by Terry Odell
“What do you want from me?” Detweiler asked.
Cole flashed a weak smile. “I’m not sure. Guess I needed a sounding board. What would you do if you suspected something you couldn’t prove?”
The detective paused, as if examining a moment from his past. “I’d make damn sure I didn’t cross any lines while I dug deeper.”
Was that a subtle way of saying Cole was free to investigate...but to be careful?
“Thank you, Sir.”
Detweiler rested his hands on the edge of his desk and pierced Cole with his gaze. “And I’d make damn sure it didn’t interfere with my assigned duties as a member of the Pine Hills Police Department. Especially if I was the lowest ranking officer on the force.”
Cole stood at attention. “Yes, Sir. Understood, Sir.”
Detweiler tapped his keyboard. “Kirk Webster, you said? Went to Pine Hills High?”
Cole kept his expression neutral, despite feeling that he’d just hit winning numbers in the lottery. “Yes, Sir. Graduated six years ago.”
“See you at roll call.” The sound of computer keys clicking followed Cole as he walked to the briefing room. Was Detweiler investigating Kirk Webster?
Why would he look into a niggle?
At roll call, when nothing was said about the house on Elm Street or Kirk Webster, Cole suspected Detweiler had been humoring him. Let the new kid have his fun.
Cole coasted through his patrol routes. Could he find a reason to go into the high school? Conveniently work things around so asking questions about Kirk Webster wouldn’t stand out?
Nope. No calls about loitering teens.
While he was at Confections by Ashley for a caffeine and sugar boost, Dispatch called, told him he had more papers to serve. He shoved the rest of his Danish into his mouth, grabbed a napkin from a table dispenser, and headed for the station. He picked up the summons and passed reception on his way out.
Could he ask Scott Whelan to have lunch with him? Pick his brain some more now that he had new information? Okay, information was a stretch. Cole had a few facts he’d put his own spin on. Whelan’s experience might shed new light, or open new avenues of thinking.
Whelan agreed to a brain-picking lunch session, and Cole headed out to let some unsuspecting soul find out he was being sued and would have to go to court. Cole prepared for hostility—most people hated being served and took it out on the person doing the serving—but the man accepted the summons without comment, his eyes showing a hint of guilt.
Glad there had been no argument, Cole continued his patrol route, weaving through neighborhoods, making a police presence known. His eyes scanned the streets, the yards, alert to anything unusual. As was most often the case, all was quiet.
He let Dispatch know he’d take one swing by the river.
As he approached, he caught a glimpse of a powder blue Mustang tucked into a copse of trees. Great. He couldn’t read the plate, but what were the odds there were two of these classics in Pine Hills?
He let Dispatch know his whereabouts and tapped his vest before leaving his vehicle.
Chapter 22
MORGAN BLINKED AT THE sight of Tom standing in her doorway. Mrs. More Cheerful had been spot on when she’d called him a hunk-and-a-half. He’d been friendly and helpful last night, assuring Morgan he’d get her the best possible prices. Maybe he’d been flirting, too.
She got no twinges when she looked at him. No tingles. She invited him in and pointed out the suitcases and boxes. “These need to go into my car. Since there’s no elevator to get a bellman’s cart up here, it’ll be a couple of trips. Sorry.”
“Hey, no apologies needed. There’s a cart in the lobby. Glad to help a new resident of Pine Hills.” He winked. “Doesn’t hurt when they’re pretty.”
No question. Definitely flirting.
Ignoring his last comment, she grabbed her car keys and the handle of her carry-on. They assembled everything on the cart in the lobby and wheeled it to her car.
“I’m almost done here.” Tom put the last of her cartons in the trunk. “I could come over when I’m finished, help you unload at the house.”
Morgan wasn’t getting the same as a friend vibe she got from Cole. This guy seemed to be out for rolls in the hay with no commitment.
She flashed a polite smile. “That’s very nice of you, but I’m fine.”
