by Diane Kelly
If this had been a movie, Gryder’s grin would have melted away, the evil gleam in his eyes would have gone dull, and he would’ve fallen face-first into the hole. Unfortunately, this wasn’t a movie and the plastic pipe to the head only stunned him momentarily. But a moment was all we needed.
Brett flung the pipe aside and held the Glock out to me. “They didn’t teach us how to shoot at the country club.”
I dropped my empty gun and took the weapon from Brett, wincing as the movement sent shooting pains up my arm. Wait. This was Eddie’s gun. What was Brett doing with Eddie’s gun?
Putting a hand under each of my armpits, Brett hauled me out of the hole. A few feet away, Gryder staggered to his feet, his robe dusty, his gun still grasped in his hand. With an improvised war cry, I crouched and hurled my entire body against Gryder’s legs, knocking the man backward into the dirt. As Gryder fell, he got off one last shot that hit the rooster-shaped weather vane on top of the house, sending the bird spinning with a resounding ping.
Brett pounced. Straddling the older man in the dirt, Brett pounded Gryder’s face with his fists, bloodying his nose. A string of expletives spewed from Brett’s mouth as he wrapped his hands around Gryder’s neck, squeezing and banging the older man’s Pez Head against the hard-packed earth.
If I hadn’t seen it with my own two eyes, I never would’ve believed Brett was capable of such violence. I scrambled across the dirt, stuck the Glock in my waistband, and picked up Gryder’s gun, which he’d dropped when Brett took him down.
I debated letting Brett bang Gryder’s head against the ground until his skull caved in, but letting Brett take care of my problems for me would only cause more problems for him. What would the Rotary Club think if they learned Brett had killed someone with his bare hands? He might be forced to resign his membership.
I stepped over to the two men. “Stop, Brett. We’ve got him. He can’t get away now.”
Hands still around Gryder’s neck, Brett turned to look at me. “Just one more?”
I shrugged. “Sure. Why not.” And a pinch to grow an inch.
Brett punched Gryder’s swollen purple face one last time then let go, dropping his head back to the ground where it bounced slightly. Gryder turned his head to the side and spit out a bloody bicuspid. “Thit!”
As Brett and I stood, a door above us banged open. Chelsea stepped onto the balcony wearing nothing but a drunken scowl and a pair of pink panties. “Keep it down! Some people are trying to sleep.” She turned and staggered back inside.
Sirens wailed out front. A few seconds later, a police officer rounded the corner of the house with his gun drawn. The officer pulled Gryder to his feet and fitted him with handcuffs.
Everything in me wanted to burst into tears right then. Not only was my wrist sending sharp bolts of pain up my arm, but I was emotionally shattered, as well. Still, there was no way I’d let Gryder see me cry. I wouldn’t give that bastard the satisfaction.
As Gryder was led to an ambulance in his dirty paisley robe, he glanced back at me, his shit-eating grin now an eat-shit glare.
With the con artist now in custody, my focus shifted to Eddie. Where was he? “Let’s go find Eddie,” I told Brett. “I’ve got a bone to pick with him.”
Brett’s face clouded. He gently grabbed my shoulders, his eyes locking on mine. “Tara,” he said, shaking his head as if trying to dislodge a mental image. “Eddie was hit.”
Eddie? Hit? “What?” My mind didn’t want to go there, refused to go there. “No. No? No!” I ran to the corner of the house where I’d last seen Eddie, frantically looking around for my partner.
I could see Ross crouched in the open hatch of Brett’s SUV. I ran to the car to find Eddie lying in the back. Ross had his suit jacket pressed to the side of Eddie’s head to stanch the flow of blood from what I feared was a bullet wound. Eddie’s eyes were closed, his face slack. A red smear of blood ran along the floor of the cargo bay.
My brain whirled and my hands reflexively went to my face. “Ohmigod!” I struggled into the space. Putting my left hand to Eddie’s neck, I felt a slow, weak pulse. “Eddie?” I croaked. “Eddie?”
No response.
