Trace Evidence in Tarrant...

by Delores Fossen

  He didn't need to add more to that. Carley quickly got the picture, and it wasn't a picture she liked very much at all. It'd been Zane's call as to whom to put in charge and he'd chosen Sloan.

  Not her.

  To an outsider, Zane's decision would seem like nepotism or even cronyism, but Carley knew for a fact that Zane and Sloan were brothers in name only. They hadn't been real siblings since their father's arrest sixteen years ago. That arrest had parted them like Moses had the Red Sea, with Zane refusing to get involved in anything but his own sterling career. Sloan, on the other hand, had involved himself to the hilt so he could convince everyone, including his brother, that their father was innocent.

  "Zane must really be desperate to ask you for help," she mumbled.

  Sloan stood there in his crisp Ranger outfit: a white western-cut shirt, jeans, hip holster, snakeskin boots and his shiny silver-peso badge. He was studying her and probably trying to interpret her reaction. Carley didn't have to interpret her reaction to him. She didn't want him back in Justice and she didn't want him meddling in her investigation.

  Why Sloan McKinney of all people?

  Their history wasn't pleasant—and it wasn't all limited to her testimony against his father. Seven years ago, he'd beaten her out for the deputy's job. That still stung, even now. Carley had wanted that job more than she'd wanted her next breath. And why? Because it was a stepping stone to the next rung in her career ladder: being the top honcho—sheriff.

  Something that Sloan had accomplished in record time by becoming the youngest one in the entire county.

  He hadn't changed in the handful of years since Carley had last seen him. The same short and efficiently cut dark brown hair. The same sizzling blue eyes.

  Bedroom eyes, the girls had called them.

  He still had that athletic physique on that six-foot-three-inch body of muscles and, well, good looks. That was his problem, she decided. Sloan McKinney had always been too sexy for his own good. It had opened doors for him. Plenty of them.

  "I know you're upset," he commented. "But Zane thought that folks around here would be more likely to talk to me than him. Or you."

  Sloan had probably used that leisurely Texas drawl to soothe her, the way he used to soothe horses on his granddaddy's ranch.

  It. Did. Not. Calm. Her.

  "Zane and you think folks are more likely to talk to you because you used to be sheriff," she clarified through clenched teeth.

  Sloan gave her a yep-that-about-sums-it-up nod. "And there's that whole part about Zane knowing that you weren't medically ready to resume your duties. This is a double murder investigation, Carley. A cold case—and a red-hot one. He needs someone who's a hundred percent and he's not convinced that you are."

  She would have argued if at that exact moment the pain hadn't pinched at her side. Mercy. When was her body going to heal? It'd been nearly a week. She couldn't take any more time off. Look what these seven days had done. She was no longer in charge of her own investigation.

  Sloan was.

  Fate was having a really good belly laugh about that. Sloan, her boss. Her working for him.

  Because that was practically an unbearable thought and because her blasted side wouldn't quit pinching, Carley went inside so she could sit down. Of course, she wouldn't be able to do that right away. Sloan had those bedroom-blue eagle eyes nailed to her. He was observing her every move—and that wasn't good, because she wasn't moving so well.

  Carley casually strolled inside, plucked the surveillance disk from the machine and tried to be equally casual by continuing to stroll into her office.

  "You're in pain," Sloan remarked.

  She ignored him and eased into the chair behind her desk. "I suppose Zane has already briefed you about the case that you're now officially in charge of?"

  He looked ready to call her on her evasive response, but Sloan finally just lifted his hands, palms up. A gesture of surrender.

  Carley hoped there'd be more of those before this conversation was over.

  "Zane briefed me, of course," Sloan verified. "But I'd like to hear what you have to say about it."

  "No, you wouldn't, but you're trying to placate me because you know I'm mad enough to want to hit you with this surveillance disk."

  Carley took out her anger on the disk. With far more force than required, she shoved it into the player.

