“Why didn’t you pull her over and check?” Con demanded.
“Because, Detective, it’s Pamela Frost, and the sheriff warned me to not engage. It was to be his duty. It’s why I called Agent Bartholomew.”
“I’m not doing it.”
“Don’t fight it, Liza. Cassy isn’t one to disagree with.”
How in the world? “Detective, is someone talking to you that shouldn’t be?”
He grinned. “Shall we?” Con held out his hand for her to precede him. “Deputy Murdoch, stand post. If there’s trouble, you know what to do.”
The redhead’s grin was like a cocked gun. “Oh, don’t I.” She winked.
As Liza led Con across the street, she slowed her pace to walk alongside him. “What was that about?”
He chuckled. “Xavier is something of an MMA fighter and has been teaching Jolie his skills. Eight months or so ago, she beat the hell out of a sex trafficker. The asshole sorely misjudged that woman’s intestinal fortitude.”
Liza peeked back over her shoulder at the spindly sheriff’s deputy. Wonders never cease.
They approached the driveway, censoring their steps. Liza peeled away from Con to inspect the front end of the SUV. It looked exactly like the one that had been tailing her, but there was nothing special to distinguish it from other SUVs like it. The longer she stared at it, the more her situational awareness jacked up. Pamela Frost would know Derek Schofield because his wife was her secretary. Liza could picture the lawyer knowing about the affairs and doing something about it. But murder? Her hand crept to her belt line and came to rest next to her gun butt.
“Careful, Agent. We don’t need any misunderstandings.”
“Something’s off.”
Con hesitated next to the car, placing his hand on the hood. “I agree.”
They lingered, neither speaking. Liza’s nerves were processing information at the speed of light, and her muscles were tingling with warmth. This was not good, so not good.
“I’m going around back,” Con said. He turned and signaled Murdoch to stand by. “You take front.”
“Con, I don’t have a radio. There’s no way to communicate.”
He pulled out his cell and called hers. “Leave it connected.”
Placing the activated phone in her front shirt pocket, she headed for the porch. Liza’s body hummed. She crept over the tiled stoop, trying to peek through the windows with their lace curtains, but she couldn’t see anything. The house was dark except for where the sun poked through the gloom. A solid dark blue front door, no glass, stood between her and whatever waited on the inside. The festive green wreath covered in pink, white, and blue tulips seemed out of character for the woman Liza briefly encountered yesterday.
“I’m in position,” Con whispered through the phone.
She itched to draw her weapon, but she couldn’t drive the woman off. She gave a heavy handed rap on the door and stepped to the side.
One Mississippi, two Mississippi . . .
At six Mississippi, she knocked again. More like pounded on the door. “Mrs. Frost?”
Ten Mississippi, nine Mississippi . . .
“Do you hear anything?” she said into her shoulder.
“I hear a faint screech . . . like a teakettle.”
Liza pulled her weapon and leaned around the corner post to confirm Murdoch’s position. The deputy had stationed herself inside her opened car door and was gripping the radio on her shoulder.
God, please don’t let it be bad.
The force of her blow against the door now made the wreath tremble. “Pamela, it’s Agent Bartholomew. Open the door.”
“That’s definitely a teakettle,” Con’s voice drifted through their connection.
“Should I go in?”
“Is the door locked?”
Testing it, she found give in the handle. “Not locked. Door back there?”
“Yes, but it’s one of those sliding glass patio doors, curtains are covering it, and it’s locked. Have Murdoch come over.”
Liza waved over the younger woman. Once Murdoch was behind her, she gripped the handle again and popped the latch.
“Going in,” she told Con. “Mrs. Frost, Pamela, I’m entering the house.”
With the door opened, she could hear the sound Con mentioned, and it was a screaming teakettle. Wincing, Liza slipped inside, her gaze darting from one corner to the next.
“Clear,” she alerted both Con and Murdoch.
