Black Moon: Hamarsson and Dempsey 3

by Keaton, Elle

  “I sent you the Excel doc I started yesterday,” Mat said to Birdy when she arrived. “Once we have a complete list, we can look for… something. I’m guessing we won’t find anything, but once they’re all entered, let’s concentrate on the dates around the bombing and this past month or so.”

  “What about February, when Chastity Reynolds was discovered?” Birdy asked.

  Mat leaned back in his chair, mulling over the idea. Could Chastity’s death be connected to Duane’s somehow? Jeffrey Reynolds had confessed to her murder, but was it possible the events were related in a way they hadn’t linked yet—because there had been nothing to indicate an association?

  Something one of his old sergeants used to say floated to the surface of Mat’s memories: “When the shit hits the fan, turn it off.” What McCallum had meant was slow down, breathe, throw away assumptions and take the evidence piece by piece as objectively as possible, and then rebuild the puzzle.

  “Good thinking, Birdy. Finish entering the information on the envelopes, then start a year back and move forward to the most recent entries. Let’s see if we find a pattern, a boat or person who stands out—jeez, I don’t even know, but if it’s there, we’ll know it when we see it.”

  Then, of course, the phone rang, throwing all his carefully laid plans for the day into chaos.

  “Jeffrey Reynolds wants to talk to you.”

  Amanda Tate was Reynolds’s current lawyer. Mat didn’t like her much. He was never a fan of lawyers trying to get the guys he arrested out of jail.

  Reynolds, aka Trey Jackson, was being held pending trial for the murders of Chastity Reynolds and Mat’s older brother Sean. The case against him for Chastity’s death was solid, so solid the judge hadn’t granted bail. The deeper investigators dug, the higher the pile of evidence linking Jeffrey to Chastity grew, but the key was the colorful scarf that had been wrapped around her neck. A scarf gifted to Jeffrey by his unsuspecting boyfriend. Mat’s brain skittered past that fact; he didn’t want to think about Reynolds being anywhere near Niall.

  “Why would I want to talk to him?” Mat asked, even though he had just been thinking about the man before she called.

  “He claims he has something to tell you’ll want to know.”

  Tate’s tone grated on Mat’s last nerve. She was just the most recent in a line of several public defenders… and the most persistent. Another reason why Mat found her irritating. She was doing her job, after all. Persistence was a great trait for the defendant, but Mat was tired of dealing with her and the public defender’s office.

  “I thought you weren’t his lawyer anymore.” He’d heard Jeffrey had fired his attorneys and was planning on defending himself.

  And why, after months in county jail, would Reynolds want to talk to Mat now? Was it coincidence, after Cooper’s body appearing two days ago, that Reynolds was asking for him?

  Tate sighed into Mat’s pause. “I’m doing you a favor, Dempsey. Whatever problem you have with me, I suggest you put it aside. He claims you’ll want to hear what he has to say.”

  “Do you know what information he’s got?” Mat asked her.

  “All he would tell me is that it’s something about your father’s death. I thought that might get your attention.”

  His father? That was not what Mat had expected to hear. A feeling of foreboding settled heavily in his stomach; he tapped his sternum, trying to make the response disappear.

  His father had been killed over ten years ago in a boating accident. What information could Jeffrey Reynolds possibly have about him? Mat quickly did the math. Jeffrey would’ve been in his early twenties when Sean Sr. died, and Jeffrey hadn’t grown up on Piedras. If he knew something about the death of Sean Sr., he must have learned it more recently.

  “Fine. I’ll meet with him.”

  “The justice center, today, twelve thirty.” Amanda disconnected before Mat could reply. He hated it when people did that.

  Jeffrey Reynolds was one of ten or so perpetrators being held for trial in the Piedras County Justice Center–slash–courthouse. Prisoners weren’t always held there these days, but a concession had been made for Reynolds. Mat didn’t know who’d made it happen, but Jeffrey should consider himself lucky, because accommodations in Anacortes were much grimmer.

