Disorderly Conduct (The Anna Albertini Files Book 1)

by Rebecca Zanetti

  He spoke over his shoulder, his mouth close to mine. “Hold on tight, go loose against me, and just enjoy the ride. Trust me to take care of you.” Then he turned the powerful beast, opened the throttle, and let loose.

  I tightened my hold and relaxed against him at the same time, letting his body steer the bike around the twisty turns of Tamarack Lake road. Trust him? I did. It was probably a mistake, but with the roar of the bike and rush of the wind, I really didn’t care right now. I was free and safe and wild and all me. There were no cases, no anniversary cards, no stress.

  Just the wind and the incredibly hard body I was holding.

  I turned my head to rest my cheek against his muscled back, closing my eyes just to feel. I’d be lying if I said the danger inherent in both the man and the ride didn’t call to me on some level. My shrink could worry about that tomorrow.

  It took about half an hour to reach the opposite side of the lake, and Aiden pulled off into an empty camping area. I looked around, spotting the tire swing hanging from an old pine tree that had been there forever. He cut the engine. I slowly released him and sat back.

  In a move that was as fast as it was smooth, he twisted, hooked an arm around my waist, and pulled me around to face him on the bike with the handlebars cradling my back. His thighs bracketed mine, and his hands on the bar bracketed, well, me.

  I gave a surprised yip. Then I grinned. “You have used that move before.”

  His eyes twinkled the darker shades of the blue spectrum as the sun went down. Birds came back to life around us, but other than that, we were alone. “Not with you.”

  Charming. Definitely charming. With his hair mussed and his face more relaxed than I’d seen it so far, he drew me in a way I couldn’t explain. Wouldn’t want to. Yet, I had questions. “Did you kill Randy Taylor?”

  He drew back slightly, his brows rising. “No. Did you sleep with Nick Basanelli?”

  Surprise caught me, but I hid it. “No. Did you kill Cheryl Smythers?”

  His face softened a fraction, and he looked me right in the eye. “Absolutely not. Even if I had killed her numbnuts of a boyfriend—which I did not—I could never kill an eighteen-year-old girl. Not in a million years.”

  I believed him. Right or wrong, smart or beyond stupid, I did believe him. “All right.”

  He cocked his head to the side. “Why does the detective think you slept with Basanelli?”

  Why did Aiden care? I shrugged. “Seeing Cheryl’s body hit Nick hard last night, and he got drunk and called me. I kept him company and bandaged his head.”

  Aiden’s chin lifted in that way tough guys’ did. “Basanelli got drunk and then called you.”

  I blinked. “Well, yeah.” It didn’t sound great the way Aiden said it.

  “Right, and I suppose he didn’t make a move.” Aiden’s faint Irish brogue lifted his consonants.

  Well, kind of but not really but maybe a little? I wasn’t sure how to answer that.

  “Exactly,” Aiden said. He shook his head. “Basanelli was a jerk in high school and isn’t better now. He’s all ambition, and he doesn’t care who gets hurt in his climb to the top. Watch your back, Angel.”

  “I think you’ve pegged him wrong,” I said, not sure why I was sticking up for Nick. Sure, he was ambitious, but he seemed like a good guy. “You’re the one out on bond. Speaking of which. Do you run drugs?” Would he be as honest about this?

  He leaned in, making my breath catch all funny. “You know I can’t talk about an ongoing case with you.”

  “You don’t have a lawyer,” I reminded him. “You can talk all you want.”

  “Yeah. I’m not going to.”

  That was legally fair, and I couldn’t let go of this opportunity. “When you were talking to Detective Pierce, what did you mean that he left his old job for a reason?”

  Aiden’s gaze landed on my mouth. He was definitely losing interest in the conversation. “Pierce had an affair with a coworker and was pretty much forced out of the LAPD. Came up here for a fresh start, although there were rumors of other misconduct that couldn’t be proven.” Aiden threaded his hand through my hair and pulled me away from the handlebars and toward his mouth.

  Oh man, I wanted that kiss. What was up with me kissing people I shouldn’t lately? However, this was an opportunity, and I was going to take advantage and hopefully catch him off guard. I was almost to his mouth. “What do you know about baking and drugs, Aiden?”

