Shades of Gray

by Vicki Hinze

  “I did not,” Laura said firmly. “She rammed my car twice on Manzanita, and would have a third time, if I hadn’t outwitted her by swinging into a parking lot and taking refuge behind a Dumpster. Timmy was there. He’ll tell you what happened.”

  “Timmy was in the car with you?” Bear’s eyes turned cold and glittered anger.

  “Yes, he was.”

  “Did Madeline know it?”

  “She certainly did,” Laura insisted. “She’d already accosted us at Pizza Hut, and she followed us from there.”

  “Were there witnesses to this incident at Pizza Hut?”

  Thinking back, Laura nodded. “The manager, and maybe the waitress. I’m not sure if the waitress saw what happened. But I’m certain the manager did.”

  “Good. Good.” Judge Barton nodded and paused to drink some of his coffee. “But you did leave the scene of an accident.”

  “Madeline tried to run into my car. I got out of her way and she rammed into the Dumpster. Her car was a mess, but she was fine. So I left.”

  His forehead wrinkled, and he hiked a bushy brow. “You checked to see that she was all right?”

  “Yes. I’m not heartless, Bear, though the woman’s been doing her damnedest to drive me in that direction. And I didn’t want her back behind the wheel. She was drunk. She could’ve killed somebody. But the car wasn’t drivable.”

  “That gives us a little leverage, then. Did you report her?”

  “No.” Laura swung her hair back from her face. “It sounds trite, but I didn’t have time.”

  Bear looked her straight in the eye. “Did you threaten to kill her?”

  “Yes, I did,” Laura confessed. “If she endangered Timmy again.” She let out a sigh. “I meant it, Bear. I won’t say I didn’t.”

  “I had a hunch that was the case, which is exactly why I’m here.”

  “We also think she broke in here last night,” Jake said.

  “Someone cleaned out Timmy’s room and left a bottle of Scotch on the floor,” Laura explained. “But please keep that confidential because it could be . . . someone else.”

  Bear frowned. “Military related?”

  “It’s possible,” Laura said.

  “Is Timmy safe?”

  Laura gave him an earnest frown. “If he weren’t, would I be sitting here?”

  “No.” Bear smiled. “No, you wouldn’t.”

  He sat still for a long moment, sipping at his coffee, digesting, and then looked at Jake. “May I use your phone?”

  Jake got the cordless from the kitchen, then passed it to the judge. As the judge dialed, uneasy glances traversed between Jake and Laura.

  “This is Judge Barton,” he said into the receiver. “Is Chief Wilson in?”

  “The chief of police,” Laura whispered to Jake, who stood near the arm of her chair.

  After a pause, Bear said, “Frank, Bear Barton here. Yeah, I’m fine. Ready for some fishing. You don’t say. Up at Folsom Lake, eh? Well, why don’t we go up there this weekend and fill us a stringer or two?”

  Bear stared off into space, listening. “Good. Good. I’ll look forward to it.” He shifted on his seat, propping a hand on his knee. “Listen, Frank, I need to give you a heads-up on something. There’s a Madeline Drake Logan filing a custody suit to overturn one of my adoptions.”

  Bear paused, smiled, and then turned serious again. “I know it’s rare, but she’s a special case. An alcoholic with an attitude and not much sense. She’s also pressing charges against Laura Logan, and possibly Jake Logan. The charges are trumped up. If you could drag your feet a little and give us time to sort it out . . .?”

  “Good.” Bear smiled. “Good. Yes, I’ll give you a call when we’re ready. And I’ll have Emily give you a shout about the fishing trip on Friday. Thanks, Frank.”

  Bear hung up the phone. “That’ll buy us some time.”

  Laura swallowed a knot in her throat. In one phone call, a judge she’d seen only twice had done more for her than her own father had done for her in her entire life. “Thank you, Bear.”

  “Not necessary,” he said, sounding grumpy. “I take it kind of personal when someone screws with my decisions—especially when they involve kids. You might not know this, but I’m very persnickety about my children’s cases.”

