Quinn Security

by Dee Bridgnorth

  As Whitney gave up and compromised with herself, settling on a channel that was playing reruns of some old 90s show about six friends whose particular brand of comedy had never really struck Lucy as all that funny, Lucy tried to make sense of how Kaleb Quinn had reacted to the tragedy of Leeanne’s shocking death. It was an easier thing to try to make sense of, far easier than pulling the pieces together to figure out who and why would take the waitress’s life in such a brutal manner, that was for sure.

  For as long as Lucy had been working at Angel’s Food, Kaleb had been trying to get into her pants. There was no mistaking his behavior, the shameless flirtation he’d used time and again. Truth be told, it was flattering, and if Kaleb didn’t have the reputation of a playboy, she might’ve jumped at the chance to go out with him. He was a good-looking guy, there was no question. Between his height and his lean, muscular build and his dark hair—and oh, those dreamy dark eyes of his—he fit her physical type to a T. Not that she’d ever let that fact on to him. He didn’t need the encouragement.

  But it was actually more than just his looks that had been steadily drawing her to him, if she was being honest with herself. Over the years, it had become something of a full-time job not to let on that every time she saw him sitting in her section of the diner her heart did a little jump and her cheeks warmed just a bit. If anything, she felt drawn to him because there was something about the way he carried himself, or the energy of his entire being, that seemed to suck her right in. If anything, he was probably doing her a favor by laying it on so thick—his flirtatious interest in her. It had always been easier for Lucy to resist the advances of a man when he was being way too forward about it. It was the subtle ones who hung back that she had to be careful with.

  As soon as Kaleb had barreled into her apartment, having heard her shrieking scream no doubt, she’d seen a different side of him. There hadn’t been a shred of flirtation in his attitude, no hint of his playboy ways. Of course, she reasoned, he would have to be a real monster to hit on her with a dead body lying bloody on her bathroom tiles. But even when they’d been outside and he’d offered that she could stay in his cabin, she could see clearly, even through the foggy haze of her prescription medication, that his one and only concern was her wellbeing. The offer wasn’t some kind of veiled tactic to seduce her. It had been genuine. Maybe she could trust him. Maybe she could let her guard down and take him up on his offer. Maybe being in Kaleb Quinn’s care would calm her in ways that being in Whitney’s company had only frazzled her nerves up even worse.

  It was getting late. The bright Wyoming sun had been gradually lowering out of Devil’s Fist, and the dusky-blue cover of night was closing in.

  She had to figure that the police had removed Leeanne’s body from her apartment by now. Was it still considered a crime scene? Or had the police collected every shred of evidence they would need to find out who had committed such a brutal act?

  Knowing the police, it’s not like they would’ve cleaned up after themselves. She could only imagine the gory mess that had been left behind. The pool of blood. Bloody footprints trailing all over the wooden living room floor. The splintered tiles where Leeanne’s head had hit the ground. Blood had probably seeped into those seams, as well. Could she ever live there again?

  Complicating matters was her VW bug. It was still parked behind the diner. Whitney hadn’t let her drive herself over to the small cabin they were now trying and failing to entertain themselves in. She was tempted to ask Whitney to drive her back so that she could at least get her car. She would be able to drive now without incident. She was feeling more like herself. But she sensed it would be a fight, not a bad one, they never fought about anything that really mattered. But Whitney was headstrong and when she thought she was doing the right thing, she fiercely maintained her stance, like a pit bull with its teeth clamped on a bone.

  “I think I need a shower,” said Whitney off-handedly as she set the remote control down on the couch beside Lucy. “You’ll be okay for a few minutes?”

  “Take your time,” said Lucy with a feeble smile.

  “There are pita chips and hummus in the fridge, if your appetite comes back,” she told her as she crossed the living room. She returned a moment later with a pile of sleeping clothes in her arms and as she rounded into the bathroom, she added, “My dad might swing by so if you hear a knock on the door, don’t panic. It’s probably just him.”

  “Okay,” she said, and Whitney slipped into the bathroom.