Liza inched along a narrow hallway. “Pamela?” A wide, carpeted staircase to her right led upstairs. Liza hated to leave that position open, but she had to kill that kettle. Down the hall into the kitchen, she cleared the area, and then shoved the kettle off the burner, turning off the flame. As a matter of habit after being around Quinn, she checked all the other burner knobs and the stove. Everything was turned off.
She moved into the dining room next and found the sliding doors. Pushing the curtain aside, she unlocked the door. Con stepped into the doorway.
“Anything?”
She shook her head then pointed upstairs. “I’m going up.”
“I’ll sweep the bottom level.”
Spotting Murdoch in the hallway, Liza exchanged okay signs and then made a beeline for the staircase. Step by step, she ascended, her senses on high alert. She fought the tunnel vision encroaching on her sight. All that training, and she still couldn’t master this one feat.
At the top of the steps, she hesitated on the landing, assessing her surroundings. Three doors: two possible bedrooms, one bathroom, all doors open.
“Pamela, it’s the FBI. Are you here?”
“Liza,” Con called from somewhere below.
She ignored him. The God-awful tension in her body was screaming to go to the door directly in front of her. With her weapon leveled in front of her, she rushed to the door.
“Liza!”
Entering the room, she pulled up short. “Damn it!”
Crumpled on the floor at the end of a king-sized bed, in a puddle of vomit and foaming at the mouth, Pamela Frost convulsed as if in the throes of a seizure.
Heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs. “Liza, we need to get out.”
She turned as Con blew into the room. “Why?”
“There’s a fire. Can’t you smell the smoke?”
At the mention of it, the acrid bite to the air hit her. “Crap!”
Con cursed in his native tongue at the sight of Pamela’s twitching body. “I’ll take her. Get out.”
“No, I’m not leaving you alone.”
Growling something, Con reached down and hoisted Pamela over his shoulder in a fireman’s hold. “Lead the way.”
When they hit the landing, smoke had clouded every available space. Heat crackled in the air.
“Come on!” Murdoch hollered from the bottom of the steps.
Coughing, Liza hurried down, pausing long enough to make certain Con was right behind her. She turned toward the front door, seeing flames licking at the walls near the kitchen. “That’s moving way too fast.”
Once outside, they headed straight for the vehicles.
“I made the call. All emergency vehicles are in route,” Murdoch reported.
“Where was the fire? And why didn’t we smell it when we came in?”
“Don’t know about the latter. But the fire was in the basement. I think I helped it along when I opened the door.” Con laid Pamela down on the pavement. “What is wrong with her?”
Pamela had stopped convulsing and was staring up at the sky with blank eyes.
Liza knelt next to Con as he checked Pamela’s pulse. “She acts like she’s OD’d.”
“No pulse.” Con scrambled to start chest compressions. “Murdoch, get your defibrillator.”
Pamela was dying. Why? This was not happening.
Behind them, snaps, pops, and crackles indicated the fire gaining purchase on the home.
“Con, did you see her briefcase or something like it?”
“No,�
�� he said between compressions.
Liza hadn’t either. The car. She hopped onto her feet and jogged over.
“Liza! Stay out of the house.”
“I’m not going inside.” She grabbed the handle. Locked. Peering inside the windows, she spotted a satchel and manila folders. In the backseat was a pile of clothing. “Does she have her keys on her?”
“No,” came the answer.
No two ways about this, she was going in the hard way. Using the butt of her gun, she slammed it into the glass, shattering it. Clearing a sizable hole for her arm, she reached in and popped the door. Just in case, she checked the interior for an extra set of keys and came up empty-handed. Retreating, she waved for Murdoch.
“What?”
“I’m shifting this sucker into neutral, and we need to back it out of the drive. I don’t want it damaged by the fire.” The house itself was pouring off heat and the place was spewing smoke.
“Why?”
Liza pointed inside. “Evidence.”
Together, they pushed the car to the curb, letting it roll to a stop as the first fire truck barreled onto the scene, followed by an ambulance. Once the EMTs took over, Con backpedaled away from the crew working on Pamela. He staggered to Liza and Murdoch.
