A Widow's Guilty Secret (8 page)

Some men didn’t deserve the luck they had, he thought darkly.

He pulled himself up short. This was
not
where his head was supposed to be. What the hell was wrong with him, anyway? Nick silently demanded, upbraiding himself as he drove away from the house.

He had a murder to investigate and solve, a murder that could hold the key to the other two murders. And he certainly wasn’t going to come to any definite conclusions thinking about that little blonde.

That way only led to trouble and he knew it.

* * *

“He seemed really nice,” Lori said to her sister the second Suzy walked back into the living room. “Are you going to call him?” she asked, indicating the card Suzy had in her hand.

Suzy let the card drop on the coffee table. “No. I don’t have any more information to give him, other than what I already told him.”

Lori sighed, shaking her head. “I wasn’t thinking about you giving him
that
kind of information, Suzy,” she said pointedly.

Stunned, Suzy could only stare at her sister. All right, so even if she wasn’t in love with Peter, and hadn’t been for a long time, there were still nice times to remember. “Lori, Peter’s not even cold yet.”

Lori rolled her eyes. “Honey, from what you told me, Peter’s been cold for a real long time.” She shrugged. “But you know me, I don’t like to speak ill of the dead—”

“Then don’t,” Suzy said angrily.

Her tone fell on deaf ears. “—but Peter was never right for you.”

Suzy didn’t feel she was emotionally equipped to hear this right now. “Lori, I know you’re just being loyal to me and all that, but trust me, honey, now just isn’t the time for this.”

Lori nibbled on her lower lip, looking very indecisive, as if she was debating with herself on whether or not to say something.

“I never told you this, Suzy, but Peter made a play for me about a month before you gave birth to the handsomest nephew in the world.” Unable to continue with the topic, she’d opted for humor—except everyone wasn’t laughing.

Suzy was speechless for a second. When she found her voice, it came out in a quiet whisper. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I didn’t want to hurt you, Suzy. Because I told him that because he was married to you and you were having his baby, I was going to pretend that he never made a move on me, but I warned him that if I ever heard that he was cheating on you, I was going to tell you that he propositioned me—and then I was going to vivisect him, cutting out one piece at a time.”

“You threatened him? Oh, God,” she cried, thinking of what the FBI could do with that. She knew that Lori was all talk, nothing more, but no one else did. “Lori, what were you
thinking?
He was the sheriff, for God’s sake,” she cried.

“Being sheriff certainly didn’t make him perfect,” Lori said sarcastically.

“No,” Suzy agreed quietly, “it certainly didn’t. And for the record, Lori,” she added in a more quiet tone, “I knew that Peter was cheating on me. I had no tangible proof,” she admitted, “but I
knew
.”

Chapter 7

I
t wasn’t that Nick didn’t trust the FBI, or that he’d once worked on the Dallas police force—
because he hadn’t.

The Houston Police Department had been the only one he’d served on before coming here, but Dallas was closer to Vengeance than Houston was—only forty miles away—and he liked being hands-on when it came to conducting an investigation. Had he had the option, he would have preferred working within his own department, but the Vengeance police department had some lamentable gaping holes when it came to being able to offer comprehensive services.

From what he’d observed recently, the officer who doubled as a tech advisor on the force knew about as much as he did about computers. Right now, Nick needed an expert. Preferably one he both knew and trusted.

And he knew and trusted someone in Dallas.

So, rather than heading back with the late sheriff’s computer to the Vengeance precinct, Nick drove the extra forty miles and made his way into the crime investigation section within the Dallas police station.

He stopped long enough to sign in with the desk sergeant and requested “professional courtesy.” After the stocky man had checked him out, Nick was escorted down into the bowels of the building in order to see Chester Bigelow, a tech expert he’d gotten to know when they had worked for the Houston police department at the same time that he was there.

Nick found the man in the break room, enjoying the last of what appeared to be a triple-decker Reuben sandwich, one of Bigelow’s “guilty pleasures” as he liked to refer to it. Consumption of the latter was also one of the things that had earned Bigelow the nickname “Big.” In appearance, he was anything but. Nick had often maintained that the man had a tapeworm. No matter what he ate, Bigelow remained as skinny as the proverbial rail.

Sensing another presence in the heretofore empty break room, the computer tech looked up from the article in the technical journal he’d been reading. A surprised smile replaced the neutral expression on his face when he recognized who was in the room with him.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Bigelow cried, grinning. “Nick Jeffries.” And then his attention shifted to the computer tower that his old friend was cradling in his arms. “You know, they’ve got these newfangled things called laptops now. They’re a hell of a lot easier to carry around. You might think about getting one.”

Nick placed the tower down on the table in front of Bigelow. “I need your help, Big.”

“That’s what they all say,” Bigelow responded with a laugh. “What’s the matter, the lab tech in your department can’t be browbeaten?”

Nick didn’t waste any time with long explanations. “The lab tech in my department doesn’t have as much computer savvy in his whole body as you do in your little finger.”

Bigelow nodded, making no pretense at any false modesty. He knew he was good. Damn good. “Flattery. You must be desperate.”