  How could she not know it? She’d survived one of his grilling inquisitions. Still, he looked as serious as a heart attack, so she bit back a smile and nodded. “I knew you were thorough. An asset, I think, considering your decisions impact children’s lives forever.”

  “Damn right.” He stood up and cleared his throat. “Call your lawyer right away. On the possible military-related incident, if you can, file a complaint. On all the other incidents, file complaints against Madeline as soon as possible.”

  “We will,” Jake said, though Laura knew as well as he did that any proposed complaints would first have to be approved by Connor. “Parts of this situation are . . . delicate.”

  “I understand.” Bear walked to the front door, then paused, his expression grim. “I know this is the last thing you two need to hear after the case just settling, but I have a feeling this could get a lot worse before it gets better. I’m rarely wrong about these things. Keep your guard up. The woman lacks sense and stays drunk, and that combination makes her dangerous. Timmy’s counting on you. And I’m counting on you to take care of him.”

  Laura nodded. And at her side, so did Jake.

  When the door closed behind Bear, Jake swiveled his gaze to Laura.

  She sighed, then walked down the hallway toward her room without glancing at him. “Let me know when it’s time to leave.”

  Didn’t she want to talk about this? Any of this? All of this?

  Her bedroom door swung closed.

  Evidently not.

  Jake went back to bed. It’d been one hell of a night in a succession of hellish nights. And it appeared they were in for even more of them. He closed his eyes and forced himself to doze off. A few hours later, he awakened abruptly.

  To an explosion.

  Thirteen

  Jake’s ears popped, then rang.

  The walls shook. The bed rocked and, somewhere damn close, glass shattered. He sat straight up in bed, looking for the source of the explosion.

  Laura ran into his room. “What happened?”

  Jake rolled out of bed and onto his feet. “Sounded like a bomb.” He grabbed his khakis, jerked them on, then pulled out his Glock from the bedside drawer. “Stay here.”

  Laura followed him down the hall. “Front of the house?”

  “The driveway, I think.” He pulled hard, but the front door refused to open. “I told you to stay put.”

  “I heard you.”

  And obviously she’d chosen to ignore him. He ran through the house to the back door with Laura hard on his heels. The top half of the door was window. Spreading the lacy white curtains with the barrel tip of the Glock, he looked outside. Nothing seemed out of place. He scanned past the patio table and chairs and swept his gaze down the wooden privacy fence.

  “Anything?” Laura asked from behind him.

  “Did you plant marigolds near the gazebo?” In the photo he’d found in the dead operative’s hand, she’d been planting flowers near the gazebo.

  “Yes. Shortly before going to court. Why?”

  The photo had been taken even more recently than he’d suspected. “No reason.” Jake reached for the doorknob. “Stay close to the house.”

  She nodded.

  Easing outside, he looked down the walkway to the side gate. It was closed. Laura pushed through the waist-high shrubs between the house and sidewalk, slowly moving from the back to the front yard. Her back to the siding, she inched down, looking for the same signs of intrusion he sought: plastic expl
osive devices. Multiple plants were extremely common.

  On the other side of the gate, he looked over the roof, and saw black smoke billowing up into the sky from the driveway area at the far front of the house. He caught Laura’s attention, then pointed.

  When she nodded, he went on, making his way past the junipers and flowerbeds to the front corner of the house. “Stay back,” he whispered to Laura. “I mean it.”

  “I’m not an amateur, Jake.”

  “I know that. You’re not armed, damn it.”

  “Okay.” She leaned back against the house and scanned the trees, the neighbor’s roof, the little vegetable garden with its six-foot tomato plants in wire cages.

  Jake stepped around a huge oleander, paused, and looked toward the driveway. Laura’s Mustang was on fire, belching black smoke and paint-curling flames. The windows had blown out, flames engulfed the entire interior, and liquid red paint dripped off the frame and ran down the concrete toward the street.

  “My car!” Laura gasped, stricken.

  Seeing movement off her right shoulder, Jake blocked her, leveled the gun, and took aim.

