by Rita Herron
He emitted a long sigh. “Are you certain that’s necessary? We all know what the original report said.”
“Maybe the ME overlooked something,” she argued. “And I’m curious to know if there were any changes in his body after the mix-up at the morgue.”
“I’m sure the ME would have alerted us if there had been something suspicious.”
“There has to be something, or why else would someone destroy the reports?”
Another long pause. “I don’t know.”
“Then we have to have Bruno examined again. You do want the truth about his death, don’t you?”
“Of course I do.” Anger and annoyance filled his tone. “But we’re knee-deep in the department with all these bodies being snatched. And a woman was strangled tonight.”
“I know those cases are important,” Grace said, “but so was Bruno.” Her voice choked and she paused to gather her composure. “Please, Captain…”
“All right. I’ll start the process.”
She thanked him and disconnected the call, rolling her shoulders to alleviate the tension as she headed to the shower. Her muscles were stiff and sore from her tumble down the steps the day before, but she ignored the aches as she bathed and dressed to go to the hospital.
Before she left she retrieved her photo album from the antique trunk, which had belonged to her parents, in the den. Now it doubled as a coffee table, while the quilt her mother and grandmother had hand sewn lay across the rocking chair where her father used to sit and smoke his pipe. Warm memories filled her along with the need for justice for them. She could see her mother in the old-fashioned kitchen with its checkered curtains, baking homemade apple pies and biscuits. She and Bruno would spread butter and honey on them and eat them at the beach. Then they’d carry the extras down to feed the seagulls.
For a moment she closed her eyes and could smell the tantalizing aroma of cinnamon and apples. And the pungent odor of her father’s cigar….
Tears threatened to choke her, but she swallowed them back, although when she opened her eyes the room blurred. In that second, images of her father and Bruno out in the yard throwing the softball floated back. Others followed—she and her mother collecting seashells in the early morning, checking the tides for the best time to go crabbing. The time her father lost his sunglasses in the inlet and they’d joked about an alligator eating them….
She wanted her own family someday, children and pets, wanted to make those kinds of memories with them. She imagined a small towheaded little girl or a brown-haired little boy skipping down to the seashore, smiling in awe as an osprey took flight, digging in the sand to find a secret tunnel to China….
Not the kind of life she’d ever have with a cop like Parker Kilpatrick.
Why was she thinking about a family with him? She barely knew him.
Stifling the silly fantasy, she skimmed through the book, noting the photographs of her and Bruno as they’d grown up. She had checked his homework when he was little, tutored him in spelling, taught him to dance when he asked his first girlfriend to the Valentine dance, and both feared for him and encouraged him when he’d joined the police academy.
In turn, Bruno had protected her from brutes in high school because even at thirteen, he’d towered over her and had played the big brother. He had encouraged her to take out a loan to attend nursing school and they’d celebrated together after graduation.
And on the day he’d been buried, she’d promised to keep his St. Christopher medal safe and to find his killer.
She wiped her eyes, closed the photo album and placed it back in the trunk, safeguarding it with her memories and love for the family she’d lost. Then she grabbed her purse and headed to her car.
She coasted along the street from her cottage, turned onto the main road and drove toward the hospital. Parker was probably being transferred to the Coastal Island rehab facility, and she wanted to see him first.
Traffic was surprisingly light for the summer as she drove along the coast, but suddenly a Camaro pulled out in front of her. She swerved to avoid it and hit the brakes, but her car accelerated instead. She fought panic and patted them with her foot, but nothing happened.
Another car blared its horn and she swerved back to the right side of the road, but the car skidded, she raced over the embankment and dove into the salt marsh. The impact jerked her forward and she screamed as the seat belt clenched her backward. Still, she pumped the brakes but they failed completely.
The car bounced over another rut and pitched headfirst in a pit in the marsh, jerking her forward. Her seat belt snapped, breaking, and she threw her arms in front of her to keep from hitting the steering wheel, but the impact was too strong and her body was thrown against the wheel. She braced for the air bag, but it didn’t deploy, and her head slammed against the steering wheel.
Stars swam before her eyes and she tasted blood, then the world swirled into a black fog of nothingness.
HE PULLED TO THE SIDE of the embankment, parked and stared into the marsh at Grace Gardener’s car, his heart racing. Just as he’d planned, the air bag hadn’t deployed.
And she wasn’t moving to get out.
Had she hit her head? Suffered internal injuries? Was she dead?
He rolled the cigarette between his fingers, then lit it and watched the smoke curl and float into the hazy sky as he scanned the highway. Hopefully no one would spot her crashed car from the main road, at least long enough for her to suffer.
And if she had survived, maybe she’d at least be scared enough to stop asking questions, and sticking her nose into matters that she shouldn’t.
But he hoped to hell she was dead, before she discovered the truth.
He couldn’t take a chance on getting caught or being exposed.
No matter who he had to kill, he’d keep his secrets….
Chapter Ten
Parker frowned as he read the morning paper. A waitress from a local café had been murdered—strangled by a pair of silk panties, and left dead in a hotel on the outskirts of town. Police had not revealed the victim’s identity and reported no leads, but were investigating.