Nick saw no reason to deny the computer expert’s assessment. He didn’t waste any time getting down to the crux of the problem. “I tried to crack the password and the hard drive went into self-destruct mode.”

“Amateur.” Big laughed. “So I take it the drive is fried?”

“Don’t know,” Nick told him honestly. “The power plug was pulled out before the program reached the end of the countdown.”

Bigelow nodded his head in approval. “Simple but direct. Quick thinking for a non-geek. There’s hope for you yet.”

Nick never took credit when it wasn’t due. This time was no exception. “I wasn’t the one who pulled the plug out of the socket.”

Bigelow laughed to himself. “I should have known. So, what kind of a timeframe are we looking at. When do you need this by?”

Nick didn’t beat about the bush, or couch his answer in niceties. “Yesterday.”

This time the laugh was hearty. “Still always in a hurry, I see.” Finishing his sandwich, Bigelow wiped his mouth, tossed the napkin onto his plate and leaned back in his chair. He studied the computer for several seconds before raising his eyes to his friend’s. “So what’s the story behind this?”

Nick filled him in, giving him all the information he had at the moment. Bigelow accepted it as his due. It had to do with respect for him as well as for his overall expertise.

“The computer tower belongs to a sheriff who was murdered sometime yesterday and then dumped in a shallow grave.” For now, Nick kept the fact that Burris was one of three bodies, as well as the FBI’s involvement in the case, to himself.

Bigelow regarded the tower thoughtfully before raising his eyes again. “And you think the reason he was murdered is on the computer?”

“Maybe,” Nick allowed since he had no proof that he was right—although the hard drive attempting to self-destruct seemed like a dead giveaway. “Right now we’re just looking into everything,” Nick admitted to the other man.

“This sheriff have a name?” Bigelow asked.

“Most sheriffs do,” Nick replied wryly. When his friend continued to look at him, one thick black eyebrow raised expectantly, Nick told him the man’s name. “Peter Burris.”

The response he got from Bigelow was not one he expected or was prepared for. “You’re serious,” Bigelow demanded in obvious disbelief. “Well, son of a gun, looks like Burris’s sins finally caught up with him.” The laugh had a hollow ring to it as he shook his head again. “How about that?”

“Back up, Big,” Nick requested, trying to factor in this latest piece information he’d just been thrown. A new wave of anticipation telegraphed itself through his body. “You
know
Burris?”

“Wrong tense if he’s dead,” Bigelow pointed out. “But yeah, I knew
of
him,” he said, emphasizing the difference. “Saw him a couple of times while he was still on the force, heard about him a lot more.”

Nick wanted to be very clear on this. “Go on.”

“Okay. From what I knew, Burris disappeared rather abruptly. The official story had it that he left for personal reasons, but the rumor was that there was some kind of scandal behind his now-you-see-him-now-you-don’t act. He got the wrong people angry,” Bigelow told him. “Heard he worked security for some kind of upscale nightclub here in Dallas after that. Then he left that to become the sheriff of Dogpatch, or some such story.”

“Actually, he became a county sheriff, but I think you’re referring to Vengeance,” Nick corrected. “The name of the town is Vengeance.” He was surprised at the prick of annoyance he felt to hear the place he lived being belittled. He’d thought himself indifferent to the town. Maybe he wasn’t so indifferent to it after all. “It’s a forty-mile drive from here.”

“I’ll put it on my list of places to see,” Bigelow quipped. “Vengeance,” he repeated, somewhat amused. “Sounds like a place Burris would go to. Heard he wasn’t exactly a very forgiving man,” he explained. And then Bigelow looked at the tower that Nick had brought in with him. This time he gave it a far more interested once-over. “So this was his, huh?”

Nick nodded. “I’d be really grateful for anything you can manage to pull off it.”

“Grateful, hell,” Bigelow mocked. “I get anything off this little beauty and you’ll owe me your first-born.”

“Not much chance of that,” Nick assured the other man flatly.

Bigelow looked at him knowingly. “Still swearing off commitments, huh?”

“Let’s just say I’m married to the job,” Nick told him crisply.

“That’ll get old eventually. Job can’t keep you warm at night, or curl your toes when they need curling.”

“Don’t stay up nights worrying about my toes, Big. I’ll manage.” He nodded at the tower. “When do you think you can have something for me?”

Bigelow shook his head again. “Still as laidback as ever, I see.” He regarded the tower. “It’s not like I can work on this on the clock.”

“Can’t you pull some personal time?” Nick suggested. “I’ve got a hunch this is the key to Burris’s murder.” He looked at the other man. “I’ll owe you one.”

“You’ll owe me twelve,” Bigelow said, but it was obvious that his curiosity had definitely been aroused. “Okay, leave it with me,” he instructed. “I’ll give you a call if I find something.”

Nick rose to his feet. “I need it sooner than later,” he emphasized. He paused a second, then decided to give the tech expert another piece of information. Maybe it would motivate him. Bigelow always had a strong sense of competition. “The FBI’s involved in this.”

“The FBI?” Bigelow repeated incredulously. “Anything else you want to share? Like the name of some other alphabet-crazed federal bureau that’s in on this, too?”

