Gone

by Shirlee McCoy

  Gray eyes, he noted.

  Unusual and pretty, her lashes light brown and thick.

  She was shivering with cold, or fear, her skin leached of color, her fingernails tinged with blue.

  “You’ve had a lot of werewolf boyfriends?” he asked, grabbing a throw from the back of a recliner and tossing it around her shoulders.

  “Just one. That was enough,” she said it lightly, but there was nothing light about the look in her eyes. He’d seen it before—terror mixed with confusion and, often, relief that it was over. That the abuse had been survived.

  “Who was he?” he asked, keeping his tone as light as hers had been. His skin felt tight, though, his blood boiling. He’d learned to control his rage a long time ago, but it could still simmer over if he let it. He didn’t let it. Ever. It was too easy to hurt someone in the heat of the moment. With words. With fists. Easy to hurt, but not so easy to heal.

  “No one I want to talk about.”

  “I respect that, but someone kidnapped you, Ella. Do you think he had anything to do with that?”

  “No.”

  “Could he have had anything to do with what happened to Ruby?”

  “No.”

  “You’re certain?” he pressed, and she frowned, using the edge of the throw to wipe away water that was dripping from her hair to her forehead.

  “As certain as I can be. He’s in jail. Apparently, being tossed in prison for a couple of months didn’t cure him of the need to use his fists when he didn’t get his way. His second fiancée was in the hospital for three weeks. He got a seven-year prison term for that.”

  “Second fiancée? I take it you were the first?”

  “I said I didn’t want to talk about it.”

  “You said you didn’t want to talk about him,” he corrected, and she smiled. A real smile that spread across her face and gleamed in her eyes.

  “You’re playing word games with a writer, Sam.”

  “No games,” he responded. “Being in prison doesn’t always keep someone from seeking revenge. Do you think he has a grudge against you?”

  “I testified on behalf of the prosecution at his second trial, so he might, but he was incarcerated two years ago, and I don’t think he has any idea that Ruby moved up here. If he were going to send someone after me, he’d send them to my house in Charlotte. I live alone and work from home. He knows that.”

  “We’ll check into it anyway.”

  “And then what?” she asked, walking across the room and reaching for the curtains that covered a sliding glass door.

  “Don’t,” he said, and her hand fell away.

  She didn’t turn around, though, just stood with her back to him, her head up, her shoulders straight. “Once you realize that he had nothing to do with this, are you going to keep trying to find out what happened to Ruby?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because you think her death is connected to The Organization?”

  “Partially.”

  “What’s the other part?” She swung around, the hood covering her hair, layers of clothing and blanket shrouding her body. She’d looked vulnerable before. She still did, but she also looked tough and determined.

  She wouldn’t give up on finding the truth about her cousin.

  She’d do it with him, or she’d do it on her own.

  “Your cousin deserves justice, and I plan on making sure she gets it.”

  A key scraped in the lock, and the door opened.

  Honor walked in, Wren Santino and Radley Tumberg right behind her.

  “We’re here. Finally. The rain slowed things down,” Wren announced, her gaze moving from Sam to Ella. “Ella, I’m Wren Santino. Sam and I work together.” She didn’t mention that she was Sam’s supervisor and the head of the Special Crimes Unit.

  But that was Wren—confident, humble. As willing to serve as to be served. She worked as hard as anyone on the team did, and she never asked anyone to do something she wouldn’t. When a case was solved, she spread credit over the entire team, refusing to accept accolades from her higher-ups.

  “Nice to meet you,” Ella said, taking the hand Wren offered.

  “It would be nicer if it were under better circumstances. Sam told me about your cousin’s death. I’d like to extend my deepest condolences.” She spoke with sincerity, her dark eyes filled with compassion and understanding. This was one of the things Wren did best—offering empathy and understanding to victims of horrendous crimes, extending sympathy to those who’d suffered losses, saying just the right words at just the right time in exactly the right way. Sam liked to watch her in action, and he’d tried to emulate her methods, but whatever she had was organic. It couldn’t be faked or copied.

  “Thank you,” Ella said, visibly relaxing.

  “This,” Wren continued, gesturing to Radley, “is Special Agent Radley Tumberg. I’ve put him in charge of gathering evidence regarding Ruby’s death. We’ll keep you updated on the results. Currently, we’ve received the coroner’s report and the police report.”

  “That was fast,” Ella said, and Wren smiled.

  “Having FBI tacked at the end of your title can really help get things moving. It looks like you’re soaked through and half frozen. Why don’t you take a hot shower and warm up? We’ll discuss things when you’re not so cold.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not, but you will be,” Wren said, dropping a messenger bag and a computer case on the sofa. “Where’s your bathroom, Honor?”

  “Just down the hall and to the right.”

  “Why don’t you show Ella? Maybe set her up with some dry clothes? You’re close to the same size. I’m sure you can find something that fits her.”

  “I’ve got just the thing,” Honor said, hooking her arm around Ella’s waist and leading her to a wide hallway. “I’ve been taking a knitting class. Just to keep busy when I’m not working. I just finished a gorgeous sweater. Charcoal gray and cream.”