  He paused, his mouth just a breath from mine. “Excuse me?”

  Oh, shoot. I couldn’t help myself. I bit his bottom lip just hard enough to leave an indent. “You heard me.”

  His hand moved and then twisted in my hair, pulling my head back. I jerked in surprise but couldn’t move my head. “Did you just bite me?” Curiosity and something darker lingered in those eyes.

  “Yes,” I whispered. “I also asked you a question.”

  His nostrils flared. “What do you know about baking and drugs?”

  Not enough. Nothing, actually. “Just that nobody will tell me what’s going on. Nick won’t tell me,” I said in a clear attempt to manipulate him that probably didn’t make sense on any rational level. “Will you?”

  “No.” Aiden said the word with a slight yank to my hair. “I will tell you that I bite back.”

  I blinked.

  “Oh, not now.” He released me and smoothly moved me back behind him on the bike. “And it sure as shit won’t be on your mouth.” Without waiting for a response, he levered up and started the bike, forcing me to grab on as he peeled out of the camping area.

  Okay. Everybody I talked to got all cranky when I mentioned baking and drugs. I held on, my mind spinning, as he took me back to my cabin.

  Then, with a surprising gentleness, he assisted me from his bike. My knees wobbled for a moment. A buzzing from the car caught my attention. Oh, crap. If I didn’t answer, my dad would go nuts. It had to be him. “Just a sec.” I reached over the closed door and tugged my phone from my purse. “Hi, Dad. Have news?”

  “No, honey.” My dad’s voice boomed, but he sounded a little uncertain. “There was no card in the box. Maybe he’s finally given up.”

  I couldn’t move. All right. No card? That was almost as frightening as the cards. At least there had been consistency there. “Maybe he’s dead,” I offered.

  “I’m hoping. Do you need me to come get you?” my dad asked.

  Tears pricked my eyes and I turned to keep Aiden from seeing. “No, Daddy. I’m fine. I promise I’ll call you tomorrow.” We said our goodbyes, and I hurried over to hand Aiden his jacket.

  He grasped my chin. “Anna? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” I swallowed. Okay. I needed to process this. Then my gaze caught on the narrow silver mailbox next to the garage. “No.” Almost in a daze, I moved for it. It was impossible. For years, Jareth Davey had sent cards to the post office box. Not once, not in college or law school or my summer camps had he found me. My hand shook as I opened the box and drew out my mail. Several bills and a big pink envelope. I swayed.

  Aiden was off the bike in a second. “What is that?”

  I let everything but the pink envelope drop to the ground. My legs shook harder than my hands as I flipped it over. My name with no return address. It was stamped as being processed in Spokane, which was our closest processing center. “Oh, God.”

  Aiden took the envelope to open. I let him. “What is this?” He flipped open a card with flowers and a Happy Anniversary on it. Then he opened the card. Nothing was written inside. “I don’t understand.” But an awareness sparked in his eyes as he put the pieces together. “Anniversary?”

  “Yes.” Tears clogged my throat, and I looked wildly around at the peaceful trees on either side of us. “He sends one every year and then also a Christmas card, always postmarked from different places. He sends them to my post office box in Silverville. Never to wherever I’m living at the time.

  Aiden’s jaw hardened, and his eyes drew down. “
Are you serious?”

  Numbly, I nodded. “Yeah.” Jareth Davey knew where I lived. He’d mailed the card from either Timber City, Spokane, or one of the numerous smaller towns around the area that had its mail processed in Spokane.

  What was I going to do now?

  Aiden shook his head. “Your family hasn’t taken him out?”

  I coughed out a laugh. “We can’t find him. The cards have come from Austin, New York, Los Angeles, Denver, Paris, and even Nantucket Island.”

  Aiden froze. “Are you kidding?” He turned the envelope over in his hands.

  I shook my head.

  He looked around as well. “When did the one from Nantucket come?”

  I frowned. That was a freaking weird question. “I don’t know. Maybe three years ago?”

  Aiden handed over the envelope, his expression harder than iron. “Guess I’m not done saving you, am I?”

