by JoAnn Ross
“I don’t believe that’s necessary.”
“Look, we can’t continue to ignore it. This is a small town—”
“Ah, this is where you tell me it’s not big enough for the both of us. I seem to recall that line from an old western I saw on the late show.”
“Dammit.” He dragged his hands down his face. “Would you quit second-guessing everything I’m going to say?”
He paused, as if expecting her to leap in again.
She managed to refrain and only nodded for him to continue.
“We had something going down there, Faith. And because of circumstances beyond either of our control, we never got to see where it was headed. Now, I understand that there’s a good chance I’ll never be able to make amends for having betrayed your trust. All I’m asking is an opportunity to at least say what I couldn’t say back then.”
He looked sincere. Sounded sincere. Of course she’d also believed him when he’d told her that he’d never felt the way about any other woman the way he’d felt about her. They’d been on the top of a Ferris wheel overlooking the city. Two nights later, the house of lies he’d built had come crashing down around them.
She’d never been one to blame her bad choices on others. But at times Faith thought the events in Savannah had, in part, contributed to the trouble she’d gotten into in Las Vegas. The mess that had put her in Sal Sasone’s crosshairs.
She’d managed to convince herself that she’d moved on. Gotten past it. Now she was wondering if she’d emotionally run away from dealing with it, the same way Diane/Tammy had always done. The idea that she might have anything in common with her mother was more than a little unsettling.
“I suppose closure wouldn’t be such a bad thing.”
“Closure wasn’t exactly what I was thinking,” he said. “But if it works for you… damn.” He snatched the pager off his cop utility belt and looked at the display. “I’ve got to go. We’ll have to pick this up later.”
“I’ll be at the station at eight.”
“That’s less than three hours from now.”
“You promised me an exclusive, Sheriff,” she reminded him, slipping back into the much more emotionally comfortable reporter mode as she followed him through the maze of boxes and handed him his heavy parka. “That’s worth losing a little sleep over.”
Especially since, now that he’d opened their personal can of worms, or let the genie out of the bottle, or any of the half dozen apt metaphors that came to mind, Faith knew she wouldn’t be getting any sleep anyway.
She stood in the open doorway and watched him disappear into the falling snow illuminated by the Suburban’s headlights.
The sky over the lake was dark, suggesting that everyone had left the murder scene.
Everyone including the murderer.
Faith’s mind reeled at the possibility that the killer might actually have been targeting her. All right, admittedly by running away from Las Vegas she’d run the risk of making Sal even more furious.
But even at the man’s very worst—which was not pleasant—Salvatore Sasone wasn’t the type to sneak up behind someone with a straight-edged razor and slit her throat.
Was he?
That idea had Faith shivering as she shut and bolted the door.
21
The sun was barely above the horizon, casting a yellowish lavender light over the drifts of powdery snow, as Will drove to the sheriff’s office.
The news came on the radio, with a brief, un-dramatic mention of an unidentified body being found at Silver Lake sandwiched between the weather and sports. It was only a repeat of what Faith had reported last night, but unfortunately, that hadn’t stopped the media hounds from descending on the courthouse.
Apparently the celebrity news was getting a little staid this season; nothing like a murder to liven things up.
Wishing that he’d just gone ahead and driven to Jackson, he pulled into the courthouse lot, wishing he had his old Ford truck with the attached snowplow to shove the dark green Explorer parked in his marked spot into a snowbank.
Instead he pulled up right behind it, his front bumper kissing its back one.
Let the asshole figure out how to get out of this one.
The thought gave him a fleeting sense of satisfaction.
They descended on him like a black cloud of Northern grasshoppers attacking a mountain meadow, shouting out his name, his title, jockeying for position, clamoring for answers to questions he wasn’t about to stop and listen to.
“No comment,” he repeated again and again as he made his way across the lot, frozen snow crunching beneath his boots.
One particular question was called out by a sexy blonde wearing a bubble-shaped jacket in a riot of psychedelic pink, reds, yellow, and purple over sprayed-on, pink ski pants, who managed to shimmy her way through the crowd and shove a microphone into his face.
“Paris Benton, K-KOLT news,” she said breathlessly, steam puffing from between collagen-enhanced, bubble-gum pink lips. “Is it true you’ve got a murder on your hands, Sheriff?”
“No comment.” He brushed the mike aside and continued up the stone steps.
“Dustin Kittridge, Riverton Daily Ranger. Are women of Hazard in danger?”
“No comment.”
“Madison Johnson, Jackson Hole News and Guide, What are your plans to apprehend the killer?”
“There’s an idea. Why don’t I tell you my secret game plan and you can put it on TV so the bad guy will know what to watch out for.”
“Do you expect more killings?” another reporter called after him.
Will didn’t bother to respond. Just kept walking, wishing Wyoming Fish and Game gave out hunting licenses for reporters.
“The word is you may be looking for a mythical Indian cannibal,” a male voice rose above the din.
O-kay. That one got his attention. He wheeled around and gave the bearded guy—whose salt-and-pepper beard, Willie Nelson braid, and feathered dream-catcher earring gave him away as one of those New Agers who’d established a commune outside of town—a hard look.
