by Terry Odell
He was about to call the Fish and Wildlife Services office in Jacksonville when Schaeffer called him to his office
“Close the door,” Schaeffer said. His grim expression didn’t ease the inevitable apprehension that had accompanied the summons. Graham frantically ran through every report he’d filed, every step he’d taken in the investigation.
Schaeffer kept his voice low. “I thought you should know, IT caught Jerry Clarke trying to use your old password. I like the way you handled it. Discreet, not vindictive. He’s suspended for two weeks, by the way. I don’t think he’ll make detective this time around.”
“Yes, sir.” Graham kept a grin from showing—he hoped.
“Okay, now bring me up to speed.”
Graham collected his thoughts. “I’m still trying to connect the dots. The fire on the Volusia property was arson, and it looks like someone was burning down bald eagle nests.”
“Bald eagles, huh? You hooked up with Fish & Wildlife yet?”
“That was going to be my next call.”
“It’ll be your first call tomorrow. Go home. Don’t burn out on your first case. I’m going to have Peterson in here for you at start of shift. Don’t be late.”
Graham waited, trying to decide if he should ask his question.
Schaeffer frowned. “I thought I said go home.”
“You did, and I’m on my way. But I wondered if I should pay a visit to Gravely. Question him as a possible witness to Townsend’s disappearance. I mean, Townsend’s death was all over the news. If he had anything to do with it, wouldn’t he be busy destroying any records? Then we could ask him if he knows about the fires on his property.”
“Trouble is, that angle isn’t your case. But if Gainesville or the feds want to question him, I don’t see any reason why you can’t ask to tag along in the spirit of interdepartmental cooperation. If it makes you feel better, call them. Then get your sorry ass out of here.”
Graham tried to keep his pace sedate as he headed back to his desk. He’d call Gainesville, the feds, and then Colleen.
Ten minutes later, he’d left messages for all three. He shoved back his chair, picked up his paperwork and stomped toward the parking lot. Wasn’t anybody ever where they were supposed to be?
Chapter Twenty-eight
The next morning, Colleen sat on a small padded bench in Stuart Gravely’s outer office and smiled at the receptionist, an elderly woman with squinty eyes that peered over half-glasses. She resisted the urge to fidget, despite the uncomfortable pantyhose and heels. Forget the makeup that made her feel like she was wearing someone else’s face. She was afraid her eyelashes would stick together every time she blinked.
Wearing a beige suit with a pale blue blouse, her hair confined under a blonde wig, she hoped she could pull off a look of sophisticated elegance, at least enough so Mr. Gravely would believe she had money to invest. When Tracy had finished giving her a makeover, Colleen didn’t think anyone in Pine Hills, including her mother, would recognize her. As for anyone she knew in Orlando? Maybe, just maybe, Graham might see beneath the façade. But she wouldn’t bet on it.
Her hands were damp, and she found Graham’s handkerchief in her purse. Somehow, she’d never gotten around to returning it, and having it gave her confidence a boost. She could do this. She snapped her purse closed and smiled at the receptionist.
“I don’t mind waiting,” Colleen said. “I appreciate Mr. Gravely seeing me without an appointment.”
The woman gave a noncommittal grunt and glanced at her telephone. “He’s still on the phone. No telling how long it’ll be. He’s always on the phone.”
“He must be a very busy man. I imagine he keeps you busy as well.”
“Humph. I’m here twice a week and all I do is take messages or put calls through. I think I’m the third person the agency has sent out in two weeks.” She gave another look at the phone and turned to Colleen. “He’s free.” She tilted her head toward a closed door to her right.
Colleen stood, squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and tapped on the door.
“Come in,” said a quiet male voice.
She took a deep breath and turned the knob, still trying to conjure an image of a wealthy woman. She settled on Mrs. Fitzgerald, the head of the church social group back home. Friendly, but with that “I’m a little better than you are,” look behind it. She’d add a touch of airhead to disarm him. After surreptitiously unbuttoning the top button on her blouse, she pushed the door open and stepped into Stuart Gravely’s office.
