“I really don’t like this,” he said.
Aurora plucked Richie’s file box from the floorboard. “See you tomorrow morning. My appointment with Detective Holmstead is at ten.”
“I know you heard me.”
“What was that?” She slanted her head as if she couldn’t hear.
He scowled. “I’m coming in to clear the house.”
“Well, of course you are.”
Beckett climbed out of the Tahoe and walked Aurora up to the front door. She unlocked it and he entered first. A few moments later, he deemed it safe and she kicked off her shoes. “See you in the morning.”
He hemmed and hawed around, then left. She locked the door and lit the fireplace. By the time she had finished making a few notes to ask Detective Holmstead, it was nearly nine o’clock. A low whistle pushed through the small crevices in the plywood covering the broken window. The glass man was coming out the day after tomorrow.
She crawled in bed and watched the news until she couldn’t stay awake. The phone rang, startling her from sleep. Glancing at the clock, she growled. Eleven o’clock.
Unknown Caller.
She ignored it, her nerves fraying.
It rang again.
Silence filled the house except for the hum of her heating unit kicking on. Please leave me alone.
The shrill of the phone came once more. She answered. “Stop calling. It won’t change anything. And you’re not scaring me.” Lies. Lies. Lies.
Nothing but a low exhalation. She hung up.
He called back.
After a few more times, she turned her cell phone off and padded to the kitchen for some chamomile tea. She filled her teapot and set it on the stove to boil. Leaning against the kitchen counter, she focused on calming her pulse.
The kettle whistled.
The light above the stove flickered and died.
She peeked under the microwave. Bulb must have burned out. She switched on the kitchen light.
Nothing.
A sense of dread pooled in her gut. She crept into the living room and turned the switch on the lamp.
Darkness.
Might have tripped the circuit. She tiptoed down the hall, refraining from the instinct goading her to sprint. She entered her room and retrieved her gun and a book light. She wasn’t the idiot heroine who walked outside without a weapon. She flicked the safety off and approached the garage to flip the breaker. Invisible fingers slid across her skin, raising goose bumps.
It’s a tripped circuit. That’s it.
Muted moonlight left a sliver across the frigid concrete floor. Aurora quivered. Maybe from winter monopolizing the garage. Maybe a fair amount of fear. Probably both. She hurried to the metal breaker box and shined the book light on the black switches.
Yep. Tripped circuit. She slid it left and back to the right, then relaxed. “Stupid breaker. You picked a fine time to fail me.”
A whiff of that same scent from her office snaked into her nostrils.
Hairs stood on end, awareness hammering her like a gavel against the sound block.
No time to move or swivel toward the presence in the garage. A strong arm shrouded in a black jacket came around her torso, pinning her arms to her sides; a gloved hand sealed her mouth and nose.
Can’t breathe!
Panic kicked in, sending a sour taste to her throat and leaving her light-headed. She still clung to her gun, but he had her across the forearms, pinned and unable to aim even at his foot.
Aurora stomped the attacker’s toes as hard as she could, then bent forward, throwing him off balance. When he loosened his grip she swung around. A mask covered his face.
Bringing the gun up, she aimed, but he ducked as she fired, then he tore through the door leading into her house.
The front door slammed.
Aurora bent at the knees and gulped for air.
The odd scent remained, and she couldn’t quite place it other than that it had been in her office earlier.
Why would her attacker be interested in Richie’s files? A frightening thought knocked her off balance.
What if the tossed whiskey bottle had nothing to do with the earlier calls and attacks? What if this had everything to do with her nosing into Gus McGregor’s murder?
THREE
Gunfire!
Beckett knew that reverberating sound anywhere. Instinct kicked in and he laid on the gas.
Three houses down from Aurora, a figure fled through the woods. Beckett threw the Tahoe into Park, leaped from it, drew his weapon and hauled his tail across Aurora’s neighbors’ yards in pursuit.
If the assailant was running, he probably wasn’t injured, at least not fatally.
But Aurora might be.
He skidded to a halt and doubled back to Aurora’s, his pulse pounding in his temples.
He cautiously opened her front door.
He should have fought harder—demanded she stay elsewhere, done a drive-by sooner, staked out her place. He continued to mentally kick himself as he inched through her house.
His phone rang.
He ignored it.
“Counselor?” he called from the dining room, then worked his way warily down the hall.
Training his gun on her bedroom door, he toed it open a crack.
A pop sounded and he hit the floor. “Aurora! It’s Beckett!”
The door opened wider and she peered down at him, wild-eyed, gun in hand.
“Could you point that somewhere besides my head, please, ma’am?”
She slid her finger across the safety and lowered it. “Sorry. I tried to call you.”
Must have been the call he ignored. He stood. She was safe. “I heard a gunshot and saw someone running from the house.” He closed the distance between them and touched her cheek. “I’m sorry for letting you down.”
She shook her head. “No. It’s not your fault.”
Except it 100 percent was. “What happened?”
Aurora bit her bottom lip. “You’re going to be livid. I might have withheld some information.”
“What information?”
