by Bonnie Vanak
From others, but not from West Brand. Agent West Brand, whose foremost concern was spying on Quinn and her brothers.
“I don’t know where my sister is. Neither do my brothers. I’m sure if one of them knew, they’d have told me, knowing I worried about Demi.”
West’s mouth narrowed to a thin slash. “But you do know where her jacket is, Quinn.”
“I told you, I don’t remember!”
His gaze remained even. “Did Demi walk into your apartment, take her jacket and walk out without your knowledge?”
Suddenly weary, she sank into the second rocker. “What do you want, West?”
“I want you to tell me the truth. As far as you remember, did you return Demi’s jacket?”
“I don’t know! I don’t know anything.” She rocked back and forth, hugging herself. This was a true nightmare. No memory to defend herself from such horrid accusations.
Her knight in shining Kevlar was now looking at her as if she were in a police lineup. She knew West was ruthless. Dedicated.
Now she knew what it felt like to be subjected to that brutal focus.
Mike stood, paced the porch. “Miss Colton, this will go easier on you if you tell us what exactly you were doing at the first bomb site.”
First bomb site? Quinn pressed two fingers to her head. “What?”
“I found a butterfly compact that looked like the one you said you had. It was in the rubble at the old hardware store after the first bomb went off.” Unsmiling, West regarded her. “I want to believe you, Quinn. I want to believe you are innocent. Do you remember anything—anything—about meeting anyone there at that building?”
Tension knotted her stomach. “Maybe I was catering an event there.”
Mike and West exchanged knowing glances, sealing themselves inside that tight little FBI bubble. Sealing her out.
“Catering an event at an abandoned building?”
It didn’t matter. Until she got her memory back, she couldn’t tell them a thing. Nor could she provide a suitable defense for herself.
Nausea gripped her, but she raised her chin and gave West a cool look. “Am I under arrest? Do I need to call a lawyer?”
“No,” he replied, not even glancing at Mike.
But Quinn watched Mike. Something flickered in her gaze. Uncertainty, perhaps.
“Agent Brand, I need to talk with you alone.” Mike jerked a thumb at the door.
“Wait out here, Quinn. This won’t take long,” West told her.
Rocking back and forth, she considered her options. Taking the truck and returning to town alone. But if they planned to haul her in for questioning, she’d be in more trouble.
Whatever happened, she could no longer stay here. At her side, Rex whined as if sensing the tension.
A lump formed in her throat. “I’m sorry, Rex.” She patted his head. “You’re such a good boy. Your owner is not.”
Fishing her cell phone out of her jeans pocket, she looked at the screen. Barely a signal. Quinn walked off the porch, circled around the cabin until she got two bars.
Inside, she heard raised voices. Mike and West arguing about her? Or a lovers’ quarrel? Didn’t matter. It was over.
Austin answered on the third ring, sounding breathless. “Quinn! Everything okay? West hauled you away so suddenly. I didn’t know where you went. All I saw was that note left on the counter.”
“I’m in Spearfish Canyon at a private cabin. Can you come get me?”
His voice dropped to a whisper. “Quinn, what happened? Where are you?”
Suddenly the dam of emotions let loose. Quinn struggled to speak through her tears. “Austin, I really need you now. I know it’s a lot to ask...but I need to come home and I don’t want West to take me.”
A pause, and then he said, “Where are you?”
“The cabin, I’ll look up directions on my phone. It’s remote, but not far from Pine Paradise, the property Tia owned and talked about selling.”
Austin sighed. “I wish I could. I’m prepping an order for tonight in Red Ridge. I sure could use your help. Can you call an Uber?”
Austin had always been there for her, far as she knew. Now even he was far too busy to help her.
Business came first. It’s all falling apart. He’s trying to save Good Eats, so don’t blame him.
“I’ll get home, and when I do, I’ll help you.” Quinn ended the call.
West and Mike finally emerged from the cabin. Quinn waited.
“Mike’s going to stay here for the night. We’re driving back to Red Ridge.” West didn’t look at his boss, only her.
Fine with her. Quinn went inside and packed in minutes.
When they were in his truck, headed back to town, she kept silent.
West remained tight-lipped. Finally she couldn’t stand it anymore.
“I heard you both fighting. About what?”
“We argued about you. Before arriving here, Mike wanted to pull me off the case. Said I was too personally involved.” His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “And then she changed her mind after meeting you.”
Struggling to rein in her temper, she glanced at him. “Why?”
“Because she thinks you’re not involved.”
“And she could tell from one brief meeting with me? Is she psychic?”
“No. She thinks...you’re too much in love with me to hide information about your sister. Mike said you’re the type of woman who’d confess to her lover.”
That stung. Quinn gripped her hands. “You mean I’m a lovesick silly woman.”
“I didn’t say that,” West grated out.
“But she did. She’s a hard person, this Mike you work for. So you agreed with her?”
“I told Mike that you were smart and we were in love, but you detested secrets.”
You got that right.
She’d been stupid. Memory loss or not, thinking that West Brand loved her. Cared enough about her to spend a lifetime together. All those childhood memories proved something. Men weren’t reliable. They slept with you, married you and, when they got tired of using you like a dishrag, disposed of you.