“I’ll be holding a press briefing at nine o’clock.” He held up his hand as they surged forward, appeared ready to charge the door. “Here on the steps.”
“Outside?” pink lips asked in disbelief.
“It’s colder than a witch’s tit,” another reporter complained.
“Fire regulations.” He swept a dismissive look over them. “It’s against state law to have this many people at any one time in our office conference room.”
Will had no idea if that was true or not. If it wasn’t, it should be.
“But you are the law,” pink lips wheedled prettily.
“I was sworn to uphold the law.”
Looking at them now, as they tried to figure out what they were going to do for the next hour, Will almost felt like smiling for the first time since that nightmare and his glitchy heart had jerked him out of sleep.
“I’m not above it.”
He continued into the building just in time to meet Trace Honeycutt walking down the hall carrying a cardboard box filled with steaming cups of coffee from the vending machine.
“I’ll take those.” He lifted the box from the deputy’s hands. “You’re assigned to guard the door. If any of those reporters even tries to come inside, shoot them.”
The deputy’s Bambi-brown eyes widened. “You’re kidding, right, Sheriff?”
“Probably,” Will allowed, deciding all he needed was a cop-shooting-a-reporter story.
Though it was a damn nice fantasy. Not nearly as good as Faith naked on a bearskin rug, but it’d do for now.
“Do whatever you need to do, short of gunfire, to keep them outside. Did they teach you crowd control at the state police academy?”
“Sure, Sheriff, but—”
“Good.” He balanced the box on a palm and patted the deputy’s shoulder. “I’ve confidence in you, Deputy. You’ll do just fine.”
“Thank you, sir.” H
oneycutt rose to his full height of five feet eight inches. “I won’t let you down.”
“If I thought you would, I’d have you out ticketing news vans for parking violations. Hold down the fort, Deputy. I’ll be back down to take them off your hands in an hour.”
“Yessir.” Trace Honeycutt didn’t exactly salute. But he came damn close.
The green-as-spring-grass deputy had Will feeling about a hundred years old as he climbed the stairs to his office.
“The barbarians are at the gate,” he announced to Sam. “I’ve got Honeycutt guarding the ramparts.”
“I’ll bet you made his day.”
“Seemed so. Are they making cops younger these days? Or are we just getting old?”
“Not old.” Sam picked up a cup of the sludge, sipped, and made a face. “We’re experienced. In our prime. Like good bourbon, we season with age.”
“Just keep telling yourself that.” Will scowled up at the clock on the wall. He handed Sam the piece of paper with the Explorer’s tag number on it. “Would you have someone run this plate? I want to ticket the son of a bitch who parked in my space before I have it towed.”
“Will do,” Sam said agreeably.
Will glanced at the three empty chairs sitting in the small, unadorned space laughingly called reception. “She’s late.”
“If you’re referring to Faith Prescott, she’s waiting in your office. In fact, that’s why Trace was down getting coffee. Hers is the one with the double sugar and extra cream.”
“Too bad Hazard doesn’t have a Starbucks. You could’ve had Honeycutt run out and get her a mocha frappe.”
“The lady might not be a local, but she’s real nice. And she must be planning on staying because I hear she’s about to buy the old Maxwell place.”
“Probably planning to turn it over for a big profit.”
“No crime in that. Last I checked the statutes anyway.”
“Well, there should be. If all those California escapees keep coming up here with all their big real estate bucks, raising the cost of houses, people whose families have lived here for generations are going to be priced right out of the valley.”
“Damn. I hadn’t realized the woman was such a threat to society.” Sam unfastened his handcuffs from his utility belt and tossed them toward Will. “And for the record, she’s from Vegas, not California, but we’d still better get her behind bars, now, before she brings about the ruination of the entire state.
“Hell,” he continued, “why don’t we charge her with raising the price of gasoline and global warming while we’re at it?”
Will managed a faintly sheepish grunt. “Maybe I came on a little harsh.”
No way was he going to try to explain that he was pissed off at her for having gotten under his skin. And into his mind when he had no business thinking about dragging her off to bed while a murderer was running loose in his town.
“You’ve got a murder that’s on the verge of turning into one damn mess,” Sam said. “Makes sense you’d be on edge. But she’s nothing like the rest of those vultures, Will.”
“I know that.” Only too well.
Sam waved toward the window where a clamor rose from the street below. “Besides, like my dear old Shoshone hutsi used to remind us grandkids, ‘You can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.’ ”
“Now see, no offense to your grandmother, but that’s one of those sayings that’s never made a lick of sense to me. Why the hell would anyone want to catch flies?”
Not bothering to hang around for an answer, Will carried the carton with the two remaining cups of coffee into his office.
She was standing at the window, her back toward the door, giving him a second to take in the sleek slide of hair that was as dark and shiny as a mink’s pelt. She’d changed out of the sweats she’d been wearing when he’d shown up at her house to a pair of gray wool slacks and a short, cardinal red sweater that looked as soft as a cloud and stopped at her waist, accenting her narrow waist and slender hips.
She glanced back over her shoulder as he entered the room. “Good morning.”
