Burning Proof (5 page)

KELSEY STUDIED THE CONTENTS
of the minibar and wondered if any of the alcohol it contained would help calm the head games her mind was playing with her. Though it was often faint, every once in a while her conscience surfaced and bugged, prodded, made her want to stop and get off this path in life she’d taken. She’d said something like that once to Gavin, during a stressful time for both of them, only to have him throw an old cliché at her: “Nice guys finish last.”

As much as she hated the phrase, she knew it was true. She’d never have gotten to be a deputy chief by being
nice
. Abby Hart was nice. She was also by-the-book, meticulous, determined, tenacious
 
—all attributes that made her a good cop. But she was naive in a way, parochial, and uninterested in promoting, in having the power to control, give orders, set agendas. Nope, she only wanted the truth, to help the victim.

Slamming the minibar door closed without removing anything, Kelsey moved to the window and looked out over the landscape.

For a kid whose parents were murdered when she was six,
something that should have knocked her off the development rung, Hart had come a long way, and Kelsey had a grudging admiration for the woman.

But it was all of those admirable qualities that were likely to get Hart killed. Who would have thought that she would ever connect with Luke Murphy, a guy whose own uncle was murdered along with Hart’s parents? Most of all, who would have expected that their teamwork to find the truth would make Kelsey’s boss so nervous, so threatened, that the as-yet-unspoken command to deal with Hart and Murphy in a permanent way hung over her head like rotting mistletoe?

I don’t want that kiss,
Kelsey thought,
that order to kill, but it will come. I’m sure of it.

What will I do when it does?

“I LOVE THIS PLACE.
” Maddie beamed and Luke smiled.

“Me too; me too.” Guilt nudged. He’d wanted to put off this trip, which had already been rescheduled twice, to pore over the files he and Woody had recovered from Asa Foster’s house. They’d not done much in Idaho. In the end Woody promised he’d wait to study them until Luke had the time.

Now, here on the water with his daughter, he was ashamed the thought had even crossed his mind. He loved spending time with his little girl. She was growing up so fast, he didn’t want to miss any bit of her childhood.

They bobbed in a small motorboat on Big Bear Lake, both holding fishing poles. It was peaceful and quiet on the water this time of the morning. Two and a half hours from home, it was a world away from the busy city of Long Beach. They’d driven up to the Big Bear area on Friday morning, taking Maddie’s lessons with them. Since she was homeschooled, they had that flexibility. Luke had rented a cabin for them amid pine trees, in Fawnskin, a small historic community on the north shore of the lake.

Early Saturday morning, before they’d made their way out
on the lake for the sunrise, Luke had read devotions for them from Psalm 19.

The sunrise over the mountains was breathtaking.

“The heavens sure do declare the glory of God, don’t they, Mads?”

Maddie looked up, squinted, and smiled. “The sun is coming out of the tent God pitched for her.”

Luke chuckled, heart swelling with pride. Maddie had memorized the psalm. In her translation, the last part of verse 4 said, “In the heavens God has pitched a tent for the sun.”

It did his soul good to see his daughter growing strong in faith and applying the Word of God to her life.

It was also a wonder that she liked to fish as much as he did. None of her girlfriends enjoyed sitting still in a boat or on land to try to hook fish. But Maddie seemed to love it, not minding the stillness, the quiet, or the fish guts when they caught something big enough to eat. She didn’t even mind the cold. They were both bundled up against the fall chill in the mountain air.

“What do you like best here?” Luke asked.

Maddie let out a big sigh. “It’s so pretty. And the smell
 
—I like the way the trees smell. Even the smoke from chimneys smells good. I’d like to live here.”

Luke chuckled. “Really? You’d like to live in the forest away from all the things there are to do in the city?”

Maddie nodded. “Any forest with big trees and deer. I think I want to be a forest ranger when I grow up.”

Throughout the course of the summer, Maddie had moved from wanting to be a police officer, to a vet, and now a forest ranger. Luke was glad she had varied interests and she was a smart girl; what she put her mind to, she accomplished.

“I like it here too.”

“And there’s lots to do,” Maddie said, looking at her dad. “Biking and ziplining and hiking.”

“That there is.” He put his hand out and Maddie gave him a high five.

They sat quietly fishing for a minute before Madison spoke up again. “Dad, can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Do you think you’ll ever get married again?”

Luke coughed and nearly dropped his fishing pole.
From forest ranger to remarriage?
“Uh, Mads, what makes you ask that?”

