by Debra Webb
“Hunter.”
“Detective, this is Steve Cyrus.”
“You have news for me, Cyrus?” It would be damned nice to solve the case of her mystery stalker. She would feel a lot better about her son’s safety.
“Yes, ma’am. I got a call from one of the drunks I pick up on a regular basis. He likes building up brownie points so I’ll go easy on him when he’s on a drinking binge.”
Bree understood that strategy. Leverage was a good thing when dealing with informants with criminal tendencies, however minor.
“This guy swears he saw someone matching Sherman Watts’s description arguing with Agent Grainger not more than a week ago. He was afraid to ask Sherman if it was him, but he’s certain it was.”
Sherman Watts? Watts was a local troublemaker. To Bree’s knowledge he’d never murdered anyone. Most of his rap sheet consisted of drunk and disorderly charges. He could be a pain in the butt, but so far as she knew he wasn’t a killer.
Some part of her was disappointed that the news wasn’t related to the jerk who had spray painted her SUV.
But it was about the Grainger case.
“How reliable is this informant?” Adrenaline whipped across Bree’s nerve endings. This could in some small way be their first real break.
“He’s never failed me before. The best I can tell, he and Watts are occasional drinking buddies. What he saw might mean nothing at all, but I thought it would be worth checking out.”
“Thanks, Cyrus.” The need to end the call and hunt down Watts charged through her veins. “We’re looking at any and all leads. This could give us a definite starting place. I’ll talk to Watts and see what he has to say.” If she could find him. He had a way of making himself scarce when he was avoiding the law. Which was rather frequently. She mentally ticked off a list of places to start looking, none of them on the Chamber of Commerce’s lists of places to visit when in Four Corners.
“I wouldn’t go looking for him alone,” Cyrus cautioned. “If he’s involved in this he might be more desperate than usual.”
Bree told herself his warning had nothing to do with her being a woman and everything to do with taking the necessary precautions despite the urgency of the situation. Two days around Patrick and she was already defensive about her physical limitations.
Like Julie Grainger must have felt during those final moments of her life. A shudder rocked Bree. No matter one’s training, the element of surprise when combined with lethal intent was a damned near insurmountable opponent. A deadly opponent.
Bree thanked Cyrus and slid her phone back into its holster. At least she had a lead to follow. A starting place. Knowing Watts’s penchant for womanizing it could be a dead end. The incident might be as simple as Watts making a remark or hitting on Grainger and Grainger dressing him down in public.
“Ortiz is holding a press conference in one hour.”
Startled, Bree turned to face Patrick. She schooled her expression in the hopes of keeping her reactions to herself. Hearing his voice again was just something she hadn’t gotten used to yet. Having heard it in her dreams far too many times didn’t count. Nor had it been necessary to remind her of the way it wrapped around her and made her want to lean into him. Every nuance was permanently imprinted in her memory. The rich, deep timbre was another of those things she had struggled so diligently, without success, to forget.
“The press conference. Right.” She nodded, still a little distracted by Cyrus’s call. And the mere sound of Patrick’s voice.
“Ortiz is heading back to Durango after that,” he continued, seemingly without realizing how he’d affected her. “He’ll be staying on top of the investigation via teleconference unless he’s needed back here. Tom Ryan is in charge of the investigation now.”
Focus. She had to find Watts. But Cyrus was right. She didn’t need to go it alone. “I…may have a lead.” She and Patrick were supposed to be working together on this. A team. Telling him, taking him along were the right things to do.
“Is that what your call was about?”
Oh, yeah, he was watching her every move. “It was. According to one of Officer Cyrus’s contacts, Agent Grainger had a confrontation with Sherman Watts only a couple of days before she was murdered. Considering Watts’s obnoxious personality and lecherous ways the confrontation may have been happenstance, but I figure it’s worth checking out.”
Patrick was familiar with Watts. His wasn’t a name Patrick had expected to hear connected with Agent Grainger’s murder, but men like Watts were fully capable of the unexpected.
“I was thinking,” Bree suggested, “that we should track Watts down and shake him up a little. Get the truth out of him. He runs in some low circles. Even if there’s nothing to his confrontation with Grainger, he might know something.”
Most of the agents were filtering out of the command center now. There was no reason for the two of them to hang around any longer. Patrick nodded. “Let’s do it.” He gestured for her to precede him. “I’ll drive.”
“Fine by me,” she tossed over her shoulder as she joined the exodus.
Maybe having her go first wasn’t such a good idea, but it was the gentlemanly thing to do. Even if the sway of her slender hips distracted him in a wholly unprofessional way.
They’d made a deal. Friends. Colleagues.
Damn, but that was going to be a hard bargain to keep.
FINDING SHERMAN WATTS wasn’t an easy task. Patrick drove to every unsavory hangout he and Bree could think of. It wasn’t until they hit the casino in Towaoc that they found a clue as to his whereabouts. One of Patrick’s repeat offenders, one with sticky fingers, was happy to report that Watts had been hanging out at a friend’s in a trailer park outside the city limits of Towaoc.
“Not exactly uptown,” Bree commented, taking in the unsightly conditions of the trailer park as they arrived at the address given.
