Grant cranked on the engine and glanced out the passenger window to the steeply roofed house. Why hadn’t they hired out their gutter cleaning? Hell, his dad’s rooftop tumble might’ve been much worse than a few cracked ribs. A new lead had surfaced on his case Friday morning, and he’d been relieved at the flight delay to gain more work time. Damn roof.
He pulled Stan’s supply list from his pocket, tossed it onto the passenger seat, and then yanked the seatbelt across his chest. He sat back while the old engine warmed.
Poppy left the porch and shuffled toward his cottage at the edge of the pasture. In the background, Mt. Hanlen stood as lone guardian, day or night.
He threw the column shifter into reverse and backed up. Gravel scattered while he wheeled the Bronco out of the driveway and then onto open highway.
The delivery list shone on the dark upholstery like a white flag. Clearly, his dad felt embarrassed he’d miss the trek to his old army buddy this year.
Dad and Stan both needed a reality check on the limits of their aging bodies.
He grimaced. Tomorrow he’d settle for equine companionship while he rode far up Mt. Hanlen on the annual father and son trip, solo this year. A wave of nostalgia rolled through him, recalling the excitement of riding out with his dad.
A dark car approached, racing toward him. The brights flashed on.
“Asshole!” Grant swerved to the shoulder and cranked the wheel full around, adrenalin pumping while his vehicle sluggishly pulled a U-turn.
The speeding car’s tail lights faded away.
His shoulders sagged. No way he’d catch it in the old rig. Nor should he.
Probably damn kids seeing what the family car could do. He’d been one of them once. Shaking his head, he completed the circle and drove another mile.
The tilted sign marked his driveway.
Trees at the entrance to his property had grown from saplings to stout silhouettes. Hadn’t noticed them last night, either. Time had slipped by, limb by limb and wrinkle by wrinkle. Next trip he’d have to initiate an uncomfortable conversation with his parents regarding their future without him living nearby.
Grant parked and then entered the house he’d built in stages over the last decade.
He flipped on a light.
Where had the time gone? He ran his hand on a log. Building had begun the fall he’d turned eighteen, after his parents had sold him a hundred acres. They’d finished it together in spurts throughout the last dozen years, discussing how he’d be the Morley to reach the coveted FBI rank neither Dad nor Poppy had achieved.
He’d charted a career timeline and it required a twenty-four seven mentality. Special Agents in Charge resided in big cities. To dump his place, he’d need to hire a realtor. Dad would understand.
The custom oak dining table glowed. A memory of sunny days varnishing with his dad brought a smile. He ran his hand across its smooth wood. On it sat the freshly scribbled list he’d made of what would go and what could be sold. The table had made the ‘keep’ list.
His woodworking skills had proved useful while he’d mentored juvies in a tough Seattle high school. The kids had convinced him to coach basketball at the Y. He smiled, recalling their insistence they needed a father figure like him.
Those mandatory volunteering hours had flown by. He’d quit three years ago, maybe four? Hopefully, those kids got into college, but more likely, jail. He should’ve kept in touch.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. Teens in the pre-thug stage were someone else’s worry.
Three bars. At least they’d gotten better cell service in parts of Emma Springs.
The text had been marked urgent from Sam two hours ago, while he’d been scarfing lasagna. He banged his fist against the counter.
Sorry to bother you on vacation, but you’re needed ASAP. Judge shot in Seattle’s Justice Building-Friday 6 PM, he read aloud.
An assault of a federal judge warranted his department leading the investigation, and it appeared his boss assigned him to be in charge. He took a deep breath, expanding his chest.
The attached report opened. Whoa, they’d shot Judge Gilson. Had Maneski responded to his stiff sentence by ordering the hit?
Friday, 6 pm. “Damn,” he muttered. Right after he’d left the office and stumbled over the woman.
Other Fridays during lunchtime, he’d watched her lanky frame bend and stretch to trim lobby plants. Why’d she been there late? Had she seen anything?
