Anchored by Death (A Jo Oliver Thriller Book 3)

by Catherine Finger

  “I missed you.” He clasped his hands behind my back, soft brown eyes boring into mine. “I really, really missed you.” He leaned in and kissed my forehead.

  I pulled back, gliding my hands over his sinewy arms, remembering. “I … I missed you too.”

  “So, what are we going to do about it?” He moved in to kiss me again.

  Mechanical birds chirped. Nick tensed and stepped back.

  I sucked in air, watching the doorknob turn.

  Georgi’s head peered around the knotty pine door. “Hey, kids, I’m home!” Her gleaming eyes landed on me first, and I knew then she’d made up the whole story about Tom. Great. What will she and Cliff take over next?

  But confusion rolled across her face as Nick rushed over and pulled a bag of groceries from each arm. “Let me take those off your hands, Georgi.”

  I couldn’t help admiring the muscle definition in his forearms and biceps as he placed the bags on the island. His movements reminded me of a panther. Sleek, muscular, and lethal.

  Georgi wasn’t seeing the beauty in his movement. She stared in blank-faced silence from her empty arms to Nick and slowly turned her head in my direction. I squinted back her, throwing my palms up, hoping to signal her to be cool ’til we could talk. Something was obviously not okay.

  Nick didn’t seem to mind. Calling out ingredients as he pulled them out of the grocery bags, he arranged them thoughtfully on the counter. I put the bags away and poured Georgi another cup of coffee. She sat at the counter, watching us as we fell into a comfortable synchronicity in the kitchen.

  I put a pot of water on to boil, pouring in a shot of olive oil and a pinch of salt. Nick set two boxes of pasta next to me on the counter. Hearing him pull my ancient cutting board out of the cabinet next to the stove prompted me to move the chocolate cake over to the coffee table. He’d need free rein and plenty of space to peel, chop and dice the vegetables to his liking.

  Twenty minutes later, the beautiful aroma of sautéing garlic, leeks, and onions wafted throughout my little cabin. I washed and tore up a head of buttery Bibb lettuce and mixed it with a head of red leaf.

  “You’re not really combining those, are you?” Nick stood behind me, his velvety tones next to my ear.

  My Midwestern sensibilities broke the spell, prompting me to carp at him. “You’re not really going to tell me how to make a salad, are you?” I faced him, smiling. “Not unless you want to finish it for me.”

  He hated making salads. Something about the texture of the lettuce bugged him. “Allow me.” He swooped in next to me, fussily separating the leaves. “The Bibb lettuce will do much better with a green goddess dressing. And the red leaf will be just right with oil, vinegar, a little lemon, and some sea salt. Why don’t you join Georgi on the other side of the counter, and let me finish up in here?” He put his hands on my hips and steered me away from the kitchen.

  “My mama didn’t raise no fool. I’m good with that arrangement.” I rummaged through the fridge and pulled out a bottle of chilled Ferrari. I popped the cork, poured three glasses, slid one over to Nick and took two to the sofa overlooking the lake. “C’mon, Georgi. Let’s give the man his space.”

  Nick sang quietly in the background. I tasted the wine and smiled at Georgi. Her face was whiter than it should have been. The blank-faced stare had returned, and she didn’t touch her wine.

  Alarm rang through me. She didn’t have her phone in sight. Had something happened to Cliff?

  I leaned forward and whispered, “What’s wrong, sweetie?”

  She shot me an ashen glance, matching her low tone to mine. “I told you. Cliff’s mystery dinner date for you tonight was supposed to be Tom. Not Nick.”

  “Quinn?” Was he really on his way here with Cliff? Images of both Quinn and Nick whirled together in an awkward dance, building to a crescendo in my living room. We all knew who would be standing after the last notes wound down. I looked at Georgi and shook my head. “You couldn’t make this stuff up. So, who invited Nick?”

  Georgi shrugged.

  I rubbed my temples and exhaled. “So now what? Who calls Quinn off, you or me?”

  “It might not be that easy.” She clenched her teeth, flexing her jaw muscles. “Pretty sure they’re on the road already.”

