Death Takes a Ride (The Cate Kinkaid Files Book #3): A Novel (2 page)

2

A body, male, big, and brawny in dark pants and hoodie. Face covered with a garish blue-and-red ski mask, gun on the floor near his hand. Bloody wound in his chest.

Cate stared in disbelief. The disbelief deepened when her gaze lifted to the far end of the metal desk in the office.

Another body slumped in a chair, blood trickling from a wound in his head, blood-spattered papers littering the desk in front of him. A wide-brimmed cowboy hat lay on the floor.

Two shots. Two bodies. Two scents. The raw smell of blood and the sharp tang of a just-fired gun. Or guns?

Shirley and a man in similar khaki coveralls stood behind the desk. Shirley still had an inventory sheet clutched in one hand, eyes wide with shock. The man held a gun. A frozen tableau, without sound or movement. Cate was a part of it, she realized, as if time had momentarily stopped for all of them.

Clancy was not frozen, however. He jumped over the body on the floor and thrust his nose into the hand dangling from the body in the chair at the end of the desk.

Then the man with the gun behind the desk moved too. He looked down at the gun in his hand as if he didn’t know how it had gotten there.

“I-I
shot
him,” he croaked. He looked between the two bodies, then at the gun again, his expression as disbelieving as Cate’s own.

“He shot Kane first!” Shirley pointed an accusing finger at the body on the floor. “He was going to shoot all of
us
!”

Cate had seen dead bodies before. Even though Uncle Joe insisted Belmont Investigations didn’t do murders, sometimes it seemed they gravitated to Cate like mud to her clothes when she was a little girl. But never two at the same time before, and never before had the sound of the death weapon actually echoed in her ears.

Cate grabbed the cell phone in her jacket pocket. “I’ll call 911.”

The paper in Shirley’s hand fluttered to the floor. She darted to the body slumped in the chair. “Mr. Blakely!” she cried.

911 answered immediately. Cate gave the operator a terse explanation of the situation. Her name and the address. Two gunshot bodies. The woman on the line wanted more, but Shirley suddenly waved at her frantically.

“Tell them to send an ambulance. Kane isn’t dead!”

Cate knew they’d probably send an ambulance without being asked, but she passed the information along, answered a few more questions, and dropped the cell phone back in her pocket.

“I need something to put against the wound to stop the bleeding!” Shirley yelled. Right now she was holding his bleeding head against her chest, blood staining the khaki coveralls. Clancy had his big front paws on the chair and was frantically licking the man’s face.

Cate dug in her pockets again, but all she came up with was the cell phone, keys, and a crumpled Snickers wrapper. Not exactly life-saving equipment.

But with the cell phone in hand, Cate’s PI instincts kicked in and she quickly snapped several photos: the ski-masked man on the floor, Shirley and Clancy huddled over Mr. Blakely, the dazed-looking man holding the gun. Halliday? Apparently.

Shirley was already improvising by grabbing Blakely’s jacket from the back of the chair and holding it hard against the wound, her arms again cradling his head against her ample chest. Cate discarded the irrelevant thought that under different circumstances, he’d probably have enjoyed that. Even with a bullet wound in his head, Kane Blakely had a certain silver-fox charisma, as if he might at any moment open one eye and give her a conspiratorial wink.

Halliday suddenly came to life. He rushed over to Shirley and leaned across her to touch his partner on the shoulder.

“Kane, are you okay?”

“No, he’s not okay,” Shirley snapped. There was an unspoken “you idiot!” in there somewhere. “He’s shot in the head! But he’s alive.”

“Hang on, buddy,” Halliday said. He patted Blakely’s arm. “You’re going to make it. Just hang on.”

Cate, avoiding the pool of blood, squatted beside the body at her feet. Now she saw his right hand. Tattoos. Four of them across the man’s hand in front of his knuckles. Four
skulls
. She forced herself to ignore them, felt his wrist and then his throat for a pulse. She was no expert, but she was reasonably certain this man was all-the-way dead. She wanted to go to Shirley too, see if she could help somehow, but she found herself squeamish about simply stepping over the dead body as if it were no more than a heap of old clothes. Even if poor aim was all that was keeping him from being a killer.

Halliday apparently realized the gun still dangled from his hand. He set it on the desk, his movements slow and careful,
as if he were afraid the weapon might explode in his hand. He flexed his fingers and stared at the hand as if it were an unfamiliar appendage. This hand that had
shot
someone.

“Mr. Halliday, are you all right?” Cate asked.

His numbness turned to a sudden blast of fury. “Who is this guy? What’s he doing here? He shot Kane! Just ran in and
shot
him.” He sprinted around the desk and, before Cate realized what he was going to do, yanked at the ski mask.

“Hey, I don’t think we should touch—”

Too late. The ski mask came off in Halliday’s hand, leaving the dead gunman’s face exposed. He was probably in his forties, with thinning brown hair pulled back into a skimpy ponytail, a beefy face, coarse skin, and thick neck. His eyes stared sightlessly upward.

“Do you know who he is?” Cate asked.

Halliday shook his head. “I have no idea. But he must have known . . . how could he have known?” He glanced toward his partner as if looking to him for an answer to the question. Cate wasn’t sure what the question was.

Halliday looked as if he might slump to the floor at any moment. Cate hastily grabbed a plastic chair from the corner and eased him into it.

“I-I’m okay,” he said. “I think.” He ran a shaky hand across his chest as if uncertain whether he, too, had been shot.

“What happened?” Cate asked.

“I-I’m not sure. We needed the inventory sheets from the Salem warehouse, and Kane went out to his car to get them—”

“The Corvette?”

