Don't Make a Sound: A Sawyer Brooks Thriller

by T. R. Ragan

“Are you the reporter from the Sacramento Independent?” she asked.

  “I am.”

  “My name is Brianne.” She caught her breath. “I wasn’t here when the detective talked to everyone, but Matthew told me you were coming to talk to him, so I thought I’d tell you what I know.”

  Sawyer waited.

  “When I read the write-up in the paper about Kylie’s murder and her boyfriend’s arrest, it surprised me that nobody mentioned Waylan Gage.”

  “The author of the Jacqueline Carter series,” Sawyer said.

  “Yes! Kylie was absolutely obsessed with Waylan Gage. Since learning about Kylie’s death, I haven’t been able to sleep. I can’t get what she said about the author out of my mind.”

  “What did Kylie say?”

  “That she was going to get into Waylan Gage’s pants, even if it killed her.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  After leaving Good Day Sacramento, Sawyer had gone back to the library to research Waylan Gage and hit the jackpot.

  At 5:00 p.m. on the dot, Sawyer sat across from Sean Palmer.

  Palmer was leaning back in his chair, his feet propped on his desk. “You do recall my asking you to leave the Kylie Hartford investigation alone?”

  “I do.”

  “And you realize there is a standard probation period?”

  “I do.” She frowned. “Why didn’t you tell me that forensics found unidentified DNA in Kylie’s apartment?”

  “Because it happens all the time—could be the landlord, the plumber, a friend who stopped by,” Palmer said. “So what do you have for me that couldn’t wait until Monday?”

  Sawyer proceeded to tell him everything she knew about what Zach was doing the night Kylie was murdered, including seeing footage of Zach walking in and out of the brewery, proving that he couldn’t have murdered Kylie.

  Before he could respond, Sawyer said, “And that’s not all. I think I know who the killer is.”

  Palmer lifted a curious brow.

  After leaving Good Day Sacramento, Sawyer had gone to the Copy Cat to make print copies of the digital pictures she’d taken at Kylie’s apartment. She slid an eight-by-ten glossy of Kylie’s apartment across Palmer’s desk.

  “Kylie Hartford was at Waylan Gage’s book signing the day of her murder.”

  “So you’ve said.”

  “When I walked into the apartment, the book was on the floor, wide open. It had been signed by Waylan Gage.”

  “Yes,” Palmer said. “I’ve seen the picture. Kylie could have had the book for a while,” he suggested. “This doesn’t prove that she went to the book signing.”

  He folded his hands. She could see that he was getting impatient.

  Sawyer shook her head. “That’s exactly what it proves. The book in question wasn’t released to the public until the day of the signing, which means Kylie met Waylan Gage in person on the same day she was killed.”

  “Listen,” Palmer said. “You’re not a cop. You are a rookie reporter with very little experience. But,” he added with emphasis, “after I talked to you on the phone when you were in River Rock, I made a few calls myself. It turns out the author sold over three hundred and fifty hardbacks that day. He wouldn’t have had time to give much individual attention to his fans, but somehow you want me to believe that they hooked up after he finished signing books for the day?”

  “I do,” Sawyer said. “I met with Matthew Westover at Good Day Sacramento, where she worked.”

  He said nothing.

  “Matthew Westover is the same man who Kylie’s neighbors told police Kylie was ‘dating.’” Sawyer used her fingers to make air quotes. “Matthew has known Kylie for a while now, and he didn’t deny hooking up with Kylie. He also told me that her boyfriend knew everything.”

  “Maybe Matthew Westover is the man we need to concentrate on,” Palmer said. “Maybe he’s trying to throw you off his scent.” He raised a hand. “For the record, I’m not serious about concentrating on Matthew Westover or anyone else, for that matter. I’m trying to help you see that we could theorize until we turn blue, but we’d be wasting our time.”

  She shook her head. “Matthew Westover is a playboy. He’s a popular anchorman, so it’s not a big secret that he gets around.”

  Palmer crossed his arms over his chest. “Okay, so tell me again. Out of all his fans that day, why did Gage choose Kylie Hartford to go after?”

