Grave Danger

by Rachel Grant

  All he knew was he’d never wanted to be wrong so badly. Wound up with anger, self-loathing, and treacherous hope, he decided to go to the station and read Jason’s report. While there, he’d review the fingerprint evidence and the notes on the interview with Eli Banks. Jason was probably half in love with Libby himself. He could be wrong.

  Guilty or innocent, Mark didn’t doubt that Jason could get her off. Libby would do well with a man like Jason at her side. Shit. He’d never felt so raw and exposed.

  The station was quiet. He strode to his office. An inch-thick manila envelope from Jason sat front and center on his desk. Mark reached for it with a combination of apprehension and hope, knowing it was Jason’s opening salvo in his quest to clear Libby. In the cover letter, Jason requested Mark’s attendance at tomorrow’s meeting with the prosecutor and said he included copies of his findings so Mark could familiarize himself with the case. As if Mark didn’t have the details memorized.

  He looked through the attached documents. Jason was thorough and fast. In addition to copies of Libby’s cost proposal and scope of work, he’d included man-hour estimates from other archaeological consulting firms, just as Libby had suggested. Based on man-hour estimates alone, her cost proposal was in the middle range, higher than three, lower than two. Mark wondered briefly how Jason had gotten such a quick response from the other consulting firms. If they had a connection to Libby, they might’ve skewed their estimates to help her.

  The cost estimate included additions to the scope of work. Jack had signed off on all the additions with the exception of the last one, which was in negotiation. Libby’s estimate for the new task wasn’t an alarming sum. Compared to the overall budget, it was hardly significant.

  She didn’t have a motive.

  Mark rocked back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. His stomach clenched as if he’d been punched in the gut. Without motive, he had a hard time believing Libby was guilty of anything.

  Jason had a plausible theory for how her fingerprints could be found on the adhesive side of the duct tape that covered her mouth, plausible enough for reasonable doubt and therefore limiting the fingerprint evidence’s impact in court. Luke hadn’t told him her prints were only found on the first piece ripped from the roll.

  Shit. Mark was the worst cop in history. In any other situation, he would have thoroughly reviewed the evidence before ordering her arrest.

  There were problems with the wine bottle used for the Molotov cocktail. Other fingerprints found on the bottle hadn’t been matched. Jason wanted them run to prove the attacker used a wine bottle found in Libby’s recycle bin.

  Mark hadn’t looked closely at the bottle that night, nor had he seen it since. He left his office and went to the evidence room. He found the bin that stored the Maitland evidence. One look at the bottle confirmed what he’d both hoped and dreaded. It was the bottle he’d opened for Libby five nights before her attack. Some of the unmatched prints were his.

  Jason would make Mark the star defense witness. Her fingerprints on the bottle weren’t evidence of her guilt any more than his meant he was the attacker. Except for the eyewitness, they had nothing solid to support attempted arson.

  He returned to his office and continued reading Jason’s brief. Next Jason dealt with the Taser. He acknowledged the three important pieces of evidence against her: the Anti-Felon Identification tags which were found in Libby’s kitchen were traced back to one of the air cartridges she had purchased, the batteries in her Taser had not been depleted, and the downloadable weapon log showed the weapon had been fired only once and for less than a second. Jason theorized that Libby’s attacker had brought a Taser to the house that night. He or she affixed Libby’s own air cartridge to the weapon before shooting her. After Libby had been bound and subdued, the assailant then attached the dispelled cartridge to Libby’s Taser and fired one short blast to make it look like hers had been used only long enough to release the tags.

  Jason’s argument was convincing. It fit well with the increasing possibility that Libby was framed. Even if they managed to keep the Taser as evidence, the weapon only supported a hoax charge, not attempted arson. Mark doubted the prosecutor would want to pursue a hoax case if they couldn’t prove attempted arson.

