by Lissa Ford
“You know as well as I do how this stuff can get out of control. Drag on. Become an invasive nightmare.”
“I know,” he answered quietly. “But it’ll be different this time. The detectives working the case are…thorough.”
Over the three thousand mile connection, he heard Kristy drumming her finger thoughtfully on a surface. “BCI…BCI? Why is that familiar? What does that stand for?”
“Uhhh…” Shit. “It stands for Bureau of Criminal Investigation. With the New York State troopers.”
“No,” Kristy said. “No way. Don’t tell me that Rowan Muir is assigned to this case.”
Jude scrubbed his forehead as if the motion could rub away the last 24 hours. “He is.”
“The Rowan Muir? The guy who broke your heart?”
“That’s the guy,” Jude answered grimly.
“Huh.”
“Yeah.” Jude heaved a sigh over Kristy’s extremely pregnant pause.
“Shouldn’t he recuse himself or something?” she continued when Jude pointedly didn’t elaborate. “Having him on the case is a total conflict of interest.”
“It doesn’t work like that, Kris. Don’t worry, Rowan and I are old news.”
“Sure you are,” she answered darkly. “How are you handling seeing him again?”
“Fine. Just fine. Like I said, it’s over. We’ve both moved on.”
“Don’t give me that. You couldn’t talk about him for six months after the split. He tied you up in knots so tight, an old sea-dog sailor couldn’t undo them.”
“Kristy—”
“He broke your heart, Jude,” she said softly. “I don’t want that to happen to you again.”
“It won’t. Just trust me on this. Rowan and I are finished.”
“Are you sure Rowan knows that?”
“What do you mean?” Jude asked sharply.
“I find it coincidental that Rowan Muir happens to be the detective assigned to investigate this particular case. He was hardcore into you when you were both dating, as I recall.”
Was his hearing going? Jude looked at the phone in his hand to make sure all the bars were lit. “I’m sorry, did you say that Rowan was hardcore into me?”
“That’s what I said, Jude. I’ve seen the way he looked at you when you were together.”
“And how was that?”
“Like Shiloh when you take too long to open her can of Alpo.”
“So I’m dog food now,” Jude scoffed, ignoring the warmth her words kindled.
“You know what I mean. Besides, it was a compliment. Rowan Muir had stars in his eyes whenever you were within two feet of him.”
Jude remembered Rowan’s fury from last night’s fight. “Are you sure you’re not confusing ‘stars in his eyes’ with ‘near-homicidal rage’?”
Kristy chuckled. “Jude, you are so dense sometimes.”
“Well, whatever. He’s made it crystal clear he’s over me now.” Jude shifted uncomfortably. “Let’s drop it, okay?”
Kristy laughed knowingly, but let it go. “Okay, okay. I’m just worried. This is a crummy situation for you. Maybe I should come home—”
“No, don’t do that. I’ll just feel worse and anyway, there’s nothing you can do.”
“Alright,” she conceded. “But you call me if there’s even the tiniest hint of crap either from the press, the law, or Rowan Muir so I can be on the first flight home. Deal?”
Jude smiled into the phone. For all her annoying, overprotective tendencies toward saving dying ecosystems and worrying over him like a Jewish mother, his sister was the best. “Deal.”
“How are my babies doing?”
“Blue and Red? They’re fine—eating, pooping, staring off into space, like horses do.”
“Should I ask someone to come get them until this whole murder thing blows over?”
“No, it’s okay. Everything should calm down in a few days. Plus I like caring for them. It—” Gives me a focus. “It’s fun.”
“We’ll go riding when I get home. If your leg is up for it, that is.”
“Should be, by then.”
After more admonitions from Kristy about calling her if there was the slightest hitch in the investigation, she reluctantly beeped off.
Jude set down the phone with a sigh. He hoped the investigation concluded quickly and uneventfully so he wouldn’t have to drag his sister away from her research. She’d stood by him through those hellish months in the aftermath of the shooting. The least he could do was let her off the hook in the latest episode of Jude Anderson’s Fucked Up Life.
