by Kathy Altman
“If?” Mo demanded. “Who’s going to trust how we handle the case now? And what the hell was West doing at your place, anyway?”
“You’re right. He shouldn’t have been there.”
“That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”
“I apologized, Mo. What more do you want? I didn’t invite him, if that’s what you’re fixating on.”
“What more do we want? How about a guarantee we won’t get another note?”
“How about you back off?” Dix growled.
“Let’s cut the bullshit.” The sheriff settled heavily onto the bench beside Charity. “I think we can all trust Deputy Bishop not to let any more…reminiscing interfere with the case, and maybe that’ll keep the busybodies out of her yard. Now let’s eat, so we can get down to business.”
Mo muttered darkly while Dix poked at his onion rings. With one edge of her napkin, Charity swiped at the moisture coating the outside of her milkshake.
The note hadn’t been about the election. Otherwise whoever wrote it would have arranged for a county official to find it. Dissension in the department ranks had been the objective.
Mission accomplished.
“Let’s focus on the job, people,” the sheriff said. “Namely, Drew Langford. We have no reason to hold him. We’ve already established he was at the scene, so the presence of the necklace is circumstantial.”
“Sheriff.” With a scowl, Mo brushed salt from his palms. “We found it under her body.”
“We can’t prove she didn’t take it back, and we found nothing on the kid’s neck to indicate our victim yanked it off him.” The sheriff dipped his head and spread his hands in a what-can-we-do gesture. “And it’s not the murder weapon.”
Charity looked at Dix. “You didn’t find anything at the house?”
“Nothing in Drew’s room or the common areas. Then Roberta West gave us permission to search the rest of the house.”
Pratt blinked. “Why would she do that?”
Mo raked his fork through his coleslaw. “Either she has the hots for Dix, or she was hoping we’d find some dirt on her husband.”
Charity leaned forward. “Did you?”
“Yeah. We found evidence of more than one female using Hampton West’s private bathroom. We bagged several samples, all pulled from the shower drain. Nothing in the bedroom or closet. That family has a crazy-industrious cleaning crew.”
“Let’s ID those samples as soon as we can,” Pratt said briskly.
Charity raised her eyebrows at the sheriff. “You don’t think one of those samples belongs to Sarah, do you?”
“You mean, do I think she was sleeping with all three generations of Wests?” Pratt stacked his hands on top of his head, mouth twisted with distaste. “I hope to hell not.”
“Back to our most likely suspect,” Dix drawled. “We do have probable cause to hold him. We have a witness placing him at the scene. We have motive and opportunity.”
“But no physical evidence.” Charity continued wiping at her shake container, no longer interested in the contents. She could feel them all looking at her, but just because she’d screwed up didn’t mean she couldn’t have a say. “What we have is circumstantial, and he’s not the only one with a motive. Anyone in the family who knew they were sleeping together has motive. Then there’s Keith Tarrant. He barely had his door open before he was demanding a lawyer.”
With a disapproving grunt, Mo scrunched up his trash, making as much noise as possible.
Charity regarded him impatiently. “Is this how it’s going to be? Every time I suggest we look into someone outside of the West family, you’re going to give me attitude?”
“’Til I have a reason not to.”
“Then I’ll have to give you a reason.”
“Give it your best shot.”
Charity balled up her napkin and lobbed it across the table. “You know my best shot is pretty damned good. You still owe me a hundred bucks from the last time we went to the range, remember?”
“I told you, I got a cramp.” Mo flexed his right hand. “Can I help it if I got a cramp?”
“You know what’ll take care of that?” Brenda June appeared in the doorway, eyeing Mo’s fist. “A girlfriend.”
“Or better yet, try the other hand,” Charity said solemnly.
“Jesus,” Dix groaned.
“I need the other hand for this.” Mo flipped Charity the bird.
“Feel better now?” she asked.
His trademark grin, as sly as it was infamous, lifted the corners of his mouth. “Yeah.”
The knot in Charity’s chest loosened.
“So we’re all friends again?” growled the sheriff.