  Mark moved on from the Taser data to Jason’s transcript of his interview with Eli Banks. Jason had hired a court reporter to record the session and the document was signed and notarized. Banks changed the timing of Libby’s return home twice during the interview. He changed his description of what she wore and described the gas cans as metal, not plastic. He adamantly insisted that whatever he told the police when they interviewed him was correct, and he couldn’t be expected to remember everything. Just forty-eight hours after Luke interviewed Banks, his story had changed completely.

  Without the witness, without fingerprints, without motive, they had no case. He should, in fact, look to see whether anyone else bought a Taser in the week prior to Libby’s attack.

  But if she was innocent, then his words, his treatment of her, was awful.

  She would never forgive him.

  Mark pulled Luke’s file on the investigation. The notes were incomplete. Luke had interviewed Banks alone; there would be no testimony to corroborate his account of how lucid the elderly man had been. Luke’s information on motive was based on hearsay. He didn’t seek out any sources to counterpoint the hearsay argument. In contrast, Jason provided letters from no less than ten of Libby’s previous clients, all lauding her work and professionalism. Every one of them said they would be pleased to work with her again. Jason had gathered this in just two days. It seemed Libby was well-liked enough that many people dropped what they were doing to draft a letter on her behalf.

  That the letters were necessary was his fault. He hadn’t trusted Libby. He didn’t talk to her before ordering her arrest. To avoid impropriety, he had to treat her like any other suspect, and so he did. Along the way, he accepted the evidence as fact, her guilt as given.

  Again he sat back in his chair and gazed at the ceiling. Just an hour ago he’d accused her of using Jason. He rubbed his temples with his fingertips, trying to ease the headache that rapidly formed. Jason was right. He’d fucked up, big time.

  He wanted to speak with her, but speaking to her without counsel present was a serious breach of ethics. He didn’t care.

  He grabbed his car keys and headed out the door.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  LIBBY FELT ANTSY. She tried to watch television, but nothing engaged her attention. She prowled around the house looking for something to do. She went over Angela’s notes again, but she’d practically memorized them at this point. She dropped the papers in disgust and paced the living room, wondering where the hell Millie could have hidden the will. She had died within a few hours of signing the will. Where had she gone before going to see Frances Warren?

  Her mind raced. She wouldn’t be able to sleep anytime soon. Realizing what she needed more than anything was a walk, she opened the front door and stood on the porch. The bright full moon was on the rise. The night was mild and the sky clear, perfect for an invigorating walk.

  She went back inside and changed into her most comfortable yoga pants, a sweatshirt, and running shoes. She wished she still had her Taser. She wouldn’t bring a loaded gun on her walk but might have felt comfortable carrying the non-lethal weapon for protection. Ironically, Coho was the safest town she’d ever lived in, and yet here she was the most at risk.

  Outside, she took a deep breath. She crossed the street and walked along the shore of the bay until she came to the decommissioned sawmill. She studied the pier where she and Mark had eaten Chunky Monkey, and then turned her back on the memory and headed toward the apartment building where Simone and the crew lived.

  She stood in front of the building. Simone’s light was on. She should go up and see her, tell her everything she’d learned in the last two days but didn’t want to talk right then.

  The soft sound of music re
ached her, and she realized Simone was playing her violin. Libby sat on a bench in front of the building and listened. She recognized the piece, a Bach violin sonata, one Simone turned to when she was upset. Presumably, Simone’s unease came from what was happening to Libby, but Libby knew Simone wouldn’t tell her if anything else was wrong.

  The melancholic notes brought Jason to mind. Libby wondered if she thought of him because of the intensity of Simone’s playing, and if Jason was part of what disturbed her. Libby listened for several minutes before deciding to let Simone battle her demons with music while Libby fought hers with exercise.

  MARK SAT IN HIS PARKED CAR at the end of the alley that serviced Libby’s house. He debated his options. He could go home, get some sleep, review everything in the morning, and question Libby one more time with Jason present. The interview would be professional, impersonal, and all aboveboard.

