He grimaced. “It did let you down.”
She stripped to panties and T-shirt. He placed his gun on the bedside stand within what would be easy reach for him, then undressed, too, leaving on his gray, stretch boxers.
They met in bed.
As if the last two nights hadn’t happened and it were a given, he slid an arm beneath her neck and gathered her close. Head resting on his shoulder in the spot that seemed made for her, she saw that exhaustion had aged him ten years. The way he looked at her out of bloodshot eyes was as intense as ever, though.
“We need to talk.” His voice slurred. “Later.” Then, as if that was all he could manage, his eyes closed and his muscles went slack.
What? That was all he had to say? Emily stiffened. For all her own exhaustion, sleep didn’t come quickly, not when apprehension had her stomach roiling.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Sean remembered last night’s events even before he opened his eyes. He turned his head enough to see the clock. Ten-thirty. Almost four hours of sleep would hold him until tonight.
He reached for the phone, then thought better of it. Emily was still out of it. He’d have to wake her up soon, but he might as well let her sleep as long as possible.
She didn’t stir as he slid from bed. He stood looking down at her, his chest hurting. Curled up like a sleeping child, she looked smaller, or maybe she’d been losing weight. Her braid was half undone. A long, midnight dark lock of hair lay across her cheek, emphasizing the jut of her cheekbone and the clean line of her jaw.
Wilcynski was right, he thought. Her survival thus far was a miracle. She’d displayed amazing presence of mind and courage. Her reward was being treated like a captive. She’d been lucky to be able to decide what she wanted out of the snack machine at the hospital last night. Otherwise, she followed orders, accepted confinement. Yet she’d been both valiant and patient.
The only damned thing she had asked was that he take her home, and he’d been a jerk about it.
Sean shook his head and went to take a shower. Under cover of the running water he called for an update on Rebecca’s condition. He was told she was resting comfortably.
He emerged from the bathroom to find the bed empty and heard the shower running in the other bathroom.
Breakfast was as quick as he could manage while providing a half decent meal. Conversation was brief to non-existent. Sean would sneak a look at her, only to find her apparently concentrating entirely on crumbling her toast. Damn. What he wanted to do was scoop her onto his lap, ask her to forgive him, tell her if she’d have him, he could live without ever knowing how he rated on the husband scale.
Bottom line: he was here, Tom was dead. With time, Sean thought, he was bound to come out the winner. He winced, knowing he was a jerk even to be thinking that.
But this wasn’t the time for that talk, any more than last night had been. His first priority had to be finding a serial killer before he could regroup and go after anyone again, and in particular Emily.
Which meant tucking her away somewhere safe, and setting out to ask some hard questions.
“I’ll have to drop you at the store,” he started to say, but saw that she was shaking her head.
“It’s Sunday. We’re closed on Sunday and Monday.”
He swore.
“Maybe you could leave me with Daniel and Sophie…”
Sean shook his head. “I may need him.”
“Or…what if I sat with Rebecca Walker? The hospital should be safe.”
Given his current suspicions, Emily would be remarkably vulnerable at the hospital. Sean made a snap decision. “No. You’re coming with me.”
Emily tried one more time. “But—”
He shook his head again. His expression must have been forbidding, because she closed her mouth without finishing her latest suggestion.
Wilcynski wouldn’t like it, but to hell with him.
As it happened, Sean had been having some hard thoughts about Lieutenant B.J. Wilcynski as well as Detective Jason Payne. Daniel, he trusted. He wouldn’t so far as to say he trusted Rey Mendoza, but he wouldn’t have been involved in the investigation beyond the one murder in his jurisdiction if Sean hadn’t invited him. Plus, he was clearly Hispanic. Hard to imagine him ever having been called Aaron Voight. Nonetheless, Sean had every intention of doing a background check on him today.
Along with ones on Lieutenant Wilcynski and Detective Payne. Both of whom were new to the department and the area.