  Mat and Deputy Flynn made their way down the metal staircase to the basement of the justice center, their footsteps creating a cacophony that echoed all around them. The stairs were dimly lit by fluorescent lights that must have been hung in the 1970s and only added to the unpleasant atmosphere.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Mat pushed through the door and walked swiftly down the long hallway to the rear of the building where the cells and interview rooms were located—as far from the courtrooms as possible. Deputy Flynn kept pace at his side.

  A figure Mat recognized as Amanda Tate waited, one heel propped against the cement wall. She likely had heard their arrival and moved to intercept them before they arrived at the holding cells.

  “Dempsey.” Amanda stuck her hand out, and Mat shook it automatically. “Deputy Flynn, it’s pleasant to see you,” she said to Birdy.

  “Tate,” Mat said, “why are we here?”

  She shrugged. She wore an expensive-looking dark gray suit that complemented her dark hair. Mat wondered why she bothered when she was on Piedras.

  “I don’t know any more than I did when we talked earlier, but he seems sure of himself. Whatever he’s got to say, he thinks it will get him something.”

  “What does he want?” Mat pressed.

  Another shrug. Someone should tell her shrugging ruined the lines of her suit. “He says he wants a deal.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  Mat had no authority to offer Jeffrey Reynolds, or any other suspect, a deal. Anything like that would have to come from the prosecutor’s office.

  “I’ve advised him not to talk to you without an offer, but he’s insisting.” She sounded extremely frustrated with her client.

  Mat nodded. He did want to know what Jeffrey had to say. And he’d brought Flynn along because he didn’t trust himself around the guy.

  Jeffrey waited in interview room one. Birdy moved past Mat to stand behind Jeffrey, her back to the wall. The rooms had not aged well. The walls were bare, and several layers of paint did nothing to hide the water stains and grime that oozed from the very skeleton of the old building. In terms of furniture, there were two chairs inside the room and that was it. Mat didn’t like having a table between him and possible perps. Body language was almost more important than any words, and a table hid reactions from him: things like tightening fists, wringing hands, or any other tension. Mat took the chair across from Reynolds.

  “Mr. Reynolds.”

  Jeffrey’s knee was bouncing up and down. He was either nervous or excited, as Tate had predicted. The slightly too large orange uniform provided by the county made him look somewhat cadaverous. He’d been housed here for almost six months; his perfect hairstyle had grown out, and it looked like he’d been biting his nails. Mat wondered how much Jeffrey was bothered by less access to personal hygiene than he was used to. If Mat were a betting man, his money would be on “quite a bit.”

  “Sheriff.” Reynolds sneered; maybe he couldn’t help it.

  Mat leaned forward, not letting Reynolds avoid eye contact. “Why do you want to talk to me, Jeffrey?”

  “I like ‘Trey’ better.”

  “Yeah, well, I like potato chips, but the doc says I need to cut back.”

  “I want to make a deal.” Reynolds’s knee still bumped up and down, and he was tapping his fingers against his thigh.

  “We can’t make any kind of deal,” Mat began. “For one thing, I don’t know what information you have, and secondly, the district attorney has to okay it. You should be talking to them, not me.”

  “But you’re the one who’s going to want to hear this.” Jeffrey’s leg bounced rhythmically; now his hands were clasped together as if he was trying to keep them from
moving.

  “I can’t offer you a deal,” Mat repeated. “I can listen and then tell the DA. Right, Tate?”

  Tate was standing next to Flynn. She locked eyes with Mat for just a moment before nodding. “Yes, Mr. Reynolds, Sheriff Dempsey is correct. He’s not allowed to make a deal with you. It is up to you whether you share your information with him or share it with the DA instead. As your lawyer, I recommend you talk to the DA’s office.”

  “Fuck the DA.”

  “Language,” Flynn interjected.

  “Do we need bitches in here?” Reynolds asked Mat.

  “Tate represents you, and Deputy Flynn is here to make sure I don’t do anything foolish,” Mat replied. One thing they were certain about: Jeffrey Reynolds truly hated women.

  “Fine.” Reynolds’s knee bounced faster, and he leaned forward, whispering, so Mat had to lean close to hear him. “It wasn’t an accident.”

