by Mallory Kane
“Do I know you?”
“I’m Laurel Gillespie.”
Mary Sue didn’t even acknowledge her. She turned back to Cade. “Who do you think attacked Misty? Was it a gang?”
The nurse returned with an aide who unlocked the gurney’s wheels and began to maneuver it toward the door.
“You should all go home now. Once they’ve done her CT scan, they’ll put her in a room overnight.” She eyed each one of them in turn. “Visiting hours start at 9:00 a.m.”
Mary Sue waggled her fingers at Misty, then turned to Cade. “My husband’s out of town. I’m not sure it’s safe for me to be home alone.”
“I’m sure you’ll be fine. If you’re worried, you could go across the street to your mother’s,” Cade replied.
He felt Laurel’s eyes boring into his back and he knew he was in for it. Sure enough, as soon as Mary Sue left, Laurel placed her hand on his arm.
“Why Mister Dupree,” she drawled. “Are you certain it’s safe for me out there alone?”
He should have been irritated, should have shrugged off her hand as soon as she touched him. But her fingers on his forearm felt so different from Mary Sue’s. Mary Sue’s touch had been clingy, needy. Laurel’s was firm and enticing.
He cleared his throat and pulled his arm away. “Knock it off, Special Agent Gillespie.”
“I got your point the first time,” she whispered. “This isn’t old home-week. I’m a professional, Chief Dupree. I know we’re investigating a crime.”
“We?” No way. She was a witness, but that was all. He held the curtain for her to exit the cubicle ahead of him and didn’t say anything more until they reached the parking lot.
Laurel turned to him as they approached his pickup. “Tell me about Ralph Langston. How is he funding the whole reunion?”
“He moved back here about a year ago,” Cade said. “He bought all that land down by the creek, and broke ground for a state-of-the-art convention complex.”
“So Ralph made it big?”
“Yes, he owns the fifth largest web-hosting company on the Internet. And he developed Webelot, the Web page building software.”
“Wow.”
“He’s hosting the reunion at the Visitor Center, and he’s footing the bill.”
“Visitor Center?”
“Right. On the rise above the creek bank, where the old high school burned.”
She looked at him, her expression thoughtful. “I want to go down there.”
“What for? You’ll see it tomorrow night. That’s where the party’s going to be.”
“Not the Visitor Center. The creek bank. Where Wendell died.”
He opened the passenger door of his pickup, but as she started to get in, he stopped her with a touch on her elbow. “This is not your case. It’s mine. You’re on vacation. Remember?”
Laurel stiffened and lifted her chin until her nose was only a few inches from his. “I found Misty. I know what her attacker was looking for. I just gave you a roomful of suspects. Of course it’s my case, too.”
“You’re a witness. Nothing more.”
“You could request the help of the FBI.”
“I don’t think so. All we have here is a home invasion and assault. Nothing the FBI deals with.”
She closed the distance between them by an inch. “What we have here is an unsolved mystery. I work in the Unsolved Mysteries Division of the FBI.”
“There is absolutely no evidence that Wendell Vance’s death was anything more than a suicide.”
“Yes, there is—somewhere. Whoever attacked Misty was after her pictures. That’s obvious. They were trying to destroy evidence. But I intend to find it first.” Her chin went a bit higher, and he could feel her warm breath on his lips.
His whole body went on red alert. Danger!
Gardenias. Warm, sweet breath. A cute little nose and now that he was close enough to see them—freckles.
His thighs tightened. Heat spread through his groin and radiated outward. In a few seconds he was going to have a huge hard-on. What the hell kind of Police Chief got hot and bothered by a witness?
A sarcastic voice in his head answered him. A horny one.
“Nope. I’m involved,” Laurel continued. “You said it yourself, Dupree. I inserted myself into this case.”
“Yeah,” he heard the strain in his voice. “You sure did.” He took a step backward, out of harm’s way—for the moment. He knew she was right. He was going to have to work with her. But this crazy physical attraction had to stop.
It must be because he hadn’t had sex in such a long time. Man, he didn’t even want to think about how long it had been.
His body chose that instant to remind him just how deprived it was feeling. He took another step backward and pretended he couldn’t still smell gardenias or see her freckles.
When she sat, her skirt rode up to her thighs. Despite his irrational anger, his mouth went dry and his libido spiraled out of control. He slammed the door with a vengeance it didn’t deserve and stalked around to the driver’s side.
When he got in, Laurel grabbed his arm. “Cade, I just remembered something.”
He wished she’d quit touching him, and while she was at it, quit wafting that gardenia perfume his way. Everything about her was playing havoc with his good sense. He looked down at her hand then up at her. “Yeah?”
“Ralph Langston got the ten-thousand-dollar scholarship after Wendell died.”
Chapter Three
Later that evening, when Cade came out of the shower, his phone was ringing. A glance at the caller ID told him it was his dad. He picked up the handset.
“Dad, I was going to call you in the morning. What are you doing up at this hour?”
“I wanted to check on you. Gotta keep up with the only son I’ve got left.”
Cade rubbed his chest. The pain was old and familiar, but still sharp. Only son I have left. That’s how his dad always referred to him. As if he was nothing but James’s leftovers.