  “She was an easy target. She liked sex. And she was obsessed with Waylan Gage. Besides Matthew Westover, I talked to a friend of Kylie’s at Good Day Sacramento. She wasn’t there the day investigators questioned Kylie’s coworkers, but she said Kylie told her flat out that she was going to that book signing, and she was going to get into Waylan Gage’s pants, even if it killed her.”

  “You have the woman’s name and number?”

  “I do.” She raised her hand. “If you’ll let me add one more tiny thing.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “After I left Good Day Sacramento,” Sawyer said, “I did some research on Waylan Gage. He releases one book every two years, and after each release, he tours the United States. Three years ago, he was in San Francisco. That same night a woman named Kathy Pollard was killed. Her murder was never solved.”

  “And she was a fan of Waylan Gage?”

  She nodded. “It gets weirder. A lot weirder.”

  Palmer frowned. “You said you had ‘one tiny thing’ to add.”

  She ignored him. “The only reason I know that Kathy Pollard was a fan is because of her obituary. In it, her family mentions her love of reading and how ecstatic she was to have met Waylan Gage that day.” Sawyer leaned closer, her gaze fixated on Palmer’s as she tapped her finger against his desk. “The family even buried her with his autographed book.”

  “So your theory is that not only did Waylan Gage kill Kylie Hartford—he also killed Kathy Pollard.”

  “And who knows how many others,” she said.

  “Where is Waylan Gage now?” Palmer asked.

  Sawyer glanced at her notes. “It’s been a week since he left Sacramento. He’s already hit Oakland, Fresno, and San Jose. His next stop is Los Angeles, and then San Diego.”

  “And what are you proposing exactly?” Palmer asked.

  “That we find a way to get Waylan Gage’s DNA to check it against the unidentified DNA found in Kylie’s apartment. I could fly to LAX myself. It’s a short flight. I go to Gage’s signing. I buy a book and grab his water bottle when I leave.”

  “Assuming he has a water bottle.”

  “Yes,” Sawyer said.

  “The answer is no,” Palmer said. “You don’t have my approval to go anywhere near Waylan Gage.”

  Sawyer crooked her neck in frustration.

  Palmer picked up his phone and dialed a number. “But I do know someone who might be able to help us.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  One week later . . .

  “This apartment is perfect,” Sawyer said as Derek Coleman followed her into the tiniest kitchen she’d ever seen in her life.

  “This is not good,” he said. “Too many overgrown trees and shrubs outside, leaving you wide open to be mugged. No bark covering the dirt and no sprinklers. The property is falling apart. Let’s go.”

  “I can’t afford perfect,” she said.

  “You said you wanted a downstairs apartment with one bedroom. This is upstairs with no bedroom.”

  True. It was a studio, nothing like the apartment she’d imagined in her mind’s eye, but still . . . the price was right, and this was the fifth apartment building she’d been to today. She opened the cabinet, and the door toppled to the floor. “A broken hinge,” she said. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

  “It’s not safe,” Coleman said.

  “Now you’re being ridiculous,” she told him. “This place has controlled-access entry with an intercom system. And on-site laundry.” She opened the oven door beneath the stovetop and tried not to cringe when she saw thick grime covering
the racks.

  “That’s disgusting,” Coleman said.

  “I don’t cook.” She closed the oven door. “Problem solved.”

  “You’ll have to park on the street, and that’s if you can find parking. It’s way too dangerous.”

  “Remind me again why I brought you with me?”

  “Because this was as close as I was ever going to get to going on a date with you.”

  “Ahh. That’s right.” Sawyer moved on to the bathroom. “This place is within walking distance to all the best restaurants. The entrance to the American River Parkway is close enough that I can bike there in a few minutes.”

  “This place is too small. You can’t fit a bike in here.”

  She pointed to the wall. “I’ll hang it right there.”

  He shook his head in defeat.

  “This is the only place that comes close to what I can afford. I’m going to take it. Because my only other option is to live with my sister and sleep on her couch.” She lifted an eyebrow. “Plus, this place takes animals.”

  “That is a plus, since the cat can catch the mice and rats for you.”

  She laughed.

  “Six-month lease?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Six months.” After another quick look around, she noticed Coleman looking at her. “What are you thinking?” she asked.

