie’s marriage to Bart, Dan’s dead brother. “Wait a second,” she said, holding up a hand. “Your sister was—”
“Half sister,” Hattie corrected swiftly. “Dan’s first wife. Yes.” She drag
ged her glance from Cade to address Pescoli. “It’s . . . complicated.”
“Screwed up,” Cade clarified, gray eyes flashing. “Depends on who you ask.”
“That makes it easy,” Pescoli said to Cade as she reached into her pocket and retrieved her mini-recorder. “I’ll start with you. Let’s cover all the family relationships, then get to the last time you saw or talked with your brother.” She motioned Cade to the couch where his jacket and hat had been tossed.
Reluctantly, Cade perched on the edge of the couch, his gaze stormy, his back stiff. “I talked to him last night, late, around eleven, on my cell. But I wasn’t the last person to see him before the attack.”
“Who would that be, then?” Pescoli asked.
“You, Detective. You were the last person he saw.”
Once more, like a piece of film replayed over and over again, Pescoli witnessed Dan’s body jerking as the would-be assassin’s bullets ripped through his body. Cade had a point, though, much as she disliked the man. Other than the would-be killer, Pescoli was the only witness to the crime.
She was still interviewing the brothers when she saw Santana striding toward her. Before he reached ICU, however, a deputy who had been assigned to guard Grayson and who was stationed near the door to the unit blocked Santana’s path.
“Excuse me a second,” she said to Cade and Zed, as Santana looked in her direction. “I’ll be right back.” She hurried across the hallway. “It’s all right,” she told the guard as she reached the two men, then walked with Santana to a more private alcove near the stairwell. “What’re you doing here?” she finally asked.
“I had to see for myself that you were okay.”
She lifted both her palms toward the ceiling. “I told you . . .”
“Sometimes you tend to stretch the truth.”
“Bullshit, Santana. I’m fine.”
“Okay. I believe you,” he said as if he really didn’t. “Just don’t blame me for caring, okay?”
“I don’t.”
He glanced down at her ringless left hand. “I’m sorry about Grayson. He’s a good guy.” He didn’t add “And so am I,” but it was there, hanging in the air, unspoken.
“Just give me some time.”
“And space. Yeah, I know.”
He turned and headed toward the elevators, and she gave herself a swift mental kick. Why the hell did she keep pushing him away when she ached to be with him?
Because, damn it, you have a fear of commitment and a fear that if you get too close to someone you love, he will leave you.
Drawing a deep breath, she pulled herself together, then turned toward ICU, the Grayson brothers, and Hattie once more. Right now, she had to concentrate on the case. Someone was out to kill Dan Grayson. Just because they hadn’t put him into his grave the first time, didn’t mean they wouldn’t try again.
The dog was still missing. According to Pescoli, Sturgis, Dan Grayson’s black Lab, had taken off after the attack on the sheriff. Alvarez had worked most of the day and couldn’t face the hospital, so she’d returned to the crime scene to trudge up the ridge, which, it seemed, was the most likely place for the killer to have set up his attack.
Using metal detectors, the tech team found two shell casings buried in the snow near an old stump. Now there were footprints all around the area; the snow had been scraped away, a fresh layer in its place as the damned stuff kept falling.
Already the detectives had searched the area and concluded that the assassin had probably skied down the ridge to a waiting vehicle on an old logging road, though no fresh tracks had been found, new-falling snow having obliterated any significant tread marks. The team was still searching, but so far, they hadn’t come up with anything of use. And there had been no dog sightings.
“Where are you, Sturgis?” she wondered and let out a whistle before calling to the dog and hearing her voice echo back through the icy canyon. Listening, hoping to hear an excited bark, she stood still for a second, the frigid forest silent and, she thought dourly, unforgiving. She knew the pain of losing an animal, her own recently adopted puppy had gone missing once and she’d been frantic. So, along with nailing Grayson’s would-be killer, she intended on finding his dog.
“Sturgis!” she yelled again. “Come, boy!”
In answer, a clump of snow fell from the laden branches of a hemlock tree and she turned quickly, half expecting the Lab to appear.
No such luck.
She was alone.
And getting nowhere fast.
Her cell phone jangled and she dug it out of her pocket. Caller ID flashed with O’Keefe’s name and number. “Hey,” she answered, smiling as she turned toward Grayson’s cabin and returned along the path she’d broken in the snow.