  Chapter 23

  With one phone call, my family descended upon my cottage like the wrath of the Irish and Italian mobs. My sisters arrived first, followed by my parents. The Silverville sheriff came with a tech and took the envelope, promising to get the envelope processed as soon as possible. It didn’t matter. Although both Aiden and I had touched the envelope, Davey had never left a fingerprint, and I was sure he hadn’t started now.

  There was no way to trace the cards to him. Not legally, anyway.

  Aiden had taken off the second Tessa had arrived, still oddly quiet about the entire situation. It probably did seem weird.

  My family and I ate a bunch of food, and we talked about everything except Jareth Davey. While my uncles had tried to find the guy through the years, no doubt Nick had contacts they didn’t. He’d made the offer, and it was time he came through. I wasn’t sure what I’d do with the information, but I needed it.

  My parents went home around ten, having to drive fifty miles across the mountain pass, and my sisters stayed the night. We watched old movies and ate too much popcorn, and I only got a couple hours of sleep before I had to go to work.

  Thursday was a light day for me with no court, so I dressed in nice jeans and a blue blazer, not really caring what anybody thought. After a cursory check in my office, I left and headed down to the war-room, where I found Nick drawing connecting lines between Aiden Devlin, the Lordes, Melvin Whitaker, and Scot Peterson. Pictures of Randy Taylor and Cheryl Smythers remained to the side.

  He finished drawing his last line as I walked in. “I talked to my brother in Silverville and heard about the anniversary card sent to your house.” He looked over his shoulder, his eyes clear and bright. Definitely more awake than I was. “I’ve already reached out to contacts in the military and will have a location for you as soon as possible.”

  I opened my mouth, but no sound came out until I cleared my throat. “Thank you.”

  Nick turned to face me, also wearing jeans and a blazer. Apparently he didn’t have court today, either. “I think you can create a harassment case based on the years involved, but proving Davey has been sending cards is going to be difficult since he hasn’t left prints.”

  “I know,” I whispered. “I’ll figure that out once we find him.”

  Nick nodded. His phone dinged from the table, and he read a text. “The autopsy is finished on Cheryl Smythers. Do you want to come with me to talk to the coroner?”

  I swallowed. “Yes.” No. Definitely no. I’d never been to the morgue, and I was more than happy with that, but it was time to put on my big girl pants and go to work. “You’re driving.” I still wasn’t all that steady after receiving the letter at my home the night before.

  We’d already reached his vehicle and driven through town toward the hospital area when he hit me with his next bomb. “I’m thinking of firing all of the attorneys and paralegals in the office.” As if discussing the weather, his voice remained calm and thoughtful.

  I jerked. “You can’t fire six lawyers and what? Ten paralegals?”

  “Five. There are only five paralegals.” He glanced my way. “You’ll have to help hire new ones.”

  I shook my head. “There’s no way we can cover everything in the meantime. Come on.”

  He pulled into the back lot of the morgue, which was set away from the brick hospital. “We can push off work to other counties until we’re up and running. Yeah. That’s the plan.”

  It was a rotten plan. Especially for the hard-working people who probably had nothing to do with running drugs or whatever else Scot had been involved with. “Fine, but you have to give the existing employees a chance to apply, interview, and possibly be rehired.”

  “I can do that.” He tossed his sunglasses on the dash and stepped out into the dewy morning.

  Sometimes he was such a butthead. Grumbling to myself, I followed suit, trying to appear okay with the fact that we were about to visit dead people. Or rather, where dead people got cut up. My stomach lurched. I sucked it up and followed Nick through the back door, which he opened by using the weathered keypad next to it.

  We walked into a hallway, and he silently led the way to an elevator at the end, passing several closed doors. “You ever been to the morgue?”

  “No.” The elevator door opened, and I fought the very real urge to turn and run.

  “This is a small one, so it won’t be like you’re in the big city,” he said, pressing the button for LL2. “In other words, there won’t be tons of bodies around. So take a deep breath, and you’ll be fine.” Then he glanced at me, his brown eyes shrewd. “Take a deep breath now. Not down in the morgue.”

  I gave him a half-hearted grin at the lame attempt at humor.