Ross met my gaze, his eyes wide. The unflappable attorney was flapped now. I took Eddie’s right hand in both of mine and, despite the pain it caused my wrist, squeezed it, holding it to my cheek while I prayed, tears streaming down my face. Brett leaned into the trunk, his hand on my back, the warmth of his touch letting me know he was there for me.
Whup-whup-whup. A medical helicopter appeared overhead, searching for a place to land. The pilot set the chopper down next to the house, kicking up a tornado of dust and pebbles that plinked off the car while we shielded our faces. In minutes, the medics had loaded Eddie’s limp form onto the helicopter and flown off.
I collapsed on the tailgate, watching the helicopter disappear into the empty, cloudless sky. Brett sat next to me, his arm wrapped tightly around my shoulders, pulling me to his chest when I broke into uncontrollable sobs.
Ross sat on the other side of me. He ran a trembling hand through his thinning hair and filled in the blanks for me. He said he and Eddie had found the front door locked when they returned from loading the boxes in the van. Gryder must have locked them out of the house. Eddie’d gone to try the back door and was headed around the house when Gryder had fired, hitting Eddie in the head. Eddie’d dragged himself a few feet before he lost consciousness. While I’d been stuck in the hole out back, Brett had pulled Eddie out of the line of fire, possibly—hopefully—saving Eddie’s life. Brett and Ross carried Eddie to the Navigator. Brett had then grabbed the pipe and returned to rescue me. My God! How brave of him.
I owed him my life.
My wrist had swollen, the skin pulled tight over bones that didn’t seem to fit together anymore. The injury hurt like hell, but I endured it as if it were a penance. It was my fault Eddie had been shot. I was the one who’d asked for his help serving the search warrant. I was the one who’d failed to perform a thorough search of the house, failed to find the gun Gryder used against us.
Brett looked down at my arm, noting the swelling in my wrist. “We need to get you to a doctor, Tara. Right away.”
No way would I ride in the same ambulance with Gryder, give him the pleasure of seeing my tearstained cheeks. Instead, Brett helped me into the front seat of his car and followed the ambulance to the small local hospital.
Only one doctor was on duty in the ER facility, and once he learned the details of my injury, he made my treatment a priority over Gryder’s. I emerged from the hospital a couple of hours later. On my arm was a fresh white cast, a souvenir from a bust sure to go down in the annals of IRS history and proof positive of the dangers of my job.
* * *
The helicopter had flown Eddie to Parkland Hospital’s trauma center in Dallas. With Ross following close behind, Brett hauled ass back to Dallas, his speedometer not dipping below eighty-five until we hit the city limits. Brett glanced over at me occasionally on the trip, his eyes full of unasked questions I was in no shape to answer right then.
My eyes met his through fresh tears. “Obviously I’ve got a lot to tell you.”
“Ross told me why you were here today,” he said. “The rest can wait.”
Eddie was still in surgery when we arrived at the hospital. The smell of burned coffee from an empty pot left on too long met us at the door to the ER’s waiting room. A television mounted on the wall in the corner played an afternoon talk show, the volume turned down to a virtually inaudible level.
Eddie’s wife, Sandra, sat in a chair, dressed in a soccer mom outfit of sneakers, white shorts, and a green and gold striped polo shirt, her black hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her frightened eyes looked up as we entered. Ross stood and helped me to a seat directly across from Sandra.
I reached across the space to pat Sandra’s hand, to reassure her, but I only managed to pat once before I grasped her hand in a desperate grip, as if by holding tig
ht enough, I could somehow keep Eddie alive for her, for their daughters … for me, too. I lunged across the space and the two of us clung to each other, one of us terrified she’d lose her husband, the other terrified she’d lose her partner and friend.
Poor Sandra. Only in her mid-thirties and she might become a widow. And the girls. Oh, God, the girls! They might never again have their daddy to tuck them in at bedtime. Who would kick a soccer ball around the backyard with them if Eddie didn’t make it? Who would accept his coach of the year award? A fresh round of sobs exploded from my chest.
I sat back in my chair, violent tremors replacing my tears. A heavy pall of guilt settled over me. Eddie’d never had any trouble until he’d partnered up with me. Something about me just seemed to bring out the whacko in people. Now, Eddie might pay the ultimate price. This was my case. It should have been me who took the bullet. It should have been me in the operating room right now.
