by R. T. Wolfe
Although void of snow, a field of brown slept under the bitter cold along one side of the property, a snapshot-serene frozen creek on the other. The crystals of frost made the ground look as if it were blanketed with diamonds. Conveniently or not, a bridge over the creek connected the Reed land to another field and therefore to the rest of the neighborhood.
She knew her partner was good friends with the owner and that one of his daughters had married into the family. At that moment, all but the oldest of the grown Reed children were carrying out their own inspection closer to the house.
"So, Dave. What do you think?" She looked up to him, both physically and metaphorically. He was old enough to be her father but never treated her like anything other than his equal, even when she had been an officer working under him.
"I think it looks too simple. Everything points to Melbourne." He walked along the floodplain of the creek using his billystick to move brush aside. "Who does that to a dog? Sick bitch." Dave shook his head as he finished inspecting the final few square yards of the area around the extensive yard.
She searched around the last of the trees. "I'm with you there. Too easy. Either said sick bitch liked prison or someone else has it in for the misses." She lifted her brows to him.
Dave squatted down and looked under a bush.
As she collapsed her stick, she spotted a man walking around from the front of the home. "No stone left unturned is all I'm saying," she said to Dave as she recognized the man. Duncan Reed, the oldest of the clan. Dark, tall, lanky. Meandering in a thin leather jacket like the cold had no effect on him. She remembered him, all right. Her bullshit sensor had ignited with him nearly a year ago, during one of her cases he'd brushed up against. Small town. And, like everyone in a small town, she heard the rumblings that circulated whenever his picture popped up in the tabloids. The artist on another arm of one of the rich and famous.
Looking through squinted eyes, she cocked her head and experienced something she rarely did, surprise.
When the only daughter in the Reed group spotted him, she sprinted in his direction. Coming within a few yards, the young woman took three long strides and jumped. He caught her and swung her around in a bear hug. Nickie sensed the moment their greeting turned consolatory as they stopped twirling and paused, Duncan's long arms wrapping around her. The others walked and joined the pair, meeting with shoulder punches and back slaps.
As she waited for her partner, Nickie couldn't help but stare as Duncan made his own assessment of the area. He took his time, looking under the deck, the stairs, and... stepped over the yellow tape. "Uh oh." She tapped Dave, then started toward the house. "One of them crossed the line."
A large hand circled her forearm. "I'll go with," Dave said. He squeezed, not hard, but enough to express his opinion. "We could... give him a minute."
She sighed and, surprised again, looked up to him. Shrugging, she responded, "Suits me. I'm already losing gym time and I've got a gig tonight anyway. No time to bust up the heads of relatives tainting a crime scene."
They started toward the family slowly. Dave reminded her as they strolled, "The station has a gym, you know."
"Not one with a pool, it doesn't."
* * *
The Pub was small and scattered with a typical light, Monday night crowd. Most were tipsy, a few drunk enough they were asking for trouble. Nickie sat on a stool in the corner of the lounge on an area the shape of a triangle that was barely big enough to be called a stage. Her aged guitar rested on her thigh. Draft beer and greasy food permeated the air, giving the place a feel of comfortable and casual. It was like therapy for her, even though she'd never let the other half of the band know that.
Behind her sat the drummer and backup singer, drums tucked so closely around him she didn't know how he could work. Pivoting, she smiled at him while shaking her head. He would owe her big for such a last minute deal. She had work in the morning. His response was a wink as he thrummed his cymbals lightly backing up her chorus.
She'd seen two of them come in at o-eleven hundred and figured the other three of the clan weren't old enough to join them in a bar. Duncan and Andy Reed had sat at a table for one hour and ten before the younger one took off. They'd talked incessantly. It looked more like a business meeting in a coffee shop than a night of catch up between brothers. No occasional jeer or drunken bark. Andy wore a denim shirt that hugged his muscled neck and had scribbled several pages of notes as they drank.