“Yeah. Kane likes to drive our flashiest restorations for a while.” Halliday looked over at the unconscious man and half-smiled, as if this trait of his fallen partner’s were a flaw, but an endearing one.

It must have been Blakely she’d seen at the door when she first drove up, Cate realized. She took another look at the head cradled in Shirley’s arms. Kane Blakely was about Shirley’s age. Distinguished looking, in a rakish kind of way. Even the gunshot wound in the head didn’t hide the fact that he was a good-looking guy, his thick hair elegantly silver, with matching mustache and stylishly trimmed beard. His dark slacks and pale blue dress shirt, although blood-streaked now, contrasted with Halliday’s workaday khaki coveralls and scuffed shoes. On the street, Blakely and that vintage Corvette no doubt drew admiring glances.

“He must not have locked the front door behind him when he came back in,” Halliday went on. “This guy in the ski mask busted in and just started shooting. I don’t even remember doing it, but I must have grabbed the gun out of my desk and shot back.”

“Did he say anything?”

“No . . . Yes, he did! He yelled ‘I want the money.’”

“You keep large amounts of money here?”

“No, not usually. Practically never, in fact. But tonight . . .” Halliday straightened in the chair, lines ridging his forehead.

Cate’s gaze followed his, and she saw what she hadn’t noticed before. Money spilling out of the pocket of the jacket Shirley had wrapped around Blakely’s head. Hundred-dollar bills. The pocket bulged as if it contained many more of them.

“How could this guy know we had money here tonight?” Halliday demanded again. He put his fists to his eyes as if he wanted to shut out the scene or wipe away what had happened.

Cate gave him a more thorough inspection. Pleasant looking, in an inconspicuous sort of way, the kind of looks that went with the drab SUV out front. About the same age as his
partner, mid to late fifties, but his receding hair was a drab mix of gray and brown. A grease streak on the sleeve of his coveralls suggested he worked on the old cars here himself. He looked like the kind of guy more apt to own a Clancy-type dog than Blakely did.

She took a quick glance around the room. A drawer on the nondescript desk hung open. A computer sat on a stand against the back wall, its screen dark. A photocopy machine stood in the corner. Several color photos of gleaming vintage cars hung on the walls.

“Do you always keep a gun in your desk?” Cate asked.

“Yes, ever since a service station up near Beltway was robbed. Though I never expected to have to use it. Nobody knew about the money except Kane and me.”

Apparently not true, if this guy on the floor blasted in with a gun-enforced demand for the money. Unobtrusively, she snapped another cell phone photo that showed his face. Although it was possible, she supposed, that he was simply on the prowl, found a business door unlocked, and figured there’d be money inside.

Cate went to the main front door and peered out at the parking area. Nothing there but the Corvette and the SUV she’d seen earlier. How had the gunman gotten here? Was an accomplice hiding somewhere with a car? Sirens wailed in the distance. She went back to where Halliday was still slumped in the chair where she’d placed him.

“Is there someone we should call about Mr. Blakely?” Cate asked. “Someone who’d want to be with him?”

“His ex-wife Candy lives up in Salem. I doubt she’d be in any hurry to get down here and comfort him no matter how bad off he is.” Halliday sounded bitter about his partner’s ex-wife. “His son and daughter live back east or down south
somewhere. I suppose I’ll have to call Candy to get phone numbers for them.”

The police car arrived, the reflection of the light bar on top shooting garish flickers of red and blue into the office. Two officers charged through the unlocked front door, neither of whom Cate recognized from past encounters with the Eugene police.

The older officer’s experienced gaze took in the scene without shock or emotion. “Check the premises,” he told the younger officer.

“There’s no one here but us,” Halliday said. He jerked a hand at the body on the floor. “And
he’s
dead.”

Although the thought had apparently occurred to the officer, as it had to Cate, that there could be an accomplice lurking somewhere with a getaway car. The younger officer headed toward the warehouse door. The older officer knelt by the body on the floor. His competent-looking touch apparently confirmed what Cate already knew. Dead.

The officer, with none of Cate’s squeamishness, stepped over the body to get to Blakely. He felt at Blakely’s throat but didn’t touch the cascade of hundred-dollar bills. “Ambulance is on its way.” He patted Shirley’s shoulder. “Good work.”

Clancy eyed the officer, and a warning rumbled deep in his throat. He was ready to defend his owner, but the officer didn’t give him reason to have to do it. The officer stepped back and spoke into the mic attached to his shoulder to tell someone what the situation was here.

Halliday started to stand up but plopped weakly back into the chair. He held the ski mask out to the officer. “The guy on the floor was wearing this. He shot Kane and then I-I shot him.” Again the brief stutter, as if what he’d done had affected even his ability to speak.

“The guy was going to shoot both of us!” Shirley said. Clancy tried to paw his owner, obviously upset with the lack of response from Blakely.

“All of you were here in this room?” the officer asked.

“I wasn’t,” Cate said. “I was out in the warehouse. I ran in when I heard the gunshots. I didn’t see it happen.”

“I was right here. I saw it all. The guy just ran in, yelled something about money, and then shot Mr. Blakely. He didn’t even have a chance to give him the money!”

The ambulance siren died in the parking lot, followed a moment later by two EMTs rushing into the office. Cate stepped back to give them more room. One went to Blakely while the other checked the body on the floor. Then they both concentrated on Blakely. One man carefully removed the jacket Shirley had pressed against his head, more hundred-dollar bills fluttering, but Cate couldn’t see what the wound looked like. She noticed now a mark on the wall behind Blakely. Did that mean the bullet had grazed or passed through his head? Was that good or bad? A third man rushed in with a stretcher.