Brett slid into the chair next to me, his arm around my shaking shoulders. I needed him now more than ever. I leaned into him, my head ducked against his chest, taking all the comfort he could give. He ran a hand down my back, trying his best to soothe me.
The Lobo darted into the waiting room then, remarkably quick for a sixty-year-old on four-inch cork platform shoes, the hem of her peasant dress whipping around her meaty calves when she stopped abruptly in front of Ross. The attorney stood and, in hushed tones, gave her a status report. Lu’s brows drew together in concern. She nodded at me and Sandra, then stepped back outside the automatic glass doors and lit a cigarette, her hand quivering as she flicked the lighter. Through the glass, I saw her cheeks hollow as she took a deep puff.
Ross, Sandra, Brett, and I sat in somber silence for what seemed like an eternity, the only sound the hum of the fluorescent lights and the soft murmur of voices from beyond the swinging doors. Finally, a heavyset dark-haired nurse in pea-green scrubs stepped into the room, her gaze moving over the crowd before stopping on Sandra. “Mrs. Bardin?”
Sandra looked up, eyeing the nurse warily as if afraid to respond, afraid to hear the news about her husband. Through the glass doors, the Lobo spotted the nurse, tossed her cigarette into the bushes, and dashed inside, smoke wafting in with her.
The nurse walked over and knelt in front of Sandra. “Your husband’s still unconscious, but the doctors say he was very lucky. The bullet lodged in his skull, just behind his ear. He’s lost a lot of blood and part of his earlobe, but there’s no apparent brain damage. The doctors expect he’ll make a full recovery.”
“Oh, thank God!” Sandra cried, throwing her clenched fists in the air in unbounded relief. Sandra, the Lobo, and I stood, grabbing each other in bear hugs, tears of relief flowing freely down our faces.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Coming Clean
Brett drove me home from the hospital, a heavy silence hanging between us. He opened the passenger door and helped me out of his car. At my front door, I handed Brett my keys and he unlocked my town house. Inside, I hung my raid jacket on a hook in the coat closet and aimed straight for the kitchen. Henry scrutinized me contemptuously from atop the armoire as I walked past without bothering to give him a pat on the head. Annie ran out from under the couch and trotted after us, apparently feeling brave today.
“I could use a glass of wine.” With my left hand, I wrestled a bottle from the wooden wine rack on the counter, nearly dropping the damn thing.
Brett took the bottle from me. “You’re not supposed to drink alcohol when you’re on painkillers.”
“Oh. Right.” Damn.
Annie jumped into my lap as I flopped into a seat at the kitchen table. Brett returned the bottle to the wine rack and poured us each a glass of juice instead.
He slid into the chair across from me. He took a drink, then slowly twirled his glass with his fingertips, watching me intently, waiting for me to say something, to explain.
But hell, I didn’t even know where to start. All I could think of to say was, “I’m sorry I wasn’t totally honest with you, Brett.”
Fortunately, he appeared more confused than angry, at least for now. “Why didn’t you tell me you were investigating Gryder?”
I looked down at the cat on my lap and ran my hand down Annie’s back, trying to build my nerve. I took a deep breath and forced myself to look at Brett. “I wanted to tell you, Brett. Really. But…”
“But what?” He continued to peer expectantly into my eyes.
I squirmed under his piercing gaze. I didn’t want to tell him that I’d doubted him, that I’d suspected he might be in cahoots with Shelton and Gryder. But he’d saved my life today, saved the life of my partner, too. If I owed him my life, then I owed it to him to be honest, too, didn’t I? “Until today I thought you might be involved in Gryder’s scam.”
Brett’s eyes flashed with shock before dimming with hurt, and his usually strong shoulders slumped. “My God, Tara.” His voice was soft and sad, with an undertone of indignation. “How could you think that?”
I looked down, unable to meet his wounded gaze any longer. I had been utterly stupid to question his integrity and my distrust hurt him, deeply. He had every right to feel offended, betrayed. I’d feel the same way if someone I cared about had misgivings about me. Still, there had been grounds for suspicion, hadn’t there?