Damn. Halloween this year had brought out the worst crazies. And with this new crime, manpower would definitely be split on the force.
A knock sounded at the door and David Roundtree, Bruno’s sandy-blond-haired former partner, poked his head into the room. Parker had never spent time with the undercover cop, but he recognized him from the department.
He stood and extended his hand. “Detective Parker Kilpatrick.”
Roundtree introduced himself and Parker explained his concerns about Grace and her brother’s death.
Roundtree sat in the stiff vinyl chair across from Parker’s bed while Parker purposely remained on the edge of the bed facing him, unwilling to look like an invalid by climbing in bed. “Tell me about Bruno Gardener,” Parker said.
“What do you want to know?”
“What kind of man he was. What he was working on. If he shared anything about his sister with you.”
Roundtree narrowed his eyes. “What about the sister?”
“They were close?”
“Yes,” Roundtree said without preamble. “He adored Grace, told me time and time again that she had helped raise him, that she was intelligent and tough, that he wished he could have spared her the pain of witnessing her parents’ shooting.”
“So he was still investigating their deaths?”
“Investigating? Hell, he was obsessed with solving it. Said he hated to know the killer had gone free all these years while he and Grace had been robbed of their family.”
“Do you believe Bruno committed suicide?”
Roundtree sighed and crossed his ankles. “The evidence pointed to that.”
Parker hardened his voice, “That’s not what I asked.”
Roundtree met his gaze head-on. “I didn’t think he was suicidal, no. But something could have happened to trigger it that he didn’t share with me.”
“Grace doesn’t think so.”
“She’s his sister. She doesn’t want to believe that he would choose to leave her.”
Another thought struck Parker—maybe Bruno hadn’t been strong enough to handle whatever he’d discovered.
“I’m still not convinced he took his own life,” Parker said. “Not if he was so obsessed with solving the case. And not if he was the protective brother I assume he was. He wouldn’t have left Grace with a killer on the loose.”
Roundtree chuckled sardonically. “Damn right about him being protective. He watched her like a hawk when they went out. And he was always cautioning her about strangers and the men she dated.”
“Was there anyone specific that he was concerned about?”
“Not that I know of.” Roundtree twisted his mouth sideways. “But he feared that the guy who killed his folks would come after Grace one day. He even thought that one day she might identify the killer.”
Parker tensed. “Did Grace see the killer’s face?”
Roundtree shook his head. “Not according to the reports. But who knows what really happened. She was a traumatized seven-year-old. She might have known the man.”
Parker contemplated that suggestion.
Roundtree shrugged. “It was one of Bruno’s theories. Although the shooting read like a professional hit.”
“So someone could have hired the gunman to kill the family.”
Roundtree nodded. “Exactly.”
Although Juan Carlos might have killed Bruno for revenge, he hadn’t spent that much time in jail for the drug charges, and had just gotten paroled. Murdering a cop was not only risky but a big jump from his prior offense.
Although the man probably needed money. What if someone hired Carlos to kill Bruno?
It could be the same man who’d killed the Gardeners.
PAIN SPLINTERED Grace’s temple as she forced her eyes open, but sunshine blinded her and the world spun in a drunken haze.
Where was she? What had happened?
She brought one hand up to rub her temple and felt a sticky, thick substance. Blood. She must have hit her head.
Her breath rushed out as memories surfaced. The car swerving in front of her. Trying to avoid it. Slamming on the brakes and careening over the embankment.
The brakes not working.
The car crashing into the marsh. Her seat belt snapping. The air bag failing to deploy.
Then the darkness.
Now the car was stuck in the marsh, the nose sinking deeper into the murk.
She licked her lips and tasted blood. Panic clawed at her at the numbness in her limbs. Her legs felt heavy, her body weighty and achy. Fighting hysteria, she tried to move them and managed to wiggle her toes and one leg. Her right one was trapped beneath the warped steering wheel.
A sob wrenched her throat, but she swallowed it back, praying someone had seen her crash. But when she angled her head to look behind her, she couldn’t see the road. Unless she escaped herself, no one would find her.
She inhaled. She had to save herself. Find her phone and call 9-1-1.
She glanced frantically on the seat for her purse and spotted it on the floor, the contents spilled across the mat. Determination kicked in, and she twisted and wiggled her body until she lay sideways on the seat. Her fingers touched the purse strap, but the world swirled in a haze and she closed her eyes, fighting nausea.
It took her several seconds and half a dozen deep breaths before she could open her eyes again. Sweat trickled down her neck into her shirt. Her hands shook as she grasped the purse and dragged it onto the seat.
Her compact still lay on the floor along with her brush and a package of tissues, but no phone, so she dug inside the handbag and searched for it.
Trembling, she managed to find it and flipped it open, but when she punched the connect button, nothing happened. Oh, God, the battery was dead. She must have forgotten to charge it.
Tears choked her and she threw the phone back in her bag, despair sucking at her. The car felt as if it was slipping deeper into the marsh, the heat outside radiating off the leather seats and dash.