Wilcynski had arrived less than a month before the first murder. It seemed unlikely he could be Braden Wilson’s big “brother”, given that he had to be in his late thirties. But maybe they’d jumped to conclusions. What if he was Braden’s father? Or the stepfather, if Braden had lied for some reason about him dying? Wilcynski hadn’t done anything, except for occasionally being abrasive, to give Sean cause to suspect him. But he’d been tapped into the investigation every step of the way. He was one of the few people who’d known where Kimberly Fisk was hidden. That Jeanette Kelley was going into hiding. That Ed Fisk had refused to do the same.
What if Sheriff Mackay hadn’t looked too hard into Wilcynski’s references? He might have jumped at someone with the experience Wilcynski claimed without wondering if he was too good to be true.
Payne had been here a few months longer. If he was Braden Wilson’s big “brother” – and, appearing to still be in his twenties, he was close enough to the right age – you’d think he’d have started his killing spree sooner. But maybe not. He might have wanted to establish himself so well, he wouldn’t ping on anyone’s radar. He could have planned from the beginning to maneuver himself into being part of the investigation.
Which was exactly what he’d done. Remembering his surprise when Jason had appeared at Frank Lowe’s house, Sean shook his head in faint incredulity. It had never occurred to him to check with the dispatcher to find out whether the conversation Jason mentioned had ever occurred. Why would he have been awake and chatting with the dispatcher in the middle of the night anyway?
This sounded more interesting than the couple of homicide investigations I’ve been involved in, he’d said, elaborately casual. Thought I could learn something.
And, damn, Sean couldn’t believe he was even thinking this. Suspecting other cops, ones who’d been working this case as hard as he had. He was suffering from paranoia, he told himself. Schizophrenia didn’t run in his family, as far as he knew, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t been hit with the first symptoms.
But paranoia or not, he intended to take a hard look into the backgrounds of both men. If Wilcynski found out, Sean would probably find himself stripped of his badge and service weapon.
So be it.
He left Emily inside when he went out to inspect his Outback. He’d driven it the day he transported Kimberly Fisk. Among the rest of the junk in his garage, he had a creeper. It took him a few minutes to find the damn thing, but once he did, it enabled him to roll under the chassis of his Subaru and search for anything that shouldn’t be there. By the time he finished, he was pretty confident the vehicle was clean.
That wasn’t good news, given the alternative explanations for how Kimberly had been found in what should have been a safe house.
Emily was ready when he went back in for her. She let him hustle her out to his SUV, and obediently crouched on the floor instead of sitting up where she could be a target while he backed out and made it to the highway leading to North Fork.
Then she crawled up into the seat and fastened her seatbelt without complaining.
It occurred to him that she hadn’t said anything about the talk he’d promised her. Maybe she’d rather not have it. He was the guy keeping her alive. She might not think it was smart right now to tell him she still loved her husband too much to think about getting deeply involved with anyone else.
Sean reminded himself that she had offered to replace her bed. She had admitted to wanting to live again. She’d made love with blistering pas
sion. She’d told him there wasn’t any reason for him to be jealous.
He cleared his throat. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her head turn and knew she was looking at him.
“I know I said we’d talk,” he began awkwardly.
“You have more important things to think about,” Emily said.
Sean frowned at that. “Not more important. I just can’t afford to be distracted.” All the while his gaze roved from the road ahead to the rearview mirror, the driver-side mirror, the forest to each side of the road, opening to occasional glimpses of Mist River, tumbling over a rocky bed. He watched for movement, anything out of place. So far, so good.
“I know that.” She touched his hand on the steering wheel, the merest brush of her fingertips.
It felt amazingly good. Out of proportion good.
He cleared his throat. “Thank you.”
What if he asked if there was any chance she was thinking about marriage and kids?
Not smart. Either way she answered would provide a punch of emotion he couldn’t afford.
Rearview mirror. Scan the woods to each side. Evaluate the stretch ahead.
