Kylie Brant - What the Dead Know (The Mindhunters Book 8)

by Unknown

  “Further everything can wait until morning.” He rose, as well. “And for the record, this time I won’t be sleeping on the couch.” There was an intriguing hint of shock in her gaze when it met his. He added, “Something tells me the bed in one of the spare rooms is far more comfortable.”

  “You’re about to find out.” She double-checked the lock on the doors while he turned off the fireplace. Then he followed her to the stairway. Up the steps. Finn had the errant thought that after the day they’d had, he was going to feel closer to Keira lying down the hallway from her than lying in bed with her last night.

  _______

  Fuck Diz, and fuck this place. Tiffany Andrews locked and slammed the back door after she went through it and bee-lined for her car. As miserable as the owner’s stomach flu allegedly was, it couldn’t come close to the misery Tiffany had gone through having to run the entire damn place on a Friday night with only one cook, one bartender and herself.

  A single security bulb above the door threw off weak light as she huddled into her jacket and stomped toward her car through what was more like an alley than a parking lot. She dodged the crammed Dumpster and rounded the trunk of her 2004 Ford Escape. Keira was right. It was time to move out and move on, and Tiff wasn’t going to wait until summer. Whatever her future held, there had to be something better than going home every night smelling like grease and having bruises on her ass from the creeps who got too handsy.

  None of them ever grabbed her twice. She made damn sure of that.

  If she stayed in Munising one more day…week…month…she might just end up like her mom. Bemoaning her lot in life and never lifting a finger to better it. That wasn’t going to be Tiffany, and if it took a shitty night at work to force her to make a life decision, maybe it was high time.

  The keyless entry on her vehicle hadn’t worked since she’d owned it, so she stuck the key in the lock, then stopped, surprised to find it unlocked. She paused, frowning. She always locked her car. Always.

  She was too far from the light to see much of anything, but she peered into the window. Could barely make out the latte she’d left in the cup holder. She’d been in a mad dash to respond to Eldon Diznoff’s desperate call for help on what was supposed to have been her first weekend off in months. She’d forgotten all about her Creamy Caramel Latte Supreme.

  Yanking open the door, she climbed inside and stuck the key in the ignition. Turned it on. Diz was going to have to figure something else out tomorrow. Tiff tried the engine three times before it turned over, then roared to life. Because first thing in the morning she was heading to Powderhorn, and taking the rest of the weekend for some skiing while strategizing her future.

  She pulled away from the building, nosing her small SUV through the narrow tunnel made by the towering snow banks on either side of the cleared passageway. Tiffany didn’t have a moment’s regret for the paying customers she’d shoved out the door at midnight. After the night she’d had, there’d been no way in hell she was sticking around until four in the morning. And if Diz wanted to bitch about it, she’d have plenty to say about unreliable help who didn’t show up and left her short-handed.

  There was a small sound in the back of the vehicle. Of course, there were always noises. The damn thing was held together with duct tape and baling wire. Tiffany looked in the rearview mirror and caught a flash of movement.

  A moment later a large hand had something shoved in her face, holding tight when the stench of a drenched rag filled her nose. Her lungs. Eyes burning, she bucked and fought, but a second arm snaked around her neck to hold her fast. As consciousness ebbed out of reach, she had a last distant thought that that her worst fear was coming true.

  She was going to die in this damn town.

  _______

  Dorie Hassert giggled as she checked the peephole and hurriedly unlocked the back door. He crowded inside and pressed her against the counter, his hard mouth coming down on hers. The edge of the Formica dug into her ample behind, but she didn’t murmur a peep of protest. This was exactly like the romance novels she devoured by the stacks. The thought of having her own secret lover who couldn’t get enough of her made her absolutely giddy. One who called hours before dawn and demanded to see her. Claimed he just couldn’t wait another minute.