  Literally, the last thing Lucy wanted to have to deal with was a second round of questions from the sheriff. Whitney was a great girl, but it never failed to astonish Lucy how much faith her friend put in her father. It was a serious blind spot. Daddy could do no wrong, in Whitney’s eyes, not other than his paternalistic complaints about her skimpy jogging outfits and refusal to believe that his daughter had, in fact, grown up and wasn’t his little girl anymore.

  As soon as Lucy heard the shower running, she knew she didn’t want to stick around here long enough for the sheriff to knock on the cabin door, so she tiptoed into Whitney’s bedroom and found her friend’s purse resting on the dresser. Her car keys were resting on top and despite the substantial twinge of guilt that was corkscrewing its way through her stomach, Lucy snatched them and padded quickly and quietly through the living room and out the front door.

  Stealing Whitney’s car wasn’t going to earn her any friend-of-the-year awards, but she reasoned she was only borrowing it and would call her and preemptively confess before Whitney would even realize her Jeep was missing.

  It was unlocked so she didn’t have to press the key-fob and risk her friend hearing the telltale bleat. She didn’t flip the headlights on until she’d reached the end of the driveway, having crept passed the sheriff’s large, three-story cabin. Luckily, she breathed a little easier seeing that none of the lights were on inside. It was a quick four-mile drive to the heart of the Fist. She pulled the Jeep into the parking area behind the diner and parked it right next to her own VW bug. The parking lot was empty other than the two vehicles. There were no police cruisers. No one around. Lucy felt like she could finally breathe.

  As she climbed out of the Jeep, she felt for her cell phone in her pocket and remembered she was wearing Whitney’s clothes. It would give her an excellent excuse, so as she neared the entrance of her apartment where two yellow strips of police tape were stretched across, she quickly composed a text message to Whitney mentioning that she borrowed her car to get some of her clothes and things from her apartment. Of course, she anticipated Whitney would be upset that she could’ve driven Lucy over right after her shower, but Lucy had the excuse of not being quite herself or able to think straight. Whitney would have to forgive her.

  She sent the text message and eased through the apartment entrance, ducking under one strip of police tape and stepping over the other. At the top of the landing, there were two more strips of police tape to contend with across her apartment door warning anyone who neared not to cross, but she opened the door anyway and entered her dark apartment.

  It smelled like dried blood—that stale, penny-like smell. It turned her stomach. She opened the living room windows and flipped on the lights, half expecting to be confronted with the same harrowing image of Leeanne that she’d seen earlier that day.

  But of course, Leeanne was gone. There was only a blood stain, thick and gelled dark, where her body used to be.

  Lucy just stared down at it for a long moment.

  Then she made herself open the cabinets beneath the kitchen sink where she stored bleach, alcohol, and hydrogen peroxide. There was a bucket tucked under there as well, brand new sponges and rubber gloves for dishwashing. She grabbed all of it.

  This was her home.

  She had no intention of staying anywhere else.

  She was going to fight for this in all the ways she hadn’t been allowed to as a little girl.

  Lucy Cooper refused to lose her home for a second time.

&n
bsp; Chapter Five

  KALEB

  Night had fallen over the Fist. The majority of Main Street had closed up shop for the day, all of the little stores and boutiques dark except for Libations, the local bar, on the corner of Trout, and the diner at Bison Road, the intersection of which Kaleb was cruising towards in his pickup truck.

  The stars in all their constellations were twinkling brightly overhead, but his attention had been stolen by the apartment above Angel’s Food. The lights were on inside and one of the windows facing the street was open, its glass pane angled outward.

  It gave him immediate pause.

  He cut the wheel, pulling his pickup truck along the curb just before Bison, and climbed out. As he walked briskly down Bison Road, coming around the side of the diner where all of the large picture windows wrapped the corner, he noticed a handful of after-hours customers inside enjoying a slice of pie or two, midnight breakfast, though it wasn’t quite that late, and relaxed end-of-day conversations.