  "Zane didn't tell me about the surveillance camera being vandalized. Or even that it'd been installed," Sloan explained. "He also didn't tell me that you were back at your office, trying to work." His voice was calm enough, but she could see the little embers simmering in his eyes. They weren't so bedroomy now. "He might have missed something else that I need to know."

  It was immature, but she huffed.

  Sloan huffed, too. Then he dragged a scarred wooden chair from the corner, deposited it in front of her desk and sat down. "Get past your hatred for me. I'll get past what I feel for you. And for the next few minutes remember that you're the sheriff, I'm your temporary boss and that you're giving me a situation report to bring me up to speed on this investigation."

  Carley wanted to hang on to her anger and stew in it a little longer, but, by God, he was right. A situation report to a new officer on the scene was standard procedure, and though she didn't like it, she would not violate procedure because of the likes of Sloan McKinney.

  She took a moment to gather her thoughts and so she could come up with the most condensed version of facts. The less face time with Sloan, the better.

  "Okay. You win. Here's the situation report. As you know, sixteen years ago Lou Ann Wallace-Hendricks was murdered. She was strangled with her own designer-brand purse strap. At the time, she was married to one of our present suspects, Leland Hendricks."

  And her briefing came to a halt. Because what she had to say next would only stir up even more bad memories.

  "I'll finish this part," Sloan volunteered. "We also know that Lou Ann and my father, Jim McKinney, were having an affair. The night Lou Ann was killed, you claim to have seen my father in the general vicinity of her room at the Matheson Inn. That led to his arrest." A muscle tightened in his jaw. "And the case against him was dismissed."

  "The charges were dismissed only because there were some inconsistencies with the evidence. Your father's name wasn't cleared, and you know it."

  He leaned forward, propping his hands on Carley's cluttered desk. He violated her personal space and then some. In fact, Sloan was so close that she got a whiff of his manly aftershave. It reminded her of the woods, summer afternoons, picnics and sex.

  Whoa.

  What?

  Sex?

  Carley was sure she looked stunned over that last thought. Since it was a truly disturbing notion, she shoved it aside and tried to repair the fractures in her own composure.

  "What's wrong?" Sloan asked.

  "Nothing," she snapped. She forced herself to continue. No more picnic, sex or aftershave thoughts. "I was just thinking how pathetic and dangerous it is that no one was ever convicted of Lou Ann's murder."

  "Right." He eyed her with obvious skepticism. "Why don't we fast-forward this briefing to what happened a little less than a week ago."

  "Gladly," she mumbled. After a deep breath, Carley went on with the report. "Lou Ann's older daughter, Sarah, came back to town. She called her kid sister, Anna, who's an investigative reporter in Dallas, and Sarah asked Anna to meet her at the Matheson Inn. Sarah said she had information about their mother's killer."

  "Who knew that Sarah had come back to Justice?" Sloan asked immediately.

  "Everybody."

  Carley was unable to contain her frustration about that. Sarah hadn't kept her presence a secret, especially from the killer who obviously wanted to silence her. Not very smart. And because of it, Sarah had ended up dead like her mother. Carley hadn't been able to protect her, and it was because of her that Sarah was dead.

  She'd have to learn to live with that.

  Somehow.


  "Now you can finish the update," Carley insisted. "Zane wasn't exactly doing daily situation reports to let me know what was going on."

  "Because you were recovering from a gunshot wound."

  "And because he thought I was out of the picture. I'm not. So, boss, why don't you tell me how you plan to catch a killer who's evaded justice for sixteen years?"

  He shrugged. "Simple—I'll continue the investigation that Zane started. If the grand jury says there's enough evidence to arrest anyone, that's what I'll do. If not, then I'll reinterview the witnesses—"

  "There weren't any witnesses to Sarah's murder."

  "Potential witnesses then," he calmly amended. "And, of course, I'll talk to Donna and Leland Hendricks since, according to the papers Sarah had, they're the primary suspects for both murders."