The man behind the desk flashed a welcoming smile, motioning to the chair across from his desk. He wore a light brown shirt with a solid brown tie under his brown suit. Add the tan that said he spent time outside, sandy brown hair, darker brown eyes, and all she could think was “gingerbread man.” Average build. Absolutely nondescript. But her pulse raced when she recognized him as the man from Doris’ house.
His eyes moved up and down her body before settling on her face, studying it with an expression that sent heat to her cheeks. And then she realized he wasn’t leering. He was trying to place her. He couldn’t recognize her, could he? She’d been in workout clothes both times he’d seen her. Thank God she’d gone along with Tracy’s insistence that she wear the wig. Hoping her own expression hadn’t revealed any sign she’d seen him before, she plunged into her role.
“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Gravely.” She pretended to search for something in her purse as she gripped Graham’s handkerchief and composed herself. She gave an apologetic laugh. “I’m sorry. I was sure I had my business cards in here, but I must have forgotten to refill my case. Although, come to think of it, what difference would it have made? They’re obsolete now that I’ve moved.”
“Not a problem. Please, sit. What can I do for you? I’m sorry, but Mrs. Eckhart didn’t give me more than your name, Miss—” he glanced at a message slip on his desk— “Donaldson.” He gave her a patient smile, one that looked well-practiced.
His voice clinched it. Not only the man who’d yelled at Doris, but the one she’d heard on Doris’ answering machine. Relieved she’d used a fake name, she took a deep breath and gave him a smile. “Oh, please forgive me. I do tend to blather on. I don’t know where to start. I was in this building on another appointment, and I saw your name in the directory downstairs, and I remembered seeing the sign while I was driving, and I simply had to drop in.”
“Excuse me, Miss Donaldson. I’m not sure I’m following you.”
She crossed her legs, revealing more leg than she felt comfortable with. Gravely’s attention shifted from her face. “I’m new to the area, you see. Last week I was driving around, exploring, enjoying the change of scenery. I lived in the mountains before, you know. Anyway, Truffles—he’s my dog, a Lhasa Apso—needed to—” She fluttered her hand— “you know. And so I pulled off the highway, and he darted down this dirt road, and while I was chasing after him, I saw your sign. It was half burned, which is too bad, but it seemed like a lovely development, and I looked you up on the Internet, and I was thinking this might be the perfect way to invest some of my money. Taxes, you know.” She gave him what she hoped was a knowing smile. “So when I saw your office was in this building, I said it must be fate that brought me here, and I must be meant to invest in Crystal Shores.” She exhaled and leaned back in her chair, reversing the cross of her legs.
It took him a few seconds to speak and she didn’t think it was because he was trying to follow what she’d said. He’d heard “invest” and everything else was her legs, she was positive. Men. Was Graham like that? No. She chuckled to herself. To catch his attention, she would have needed to open at least two blouse buttons.
“What kind of investing did you have in mind, Miss Donaldson?” Gravely’s smile was wider now, but no less practiced.
“Definitely ground floor, I think. I mean, I don’t know if I want to live there, although my dear Aunt Rose would love it. I’d rather, you know, own the foundations and let others pay
me to build there, so to speak. Would you have any spec drawings or brochures?”
“I might have an opening for another ground floor, as you put it, investor. We’re waiting on some final paperwork, but I hope to begin construction by next June.” He stood and went to a bank of file cabinets on the wall adjacent to his desk.
He turned back holding a glossy presentation portfolio with a rendition of a resort on the cover. “These are older, but still quite accurate. I would advise you, we’re thinking strongly of changing the name. We don’t want to be accused of misleading anyone, since we’re not actually waterfront property. You won’t see much about Crystal Shores in the trade papers.”
“I understand completely. How refreshing to see a developer trying to be honest.” She managed a smile and made a point of looking at her watch. “Oh, my goodness. I had no idea how late it’s getting. I left Truffles home, you know. I have to get back to him. Thank you so much for your time.” She stopped when she reached the door and turned around slowly.