  At the rear of the building he spotted Whitney Abernathy’s Jeep as well as Lucy’s VW bug parked next to Angel Mercer’s car, but having seen Angel inside the diner, Kaleb had a pretty good idea of who had snuck up into the apartment above.

  He ascended the stairs quietly and once he’d reached the landing, he eased the apartment door open, careful not to disturb the yellow police tape that spanned the doorway.

  Inside, as he crept into the dimly lit apartment, he smelled the cool, crisp Wyoming air breezing in. It barely masked the scent of blood and rubbing alcohol that was stifling.

  He found Lucy on her knees in the bathroom, both hands fisted around a blood-soaked rag, as she scrubbed the tiles. There were two discarded sponges on the wooden floor of the living room where Leeanne Whitaker’s legs had been splayed out.

  She was so concentrated on her work of cleaning the bloodstain that at first she didn’t even realize she was no longer alone.

  “Lucy?” he said softly.

  She lifted her blue eyes. They weren’t just glassy from the tears that had fallen, her cheeks damp. They looked pale, like a winter sky, like the sparkling light of her personality had been snuffed out.

  She stared at him for a long moment and he wondered how many pills she’d had to take to get this far. Then, as she slowly lowered her gaze back down to the rubber gloves she wore, the rag that had been soaking up diluted blood, perhaps taking a good hard look at herself, she told him, “I have to do this.”

  “Then I’ll help you.”

  ***

  Just as Kaleb was hunting through the cabinets beneath the kitchen sink for a second pair of rubber gloves, downstairs in the diner Jack Quagmire watched Angel refill the industrial-sized coffee maker with grounds of dark roast behind the counter. She looked as beautiful as ever when she turned around, having swiveled the giant basket back into place with a firm click. Her makeup was immaculate, her hair also. She’d even found the time to have her nails done, polishing them a soft, feminine color at the nail salon on the other end of Main Street.

  But he was worried about her.

  Very, very worried.

  She hadn’t fought or resisted Troy Quinn’s assertion that Jack was to stay with her to safeguard against any sudden, inappropriate transformations. Jack would’ve thought that she would’ve resented his constant presence and tried to argue in favor of her independence, but she hadn’t. Instead, she’d more or less welcomed his help in her own quiet, defeated, ladylike way. They’d spent nearly all of their time together over the course of the last few weeks, ever since Jack had taken her home from the hospital in Jackson Hole after she’d been found, muddy and disoriented, out in the acreage behind her house. From six in the morning to about nine in the evening, he sat in Angel’s Food keeping close watch. Then they’d head over to his bar, Libations so she could unwind with a few glasses of wine while he tended to the place, balanced the books in the back, and otherwise kept the operations running smoothly. They spent their nights at her house, Angel keeping to herself in her bedroom while Jack took up on the couch downstairs. That was their routine, and it was one that Jack very much liked. Sure, she’d shifted without warning here and there. There had been close calls and also moments of terrible timing, but when the latter struck, they both had had the good luck of her shifting into her shimmering white wolf form when only another werewolf had been accidentally within sight.

  Angel had been improving by leaps and bounds. The fact that Dante had turned her, going outside of the code to inflict his devilish plan to terrorize all of Devil’s Fist, was feeling less and less like a curse, and though Jack was still patiently and anxiously waiting for Troy, the werewolf king, to develop his rightful gifts and come up with a way to break the eternal bond that Dante had with Angel, Jack had been feeling more and more hopeful. It was only a matter of time before Angel’s heart and soul would be free. Completely. For Jack to unite with her for all of eternity.

  But he was worried. Deeply.

  Where had she been when Leeanne Whitaker had been murdered?