  They were. The information that Sarah had brought with her to Justice pointed the proverbial finger right at Leland Hendricks, the wealthiest man in town, and his equally wealthy ex-wife, Donna.

  It was a tangled web that reached all the way back to the first murder.

  According to Sarah's collection of papers and notes, sixteen years ago Donna Hendricks was planning to pay Lou Ann big bucks to go to the police with the information and evidence that Leland was plotting to fake his own toddler son's kidnapping and murder so he could collect on the massive insurance policy. Donna hated her ex, Leland, because she'd lost custody of their son to him. So if Lou Ann had threatened to tell all about Donna's bribe, it would no doubt have ended what little visitation rights Donna had left with her little boy. To keep Lou Ann silent, Donna could have killed her and then done the same to Sarah.

  Of course, Sarah's allegations implicated Leland Hendricks, as well, because he could have killed Lou Ann when and if she wouldn't go along with his fake kidnapping/murder plan. It didn't help, either, when Zane was able to shatter Leland's alibi for the night of Lou Ann's murder. The wealthy oil baron doctored the surveillance video of his estate that night so that it would appear he was home.

  And that brought Carley back to her own surveillance disk.

  To the best of her knowledge, hers hadn't been altered or faked, and it was entirely possible she could see who had vandalized city property. She might even discover if it was related to the murders. And the two attempted murders: Anna Wallace's and hers.

  She hit the Play button and got up so she could retrieve the rest of her breakfast that she'd left on top of a filing cabinet.

  Sloan stood, too, and looked at the honey-filled donut on the paper plate and her cup of still-warm cinnamon cappuccino. "Hey, where'd you get that?"

  Sloan's apparent envy made Carley smile. "Main Street Diner."

  He moved closer, staring at it. "They make donuts that look that good?"

  "They do now that Donna Hendricks bought the place. She brought in a real honest-to-goodness chef."

  He flexed his eyebrows. "Donna is one of the prime suspects in these murders."

  "Yessss," Carley enunciated in a way that made him seem mentally deficient. "And your point would be?"

  This time he lifted his eyebrow. "Doesn't it seem a little reckless buying donuts from a person who might have murdered two women and then taken a shot at you? How do you know she didn't poison it?"

  "I don't," Carley said smugly. "But since I've already had one this morning and I haven't keeled over, I think it's safe for me to eat that one. Besides, the killer has no reason to come after me again because I didn't see his or her face, and everyone in town knows that."

  She went back to her seat. Or, rather, that's what she tried to do. Unfortunately Sloan was in her way. Carley didn't let that deter her. She moved past him.

  His hip brushed against hers.

  She noticed.

  Judging from the slight unevenness of his breath, so did he.

  Both of them ignored it.

  "You're going to eat all of that donut?" he asked.

  Was it her imagination or did Carley hear his stomach rumble?

  She fought a smile. "What can I say—I'm a cliché. A cop with a donut addiction."

  She glanced at the monitor when there was some movement so she could see what the camera had recorded. There was some light coming from her office window, and it gave enough illumination for her to see that it was merely two cats that seemed to have amorous intentions. A moment later they disappeared into the thick woods and out of camera range.

  Sloan sat down again, volleying glances between her breakfast and the monitor. "You're not going to offer me any of that donut?"

  "Didn't plan on it."

  He grinned. Sheez, it was that all-star, billon-dollar grin. "That smile won't work on me," she grumbled.

  "What smile?" Oh, butter would not melt in his mouth.

  "That one you're flashing right now. I suspect it's coaxed many women into lots of things, including clothing removal. But I'm immune to it. And it won't work on parting me from my donut."

  The grin morphed. Just a tad. But instead of evoking sultry thoughts, it had a sad puppy-dog look to it.

  "Besides," he drawled. "You should be eating something more nutritious since you're recovering from your injuries. When we're done looking at this disk, we can head to the diner and get you some real breakfast. While we're there, I'll have a donut."

  Carley didn't like the sound of that. Her goal was to finish this situation report, review the surveillance disk and then get him the heck out of her office so she could continue her own investigation.