She’d thought West Brand was different from the succession of stepfathers in her life. Maybe he seemed more honorable, loyal and dependable, but in the end, he was not.
“What else did you discuss about me? That sleeping with a suspect makes for good interrogation tactics? Pillow talk reveals secrets?” Quinn stared at the road. “Too bad this suspect doesn’t have any memory of the person you’re hunting.”
“You’re not a suspect, Quinn. I was assigned to uncover any information Chief Colton, and your brothers, may have hidden on Demi.” He exhaled sharply. “But it makes it damn suspicious that a jacket once hanging in your closet turned up in a hiding place that has Demi Colton’s stamp all over it.”
“I told you, I didn’t give it to her. Far as I remember. What is definite is that you used me, Agent Brand. You used me to gather information on my sister, my brothers.” Her voice quavered. “You told me you loved me.”
“I do love you.”
Love was a cheap four-letter word men used to make women like her mother, and herself, go starry-eyed and forget all common sense.
It had worked in the past.
Not anymore.
Finally they reached Red Ridge. West pulled up before Good Eats. He retrieved her suitcase and placed it on the sidewalk, as Rex poked his head out the back window. Quinn couldn’t even bear to pet the dog.
It took everything she had to control herself.
“Don’t bother coming inside. I’ll have your things delivered to your place.”
“Quinn, let’s talk—”
“No. No more talking. You, Agent Brand,” she said, struggling with her emotions. “I never want to see you again.”
Chapter 19
West had never felt this low before. He couldn’t remember being gut punched, as if someone kicked him and didn’t stop.
Even after his family died in the bomb blast, he’d been in shock. Too stricken and numb to feel.
Oh, he felt now. Felt every single bit of guilt, grief and longing since Quinn struck him out of her life.
Two days after she broke up with him, he saw her on every street corner, heard her gurgling laughter each time he left his shoebox apartment. Remembered the soft feel of her warm body as he held her in bed, the eagerness with which she turned to him as they made love.
Rubbing his chest, he climbed out of his truck. Look at him, love struck and pining for a woman who wanted nothing to do with him.
So love struck he left Rex at the tiny apartment he’d rented before meeting Quinn, and hauled his sorry ass to her father’s seedy bar.
Just to forge some kind of weak connection. West told himself it was to gather information from Rusty about Quinn’s enemies. But deep inside, he knew it was an excuse.
Yesterday he’d returned to Quinn’s apartment to look over every inch of security footage, not daring to turn the digital tapes over to the chief or her brothers. Quinn had left for the day to deliver an order with Austin.
West had found nothing. How the hell Demi’s jacket had gotten into the cabin, he hadn’t a clue. Unless Quinn had turned it over to her sister, or brought it to Pine Paradise before her accident.
Though it was barely 1 p.m., five cars were parked before the building. Dark, dimly lit, he paused for a moment at the entrance, struggling to adjust his eyesight. Old cigarette smoke and sour beer punched his senses. Not a bar he’d ordinarily frequent.
West enjoyed a beer or two, but seldom drank more. Not since that night he’d lost his entire family.
Felt weird being here in broad daylight. But he wanted answers and Rusty might provide them. The old man had been reticent when West questioned him in official police capacity.
Maybe he’d open up now to a customer.
West sat on a stool at the counter. It was clean, at least. At the pool table near the back, a customer aimed his cue at a fresh rack. The hard clack of pool balls breaking grated on his nerves. A few other customers sat at the bar, drinking beer.
Smoke wreathed the head of Pool Guy as he puffed away on his cigarette. Terrific. West sighed. If he didn’t die in the line of duty, maybe he’d get lung cancer.
Rusty came out from the back and West immediately sensed the other man’s wariness. Rusty Colton might be drunk many times, but he had the sharp senses of the street.
West ordered a draft, watched Rusty pour. The bar owner slapped it on the counter.
“Run a tab?” Rusty sneered at him.
“Maybe.” West sipped. “Depends on how drunk I want to get. How much I owe now?”
That stunned the old man. Good. Keep him off guard.
“Four bucks.”
For him. West knew the draft beers were $2.99 on special. A sign said so in crooked letters on the mirror emblazoned with a beer logo. He didn’t complain. Instead, he pulled out a wad of bills, peeled off a ten, laid it on the counter.
“Keep the change,” he told Rusty.
Rusty snatched the bill, stashed it in the drawer. “Never seen you around here much.”
Alexander Hamilton worked his magic. Rusty wanted to talk, be friendly. Rusty came from behind the counter to sit next to him.
“Been busy working 24/7, trying to catch the bomber. West Brand,” he told Rusty.
“Rusty Colton.”
West shook the man’s hand, marveling that this sleazy bar owner had managed to father Quinn, who seldom drank, stayed classy during hard times and had a laugh sweeter than chocolate.
“I’m trying to find out who planted the bomb that killed Tia Linwicki and hurt Quinn.”
“Yeah.” Rusty looked around. “Bad thing. Bad for business.”
Of course, the man only thought in dollars and cents. Still West pressed on. Surely Rusty had to have some paternal instinct floating in his alcohol-laden brain.