She didn’t have time to sit here and feel sorry for herself. Mentally shaking herself, she wiped at her eyes and swallowed hard. She had to make it to the road. Her legs were fine, just bruised, and even though her head was throbbing like the devil, she could walk. She would climb over the embankment to the street and flag down help.
She tried to open the door, but it was jammed, the bottom of the car sinking into the marsh. She nearly screamed in frustration. A second later she opened the window, threw her purse over her shoulder, then wiggled sideways until she managed to jerk her leg out from under the warped steering wheel. Heaving herself up onto the seat, she gripped the window frame and crawled through it.
Then she lunged forward onto the wet ground, landing on her hands and knees. Her wrist buckled and she almost collapsed, but gritted her teeth and righted herself. Her shoes sank into the water, wet sand oozing up around the soles, and she swiped the slush off her hands onto her nurse’s uniform. Her breathing was choppy, and the sun blinded her, making her vision blur.
She hesitated, swayed and leaned over, bracing her hands on her knees until the world slid back into focus. Perspiration beaded on her lip and forehead, and mosquitoes buzzed and nipped at her arms and legs as she forced herself to move across the marsh. Her legs ached as the muck sucked at her feet, and her lungs begged for air, but she dragged herself onward. One step. Another. Another.
Slowly she slogged through the sea oats, the thick layers scratching her bare skin as she climbed the embankment. She was sweating and heaving for air as she finally reached the top, but she spotted the road and sheer self-preservation spurned her forward until she reached the asphalt. Her soggy shoes skidded on the gravel and shells, and she twisted her ankle, then pitched forward and collapsed at the edge of the hot pavement.
Blinking against the tears and sweat streaming down her face, she tried to scream for help, but her parched throat closed and again the world went black.
PARKER PACED to the window in his room, then turned to face Roundtree. “Did Bruno have any new leads on his parents’ case?”
Roundtree averted his gaze, a telltale sign that he might be hiding something.
“He did, didn’t he?” Parker asked.
“He didn’t have anything concrete.”
“Come on, spill it, Roundtree,” Parker said. “What was going on?”
Roundtree glanced at the door as if to verify they were alone, then lowered his voice. “He thought that his parents were killed because his father discovered one of his fellow officers was on the take.”
Parker studied his grave expression and realized Roundtree was conflicted over divulging Bruno’s suspicions. Tossing around charges against coworkers for impropriety was always tricky business, but to accuse seasoned cops of something that had happened so many years ago would be near impossible to prove. And it would raise the hackles of everyone at the precinct. Getting Internal Affairs involved, having them probe into the officers’ private lives and past would stir up anger, resentment and a hornet’s nest of trouble.
Yet who had better access to criminals for hire than the cops who dealt with them on a daily basis, the ones who arrested them?
“Do you have a name?” Parker asked.
Roundtree shook his head. “No. The best person to ask would be Jim Gardener’s old partner, Frank Johnson.”
“I take it he’s retired?”
Roundtree nodded. “A few years ago. But he still lives in Savannah. According to Bruno, Johnson acted as sort of a surrogate father to him and his sister.”
Parker would ask Grace about the man, then he’d talk to Frank himself. And if Frank Johnson knew anything, Parker would convince him to come clean, that the only way to keep Grace safe was to finally confess the truth.
Roundtree stood to leave so Parker thanked him, then a minute later, Dr. Knightly came in, examined
him and went to sign transfer papers. Parker was elated. He’d be moving back into the rehab facility, but soon he’d leave there and return to his own cabin. Back to his job full-time.
Until then he’d continue working behind the scenes.
He was packing the few meager things he’d brought with him to the hospital when Walsh poked his head in. “How’re you doing?”
“Good.” He told him about his release and Bradford dropped a stack of files on the bedside table.
“Here are the reports of all the bodies that went missing and were recovered. Look them over and see if you find anything that might help us catch these guys.”
“I thought you were going to question those two teenagers you found unloading bodies?”
“We’re still running them down. Hopefully I’ll have them in custody this afternoon.”
“I’d like to be there when you question those boys.”
Bradford ran a hand through his hair. “Parker, I know you’re anxious to get back on the streets, but you can help more by studying these files. We need a fresh eye.”
Parker chewed the inside of his cheek. “All right. But did you find out if they ever enhanced that photo of the guy who attacked Grace?”
“Yes, but it was still hard to see the man’s face. We showed it around the hospital but no one recognized him.”
“What about Carlos?”
“We haven’t found him yet.”
Damn. “We need to ASAP. I have a feeling he was paid to kill Grace.”
Bradford arched a brow. “Then he’ll spill his guts with a little pressure.”
“Exactly.” He grabbed his bag and headed to the door. “I’m being released. I want to talk to Grace before I move back into the rehab center.”
“I can drive you over. But I thought you had to leave here in a wheelchair.”
“Over my dead body.”
Walsh laughed and clapped him on the back, and they exited the room. Parker passed Dr. Knightly in the hall with his release papers, but he looked agitated, and two of the nurses hovered at the nurses’ station, with frantic expressions on their faces.