  “That sounds...nice,” Ella responded, her gaze flitting from Honor to Sam. “Are you all going to still be here when I get back?”

  “Where would we go?” he asked, and she shrugged.

  “To Ruby’s apartment? To the medical center? To your place?”

  “For now, we’re staying put,” he replied.

  “Okay. Good.”

  “Come on. You’re not getting any warmer standing around in those wet clothes,” Honor said, urging her away.

  Sam watched them go, surprised by his response to Ella’s question, to the quick, strong need to reassure her.

  Obviously, he was more tired than he felt.

  He raked a hand through his damp hair. “I wonder if Honor has a coffee maker around here?” he said.

  “Probably,” Wren responded. She’d dropped onto the sofa and had her laptop open, but she was watching him intently.

  “What?” he asked.

  “You and Ella seem to have bonded over your experience.”

  “Yeah. That’s what happens when you’re with someone while you’re being shot at,” he said.

  She didn’t respond. She didn’t look away.

  Like always, she had her hair pulled back into a neat bun, her suit tailored impeccably. There wasn’t a speck of lint or a bead of water on the fabric.

  “You’ve been in combat, Wren. You know what I’m talking about.”

  “Yes. I do.”

  “Then why do I feel like you have something you’d like to say about it?”

  “When has she ever not said something that was on her mind?” Radley cut in. Tall and lean, he had blond hair, blue eyes and the kind of good looks women seemed to notice.

  If he cared about that, he didn’t let on.

  In the few years they’d worked together, he and Sam had become friends. They’d camped together a handful of t
imes, gone hunting the previous fall and spent a couple Sunday afternoons watching football together.

  “You have a point,” Sam said, walking into the galley-style kitchen. There was a coffee maker on the counter. Old school and inexpensive.

  “He usually does, so how about we move on?” Wren typed something into her laptop. “Start the coffee, and then take a look at this.”

  “What?” He pulled a package of coffee filters and a container of coffee grounds from a cupboard.

  “The police report for Ella’s cousin. The sheriff was sent the electronic file, and he told me I wasn’t going to find anything noteworthy in it.”

  “Did you?” He started the coffee and took a seat beside her on the sofa. Radley pulled the recliner over and leaned in, his elbows propped on his knees, his hands lax. He’d probably already heard whatever Wren had to say, but he was the kind of agent who liked to look at evidence and information from dozens of different angles.

  “Did Ella mention that Ruby was found in her car?”

  “No.”

  “She bought it last year.”

  “Is that important?”

  “Not really. Just a little side note. The police didn’t bother conducting any interviews after her body was found, but they did process the scene. They found a book, a half-eaten sandwich sitting on a piece of paper towel on the passenger seat.” She jabbed toward the computer screen, and he saw the photos she’d pulled up.

  Pristine car.

  The sandwich on the seat. A few crumbs scattered across black leather. A book lay on the console, open and face down.

  “Her body was discovered by her supervisor. He noticed her car still parked in its normal spot across the street from the clinic when he arrived for work. He didn’t think anything of it until she didn’t show up for a scheduled meeting. He walked across the street, looked in the car and found her there. He called the police.”

  “Looks like she was died during her lunch break the previous day?”

  “Apparently, she often ate lunch there when it was too cold to eat outside.”

  “Was it cold that day?”

  “Very, and when the police arrived, the gas tank of her car was empty and the keys were in the ignition. It seemed to them that she’d had the car on when she’d decided to shoot up.”

  She scrolled to another image—a woman slumped over in her seat, a tourniquet around her arm, a needle lying on her leg. She’d fallen against the door and had probably been hidden from the view of anyone passing by.

  “That seems convenient,” he said, and Wren nodded.

  “I was thinking the same. I was also thinking how strange it is that she took a few bites of the sandwich before she shot up. Addicts don’t like to wait.”

  “There wasn’t a struggle,” he pointed out. “No visible bruises. No sign that she tried to fight.”

  “True, but I found something interesting in the blood toxicology report.” She scrolled through several pages of documents and stopped. “She had high carbon monoxide levels in her blood.”

  “How high?”

  “High enough to kill her.” She met his eyes. “The only reason why the coroner called the death a result of drug overdose is that she had lethal amounts of opioids in her blood, too.”

  “The police didn’t feel the need to investigate the carbon monoxide poisoning?”

  “They did. She’d backed her car into the space, and her muffler was close to a cement wall. They speculated that CO was leaking into her car. When she overdosed, the car kept running and she kept breathing in carbon monoxide until she died.”

  “How feasible do you think that is?”

  “About as feasible as me fitting into the petite sizes at the clothing store. I can try, but it’s never going to work.”

  “So, Ella was right. Someone murdered her cousin.”

  “It looks that way. Here’s what I think. Ruby made a habit of eating lunch in her car. On chilly days, she turned the engine on. Anything that’s a habit can be observed. The day she died, the temperature was in the high fifties with lots of cloud cover.”