“Hey, I forgot to mention it last night. The fire department has a program where we sell smoke alarms and carbon monoxide detectors at cost. I can bring them by later today if you’d like.” His smile was Hollywood bright.
This guy wasn’t going to give up. “I’m not sure when I’ll be around. Can I pick them up at the fire department?”
His smile lost a few watts. “Sure.”
Glad she’d already settled her bill and could drive off, she headed for the vet clinic.
Morgan swore Bailey perked up when he saw her, not just because she was another human who might pay him some attention, but because he recognized her. There was nothing phony about Bailey’s affections. Or was he anticipating the treats she gave him? The dog was no longer hooked up to the IV, and Derrick suggested she and Bailey go outside for a short walk.
“Doc said you can take him home this afternoon,” Derrick said. “As long as you’re able to keep an eye on things, he’ll be happier out of this environment. You’ll need to bring him back every few days so she can check the healing progress.”
Home. Home to what? Not to mention all of Bailey’s new supplies were still in Cole’s car.
One look in Bailey’s brown eyes made her say she’d make it work. “That’ll be fine.”
Derrick fixed Bailey up with a collar and leash and scratched the dog’s head. “Enjoy the sunshine, fella.”
Morgan chatted with Bailey as they strolled the grassy area around the clinic. He seemed intent on sniffing every blade of grass, every shrub, every stone, as if he’d never seen anything like them before. Every couple of sniffs, he’d turn and look at her, as if to say Are you still here?
“Always and forever, Bailey,” she whispered.
With a good-bye and a promise to return—and another treat—Morgan left Bailey for Elm Street. Leaving everything in the car, she returned to her boxes. Trash pickup was on Tuesday, and she vowed to be done long before that.
She sent Cole a text.
Need Bailey’s things. He’s coming home tonight.
Morgan didn’t know the rules about using personal phones while on duty, but she figured he’d check when he got off work, if not before.
Feeling organized and efficient, she pocketed her phone and slit more boxes. Things moved quickly now that she had a system based on what she’d found in the ones she’d already opened. Whoever packed them had been methodical. Every box held similar items, so after a quick peek to make certain there was nothing beyond that box’s category, she could label it and move on to the next. The worst were the ones that contained empty cans. Whoever had stored them had flattened them without cleaning. Although she didn’t find more dead rats, the smell and mold put those boxes into her trash section, not recycling.
She might be done by lunchtime.
The doorbell rang, and she raced upstairs. “Coming.”
“Bed for Morgan Tate,” one of the men said after she opened the door.
Having agreed with Cole’s suggestion to use another bedroom while she made the master her own space, Morgan directed the two men upstairs. They assembled the metal frame, positioned the box spring, and plopped the mattress on top. Okay for sleeping, but nothing much to look at.
With the delivery men gone, Morgan went downstairs to the dining area for the boxes she’d brought over yesterday. She pulled out a sheet set, then went for the plastic bag that held her pillow. That was one creature comfort she hadn’t been willing to leave behind, bulky though it was.
She made the bed, then wrestled the card table up the stairs to use as a bedside table. After making sure it wouldn’t tip over if she breathed too h
ard, she added one of the lamps.
Hands on hips, she stepped back. “Home sweet home,” she muttered.
Might as well bring in more of her things.
Once her suitcases were inside, she set them near the staircase. Easier—and safer—to make numerous trips up and down than to lug the heavy cases up there.
She opened her cartons, sorting based on what was essential, and where it would go. Rich’s crew had cleaned all the kitchen drawers and cabinets. Since Morgan wasn’t a kitchen person, the few items she’d brought with her seemed lonely and forlorn. She’d bought a coffee maker at the hardware store, so she set it up and started brewing a pot.
A bed and fresh coffee. All the comforts of home.
Her phone rang in her pocket. She jumped. Austin’s ringtone. Morgan swiped to accept the call. Why would he be calling when he was supposed to be in class?