Keep her safe. There would be time.
Neither of them said anything more.
Before he pulled into the concrete parking garage that linked sheriff’s department and the county jail, he had Emily unfasten her seat belt and kneel on the floor again. Given the source of his current unease, the shadowy depths had him more tense than he’d been on the open road. Fortunately, the garage was half empty and he was able to park not twenty feet from the entry door. The bulk of his vehicle gave added protection until they were inside.
He passed the sheriff’s office every day on his way to his own desk. Normally Mackay wouldn’t be in on a Sunday, but this wasn’t a usual Sunday, not when a deputy had been brutally slain last night. And, yes, the lights were on, he saw.
He steered Emily in and wasn’t surprised to find Mackay’s assistant in the office today, too. “The boss in?”
She was obviously curious about who Emily was, but only said, “He is.” She picked up the phone on her desk, spoke briefly into it then said, “Go on in.”
Sean hesitated. “Wait out here,” he told Emily. “Don’t go anywhere with anyone, not even if the building is burning down. Got it?”
The PA stared at him like he was nuts. He didn’t care. Emily’s eyes widened, too, but she took a seat and said, “Yes.”
Sean knocked lightly and entered the inner sanctum, an office no fancier than the two lieutenants’. Mackay’s only perks were a small bathroom of his own and what appeared to be a closet.
The big, scarred man sat back in his massive leather chair. “Detective Holbeck. Have a seat.”
Sean nodded, sat down and, pinned by Mackay’s unwavering gaze, wondered if this had been such a good idea. He could make an excuse—
No. What was it his mother used to say? In for a penny, in for a pound.
“I need to ask you something. I’m hoping you’ll keep to yourself that I ever asked.”
The sheriff’s eyebrows rose. “I guess that’ll depend on the question. But go ahead.”
“I’m wondering how solid your knowledge is of Lieutenant Wilcynski’s background,” he said bluntly.
Mackay contemplated him for a long time, his thoughts unreadable. Then he said, “Wilcynski told me about the night’s events.”
“Did he tell you we can’t figure out how the guy knew where to find Kimberly Fisk?”
“He did. Could you have been followed when you took the girl to Deputy Walker’s house?”
“No. That was a concern, and I kept an eye out. No one stuck with us. Last night, I started wondering about the possibility of a tracking device. This morning, I searched for one on or under my car and found nothing.”
Mackay took that in. “I almost wish you had.”
“Me, too.”
“No wonder you’re looking close to home.”
Sean fought not to twitch under that unrelenting stare. “I can’t afford not to.”
Mackay let out a breath. “I don’t blame you. You can take Lieutenant Wilcynski off your list. You met Detective Rostov.”
Sean nodded. Coming from southern California, Rostov had arrived in Cape Trouble in search of a witness to a cop killing. Unfortunately, he hadn’t been the only one looking for Naomi Kendrick. Both Cape Trouble P.D. and the sheriff’s department had become involved in the effort to keep her alive long enough to testify against a U.S. Congressman. Sean knew Daniel Colburn had stayed in touch with Rostov, and maybe Mackay had, too.
“Adam had worked with the lieutenant on a couple of multi-jurisdictional investigations and thought highly of him. When Wilcynski needed a change, Adam is the one who suggested Burris County. And, before you ask, I did verify his work and personal history. He graduated from high school and college both in southern California.”
Sean drew a mental line through one name on his list. “Thank you. That’s all I needed to know.”
“Are you having trouble working with him?”
“No. I need to consider anyone whose history could be bogus, that’s all.”
“When he was up here, Adam Rostov had…concerns about Detective Payne,” the sheriff said unexpectedly. “Obviously, they didn’t pan out.”
“I’m probably chasing my tail,” Sean admitted, “but I have to eliminate the possibility of an insider.”
When he stood, so did Mackay, looking a little more limber than some days, but as grimly unhappy as Sean felt. “Saunders trusted whoever got to him. That says insider to me, too. I’ll call personnel and have them to email me Payne’s file. If I see any red flags, I’ll call. Keep me apprised.”