“Not exactly,” Patrick agreed.
The grounds were littered with trash. Most of the vehicles parked next to the dilapidated trailers were equally dilapidated. Music blared through the thin walls of the one closest to the park entrance.
“We’re looking for lot ten.” Patrick searched the ends of the narrow tin-can homes for the lot numbers. Some were worn nearly beyond the point of legibility. Others were missing entirely.
“Should be the next one on the right.” Bree pointed to a rusty box with a broken-down deck leading to its front door.
“His friend must be doing pretty well,” Patrick said, noting the new-looking truck parked in the dirt drive. “Too bad it’s likely something illegal.”
Bree called in the license plate number. The more information at their disposal, the more power and leverage they possessed.
Patrick emerged from his SUV slowly, scanning the area. There was no way to guess what you could run upon in a dump like this. Better safe than sorry. He rested his hand on the butt of his revolver. Bree did the same.
Patrick climbed the steps of the deck first. Bree hung back to answer her cell. Patrick listened for any sound coming from inside the trailer. Nothing. He stepped to the side of the door, opted not to draw his weapon just yet, then he pounded on the metal door with his fist.
“Sherman Watts, this is Sheriff Martinez. I need to have a word with you.”
Bree moved into position on the other side of the door. She drew her weapon and assumed an offense ready stance.
No movement inside.
Patrick pounded harder. “Sherman Watts!”
A bump then a crash inside warned Patrick that someone was up and moving about. He braced. The door swung open, concealing Bree behind it.
“What the hell do you want, Sheriff?”
Watts, half-dressed and looking like he had one hell of a hangover, swayed in the open doorway. His long, stringy hair didn’t look as if it had been washed in a month. Those beady eyes, red from alcohol abuse, glared at Patrick.
The man wasn’t armed. Patrick hadn’t actually expected him to b
e, unless he was concealing a weapon in his baggy jeans.
“I need to ask you a few questions. May we come in?”
Watts looked around. “Who’s we?”
Bree stepped from behind the door, her weapon holstered now. “Evening, Sherman.” She looked the middle-aged man up and down. “Looks like you’ve been doing a little better at the poker table.” She hitched her head toward the truck. “That’s a very nice truck you bought last week.”
Patrick met her gaze. The vehicle did belong to Watts. A big move up from the rusty old truck he’d been driving for years. If he’d only just registered it last week, then that meant he’d come into some fast money.
Could it be blood money?
“Maybe,” Patrick said to Watts, drawing his attention back to him, “you’ll share some of your winning secrets with us.”
Watts scoffed. “I don’t have no secrets.” He folded his arms over his skinny chest. “I won that truck fair and square in a private game of chance.” He smirked. “I could give you the names of the fellers I beat, but they’d probably just lie and say they was the ones who won. I don’t see where it’s any of your business anyway.”
“We’re not here about the truck,” Bree told him.
His smirk faded. “What the hell you want then?”
“May we come in?” Patrick repeated.
Watts allowed his gaze to skim Bree’s body. “Why not? I like cops.” He said the last with a lecherous grin. “Ain’t my place anyhow.”
Patrick shouldered him out of the way as he moved through the door. “I’m a cop. You like me?”
Watts backed up a couple of steps. “Don’t get your boxers in a wad, Sheriff. I just woke up. I’m not my usual pleasant self yet.”
“It’s almost six p.m.,” Bree informed him as she stepped inside. “What’s wrong, Watts? You aren’t sleeping well at night?”
He flicked those beady eyes in her direction. “I never sleep at night. Too much happening at night. You know what I mean?” He sniggered.
“Speaking of happenings,” Patrick interjected. “Did you hear about the federal agent who was murdered?”
Watts tensed. Only the slightest shift in his posture, but Patrick didn’t miss it.
“I don’t listen to the news.”
Patrick surveyed the trailer’s front room. Ragged furniture. Looked like the place had been tossed but he knew that Watts and his friend were probably just slobs. They would live here until it became completely unbearable and then they’d move to the next dump.
“Julie Grainger.” Bree pulled the photo from her jacket pocket. She shoved it in Watts’s face. “I understand you knew her.”
Watts reared his head back and studied the photo for all of three seconds. “She’s a looker. I wish I’d known her.”
“The way I heard it—” Patrick walked around the room as if looking for contraband “—the two of you had quite a public disagreement.”
Watts followed Patrick’s every move, his guard fully in place now. “Well, you heard wrong. If I’d known that bitch, we wouldn’t’ve been arguing.”
Bree went toe-to-toe with Watts. “I think maybe you wanted to know her and she took one look at your ugly mug and told you to get lost.”
Patrick’s pulse skipped. What was she doing getting in this bastard’s face like that?
Watts snickered. “Nah, lady cop, you got the wrong man. I don’t know nothing about your dead friend. I never seen her before.”
Patrick pushed his way between the two. “Why don’t we have you come in for questioning just the same,” Patrick suggested. “We’re just trying to be thorough with our investigation. You know, follow all the leads whether they pan out or not.”
Watts searched Patrick’s eyes, didn’t so much as blink as he met the challenge there. “Name the time and place, Sheriff, and I’ll be there.”