“Not all of us.” Brenda June sniffed and avoided the sheriff’s gaze. “The judge wants to know who’s out on patrol today.”
Dix gave her the name of one of the regulators. Dispatch nodded and turned to go.
“There a problem?” Pratt demanded.
Charity hid a wince. The sheriff’s cluelessness about his dispatcher’s feelings for him was truly pathetic.
Brenda June swung back around, face pale but placid. “No problem. The judge wants to make sure his house gets a drive by. Apparently he’s afraid our vandal might escalate from junk cars to brand new luxury sedans.”
“Hey.” Charity jerked upright. “No dissing Clarabelle.”
Pratt frowned. “Why doesn’t he park in his garage?”
“Because then no one would see his brand new luxury sedan.”
Mo nodded. “I get that.”
Brenda June rolled her eyes and disappeared.
The sheriff rubbed a palm over his head. “Can we get back to work now?”
“Why does he need a drive by?” Dix eyed Charity’s milkshake. “Doesn’t he have an electronic gate? And security cameras?”
She pushed her shake across the table and snapped her fingers. “Cameras,” she said. “The Wests have cameras. There might be footage showing who left the note.”
“I’ll look into it.” Pratt slapped his palms down on the table. “Now. How about we get back to our murder?”
A thought hovered just out of Charity’s reach. An important thought. Crap. Hand jobs, milkshakes, video cameras—
“Her phone,” she blurted.
Dix thumped the end of the straw against the table until it popped out of the wrapper. “Whose phone?”
“Sarah’s. She texted Drew, but we didn’t find her phone.”
Mo shrugged. “So he took it.”
“Why didn’t he take her purse?” Charity asked.
“Why would he?” Another shrug from Mo. “He was getting rid of evidence, not looking for something to steal. We ruled out robbery at the very beginning. And it’s easier to get rid of a phone than an entire purse.”
“Which means that if her phone was in her purse, he took the time to search for it. Because her purse was intact.”
Dix’s face was thoughtful as he pushed the straw through the cup’s lid. “Logic versus panic.”
Pratt’s eyes narrowed. “Meaning?”
“Let’s say Drew killed her.” Charity blinked away the image of the teen’s quivering chin and anxious eyes. “He strangled her, pocketed both the weapon and Sarah’s phone, then pulled out his own phone and called his mother. Calling his mother indicates panic. The rest of it doesn’t.”
“He’s a smart kid,” Mo said. “Maybe he planned it that way.”
Dix swallowed a mouthful of chocolate malt. “Uh-uh. The stretch of road that runs by the vet’s is virtually deserted after dark. It wouldn’t make sense to count on some random witness driving by.”
“Except one did,” Mo pointed out. “Anyway, he didn’t need the witness. Once he admitted he was at the scene, his mother backed him up. That whole purse thing is bullshit. He didn’t have to dump her purse because she had her phone in her hand when he got there. He attacked her, she dropped it, he picked it up. Doesn’t prove a thing.”
“It proves he had presence of mind
. What’s bullshit is thinking his panic was an act.” Charity mentally kicked her own ass for letting herself get so invested in Drew’s welfare. “The kid had motive and opportunity. He wouldn’t risk a conviction without something stronger than the tone of his voice to save his hide. The prosecutor would say he called his mother in a panic because he’d finally registered what he’d done. How’s that going to get him off the hook?”
Another ploink from the direction of the sink interrupted the silence. “We need her phone records,” Charity said. “We need to compare the timestamp on Sarah’s text to the time of her death.”
“Because someone else could have sent that text.” Mo ran both hands through his hair. “The ME hasn’t established time of death. He had a case with a higher priority come in yesterday. I waited as long as I could, but he was never able to make time for Sarah.”
“I’ll give him a call. We need that autopsy. And that phone. Get the phone company to ping it.” The sheriff turned to Dix. “Any trace evidence on the clothes Drew wore that night?”
“Red hairs on his jacket. Makes sense, since he was Sarah’s lover. Also Mrs. Langford said her son was holding the victim’s head in her lap when she pulled into the parking lot.”