“Do you know anyone who would want to hurt your daughter? Have you heard anything about someone complaining about Quinn? Complaining enough to seriously injure her?”
Rusty shook his head.
“What about Tia Linwicki?”
“Tia. That broad always had her nose in the air.”
“Was she close to Quinn?” West wanted to shake the man. This was a bar. Gossip abounded, unless Rusty had been too drunk to pay attention.
“I don’t know. Quinn’s an odd sort. Kid’s always kept to herself. Never shared money with her old man.” Rusty leaned on the bar, the greed shining in his eyes discernible even in this low light. “You sweet on her?”
Odd, hearing Rusty say that old-fashioned term. West shrugged. “We dated. Broke it off. Just wondering if she said anything to you.”
“No. I barely talk to her.” Rusty frowned. “Too bad. You’re better off. Quinn can be a bitch, just like her mother.”
That was it. “No one calls my Quinn a bitch,” West snapped.
West stood up, and slugged the man. Rusty fell off the stool, his arm sweeping over his beer mug, spilling it to the floor.
Standing over him, fists clenched, he was ready to deliver another punch when someone grabbed him.
West started to shrug him off.
“Easy, big guy. Whoa, Agent Brand.”
Recognizing the voice, he calmed a little.
“Let’s take it outside,” Brayden said. The K-9 officer gripped West’s arm and dragged him away. “Not here. Not with my father. Not worth it. C’mon.”
Outside, West gulped down fresh air, glad to get the stink of smoke and beer out of his lungs.
He glanced at the other man. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Brayden’s expression flattened. “Same as you. Trying to get information, find out anything about the person who killed Tia. Shane hasn’t been able to dig up anything and the bar can be a good source for information.”
“But not lately.” West dragged in another deep breath.
“No. Too many people are scared these days after that bomb.” Brayden released West.
They walked out to the parking lot.
“Sorry for decking your old man,” West told Brayden.
The K-9 officer grinned. “No problem. I want to deck him myself at times. Maybe I’ll deck your old man and we’ll call it even.”
West felt the familiar, unpleasant tug in his chest. “He’s dead.”
Brayden blinked. “Sorry. When?”
“Years ago.” He didn’t want to talk about it, never had, except with Quinn.
Fortunately, Brayden didn’t press him. At West’s truck, the other officer turned, shoved his hands into his pants pockets. “You love my sister.”
A statement from Brayden. West stared at the ground, too miserable to answer. He felt like a total heel.
Weak.
West couldn’t afford to be weak. Men who let their guard down allowed murderers to creep inside their homes, destroy their entire families. A family who had relied on his dad to keep them safe.
“I figured something happened with the both of you.”
“She broke it off with me.” West looked him in the eye, man-to-man. “I did something I’m not proud of, but it was part of my job. It’s her prerogative to tell you, if she wishes.”
Brayden nodded. He glanced at the bar. “It isn’t easy having Rusty for a dad. I’m sure Quinn has her moments, as well. Know I do. My old man isn’t a pillar of society. He’s not so bad at times. But when he gets drunk, he gets mean. Like having two personalities.”
“Did you get any information from Rusty? From anyone?” West asked.
Brayden shook his head. “It’s lik
e the guy who did this simply vanished into thin air.”
But West suspected he had not. He’d stuck around to attack Quinn again. And some unsubs liked to hover. They’d keep trophies from their vics, or return to the crime scene to admire their handiwork. Red Ridge wasn’t a big city, and it wouldn’t be as easy to blend. You’d almost have to be in disguise...
Two personalities.
West rubbed his sore knuckles, his thoughts in a maelstrom. All this time he’d been focusing on Quinn and Tia, not the first bombing. There could have been something he totally missed.
Something so subtle and yet obvious, it passed him by.
“You going back to the station? Want to grab lunch someplace else?” Brayden asked.
“Thanks,” he said, meaning it. “Another time. There’s something I need to check out first.”
* * *
He returned home, walked Rex and grabbed an energy bar for lunch.
Then with Rex, he returned to the site of Tia’s office.
The crime scene had been released to Tia’s family, but they were feuding over her will. So the bomb site remained, the ghostly ashes and wreckage a grim reminder of a violent death.
West stood outside the building once more, not to find evidence, but refresh his memory.
Thirty minutes later, he sat at his desk at the Red Ridge Police Department, Rex lying on the floor beside him. West scribbled notes on a pad, jotting down recollections experienced while rummaging through the building. Sensory ones.
He’d focused on connecting the bombing with the Groom Killer. But everything pointed to the explosions being separate, a means to kill Tia.
That cigar stump he’d found at the scene... Quinn reported her attacker on the street reeked of cigar smoke.
Tia’s killer may have indulged in a smoke before murdering her. He needed the DNA report on that evidence. Mike had assured him he’d have it today.
West leaned back in his chair, studying the artist’s rendering of the man Quinn had remembered. Something about the shape of his chin...
He made a phone call to Derek, the police artist. An hour later, they were seated before a computer screen, the digitized sketch on the screen. The software program they used would enable him to adjust the sketch.