  “Just that I’m happy to be here with you.”

  “Oh.”

  He smiled and said, “You were right about Waylan Gage. You do realize if it weren’t for you, he might never have been caught?”

  “I’ll give Palmer some of the credit,” she said, “for finding a PI friend to get hold of Gage’s DNA. But yeah, I guess I’m sort of a badass.”

  “You’re humble too. I’ll have to add that to the list of things you told me about yourself.”

  She felt her cheeks flush. “I was hoping you’d forgotten what I told you when we talked on the phone.”

  “Sorry. It’s all been burned right here into my temporal lobe.” He pointed at the left side of his brain.

  “Erase it,” she said. “I made it all up.”

  “So there is no ex-boyfriend named Connor?”

  She made a face. “That part was true.”

  “And what about him cheating on you?”

  “Also true.”

  He took her hand in his. “What about the being-touched part?”

  “True,” she said, but she left her hand in his.

  “More importantly,” he went on, “I hope you don’t remember any of the disturbing things I told you about me.”

  “Only everything,” she said.

  He leaned forward and kissed her. Not too hard. Not too soft. Just a brush of his lips against hers, and yet she had to resist the urge to push him away. Maybe over time she would find a way to let him into her life.

  Sawyer got the feeling he knew she was uncomfortable. He let go of her hand. “Did you know that everyone’s talking about your River Rock article?”

  “Seriously? What are they saying?”

  “That you brought transparency to a town riddled with secrets. Because of your story, the River Rock Rotary Club collected enough money to commission a bronzed statue of four girls.”

  “No way.”

  He pulled out his phone and showed her the drawing he’d seen. “It will be placed in the town square, where everyone can enjoy it.”

  Two life-size girls held the ends of a jump rope while one was getting ready to hop over it. The fourth girl was on a swing, high in the air, grinning from ear to ear.

  “It’s beautiful,” Sawyer said, stunned.

  “Your story made people see how important it is that victims of homicide not be remembered through hushed whispers of tragedy, but instead stand as a reminder to be grateful for the light that each of them brought to the world while they were alive. Those girls will not be forgotten.”

  Sawyer’s gaze met his. “Thank you.”

  He looked around the apartment. “So this is where you’re going to live, huh?”

  She nodded. “It’s perfect.”

  “Let’s go find management,” he said, “and tell them you found a winner.”

  She smiled as she followed him out the door and into the sunlight.

  Harper waited for Nate and the kids to leave before she logged on to her computer and checked in with The Crew.

  LILY: Have you seen the latest?

  CLEO: Latest what?

  LILY: Brad Vicente. The dickless moron. With the waiter’s help, Brad has been doing his best to get the public on his side.

  BUG: He’s been telling the press and anyone who would listen that five female vigilantes wearing wigs attacked him and voted on whether or not to cut off his penis. When asked about the final vote, he said it was three to two not in his favor. He also said the “female mob” used nicknames like Bug and Psycho. Those were the only two names he remembered. He went on to say that he would seek revenge without resorting to such barbaric acts as those who dismembered him.

  PSYCHO: And?

  LILY: Sorry. I had to take care of a problem. Kid just got home from school. Back to Brad. At first his plan to gather sympathy was working. But two days ago, a young woman by the name of Mary McCoy appeared on the local news with her lawyer and stated that Brad Vicente had drugged her and held her captive inside his Midtown house for five days. He’d raped her and tortured her and threatened to kill her and her family if she ever came forward. But when Mary saw Brad on the news, she broke down, couldn’t handle the lies, and she finally opened up to family and friends, who convinced her to tell the truth and go public.

  BUG: I saw that some people were attacking Mary McCoy, calling her a whore because the dress she’d worn to dinner was short and too revealing. One bitch said, “What did she think would happen?” Others are saying she wants to be a part of the Me Too Movement and it’s all for attention.

  LILY: Yes. For an hour or two, it was bad and seemed to be drawing out bullies. But then another woman came forward with her own Brad story, and then another and another. In total, nine women have joined in. A few of them were able to show video and pictures of their date—Brad Vicente. Most of them saved email conversations that proved he knew them. And that, my friends, turned the tables. The bullies have been shamed and quieted.

