by Jo Davis
He made it to the station and was thankfully able to give his report with little fanfare. Apparently, Shane had told only those who needed to know, including Captain Austin Rainey and a couple of uniforms, and he was grateful. He had no doubt that the entire department would know within the hour, but at least he was able to have some breathing room. A few minutes later, he limped into his partner’s office and closed the door.
Shane looked up from some papers, giving him a half smile. “Hey. He must’ve winged you good.”
“For sure. No point in sitting around at home, though.”
“You might reconsider tomorrow, when it’s worse.”
“We’ll see.” He wouldn’t call in sick unless he was on his deathbed, and they both knew it. Shane just shook his head.
“Tell me exactly what happened.”
He spent the next few minutes giving his partner the rundown, though there wasn’t much to tell. They went back through some of their most recent cases to try to form a list of who might still carry enough of a grudge to commit attempted murder, but although there were several candidates, none were that strong.
“I might have to go back a few years.” Taylor tried to get comfortable in his chair, wincing as he squirmed. “Most of these are in prison or dead. As far as the ones that are out, I can come up with a list as long as my arm of who would run me over if they had the chance, but . . .” He frowned.
“What?”
“This had a different feel. More deliberate. Nothing I can put my finger on, just intuition.”
“Like he was waiting for the opportunity?”
“Exactly. I’ve got no proof, though.”
“You and I both know people kill for two main reasons: passion or money.” His partner eyed him. “Which one do you fit?”
Taylor snorted. “Since I’m not loaded, I’m guessing passion. And there’s all kinds of passion-motived killings. Specifically hate, when it comes to cops.”
Unbidden, his nightmare intruded. Viciously, he shoved it into its box.
“Okay. Someone you or we arrested, then.”
“Maybe.” Rubbing his eyes, he let out a tired breath. “Can we talk about this later? It might not even happen again.”
“Sure.”
Somehow, he didn’t really believe that. A chill slithered down his spine, telling him this was only the start. Could be his overwrought, stressed mind, but it didn’t seem likely that’s all there was to it.
A knock interrupted his thoughts, and Captain Rainey stepped into Shane’s office. “We’ve got a body in the Sugarland Motel. Anonymous caller reported the sound of a gunshot, and Jenkins found the guy plugged between the eyes.”
“Anonymous,” Taylor repeated. “A possible lead right off the bat.”
“That would be too easy.” Shane stood, groaning. “And let me guess: it’s our turn.”
“Yep, you’re on.” The captain looked at Taylor. “You up for this?”
“I’m here, aren’t I? If I was going to laze around, I’d stay home.”
Rainey grinned. “That’s the spirit. Now go get fucking busy.” Turning, the captain strolled out, whistling.
“He’s all heart,” Shane said, making a face.
“At least he’s in a good mood today. Wonder what’s up with that.”
Their captain was having serious marital problems—as in going down the tubes permanently. He’d been tired and haggard the past few months, and they had all been worried about his health. Today, however, he had a spring in his step.
“No clue, but let’s not rock the boat.”
Taylor rose with some difficulty and stiffly followed his partner out the door. Turning down his partner’s offer to drive, he slid behind the wheel and they were off.
On the way, he thought he saw a black truck in traffic, three cars behind. Then it turned and was gone.
• • •
As though nearly being run over wasn’t enough, the corpse with the neat little hole in the center of its forehead turned out to be a harbinger.
A sign of a shit storm heading his way.
Taylor stood next to Shane as both of them studied the dead man sprawled faceup on the floor. His salt-and-pepper hair was surrounded by a sticky pool of blood congealing on the industrial-grade carpet, and his expression was vaguely surprised.
“Who the hell was the poor bastard?” Taylor muttered. “And why did he get popped here, of all places?”
Shane snorted. “He could’ve had the decency to get his ass killed in Nashville, out of our jurisdiction.”
Taylor rolled his eyes at his partner’s crappy joke. “You know what I meant.”
“Yeah.”
Both of them glanced around the small motel room, but there wasn’t much to see. At least on the surface. Carefully stepping around the body, Taylor noted a few clothes hanging in the closet next to the bathroom.
“A change of suits, a couple of pairs of jeans, and three polo shirts.” He peered into the bathroom. “A shaving kit in there. That’s all.”
“Got a small leather carryall on the table, containing underwear and socks. A plane ticket, too, round-trip from LAX to Nashville International and back. Looks like he arrived yesterday, was supposed to fly back in three days. Car keys and his wallet beside the bag.” Shane left the leather trifold sitting on the dresser and flipped it open with the edge of one latex-covered finger. “Max Griffin, born December twelfth, 1946. San Diego address.”
California. Taylor’s heart gave a lurch. He stared at Shane, his friend unaware of his sudden chill. It means nothing. San Diego is not Los Angeles. They’re two different cities 121 miles apart, almost a two-hour drive.
“Interesting,” he managed. “So, the car outside is his rental. He was here for a specific reason, but there’s no evidence of what that might’ve been.”