“Before you start getting all alpha male on me, let me tell the whole story.”
Alpha male? He’d laugh if he wasn’t half scared out of his mind. “Fine.”
She explained everything and with each word his blood pressure rose. “So you couldn’t identify him?”
“Like I said, he wore a ski mask.”
“And you’re not holdin’ back anything else? I know everything?” He clenched his teeth.
“Yes.”
He restrained from blowing a gasket, balled and released his fists, then repeated. “So I don’t need to remind you that if something else happens, even minor to you, I’m to be informed. Immediately.”
“Sir, yes, sir.” She huffed.
She hated being bossed. He wasn’t bossing. He was used to being in charge and people following orders. Aurora was a little alpha herself. Total type A. He’d have to work on his approach with her.
“Please,” he offered as politely as possible.
She placated him. “I will.”
Why would someone upset about the verdict yesterday dig through her dead brother’s case files? What would be the point?
“Were your filing cabinets disturbed?” Maybe someone was hunting down a file on Austin Bledsoe.
“Not that I could tell. Not like Richie’s files.”
So it was probable that the other files hadn’t been snooped through. He couldn’t connect the dots. Frustration forced him to grind his jaw and growl under his breath. “Well, you can’t stay here the rest of the night. I never liked that idea anyway. He could come back.” Whoever he was.
“It’s one a
.m. I’d rather not wake up Kelly or the McKnights.” She hung her head. “I can’t believe I’m going to run scared.”
“You’re not. You’re being smart and taking precautions. How did he get in your garage? Would you have heard it being manually opened?”
“Yes.”
Beckett searched entry points while concocting a plan to protect her. At the bathroom, he stopped and pointed to the guest bathroom window. “Point of entry.” Dusty footprints lined the tub. He gnawed the inside of his cheek. “I can have the bathroom printed.”
“He wore gloves.”
“Still.” But she was right. It would probably be a dead end like she said would happen with the trace on her phone last night. Burner phone. Untraceable.
How long had this guy been inside her house, waiting until she went to sleep before creeping to the garage and tripping the breaker?
Aurora’s wide eyes and pale cheeks testified that she was thinking the same thing. “I should have checked all my locks after the threats.”
Beckett touched the windowsill. “See these slivers of wood and paint? He used something to pry it open. It was locked.”
She gawked at the chipped sill.
“It’s gonna be okay.” He wasn’t letting her out of his sight. Not for one second.
She nodded. “What do we do about the rest of the night?”
He’d been thinking about that. “I’d stay here, but I don’t need any gossip. I’ll take you to the Magnolia Inn. Pack a bag.” He waited while she packed, then he loaded her up and drove her over to the Magnolia. Claire MacKay stood behind the desk sipping coffee.
“Hey, Sheriff. What brings you in this time of night?” She yawned and held up her cup. “I need a stronger brew.”
“I need two adjoining rooms.”
“Why?” Aurora marched up to the desk.
Beckett cut his eyes at her and she tilted her head, hesitantly resigning to the fact he was getting a room next door. Period.
“Fine,” she grumbled.
“Anyone rings the desk or calls for Aurora, patch them through to my room.” Beckett was taking every precaution.
“Of course.” She handed them keys and didn’t ask questions. He liked that about her. He was glad it wasn’t her sister, Keeley, working tonight’s shift. She was an entirely different story. “Breakfast is served from six until nine.”
“You serve eggs?” he asked.
“We do.” She gave him a puzzled expression.
“We’ll be down for our courage at eight.”
A puff of air escaped Aurora’s nose and Claire stood befuddled. “Off with ya’ then. Enjoy your sleep.”
Upstairs. Safer. He led Aurora to her room and set down her bags, then unlocked the door leading to his room. “Don’t lock this.”
Her nostrils flared.
He’d ordered her again. “Please,” he added.
Aurora sat on the edge of the queen-size bed. “I won’t. Thank you, Beckett.”
For what? Showing up late? “You defended yourself. Nice work, Counselor.”
“I think you could call me Aurora. I’d be comfortable with that.” She half smiled and his chest tightened.
“Aurora,” he rasped. Felt entirely too right rolling off his tongue. “Doesn’t fit.” He tipped an invisible hat. “Night, Counselor.”
She kicked off her shoes. “Night, Sheriff.”
Beckett closed the door and laid his gun on the nightstand. What if Aurora hadn’t been the shooter but the victim? The assailant had gotten into her house. Lain in wait. God had spared her life. Too bad He hadn’t spared Meghan’s. Didn’t they all deserve to be rescued? Why did some receive help and some didn’t? He’d been struggling with that question while trying to maintain his faith and trust in God. But the more he questioned, the more he doubted.
At 7:45 a.m. he knocked on Aurora’s door. She opened it. The same dark circles drooped under her eyes as his and she was paler than usual, her hair pulled back in that tight knot on her neck. Her room held that flowery signature scent of hers. “Ready?”
“Yes. Thank you for accompanying me today. I know you have a county to take care of.” She grabbed her purse and briefcase.