“Olivia and I were talking. We decided that you’re not too old yet. You could find someone nice if you tried.”

“Oh, thanks. It’s nice of you and Olivia to think about my love life.” He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but he was certain he didn’t want to have this conversation with his eleven-year-old daughter. At least she hadn’t said she needed a mother.

“Well, just think about it. Olivia says men need to be married. There are lots of websites to help you.”

“Wait; what do you know about dating websites?” Luke was anxious to change the subject.

“Everyone knows about them, Dad,” Maddie said matter-of-factly. “I’ve never been on one, but Olivia’s older brother has. That’s how he met his girlfriend. It’s just a thought if you decide to move forward.”

He stared at his daughter from the corner of his eye, vowing to listen more carefully when Olivia and Madison were talking. Holding his breath for more advice, he exhaled with relief when it didn’t come.

Abby Hart popped into his mind. Looking out over the lake,
he frowned, and butterflies fluttered in his stomach like a fish on the line. He was attracted to Abby, no two ways about it. But she was promised to another man. When he’d heard they’d postponed their wedding to go through counseling, hope had sprung inside his chest. He’d actually thought about Abby as the woman who would fit in his and Maddie’s life. Then guilt bit like a vise as he realized he needed to pray for God’s best, and if for Abby that was Ethan, he needed to step back.

Even if Ethan weren’t in the picture, Luke remembered how his marriage to Maddie’s mother had ended: in a telephone screaming match that concluded with her so distracted she ran her car into oncoming traffic and died instantly. Over the years the horror of that moment had faded, but from time to time he felt a pinch in his heart
 
—guilt, regret, a mixture of both
 
—and embarrassment about how he’d been so wrapped up in himself he’d not seen how his wife needed him, how she was begging for him to hear her.

All he’d heard, all he’d cared about then, was his own ego, his own desires. He’d come home to a motherless daughter and vowed to hear her, to be there for her, and to somehow make amends for the loss of a mother. Would he be different if there were another wife in the picture? Reeling in his line to check the bait, he realized he wasn’t sure.

Biting the inside of his cheek, he doubted there would ever be another marriage for him. He couldn’t fail a woman like that again. Ever.

ABBY ENDED UP STAYING AWAY
from work for the whole week. As for the court case she’d been concerned about, the DA and the defense attorney had worked out a last-minute plea, so that was one thing she could remove from her plate. By Sunday, her last day home, Abby was still having nightmares and wondered if she was foolish to rush back to work. During their last conversation on Friday, Dr. Collins, the police psychologist, had suggested she take an additional week off.

“I know that you witnessed a suicide several months ago. You were not required to come talk to me and you didn’t, but that was a traumatic event. This second incident occurring in such close proximity is problematic. You have nothing to prove. There is no stigma in saying you just need a little more time to process events.”

In the end, though, she didn’t heed his advice. Collins was happy with Abby’s attitude and the support groups in her life. He suggested she spend time in church, or with the people she played volleyball with, and call him if she had any issues. He also gave her a list of official help groups if she felt she needed that.

While working hard to assure herself, she convinced him she could function. He signed off on her return to work, but her universe felt out of sync, like when you watch a video and the words don’t match the lip movement. She still had a grip on normal, but it was far from a firm grip.

The case against Javon Curtis in the murder of ten-year-old Adonna Joiner was strong. But by the end of the week, Abby had heard that while Curtis had made incriminating statements to both Bill and Abby the day he was arrested, once he’d been arraigned and lawyered up, he’d decided to plead not guilty. The lawyer requested a psych exam for Curtis. A trial was a long while away. Abby knew that the inevitable court battle could dredge everything up all over again, but she had time to prepare. This odd, off-balance feeling couldn’t last forever, could it?

Protests over the shooting had grown. It bothered Abby when she saw a news report showing the sign-carrying, chanting mob. They wanted her badge without due process. But Abby’s union rep had been as supportive as Collins. “You’re in policy,” he’d said. “By the book. Ignore the media circus and take care of yourself.” Abby knew he was right and tried to take his advice. Joiner had fired twice, thankfully both bullets impacting the roof fascia, bare inches above their heads, before her bullets stopped him. She had no obligation to let herself or her partner be shot. But that didn’t stop Abby from continuing to second-guess herself. And tomorrow, thirty-five-year-old Clayton Joiner would be laid to rest next to his daughter.

In her nightmares, Abby relived the shooting over and over. It all happened so fast. Her first shooting and she hadn’t killed a violent criminal; she’d killed a grieving father.