“Not yet.” Turning, Shane yelled out the open door to the officer who’d arrived first after the call of a gunshot had come in. “Jenk!”
Aaron Jenkins, their new hire at the department, stuck his head in the door. “Yes, sir?”
“Take these and open that rental. See if you can find anything inside to give us a clue why our dead guy was in town.” Shane tossed him the car keys, and the kid caught them one-handed. “Be careful about touching stuff.”
“On it!” His boy-next-door face lit up at the prospect of helping with the investigation.
As he ducked out again, Taylor chuckled. “Damn, were we ever that young and green?”
“Probably, once upon a time.” His partner quirked his mouth in a half smile. “Don’t you ever wish you could go back to your early twenties?”
“For the wild social life and the hot young bod? Sure. For being the low cop on the totem pole again? Not so much.”
“True.”
“Though my bod is still hot.”
“If that’s what you want to tell yourself, old man.”
“Says he who turns the big three-oh next week,” Taylor shot back. “I’m only two years older than you.”
“Just fucking with you.”
“When are you not?”
In truth, Taylor gave as good as he got when it came to his partner. He and Shane had worked in Homicide together for more than four years, since Taylor had moved to Sugarland, Tennessee, from Los Angeles. His mind shied away from the disaster that had prompted his move, and he focused on how content he was here, among people he liked and respected.
He and Shane might trade barbs, but it was all in good fun. His partner had become one of his best friends, and he’d do just about anything for the man. He had no doubt the feeling was mutual.
“Nothing much in the car, sir,” Jenk said, stepping into the room. “Just some fast-food wrappers and a map. Isn’t that odd?”
“What’s that?” Shane asked.
“Well, who us
es a paper road map anymore, right? Most people use their smartphone or a GPS, especially if they’re traveling alone. Hard to read an old-fashioned map when you’re driving.”
That gave his partner pause. “You’re right, though sometimes people prefer the old way of doing things. Reading a smartphone while driving alone would be just as tough.” He sighed. “Come to think of it, we didn’t find a phone at all. Good work.”
The kid beamed at the praise. Taylor suppressed a grin and was about to play Razz the Rookie when Medical Examiner Laura Eden arrived, along with the police department’s forensics unit. The cops jokingly referred to them as Eden and the FU, like a rock group, because they tended to arrive en masse, the head honcho and her entourage. And FU for obvious reasons—not that the forensics guys were all assholes. The term had just stuck.
The room got crowded, so Jenk, Taylor, and Shane moved outside to let them process the scene. There wasn’t much to find, and in less than an hour, Eden was giving them the short version.
“No surprises. Well, not counting the man with the bullet in his brain,” she said dryly. “Based on the blood splatter, this is indeed the murder scene. Mr. Griffin was shot in the forehead at point-blank range with a smaller-caliber handgun. Nothing much to bag except a couple of hairs and some other fibers.”
“They finding any prints?” Taylor asked.
The striking brunette arched a brow. “In a motel room? Seriously, Detective?”
His face heated. “Right.” How stupid of him. Not to mention it sucked to sound like an idiot in front of a gorgeous woman who’d turned him down flat for a dinner date. Twice.
“Anyhow, I’d say he’s been dead for about an hour and a half. That’s all I know, but I’ll send you what I’ve got when I know more.”
Taylor cleared his throat. “We about done here, then?”
Shane nodded, running a hand through his longish brown hair. “Yep. Thanks, Laura.”
“No problem. See you guys.”
It kind of smarted how she just went inside again without a backward glance, all cool professionalism. His partner must’ve noticed something in his expression as they walked to Taylor’s car, because he couldn’t resist making a comment.
“It’s not you, buddy. You’re the one who told me she had a thing for the captain.”
“Yeah, I know,” he grumped as he slid behind the wheel. “Why do women always want the guy who’s not available?”
“They’re twisted like that, my friend. Well, not all of them.” Shane buckled his seat belt. “Just find a different horse to bet on than Laura.”
“Easy for you to say. You snagged a fine woman, and you’ve got a great kid.”
A dopey smile split his friend’s face. “I did, didn’t I? I’m a lucky SOB.”
I will not be jealous. I’m happy for him.
He was, truly. Shane and his new wife, Daisy, had been through hell and so had Shane’s seventeen-year-old godson, Drew Cooper. Being colleagues at the police department had been a minor obstacle for the couple compared to their other troubles, especially helping Drew deal with the trauma of his father’s death. Then there were the awful secrets Drew had been keeping and the danger those secrets had brought into their lives.
But it was over now, and the three of them were forging a new life together.
“Hey, you’re a great guy,” Shane said, sensing the dip in his mood. “You’re going to find a fantastic lady who loves everything about you. You’re funny, easygoing, and you’re a good friend to everyone who knows you.”
“Is this the part where we hug?”
“Shut up, asswipe.”
But he laughed, and Taylor couldn’t help but be a little cheered as he pulled out of the parking lot.
Maybe this day would take a turn for the better after all.
• • •
Max is dead! Oh, God.