  When the elevator door opened, I let him take the lead. A clean and rather dark hallway led to a light blue door, which he opened to reveal a locker room. There were cubby holes filled with materials, and he turned and tossed me plastic shoe covers and a mask, which I quickly donned. Then he moved to another blue door and opened it.

  The smell of formaldehyde and death hit me instantly. Bleach, too.

  In the room, there were three gurneys, all shining and free of bodies. My gaze tore past the counter with scales and other medical equipment to the refrigerators with their square boxes.

  Nick tore off his mask, and slowly, I removed mine. “Guess we’re late.” He pointed to another blue door to the north. “That’s where the dead are processed by being fingerprinted, and the x-ray room is beyond that.”

  A final blue door opened, and a grizzly man of about eighty limped in, manila files in his hand. He had short white hair and clear brown eyes. “Hey, Nicolo.”

  Nick nodded. “Hi, Uncle Bay. This is Anna Albertini. Anna, this is Dr. Bayson Mandi, the county coroner and my uncle.”

  “Nice to meet you, Dr. Mandi,” I said, feeling weird with the plastic covers over my flats.

  “Call me Bay,” the coroner said. “Everyone else does.”

  Nick jerked his head toward the refrigerators. “Who do you have in there?”

  Bay glanced down at his files. “Cheryl Smythers and an unknown old guy pulled out of the river. Apparent drowning.” He rolled his neck, and it cracked. “Randy Taylor and Scot Peterson have both been released to the mortuary.” He scratched the pale and wrinkled skin next to his big ear. “Not used to this many bodies at one time. Miss the old days.”

  “The old days were filled with injured lumbers, miners, and hookers,” Nick returned.

  “Yeah, but for some reason, it’s getting harder.” Bay sighed. “Kids look so young now that I’m so old.”

  “Kids look young regardless,” Nick said soberly. “What do you have?”

  It felt odd having this conversation in the lab, but nobody else seemed to mind, so I tried to roll with it.

  Bay rocked back on very white tennis shoes. “Scot was shot, Randy Taylor suffered blunt force trauma to the head, and Cheryl Smythers overdosed.”

  “Labs on any of them?” Nick asked.

  Bay shook his head. “It’ll be another week, and I’ve even put a
rush on it. The lab in Boise is busy.” He shrugged.

  Nick’s gaze narrowed. “Tell me you tested Cheryl like I asked.”

  Bay glanced at me and then at Nick. “Yep. Definite opioid, and a whole lot of yeast, as you suggested.” He focused on his nephew. “Want to tell me how you knew that?”

  “Chasing a lead,” Nick said. “By the way, where are the cops?”

  “Detective Pierce was here an hour ago,” Bay said easily. “And yes, before you ask, I gave him my full report. He’s aware of the yeast, although he might not know what it means.”

  I wanted to ask what it meant, but I kept quiet for the moment. Oh, Nick was going to talk once we were in the car, whether he liked it or not.

  “Is that it?” Nick asked.

  “Nope.” Bay leaned back against the door he’d just used. “Cheryl Smythers had defensive wounds on her arms and bruised knuckles from fighting somebody. There were bruises down her esophagus and along her mouth and jaw, in addition to hematomas on her upper arms and ribcage.”

  I frowned. “What does that mean?”

  Nick ran a hand through his hair. “It means somebody pinned her and shoved drugs down her throat to kill her.”

  The poor girl. Who would’ve killed her? “Drugs? Wouldn’t it have been easier just to strangle her?” I asked. If her killer was strong enough to hold her down, wouldn’t he or she have been strong enough to just kill her?

  “Definitely,” Bay said. “This is a message, without question.”

  “Or an experiment,” Nick returned. “It’s new product. Untested. Just how much did it take for her brain to stop telling her heart to beat and her lungs to draw in air?”

  Bay’s papery skin paled a bit more. “She would’ve been unconscious within the hour, and probably dead within another hour.”

  The poor girl.

  Nick shook his head. “Thanks, Bay.”

  “Yeah.” Bay sighed. “It’s only June, and this is my third homicide. I didn’t have any last year. Not one.” His sharp gaze raked Nick. “Is it a coincidence you’re here now?”