  Or he could go to her house right now and talk to her, alone, no lawyer. The conversation would be very personal and very unethical. The second option held more appeal.

  She was awake. Nearly every window of her house glowed brightly.

  He made his decision and walked to the door of the Shelby house and knocked. He began to worry when she didn’t answer, reminded too much of what he’d found the last time he knocked on her door late at night. But tonight the house didn’t have the same feel. He circled the structure. Everything seemed normal.

  He called the alarm company. When the system was first installed, she’d told him the code word that would authorize the alarm company to speak with him. Luckily, she hadn’t changed the word. He was told that the alarm system was working fine and that the interior motion detectors had been activated seventeen minutes before.

  Mark hung up and stared at the house. The motion detectors meant she had gone to bed with every light blazing or she wasn’t home. He figured she wasn’t home.

  Had she gone to Jason’s? He cursed himself for the thought. More likely she’d gone to Simone’s. He got in his car and drove to the apartment building and caught sight of a figure in dark clothing walking up the hill toward the Montgomery mansion. He recognized the subtle sway of her hips and her proud posture.

  He parked his car and followed her on foot. He breathed a sigh of relief as she passed the Dawes house where Jack and Jason stayed. She wasn’t seeking a clandestine tryst. For a brief moment, he wished she were headed to his house for that purpose. Where was a shooting star when you needed one?

  He followed her easily. She had dressed in traditional nighttime reconnaissance black, but the milky light of the moon made her skin shine. His belief in her innocence wavered when she crossed the lawn in front of the Montgomery mansion, but then, the yard was vast and the boundary between it and the adjacent park undefined. People cut across the lawn all the time.

  What was she up to? Whatever it was, he should probably stop her before she committed a crime more serious than trespassing. He’d do it to protect her, but knew she’d never see it that way.

  LIBBY FOUND HERSELF HEADED to the Montgomery mansion as if by magnetic force. She stood in front of the Gothic monstrosity, a structure both beautiful and garish at the same time. This house was the embodiment of Lyle Montgomery: it loomed over the town, dominating the landscape, demanding attention. The focal point of the town should be the waterfront, but all eyes were drawn inescapably to the beauty and menace of this house.

  Someone who lived in that house had attacked her. Someone had framed her. Mesmerized by the moonlit silhouette, she stared up at the rounded tower where Millie had retreated in the last years of her life. The poor woman had suffered so much.

  The house offered no answers or solace, so Libby headed for the large, beautiful historic oak tree in the center of the front lawn, a living connection to a happier time that predated Angela, Millie, and Lyle.

  She rounded the shadowy trunk, and a man materialized in front of her. She shrieked and stumbled backward as terror-laced adrenaline flooded her system.

  Strong arms seized her and kept her from falling. She sucked in a deep breath to release a full scream, but a hand covered her mouth. She struggled against the man’s strong grip.

  “Libby, calm down. It’s me,” Mark whispered. He stepped back, pulling her with him into a ray of moonlight filtered through a tree branch, so she could see his handsome face. She caught her breath as her body came down from the adrenaline jolt, but then she remembered exactly who had her in a firm hold. This man wasn’t her ally. He could very well cart her off to jail for trespassing.

  She attempted to break free, but he shook his head and said, “Calm down.” They were chest to chest. He removed his hand from her mouth. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “None of your damn business!” she hissed.

  He patted her down, making her grateful she didn’t have a Taser. “Why are you here?”

  “I was just checking out the house. Call it background research.” True, if one really stretched things.

  “At nearly midnight?”

  She nodded.

  “In the dark?”

  “Full moon,” she said sheepishly.

  His mouth curved in the slightest hint of a smile. “Without permission?”

  She nodded, guiltily this time.

  His dimple made a brief appearance. He shifted her in his arms so he held her in more of an embrace than a prison. Against her will, she found herself settling against him.