Closing her eyes, her mind traveled back to her case files as she picked and strummed. No leads, yet, for the missing Newcomer girl. Lacey's email and social networking sites had been a wash. Her cell had either been turned off or possibly sat at the bottom of Seneca Lake. Both the old and current boyfriends had solid alibis. The current was either becoming increasingly distraught or was a hell of an actor. She would go back first thing in the morning and look around at the time her school bus drove by. Try some of the neighbors again.
She needed to get herself the hell together is what she needed. She'd made detective and couldn't fall apart every time a missing girl case came her way. The music helped. It cleared her mind and her soul. It always did. She had that.
She watched Duncan and wondered what was going through that guarded, bullshit head of his. The pocket of his jeans was faded from the outline of his wallet. The deep brown leatherwork boots matched the broken-in leather jacket. His hair nearly matched the color of the coat and lay just over his collar in a slight wave. He held himself as a man who realized people turned to look at him whether they recognized him from the magazine stands or simply stood and stared at his aurora of confidence and stoic good looks.
It seemed odd he stayed so long after his brother had left The Pub. He didn't have just one drink. He doodled on his napkin with one hand and sipped something dark with the other. The man had 'high maintenance' written all over him, but he was a friend of her partner and she would see if she could help out before he got himself into trouble.
* * *
Duncan had moved to the closest barstool and was looking in his brandy, trying to drown the list in his head if only for the night. And yet, number one drilled in his vision. Why was Melbourne out? Because some politician convinced some judge that her time served during the eight-month period preceding and during her trial mistakenly hadn't been included in time off for good behavior? Prison crowding, blah, blah, blah, and his aunt ends up in the hospital.
The alto voice singing about something bringing her down served as more soothing than the brandy. He'd recognized her, of course. He never forgot a face. She sure as hell didn't wear the cop ensemble that night. And he could spot a cop. The beveled and tinted mirror behind the bar gave him enough of a view. She wore her blonde waves over her shoulders, a few shorter wisps played around her oval face. Large, golden hoop earrings peeked through the waves. Her blouse was a solid, sky blue with three-quarter-length sleeves and would have looked ordinary enough if not for the just-enough peek at healthy cleavage. Rows of small ringed loops dangled over her neckline and matched the earrings.
Before he could stop it, number two on his mental list bore into his mind: gather facts. Since his brother had been privy to Melbourne's release before he was, Andy had already hacked into one of the station's lower-level officer's accounts. They'd use it for a few days, then switch to another unsuspecting cop who logged in at just the right time while he or Andy was at just the right place. So far, he was able to learn the police didn't have a lead on Melbourne, but had an impressively wide APB out on her in order to bring her in for questioning.
As they took a water break between songs, the drummer laid his hand on the detective's shoulder. Duncan watched as she reached to rest hers on top of his.
Number three: action. Find Melbourne, get her to confess, turn her in. Except the dog. Something was off. The dog was killed on-site. He had seen larger paw prints etched in the frosty grass mixed in with the ones from his folk's pup. That wasn't Melbourne's style. Still, she was key. H
e knew his uncle would have Brie under a metaphorical lock, key, microscope, and possibly house arrest. It wasn't hard to trust she was safe for now, or at least not too hard.
His mind went back to the impressive APB. So, why was Dave's partner singing at a night club instead of out looking for Melbourne? He expected she didn't like him much more than the last time they'd brushed paths. Just as well.
Her voice could win the attention of any man, except it seemed as if she already came with her man. The drummer looked at her with the telltale signs of more than simple partners in a two-man band. The man's face blushed in the heat of their cramped area and showed through his deep brown, Latino skin.
Passing on the last call, he pulled out his cell as Savage plopped on the stool next to him.
"Mr. Reed, you may not remember me—"
"I remember you." He dug in his other pocket and slapped a large bill on the counter.
"Good." She placed a hand down next to the money. "Then you remember I'm Detective Nolan's partner. He'd want me to tell you that this isn't L.A. A DWI in New York will put you back about ninety-five grand with a suspended or possibly revoked license as a bonus."