  “I don’t care. Call him off.” I forgot to whisper the last part. Silence rocketed through the air. Nick stopped singing. Crap.

  “No, don’t,” Nick said. He stood behind the counter, wearing one of my aprons and holding a wooden spoon. “Quinn and I can get along. As long as he doesn’t try to steal the affections of the woman I love and doesn’t try to tell me how to run my investigation.”

  His words blasted through me. The woman I love. Was I still his after nearly two months of no contact and less than fifteen minutes of a surprise reunion?

  “Investigation? What investigation?”

  “Yeah, what do you know that we don’t know?” Georgi sang out to Nick with the voice of a woman and the heart of a teenager.

  “Wait,” I said. “I don’t want to do this.”

  “Sure, you do,” Georgi urged. “You might want to knock back a little more of that vino though. Could get interesting around here.” She looked at her phone. “In about five minutes. Give or take.”

  “So that’s it? We host our own private showing of Boa vs. Python right here in my living room?” I rose to my feet, air squeezing out of constricted lungs.

  “Yeah. Pretty much. What’s not to love about that?” Georgi’s fingers were twitching on the stem of her wineglass, turning it back and forth.

  “Good grief. I’ve had fun before, Georgi, and this ain’t gonna be fun.”

  “Maybe not for you.” She chortled.

  “Nick? Are we okay?” I looked up at him, still gorgeous in my apron, deftly turning a counter full of vegetables and meat into something savory. Twenty minutes into the game, and I’m hoping for what—a promise of good behavior? What’s wrong with me?

  He broke into a brilliant smile, eyes sparkling. “You and I are much more than okay—and the rest of the evening will be pleasant. Maybe better than pleasant.”

  Sensory overload. Warmth spread through me. The sound of his voice coupled with those stunning brown eyes had sent me over the edge before. But that was long ago. Wasn’t it? I stared at him, dumbstruck.

  His smile broadened. “And don’t we have some business to discuss over dinner? I want to hear Quinn’s take on your golfer. I respect his opinion on this and the other scenes. Crime techs should have a preliminary report sent to him before he gets here. Makes this a working dinner.” He stepped around the counter and leaned against it, facing us.

  He had my attention now. And it wasn’t just the way he filled out my apron. If the Bureau were interested in the DB I’d found today, there was something else going on. “So, you wanna fill us in on the Bureau’s role? And what you mean by scenes? Or do we have to wait for a rousing game of Pictionary after dinner?”

  “You haven’t grown in patience in the last few months.” He looked at his watch.

  “Nor you in clarity.” I cocked an eyebrow at him.

  Gravel shifted under tires outside, announcing the arrival of Cliff and Quinn.

  The car came to a stop, and both front doors popped open. This oughta be fun.

  Chapter Eight

  Cliff and Quinn walked up the hill from the carport, gesturing and alternating between smiles and scowls. Probably talking shop. Not of the cop-shop variety either. They shared a deep affinity for the virtues of cherry for handcrafting furniture over the evils of pine, the poor man’s alternative. Their love for all things outdoors that could be dragged indoors to become, or be placed upon, a table, had been cemented in their high school Woods and Metals class.

  Which was where we all had met—really! I stuck with the class for almost three whole days. Long enough to gather
intel on the hot guys and to determine life would lead us in different directions. Georgi had already fallen in love with elements of design by then, and Cliff had fallen in love with her. Quinn and I went along for the ride, and we were all still friends, fifteen-some years later. Pushing twenty years.

  I smiled at the thought of what I’d come to think of as our black swan moment. The day we met seemed predictable enough—four like-minded country kids making fun of our teacher and trying to be cool while we checked out our classmates. We didn’t hear the levers of our lives clicking into place, or feel the lathe shaping our futures by gathering the four of us atop sawdust-covered floors. History in the making—who knew?

  Georgi opened the door and waited for them, leaving Nick and me standing alone at the kitchen island. He placed his hand on my forearm. “You’re more beautiful than ever, Jo. It feels like home being next to you again. I’m sorry for the silence.”