“I don’t think she’s going to live.” He bent at the waist and sucked air.
“Did you use a guard?” Liza demanded.
“Yes, mother.”
“I had one in my kit,” Murdoch said.
“Con, I don’t know if she OD’d on something or was poisoned.”
His head whipped up at that. “Why would it have happened at all?”
Liza watched the fire consume the front of the house. “Someone is trying to clean house.” Her gaze narrowed. “And I’m going to find out who.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Hunger gnawed at his guts. Shane tested the waters and found his body lacking. He’d really overdone it. Gingerly rolling onto his injured side, he pushed himself into a sitting position. After a few moments of rest, he got out of the bed and wandered out the door and into the bathroom.
When he emerged, he found a beefy sentinel standing in the middle of the hallway, arms crossed over a wide chest.
“Hartmann, what the hell are you doing here, again?”
“Liza had to leave.”
Why? Hold it, that’s right. She had a meeting with Lundy. Damn, how long had he been out this time?
“What time is it?”
“Past five. You look like shit.”
“Thanks for that observation, marine.”
“Don’t go knocking my corps, army.”
They stared at each other. Hartmann gave Shane a sloppy smile.
“Jarhead,” Shane shot back.
“Hoorah.” Hartmann gimped down the hallway. His prosthetic leg must be aggravating his stump. “You hungry?”
“Starving.” Shane hobbled around and followed the Aussie into the kitchen. Weren’t they a pair, a disabled marine and a wounded grunt. “Did Liza tell you?”
“Tell me what?” Hartmann picked up a note, squinting at it. “Says here I’m not supposed to let you eat that crap you call food.”
“Says who?”
That surfer boy lopsided grin returned.
When she got back here, she and he were going to have a conversation about her bossiness.
Hartmann opened the fridge. “Would you look at that, the man knows how to stock a fridge.”
“Kiss my ass.” Shane shuffled to his table and eased onto a chair, his body giving a sigh of relief. He tracked Hartmann’s movements as the Aussie pulled out a carton of eggs, milk, and a colorful array of veggies. “I like my omelets with a kick.”
“And I don’t.” Hartmann reached in the cabinet next to the stove, pulled out the bottle of Tabasco sauce, and plopped it on the table with a thunk by Shane’s elbow. “When you get heartburn, blame yourself.”
Having the other man cook for him made Shane’s self-worth bristle like a pissed-off dog. How did he get himself into this mess? Since leaving the army and becoming a law officer, Shane had lost all desire to see his life end and join Cheyenne. He started the anniversary binge the first year after he discharged out, as a way to process the grief he’d locked up for so long while he waited for that one bullet or IED to take his life. God had some sick sense of humor to allow Shane to make it through six years and four tours unscathed except for the usual mind rape. There were things one saw when they went to war that left scars no one could see.
And Shane’s went deep.
“How do you know?” he insisted.
Hartmann didn’t miss a step as he beat the eggs. “I suspected for a while. Hard as you try to act like your training is from being a cop, you carry yourself like a soldier.” He peered over his shoulder. “And if I don’t miss a guess, you climbed those ranks, fast.”
Too fast. When you could prove you were prime fighting material and had the respect of those commanding you, it didn’t take the army long to find ways to promote you. And into special ops. What’s worse was that everyone around him was beginning to figure it all out. After all this time, he’d thought he’d done a better job of hiding it.
“Who else suspects?”
Hartmann hmphed. “Who do you think, mate?”
Nic, Con, and Cassy, which meant Boyce knew, too, and probably Jolie. Shit. Shane had done a piss-poor job of keeping the secret.
“Don’t beat yourself up too much. We all respected your secret and haven’t revealed it. Those in the know figured it out on their own.” The veggies sizzled in a pool of butter in the skillet. “And not a word will be said without your consent.”
“I should be thankful for that much.”