  Jack played and replayed what he approximated as Leeanne’s time of death in his mind. He’d been sitting down here in the diner. Had he been holed up in one of the red vinyl booths in the back, or had he already moved up to one of the barstools at the counter? He couldn’t be entirely sure, all he knew was that he’d felt compelled to sit closer to the kitchen, as close as he could, when he realized that he hadn’t seen Angel flitting around the restaurant for a bit. He’d felt uncomfortable, very uncomfortable by that fact. When he’d neared the counter, scanning the kitchen for her, which wasn’t easy to see into thanks to the order counter that was cluttered with industrial-sized coffee makers, pastries, and a bunch of waitresses rushing around, the sheriff had moseyed on into the diner. His heart had clamped hard in his chest as soon as Rick had mentioned he was looking for Angel, and that had been before Jack and everyone else within earshot had heard the bloodcurdling scream coming from the apartment above.

  Jack wanted nothing more than to believe that Angel couldn’t have had anything to do with Leeanne’s death, but the fact of the matter was that he wasn’t sure where in the hell she’d been at that moment. And every time he’d tried to garner her attention discretely and ask, she’d busied herself even more with diner tasks that to Jack seemed far less important.

  Was she hiding something?

  He prayed not.

  He was jarred from his disturbing reverie when the glass entrance door of the diner swung open, the little bell above jingling, as Sheriff Rick Abernathy stepped inside.

  “Damn,” Jack grumbled under his breath.

  If Rick hadn’t been able to question Angel earlier, he’d get his chance now, and Jack wouldn’t be able to distract him to protect the love of his life.

  “Hidy-ho, Jack!”

  ***

  “Sheriff,” said his longtime friend from where he was seated, hunched over the diner counter and nursing what appeared to be an almost entirely melted root beer float.

  Jack looked pale, worried. His long face looked far from friendly, but that didn’t stop Rick from taking up in the barstool beside him and giving him a hearty pat on the back.

  “Hell of a day I’ve had,” said Rick good-naturedly, which caused a nervous chuckle to stutter out of Jack. Why was he acting all squirrely? “The medical examiner’s report came back on Leeanne.”

  “You don’t say,” said Jack, dark eyes widening.

  “’Fraid so,” he told him as he plucked a giant laminated menu from its little metal stand and began perusing the midnight breakfast options. Pancakes sounded good right about now, or maybe he just had a hankering for the sweet Maple syrup that always came with them.

  When he hadn’t elaborated, Jack asked, “And? Anything suspicious about it?”

  “’Fraid so,” he said again. “I am definitely afraid so.”

  He set the menu aside and it was then that he really caught the fear behind his friend’s eyes. “I shouldn’t tell you,”
he began, lowering his volume so that the elderly couple paying for their dessert at the other end of the counter wouldn’t overhear, “but it looks like another animal attack.”

  Jack straightened his spine and a glimmer of relief sparkled behind those dark eyes of his as he responded, “You serious?”

  “That’s what the M.E. tells me,” he confirmed. “The gashes in poor Leeanne Whitaker’s neck—now you saw ‘em, didn’t ya?”

  “I certainly did,” Jack said right quick. “Nasty, grisly gashes.”

  “They were indeed,” he agreed. “The medical examiner over in Jackson Hole called me. Gashes like that could’ve only been the work of animal fangs.”

  “Hell,” said Jack, a strange grin now appearing on his interested face. “What if it’s the same wolf that attacked Holly van Dyke?”

  “That’s what I’m thinking,” Rick said gravely as a stab of remorse pressed through his chest. “Wish I’d’ve found the damn thing and shot it dead back when I had the chance.”

  “I didn’t realize you’d had the chance.”

  “I did,” he said confidently. “I even shot the bitch.” Rick felt his mouth tug into a little grin at the humor of how literal his comment was. He was certain that wolf had been a bitch. Female. “A white wolf,” he informed his friend and Jack’s grinning face went slack all over again. “Clipped her in the shoulder or hide. Not sure exactly, and she tore off through the foggy streets, but I found me a little puddle of blood, so I know I slowed her down some.”

  “That right?”

  “Yessir,” he said proudly. “And I’ll tell you one thing. I ain’t never seen a white wolf like this in all my life. At least now I know what I’m hunting. A white wolf’s like a white elephant. It’s gonna stick out like a sore thumb.”