by Robin Caroll
The coroner straightened and shook his head. "Burned like that? Not even a guess right now. I'll see what I can uncover once I get Mr. Doe here back to my slab."
Carson grinned at him. "How are you likin' your updated digs?" Months ago funding had come through for the coroner's office to get a total overhaul. While the renovations were conducted, the coroner had to temporarily move to the only area facility that had an adequate setup—Eternal Springs. Just two weeks ago Casteel and his crew were able to return to their updated space in Lake Charles.
"Lovin' it. Got all the newest equipment."
"How long before you'll be able to get to our vic?" Maddox asked.
Casteel pushed his slipping glasses higher up his nose. "I'll get on him Monday."
Maddox nodded. "I'd appreciate that."
The coroner and his assistant began their process of removing the body. Maddox turned back to Houston. "Find anything else?"
Houston shook his head. "Just the gun. You?"
Maddox pulled the evidence bag from his pocket and waved it. "Found this out front."
"Cigarette butt?"
Maddox shrugged and slipped the bag into the scene kit Houston carried. "Might be nothing but could be something."
"Never know at this stage in the investigation."
And that's just what they'd walked into—a full-blown investigation. Maddox's curiosity kicked into gear.
Maybe this was just what he needed to get in line for the commander position.
SHE'D WON THE REGIONAL award!
Layla's hand holding the letter trembled. After everything—her hard work . . . clawing her way to the top despite the men's attitudes toward her—finally, she was up for national recognition. The one that would show the world that she was a great contractor, just as her father had been.
Contractor of the Year. Even on a regional level, it was an honor. But a national win would mean so much more.
At least to her.
She swallowed back the emotion and glanced around her kitchen. All of her father's skills passed down to her, which she'd used to design her house. Her home. She smiled at the plaque hanging over the breakfast bar. Scripture of 1 Corinthians 1:9, her father's favorite.
"God, who has called you into fellowship with his Son Jesus Christ our Lord, is faithful."
God was faithful. She'd gotten recognition for her ability. True joy she hadn't felt since before her father had died filled her chest until she thought it'd burst.
"Layla?" The front door slammed. "Where are you?"
Moving from the kitchen counter, Layla called out to her sister. "In here." She rushed to meet Alana in the foyer, waving the letter. "Guess what!"
Her sister's frown deepened. "What?"
Layla laughed and handed the letter to Alana. "Read for yourself." She twirled around on the hardwoods, dancing in the light flooding through the panes in the front door. Even the rain had disappeared, making the day all the more celebratory. "It came in the mail yesterday, but after meeting with Bob and then calling you, I didn't even check the mail, so I opened it this morning. I can't believe it!"
Alana's eyes widened and moisture pooled. "Oh my. You've won. Congratulations. You deserve it." She grabbed Layla in a hug and squeezed.
"It's the regional, but that means I'm under consideration for a national. Can you believe it?"
"I'm so happy for you. This is wonderful." Alana laid the letter on the entry table and hugged her again. "Daddy would be so proud." Her voice cracked.
Layla's eyes filled with tears and her throat clogged. Only her sister knew exactly how much this meant to her. Sure, recipients of the CotY awards got great promotion out of the contest. Got new clients because of the recognition. But Layla wanted it for a different reason.
To honor her father's memory.
She hugged Alana again, then lifted the letter. It still felt so surreal. "I think I'm going to get it framed."
"I don't blame you." Alana laughed, but it didn't carry her usual chipper tone.
Something wasn't right.
Layla glanced at the clock—8:10—then studied her sister. "So, why'd you come by this morning? It's a bit early for you to be away from the center."
"You haven't heard?" The frown marred her sister's delicate features again. "Fred called me first thing this morning."
"Heard what?"
"Apparently not." Alana moved to the living room. She flipped throw pillows from the couch and recliner. "Where's your remote?"
Layla grabbed the remote from the top of the television and handed it to her sister. "What's going on?"
Alana turned on the TV, set it to the local news channel, then upped the volume. "Hang on, they'll be running it again in a minute. They've been covering it all morning." She glanced at Layla and shook her head. "How can you not watch the news?"
"Doesn't interest me. Anything really important, I hear from you." She smiled, but her sister didn't return the gesture.
Must be serious if Alana was in a sour mood on the wings of the award notification.
"Here it is." Alana perched on the arm of the couch.
Layla sunk to the recliner while the reporter stood in front of a burned house. Her mind stuttered and her heart caught as the news fed her more information. Nausea rose, searing the back of her throat. "Hope for Homes? Our house?"
Alana flipped off the television and nodded. "Burned. And they found a body inside."
"But the owners haven't moved in yet."
"Right."
So whose body was inside?
THREE
"High achievement always takes place in the framework of high expectation."
—CHARLES KETTERING
HE STARED AT THE caller ID. That was quick.
Maddox flipped open his cell and leaned back in the tattered chair of his desk at the Criminal Investigations Division. "Hey, sweetie."
"Don't sweetie me, Maddox Bishop." Megan's voice didn't carry a trace of irritation. "This is gonna cost you."
