Deserves to Die Part 9

"I know that's what you think, but his death was ruled a suicide." There it was. The bone of contention.

"He wouldn't do that to . . . to the girls," she insisted, then more softly, "or to me."

"We know who killed the sheriff," Pescoli reminded the distraught woman seated on the edge of one of the visitors chairs positioned near her desk. The detective's gaze moved to that of Cade Grayson to include him in the conversation. "There's no argument. That man's behind bars. He'll be prosecuted and convicted."

"Are you sure?" Hattie asked.

Dear Jesus, yes! I saw Dan go down, I witnessed him take the bullets. And I was there when the son of a b.i.t.c.h who killed him was arrested. I almost lost my own d.a.m.n life to that psycho. Though her emotions were roiling, she managed to keep her voice calm. "Of course."

Hattie squeezed her eyes shut and held up her hands, fingers spread wide as if she knew she'd stepped over the line. "Yes, I know that you got Dan's killer, but you told me you'd look into Bart's death again. Reopen the case." Blinking rapidly, she swiped under her eyes with a finger.

Pescoli located a box of tissues under an unruly stack of papers. Nudging it around two near-empty cups of decaf to the far side of the desk, she said to Cade, "You think someone killed Bart, too?"

"Don't know." His jaw slid to one side and Pescoli remembered that Cade had been the unlucky person who had found his brother's body hanging from a crossbeam in the barn.

"Could be." A couple years younger, Cade looked a bit like Dan with his long, lean body, square jaw, and intense eyes. The Grayson genes were strong enough that a family resemblance was noticeable, though he was a couple inches shorter than the sheriff had been, and, from all reports, a lot more of a h.e.l.lion in his youth. He'd ridden the rodeo circuit, only recently returning to Grizzly Falls. "Bart was having his problems," Cade said, his gaze drifting to Hattie for a second. "We all know that."

Hattie's face grew more ashen.

"But she's right," Cade said, hitching his chin toward his ex-sister-in-law. "Bart loved those girls and it seems unlikely that he would take himself out, denying McKenzie and Mallory from knowing their dad."

Pescoli felt trapped. "Look, I said I'd look through the files, and I will. But I didn't mention reopening the case."

"Semantics," Hattie said.

"More than that. A major difference." Pescoli wanted to make certain they understood her position.

"Just, please." Hattie swallowed and plucked a tissue from the box to wipe her eyes. Too late. Mascara was already beginning to streak her cheeks. Clearing her throat and standing, she said, "I know you were a good friend to Dan, and your partner Selena . . . she and Dan were close."

Pescoli waved a dismissive hand indicating that she didn't understand but accepted Alvarez's romantic fantasies about their boss.

"Dan would want whoever killed Bart to be brought to justice," Hattie said determinedly.

That much was true. Pescoli reminded, "If he was murdered, but-"

"He was murdered!" Hattie leaned over the edge of the desk so that she could meet the doubt in Pescoli's gaze with her own conviction.

Pescoli rose from her chair and said firmly, "We don't know that."

"That's because when he died, everyone just a.s.sumed the worst," Hattie stated. "So, you're right, we don't know, but it's your job to find out."

"His death was investigated at the time. Even his brother-"

"Dan was never satisfied about the outcome," Cade put in, straightening. They were all standing in the room, regarding each other tensely.

Hattie lifted her chin. "If it makes you feel any better, Detective, don't do this for me. Do it for Dan." With that she walked away, her sharp footsteps echoing along the hallway.

Cade said, "She's serious about this, you know. And Dan wasn't happy with the outcome of the investigation, though, of course, he wasn't sheriff at the time. I know you weren't involved then, either, but if you've got the time, I'd appreciate it."

Something in his eyes reminded Pescoli of his older brother. For a second, she imagined the sheriff standing in front of her. But then Cade squared his hat onto his head and followed after Hattie.

Pescoli looked at the case files stacked on the corner of her desk. Deeter Clemson's fall to his death, Jimbo and Gail Amstead's domestic violence case where each had ended up in the hospital, Ralph Haskins's suicide, as well as the new, deceased Jane Doe. Throw her personal life into the mix, and she really didn't have time to dig into a long-closed suicide just because the ex-wife and beneficiary of the life insurance policy wanted her to. As Pescoli understood it, the insurance company had balked at paying the benefits to Hattie and her twin daughters as it was determined that Bart had taken his own life.

Pescoli really shouldn't bother with Bart Grayson's death. The case had been investigated and closed, but Hattie's final words echoed through her mind. If it makes you feel any better, Detective, don't do this for me. Do it for Dan.

"Oh, h.e.l.l," she muttered and knew that she'd dig through the case file. Just a cursory look, then maybe her guilty conscience would be a.s.suaged.

Then again, probably not.