His brother, James Dupree Senior’s first-born, had died five years before. The same week his dad had suffered a stroke that had left him with a mild speech impediment. Every time Cade talked to him, he was reminded of both.
“We had a breaking-and-entering at Misty Waller’s house.”
“I heard. Misty okay?”
“She’s got a knot on her head, but she’s fine.” Cade paused, glancing at the clock. “Dad, feel like talking for a minute?”
“It’s why I called.”
“What do you remember about Wendell Vance’s death?” Cade paced as he talked.
“Vance? Oh. Kid that hanged himself on his graduation night?”
“Right.” His dad might have trouble speaking, but there was nothing wrong with his brain.
“Ever’thin’s in the file, I reckon.”
“Did you ever think it was murder?”
“Murder? Maybe for a minute. Remember what I tol’ you? Always consider every possibility. But the boy was taking pills for depression. It’s all in the file.”
“What did you think about Ralph Langston?”
“Who?”
“He was in the same class. Apparently he got a ten-thousand-dollar scholarship that would have gone to Wendell.”
“Don’ remember that. I musta talked to him. Everybody was all shook up. I gotta say though, the boy did a good job of killin’ himself—”
“Good job? What do you mean?” Cade pushed his fingers through his damp hair, raining cool drops of water onto his shoulders and back.
“He tied that rope that hangs from the Swinging Oak ’round his neck. Broke his hyoid bone and crushed his larynx. Quickes’ way. Beats choking slow.”
“Hyoid bone.” Cade thought back to his forensics training from Quantico. “That doesn’t usually happen in a hanging, does it?”
“Nah. Only thing I could figure was maybe that disk an’ chain got caught in the rope.”
“Disk? Oh—the Science Medal. He was still wearing i
t when he hanged himself?” The metal disk could have gotten caught between the rope and Wendell’s throat, crushing the bone.
“That was strange, too,” his dad continued. “Never did find that medal. Just a coupla links of chain. If I didn’ know better, I’d say somebody took it.”
Cade stopped pacing. “Could it have fallen into the creek?”
“I wondered about that. But the pieces of chain I found were about six feet or so to the left of the body.”
Cade wiped his face with the towel. “Left. Not in front, not behind.”
“That’s right. Odd.”
“What did you do with it?”
“It’s in the evidence room with the case file. We looked for that medal for days. Your brother helped. That was the week he told me he was droppin’ out of college and joinin’ the service.” Emotion choked his dad’s voice.
Cade’s chest squeezed tighter. He rubbed it again, his palm spreading the few drops of water that clung. He hadn’t remembered James helping Dad with the investigation of Wendell Vance’s death. Was there anything his brother hadn’t done before him?
Cade sighed. “It’s been a long day, Dad. I’d better let you get to bed. I’ll see you in a day or two, okay?”
“Sure. Cade?”
“Yeah?”
“You thinkin’ the Vance boy was murdered? Why now?”
“This weekend’s the ten year reunion of his high school class. People are talking.”
“This have anythin’ to do with Misty’s attack?”
“Maybe. I’m checking into it.”
“Take care, son.”
“I will. Good night, Dad.”
Cade hung up and flopped down onto his unmade bed. He stared at the ceiling and thought about what his dad had said.
He was impressed with his dad’s memory of the case and the thoroughness of his investigation.
He punched a pillow and doubled it up under his head. Tomorrow he’d pull out Wendell Vance’s old case files and go over them. He’d meant to ask his dad if he’d dusted the links of chain for prints, but he’d find the answer to that in the file.
He could already hear Laurel when she found out Wendell’s cause of death. A broken hyoid usually indicated foul play. Her criminologist brain would go straight to murder. He wondered if he could hold her back for two days, until the reunion was over.
There was no way he’d let her whip the town into a frenzy by spouting her theories of murder. Hell, they were based on nothing—just a few odd photos.
She would disagree of course. He could see her now, with those wisps of red hair framing her angry face and her multicolored eyes flashing.
He’d learned one thing about her tonight. Laurel Gillespie didn’t like to be wrong.
His thoughts drifted to his first view of her behind in that tight gray skirt. What a surprise she was. He’d barely remembered her from high school. And only because of his brother’s involvement in the prank the—what had she called them—the CeeGees had played on her. James, arrogant and assured, had thought it was hilarious.
A pang of compassion for Laurel and the CeeGees’s other victims pricked his conscience. He hadn’t been involved, but could he have stopped James if he’d tried? He doubted it.
At least Laurel hadn’t let their cruel jokes wreck her life. She was in the FBI—and not just a field agent. She worked for an elite division stationed in D.C.
He punched his pillow again, then stuffed it back under his neck. He’d dreamed of being an FBI agent once, before James had died.
Even in death, his brother had bested him. All his life, Cade had worshiped James. He’d wanted to be just like him.
James should have been the one to take over the job of police chief in Dusty Springs. But instead, he’d joined the Air Force. Then, within five years, he was gone. And as his dad had just said, Cade was the only son he had left.