“Austin? What’s wrong?”
The voice that responded wasn’t Austin’s. It was his mother’s. From the slurred speech, she was plastered.
COLE SURVEYED THE AREA surrounding the Mustang for signs that someone was around. Randall had seemed appreciative when Cole had let him off with a warning last time. Had he decided to get even? Leaving the Mustang as a lure while he hid and watched?
To do what? The kid might be rich, might be spoiled, but getting back at a cop required a level of stupidity Cole didn’t think Randall possessed.
Cole radioed Dispatch, asked for a check to see whether Randall was in school. As he waited, he sorted through the possibilities sprinting through his head. Ambushing a cop was low on the list. Dispatch hadn’t reported any calls to this area, and why sit around on the off chance a cop—and one in particular—would happen by?
The car wasn’t rocking. No active encounters at the moment.
Was Randall in the car? What if he was hurt? Seconds could count. Cole hit the release on his holster and crept toward the car. “Pine Hills Police. Driver, are you in the vehicle?”
No response.
Best case scenario, Randall—assuming he was the driver—and anyone else he had with him were farther into the woods, drinking, smoking, or having a quick dip in the river.
Cole unholstered his weapon, left his prints on the trunk, made sure the cover was latched, and announced himself again. If someone was napping, that ought to wake him up.
Still nothing indicated the car was occupied.
Keeping low, weapon drawn, Cole moved toward the driver side door. He raised his head enough to peer inside.
Crap! He keyed his radio. “Dispatch. Patton. Roll backup and an ambulance to my location, end of River Drive. One casualty. Male, about sixteen. Assessing now.”
Cole yanked the door open. Randall Ebersold lay across the front seat, his eyes swollen shut, his hair matted with blood. Cole felt for a pulse. Faint, but steady. The boy’s chest rose and fell.
“Randall. Can you hear me? Help is on the way.”
A faint groan escaped from Randall’s lips.
“Do you know who did this to you?”
Randall’s eyelids fluttered.
“Are you hurt anywhere else?” Cole leaned in, checked for more blood.
A whisper. “Arm.”
Cole did a quick visual. No protruding bones, which was good. Touching or moving the boy could do more harm, so Cole crouched by the open door and offered assurances.
Dispatch’s update said Cole’s backup and ambulance would be there in five.
“Roger that,” Cole said into the mic. “Find out who else is absent from the high school today.”
“Just a couple minutes,” Cole said to Randall.
“My ... father,” Randall whispered.
“I can call him right now,” Cole said.
The boy’s eyes opened as far as was possible, given their swollen condition. “No!”
The sound was a sharp whisper.
Cole got the message as if it had been belted from a rock concert stage. “Your mother? Should I call her?”
Randall’s head moved from side to side. His no was softer, but a definite negative.
Why wouldn’t the kid want family around? He was sixteen. No way anything would happen without a parent present.
Flashing lights signaled the approach of the ambulance and backup. While the medics attended to Randall, Cole explained the situation to Brody. To Cole’s mild surprise, Brody made no move to put himself in charge, despite being the senior officer.
“What’s your take?” Brody asked.
“The kid didn’t talk much, but someone beat the crap out of him. It’s possible he—or they—are still around. I say we do a quick surveillance down to the river, see if we can find anyone.
Brody puffed his lips in and out. “Makes sense. You check around the car already? Unless they beat him up inside, there should be footprints, drag marks, some blood.”
“Nothing jumped out. I was looking for people at that point, and once I found the kid, I couldn’t leave him.” Cole gave it more thought. He and Brody didn’t have crime scene training. “We should call Connor.”
“Messing around in a classic Mustang would make his day. We’re not the ones who can call him to the scene, though,” Brody said. “Above our pay grade.”
“I’ll call it in.” Cole keyed his radio, got put through to Detweiler, and explained the situation.
“Already on my way,” the detective said.
Of course. He’d be listening to the radio traffic.