Ryder ga.s.sed up his truck at a station-convenience store with the unlikely name of Corky's Gas and Go. Sounds bad any way you cut it, he thought as he replaced the nozzle and, hands deep in his pockets, dodged a minivan and a Prius parked beneath the broad canopy covering several pumps. A fuel truck had pulled around back, ready to refill the underground tanks, and a woman in a long coat and boots nearly ran him down as she pushed open the gla.s.s door to the market about the time he was walking in.

"Watch where you're going," she said as she hurried outside.

Ignoring her, he walked past her to where the heater was cranked to the max, a wall of hot air meeting him as he strode down the aisles to the back case and grabbed a beer and a couple bottles of water as the H20 that flowed from the tap of his room at the River View wasn't exactly pristine.

A girl in her early twenties was manning the register in a tank top; it was that warm inside. "Hire anyone yet?" he asked, motioning toward the HELP WANTED poster taped to the gla.s.s just inside the door.

"Nuh-uh. Don't think so." She rang up his purchases. "You get gas?"

"Pump six. Any applicants?"

"Corky, he's the owner, just put up the sign this mornin'. It's still pretty early."

"What's it for?"

"You interested?"

"Maybe."

"Well, you have to take a drug test and submit to a background check." She rolled her eyes, indicating that was a pain. "Then, you start helping out at the pumps. Some people don't like to pump their own, y'know?" Another eye roll. "Corky's a stickler," she said.

Ryder decided Anne-Marie wouldn't take a chance on a background check. No, she'd find a job where the owners of the establishment weren't as conscientious as Corky.

Of course, there was always Grayson.

Ryder could go right to the source.

But he didn't want to spook her and there was more than a little bad blood between Cade and himself. And there was that little problem about Cade just losing his brother. The man might be hair-trigger touchy and who knew how it would go down if Ryder just showed up and Grayson was harboring Anne-Marie. If she caught wind that he was on to her, no doubt she'd bolt again.

For now, Ryder needed the element of surprise, so he had to be careful.

He bought a couple maps of the area that he'd study then keep in his truck, as the Internet service was often spotty, especially when he was driving in the hills. Besides, sometimes he got a better feel for the land with an old fashioned map rather than wireless Internet service. Climbing into his truck, he drove through town again.

Three times already he thought he'd caught a glimpse of Anne-Marie in the small town, and three times he'd been wrong. He'd gone through Craigslist, the want ads, and any Internet Web site that listed houses, rooms, and apartments to rent. He'd scoured through ads from a few weeks earlier, but had come up with nothing. At the same time, he'd gone through the motions of checking listings for job opportunities, marking off those that he thought would require background checks.

In the past, he'd always been one step and three or four weeks behind her, nipping at her heels, only to reach the town in which she'd landed to realize, after a week or two, that she'd taken off again. It always took a while to discover her next move.

This time, though, he believed he'd gotten the jump on her.

Of course, he'd missed her by several days in Denver, but had gotten lucky and found a bar where she'd poured drinks for six weeks before getting spooked. Wanda, one of her coworkers, had recognized her, even caught her adjusting a dental appliance and had figured out she was on the run. "Anne-Marie? Huh. I knew her as Stacey."

"Not Heather Brown?" That was the name she'd used in Omaha.

Wanda had shaken her head. "She's Stacey Donahue. She go by somethin' else, too?"

"Yeah." A lot of something elses, he'd thought "That happens a lot, y'know. People changin' their names and runnin' from their pasts. Husbands, ex-boyfriends . . ." She'd skewered Ryder with a suspicious glare, then shrugged as if she'd determined he wasn't dangerous. "As I said, happens all the time."

Ryder had then interviewed all the workers at the establishment and discovered no one had really known where she lived. He'd ended up in a confab with Wanda and a couple other employees.

"Rented a room, I think. Somewhere not too far because she walked to work most days," Wanda offered. "I think she said she had family in San Bernardino that she was hoping to see . . . that was it, right? No, wait, maybe it was San Jose, oh, h.e.l.l all those towns in California sound the same to me. Donella, you knew her better. Where did Stacey say she had family. San Jose?"

"I didn't know her that well," Donella denied, giving a quick shake of her head, her ponytail wagging. "I thought she said . . . San Jacinto. Maybe."

"No, that ain't it." Wanda let out a frustrated sigh. "All I know was it wasn't San Diego or San Francisco, but it started with San . . . wait, or maybe Santa. There's a lot of those, too."

"Talk to Tanisha," Donella declared. "She's the one who talked to her the most."

He'd thanked them, then, hours later, had shown up for Tanisha's night. The place was rockin' by then, a band coming on at nine, but he hadn't been thinking it would make any difference as Anne-Marie had told everyone she worked with a different story about heading out to somewhere in California, or Las Vegas, or Phoenix. Diversions to hide her true destination.

However, Tanisha, who happened to be one of the bartenders, had given him his first real clue.

"Yeah, I talked to her, but she kept to herself," she confided in a smoky voice that hinted at too many cigarettes. A short, black woman with a hard stare if a customer was getting too rowdy, she added, "Said she was from Texas somewhere. Maybe Houston. I can't really remember."