  “Care to explain?” he asked, his voice changing from harsh to husky.

  “No way.”

  He laughed softly and held her gaze as though he wanted to read her soul. Then he lowered his head and she realized he was going to kiss her. Worse yet, in spite of everything, she wanted it. Him. The attraction that burned between them was a force of nature she could not ignore. It didn’t matter how hurt she was, how much he distrusted her.

  She rose up on her toes and met him halfway—an uncontrollable, instinctive response—but it was her shattered ego that made her open her mouth and initiate a deeper kiss. Her arms slipped around his neck as her tongue stroked his in a hot exploration. She didn’t think; she just reveled in the feel of his hard body against hers. She’d never expected to feel this intense heat again.

  He pressed her back against the tree and lifted her. She wrapped her legs around his waist and gasped at the need that shot through her as his hard length pressed against her center.

  This. Her whole body burned with need. She’d craved this passion, this fiery oblivion, from the moment her heart had shattered in the interrogation room.

  The thought pulled her from the brink of surrender and brought to mind her arrest. His low opinion of her. His most recent accusation in the restaurant. The memories piled up, bringing with them sharp, painful, Taser-like jolts. Sense returned. Hurt returned. The anger—the nasty bitterness that reminded her of her mother in the most awful way—was there too.

  He groaned softly as his mouth left hers and explored the column of her throat, unaware that her world had just shifted. She released her legs from his waist and returned to earth, both literally and figuratively. With her feet planted, she shoved at his chest.

  He lifted his head and she saw shock in his lust-filled eyes. It only took him a moment to catch up, and his arms locked around her. Once again, she was his prisoner.

  “Let me go,” she said, pushing harder on his wide and—she knew from experience—perfect pecs.

  He breathed heavily as sanity returned to his features. His eyes dimmed. “Not until you tell me what you’re doing here.”

  “Nothing,” she said.

  “Just this once, tell me the truth.”

  His words, his complete lack of faith in her, opened a new wound. Still, she had to tell him. “I’ve learned some things about Angela. I think her murder is related to what’s happening to me. I was out for a walk, to clear my head. Then something about seeing this house in the moonlight made me reckless; I wanted to see it up close. That’s all.”

&n
bsp; She watched him struggle, knew he wanted to believe her. She waited to see which side of him would win, her lover or the pragmatic cop who didn’t trust anyone—not even, apparently, himself.

  His internal battle was over in the blink of an eye—the cop won.

  Crestfallen, she pulled out of his arms, surprised the cop would release her, and wondered what the lover, if he had been the victor, would have done. Of course, if the lover had won, they probably would have raced to the damp grass to see who could pull off their underwear the fastest, forgetting condoms, moonlight, and all other considerations. But that was useless speculation and heartbreaking fantasy. With Mark, the lover would never win. He was a cop first, last, and, with her, always.

  “Jason isn’t here,” he said. “He’s staying at the Dawes house.”

  Perhaps it was progress of sorts that this was not the cop but the jealous lover talking. “I know very well where Jason is staying.”

  “I saw him kiss you.”

  “I think that was his plan.”

  “No. On Monday.”

  Monday. Hours before she’d been arrested. A rush of anger took her breath away. She struggled out of his arms. Finally, she gathered enough air to speak. “Does that mean being kissed by Jason is an arrestable offense?”

  “You didn’t exactly shove him away. You pushed me away the first time I kissed you.”

  “You aren’t my client’s son. I had to be careful with Jason.”

  “How very pragmatic of you.”

  “I’ve learned to be pragmatic the hard way. See you around, officer.” She started for the sidewalk.

  “Libby—” He caught her arm, stopping her. “Tell me what’s going on. Who do you think is after you?”

  Her bitterness ran deep, perhaps even deeper than before. How could she let him slip past her defenses and hurt her again? She was worse than her mother. “Listen to Angela’s tapes. Figure it out for yourself. We both know you won’t believe anything I say anyway.”