“No, as far as I know it’s just the Vengeance police force and the FBI,” Nick told his friend.

“FBI has its own lab techs,” Bigelow pointed out. “Why bring it to me?”

The answer was simple—and one he knew would appeal to his friend. “Because you’re the best, Big.”

“More flattery. Cheap trick,” Bigelow pointed out. And then he shrugged his thin shoulders. “Lucky for you, it works. Give me a few hours or so, I’ll see what I can do.” With that, Bigelow rose as well, tucking the tower under his arm.

He looked, Nick couldn’t help thinking, like a kid who had just gotten what he wanted for Christmas and was about to take it apart to see what made it tick. He knew from the old days that Bigelow liked nothing better than to pit his intelligence against a computer and take the machine down.

* * *

Life Goes On
.

It was a motto that John Abramowitz, the head dean of Darby College, had hanging on the wall behind his desk. His wife had needlepointed it for their first wedding anniversary. It was a simple truth that couldn’t be disputed. No matter what happened, good or bad, life always went on.

And so it was at the college, even though their most celebrated professor, Melinda Grayson, had apparently been abducted.

Although, he thought nervously, as of yet, there had been no ransom demand made. Shouldn’t there have been a demand by now?

As the head of the college, Abramowitz fully expected that the demand would be directed to him, since Melinda Grayson had no close family to speak of anywhere in the state.

All there was, if he remembered her application form correctly when she’d submitted her résumé to the college, was an ex-husband. Ex-husbands weren’t known to step up with the proper ransom money when their ex-wives were kidnapped.

No, the note or the call regarding the amount of the ransom and where to drop it off would have come to him, and so far, there hadn’t been any.

In the meantime, life had to go on. And so did Professor Grayson’s classes. Someone would have to step in and temporarily take her place. The classes were all filled with students, all waiting to be taught something that would make the price of their tuition seem worthwhile, or at least bearable.

Fortunately, as if blessed with some futuristic insight, the professor had left behind lesson plans and very detailed notes for each of the upcoming classes in the semester ahead. Lesson plans and notes he intended to pass on to the assistants he was about to assign to take over her classes. The two assistants stood at attention, waiting for his direction.

“Sit down, please,” Abramowitz requested, gesturing to the two chairs before his two-hundred-year-old hand-carved, hand-oiled desk. When they did, the dean got started. “As you might know, Dr. Grayson is currently missing—”

“Excuse me, Dean, but wasn’t she kidnapped?” Ben Craig asked. “I thought I heard that she—”

“That is one school of thought,” Abramowitz allowed, cutting the grad student off. His eyes swept over the lanky young man, and then Amanda Burns, the other graduate assistant he’d called into his office. “But until the school receives an official confirmation that she has indeed been kidnapped, the professor is just currently not on campus. Hopefully, that situation will change soon.” He steepled his fingers together as he leaned back in his chair. “But, until she does return, she has classes that need to be helmed.”

Dropping his hands back down, Abramowitz leaned forward over his desk, his small eyes looking at each student in turn, forming a silent bond with them—or so he assumed.

“Which is why I’ve asked you both to be here. I would like the two of you to split her classes between you and take them over.”

“Take them over?” Amanda echoed, stunned and more than a little nervous about the very thought of having to step into the professor’s shoes. “But we can’t take her place.”

“No one is asking you to take her place, Ms. Burns,” Abramowitz pointed out patiently. “What the department needs is to have you and Mr. Craig just fill in for a little while,” he instructed. “With any luck, it won’t be for too long. You are both familiar with Dr. Grayson’s work—”

“Familiar, yes,” Craig agreed, interrupting. “But those are really giant shoes you’re asking us to fill, even temporarily.” He began enumerating all the things that needed to be put into place. “We need time to prepare lesson plans for the classes, see what material needs to be covered—”

Having quickly worked up a full head of steam, Ben was forced to stop talking because the dean was holding up his hand.

“That’s all been taken care of, Mr. Craig. It seems that Professor Grayson had all her lesson plans already written up for the entire semester, so all you two need to do is stick closely to it, teach what she had intended to teach, and everything will be fine.” Abramowitz smiled broadly, as if what he’d just proposed were as simple as breathing.

The two graduate students, however, didn’t seem that easily convinced.

“She had them all written out?” Amanda asked in disbelief. “Really?”

“Yes. Lucky, I know,” the dean said, agreeing with what he thought both the students were thinking. “I found the lectures in her study after the FBI finally allowed me to have access to her home. They’d been left neatly on her desk, all labeled, in chronological order, with a separate sheet of notes tucked into each dated folder.”

“Wow,” Ben couldn’t help murmuring under his breath, “talk about being anal.”

The remark, audible enough for the dean to hear, earned him a rather annoyed, withering look. “Lucky for Darby College that the professor is such a stickler for detail,” Abramowitz said, deliberately rephrasing Ben’s assessment. He indicated the two stacks of papers on his desk. There was a preprinted sheet on top of each stack. “Now here are the classes, along with her notes. Sort it out between the two of you and be sure to stay on schedule so that when the professor finally returns, she’ll be able to pick up just where you left off.”