  Maybe sharing the donut would speed things up.

  Figuring this would cause them to skip the trip to the diner, she ripped the donut in half, plopped his half back on the paper plate and shoved it across the desk toward him.

  "Thanks," he mumbled, diving right into it. "See? We do have some common ground. Our shared love of sugary, high fat pastries that have no nutritional value."

  "You call that common ground?"

  Sloan used that smile again. "Hey, I'll take what I can get."

  She could have added something snarky—like, he had already gotten everything he could possibly get—but the sugary donut was making her fingers sticky, so she began to eat it.

  "I've arranged to meet with both Donna and Leland this afternoon." Sloan tossed that out there in between bites.

  Carley didn't know if that was an invitation for her to join him or if he was merely continuing with his briefing. She decided to go with the option that suited her. "Let me know when and where, and I'll be there."

  "At two this afternoon. Here at the police station." He tipped his head to the filing cabinet. "Just how strong are those pain pills?"

  Mercy. She'd forgotten all about those. They'd blended in amid the stacks of files and other clutter. "Not strong enough to keep me off this case," she insisted. "Besides, I haven't even taken any of them." She would have added more, would have probably even started a fresh argument, if there hadn't been more movement on the screen.

  "It's motion-activated," Sloan commented, his attention now fully on the monitor. He set the rest of the donut aside.

  Carley followed suit. Because what she saw captured her complete attention, as well.

  No amorous cats this time. It was a shadowy figure. She turned the monitor, hoping for a better angle. Sloan walked around the desk and stood behind her.

  "I can't tell if it's a man or a woman," he mumbled.

  "I can't tell if it's even human. It looks a little like a scarecrow in a Halloween costume."

  "Definitely human. The person's wearing a mask and a cloak."

  She studied the image and had to agree. But the person didn't have just a cloak and mask. There was something in his or her hand. The light from her office danced off that something. It was a glint of metal.

  And on the screen Carley saw the gun rigged with a silencer.

  That barely had time to register in her mind when there was the first shot.

  And it wasn't aimed at the camera.

  The gunman saved th
e second bullet for that.

  Sloan reached over and pressed a button to rewind the disk. He stopped it just as the first shot was in progress. Carley saw then what she hadn't wanted to see.

  Mercy.

  A chill went through her.

  "This person wasn't just gunning for your surveillance camera, Carley," Sloan confirmed. "He or she was gunning for you."

  Chapter Three

  "Are you okay?" Sloan asked when he saw the expression on Carley's face.

  What little color she'd had drained from her cheeks. Not without reason. She'd just witnessed a recording of someone attempting to kill her.

  "The shots were fired at 1:13 this morning," Carley mumbled, obviously noting the time displayed on the bottom of the monitor.

  "You weren't here when it happened?"

  "No. I finished up work about a half hour before that, but I'd left on the light. I didn't notice it until after I'd locked up and made my way back to the inn." She looked up at him. "I can see my office window from my attic apartment. I figured it wouldn't hurt to leave the light on all night and I knew I'd be back in the office early."

  Sloan played around with that a moment and took it to its logical conclusion. "So, because of the light, someone might have thought you were inside here working at 1:13 this morning."

  Carley nodded. "It's not unusual for me to be here at that hour."

  He didn't doubt it.

  From all accounts, Carley was driven to be the best sheriff ever. That included plenty of seventy-hour work weeks, even though technically the sheriff's office was only supposed to open from eight to five, with all calls before and after hours going through dispatch. He figured with Carley around, dispatch wasn't taking many of the calls, because she made sure she was readily available for the citizens of Justice.

  Sloan glanced around the room. "The window's intact, no broken glass. I don't see any point of entry for that first bullet."

  He watched the steel and resolution return to Carley's eyes, and she got up at the exact second that he headed for the door.

  The race was afoot.

  She rushed around her desk and then came to a complete stop. That stopped Sloan, especially when Carley caught onto her side.