  PSYCHO: Amen.

  BUG: I read that the police were able to restore Brad’s videos, revealing images that the mayor of Sacramento is calling some of the most disturbing footage he’s ever witnessed.

  LILY: Correct. And the best part, drumroll, please: one hour ago, Brad was leaving the hospital when authorities cuffed him and put him in the back seat of a police vehicle. The reporter said he would be taken straight to jail, no passing “Go.”

  BUG: Yes! And hundreds of men and women had gathered at the hospital and were there to greet him with picket signs, letting him know they were standing with Bug and Psycho and against him and his waiter friend, sending a clear message to every predator out there who thought they could use and abuse and get away with it.

  PSYCHO: Nice.

  LILY: If it weren’t for his ridiculous pleas to social media for justice, I don’t know if things would have turned out so well.

  CLEO: Hallelujah.

  BUG: Not to piss on this party or anything, but I’d like to remind everyone that my reunion is coming up fast. Who’s in?

  PSYCHO: I’ll be there.

  CLEO: Let’s start planning.

  LILY: I’m ready to go.

  Harper placed her hands on her belly. Boy or girl? she wondered. She thought of Nate and Lennon and Ella. It made her stomach queasy to think about what might happen if she were ever caught. Would Nate forgive her? The children had grown up in a bubble of love. How could they possibly understand? Sawyer was moving out, so she wouldn’t be a problem, but what about Aria? She had eyes in the back of her head. Since returning from River Rock, Aria hadn’t said a word about her comings and goings while Nate was gone. Neither had she commented on
the book Harper had told her she was writing. Maybe Aria was so relieved and happy to have all three of them back in Sacramento she’d decided to let it go?

  Or maybe she was watching her every move.

  Dennis Brooks might be dead, Harper thought, but what he’d done to her would live inside her forever. Someday soon she hoped to practice what she preached and let it all go. But today wasn’t that day. Harper reached for the keyboard and typed her answer.

  MALICE: Count me in.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My writing journey has been a long one. So many late nights, tears, and rejections, leaving me to wonder at times if my dream was too big. But determination, perseverance, and endless hours alone, clacking away at the keyboard, paid off in the end. As often happens in life, the struggles only served to make me stronger and more determined than ever to get my books out there in the world.

  Don’t Make a Sound is my fourteenth thriller with Thomas & Mercer. I am grateful for all the editors, past and present, whom I’ve had the good fortune to work with. After working with Liz Pearsons for three years, we finally met in person. Thank you, Liz, for all you do! I’m grateful to have you on my side. I’m also super lucky to again have had the chance to work with Charlotte Herscher. I don’t know if I’ve ever met anyone who works harder. She knows more than most about characterization and plot and what makes a decent thriller. I think she’s brilliant. Thank you to my agent, Amy Tannenbaum, for your knowledge and for being my sounding board for quite a while now. You might have the toughest job of them all. Cheers to Sarah Shaw for her never-ending enthusiasm. I’m also grateful for amazing copyeditor Karen B. Many thanks to super-helpful Sacramento detective Brian McDougle. He’s always ready and willing to answer all my questions. My newest heroine is a journalist, and I must mention Bryan Gruley, an awesome thriller author, who has offered his forty years of journalism experience to help me out. All journalistic errors are his! Just kidding. I asked him one question, and he said, “No. Don’t do that.” If I’d had more time, I would have spent hours picking his brain. Next time!

  No acknowledgment is complete without mentioning my sister, Cathy Katz. She’s been reading my work and offering endless support and inspiration from day one. She is the female version of George Bailey on It’s a Wonderful Life. Without her, the whole world would be less sunny and bright. My youngest daughter, Brittany Ragan, graphic designer and first reader, is the gift that just keeps giving. She’s a natural at telling me which parts of my book suck and need to be fixed immediately. Thank you, Brittany! Thank you also to Morgan Ragan for being my social media expert and so much more! And to Joe Ragan, my husband of nearly thirty-three years, I give my appreciation, thanks, and much love for always being available to brainstorm and figure out how to get my characters and me out of a pickle.