  “Sounds like you’re done your research,” Sam said.

  “Don’t I always?” She raised a raven-black brow and continued, “Someone wanted Ruby dead. Whoever it was knew about her rituals and habits. He or she waited for a chilly day, blocked the muffler with something and sat back and watched. Ruby got in her car, started the engine to warm herself up. Started eating lunch. Maybe felt sleepy. Passed out. The killer opened the door, set the stage and shot her up with enough drugs to kill ten people.”

  “Overkill?”

  “Based on what I’ve read in the report, I’d say so.” She closed the computer and met his eyes. “What do you think? Reasonable theory?”

  “More than reasonable.” He could picture it going down—the dreary cold day, Ruby escaping the busy medical clinic and sitting in her car, engine running, good book in hand.

  She would have had no idea what was happening to her, no way of knowing that she was about to die. Her life had been snuffed out without fanfare, her death made to look like it had resulted from the thing she’d been fighting against her entire adult life.

  If not for Ella, then Ruby would have been labeled a secret drug addict and probably forgotten by the community and the people she’d served.

  That’s the way her murderer intended things.

  It wasn’t the way things would play out.

  Sam was confident of that.

  They knew the way Ruby had died. They knew the weapons that had been used. Now all they had to was find a motive, find the perpetrator and make him pay.

  SIX

  Ella fell asleep to the sound of voices drifting into Honor’s guest room. She’d been brought there after her shower, given a bottle of cold water, a cup of herbal tea and instructions to get some rest.

  She’d had a feeling Sam and his coworkers wanted to discuss things without her around. She could have refused to stay in the room, but she’d needed some time to clear her head.

  She’d told Sam about Jarrod.

  Not in so many words, but in enough words that she knew he’d understood. Aside from Ruby and the police officers who’d responded to her 911 call, she’d never shared that information with anyone.

  It was too difficult.

  Too embarrassing.

  Too painful.

  She’d told one of her therapists that and been assured that the way she felt was normal. It didn’t feel normal. Nothing about her relationship with Jarrod had.

  But that was water under the bridge, far enough in the past that it only hurt when she thought about it too much. And she’d told herself she wasn’t going to think about it. Not while Sam and his coworkers were in the living room discussing her kidnapping and Ruby’s death and The Organization they were trying to shut down.

  She’d lain in bed and listened to the rhythmic pulse of four people’s voices, and she’d found herself comforted by them, by the presence of people who’d been strangers a few hours ago.

  She’d fallen asleep thinking about that, and she’d woken to sunlight streaming in through the cracks in the blinds and someone tapping on her door.

  “You up?” Honor called, her voice as cheerful and filled with life as it had been the previous night.

  “Yes,” she said, pushing aside the blankets and rushing out of bed.

  “I put some fresh clothes in the bathroom. Go ahead and shower. Wren wants to head over to your cousin’s apartment in twenty minutes. Can you be ready?”

  “Sure.”

  “Great. The guys are gone. They’re grabbing some breakfast. I’m afraid my pantry isn’t stocked for five people. They should be back shortly.”

  “All right,” Ella said, opening the door and looking into Honor’s gamine face. She looked wide-awake and well rested despi
te her late night. “Thanks for all your help, Honor.”

  “No problem. Sam and Radley went back to the clinic last night. They found this in the security office.” She held up Ella purse.

  “I must have dropped it when I was kidnapped.”

  “Did they take anything from it?”

  Ella rifled through the oversize bag. Her wallet was there. Her credit cards. Sixty dollars in cash and her bank card. All of it present and accounted for. Her keys were there, too, still attached to the lanyard. Her cell phone was tucked into the side pocket. She had a small copy of the New Testament in another pocket, and that hadn’t been touched. Mascara. Lipstick. Compact. Everything exactly where it usually was. “It doesn’t look like it.”

  “That’s what we figured. More than likely, your kidnappers didn’t realize you’d dropped it.”

  “What about my car?” she asked. She’d left a box of Ruby’s things behind the front seat of the station wagon. Her cousin’s laptop and day planner were in it.

  “No sign of it. They probably hot-wired it and hoped that if you and your car disappeared at the same time, no one would ask questions. Fortunately, you’re still around.” She smiled. “I hate to chat and run, but I’ve got a class to teach at the community college. I’ll be back this evening. See you then.”

  “Sounds good,” Ella said, but Honor was already halfway down the hall.

  Wren was probably somewhere in that direction, but Ella didn’t want to waste time looking for her. When the men returned, she wanted to be dressed and ready to go.

  She hurried into the bathroom, took a quick shower and dressed in the clothes Honor had provided—a soft cable knit sweater dress that fell to her knees, the royal purple deep and rich. Thick lavender tights. Chunky boots that were a size too big. There were toiletries in a small basket Honor had left near the clothes, and Ella brushed her hair, then pulled it back into a ponytail.

  She didn’t spend too long looking in the mirror.

  The circles under eyes had been getting deeper since Ruby’s death. Her skin had the sallow pallor of someone who never went outside. She was a hot mess, and she shouldn’t care.