  She was a little dizzy when he lifted his mouth from hers and finally kicked the door shut with one booted foot. Reaching out a shaky hand, she fluffed the hair she’d quickly curled, and wished she’d thought to light a candle. A woman was supposed to look her best in candlelight.

  He grabbed her again, one hand sliding inside her newly purchased mint green bathrobe to squeeze her breast. “Is this a booty call?” she tittered.

  “It’s an I’m gonna fuck you call,” he muttered in her ear. Turning her around, he bent her over the table with enough force to send the vase of fake sunflowers teetering.

  The unfamiliar position had a sudden flicker of unease surfacing. “Here? Like this?” Then she moaned when his fingers tweaked her nipple a little roughly.

  “Here.” She heard the scrape of a zipper. His hips shimmied a bit against hers before her robe was flipped up in the back and she felt him, hard and pulsing against her. “Like this.”

  His apparent hunger ignited her own and when he surged inside her, she was more than ready.

  Minutes later she lay limp, his weight heavy on top of her, and tried to draw a breath. Maybe he didn’t have the smooth words and moves of the heroes she read about, but his cock worked the same way and damn if it wasn’t satisfying.

  She giggled at that, and he withdrew from her, then pinched her on the ass. “What the hell you laughing at?”

  “Just thinking how good you are.”

  He grunted at that, and when she would have turned over, he put a hand on the back of her neck to hold her in place. “I like the view from here.” He slapped one of her butt cheeks hard enough to sting, and she felt a stir of excitement all over again.

  “You have to let me up some time.” But she wiggled her hips enticingly, hoping he wouldn’t. Like a gentleman he used a condom every time, and she’d never found one in her trash, although she wouldn’t have minded the visual reminder. He must flush them before he left.

  “Maybe I won’t.” His hands were rough from the woodworking he’d told her he did in his spare time, and when he stroked her flanks, she felt a shiver that shot clear to her womb. “Maybe we’ll stay like this all night.”

  Just the thought of it got her hot. “Let’s do it again.”

  “Gimme some time here.” But his hands went to her breasts and began to rub and knead them. She could feel him hardening behind her. “I was busy all day and didn’t get into town. What’s new in Munising, anything?”

  Chapter 9

  “I’m about to make Stella Cummings a very happy woman.” Keira glanced around the table in the conference room. “I’ve prepared two press releases, one about last night’s shooting and the other stating the victim has been identified. Atwood’s name, of course, was withheld pending notification of the family. I’ve sent copies to all of you. Familiarize yourself with them. No other details will be released by this office.”

  “But we’re not revealing Danny’s death as a homicide yet.” Phil’s words were more a statement than a question. She knew from the brief talk they’d had when he’d picked her and Finn up that he agreed with her decision.

  “Not publicly, no. It would lead to more inquiries, and there are details I don’t want released. It was, however, included in the briefing I sent out on LIEN. Those people were Danny’s friends. And they’ll want to offer assistance in any way they can.” There were sober nods of agreement from her deputies. City police, county sheriffs, and troopers in the area crossed paths constantly. The response last night epitomized how interconnected they were when one of their own was threatened.

  Another example was this department. It was Saturday; normally the day they ran their smallest crew. And yet most people were here on their own time.
Hank was likely at her place with the metal detectors. The budget didn’t run to overtime expenses, but that meant nothing to those who had once worked for Danny Saxon.

  “Stella Cummings might stroke out with all the news heading her way.”

  Phil’s reminder had Keira suppressing a wince. Less than twenty-four hours after Keira had stonewalled her, the reporter was going to have juicy headlines for days to come. Just not one mentioning Danny Saxon. At least not yet. “She’ll publish the number for the tipline. Someone might have seen something last night. Maybe even the truck the shooter left along the side of the road.” And sifting through reliable and useless tips would suck man hours that she didn’t have to spare, Keira thought grimly, but it couldn’t be helped. “Mary and Brody have a list of four persons so far who have gone missing from somewhere on the UP in the last five years. All were involved in some sort of outdoor activity when they disappeared.” The door opened, and Finn slipped inside the room. “I’ll let them tell you about them.”