Finally, he turned and looked at her. Yes. The steel gray cat eyes. There they were. "And it's wrong. You seem to have forgotten that small detail." He stood and purposely stepped away from the stool as a demonstration that his balance was spot on. And as a chance to get another look at her head-to-toe. Who could blame a guy? He couldn't place the scent she wore and had to admit he didn't smell it three feet before she arrived as with most of the women he was around. It was smart, sophisticated.
Her deep sigh was pronounced. "And it's wrong," she repeated. "I'll give you a ride and make points with my partner."
He nodded toward the stage. "You already have a ride waiting." Holding up his cell, he shook it back and forth once. "And I'm not driving, detective. Northeast Cab on speed dial."
"Duncan." She placed a hand on his arm as he turned. "Gil has his own car. Come on." She jerked a head toward the door.
He shrugged and for some reason followed.
* * *
They drove in a piece of crap, oversized town car. It was severely dinged with an absence of hubcaps. The searchlight tucked neatly beside the driver's side window. Duncan rode with his arm resting on the back of the seat, resisting the urge to put his hand out and brace for a crash landing. Damn, she was a bad driver. A bad driver who didn't speak a word.
"She killed the dog on-site." He broke the silence.
She didn't flinch, not even a blink. Impressive.
"That's not Melbourne's style," he added, "but I suppose prison changes people. Did CSI find the ashes in the planter? No one in my uncle's home smokes."
Still silence.
He let her pull up the long, smooth drive to his folks' home and around on the thin lane to the guesthouse in back. A ribbon of frozen water wove between tall, dormant brown grasses. Black Creek.
Duncan got out. She didn't give him the opportunity to walk around and open her door. Predictable. They walked toward the front door.
As he staggered the familiar path to the small cottage set apart from the main house, she finally spoke a single word. "Keys?"
He lifted a brow and leaned his back against the door. Bad move. The scent of smart and sophisticated mixed with something floral and filled his senses, his vision. He could feel the warmth of her as she dug in his pocket. She was only a few inches shorter than his six-foot flat and in her high-heeled, black boots they were nearly eye to eye. The skin on her face was golden and flawless. He couldn't help but wonder if the rest of her was as unblemished.
She wasn't beautiful. Her eyes were slightly too far apart and her bottom lip too large for the upper. He could draw that face however, would draw that face.
The fumbling was too much for even him. "Wrong pocket," he growled.
She looked up and at first glared through the steel gray. But then, for a fraction of a second, he saw it. She dropped her gaze to his lips before quickly backing up. "If you're sober enough to know that, you're sober enough to get them yourself."
"This isn't my home," he said as she drew back.
Clearly confused, she stopped her retreat. "Regardless, I'm thinking I'll need to make a house call here tomorrow and visit the patient."
It may have been the adrenaline of the last forty-eight hours or the fact that he'd had little more than a few catnaps on the plane during the same time frame, but he heard a threat rather than an itinerary. Pushing away from the door, he stood tall and steady. "House call, my ass. You're going to give my aunt time to rest. Don't you think it's bad enough she has to look at your yellow tape out her back window?"
She didn't move from where she stood but took her own turn to lift a brow. After a moment, she shrugged. "I might be able to give it a day," she said and turned to head toward her car.
* * *
Duncan woke to the sound of a vacuum. Rolling over in the guest bed, he looked at the red letters on the digital clock. Seven a.m. Someone would have to die. He rolled back and tucked one of the pillows around his head until he realized the only one who might be vacuuming at this hour would be his aunt. What the hell?
Tossing the covers aside, he swung his legs around and stepped into last night's pants. Trying not to startle her wasn't going to happen, so he simply pulled the plug. He watched as she pressed the power button, then turned to look at the outlet. And jumped a mile. "Holy shit!"