Oh, dear Lord. Charity swallowed around a sudden thickness in her throat. “When did she say that?”
“Later that night. I followed up on her statement while you and Mo worked the scene.”
“Doesn’t mean he’s innocent,” Mo said, stubborn to the end. “Could have been remorse.”
“Whatever it was, his lawyer will have a field day with it. And the fact that he moved the body could explain why we found the necklace underneath it.” Pratt squinted at Charity. “Maybe Mrs. Langford panicked and got rid of the phone.”
Charity winced. She should have thought of that sooner. “We’ll ask Drew if he noticed it at the scene.”
“Maybe Mrs. Langford killed Sarah and decided to frame her own son,” Dix suggested quietly.
“Yeah.” Mo dragged out the word. “Because she knew it wouldn’t stick.”
Charity wagged her head. “Big Mike vouched for her. She was at the bar when Sarah was killed.”
“Didn’t I just say we don’t have TOD?” Mo studied her. “You really don’t want any of the Wests to be guilty.”
“I really don’t want the wrong person to go to prison. Too many people knew about the affair, Kate Young and Peyton Langford included. Besides, it might not have had anything to do with the murder.”
“We can’t hold Drew Langford forever. We either arrest him or we let him go.” The sheriff pushed to his feet, and everyone else followed suit. “If we charge him, Owen Quinn will shred our case to pieces, and we’ll have wasted a hell of a lot of time and money. We let him go and we can keep an eye on him. A close eye, people. We need more than conjecture to catch us a killer.”
* * *
Drew sat on the thin mattress, back to the cement, knees to his chest, gaze locked on the opposite wall and the sucks to be you someone had scratched into the paint. The food at the Shack kicked ass but he shouldn’t have eaten that sandwich they brought him—even several hours later the sauce was burning a slow hole through his stomach and pancreas and spleen and whatever the hell else took up space below his ribs.
Nothing inside felt normal. Except for his kidneys. He knew his kidneys were okay because he had to take a piss, but after hours of playing it cool for his mom he was too damned tired to move. So yeah, it sucked to be him.
Sucked more to be Sarah.
He dropped his gaze to his socked feet, reached forward and tugged at a black thread dangling from a hole above his second toe. Who had hated Sarah so much that they thought she deserved to die? What kind of lowlife thought it was okay to squeeze the fucking life out of someone? Out of a woman? A woman who wouldn’t even step on a frickin’ spider?
His eyes burned. He should have known something was wrong. They’d been together a while, and they hadn’t spent all of their time screwing. Why hadn’t he noticed something was wrong?
Why couldn’t he have saved her?
Maybe he deserved to be locked up.
Footsteps, and the jingle of keys. “Mr. Langford?”
He leaned his head back against the wall and cut his eyes to the door. Chief was working the lock. Great. More questions.
He wanted to ask why they weren’t all out there looking for Sarah’s killer. But that’s exactly what a TV killer would say.
Not that he’d actually admit to watching Lifetime.
“We’ve processed your release,” the big man said. “We tried to get in touch with your mother. She’s not answering her cell. Since your lawyer’s with a client in the city, I’ll drive you home.”
Slowly, clumsily, Drew got to his feet. Whether he deserved it or not, that was the best news he’d heard since finding out he was actually going to pass senior English. Didn’t matter what the badasses who spent time in juvie had to say—spending a night in lockup was scary as hell.
“This mean you know I didn’t do it?” he ventured.
“Means we can’t prove you did.”
Drew heard the rest of it, loud and clear. Not yet, anyway.
Still. The suck factor had eased up just enough so he could breathe.
Chief handed him his shoes.
Drew put them on without sitting down. “What about my dad?”
“Board meeting.”
Nice. Drew dropped his head, took his time tying his laces. Then he was out of the holding cell and pulling in a breath. He could always call Uncle Grady, but that would mean he’d have to wait. He’d rather catch a ride with Chief Ironlung than hang out in a place that smelled like piss, puke, and self-pity.