“Clear the area,” Detweiler added. “If the assailants are around, we don’t want to give them time to get away. Scope out areas that contain potential evidence, flag them. Then sit tight. I’ll be there in under ten.”
The medics had Randall on a gurney and were wheeling him to the ambulance. Cole shook his head. “Between the medics, and me checking the scene and trying to find out what Randall knew, we’ve contaminated the immediate area.”
The two men strolled along the path toward the river, looking for evidence that someone had been there recently.
“Any idea who did this?” Brody asked. “Didn’t you catch him in flagrante the other day?”
“I sent him—and his girlfriend—off with a warning. Why beat him up if nobody got in trouble?”
“Maybe the girl was pissed and decided to round up some of her other friends to get even. Wait.” Brody stopped. Pointed. “What’s that?”
“Where?”
Brody took his flashlight, shone it into the brush about ten yards off the trail. “Looks like beer cans. Nothing unusual about that around here.”
“Mark it,” Cole said. “It’s a Connor thing.”
Brody produced a packet of yellow crime scene tape from a pocket, ripped off a length and tied it around a branch. “I’m thinking by the time you found the car, our perpetrators were long gone. Let the big guy take over.”
Familiar sounds of Detweiler’s F-150 said the big guy had arrived.
Chapter 23
“WHY ARE YOU CALLING me, Mrs. Jackson?” Morgan gripped the phone as if she could make the woman’s eyes bulge. “Let me speak with Austin, please.”
“He ain’t here. I can’t do this no more. Piano playing ain’t going to do us no good. People like us, we gets money from kids what plays sports. You finds him a coach—football, basketball, hell, even tennis—that makes sense. Better yet, you take him on. Kid’s nothing but trouble.”
Her words were slurred, but Morgan had no trouble following the conversation, one they had every month or two. One the woman wouldn’t remember when she sobered up.
Morgan took a calming breath. “That’s right, Mrs. Jackson. Now let me talk to Austin so I can straighten this out for you.”
“Said he ain’t here.”
“Where is he?”
“School. Least he’s supposed to be.”
“That’s good, Mrs. Jackson.”
Nothing.
“Mrs. Jackson?” More silence. Damn, why didn’t cell phones have dial tones?
Assuming Austin’s mom had either disconnected or dropped the phone, Morgan hit the end call button and called Mr. Nakamura.
His “Yes, Miss Tate” when he picked up dripped with exasperation.
“I’m sorry ... again,” she said. “Austin’s mother has his phone, and from the way she sounded, it’s highly unlikely she’ll be in any condition to get Austin to his lesson. I’ll call the school, see if they’ll get a message to him that I’m ordering an Uber to get him there.”
His pause chilled her like a D flat minor chord from a silent movie organ.
“This might as well be the time to bring it up, Miss Tate. I’m afraid I can no longer provide lessons for Austin.”
“You’re dropping him?” she said. “You can’t. Not now.”
“It’s true he’s a gifted child, and that’s part of the problem. He needs a teacher who can offer more than I can. That, combined with his sporadic attendance, puts me in an uncomfortable place. I’m unable to serve students I can nurture.”
His words ran into each other like tumbling dominos. He was the best piano teacher anywhere near Dublin, Ohio, and there was no way Austin could travel farther for lessons. “You won’t reconsider?” she asked. “I can increase payments.”
“It wouldn’t be fair to you, me, or Austin. If he shows up today, consider this our last lesson. In any case, I’ll refund the advance payments you’ve given me.”
“I understand.” Despair settled like an anvil in her stomach as she ended the call. She was not going to fail with Austin. The world deserved to benefit from his talent. It was a matter of the best way to develop it.
Morgan called the school and made her request. “If possible, can you have him let me know he got my message, please?”
The admin, a woman Morgan had dealt with numerous times, said, “Austin’s a good kid. I’ll call him to the office to relay the message, and he can borrow my cell.”