He would have smiled at catching his aunt cursing but was too pissed off. "You're vacuuming? The morning after a hospital discharge?" He picked up his shirt and slipped his arms into the sleeves.
"You startled me. You're always welcome here, but why are you here? Is everything okay at your house?" She reached down to plug the vacuum back in.
"Long story." He took her hand. "At the risk of sounding juvenile, I'll tell Dad."
Brie paused, then stood. "That's dirty."
"Necessary. Come. You've gotten me up at this hour, now you'll need to have coffee with me." Gently, he pulled her from the room.
Sighing, she argued. "At least let me put this away. My sister has guests coming, and are planning to use the place tonight."
"There's no possibility your sister would impose on you in your condition." He pulled her along without a fight.
"Condition? What condition? I fell."
They slipped toward the back door through the cozy space. His uncle had made the white-painted trim and doors himself. The matching wicker furniture had been Brie's idea.
"But I'll concede to your point about my sister. I'm not completely on my game yet."
They pulled on coats and gloves, and he shut the door behind them. The crisp air burnt his lungs like a strong breath mint. The New York cold would take a few days to get used to. He counted on the Melbourne mess taking no more than that.
The large field behind his aunt and uncle's property was vast with homes lining the perimeter. Many used it for hiking, four-wheeling and snowmobiling when weather permitted. How many times had he painted this scene, in countless ways with countless angles? The shadows, shapes and colors varying with the time of day and angle of the sun. Absent of snow, the grass was brown, yet crystallized and stiff in the chilly morning breeze.
Across the creek, they could see the back of the home belonging to the same sister they spoke of. Next to it was the home of Melbourne's mother. He took a deep breath. Small town. Into her nineties, Lucy Melbourne lived with her in-house maid and caregiver in the same home she'd used to raise MollyAnne.
Together, he and his aunt chatted about him quitting the Coral Francesca job halfway through and the updates on Brie's teaching job. Both kept clear of any mention of the crime tape that flicked in the wind as they strolled past. Avoiding it, they walked around to the front of the house, crunching grass beneath their feet.
As they neared the drive, a cab caught his eye. It didn't matter that the car was at the end of the long drive. Goose bumps ros
e as he saw the rider with perfect clarity. Turning away from his aunt, he ran both hands through his messy hair. He took a deep, cleansing breath. The face. Digging his hands in his pockets, he turned to Brie. "Mother. Start the coffee, will you? I'll be right back."
She dipped her chin. "Duncan."
Reading right through him, he knew. "I know. I just need a minute. Strong and black?"
Without giving her the chance to respond, he slowly walked until out of sight, then sprinted for the bridge.
Chapter 3
As he ran, Duncan fumbled with his cell. Nine-one-one. Deciding against it, he hung up and searched his contacts for the station's direct number. First, he was offered Dave's voice mail, sucked it up, then asked for Savage.
"Detective Savage." Her voice resonated irritation, authority and distraction.
"It's Duncan, Duncan Reed. I've spotted Melbourne. She's in her mother's house as we speak."
There was a pause before the detective acknowledged him. "And you happen to be the one to do the spotting. Isn't that convenient," she said as a statement rather than a question.
"Are you sending someone over to pick up the psycho or not?"
"I'll send a squad over and I'll tag along. Don't play hero, Reed. Stay away."
Right.
He stood at the front door for a full ten seconds before knocking. Other than the head of deep gray hair, the elderly Melbourne's housemaid looked much the same as the last time he'd seen her. Her look was pained as she clearly contemplated what to do.
"Well, are you going to let them in?" Lucy Melbourne spoke up from the back of the house. She sounded strong, although he knew she was bound to a wheelchair.
Stepping aside, the housemaid opened the door so Lucy could see who was there. She sat in her chair at the kitchen counter with a coral blazer, deeper colored slacks and matching pumps. Next to her sat a plate filled with pastries and a steaming pot of coffee. Shaking her head, Lucy dropped her chin to her neck.