She’d gotten a bit of color back into her cheeks, but she was still too pale. And there were lavender smudges, like bruises, beneath her remarkable eyes, and either she’d neglected to put on lipstick or had already chewed it off.
She looked exhausted and a lot more fragile than Will knew her to be.
“Morning,” he responded with equal formality, as if they hadn’t both been drinking coffee in her cozy kitchen a few hours ago.
There was an odd buzzing in the room, like the hiss of electrical wires after a thunderstorm. Or maybe the buzzing was in his head. “Sorry to have kept you waiting.”
“I just arrived myself a couple minutes ago. Besides, I imagine you’ve been busy,” she said in the husky voice he’d never entirely gotten out of his mind.
It was an intriguing contrast—that sultry purr of temptation coming out of a sharply angular face dominated by that generous mouth and intelligent eyes.
Reminding himself he had a killer on his hands, Will tried his damnedest to forget he’d always enjoyed contrasts.
“You could say that.” He put the carton on the desk and held out the overly sweetened cup.
“I believe I just did.”
She glided across the room on those long, wraparound legs, bringing with her a faint scent that reminded him of summer sunshine on a mountain meadow. It was bright and fresh, but warm, all at the same time. It suited her, but he missed the gardenias of that stolen Savannah summer.
“Took me a while to find a parking spot. The building’s surrounded by carrion.”
“I assume you’re not referring to flocks of the feathered kind,” she said as she took the cardboard cup from his hand.
“Apparently the members of the fourth estate have run out of Tinseltown sex scandals to report on.”
She shrugged, sending the wide neckline of her sweater sliding off one shoulder. “Murder sells.”
“Yeah. So I’ve heard.” Will was struck by an almost overwhelming desire to bite that smooth, exposed flesh. “Anyway, one of the vultures parked his Explorer in my designated spot, so I—”
“What color Explorer?”
“Same color as half the ones in the valley. Forest green.” Now her cheeks were decidedly pink. “Why?”
“That explains why the spot was still open.” She dragged a hand through her glossy brown hair. “I’m sorry. I suspect the Explorer’s mine. But I honestly didn’t notice a sign.” A sigh escaped those full, un-painted lips. “I should’ve realized it was too good to be true, but I was rushing so I wouldn’t be late, and I guess I just decided it was my lucky day.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
His irritation disintegrated, even as he realized that if it’d had been bald, cigar-chomping Pete Wagner, from the Hazard Herald, or even Ms. Bubble-Gum Lips, he’d still be pissed.
“Thank you,” she said.
“No problem.”
An expectant silence settled over them. “So, how’s Josh?” she asked.
“He’ll live.”
“You do realize that as soon as it gets out he was questioned, they’re going to shift their attention from you to him.”
“They’ll have to find him first.”
“Don’t tell me. You had your father take him out of town.”
“I didn’t have him do anything. It’s snowing. The stock needs feeding. A ranch kid doesn’t have the luxury of sitting around on his butt watching MTV and playing video games.”
“Would you have let him leave Hazard if he’d been some other man’s son?”
“To keep stock from dying, absolutely,” he said shortly. “You may not be familiar with how things work out here on the high range. But it’s a cow’s job to have a calf as often as she can. It's the rancher’s job to get as many of those calves to market as possible.”
“Thank you for explaining Western market economy to me.” She flashed him a false sm
ile over the rim of the cup. “If I ever get assigned the Wyoming business news beat, thanks to you I’ll be ready.”
He sat down in the chair behind the desk, leaned back, put his elbows on the scarred wooden arms, and studied her over linked fingers.
“This part is off-the-record. I want it held back to separate the real killer from the nutcases who decide to confess to crimes they don’t do. Or any copycats we might be unlucky enough to get.”
“All right.”
‘The killer left a note.”
“Like Jack the Ripper? Or Son of Sam?”
“Sort of. It was a poem.”
He could see the wheels turning in her head as she digested that piece of information. “Like the BTK killer,” she murmured.
“Don’t even suggest that,” Will warned. That was all he needed, a serial killer loose on the streets during the city’s biggest tourist event.
“Was the poem original?”
“I don’t know. Deputy Douchet’s going to check it out online as soon as she gets back from escorting the body to Jackson.”
“May I see it?”
He considered that for a moment. “I don’t see why not. So long as you understand it’s off-the-record. The last thing I need right now is for you media types to give him a cutesy name like the Poet Killer.”
“I suppose that could fuel his fantasies.”
“Sure as hell could. Wacko killers who leave notes and write letters want attention. They’re chasing fame and I want to make sure this creep doesn’t get it.”
“I understand your reasoning, but that plan could backfire. Possibly make him kill again to garner the attention you refused him the first time.”
“True. Which is why I have to catch him. Fast.”
Will refused to think he wouldn’t.
He reached into the manila case file he hoped wouldn’t grow all that much. Guys like this were addicted to the rush every bit as much as a crackhead or meth addict. The more they killed, the more they needed to kill. If Erin Gallagher’s murderer wasn’t caught soon, things were bound to get worse.
The poem had been double-bagged to protect it from outside fingerprints. Unsurprisingly, they hadn’t found any prints, indicating that this guy was a more careful planner than some.