  Mat sat back, frowning. “What wasn’t an accident?” He glanced over at the public defender. Amanda Tate’s shoulder moved with her signature shrug.

  “July 3, 2009. It wasn’t an accident.” Jeffrey had Mat’s attention again. “You go do some detecting work or whatever it is you do, and when you figure out what I’m talking about, come back and see me. And then I’ll get my deal.”

  The blood froze in Mat’s veins. He tried not to show how Jeffrey’s words affected him, but by the smirk on the man’s face, he didn’t think he was successful.

  “I’m done. I want to go back to my cell.”

  Amanda stuck her head out of the small room, summoning an officer Mat didn’t recognize.

  As jail security escorted Jeffrey out of the room with Tate following right behind them, Mat’s thoughts spun. There was one significant incident in Mat’s life that had occurred on July 3. The reason he’d moved back to Piedras Island. The reason he was sheriff.

  “Are you okay?” Tate asked.

  Tate was back already, or Mat had been standing there lost in thought long enough she’d had time to walk back from Jeffrey’s cell.

  “Fine.”

  But he wasn’t fine, because Jeffrey Reynolds had just said that his father’s death was no accident.

  Outside the courthouse, the day hadn’t changed. Dappled sunshine shone through the green leaves of the maples planted around the justice center. A few leaves were turning yellow; the others would soon follow. The kids were already back in school, and island life was continuing in the same rhythm it always had. Yet, with only a few words, Reynolds had managed to turn what Mat had always believed about his father’s death on its head. He felt bare, stripped down, unprepared for what he’d heard. Why it made such a difference—his father was, after all, still dead—Mat couldn’t put a finger on.

  He and Deputy Flynn paused at the top of the steps. As Mat gazed out over the town and island he was charged with protecting, he asked, “Birdy, you were, what, fifteen when my dad died?” Jeffrey would’ve been somewhere around twenty.

  She nodded. “About that. It was the summer before my junior year in high school. I already knew I wanted to go into criminal justice by then.”

  “Did you hear anything?” What he imagined a teenager might have heard about his father’s death, Mat didn’t know.

  “Not really. I mean, I heard about it, of course. We all did. It was such a shock. Your dad was larger than life here on the island. He knew everybody. I mean, you do too, but you’re different. Quieter. I think…” She looked back at the grimy building, clearly struggling for the right words. “I think your dad liked being the big man on the island, whereas you don’t care about that part, but you do care deeply about the people who live here. You collect little facts other people miss, like that Miss Sandy’s ailing, so you drive by her place almost every day, way over on the other side of the island. Or that Harry Harrison may be a grump, but he likes it when you stop and have a cup of coffee with him once a week or so.”

  Mat wondered how Birdie had figured that out. He did check on Miss Sandy on a pretty regular basis.

  Birdy continued, “But as far as I know, everybody believed Sheriff Dempsey’s death was an accident.”

  8

  Wednesday—Niall

  Niall stayed in bed until the sound of Mat’s cruiser crunching its way up the drive disappeared. He did feel much better today. The doc in Idaho had said his concussion was very mild. He wasn’t 100 percent, but much better.

  Alyson Dempsey was stopping by with Fenrir, and Niall expected her sooner rather than later. When Niall had solidified his relationship with Mat, he’d gained a mom. Alyson was good at it too; she read Niall well. She’d know he needed his dog by his side.

  Gingerly he sat up, eased off the mattress, and padded over to the closet to pick out a pair of extra-worn, comfortable Levi’s, a T-shirt from a training he’d attended years ago with a graphic of the all-seeing eye on it, thick socks, and his favorite ratty sweatshirt.

  He’d been up and about for ten minutes or so and was waiting for the coffee maker to finish while he made a list in his head of things he needed to take care of, when he heard the sound of a car approaching.

  It was likely Alyson. The biggest drawback of the yurt was the lack of real windows. At first, Niall had been so glad to have a space of his own again he hadn’t cared about that… but now? Now he wanted to rebuild the cabin and sell the yurt back to Stu’s grandson or maybe to someone on the island who might use it as a rental or something. Not being able to see out properly made him twitchy.