  I pulled up mental pictures of my too-tight jeans, then pushed them all aside. “Thanks. I … I don’t know what to say. It feels like a dream.” Dream or nightmare? What will happen with him and Quinn around the same table? Nick’s big-city upbringing hadn’t instilled much respect for a small town sheriff who preferred well-broke cowboy boots over fine Italian-leather loafers. Quinn’s penchant for hiding his intellect behind his run-down pickup truck and on-again-off-again country dialect had caused Nick to underestimate him more than once over the years. Years ago, the three of us had worked a case together that slipped across the state line. While we’d solved the case, we never did resolve our complicated relationship triangle.

  Flames swept across my cheeks as I recalled another long ago incident. This one had involved a gang of Colombian drug dealers rumored to have made it to the Flambeau Flowage area of Northern Wisconsin. Having combed the woods for hours with a bevy of agents, canines, and helicopters, Nick called off the search. An hour later, Quinn collared the thugs hiding out in the back end of a bear cave.

  I could think of several ways this evening might end, and none of them was too “pleasant.”

  Quinn and Georgi hugged at the door, Quinn’s gaze reaching in to see me and noticing Nick. He squinted and turned his eyes away. Nightmare it will be.

  “Quinn,” I said, “I … I didn’t know you were coming. But it’s a lovely surprise.” I placed myself in front of him, forcing the hug.

  “Looks like today is full of surprises.” He nodded toward Nick, offering his hand. “Nick.”

  Nick clasped his hand. “Good to see you, man. Sounds like we’ve got a lot of catching up to do on our case.”

  Our case?

  “Don’t it? Never thought I’d say it, but I’m glad to catch the two of you in the same room at the same time.” Quinn smiled, eyes grim.

  Huh? Had I imagined him flirting with me a few short hours ago?

  I went to the fridge, pulled out a bottle of Spotted Cow and handed it to Quinn. “Here you go. Now come on in and cut the mystery. I’m getting a distinct feeling you boys may know more than I do about my little discovery on the sixth hole.”

  Nick grabbed a platter of veggies, hummus, and assorted chips and headed toward the sectional facing the lake. We joined him, Quinn sitting in one corner, Nick in the other. Cliff, Georgi, and I sat next to each other in the middle. Closest to the platter.

  I grabbed a fistful of Nacho Cheese Doritos. You can take the girl out of the country …

  “Alright.” I decided to take command. “Let’s all agree to ignore the fact this impromptu reunion is at once beautiful and crazy awkward, and let’s decide to make the most of it.”

  “Who’s cooking?” Quinn looked from Nick to me.

  “I’m on the pasta,” Nick said, “and Jo’s on the dessert. Right, sweetie?” He looked over at me and winked. Really, Nick? In front of everyone?

  Cliff’s face brightened.

  “And tell us about the dessert, Josie.” Georgi jumped in quick.

  “Ah, it’s uh, a flourless chocolate cake.” A Marry Me Flourless Chocolate Cake.

  “Good enough for me. Keeping my weapon holstered. At least ’til dessert’s over.” Quinn said. “Now that we’ve got basic safety procedures out of the way, why don’t you fill us in on why you’re here, Nick?”

  “There’s another reason why you’re here?” I frowned and glanced at Nick. He looked back at me through hooded lids, and his lips grew taut.

  I turned my gaze back to Quinn, willing him to fill me in. “Go on.”

  “Not my story to tell.” Quinn took a long draw from his bottle and looked away.

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake, out with it.” I glared at Nick.

  Nick and Quinn exchanged quick glances. Crimson flashed across Quinn’s cheeks and disappeared. Nick took a drink from his bottle.

  “Georgi, Cliff, do you guys know all about it too?” I nudged them with my elbows from my convenient perch between them.

  “Not yet.” Georgi sat back on the sectional, crossing her legs.

  “Nope. But I got a feeling I’m about to.” Cliff scooped hummus onto a plate and settled back into the folds of the sofa.

  “Alright, guys.” I turned to Nick. “We’ll start with you. You came here for a reason. Knowing you, the timing is anything but accidental, and you had to know I had company. So, I’m guessing you don’t mind sharing your story in front of said company. Especially since you and Quinn here seem to have become something of an item.” I couldn’t hide the irritation in my voice.