“Today, I’m taking care of you. No protests.” He motioned for her to exit the room and he followed her downstairs where she ate poached eggs and he helped himself to a stack of pancakes. “We better hit the road if we want to make that ten o’clock appointment.”
“I’d like to take my car. I don’t want to make it obvious I’m investigating, and riding around in a sheriff’s vehicle does exactly that—although by now all of Richfield knows. It’s not much bigger than Hope.” Aurora pulled her scarf tight around her neck as he paid, then they walked to the Tahoe.
“You want to drive your keyed car around? I can run it by Wallace’s shop. Get it repainted. Set you up with a rental.”
“I thought about having it fixed, but then I figured someone might do something else to it and I might as well wait until the threats die down and have it repaired in one fell swoop. Besides, I need whoever did it to know it doesn’t bother me.”
“You worry too much about what people think.”
She clicked her seat belt in place and brushed invisible lint from her pant leg, then stared straight ahead.
Someone had done a number on her. Her false sense of security tugged at something deep within him. The pretty redhead wasn’t fooling him. She was guarding herself from further pain. Pretending to be immune. A sudden urge to take that torment away knocked him full force. He shouldn’t be having these feelings. Not for defense attorney Aurora Daniels. “We’ll pick up your car and you can follow me to the station. I’ll leave my vehicle there.”
Twenty minutes later, they were on the road to Richfield, Mississippi. They made small talk, avoiding their professions. He talked a little about the navy. About his best friend, Wilder. She shared a few stories from law school and how she came to a vast knowledge about cars. Her grandfather and Richie had been mechanics. She’d liked spending time with them both. They hit 15 South and came into Richfield.
“So, I...didn’t have a lot growing up. And I kind of got picked on in school. If you’re expecting to see lots of hugs and me connecting with tons of friends, you won’t. The day I graduated, I flew this coop so fast your head would spin.”
Beckett couldn’t imagine a woman as sharp, bright and beautiful as Aurora being bullied. “Financial status shouldn’t dictate your social status. My mom and dad divorced when I was only three. He moved to California and pretty much wrote us off. I understand not coming from much. Mama worked three jobs and an extra part-time at Christmas to make sure I got what I wrote to Santa for.”
Aurora’s expression was knowing and kind. “If we got Christmas presents, we got them from my grandfather. But he died when I was fifteen. I admit, I’m kind of glad. Seeing Richie go to prison for a crime he didn’t commit would have killed him.”
He hadn’t even asked. “What was he convicted of?”
Aurora heaved a breath. “Murder. Second degree.”
Murder. Well, this brought the attacks into a new light. Aurora had mentioned that someone had been in her office nosing through her files. Beckett didn’t like it, but he hadn’t expected it to link to this case. If Richie was innocent—and Beckett wasn’t so sure—then the real killer was out there. He was probably from this town and knew that Aurora was poking around.
“Can you give me the rundown of the case?” Beckett shifted in the passenger seat, his legs cramping.
“The file box is back there—grab it if you want. We’re heading to a café to meet with Detective Holmstead.”
Beckett grabbed a thick folder from the box and flipped it open. “Dwight Holmstead?”
“Yep.”
Beckett skimmed the c
ontents. “Gus McGregor. Killed in his own shop. Blunt force trauma to the back of the head. Murder weapon was a wrench.”
“They didn’t find any prints except Gus’s and Richie’s, but he employed four other mechanics. Any one of them could have worn gloves. Or they could have used another wrench and planted that one at the scene of the crime.”
Beckett had some doubt. “Gus’s blood was found on this wrench and it was lying near the body. That’s clearly the murder weapon.”
Aurora white-knuckled the wheel. “Not enough blood to determine if it was the murder weapon, but enough to prove he had indeed bled on it. Not even a trace of scalp or skull. There could be another weapon out there. With more than a few traces of Gus’s blood. But the public defender didn’t even bring that up. And why would someone leave a murder weapon lying right there?”
Beckett grunted as he scanned statements from four witnesses stating Richie had been in the local bar drinking—inebriation would be a great reason to leave a murder weapon on the scene—and spouting off that Gus had swindled him out of several hundred dollars of pay. “A witness testified that she heard Richie say he was going over to Gus’s to ‘get his.’”
“So what. He didn’t go, and no one can validate that he did.”
“Can’t prove he didn’t.”
She huffed as she whipped into a parking lot. “Can you not say anything? You’re here as a...a bodyguard not a lawman. In fact, maybe come in ten minutes after me and sit at a table alone.”
He laughed. “This is a small town. You think people aren’t gonna figure out we’re together because we sit at separate tables? I’ll be quiet.”
She snorted and snatched the file from Beckett. “I’m here to establish my brother didn’t do it. Remember that.”
“Noted.” He pointed to his temple. “Like an elephant, I am.”
“I’d go with mule, but...” She smirked and stepped into icebox-like weather. Beckett followed her inside the small café. The smell of spices, down-home cooking and camaraderie clung to the air. A few patrons acknowledged them, then returned to their meals and conversation.
Final Verdict Page 4