Sean dipped his head. He didn’t have to ask whether Mackay would tell Wilcynski about his query; he knew he wouldn’t. He didn’t know if he was relieved or made even more worried to have Mackay take his suspicion so seriously.
Ushering Emily toward the bullpen, Sean tried to figure out where he could stash her that she’d be out of the way, but he could keep an eye on her. Wilcynski wouldn’t be happy that he hadn’t found an alternative to bringing her along today. Probably he should have, but the break-in at Rebecca Walker’s isolated cabin was the last straw as far as Sean was concerned. Emily wasn’t safe anywhere.
He paused where he could see that the lieutenant’s office door was closed and the glass pane showed darkness within. He’d be working today, but might be with Saunder’s wife. Sean felt sure he’d show up eventually. From this angle, the only other detective here was Alan Worley, who was currently working the rape of a young woman tourist who’d let herself get separated from a group of friends sharing a rental house.
Worley looked up and saw Sean in the doorway. “I heard about Saunders. He must have let that vicious bastard walk right up to him.” The words were clipped, his underlying rage not hidden.
“He might have done that if, say, a car appeared to be broken down and someone waved him to a stop.”
“Yeah. Jesus.”
“Was he a friend of yours?”
“Yeah.” Worley cleared his throat. “He introduced me to my wife.”
“I’m sorry.”
He gave a short nod. “Catch this scum.”
Good plan.
*****
Sean asked her to wait outside the room where the detectives apparently worked. She could see into it, including a slice of Sean at one of the desks facing her. His computer monitor blocked part of her view. There weren’t more than eight desks in there, which she supposed made sense. Given that the two most populous cities in the county had their own police forces, there couldn’t be that much need for in-depth investigations.
The hall they’d come down from the parking garage ended at a T. Looking one direction down the cross-hall, she could see what appeared to be the main entry to the sheriff’s department with a receptionist behind a wooden counter and what was probably the waiting area. Looking the opposite way, that same h
all ended not far from where she sat at a heavy metal door marked as an exit to the back of the building. Only one interior door opened off of it. Visualizing the layout of the building, Emily realized that meant the detective bullpen was at this back corner.
Right. Because creating an internal blueprint was so useful. But she had to think about something, and there wasn’t much in the way of distractions. She assumed the sheriff’s department would be considerably busier if this hadn’t been Sunday. Uniformed deputies did pass every once in a while, glancing at her without much curiosity but, in a couple cases, an obviously sexual assessment.
Inevitably, floor plan forgotten, she began to brood. Despite her fears, she was desperate to know what Sean intended to say when they had that ‘talk’. She wished she was sure what she should say.
What if Sean really couldn’t bring himself to move into her house? Could she even blame him? How would she feel, if it was the other way around and she suspected he was still in love with his dead wife? She honestly didn’t know.
The truth was, she did still love Tom. She always would. What she’d begun to realize was that both Tom and her feelings for him had…faded. An old picture turned to sepia. People always said time healed, but she’d refused to believe them. It turned out they were right, in a way. She was also discovering that the emotions Sean inspired in her were more powerful than anything she’d felt for Tom. More volatile. It was partly Sean himself, of course. He was capable of remarkable tenderness, but he wasn’t a gentle man. She had no doubt he was fully capable of violence when he believed it was justified. She ought to be appalled that she was drawn to that side of him, too, but how could she not be? If she’d met him in some other way, if she wasn’t being hunted by a ruthless killer, it might have been different. As it was, she had absolute faith that right now, everything violent and protective in Sean’s nature was channeled toward one goal: keeping her safe.
What was striking about him was that she’d seen no sign of a temper. When he got mad, if anything he became quieter, more closed in. His self-control seemed absolute.
Twisted Threads (A Cape Trouble Novel Book 3) Page 23