Shane’s stomach gave a mighty twist at the tantalizing aroma of onions, garlic, and peppers sautéing in the pan. Hartmann better hurry up with that food.
A Harley engine revving echoed in the room. Hartmann dug in his pocket and pulled out his phone, pouring the egg mixture in the skillet. “What can I do for you, love?”
“Are you still with the sheriff?” Jolie’s voice came over the speaker, jolting Shane.
The man turned to Shane. “Yeah. Tell him what you need.”
“Sheriff, we located Pamela Frost.”
“And?” Shane asked loudly, hoping the speaker picked him up.
“Well, it’s not good, sir. Agent Bartholomew doesn’t know I’m calling you. But, um, you need to get over to the hospital.” Good girl. She was a smart cookie to know he wasn’t about to sit out the rest of this investigation.
Hartmann turned the stove off and slid the omelet onto a plate.
“I’m on my way, Murdoch.” That response earned him a nasty scowl from the Aussie. Boo hoo on him.
“Hurry, sir. And, Xavier, don’t fight him.” With that, Jolie ended her connection.
Shane pushed onto his feet. “You heard her, let’s go.”
“If it weren’t for that woman I love, you’d be getting a beat down so I didn’t have to listen to my sister.”
“Man up, marine, and pack my food to go.”
• • •
Shane had a love/hate relationship with hospitals. Loved that emergency care was readily available when needed, especially during his wild and woolly days as a bronc rider. Hated it because, in the last four years, too many of his deputies had spent time in here being treated for beatings, gunshots, and hypothermia. And lest he forget, the numerous bodies he has viewed in the morgue.
Yeah, this was the last place he wanted to be.
When he and Hartmann located Jolie, she was in a small pow-wow with Con and Liza. The bitter sting of smoke smacked him in the face when he reached the group.
“What the hell happened?”
Liza’s features twisted in anger. “What are you doing here?”
“Don’t worry, I didn’t drive so I couldn’t kill myself. Hartmann tried to do it for the both of us.”
“Wanker,” Hartmann muttered.
“I reiterate, Shane, what are you doing here?” Liza snarled.
“I told him to come, ma’am,” Jolie threw herself under the bus. “He needs to know what happened.”
That dangerous scowl was directed at his young deputy, but Jolie didn’t back down. Shane had never been more proud of her than he was in that moment.
“Deputy Murdoch, we’ll discuss this later.”
“There won’t be any discussing anything with her later, Liza. You forget, I’m still the sheriff.”
“Who was put on medical leave due to a gunshot wound. Or are you so doped up that you’ve forgotten that little detail?”
“Children, please. We have more troubling matters to attend to,” Con butted in.
“Which is why I’m here. What is going on with Pamela Frost?” Shane asked.
The three dirty, smelly law enforcement personnel looked between each other, and then all three settled their collective somber gazes on him. His gut pitched backward into his spine.
“We did all we could, but it was too late,” Con said.
God damn it! “She’s dead?”
Liza’s throat bobbed as she broke rank and reached out to him. “Sadly, she is. We’re waiting on Drummond to tell us what he can find.”
“Why do you all smell like smoke?”
She gripped his arm this time. “The Frost home was set on fire.”
Again. Another house fire, in the span of two days. What the effing hell was going on?
“Where was Roslin when this all happened?”
“I told you he’d jump right to her,” Con said.
Sighing, Liza tugged on Shane’s arm. “Sit down before you collapse again.”
He jerked his arm out of her grip. “I’m not a cripple. Quit treating me like one.”
Hurt flashed through her umber eyes. The pain he’d caused her injected into his heart, poisoning him. Blame the painkillers or blame the situation blowing up in his face—either way, he was being an asshole. Liza didn’t give him a chance to repent of his sins. A wall went up and the windows slammed shut. He’d officially put the foreclosure on reconciliation.
Turning, he walked away.
“Sheriff, stop.”
He about-faced at Drummond’s command.
Liar, Liar Page 20