With an effort, he ignored the residual glow lingering from her words about how deeply Rowan appeared to be into Jude when they were together. No good would come from dwelling over them. Just more heartache and pain, like the song said. He shunted the feelings aside and swiped the screen on his sleeping tablet to reactivate it.
He opened an email from a client who’d booked an all-day fly fishing excursion for the upcoming weekend. A cancellation—and they’d pay the steep cancelation fee with no quibble. Then another, this time a party of five Cornell academics from nearby Ithaca. So the fallout from the bad publicity had begun.
He responded to the cancellations tersely but professionally. The next email was an indefinite backorder notice for the specific type of reel Jude was fussy about. The fourth stole his breath away.
IT HAS BEGUN. GOD IS CLEANSING HIS WORLD OF PERVERSION.
Hand trembling, Jude tapped out of the email, and flagged it. It came via the contact link on his fly fishing website from a generic gmail account: Leviticusxx1822.
He’d turn it over to Rowan later, for follow up. Could be nothing more than a reaction to the press, or it could be relevant to Travis’s murder. It wasn’t like Jude walked around wearing an I’m gay! bubble over his head, but he certainly wasn’t hiding anything, either. Anyone could have sent it. He continued scrolling, hoping that was the case.
The next email was from an A. Morelli.
Annette Morelli? Logan’s mother? Jude’s stomach bottomed out. Annette Morelli was the primary force behind the Morelli family’s wrongful death suit. Jude remembered Mrs. Morelli’s eyes burning with grief and hatred every time they lit on him during those long weeks of the trial.
Jude’s first impulse was to delete the email unread. Then he remembered what Rowan had said about possible motives in Travis’s murder. Maybe Rowan wasn’t far afield after all, and the Morellis were linked. It seemed farfetched, though. Reluctantly he clicked A. Morelli’s message, which had no subject line.
I hope you are happy, Jude Anderson. Another person is dead because of you. Justice was not served in this life, but God will punish you in the next for your careless disregard for anyone but yourself.
I pity anyone mixed up with you. They will eventually regret it.
Jude shivered. The words were an eerie echo of his neighbor Riley’s. He wondered if Riley wasn’t right about Jude being a Jonah, after all.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Forensics arrived later that morning to conduct more analysis on the crime scene aka his front porch. They’d scraped and photographed for around two hours before breaking for lunch. Jude decided he’d had enough of watching law enforcement tromp around his home. Also, both Annette Morelli’s message and the anonymous homophobic email had unnerved him more than he wanted to admit. He made plans to drive to Syracuse to run a few errands. A shitty year had taught him that the best way to get on with life was to focus on other things. Don’t dwell on the negative. At least, that was the plan. Plus he had to make a living, and if he didn’t get proactive to do damage control on the business he’d built, he’d be back to square one.
Even on a midweek afternoon, Fingerlakes Outdoor Warehouse was fairly busy with hunters getting ready for the opening day of deer season. For the upstate New York sportsman, FLOW had just about everything essential for the hunter, angler, snowmobiler or outdoor enthusiast. While rehabbing his leg, Jude had spent hours in the store, fir
st as a customer then, as his fly fishing business took off, a FLOW-endorsed fly fishing guide, which was an important source of referrals. He hoped the bad publicity wouldn’t jeopardize his FLOW endorsement. But it might, so he needed to get ahead of the negative press.
Jude headed over to the fly fishing department. As he hoped, Kyle Blake was manning the area, standing in front of the wall of fly rods while talking on his cell phone. In his late twenties, Kyle was tanned and broad-shouldered under his FLOW uniform of khaki shorts and polo shirt. He wore his golden hair long; today it was pulled back with a hair tie, which emphasized his wide green eyes and good-looking face.
He was friendly and helpful, and Jude liked him enough to have taken him fishing for wild steelhead last spring, when famed Cattaraugus Creek opened for the season.
“I was listening to you, Amber,” Kyle was saying now. “I heard every word you said, even though you’ve rehashed the same shit like seventeen times now.”
Jude stepped a polite distance away as a woman’s wail of anger seeped out of the phone, but Kyle waved him back over.