  As the two passed out the information they’d compiled, Keira and Finn exchanged a glance, and she was shaken by a feeling of déjà vu. Only a few short days ago he’d walked in on a meeting much like this one, and she’d wondered at the time what a scientist would have to offer this investigation. She could admit when she was wrong, and she’d been all wrong about Finn Carstens. He was as fine an investigator as she’d ever worked with, and there was no denying his dual role in the lab had fast-tracked this case in a way conventional procedures wouldn’t have done.

  But she’d been dead on when she’d guessed there was more, far more to the man than what showed on the surface. He’d given her a glimpse of it last night, and she’d thought about what he’d revealed long after she should have been asleep. And wondered how some people had the resiliency to continue when faced with the results of man’s darkest brutality. In that way they were alike. Somehow that connection was just as strong, just as compelling, as the one established in the short moments she’d been in his arms.

  “The missing persons might be from the mainland or surrounding states, but they were last seen in one of the fifteen counties of the western Upper Peninsula.” Mary was unrolling a map of the UP and attaching it to the wall with tacks. “Stan Vila,” she touched a spot on Gogebic County. “His relatives said he’d gone hiking on some of the abandoned logging roads three years ago and never returned. Brian Sanchez,” her finger traced over to the Keweenaw Peninsula. “Disappeared four years ago, and had no immediate family. But his friends reported the man had been spending his free time exploring the ghost towns and copper country in Keweenaw County. Emmett Ford.” She stabbed at a point in Chippewa County. “Was supposed to be on his way to a sportsman contest in St. Ignace. Registered but never showed.” The last spot she indicated was on Alger County’s Lake Superior shore. “Harley Grayson. In conjunction with the DNR investigation last year, our office ruled his death accidental. Although no body was recovered, it was presumed he slipped inside the hole cut in the ice, which was a great deal larger than the eight inches usually recommended.”

  “We’re following up on a few more,” Brody put in when Mary finished. “Some had incomplete details so we’re reaching out to case officers who will have to contact the families and ask specifically about outdoor hobbies. The weekend will slow down the responses some.”

  “After last night I want to look hard at people in the area who are considered marksmen.” Finn spoke for the first time since entering the room. “Not just going through archives for old sportsmen or shooting contest awards, but finding the names of people around here with a reputation as a good shot. Any individuals that come up get cross-referenced with the list of those with a grudge against Danny Saxon.” He leveled a glance at Keira. “We’ll need to make another compilation of those with reason to dislike the current sheriff, as well.”

  “Hopefully, there will be fewer names on it,” she said drily. “I’ve only been on the job a matter of months.”

  “Plenty of time to lock up some scumbags,” Phil noted. “As evidenced by the four in our jail right now.”

  “The fact that they’re still behind bars takes them out of the suspect pool for the incident last night.” Keira suppressed the mental flash of the shooting before it could replay on an endless reel in her mind. “We can’t assume that the shots taken at me are linked to Danny’s and Atwood’s deaths. At least not until we look at the evidence collected last night.”

  “True. But given what Hank discovered about Yembley’s shooting ability, his place will be the first Keira and I stop this morning.”

  “I started going through the DNR databases yesterday and cross-referencing holders of trapping or hunting licenses with names on the list of those who have reason to resent Danny.” Keira passed a copy of the page she’d made to her deputies. “They can be further triangulated with any names we acquire of marksmen in the area if we decide the shooting is connected to the two previous homicides. I didn’t get very far into the DNR violation and infringement registry. Not quite sure what I’m looking for there yet, but the poaching accusation Baxter claims was leveled at Atwood triggered something for me.”

  “We’ll check into it further,” Phil promised, and the others murmured in agreement.

