Echoes (37 page)

She didn't know how they'd gotten in. Deputy Ochoa had sent someone out to put a new lock on the back door and the bolt was thrown, the door secure. The same for the front door—she'd had to unlock it to let them in when they'd come home. The windows were closed. Yet someone had found their way inside. Someone who didn't think their first threat had been received.

She spun around, scanning the rooms behind her. Quietly she went upstairs, peeking in at Caitlin in her room before checking Tori's room. She looked under the bed and in the closets and bathroom. No one was there.

A shudder of relief went through her, though she hadn't really expected to find the culprit. So far the threats had been delivered in a cowardly manner. Whoever was behind it wanted to scare her off, but not engage her.

Their tactics were working. She was frightened.

She reached for the phone to call the sheriff and made another realization. The answering machine was no longer blinking. The message had been erased. Why? Because they didn't want her talking to Lydia?

She lifted the receiver and called information. While the operator connected her to
Lydia's number, she scanned the kitchen, looking for anything else out of place. On the other end, the phone rang. No one answered.

She hung up the phone as Caitlin came downstairs. "I still can't find Purcy."

Tess stared at Caitlin, heart breaking at the desolation she saw in her eyes. But what could she say? Keep looking? He'll show up?

"I'm sorry, honey," she managed as she crossed the room to comfort her. The eyes in the Jesus picture followed her with censure, seeming to condemn her. How had Tori managed to live day to day with those judging eyes watching her? How had the image managed to retain its position on her irreverent sister's wall in the first place? It was tacky and creepy and absolutely out of place.

"Did your mom like that picture?" Tess asked Caitlin, looking at it over her head.

Caitlin shrugged. "She said it was perfect when she brought it home."

"You mean
she
bought it?"

Caitlin nodded.

"When? Recently or right after you got here?"

"I guess it wasn't that long ago. We'd lived here awhile."

Frowning, Tess stared at the eerie print. Why on earth would Tori—

And then it came to her. "Jesus," she murmured.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Hector's insides felt like beef jerky after he and Smith had found Lydia Hughes dead in her walk-in refrigerator. Her body was battered and bloated, gruesome even with the preservation of the refrigerator in play. That she'd been murdered was brutally obvious. That he and Smith had trampled the crime scene like a pair of cartoon cops made it all the worse. What did they teach them in the academy? What did they try to pound into their thick heads more than anything else? Always preserve and protect the crime scene, no matter what. Hector was glad his old sergeant wasn't there to see his performance today.

After he'd found her, Hector had gone outside and thrown up like the rookie he was. He'd heaved until he was empty. Then he kicked dirt over his mess and vowed that he would never again be sick because of his incompetence. He'd known that Lydia's disappearance was more than a Saturday stroll and he'd ignored the inner voice that wanted to guide him. He would not make that mistake again.

Shaken but determined, he went back inside
Lydia's kitchen. The smell of the place had fermented into the reek of blunder and the stench of violent death. It took all his resolve to face it again. Smith was standing just outside the refrigerator and he put a hand up to block Hector's entrance. He looked a little worried himself about the mistakes they'd made here.

"We should call this in," Hector said.

"Already did."

Cool air wafted out from the open refrigerator and on it the sharp scent of ground coffee, overriding the pervasive smell of death.

Frowning, Hector leaned in and identified the source. One section of the refrigerator was dominated by twenty or so bags of coffee beans. Below them, labeled and dated plastic containers filled with ground coffee waited to be brewed. One of the containers had been knocked down and spilled over the floor.

"Do you see what I see?" Smith asked, pointing.

Lydia lay on her back with her right arm draped across her chest, as if she'd tried to roll onto her side but had flopped back before she'd made it. Her right hand was clenched and it looked like a colorful strip of paper or plastic was clasped inside.

Mouth dry, Hector looked at the pile of spilled coffee beside her and back to her hand. He felt sick thinking of how he and Smith had barged in, checked for a pulse, almost tried to move her. He'd been so focused on
Lydia, he hadn't even noticed the coffee. But for the grace of God, they both might have walked right through it.

Smith squatted down. "Look there, wedged up under her arm."

Hector crouched down beside him and looked. Hidden between Lydia's arm and breast, was a half roll of Lifesavers candy. A piece of the wrapper was obviously the bright scrap she had clutched in her fist.

They exchanged glances and stood.

"Christ," Smith said. "This is one hell of a mess."

Hector stared at
Lydia and the bit of striped candy wrapper in her hand. He'd seen Grant Weston pull out his roll of Lifesavers a dozen times, but that didn't mean he was the only one in town that ate them.

"I want to search Weston's place," Smith said, as if to himself.

"The judge isn't going to issue a warrant based on a candy wrapper."

"You're right, but that isn't all I plan to base it on. Craig Weston said he came here for some coffee yesterday and found his brother knocking
Lydia around. Apparently he's had a closet relationship with her since he got back."

"What do you mean?"

"Men that abuse their women don't like others to know about it. I saw it all the time in Chicago. Guys you thought too uptight to get their hair messed up could beat their wives to a bloody pulp."

Hector looked at the bruises and cuts that covered
Lydia's arms.

"From where I'm standing, I'd say Grant let things get out of control."

"When did Craig tell you this?" Hector asked.

"Yesterday."

Angry that Smith hadn't shared the information earlier, Hector listened to the sheriff request the warrant to search Grant Weston's property for evidence linking him to the murder of Lydia Hughes and the disappearance of Tori France. Smith managed to make it sound as if they'd found a death message written in Lydia's blood rather than a Lifesaver wrapper clutched in her hand and the incident Craig had described to Smith became bloodthirsty violence with Grant out of control as he abused Lydia. As Smith ended the call, the sound of sirens in the distance heralded the arrival of help from Piney River.