So when his dad had his stroke, Cade had come home to Dusty Springs. Now here he was five years later, Chief of Police just like his dad and granddad, and still angry at his brother for dying.
Cade knew the job he was doing was honorable and important, but he’d never intended to stay in Dusty Springs, where he’d always be in the shadow of his brother. After he’d returned, it had gotten even worse. It was hard enough to live up to a shining star like James. But it was impossible when the star was a hero who’d given his life for his country.
He uttered a short laugh. Just went to show how different real life was from high school. He’d been determined to outdo James. And he’d come close. In the high school yearbook, guys like him were Most Likely to Succeed or Most Popular or Mr. Dusty Springs High School—all those accolades that were so important back then.
Laurel, on the other hand, would be found in a group photo of the choir, or as a member of the Home Economics Club.
Strange how things turned out.
An odd sensation cramped his chest. Was he jealous of her success in the Bureau? Or even more so because she’d managed to leave Dusty Springs behind?
Nah. He just needed some sleep. Turning over, he pulled the sheet over him. In the morning, he’d dig out Wendell Vance’s old file. It couldn’t hurt to see if Laurel’s theory held any merit.
LAUREL WAS CAUGHT in traffic on the beltway. Car horns blared all around her. She was late already and now more cars were honking.
She jerked awake and met a slanted green gaze. Her heart slammed into her throat. “Eek! Cat.”
The feline hissed and jumped over her and off the bed. Her brain instantly processed her surroundings. Cat. Canopied bed. Misty’s house.
“Ssss yourself, Harriet. You scared me!”
Undaunted, Harriet leapt onto the foot of the bed and curled up on top of the covers.
The car horn still blared. It wasn’t just in her dream. It sounded like it was right outside the house. Her rental car?
She sighed, glancing at the clock. It was 3:00 a.m. Of course it was her car.
She got up and slid her feet into thong sandals. By habit, she grabbed her weapon and her car keys on her way out.
As soon as she opened the front door, she saw the rental car’s emergency lights blinking. She ran out, unlocked the car door, jumped into the driver’s seat and deactivated the alarm. Once it was quiet, she sat there for a moment, looking up and down the street.
The night was moonless, and the streetlights gave off very little illumination.
Nothing. Not even a fluttering curtain. After the excitement earlier, she couldn’t believe no one had stuck their head out to see what the noise was. Still, car alarms went off all the time, probably even in Dusty Springs.
But something must have triggered it. Had someone tried to break into her car?
After a few seconds, she got out and inspected the vehicle. There were no scrapes or dents. No sign of force on the windows or doors. Maybe a kid had tried the door to see if it was unlocked.
With a last look around the deserted street, she walked back up the steps to the house. She opened the door cautiously, watching to be sure she didn’t let the cat out.
Just as she closed the door behind her, a blast of cold stinging spray hit her in the face. Surprise and burning pain streaked through her like lightning.
After a split second’s shock, she ducked and rolled but it was too late. She’d been maced. Her face burned like fire. Her eyes wouldn’t open. The pain was agonizing.
Then a blanket was thrown over her head and a shoe kicked her in the ribs. She curled into a fetal position. It was all she could do. She was blinded by the Mace.
Her attacker kicked her again, this time in the kidney. She grunted. Then the front door opened and slammed.
Laurel fought the suffocating blanket. She finally got it off her. Pulling herself up to her hands and knees she felt for her weapon. It was gone. She crawled blindly toward the bathroom, feeling around the hardwood floor. The gun must have slid farther than she’d thought.
Finally, her fingers encountered cold cer
amic tile. Her eyes leaked tears, even though she had them squeezed tightly shut. She crawled to the bathtub and felt for the cold water faucet.
Taking a deep breath, she splashed her face. The water made everything burn twice as badly, but it eventually washed away the sticky pepper spray.
Laurel leaned over the tub and kept sluicing her face and eyes. After what seemed like hours, the pain lessened to a manageable level.
She sat on the floor, her chest heaving with huge sobs. But there was no time to indulge herself. She had to find her Glock. If whoever had attacked her had taken it—alarm squeezed her chest like a giant fist.
She pulled herself up using a towel rack. She was wobbly, and her eyes still burned. She felt her way out of the bathroom, alert to any sound. She’d thought she’d heard the front door slam, but she’d been in such pain she couldn’t be sure.
The intruder might still be inside the house.
She took a deep breath and coughed. Did she smell smoke, or was the Mace affecting her sense of smell? Forcing her eyes open, she saw a red, flickering glow coming from the den.
Fire! She lunged for the door. She rounded the frame and met the flames engulfing the dining room tabletop. They licked at the drapes.
“No!” Laurel cried. Misty’s pictures! She had to stop it. But before she could move, the drapes caught. In an instant the ancient fabric was swallowed up by flames and a tongue of fire licked out toward a damask-covered easy chair.
Helpless against the fast-growing inferno, she backed away from the rising heat. She had to call the fire department.
But her cell phone was back in the bedroom in her jacket pocket. She never had her damn phone when she needed it. She turned and headed for the door and ran into a hard body. Her instincts took over and she doubled her fists. She swung as hard as she could.
“No!” she yelled. “No!”