  “One thing struck me when I was poring over those DNR lists,” Keira said soberly. “There were a lot of familiar names. Friends. Neighbors. Probably three-quarters of the people you know hold outdoor Sportsman licenses of one type or another. The offender we’re tracking might not be a stranger to us, and I don’t necessarily mean only those with a criminal record. With two members of this office targeted, we can’t be certain the department itself isn’t the focus for the killer, and it was Atwood who was the anomaly. I guess what I’m saying is to be careful out there.”

  _______

  Bruce Yembley’s address was nearly twenty-five miles away, near Deerton. According to the tax rolls the man didn’t own the place, which, Keira thought, as she turned into the overgrown drive, meant he couldn’t be held totally responsible for the condition of the property.

  The outbuildings all had a definite lean to them, and the house itself was ten years past its last coat of paint. Both of the windows on the front upper story were boarded over. Somehow Keira wasn’t surprised to find the man living in a shit hole. He didn’t seem to care overmuch about appearances.

  It had snowed overnight. She could see fresh tire tracks in the rutted drive, and boot prints going back and forth between the house and detached garage. However, nothing had been shoveled, including the porch where the blowing snow had drifted against the house. They climbed the steps toward the front door, and she felt the give of rotting lumber beneath her feet.

  “Somehow these seem like fitting surroundings for a guy like Yembley,” Finn said as he stepped gingerly on the stairs next to her.

  “Not as fitting as a federal prison, but guess we don’t have any way of making that happen in the near future.”

  “At least not yet.” There was no storm door so Finn pounded on the metal front door. They waited for a minute before he repeated the action.

  “Open up, Yembley. Sheriff.” Keira called out. She peered at the window, which had old-fashioned rubber backed draperies lining it. She could see no lights at the seams, but that didn’t mean much. The man could still be sleeping. It was barely seven-thirty.

  But if he was inside he wasn’t answering the door. They knocked for another few minutes before heading around to the side entrance and tried again. There were footprints leading to and away from it, both sets fairly fresh. They weren’t yet filled in although flakes of snow were still drifting out of the sky. “We could save ourselves a lot of time by casting one of these boot prints and comparing it to the ones Hank took last night.” But legalities prohibited it. They had no proof Yembley had anything to do with the shooting and no warrant to collect evidence trying to prove it.

  Finn crouched down next to one print and took a small tape measurer
from his pocket. Drew it out to take the dimensions of the track. “No one’s going to know if we make a few notes for our own purposes.” He used his phone to record the measurements before dropping the tape and cell back in his pocket and rose. Squinting, he looked toward the garage. “Looks like fresh tire tracks leaving the property.”

  “Yeah. Maybe he really isn’t here.”

  They descended the cracked cement steps to approach it. Its sliding horizontal wooden doors were ancient. By pressing on one Finn created a large enough gap for them to look into the shadowy interior. Empty.

  Keira blew out a breath, which instantly condensed. She had a sudden memory of Tiffany and her spending far too many hours one day over Christmas break blowing ice kisses and timing how long the vapor hung in the air. They’d been ten maybe. A lifetime ago.

  The memory summoned another, and she made a mental note to check her phone to see if she’d missed a message from her friend once they were back in the car. She scanned the rickety outbuildings. None of them had tracks of any sort leading to or away from them, which meant they hadn’t been accessed at least since the last snow.

  “Well, this trip was a bust.” Keira turned back toward the cruiser. They were driving the one left unused while Chase was on medical leave. Phil had driven it out to pick them up this morning and then Finn had taken it to Turners to collect his things and check out before rejoining them at the courthouse. “But the deputies have his plate number. If he’s sighted, he’ll be stopped.”

  “He could be on the run already,” Finn pointed out as they made their way back to the cruiser. “Have you alerted surrounding counties?”

  They parted as they reached the car, and she rounded the front hood. “I’ll put out a BOLO.” Yembley was by no means the only marksman in the region with a grudge against her department. But at the very least he should be hauled in for questioning.