I took a deep breath, steeled my nerves, and spilled my guts. “It started with the brochures you took to Gryder at the lake house and the box of checks and cash you brought back to Shelton. It seemed odd that the two of them would trust you with so much money if you weren’t involved with them. At the hotel, I heard you arguing with someone on the phone, something about a deal for fifty grand in cash. You seemed pretty cozy with Shelton and Gryder at the ballpark and when I asked you later what you three had been talking about you said it wouldn’t interest me, which seemed evasive. You mentioned you had some investments that had paid off recently and I thought those investments might be with Gryder’s company.”
I stopped to gauge his reaction, but Brett said nothing, just waited for me to continue.
“An informant from First Dallas Bank tipped us off about some suspicious activity relating to Gryder. When I interviewed the informant, he said you came into the bank several times with Michael near closing time and had private meetings with Stan. And then, last night, I saw your car parked in front of Shelton’s house.”
Brett was quiet for a moment, his expression pensive as he tried to sort through everything I’d just thrown at him. Finally he spoke. “I didn’t give much thought to the boxes Stan and Michael asked me to shuttle back and forth. I figured I was simply doing them a favor, saving them some travel between the lake house and Dallas, and that their business wasn’t any of mine.” He paused a moment, skewering me with a pointed look. “Apparently they trusted me more than you did.”
I cringed at the dig, knowing I’d earned it but hating it all the same.
“The phone call at the hotel was with one of my landscape suppliers. The guy made a bunch of promises to me, then tried to jack up the prices after I’d placed a large order. When I was talking with Stan and Michael at the ball game, they spent the whole time trying to outdo each other with their sexual exploits. I would’ve walked away, but since Stan invited us to the game I didn’t want to be rude.”
“What about the closed-door meetings at the bank?” I asked. “And the investment?”
“Chelsea’s car was towed when she parked illegally at a nightclub in Dallas. Michael left Chelsea his car to use and bummed rides with me to and from the lake property and bank a few times while the car was in hock. Every meeting I had with Stan was about the landscaping project. He and Britney changed their minds about a few things and I had to rework the plans several times. Michael sometimes sat in on our meetings so he could mooch scotch from the minibar in Stan’s office. The investment I mentioned was some land northeast of the city that I bought a couple of years ago. An oil and gas company paid me a small fortune to drill a well on
the property.”
He’d covered all the bases but one. “Why were you at Shelton’s last night?”
“I wasn’t, Tara. I was at my parents’ house. Stan’s their next-door neighbor. He’s lived there since I was a kid. Hell, I used to mow his lawn.”
“Oh.” Damn. “Wish I’d known that.”
Their relationship as longtime neighbors further explained why Shelton trusted Brett with the checks and cash, and why Brett hadn’t considered the arrangement necessarily peculiar. I gave Brett a feeble, contrite smile. His explanations made perfect sense. Which meant I’d made a perfect ass of myself and, quite possibly, ruined a perfect relationship.
He leaned toward me across the table. “Why didn’t you just ask me about these things?”
“How could I, Brett? If you had been involved it would’ve blown the investigation. And how would I have known if you were telling me the truth? I had to find out for myself. It was my only choice.” I hesitated a moment before reaching out to him. He let me take his hand. I gave it a firm squeeze. “I’m sorry I ever doubted you, Brett.”
Brett stared at me for a moment, his expression confused, disappointed, troubled. But who could blame him for feeling such a mix of emotions? I’d given him a lot to deal with. Hopefully, not too much to deal with.
“You were going to tell me tonight about what happened on Tuesday.”
“Right.” I remembered our earlier phone conversation, Brett’s concern when I had put the discussion off. I’d gotten lucky. After what went down today, a drug-dealing ice-cream man with a shotgun hidden under his freezer would seem like chump change.
After I gave Brett the rundown of Joe’s arrest, he emitted an elongated groan, looking down at the table and running his hands through his hair until it stood up in crazy spikes. “How did you feel today, Tara? How did you feel Tuesday when you arrested the ice-cream man?” He looked up at me. “Weren’t you scared?”