“I would have done the same thing,”
Bill told her. He’d had
his hands on the suspect and could not draw his weapon fast enough.
“Joiner could have easily shot one or both of us. I’m glad you reacted so quickly and only sorry that Joiner tried to take the law into his own hands.”

Even the local police beat reporter, Walter Gunther, had called her and, in his cigarette-roughened voice, told her not to be too hard on herself. It was a tough situation, a choice no cop should ever have to face, and he was glad she and Bill weren’t hurt.

Abby knew Bill and Gunther told the truth, perceived it in her head, but in her heart she ached. She understood Joiner, recognized the pain and loss that had driven him to do what he did, and wished with all her heart the outcome could have been different. He’d waited three long months to discover that his daughter’s killer lived next door and called himself “friend.”

The only conversation she’d had with anyone that helped a bit was the brief one she’d had with Luke Murphy, the day he and Woody had left for Idaho. She’d called to thank his mother for the dinner and got Luke as he was putting his stuff together for the trip. The PI seemed to understand her on every level.

“I was involved in a lot of firefights in Iraq; it was war. But one engagement that sticks with me was when a young kid rushed us. He had a bomb vest on. If he’d reached my position, he would have taken out my whole team. I did what I had to do, and you did what you had to do.”

They’d spoken only a few minutes. Abby wanted to talk more, but the wanting of more time with Luke left a cloud of guilt over her heart.

Now, though time was supposed to heal all wounds, she felt as if she were still sleepwalking. She fed Bandit, started a pot
of coffee, and walked outside to pick up the newspaper. Ethan always teased her about her newspaper subscription.

“Everything is online quicker than on the pages of a newspaper,” he said often.

“Maybe, but I like spreading the paper out while I drink my morning coffee.”

Today she might agree with him. The only story that had kicked her and Clayton Joiner off the front page was the headline announcing something she knew was coming, but it nonetheless smacked her between the eyes.

Governor Rollins Officially Tosses His Hat in the Ring
.

She scanned the story about Rollins’s announcement that he was running for a senate seat. It recapped how the governor had bounced back after some bad press related to a cold case, the most famous cold case in Long Beach history, the Triple Seven murders. The story regurgitated how the governor’s personal secretary, Gavin Kent, had partially confessed to committing a twenty-seven-year-old murder and then taken his own life. The murky details of the cold case and the stain of Kent’s confession had failed to impact the governor and his plans in the least. Abby knew it was likely that the popular governor would be elected to the senate, and that twisted in her gut along with the festering guilt over Joiner.

I could have done without seeing this story, whether in print or online,
she thought as she folded the paper and walked outside the house to toss it into the recycle bin.

It was Abby’s mother Kent had confessed to killing all those years ago, when Abby was only six years old. Left unanswered was why, and what had happened to her father. Abby had always believed he’d died next to her mother. But a wild theory thrown
out by George Sanders, a man in custody for an unrelated murder, had given her a reason to suspect he could have survived. Abby suspected that the governor and his wife were somehow involved with the crime, but so many years later, the lack of proof forced her to back off, try to put everything behind her, and trust God that the guilty would be dealt with, if not in this life, then in the next.

If only Clayton Joiner had been able to do that
 
—trust God and the justice system.

Abby went back inside to poach some eggs. Ethan would arrive to take her to church in a couple of hours and she wanted to be ready. Ever since that first uncomfortable day, when she had avoided speaking with him, Ethan had become extremely helpful. He’d prayed with and for her often and had just been there for her in a way she’d never felt him be there before. A few months ago they’d cancelled a planned wedding date because differences in their individual visions for the future had become glaring. Before the shooting, Abby had begun to think it was over, that they’d never recover and reset a wedding date.

But now she wasn’t sure about anything, much less their future.

Ethan was a world traveler, a missionary, and he’d been trying to persuade Abby that the impact they could have in the world as a missionary couple was worth any sacrifice either could make. Initially Abby had bristled that she would be the only one who would have to sacrifice her career and the life in Long Beach she’d come to love.

But the shooting changed a lot. For the first time in her career, Abby felt lost, uncertain. Was Ethan right? Should she quit and follow him?

Abby sat down with her eggs, toast, and coffee. She bowed her head. Prayer did not come easily these days for reasons she could not fathom. Several seconds passed before any words came to mind, and even then, the prayer was brief and to the point.

“Lord, I want to be where you want me. I just don’t know where that is anymore. Please help me, and bless this meal. Amen.”