"You exaggerated the circumstances quite a bit," Hector said.

Smith gave a heavy sigh and faced his deputy. "Ochoa, this is how it works. We have to prove someone is guilty or they don't go to jail—"

"I know that."

"If we don't get the evidence, we can't prove anything. The warrant just allows us to look for it. If Weston is clean, there's nothing we're going to find, right? I'm just trying to stack the deck so it's even, bad guy/good guy. Sometimes you got to bend the rules a little to do that. Understand?"

Red-faced, Hector nodded.

Smith met the forensics crew on the porch and produced reasonable excuses and explanations for the fiasco he and Hector had made of the crime scene. As he listened, Hector felt shamed.

"Let's go back to the station and let them do their job," Smith said when he'd finished. "They've got this covered and I want to know the minute that warrant issues."

They didn't have to wait long. Within the hour they were on their way.

Gravel crunched beneath their tires as Smith pulled into the horseshoe drive at the Weston ranch and stopped. He had the warrant in his pocket and a look of satisfaction on his face. Hector thought he was acting like this was a game of wits, not a murder investigation, but what could he say? Maybe Smith was right—maybe Hector should straighten up and get in the game too.

Pausing as he reached for the door, he gave Hector a meaningful glance. "Let me do the talking," he said.

"We're supposed to wait for back up," Hector answered.

The sheriff paused with a look of overtaxed patience. "I've served warrants to drug dealers and murderers and mothers who sell their babies, Ochoa. I don't need some puke from Piney River holding my hand now."

He slammed the car door and started up to the porch. Cursing, Hector followed. Grant opened the door with an expression that swung from anticipation to shock in a way that convinced Hector he'd been expecting someone, someone other than the two law enforcement officers on his stoop. He made a sound of disgust and ran his fingers through his hair. There was a white bandage on his left hand.

Smith didn't waste time with niceties. "Got a warrant to search your house, Grant."

"For what?"

"The body of Tori France," Smith replied, stretching the truth beyond recognition.

"That's bullshit," Grant answered.

"Could be, but we've got a warrant all the same."

Smith pulled it out and handed it over. With barely a glance, Grant threw open the door and gave them a sweep of his hand that both invited them to enter and dared them to cross the threshold. Despite his vows not to go against his instincts, Hector followed Smith inside. He could return to the cruiser and wait for back up, but all that would accomplish was to leave Smith alone which Hector suspected would be an even bigger mistake.

Before the door swung shut again, they heard a car approaching the house. Craig Weston's blue Lexus pulled to a stop in the drive.

"What's he doing here?" Hector asked.

Smith shrugged. "How the hell should I know?"

"I just heard," Craig said as he came up to the porch. His eyes were red and swollen, his face pale and streaked. He shook his head and looked at Grant with a mixture of disillusionment and disgust. "Why did you have to come back?"

"Craig, you shouldn't be here," Smith said in a calm voice. "I'm going to have to ask you to leave now."

"Are you arresting him?" Craig asked.

"This isn't your business. Go home."

Craig exhaled and shook his head. A look passed between him and the sheriff. Hector frowned.

"I saw what you did to her yesterday," Craig said, looking at Grant. "I don't know who you think you are but..." He made a sound of frustration and grief. "She was my friend, Grant. I cared about her and you couldn't stand that, could you?"

"Craig..." Smith interrupted.

Hector moved forward, intending to take Craig by the arm and escort him to his car, but the sheriff put a hand out and stopped him. Grant stared at the sheriff, then Craig, then back again. His brows were drawn together, his face white.

"You're not going to ride off into the sunset this time," Craig said softly. "You don't get the girl, the ranch, the happily ever after. Not this time."

Just as Smith reached out, Craig shook his head and turned away. "I know, I'm going."

He started back to his car, stumbling once, as if his pain made walking a task too difficult. Before he reached the Lexus, Grant began to clap. The sharp sound of his hands striking together echoed loudly in the quiet. Craig spun around and glared.

"You missed your calling, Craig," Grant said. "You're a hell of an actor, I'll give you that. But I don't buy it. You've never cared about anyone but yourself."

No one said a word for a moment. Then Craig got in his car, slammed the door and drove off in a cloud of dust and spraying gravel.

When Hector turned, he caught the sheriff staring at him and with a flash of intuition Hector realized that Smith was trying to gauge his reaction, trying to see what he was thinking. Something had happened just now that had nothing to do with the actual events and Smith knew it. Hector looked down, trying to replay everything that had occurred since Craig pulled to a stop.

"Let's take a look around," Smith said with calm authority.

Like a small parade, the threesome made their way into the house. A dark room to the right of the door resembled a set from a Western movie. Gleaming wooden floors, burnished cherry tables and thick, velvet furniture centered around a snarling bear rug. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases flanked the massive fireplace and heavily shaded lamps skirted the outer reaches. In one corner stood a polished mahogany bar, behind it empty glass shelves that should have held gleaming bottles of premium liquors. Centered on the wall above, an etched mirror recommended that they do their shootin' with Jose Cuervo. Word had it that Grant had taken that advice more than once.

Smith looked about with interest, like a fan on a "homes of movie stars" tour. He strolled the circumference of the room with a studied nonchalance, stopping here and there to examine an object or touch the frame of a painting. Grant tracked the sheriff's movements with justifiably hostile eyes. Smith was toying with Grant and they all knew it. Finally he started down the hall.