“I may do that sooner than you think,” Patrick countered. “You’re a person of interest in this case, Watts. Be sure you’re available. I’m certain we’ll be talking again very soon.”
“You know where to look for me,” Watts called as they walked out the door. “Send your pretty squaw on over any time.”
Patrick stopped dead in his tracks. For two beats the only thing he could see was rage red. The need to pound Watts into an unrecognizable pulp was a palpable force inside him. It took every ounce of strength he possessed not to turn around and beat the hell out of the guy with his bare hands.
Bree didn’t wait. She stamped back to the SUV and climbed in.
Patrick took a deep breath and didn’t look back. Getting himself slapped with an assault charge wouldn’t help this investigation. But he was sure itching to punch the bastard. Patrick opened the driver’s-side door and settled behind the wheel of his SUV. Watts stared directly at Patrick one last time before smirking, then slamming his door shut.
Bastard.
When Patrick had guided his SUV back onto the highway and the trailer park was in the rearview mirror, Bree turned to him.
He’d expected this. He’d opened his mouth prematurely back there. But he was right whether she wanted to hear it or not.
“I don’t need you playing the protector when we’re interviewing a possible suspect. I had the situation with Watts under control.”
She spoke calmly and quietly but the underlying fury in her voice told him she was mad as hell.
“You shouldn’t have pushed your luck. You got right in the man’s face, Bree. That’s a dangerous maneuver if you can’t back it up.”
Wrong thing to say. Again.
“I can’t believe you!” She glared at the highway in front of them. “I’m every bit as well trained as you. I can handle myself. I know how far to go with an interrogation. And it wasn’t like I didn’t have backup available.”
He could argue with her but that would only make bad matters worse. “You’re right. I’m wrong. Let’s not argue.” He told himself that he could see her side, but he didn’t. Not really. Was he wrong? “Okay?”
His halfhearted apology didn’t help.
She fumed silently, wouldn’t give him a response.
“We see things differently on that point,” he offered. “My concern is not an indication of any lack of faith in your ability.”
No comment.
Perfect.
Fine. Focus on the investigation. Let her fume. “I’ll pass along what we learned about Watts to Agent Ortiz. See if he wants us to follow up with surveillance or additional questioning.” The suggestion immediately produced images of him and Bree stuck inside this SUV all night long…in the dark.
More silence.
Great. “What do you want me to say, Bree?” This was just like eight years ago.
“Nothing. You’ve already said all I needed to hear. Nothing’s changed.”
And that was what he got for caring.
Chapter Seven
The next morning Bree parked, turned off the engine and stared out at the barren landscape that was the last sight Julie Grainger had laid eyes on before being murdered.
According to the coroner Julie had been dead approximately forty-eight to fifty hours when her body was discovered.
That meant she had possibly died about this time of morning, eight or nine. Five days ago.
Less than a week.
Bree got out of her truck and closed the door. The sound echoed, reminding her she was alone. No work. No family. No Patrick.
She needed to think.
Hand on the butt of her weapon, she walked slowly toward the yellow tape that marked the perimeter of the crime scene. It drooped here and there, a sign of the passage of time.
With no real break in the case.
They were beyond that crucial forty-eight-hour mark. And they had nothing significant to show for it.
Patrick had discussed the Sherman Watts situation with Agent Ortiz. His people were going to take over the follow-up. The press conference hadn’t garnered any reaction as far as Bree had heard. Oritz had b
een brief and to the point. He’d urged anyone with information to come forward. There wasn’t really a lot Bree could do at this point except react to new leads, those called in or the ones she drummed up pounding the pavement and rattling the cages of informants.
Bree stopped before reaching the yellow tape. She crouched down and picked up a handful of the sandy dirt. She rubbed it between her fingers, let it drift back to the ground. What was Julie doing out here so early on a Saturday morning?
Had one of her contacts in the Del Gardo investigation asked to meet her in this barren place? Or was her killer someone she’d rubbed the wrong way in a previous investigation? Or just some lowlife who had nothing to do with any of her cases.
In law enforcement there was always that chance. Many times the family of someone you’d helped convict would seek vengeance. Or you’d find yourself at the wrong place at the wrong time.
Had Sherman Watts met Julie here? Was the drunken weasel capable of killing? More significant, was he smart enough, quick enough to catch her by surprise and overpower her physically?
Bree blinked away the images her thoughts evoked. Slowly, she turned all the way around and surveyed the vast landscape. Rugged and barren, but beautiful in its own right.
Her own life felt a little like that sometimes. She’d had her heart broken, her pride battered and her social skills had taken a hiatus. But she had her beautiful son.
Unlike Julie Grainger, Bree was alive. As long as she was alive there was hope for change…for better things. For smarter decisions.
What, Bree wondered, would Julie have done differently if she’d known her life would end so suddenly? Were there things left she needed or wanted to say? Decisions she would have made differently?
Bree would spend more time with her son for sure.
She thought of Peter’s excitement about today’s field trip when she’d dropped him off at school this morning. For the moment he’d forgotten all about asking questions about his father.