“I can’t talk now, I’ve got a customer.” Kyle made a yapping gesture with his hands while the female voice rose and fell. “I’ll call you when I’m heading out the door.” Kyle hit disconnect with a sigh. “Sorry about that, Anderson.”
“Everything okay?”
“Just the usual girlfriend shit. I don’t satisfy her needs, which are fucking endless and—never mind. I’ll patch things up when I get home.” Kyle reached over the counter to clasp Jude’s hand. “It’s good to see you, Anderson, but—” Concern sobered Kyle’s expression. “I’m surprised you’re here.”
“Oh?”
Kyle leaned over the counter and lowered his voice. “Dude, I heard about what went down at your house yesterday; it’s all over the news. A body was found at your house? Jesus. Is it true?”
Jude cursed the press trucks parked on the road alongside his property, blasting the news all over town. “Yeah, it is, unfortunately.”
“That is some messed up shit. The reports say a man was bludgeoned and left for dead on your front porch.”
Jude retreated into his law enforcement training. “I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation.”
“Right, right, I gotcha. How are you holding up?” Kyle’s eyes were shrewd. Jude wondered just how much Kyle knew about Jude’s past. Jude never volunteered any information about his private life, but anything could be found on Google.
“As well as can be expected,” Jude answered briskly.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but shouldn’t you be in protective custody or something?”
“Protective custody? Why?”
“Someone dumped a dead body in front of your door. That’s kind of threatening.”
Kyle’s words eerily echoed Rowan’s, which made Jude tense. “Well, it doesn’t work like that. Unless someone makes a specific, viable threat, I’m not considered at risk until the investigation reveals otherwise.” Or another body turns up, Jude added silently. “BCI assigned one of their best homicide investigators to the case. Rowan will have a list of viable suspects by the end of the week.”
“Rowan?”
“Detective Muir,” Jude clarified hastily. Shit, he’d been caught out. “Of the New York State police. I live on state land, so it falls under NYSP jurisdiction. I knew him, before I…switched professions. He’s one of the best.”
Now why had Jude said that? He averted his heated face from Kyle’s puzzled gaze by pointedly studying the selection of reels through the glass counter.
“That’s good they have the A team on the case,” Kyle answered when Jude didn’t elaborate.
“The publicity isn’t good for my business, that’s for sure,” Jude said. “A client cancelled Saturday’s tour, so I have an opening. If someone calls FLOW looking for a guide, I’m free.”
Kyle’s face lit up. “Hey, I’m off Saturday. You wanna hit West Canada Creek? I’m hearing that the brown trout are really feisty now. And I could really use a break from…I mean, uh, some guy time.”
Jude was about to automatically say no when he hesitated. A day spent on the river could be just what he needed right now, a calming oasis in the middle of the murder investigation shitstorm, which Jude felt gathering like thunderheads on a horizon.
Kyle sensed Jude weakening. “Come on, dude,” he wheedled. “You know you want to. I’ll bring the beer.”
“What about Amber?”
“Don’t worry about her.” Kyle’s eyes twinkled. “I can handle female rage.”
“I should stay available for questioning, just in case.”
“Canada Creek isn’t that far out; it’s in cellphone range. The cops will be able to contact you whenever they need to, right?”
“True. Okay, why not?” Jude relented. “Let’s pencil it in, in case I don’t get a last minute tour booking.”
“Sure, Jude, sure. We can work it out, no problem.” Kyle smiled widely, showing a perfect white smile.
For the briefest of moments, Jude wondered if Kyle was hitting on him. Then he dismissed it. The guy needed a break from his girlfriend to get some thinking done. Well, who the hell didn’t? Relationships were complicated. “You still have my number?” Kyle added.
After exchanging cellphone numbers, Kyle thankfully moved onto the topic of reels, which reminded Jude about the indefinite backorder for his specialized reel.
They were picking apart the merits of Mirage verses Lamson when Jude’s cellphone buzzed.
“It’s the vet,” Jude said, looking at the LCD screen.