His finger had brushed a silky lock of her hair while he’d zig-zagged to avoid stepping on her.
Now wasn’t the time to think of a russet braid and blushing pink cheeks.
Solving the case could advance him.
But the woman. She’d peppered him with questions, and made a snide comment. He rubbed a full day’s growth of stubble growing on his chin.
Yeah, she’d chastised him for calling a family visit a duty, and told him to appreciate time together. Odd remarks then, maybe worse now.
Sam Coswell, his ASAC, would be at his computer tomorrow, sending out any case updates.
He tapped, “Need to talk” in a text to Sam.
Recall the details, Morley. Her name?
Nope. She’d cut him off. The lookout? He thumped his hand on the counter.
Judas Priest! Had he flirted with an assassin?
Chapter 4
Miranda bolted upright, bunching the sheets in her grip.
The loud clang repeated.
Oh, right, the breakfast bell. Exhaustion burned her eyes. Intermittent dog barks near her cabin throughout the night had proven worse than the nightmares.
Her cell phone rang, and she rolled onto her side to grab it.
“Hi, Shirley.” Her heart gave a funny little jog. “How’s Ike?”
“You saved him,” she cried.
“Thank goodness. Can I speak to him?”
“He’s sedated right now. Needs another surgery due to complications.”
Miranda’s pulse quickened. “What happened? What are the doctors saying?”
“He lost a lot of blood, and the bullet punctured a vein.”
“That’s bad, isn’t it?”
“They can operate and fix it, but—” Shirley abruptly stopped talking.
She gripped the bedframe. “But what?”
Static buzzed.
“The FBI stopped a gunman last night. They’re determined to kill Ike. Are you safe?”
She squeezed the blanket. “Yes, I’m in—”
“Don’t tell me where you are. Stay put, and don’t trust ANYONE until Ike gets you help. Promise?” Shirley pleaded.
“I promise.” Anger roiled in Miranda’s belly. “We’ll beat the crooked cops and mobsters. I’m safe, get Ike better.” She threw her legs over the edge of the bed and sat up. “I wish I were with you. Call Corrin, she’ll help you.”
“I will.” Shirley sniffed. “We love you. They might be tracing my calls.” The connection ended.
Miranda dropped her phone as if it spat flames.
The room had grown cold. She’d not said goodbye, told Shirley she loved them. Her lip trembled.
She got dressed and then held back a corner of yellow-checked curtains while searching for a glimpse of the Langley’s main lodge.
Nothing except woods and foothills, the kind she’d hiked as a kid. So many memories of exploring outdoors beside her mom. Her fingers glided over her worn cowboy boots, grass stained and dusty.
She tugged them on and shoved Kenny’s hat into one jacket pocket and her phone into the other. Corrin deserved a few photos of Montana.
Steady Corrin, except around horses.
She rummaged in her purse for her lip balm and vial of lavender. At the bottom sat the velvet case embossed with the logo from the
jewelry store Corrin’s aunt had once proudly owned.
Miranda lifted out a heavy gold neck slide hanging from a bolo tie. Dark red jewels outlined the body of a rearing horse. Corrin had probably broken out in a sweat while packing it.
Nothing in Aunt Iris’s shop had been faux. She’d bet Corrin’s uncle had worn the garnet-laden piece before he’d died from a heart attack.
Would she survive to see her twenty-fifth birthday in ten days? She’d done the right thing, to vanish and protect Corrin.
She grabbed the blue windbreaker, yanked her door shut, and snugged the rearing horse to her shirt collar. Every step on brittle needles put her on edge.
She slowed her breaths. You’ve dreamed of living surrounded by trees and flower-filled meadows your children can run through, she reminded herself.
Dylan bounded up, his black tail wagging.
“Busy night. Wish I knew dog-speak.” She scratched under his chin. “Good boy.”
The cast-iron bell pealed again, boosting her into a jog. Her nerves needed people, specifically Grant Morley.