  “Don’t shoot, Major.” A sergeant in an MP uniform walked out from behind the trunk of the old oak that had led Jake to buy the house, his hands raised. “I have a message for you from General Connor. He says for you and Mrs. Logan to get out to the base STAT.”

  Jake pocketed the gun in his khakis, noted the man’s name tag, and then grimaced. “Do you know what happened here, Boudreaux?”

  “Yes, sir.” Soot streaked a black mark across the young soldier’s face. “We were keeping watch, observatory status, posted down the street. A white Lincoln, no tag, sir, pulled up, and two men got out. They planted a bomb in Mrs. Logan’s car. From watching them, my partner and I suspected it’d detonate on opening the door. We called the bomb squad right away. They’re en route now, sir.”

  “So what detonated the damn bomb?” Jake asked, not grasping why if they’d watched it being planted, one of them hadn’t prevented the door from being opened and it detonating.

  “Oh, God.” Laura started gulping in deep, deep breaths of air.

  Jake pulled her close to his side. “Laura?”

  “Bill Green said to put the key under the mat. He’d tow the car.” Her eyes reflected terror. “Oh, God, Jake. Bill Green opened the door.” She went pale, collapsed back against the house’s siding, and covered her face with her hands.

  Jake looked to the sergeant for verification. Sympathy filled his eyes and he nodded, then glanced purposefully toward the foot of the drive.

  Jake wheeled his gaze past the car and the neighbor’s island of palms. Through the fronds, he saw the rear end of the tow truck. There was no need to ask if Bill had survived.

  The sergeant cast Laura a worried look, then stepped away, both to give her and Jake privacy and to hustle curious neighbors back into the safety of their homes.

  “Laura,” Jake said softly. “Honey, we need to get to the base. You go back inside and get dressed now.”

  “But Bill—”

  “We can’t help Bill without getting to the base. Connor said STAT,” Jake insisted, giving her something else to focus on and turning her around. He led her through the dew-damp grass back to the walkway, then to the rear door. He stopped at the threshold. “Get dressed now. I’ll be back in just a minute.”

  He pulled the door closed, then returned to the sergeant, who now stood out in the middle of the front yard, keeping watch. “Was the man—”

  “Killed instantly, sir.” Regret flooded the soldier’s eyes. “We’d called the bomb squad, and we thought the area was secure. Then this guy barrels up the street in a tow truck. I ran full steam from the cruiser, but before I could get to him to stop him, he opened the door, and the bomb exploded.”

  “Why wasn’t someone posted at the end of the drive?”

  “Direct orders to hang back, sir.” Guilt flooded the soldier’s face. “So that’s what we did.”

  “Where’s your partner now?”

  “He had to, um, take the cruiser back to the base. I was left on foot to give you the general’s message and to secure the scene until the squad arrived.” Anguish burned in the soldier’s brown eyes. “Sir, I tried to get to him in time—ran full-out—but I just . . . couldn’t make it.”

  “I understand, Sergeant.” Jake softened his voice. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  He lowered his gaze to the ground. “It, um, doesn’t feel that way, sir.”

  Empathy filled Jake. “I know.” He clapped a hand to the young man’s shoulder. “I know.”

  Jake walked toward the driveway, but couldn’t get anywhere near the car. Incredible heat poured out of the fire. The red paint on the car had melted, and the bare metal left under it glowed hot and charred. He saw flames, scorching, the smoke and curls of ash swirling up into the sky—everything except the one thing he expected to see.

  He looked back over his shoulder at the sergeant. “Where’s the body?”

  “It’s been removed from the scene, sir. Taken to the base in the cruiser. Don’t worry, sir. We’re trained on the proper handling—”

  They removed the body? Anger ripped through Jake’s chest. He had to work at it to keep his tone civil. “By whose authority?”

  “Direct orders, sir. General Connor.”

  Now why the hell had Connor interfered in a crime scene that was definitely out of his jurisdiction? This didn’t make a damn bit of sense.

  “Sir, was your wife expecting the car to be towed?”