Cara Evans pulled the baseball cap low on her head and watched the activity from her hiding place in the park across the street from the Sugarland Motel. Angrily, she swiped away the tears that refused to quit falling. Just as she’d done for the past four goddamned years.
Max had come to town, looking for Cara. Then he’d phoned, urging her in a hushed voice to meet him at the motel. Why had he come to her? Especially now, after all this time? Who killed him and why? His visit could be related to her sister’s murder. Or their father’s estate. Any number of things. But the answers to those questions had died with Max in that awful room.
One thing was for sure: the murdering asshole would pay for snuffing out the life of a good man. The only person she had still counted as a friend in the entire, sorry world. Leaning her head against the rough bark of the tree, she gave up and let the tears flow. For several long moments she allowed herself to grieve, barely aware of the sounds of activity across the street. Gradually, however, she gained a measure of control. Her fingers tightened around a solid object she’d forgotten about.
Max’s iPhone.
She’d be in a fuckton of trouble if and when the cops thought to track its whereabouts. It would be hard to explain her presence in Max’s room and why she’d used the device to make the anonymous call to the police about a gunshot, then lifted it before fleeing the scene. Harder still to convince them she hadn’t killed him, that he was dead when she arrived. But she planned to get rid of the phone. As soon as she took a peek to try to determine why he had wanted to see her so badly. Why he had possibly died for it.
Voices across the motel’s parking lot snared her attention. Peering around the tree, she saw two men in plainclothes emerge from the room. Detectives, from the glint of the shields hooked to their belts at the waist. She’d been too stricken with panic and raw grief to pay attention when they had arrived, so she studied them now.
Both were tall, but the brown-haired one was taller and leaner than the other. The man who was presumably his partner was maybe an inch or two shorter and more muscular. Golden blond hair just covered his ears, layered in a loose, casual style with some wisps of bangs falling into what looked from here to be quite a handsome face—
Recognition hit her like a baseball bat to the head, and though she’d half-expected him to show up, she felt sick. If not for the tree, she would have tumbled to the ground.
Taylor Kayne. Untouchable. Man’s man. Lauded hero.
“Fucking lying murderer,” she whispered, rage welling in her chest. Despair, rotten and black, clogged her throat.
Once again, Kayne was smack in the middle of the hell that was her life. That suited her fine, though. Because the bastard probably didn’t know Cara had come to Sugarland or even have a clue who she was in the first place. He sure as hell didn’t know he was the reason she was here. Or that she knew where he worked, lived, ate, shopped, jogged.
But he would find out soon. She was biding her time, waiting for the perfect moment. Then she’d spring her trap. Force him to spill every last filthy secret that should have corroded his guts by now.
Detective Taylor Kayne was going to confess to murdering her sister.
And then Cara would exact her long-awaited revenge.
2
His phone call was late. And Snyder knew he hated to be kept waiting.
Rolling his shoulders against the knots of tension, Dmitri Constantine picked up his glass of Scotch and swirled it over the ice. Then he took a generous swallow and walked to the window to stare out at the traffic crawling like ants far below his high-rise condo.
And as always, he thought of her.
His fingers tightened on the glass as he battled back the helpless rage. His life had ended four years ago, three times over, and he was the one who ended up paying the price. That, however, was a situation that would finally be rectified.
A vibration in his pocket cut into his stark musings and he pulled his smartphone from his pants. “Give me good news,” he said curtl
y.
“The first target is shaken, not stirred.” A chuckle followed Snyder’s attempt at humor.
Dmitri didn’t laugh. “Alive?”
The man sobered. “Of course. I know my job.”
His gut tightened in anticipation. Making Kayne suffer was going to be a glorious thing. “Good. And the second target?”
“On ice, as requested. He didn’t have time to pass along what he knew,” Snyder said. “I made certain of that.”
Now Dmitri sensed a hesitation in his man’s voice. “But?”
“I lost the woman after she left the scene.”
“Not what I wanted to hear,” he said with barely restrained anger. “You’ll find her again.”
“She’s as wily as a fucking fox, but she can’t evade me forever. I’ll find her.”
“Call me when you have more news. And don’t make me wait too long.”
The news intrigued Dmitri. Jennifer’s sister was no doubt spooked by Griffin’s murder. But before that, she couldn’t possibly have known anyone with ties to her past was closing in. Which meant she had her own agenda in Tennessee—an agenda Griffin had been paid well to inflame.
If he’d done a better job of that, he’d still be breathing.
“Yes, sir. I—”
Hanging up on Snyder, he crossed the room and lowered himself to his leather sofa. Then he placed his highball glass on the coffee table and continued to stare out the window. Anyone observing him now would be fooled by his outward calm. His cool collectedness.
They wouldn’t guess that he’d learned his patience in prison. Some lessons in that hellhole had been worth the price.
And the reward would be more than worth the wait.
• • •
Cara’s brain was rudely snatched from sleep as she registered Steven Tyler screeching about a dude looking like a lady. Rolling over, she blinked at the cheap digital alarm clock near her head. Then she reached out and slapped it multiple times until the annoying thing fell silent.