In the clearing ahead, sunshine glazed a dewy pasture dotted by spider webs, their jeweled threads sparkling. Horses pulled at tufts of grass.
A welcoming aroma of biscuits, bacon, and coffee fought to overpower the scents of pine and wood smoke.
She climbed the porch stairs and pulled open the screen door.
“Good morning, Miranda. We’ve got a fine fall day to ride.” Kathleen stood at the end of the kitchen counter. She motioned to the built-in buffet in the dining room, which held steaming dishes and platters of pastries. “Enjoy breakfast. The other guests just got started.”
Five or six Asian men and several families filled their plates.
Glass windows behind the wooden dining table afforded a view of Mt. Hanlen—a tall, jagged peak.
“I smell fried potatoes and biscuits. Yum.” She handed over her completed riding form. “No rodeo mount, please.” She smiled her sweetest, while searching the kitchen for a phone. “Oh, by the way, there may be a college friend living in town. Cell’s dead. May I make a local call?”
“You bet.” Kathleen pointed to the hallway. “Our phone’s in the alcove.”
Chattering voices receded while she moved away from the sunny dining room.
A dog-eared phonebook sat on the counter. Her finger ran over a short column of M’s and stopped at Tom and Pat Morley.
Their phone rang twice before a woman answered. “Good morning.”
“Hi, I’m vacationing in Emma Springs. I attended college with a Grant Morley from this part of Montana. Do you know him?” She squeezed her eyes shut, praying she sounded normal, praying he wasn’t already mountaineering, and praying he’d offer protection.
“Grant’s our son,” the woman declared. “What a funny coincidence, he’s visiting from Seattle and should be here for breakfast soon. I’m happy to take your number and have him call you before he heads up Mt. Hanlen.”
She bit her lip. “No worries, I’ll try again in a few minutes. Thanks.”
“I’ll let him know.”
Miranda fumbled the receiver to hang it up. She thumped her forehead. Grant might’ve brushed her off as a nut case. She had to find him on the trail, or go to his house to explain.
She walked into breakfast and spotted an unoccupied chair between a techie-looking boy wearing ear buds and a smiling older man. No snake tattoos in sight.
She tossed food on her plate and slid into the seat.
“Hi, I’m Andrew Chen, from New York,” the man said, while he offered a hand sporting a gold Rolex. “I’m leading a group on a team building exercise.”
“My name’s Miranda.”
His colleagues wore yoked Western shirts in different colors.
Andrew put down a ripe plum. “Are you from the East Coast, too?”
“Nope. From Seattle.”
“I’ve been there, a beautiful city. What’s your favorite place?”
She brushed her napkin across her lips. “I provide indoor plants, so buildings facing west get my vote.” Crap. She’d said too much—not smart for a person in hiding.
The other guests continued chatting. No one turned her way.
A bearded young man sitting across from her passed a baby in pink overalls to his wife. “She’s all yours, honey.”
The woman pursed her lips. “Yeah, I got ambling in the corral yesterday and you get cantering in the woods.”
Miranda sighed. What she wouldn’t give to be a mother holding a round-cheeked baby.
“I’d guess you’ve done this before.” Andrew pointed at her boots.
“The first time I wore them I sat behind my dad on Trixie, my grandpa’s old horse.” Her heart ached at the memory. “These are my best-ever present from my twelfth birthday. Mom bought them big, and they’ve ridden many miles.”
“Hope I don’t scratch my lizard skin ones today,” he said.
She stabbed a potato. “They’ll polish back up.”
“Well, folks.” Kathleen circled by diners to reach the front of the room. “I hope you enjoyed breakfast.”
Miranda nodded while others murmured in agreement.
“Good. Busy day ahead of us. You’ll be riding to the base of Mt. Hanlen. We measure in miles here, not blocks.” She gestured to a framed watercolor painting. “We’ll cross the meadow and climb the foothills at the far side of Sunrise Lake. You’ll finish by parading through Emma Springs. Today’s the chance to experience a drive-thru on horseback. This time of year, you may want coffee.”