  My goading unleashed Nick. Finally. He pulled his velvety brown eyes away from the lake.

  Lava rolled slowly through my stomach. Gears clicked into place in my mind. This must be what Quinn had been shushing Bhatt about earlier today. How long had they been working together on this new case?

  “A string of murders occurring in Wisconsin, involving only victims from Illinois, caught our collective eye. Some of my buddies at the Bureau are of the opinion there could be some sort of redneck rivalry element at work here.”

  “Hmph.” Georgi shot me a look that all but screamed I told you so.

  “Redneck’s a little harsh.” Quinn’s defensive tone surprised me. “And way too premature to call. What I would say is that there seems to be an interstate element to the crimes.”

  “If this little killing spree predates my golfer, what’s the timeline, and what’s the body count?” A white spark of curiosity emerged, followed by a flash of shame. Quinn had been ready to tell me more at the crime scene, and I’d distracted him. Made it all about me. Rats. Will I ever grow up?

  “Three.” Quinn put up three fingers.

  Nick shook his head. “Four, counting the golfer.”

  Quinn nodded. “Last week, some guy plugged a man from Rockford, Illinois, while he was stopped on Highway 33 between Portage and Baraboo. Week before that, another guy, this time from Buffalo Grove, Illinois, was beaten to death and left in a soybean field outside of Westfield. Highway 51.”

  “And in the first one, we think, a man from Oak Park, Illinois, was drowned during a midnight ice-fishing expedition up near Crandon. Each one of the murders was well-planned and staged to look like something other than what it was. And each one was linked. By letters.” Nick thumbed through his cell phone. “We almost missed the first calling card. Subtle.” He got up and held his phone out to me.

  “Wisconsin state boys did miss it at the first scene. It was Slick here who put it together.” Quinn smirked at his nemesis, waiting for me to study the picture. “And that wasn’t until the second scene was being processed.”

  An ice-covered lake at night, brightly lit, threw whites and blacks and shadows everywhere. There was a perfectly round hole in the ice with a wide circle of yellow tape surrounding it, lettered crime-scene markers carefully placed on the ice. “It seems pretty routine.” The body had been removed. Cops milled about in the photo.

  “How many
evidence markers do you see?” Nick asked.

  “I don’t know. They’re lettered, hang on. Five? Six?” I wasn’t seeing a connection.

  “What color are they?” Nick sank back into his corner of the sectional.

  “Yellow and black. Except for one, and it’s white and black. That important?” A tingling ran through me. “And it’s not in the right order. There are six letters, A to F, but this is a different color, and it’s the letter J.”

  “Check out the next couple of pics.”

  I thumbed to a picture of a field. Remnants of snow and ice clung to brown leaves. No body, no cops. I thumbed on and saw a close-up picture of a square, white bead with the letter E printed in black on it. “This looks pretty close to the bead we found on my golfer today.”

  “Don’t it, though?” Quinn came alive. “And look at the next shot.”

  A wave of dizziness flowed over me. What kind of bizarre clues were these? The next frame contained another close-up. This one featured the word ME, printed in ragged black letters on a white background.

  “What the heck?” I looked up at Quinn, then over to Nick. “This looks like something torn off a magazine cover or something. So, what do you make of it?”

  “Think about it. If you piece it together, it could be a message. A deadly message.” Quinn’s words floated in the air. I visualized the numbers and the letters next to each other.

  “J-E-ME … What’s that supposed to mean?” Neither man offered any ideas. “Either we’re missing a few letters, or this isn’t anything.”

  “There any more to this story?” I looked at Quinn, then to Nick. What were they leaving out? Besides the fact that they’d been in touch behind my back.

  Nick turned toward me, loosely crossing his legs at the ankle. “We think the killer knows his geography. We traced the bullet trajectory from the highway shooting up to a bluff where the shooter had been waiting, belly to the ground, watching the cars go by. Based on the food wrappers and spent ammo, he probably spent a few afternoons up there, sighting his scope, testing out his rifle. Dress rehearsals.” Nick looked over at Quinn.