Encouraged, Ryder had stuck around, ordering drinks and placing healthy tips in the jar on the counter.

Finally, Tanisha remembered. "You know, she did say something once about looking up an old boyfriend. When I asked her who he was, she clammed up and said she'd thought better of it. Didn't say his name, but I think he was some kind of cowboy. But y'know, we're in Colorado. Everybody's a cowboy here." She'd laughed then.

But Ryder had known Anne-Marie must have been talking about Cade Grayson. "Did Stacey ever talk about Montana?"

Tanisha was polishing the long wooden bar with a cloth and a man at the far end raised a finger, indicating he'd like another drink. Ryder had been impatient, wishing he had the bartender's attention all to himself, but then she said, "Y'know, that's about the one d.a.m.n place in these United States she didn't mention."

Bingo.

He'd then canva.s.sed the area and found a rooming house where the landlady who, for a little cash, admitted that her last tenant, a woman she "never trusted," had moved on and told her to forward any mail to a post office box in LA. Ryder hadn't taken that bait. He'd been fooled by Anne-Marie too many times. Instead, he'd followed the only clue that had made any sense to him-that she was going to hook up with an old boyfriend. Maybe that had been her plan all along, to go to Cade, or maybe it was a move out of desperation. Whatever the case, one-time rodeo rider Cade Grayson was Anne-Marie's ex-boyfriend and a bona fide son of a b.i.t.c.h.

And he'd returned right to his hometown of Grizzly Falls, Montana.

Chapter 10.

Seated across the table from Santana in a booth at Wild Will's, Pescoli frowned at the screen of her cell phone.

"Bad news?" he asked, taking a swallow of beer as he eyed her.

The restaurant was crowded and noisy, most of the tables filled. Waitresses and busboys flitted through the cavernous dining area decorated with rough plank walls, wagon wheel chandeliers, and the heads of game animals mounted on the walls beneath the rafters.

"Depends on your perspective, I guess," she said and managed a perturbed smile.

They'd left on bad terms the other night when he'd called to offer his condolences about Grayson, and true to form, she'd been a stone-cold b.i.t.c.h, icing him out and pushing him away. Sometimes she wondered why he put up with her. They'd met in the parking lot after a brief phone call where Santana had suggested they have dinner at the familiar restaurant on the banks of the Grizzly River, just under the falls.

They hadn't met in person since Dan Grayson's death, only spoken on the phone. Seeing Santana again had brought tears to her eyes. Standing by his truck, he'd opened his arms wide and she'd stepped into them, letting him pull her close. He'd whispered, "G.o.d, Regan, I'm sorry."

She'd felt like a heel for how she'd treated him and had let herself be wrapped in the warmth of his embrace. He'd smelled earthy, of leather and horses and a bit of musk. With the snow beginning to fall around them and the rush of the river tumbling over the falls in her ears, she'd closed her eyes and forced herself not to cry.

"I am, too," she'd admitted. "Not just for Grayson, but for the other night. You wanted to come over and I . . . was dealing with a lot."

"I know," he'd said, but he hadn't told her that her behavior was okay, because it hadn't been.

But he did allow her to be herself and she knew he would never try to change her. Santana, more than anyone, understood how devastated she'd been with the loss of Grayson, that she had witnessed the horror of the sheriff being shot, and that she'd woken up screaming in the middle of the night, reliving the experience. She hoped the nightmares would cease or at least abate soon. Always before, whether it had been dealing with her grief after Joe had been killed or handling the aftermath of her own terror at the hands of a psychotic killer, she'd spent several weeks, even months reliving the horror in her dreams. With time and effort, she had shed the need to replay the awful scenes in her subconscious.

She only hoped the same would happen this time.

"So?" he said, nodding at the phone. "Work?"

With a quick shake of her head, she said, "Bianca's a no-show. Again." Pescoli didn't want to think what that might mean. "Third time this week." She glanced down at the text one more time. At Lana's. Homework. Be home later. A frowning emoticon followed the word homework.

She couldn't help feeling that she was being played. Never before had one girlfriend taken up so much of Bianca's time. Pescoli had considered this new friendship a good thing, as Lana was a more studious girl than those Bianca usually hung out with, the more boy-crazy crowd. However, she was second-guessing her daughter.

When she'd told Bianca about Grayson, her daughter's face had clouded briefly. "I heard. Lana's mom said something and Mich.e.l.le called. It's too bad." Then she'd gone to her room.

Too bad?

It was a h.e.l.luva lot more than that.

Irritated, Pescoli tapped the edge of her phone on the table then slid it into her pocket.

"You think she's lying," Santana stated.

"Not think. Know. Just don't know why."

"Maybe you're being too much of a detective."

Pescoli gave him a look. "I was a teenager once, you know. Not that long ago. So were you."

His mouth quirked and his eyes glittered. "I remember."

"So."

"Maybe you should have a beer."

"Not tonight. I need to be clearheaded."