“Oh, I forgot. Mr. Gravely? Would fifty thousand dollars be enough for an initial investment?”
She watched him swallow.
“Oh, I’m certain that would be acceptable, Miss Donaldson.”
“Well, scatterbrain that I am, I don’t have my checkbook, but I do have your address. I’ll be in touch, but I’m afraid I have to be going. Can’t have Truffles ruining my carpets, you know.” She left the office as quickly as she dared in her heels, waggled her fingers at the receptionist, and didn’t take another breath until she was inside the elevator and the doors had closed.
She pressed the button for the parking garage and waited, trying to think clearly. Stuart Gravely was the man she’d seen at Doris’. There was a definite connection, and not only to Jeffery, because Gravely had been dealing with Doris. Were the three of them in something together? The elevator doors slid apart, and she walked down the row to her car.
Unable to get a decent cell phone signal in the parking garage, she waited until she was on the interstate before punching Graham’s number on her speed dial. When it rolled straight to voice mail, she clicked off and dropped the phone in the console. Why hadn’t she programmed in his work number? She’d call when she got back to her place.
At home, Colleen placed the folio on the kitchen counter and called CID, to be told that Deputy Harrigan was not available and would she like to speak to anyone else.
“No, thanks. I’ll try again later.”
“You sure you don’t want to leave a name and number, ma’am? I’ll be sure he gets the message.”
Did she hear any mockery in his tone? She could almost hear him relaying a message to Graham. “Hey, Harrigan. One of your lady friends called. Wouldn’t leave a name.”
She called Graham’s apartment and left a message to call her when he got in. He’d be off duty soon enough, and connecting Gravely to Jeffrey could wait another day. After scrubbing her face clean, she changed into slacks and a sweater and went back to the kitchen.
Gravely couldn’t have suspected anything. Careful not to touch the cover, she removed the contents of the folio. She slid the cover into a paper grocery bag and set it aside for Graham. The shiny surface should give him some good fingerprints. She sat at the counter and pored over the pages singing the praises of Crystal Shores. Lots of hype, little substance. To read this, it was a wonder anyone could resist investing in such a community.
At five-thirty, she started wondering why Graham hadn’t called, but figured he was working late. Tempted to try him at the station again, she fought the urge. He had plenty of work to do. That came with the territory. At six-thirty, she was starting to get annoyed. He must be home by now, so why hadn’t he called? She picked up the book she’d started three days ago, but couldn’t stay focused on Anna Pigeon’s troubles.
At seven, she was confused. Maybe a little worried. If something had happened, nobody would call her. She powered up her laptop and tried to find distraction there.
By eight, she had no idea what she was feeling. He could be up to his elbows in the case, out for a beer with the guys, or—
He’d said she was special. She believed him. He’d invited her to his home for Thanksgiving. Why couldn’t she let herself trust him?
At nine, her stomach growled, but thoughts of eating tied it in knots. No matter what else he was, Graham was a cop. She couldn’t handle being one. Could she handle loving one? She should never have let him get so close. When the phone finally rang an hour later, she jumped to answer it.
“Where have you been? I found something I think you can use about Stuart Gravely.”
“Things got crazy…”
He sounded subdued and her anger receded on a tide of guilt. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped. I left a message for you hours ago.”
“I haven’t been home yet.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I wondered … I—”
“I’m here. Stop by,” she whispered.
Twenty minutes later, twin headlight beams sliced through her open curtains. She made a beeline for the door and pulled it open. Graham approached, the yellow porch light giving him a sallow appearance. He mumbled something and pushed past her, rushing through the apartment. She followed as he went through her bedroom and into the bathroom, shoving the door closed behind him. The was no mistaking the sounds of his being violently ill. She put one hand to the doorknob, then let go. Privacy first, comfort later.