  A tentative tap sounded against the front door, the only spot where there was a small glass window. He could see the top of Alyson’s head through it. Niall crossed the living space to open the door, and Fenrir shot inside, followed by Alyson.

  “Good morning,” he said to his soon-to-be mother-in-law. “Hello, dog,” he said to Fenrir, running his palm over the dog’s head and back; he loved the feel of Fenrir’s shaggy, wiry coat. Satisfied with Niall’s greeting, Fenrir trotted to his food dish and sniffed it. He glanced over his shoulder at Niall. “Where’s breakfast?” his expression said.

  “He’s eaten; don’t let him fool you,” Alyson said, moving past him.

  Realizing he wasn’t getting anywhere, Fenrir snorted and went to plop on his dog bed.

  “It’s good to see you, Niall,” Alyson said, giving him a big hug. “You gave us a scare. You look like you were run over by a truck.”

  “Ah, just a building.” Stepping back, he ran a hand across his face. “These nicks and bruises will disappear soon enough.” Niall shut the door and asked, “Would you like a cup of coffee? Fresh pot.”

  “We’re all so glad you’re okay. You gave Mat and me quite a fright. I mean, it was only for a few minutes, but…”

  She shrugged out of her lightweight jacket and draped it over the back of their futon couch. Another thing Niall wanted to change: he and Mat needed furniture that could withstand the wear and tear of two big men. The futon was fine, but one of these days it was going to fail.

  “I’d love a cup, thanks. I also want to show you these brochures.”

  She pulled a manila file folder out of her large purse and offered it to Niall. It—the file, not her purse—was full to bursting with glossy brochures, slick menus, and internet printouts. Niall held back a sigh, recalling now that Mat had told him he’d caved and accepted Alyson’s offer of help with their wedding.

  He understood, even if internally he rebelled against her help. For Alyson Dempsey, their engagement was a bright spot in a bad year. She was over-the-moon excited that her remaining son was getting married. Her oldest, Sean Jr., had been killed a few months ago, and even though she and Sean hadn’t been close, his death had been a terrible blow to the family. She kept her sorrow close, but Niall saw it in her eyes when she thought no one was looking.

  Or, possibly, he was just more attuned to the specter of loss than most.

  They were sitting across from each other at the round wooden table that served as a spot for Mat and Niall
to eat all their meals. And, since Niall worked from home, also as his office. Yet another reason to look more seriously into designs for the new cabin. He needed an office.

  “I know you two want to keep it small, so I only looked at venues that hold two hundred people or less.”

  Niall groaned. Two hundred guests? “Alyson, I have like two friends off the island I’d consider inviting, and I don’t know if I’d actually send them an invitation. Everyone who comes is going to be there for Mat and the Dempseys.”

  “Pshaw, what about Shay? What about some of your old colleagues?” She smiled at him.

  Niall didn’t know how to tell her he had no real friends from before, from his time in Seattle.

  She took his silence for acquiescence, flipping open the folder that lay on the table between them. Niall sipped his coffee, watching as she sorted the brochures into three stacks.

  “After talking with Mat the other day, I’ve narrowed down the choices. I think you won’t want to have the ceremony on Piedras because, as Mat said, all the residents will show up whether they are invited or not. This stack is”—she pushed it toward him—“places within driving distance between the border and Seattle. This stack”—she waggled her head—“they’re not my favorites, but maybe you’ll like them. And the last are places in the islands but not on Piedras.” That was the thickest stack. “We are a wedding destination, so there are quite a few locations to choose from.”

  Niall sighed, wondering if she’d believe him if he told her his head was bothering him. It wasn’t yet, but it would be after looking at all of these.

  “Take a look at the first ones while I’m here, and if you like any of them, I’ll call and see what their availability is.”

  He knew it was the only way he’d get Alyson to leave him alone… and they needed to make some kind of choice, at least set a date on the calendar. Maybe this would give them the impetus to start planning the damn thing.