“Vet?” Kyle asked.
“My dog’s sick too.”
“Aw, that sucks, man. It’s like the Universe has it out for you or something.”
Or something, alright. “I’ve got to take this.” Jude moved away from the counter to find a quiet corner of the store to take the call. “We’ll talk later, okay?”
Kyle gave him a thumbs up. When Jude looked back, Kyle was putting back the reels, whistling.
Jude wished he could shrug off life’s complications as easily. He clicked the answer button on his phone. “Anderson.”
“It’s Dr. Avery.”
“How is Shiloh?” Jude was unable to keep the anxiety out of his voice. He loved that dog something stupid.
“She’s better,” Dr. Avery answered quickly. “Mr. Anderson, I hate to be the bearer of bad news.”
Jude stiffened. “Bad news? She’s going to make it, isn’t she?”
“Oh, yes, I think Shiloh will make a full recovery. But it looks like she ingested a significant quantity of bromethalin.”
“Bromethalin? Is that a type of bacteria?”
“No. It’s a common ingredient in rat poison.”
“Rat poison!” Jude exclaimed. “I thought she ate a dead crow or chipmunk!”
“There was organic tissue in her stomach that suggests she also ate a dead animal of some sort, along with the poison. She’s a pretty sick dog, but she’s going to pull through.”
Jude listened numbly while Dr. Avery went over Shiloh’s treatment plan: multiple doses of activated charcoal to absorb the poison, IV fluids, and drug therapy to reduce brain swelling.
“I don’t have to tell you that there are better ways than poison to reduce vermin issues, Mr. Anderson,” Dr. Avery concluded sternly.
Jude swallowed. He didn’t have a vermin problem, and if he did, that was what cats were for.
He didn’t respond to Dr. Avery’s pointed statement, steering the conversation to discussing more treatment plans. After he gave the greenlight to use an expensive drug to reduce the swelling in Shiloh’s brain, Jude thanked Dr. Avery, then clicked off the call, feeling like someone punched him in the gut.
Someone poisoned his dog.
Someone killed Travis the same day.
Hand trembling, Jude thumbed through the address book on his phone. Rowan’s personal number rolled across the scrollbar. Jude had never deleted it, and ref
used to consider why. He was grateful now.
“This is Rowan Muir. I’m unavailable to take your call…”
“Damn it, Rowan,” Jude muttered. He clicked off without leaving a message. He then thumbed through his mobile’s browser for the number of the BCI field office. Maybe Natsios was free…
And then what? Go back to talking about fishing reels with Kyle and pretend that his life wasn’t careening toward a cliff until either investigator returned his call? Or that he was being set up for a murder rap?
Jude wasn’t waiting around. He needed answers now. And he knew where to find them.
CHAPTER NINE
The Eight Ball nightclub looked cheap and tawdry in the harsh light of day. If Jude was honest, it looked cheap and tawdry under night’s flattering darkness, too, but the unusually generous drink specials and promise of getting laid made Eight Ball’s overall skankiness overlookable.
Inside, the industrial strength Lysol temporarily overpowered the underlying notes of spilled beer, body funk and grenadine. A couple of holdovers from lunch, businessmen in shirtsleeves, were nursing drinks at one end of the bar. Or maybe they were closeted, each too scared to make the first move. Jude ignored that little drama and went to the other end where a bartender moved back and forth behind the counter. Her nametag said Jonni. Jude didn’t recognize her.
“Happy hour starts at 4 p.m.” Jonni didn’t bother to look up from the bottles of Coors Light she was restocking. “Everything’s full price now.”
“No problem.” Jude settled on a barstool and waited. He’d learned the value of patience during his time as a deputy sheriff.
After a few minutes, Jonni finished her task and now had time for Jude. “What’ll it be?”
“Ice water’s fine.”
“You need to order a drink, or you can’t sit at the bar.”
“Okay, I’ll have a Coke.”
She efficiently spritzed Coke from a tapgun into a highball glass, dropped a maraschino cherry in it, and slid it over.
He took a polite sip. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions about Travis Gruber?”