She went to the kitchen, poured a glass of Coke and brought it to the bedroom. When he emerged from the bathroom, looking pasty-white, she patted the bed. “Sit.”
Hunched over, he covered the distance in two strides. She handed him the cola and went to the bathroom for a damp cloth and a towel.
His head was bowed. He didn’t raise it when she wiped his brow, his neck and then dried him off. A touch of his forehead was cool and clammy, not feverish.
“Sorry,” he muttered. He took a swallow of Coke and set the glass on the nightstand.
She sat beside him and put her arm around his back. His shirt was damp with sweat. She unbuttoned it, then went to her dresser for one of her oversized sweatshirts. He shrugged out of his shirt and reached for the one she held out.
He managed a weak smile. “Pine Hills Police. Thanks. I might need a new job.”
“You want to tell me what happened?”
“They found a body.” He took the washcloth from the bed where she had dropped it and rubbed it across his face and neck again. “I went to the morgue.”
“Oh, God. Was it Jeffrey?”
He lowered his head to his knees. “They’re not sure. The picture I had didn’t exactly look like what was on the table. He’s been dead for weeks, most likely. They found him at a construction site. Kids playing. Dogs dug him up. God, the smell.” He swallowed.
“Why don’t you lie down? You’re white. Really white.”
“Gee, I thought I was green.”
“That was before. Now you’re white.”
“I’m going to see that corpse in my sleep for a long, long time. But at least I didn’t get sick in the morgue. I managed to maintain long enough to keep my dignity intact.”
“Glad I could be here for you.”
“I wasn’t going to come. Didn’t want to bother you. I thought I wanted to be alone. But I couldn’t shake the sight, or the smell—God, I might have to burn that shirt—and I knew I needed to be with you.” He put his arm around her. “The getting sick part didn’t start until I was a few minutes away. After I called. I don’t want you to think I stopped here just to puke.”
He’d said he needed her. She stroked his cheek. “You can puke here any time.”
He downed half his Coke. “Maybe I’m not cut out to be a homicide detective.”
“Don’t be silly. How many weeks-old dead bodies have you had to deal with?”
“This was my first.” He shuddered, and she followed his gaze to the bathroom. He took a deep, slow breath.
“But you’ve dealt with dead bodies before, haven’t you? Traffic accidents? They can be horrible. Eventually, you build up a tolerance.”
He looked at her and he’d gone from white to merely pale. “Not many. The ugly ones are usually on the Interstate, and the Highway Patrol handles those. I haven’t dealt with a body since the mandatory autopsy during training. And that one was fresh. Practically sterile compared to—”
She saw the color drain from his face again, and she pried the glass from his fingers. “Put your head down,” she said. “Deep breaths.”
“I’ll be fine,” he said, but he lowered his head to his knees. After a moment, he sat upright. “I need a shower. And some mouthwash.”
“Clean towels under the sink. As a matter of fact, there’s a new toothbrush in the top drawer.” She smiled. “We went to your place before I could give it to you.”
While he was in the bathroom, Colleen pulled back the bedcovers. When he emerged, wrapped in a towel, she gestured to the bed. “You get some sleep.”
“You’re not joining me?”
She saw something in his face. Need. Vulnerability. Maybe a hint of fear, a fear she understood. Not wanting the nightmares, knowing they waited like wolves ready to pounce, hovering in the shadows until you fell asleep. “Let me go finish a few things, lock up, turn off the lights. You try to rest. I’ll be in soon.”
He’d needed someone and had come to her. Much as she wanted to know what else he’d discovered, and to tell him about her trip to Stuart Gravely’s office, she set those thoughts aside. They could wait until morning. She downed a carton of yogurt for her dinner, powered off her computer, and made sure everything was secure.
When she went back into the bedroom, Graham was wearing her sweatshirt, leaning against the headboard. Purple shadowed his eyes, but most of his color had returned.
“You look better,” she said. “But why aren’t you sleeping?”
“I feel better. I was waiting for you.”