The painted landscape was laid out in a diamond formation, the mountain being the top point and Emma Springs the bottom. The Lazy K sat on the left, and from what she remembered of the geography on their website, the Morley’s place would be to the right.
From the drawing, Grant could be ten miles away. Miranda squirmed in her chair.
“After working you in the corral yesterday, we’ve matched you to a horse.” Kathleen smiled. “Time to mount.”
“I hope your team has fun,” Miranda said to Andrew Chen.
“Me, too. A few of my group decided to go hunting. They’re doing firearm safety first, followed by target practice.”
A vice squeezed her chest. Images of the weapons they’d used to kill her family flashed in her mind. Thirty-one bullets had wiped out those she loved. “Oh.”
“They certainly own enough rifles.” He pointed to a rack Kathleen uncovered, holding an assortment of shotguns.
The chair tipped while she snatched her jacket from it.
Her brain locked onto the memory of the horrible security video the police had played during the questioning session following her family’s murder.
Dull gray clouded her vision. She’d seen the empty parking lot, then the killer’s car and guns aimed out the windows, imagined the crack of bullets firing and her parent’s screams. Thank God, they weren’t recorded.
The shooters had gotten away, but every night her room became a prison, and her pillow absorbed tears of remorse for her role in their deaths.
She stumbled outside the lodge and leaned against a post for support. Guns and bullets. She’d never escape them.
~ ~ ~
Had they lost another judge? Grant rechecked the three bars showing on his cell this morning. Sam should be awake by now, and he needed answers. He parked the Bronco next to his parent’s barn. Sunlight inching onto dark swaths shaded the nearby foothills.
A rooster crowed an invader alarm.
Dumb bird, sunrise was hours ago. He cracked the window, allowing whiffs of hay and horses inside the cab before placing the call.
“Coswell,” Sam answered on the first ring.
“Did Judge Gilson survive?”
“So f
ar,” Sam replied. “Bo confronted an attacker approaching the judge’s room last night. Sorry to cut short your time off. What flight you on?”
Sam’s strained tone meant bad news.
Grant pressed his palm into the old leather seat. “How bad’s Bo wounded?”
“Shoulder took a bullet.”
“Damn. I should’ve been there. I don’t have a wife and kids depending on me.”
“Bo won’t have permanent damage.”
Grant clenched his jaw. “How’d they know what hospital?”
“Gotta’ be a mole. Chatter indicates Venom pulled the trigger on Judge Gilson. Sending you the ID photo of a person of interest who left the scene. We haven’t figured out her role yet.”
His pulse thrummed. “Priors?”
“None, and we believe she knows the Gilsons socially. The judge’s wife won’t divulge their relationship. When you returning?”
Grant’s eyes followed a cloud while it blocked out rays of sunlight high on the mountain. “Tuesday flight. You’d think Mrs. Gilson would want to help us find out who tried to kill her husband.”
“The whole case is odd. A Detective Karpenito arrived first from SPD. He hasn’t been available for questioning. Isn’t he the Seattle Detective cleared a couple years ago of money laundering?”
“The name’s familiar. Sorry I’m not there to run a thorough check. I haven’t nailed a crooked cop yet,” Grant said.
“It doesn’t warm your heart. No record of the woman at the scene until we interviewed the medics who transported Judge Gilson.”
It couldn’t be her. He pictured her shy smile after she’d recognized him. “So the ambulance showed before an officer did?”
“The medics weren’t needed at a nearby car wreck when they heard her 911 call. The woman might be an accessory by her actions. In the initial report Karpenito said he arrived right after the ambulance took off with the judge.”
Grant tapped a square icon on his tiny screen and his gut tightened. The woman he’d nearly stomped on photographed well, except for her lifeless green eyes.
The Hitman's Mistake Page 6