Besides, he’d never been in a police car before.
Half an hour later, it wasn’t his grandparents’ place Chief parked in front of. Drew had talked the deputy into a pit stop at Allison’s. He had to man up. Apologize.
Make sure she was okay.
He walked up the driveway like he’d walked into the sheriff’s department the morning before, with dread hammering so hard at his knees he could barely stand upright. Dusk had already stolen the light but he could still see the yellows and purples in the flowerbeds Allison’s mom had always been so proud of. Last summer he’d gotten Allison in trouble by convincing her to go to the movies when she was supposed to be weeding. One kiss and she’d forgiven him.
It wouldn’t be so easy this time.
Then again, it wasn’t forgiveness that mattered.
He pulled in a breath and caught the rosemary-like scent of pine tree resin. When Allison’s mom came outside he almost choked. She had on sneakers and black stretchy clothes and her face was splotchy. She must have just finished a workout, though she looked far from relaxed. More like she wanted to kick him in the ‘nads.
What did he expect? He’d dumped the daughter for one of the mother’s best friends.
“Mrs. Young.” He stopped at the bottom of the porch steps, fingers itching for the insides of his pockets. “I was hoping I could talk to Allison.”
She crossed her arms. “I thought you were in jail.”
“I was. I’m out now, and I’m not going back.”
Her face went slack. Judas Priest, what did she think he’d do, take her hostage? Did she not see the badass deputy parked at the curb?
“All I meant,” he said tightly, “was that I didn’t do it. I wouldn’t hurt Sarah. I wouldn’t hurt anyone.”
Kate Young made a kind of humming noise and dropped her gaze.
She didn’t believe him. She thought he was guilty.
Would everyone think he was guilty?
A cocktail of regret, resentment, and sissy-ass fear started up a party in the back of his throat. Damn, he needed a Coke.
He managed to scrape the words out anyway. “So may I? See her?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Is she here?”
“That’s not the poi
nt.”
“I need to talk to her.”
“You think an apology’s going to help?” Kate Young stomped to the edge of the porch and glared down at him. “She’s in therapy because of you. Therapy.”
“Oh, my God, Mom.” Allison came out from behind her mother, wearing plaid flannel pants and a navy tee. She’d gathered her reddish-blond hair, the hair that always smelled like sugar cookies, in a high ponytail. She looked so young.
Or maybe it was just that he felt so old.
“Why would you tell him something like that?” she demanded.
Her mother reached out and smoothed her palm up and down Allison’s arm. “He needs to understand what he’s done to you.”
“I did plenty to him, too.” She motioned with her chin toward the front door behind her. “Mom. Go inside. This is between me and Drew.”
Reluctantly her mother left them alone. Drew rested a foot on the bottom step, feeling like a dweeb in his wrinkled suit pants and polished shoes.
“You should take charge more often,” he said. “It looks good on you.”
“Are you really here to see me?”
“What does that mean?”
“You go for older women.” Bitterness twisted her lips. “I figured Mom might be next on your list.”
He sighed. “I never wanted to hurt you.”
“But you did.”
“Yes. And I want to apologize.”
“For breaking up with me?”
Shit. Did she think he wanted to get back together?
“No,” he said gently. “Breaking up was the right thing to do. We were spending more and more time apart. When we split neither of us really seemed to mind.”
She gave a full-body flinch and stared down at her socked feet. “So what are you sorry for?” she asked huskily.
“I guess…just…this thing with Sarah. I’m sorry you found out the way you did.”
“You mean you’re sorry I found out.”
“Yeah. Because you said you’d hurt yourself if I dated anyone else.”
Her head swung up and her eyes went narrow. “And you wouldn’t want that on your conscience.”
“I wouldn’t want that at all. We may not be going together anymore but that doesn’t mean I don’t care.”
“If you really cared you wouldn’t have made me look bad by dumping me for someone old enough to be your mother. Do you get that everyone’s saying how sad it is, that I couldn’t keep you satisfied? Do you even get how much that hurts?”