  “Yes, she was.” Jake stared at the molten mess still churning flames and lethal-smelling smoke. “The transmission was stuck in first.”

  Hearing a vehicle approaching, Jake turned an eye toward the street. A dull green armored vehicle pulled to a stop at the curb, and men began pouring out of it. The bomb squad . . . a little late.

  “We’ll take care of everything here, sir,” the sergeant said, then cocked a brow. “I blocked the front door so no one could get out before I could warn them—just in case. I’ll take care of that, too.”

  A shudder rippled up Jake’s spine. What if Laura or Timmy had . . .? Curbing those thoughts, Jake said, “Thank you. I appreciate your thinking of it.”

  Boudreaux nodded, looking pleased. “Sir, the general did say STAT.”

  “Yes, he did.” Jake turned away and went back into the house, his insides now starting to shake.

  Two steps inside the back door, he heard mewling. “Laura?”

  No answer.

  He called again, louder. “Laura?”

  Still, no answer.

  His heart in his throat, he rounded the corner into the hallway and nearly stepped on her. Lying on the floor, she’d curled into a ball. Her hands covered her eyes and she sobbed so hard she couldn’t have heard him call. She whimpered over and over on choked sobs, “I . . . killed . . . him. I . . . killed . . . him. I . . . killed . . . him.”

  “Laura.” He bent down beside her, then lifted her to her feet. “Laura, no.” He closed his arms around her. “Honey, no. Shh . . . It’s not your fault.”

  “It . . . is.” She sagged against him, shaking so hard it jarred him. “He was towing the car . . . for me, Jake. For . . . me.”

  Deep sobs racked her body and tore at his heart. “You didn’t plant the bomb.”

  She looked up, sheer agony in her eyes, her face tear-streaked and red, her chin quivering, her body shaking. “Oh, Jake. Bill Green is dead. I know he’s dead. If I’d driven the car down to the shop, then he’d still be alive.”

  “It’s not your fault.” Jake hardened his voice, narrowed his eyes, and put on his professional facade. “Get a grip, Laura. You can fall apart later. Right now, we’ve got to get to the base.”

  “But I need to talk to Mrs.
Green. To tell her how sorry—”

  “Later. No buts.” Weak morning light flooded in from the window and streamed over her pain-ravaged face. “Bury it, Laura.” He urged her down the hallway, then into her room, careful to not let even a sliver of sympathy sneak into his voice. “Duty first. You know the drill.”

  That had the effect he’d hoped it would have. She visibly stiffened, pulled in all the horror and raw emotion, and then buried it deep. Her expression cleared, then turned to a sleek, smooth mask of control. It’d been a while since she’d left Special Ops, but she hadn’t forgotten the drills. No one ever forgot the drills. In training, they were branded into your brain for life.

  “Give me ten minutes,” she said, then slipped into her bedroom.

  “You’ve got five,” Jake countered. “Connor said STAT.” She knew as well as Jake that the only time the general used that command was when he considered it essential and unavoidable.

  In his own room, Jake put the Glock back into the nightstand drawer, then pulled off his khakis and slung on his uniform. Anger churned so deep inside him he couldn’t pinpoint exactly where it started or stopped, but it had him shaking. Before the car bomb had exploded he’d wanted ROFF because wanting them was his job.

  Now they’d made it personal.

  Bill Green had died. On any other morning, Laura or Timmy would have opened that door. They often rode together. Jake could have lost them both in one fell swoop.

  Every muscle in his body went into revolt, clenching in spasms from tension created by cold fury. ROFF had made it extremely personal.

  And now the sons of bitches were going to pay for it.

  Laura followed Jake into Connor’s office, hoping to God it didn’t smell like lemon. No way could she stand the smell of lemon right now and not lose her stomach. A dull ache throbbed behind her eyes—a combination from lack of sleep, an overload of stress in the last seventy-two hours, and crying over poor Bill Green. God, how was she going to explain this to his wife? She’d be devastated.

  Jake cleared their entry past Gladys, Connor’s secretary, who’d been aptly dubbed “the dragon lady” because she guarded his domain as if it were a lair.