“Merry Christmas. I’ve been trying to reach you all day.”
“Been a little busy,” she admitted as the wind brushed against her cheek.
“I know. It’s all over the news. Where are you?”
“The crime scene again. Looking for more evidence and his dog.” She glanced around the hills again. Dusk was approaching and the temperature would fall further. Where the hell was Sturgis?
“Any luck?”
“Nada.” Uneasy, she watched the shadows ooze through the forest allowing darkness to close in. She could feel the iciness of the wind as it whispered, moaning audibly through the gorge.
“Tell me what I can do.”
As a private detective, O’Keefe had his own way of investigating and could possibly break the rules she wasn’t able to touch, much less bend.
“I can’t allow you to do anything,” she said, refusing to compromise the case, though what he did on his own time, without her okay, was something else again and he knew it. “Where are you?”
“At your place. Making dinner.”
“Then I lied, you can do something. Feed the dog and cat for me, would ya?”
“Anything your heart desires,” he said with a laugh that was devoid of any real sense of humor. Today, with Grayson battling for his life, no one was in a jovial mood, least of all her.
“Thanks,” she said.
“Oh, and, Selena?”
“Yeah?”
“I meant it: Merry Christmas.”
Her throat tightened and for the first time she felt tears burn the back of her eyelids. That’s the way it was for her; she could be all tough and in-your-face, a cop who had tight rein on her emotions, but a little kindness—that did her in every time.
“Merry Christmas, O’Keefe,” she said, before clicking off. She peered through the house one last time, noting that it was a mess, fingerprint dust everywhere, drawers left open, cushions on the old couch overturned, and there on the kitchen table, the contents strewn over the scarred wooden top, were two red foil bags that had been tied with ribbon, name tags reading: McKenzie and Mallory. Girlie gifts in tissue paper for his nieces. Each with a check and a notation: “College fund.” Her heart twisted a little when she thought of the big, kind man actually trying to buy and wrap gifts for the girls.
She remembered him walking the halls of the department, a tall, rangy man wearing cowboy boots and a sheepskin jacket, his mustache a little bushy, his dog forever at his heels. Her heart twisted and she reminded herself that she wasn’t in love with Dan Grayson, that she never had been, that her infatuation had been nothing more than admiration for the man.
Of course she was lying to herself and she knew it, which only made the pain worse. She loved O’Keefe. Her feelings for him were real, based on a shared history and a new commitment.
Right?
Then why was she so conflicted?
Maybe it was just the holidays, that time of year she hated and feared, the festivities only a reminder of how her life had taken such an ugly turn.
“You’re over that now,” she reminded herself and, again, studied the cabin that Dan Grayson called home, an isolated retreat for a man who lived alone.
Who would do this?
She looked around h
is house and tried to keep her emotions in check, seeing the cabin through the eyes of an investigator, not an employee and not a woman who had once fancied herself in love with him. Even so, as she walked from room to room, noting the rag rug the dog had claimed as his own, the pegs where his fishing gear still hung, or the oversized bed with a tan comforter that showed evidence of black dog hair, she struggled to remain detached. The only pictures were of Mallory and McKenzie with their uncle at a lake, and another in which a much younger Grayson was proudly displaying a large brook trout, its scales glinting in the sun, the ground on which it was laid lush with spring vegetation.
Someone from the department had already taken all of his private papers including his bills and a copy of a will.
In a cupboard in the living room, she found a stash of toys, dolls, Legos, and puzzles, probably for his nieces. There were also playing cards, a carousel of poker chips, a chess set, cribbage board, and a case that held backgammon pieces. Leaning back on her heels, she wondered how often he played cards or rolled dice with friends.
And what friends were they?
His brothers?
As far as she knew, Dan Grayson was a solitary man, on the verge of being called a loner.
But then, she hadn’t known him all his life, and from the dust that had collected, and the looks of the playing boards, the games had seen most of their action years ago, when he was in college, possibly, or later when he was with one of his wives.
She found nothing more of interest and walked through the living room to the kitchen where the smell of coffee still faintly lingered in the air.
Alvarez left the house again, called for the dog and waited once more, but no bounding retriever appeared from the surrounding wilderness. She left the door to the woodshed ajar, so, if the dog did return, he could find some shelter, then whispered to herself, “I’ll be back,” and jammed her hands into her pockets as she headed outside to her ten-year-old SUV.