He grinned as he pictured Megan's blonde hair, blue eyes, and pouty lips. "I know, I know. Supper at a five-star restaurant of your choosing."
"It is a Saturday, you know. Maybe I should make you spring for a movie too." Her flirting came across the phone line as thick as her Southern drawl.
He chuckled. "If you're good, I might even buy you a nightcap."
"Oh, Bishop, you know I'm good."
Maybe it'd been a mistake to call Megan. After all, he'd stopped seeing her when she crossed that line . . . when she'd gotten that look in her eyes. The look that said she wanted more. Of the relationship. Of him. He could never let that happen. Not with Megan.
Not with anyone.
"What'd you find out?" He fought to keep the sternness out of his words.
She laughed, full and throaty. "You always were good at evasion."
"Megan . . ."
"Stop sweating, Bishop. I'm not holding out for a ring or anything. I got all the details you wanted. And more."
He heard the hurt in her voice but forgot all about the sweating of his palms as he grabbed a pen and sat forward, hovering over a legal pad. "Ready."
"I think it'd be easier to fax it. Your number still the same?"
"Yeah." Why wouldn't she just tell him who owned the house? "What's up?"
"This one's complicated. You'll see. I'm shooting it to you now."
The fax machine in the space he shared with Houston hummed to life.
"It's coming through." He spun to face the office machine.
"Good. I'm outta here. Believe it or not, I have better things to do with my Saturday than come into the office to do you a favor."
The first page dropped into the slot.
"Thanks, Megan. I really appreciate this."
"Yeah, yeah. Like I haven't heard that before. You still owe me. I won't let you slip out of it."
"I'll call you as soon as I get a breather on the case."
"Bye, Bishop."
He shut the cell and
reached for the three pages the fax already spit out. His stomach tightened as he scanned, then read the information. The crime scene had been a Hope for Homes? That made no sense. Who would want to burn down a charity house?
He grabbed the rest of the pages and read faster than his mind could process the information. Recipient of the home was to be one Sally Caldwell, single mother of four children all under the age of eight. Worked as a waitress at the local diner. Nothing about her indicated any criminal history. But Maddox would definitely interview her today.
His cell phone chirped, causing him to spin the chair. He flipped open the phone. "Bishop."
"Hey, Maddox. How ya doing?"
Maddox smiled at the usual greeting of "Uncle" George Vella. "Hey, yourself. What's up?"
"I'm heading to the woods this evening for a hunt in the morning. Wondered if you wanted to tag along."
Oh, man . . . what he wouldn't give to go. He hadn't been able to bag a buck all season. And hunting with George was always a good time. "Camping out?"
"Yeah. Near Scotty's place. You interested?"
Maddox glanced at the fax sitting in front of him. Wasn't like he could get much done on a weekend anyway.
"Maddox?" Something in George's voice . . . a hesitation . . . a question . . .
"Who all's going?"
"Just a couple of us old-timers. And you, I hope."
Maddox ground out a sigh. "Is Pop going?"
"Well, Tyson ain't said for sure yet."
Shaking his head, Maddox worked to keep his temper in check. Wasn't George's fault—he was such a peacemaker that he only wanted the rift between father and son to be mended. But he couldn't understand. George could never grasp the enormity of blame Tyson had dumped on Maddox. Even though Pop was the one to blame.
"Come on, Maddox. It'll be fun."
Fun? With Tyson involved? Not hardly. The man never missed an opportunity to harp on Maddox and every fault he ever had. "I can't. Had a homicide land in my lap early this morning."
"It's the weekend."
Maddox forced a chuckle. "Yeah, tell that to the murderers. They don't exactly take nights and weekends off."
"And you're positioning yourself for the promotion."
This time Maddox's chuckle was sincere. "There's always that."
"I understand, but I'll miss you."
And he'd miss hanging out with George. Maddox swallowed. "We'll do it another time."
"Hunting season's almost over."
"Maybe next weekend?"
"I'll call you."
"Good luck, George. Get a twelve-point for me."
George laughed and then the line went dead. Maddox shut the phone and shoved it into his belt clip. He ignored the unnamed emotion rising in his chest as he turned his attention back to the fax.
He flipped to the next page. Construction on the house had been completed two months ago. By—he turned the page to find the information he sought—Taylor Construction. Maddox lifted his pen and jotted himself a note to pull records on the company.
He finished reading the pages. Still didn't understand why Megan thought this was complicated and felt he needed to see this himself. Made no sense.
And then he saw the last line of the notes.
Contractor utilized licensed professionals who employed Second Chances residents on the work-release program.
He didn't know what Second Chances was, but he sure didn't like the sound of work-release program.
Obviously Megan had known what it was. He opened his cell and dialed her number. It rang twice before going to voice mail. Maddox shut the phone without leaving a message.
Footsteps in the hall drew his attention.
Houston ambled into their shared space and plopped onto the edge of the desk. "Thought I'd find you here."
Maddox leaned back and propped his feet up on his desk. "Question is, what're you doing here?"
"Boys are headed to the hunting lease with their buddies, and Margie's pulling a double shift at the hospital."
Maddox laughed. "And she left you a honey-do list you don't wanna do?"
Houston had the decency to blush. "Hey, I'm here to work the case. Can't you show a little appreciation?"
"Something going on at the hospital?" Houston's wife was an RN.
"Margie said there's a baby they admitted last night she's all worried about. Respiratory stuff. Doesn't know if the kid's gonna make it."
"That's sad." Little kids made him nervous—they were a commitment to a woman. One woman. Maddox handed his partner the papers on the property. "Check out the background on the house. It was one of the Hope for Homes."
"Ouch." Houston scanned the pages as he swung his foot back and forth. When he was finished, he set the stack of papers on Maddox's desk. "Dare I ask where you got this?"
"I have a friend in the courthouse."
"Who was willing to go in on a Saturday morning to look this up for you?" Houston slipped a piece of gum between his lips.
Heat raced up the back of his neck. "A good friend."
Houston wasn't fooled. "A female friend?"
Why did his partner constantly bring up or insinuate about Maddox's lack of desire to find a nice lady and settle down? If only he could tell Houston he'd never, ever, allow a woman to steal his heart and let himself be weakened. Not again. Not after what happened to his mother.
Talk about the pathway to destruction.
But Maddox had learned long ago how to distract his partner. "Hey, why don't you head home and get the laundry done for Margie?"
"Touché." Houston stood, popping his gum. "Why don't we go visit Ms. Caldwell instead?"
Maddox shoved to his feet as well and reached for his coat from the back of his chair. "We haven't left yet?"
LAYLA SHUCKED OFF HER coat, grabbed files from the wooden cabinet, and spread them over her desk.
Bright sunlight, a shock after weeks of nothing but rain, burst through the windows of Taylor Construction. The wind whistled outside the brick building. Most construction companies officed up in double-wides or prefabs but not Layla. Her father had taught her that a craftsman's home and office was his best advertising. So when she'd opened her own business, she made sure she built an office building her father would be proud of.
"Could we turn up the heat a little?" Alana shivered. "It's freezing in here."
Sighing, Layla flipped on the heat on the thermostat. "It's Saturday. Not like we're normally in here on a weekend. Not in this season anyway." She spun back to the desk and knocked over a montage picture frame in her haste. It clattered to the tile floor.
Alana retrieved it, glancing at the photos. "Acrylic instead of glass, smart idea." She tapped her fingernails on the frame. "You know, you really should update these pictures. You still have ones with Randy in here."
Oh, splinters. Layla stilled. She couldn't explain that she'd deliberately left those pictures in the montage. To remind her that no matter how handsome and genuine someone appeared, he always had an ulterior motive. She couldn't let herself lose focus of what was important.
Ever.
She took the frame from Alana, shoved it in the top right drawer, then hunched over the desk, scanning the papers.
All the files, contracts, and details of the Hope-for-Homes project.
"I didn't mean to upset you," Alana whispered.
"You didn't." She wasn't upset. Well, not really. It was more like she'd recognized the loss of ever getting a happily ever after in the love department. She was more grieving than upset.
"I'm really proud of you for staying with the competitive dancing after . . . well, after you and Randy split up."
Layla smiled, belying the pain. "I enjoy it. Even more without him." She chuckled. "I like having partners who are interested in good moves on the floor without the romantic entanglement."
But sometimes, late at night when Layla was alone, she did think about men and romance. About being alone.
"You know, you really ought to let me fix
you up. There's this coworker of Cameron's—"
"No." A geeky software creator nerd? Cameron was great and all, really loved Alana and was good to her, but that just wasn't Layla's cup of tea. No, thanks.
"Well, if you change your mind . . ."
"You'll be the first person to know." Layla winked at her sister, then went back to the stack of files. What kind of man was her cup of tea? She'd thought it was Randy—tall, dark, and handsome. But look how that'd turned out. Now she just didn't know. She wanted someone who appreciated her as a woman. Someone who made her feel safe. Someone who made her feel loved and accepted for who she was.
"I don't know what you're looking for." Alana flipped through the electrician's contract.
Layla breathed a sigh, not wanting to dredge up old wounds right now. "I want to know every single person who worked on the project. Every electrician, plumber, construction worker."
"Why?"
Was her sister really that naive? Layla denied the sigh struggling to escape. "Because someone knew that house was empty. He knew it was complete but hadn't been moved into yet. And the first place to look is the workers. They knew the schedule better than anyone."
Alana handed her the electrician's paperwork. "Isn't this a job for the police?"
"Maybe." Layla set the pages on the pile with the others, then grabbed the listing of every independent she'd hired for the project.
"Then why aren't you letting them do this?"
Layla made eye contact with her, allowing Alana to see the despair and desperation she felt. "Because this is the project I just won the CotY regional award for. And I was site foreman for the job." And if there was a link between the incident and someone she'd contracted, she could lose. Worse, her reputation would be damaged beyond repair.
"Oh, Layla, I'm sorry. I didn't realize—"
"You couldn't have." Layla blew her bangs off her forehead. "Now you see why I need to check everything." She ran her finger down the list of independents.
Electrician: Denny Keys. Carpenters: J. B. Carpentry. Supplier: Y Building Supplies. Plumber . . . Bob Johnson.
