Raven's Cove - Jenna Ryan (11 page)

“I didn’t do it” was all Wesley would say.

“Do you know who did?” Rogan asked from the sidelines.

Wesley’s head whipped around. “No. I went in, and he was on the floor.”

“Huh. Did you check to see if he was alive?”

The deputy faltered. “I saw the blood, sort of saw it. Enough to know he was dead. I heard you at the door and thought maybe you were the murderer coming back to do me.”

Rogan took in the quivering chins. “Did you hear anything before that? Footsteps? Creaking floorboards?”

“No.”

“Okay, let me get this straight. You discovered a corpse, your chief, on the dining room floor of an abandoned house. You heard nothing inside, yet you made no effort to determine his status. The door opened and two people entered, talking. You panicked because you figured one of them was the killer returning to take you out. Instead of holding your position and attempting to identify the new arrivals, you chose to pull your gun, drop your shoulder and come out firing. That was your way of dealing with the situation.”

Wesley’s face went scarlet. “I didn’t think. You—you could have been killers.”

“We could have been kids.”

Boxman gave a disgusted snort. “Must make folks hereabouts feel real safe knowing you’re on the job.”

The deputy’s head rose. His eyes didn’t. “You should probably watch what you say to me, because I’m the chief now.”

Boxman’s grin turned feral. “You think?” He bent down to get in Wesley’s face. “I mean, really, is that what you think?”

The deputy’s spurt of bravado died. He deflated in his seat. “My father’s the mayor.”

“Mine owns a hardware store.” Boxman shrugged. “What’s your point?”

“He should be here.”

“Funny, that’s what he thought. Me and Rogan convinced him otherwise.”

Rogan boosted himself onto the front desk. “You’re wasting our time, Deputy. I’ll cut through some of the bull and tell you we know you’re growing pot up at the old house. It’s probably not a grow-op as such, just enough for you and your buddies to get high on. I’m guessing you put together a hot room. Small, underground, with lights and heaters powered by a line you tapped into from the main house. Line enters the room where Cutless was killed. You went to check on it, found your boss dead and lost it. Jasmine and I showed up, you went from ‘lost it’ to full-blown ‘freak out.’ You waited until your emotions couldn’t cope with what your mind was thinking, and you snapped. You pulled your gun and came out blasting.”

“At a cop,” Boxman inserted, then widened his eyes at Jasmine’s exasperated stare. “Just saying.”

“What were you picturing, Wesley?” A wry smile crooked Rogan’s mouth. “Your black-bird ancestor with a knife? Or maybe you were thinking you’d misjudged a former prisoner, a man whose escape you helped facilitate.”

“I didn’t help… I didn’t…”

But he refused to look either cop in the eye.

Out of the corner of his, Rogan saw Jasmine’s brows go up. “He let Daniel out of jail?”

“Nothing so blatant.” When the deputy’s small mouth compressed, Rogan hid another smile. “I’m guessing he slipped the prisoner a file on his dinner tray. Daniel’s not a B and E specialist, so he scratched the lock when he tried to pick it—scratches Cutless mentioned the next morning. Deputy went to sleep, Daniel went out the back door.”

“How did you…?” she began, then followed his gaze to Wesley’s new and undeniably expensive footwear. “You are seriously joking. Small-town deputy, small-time salary, Ferragamo leather boots.” She shifted to Wesley’s wrist and the shiny new Rolex he also wore. “Seriously.”

“Not a bad score,” Rogan remarked, “considering he was aiding and abetting a low-risk criminal.”

“I didn’t…”

“Use that word one more time,” Boxman invited, “and I’ll be sorely tempted to slug the truth out of you. Before you decide, it might interest you to know that I can bench-press your weight and the lieutenant’s combined.”

Wesley must have bought the lie, because he lost any semblance of bluster. “Am I under arrest?”

Rogan stared at Jasmine. “We can only recommend, not execute.”

Wesley’s lips virtually disappeared. “I don’t know what happened to Chief Cutless. But maybe I did some of the other stuff.”

“Very good answer,” Boxman congratulated. “What do you think, Lieutenant? Was it good for you, too?”

“I’ll let you know.” Rogan’s eyes glittered as they landed on a bulge in Wesley’s shirt pocket. “After I take a look at Deputy Blume’s iPhone.”

* * *

“
I
T WAS A LONG SHOT,”
R
OGAN
admitted to Jasmine later that afternoon. “I can’t really see him being more than peripherally involved in the threats on your life.”

She wasn’t sure she could see even that much, but then she wouldn’t have thought Wesley capable of committing the crimes he had.

The sheriff had come and gone from the old house. The murder scene was taped, Ian Cutless’s body had been removed to the county coroner’s office and the deputy’s marijuana plants had been collected from a green room in the cellar.

Sitting on a tread next to Rogan halfway up the ax-damaged staircase, Jasmine reviewed what they’d learned so far that day. Although it added up to quite a lot, it didn’t make the big picture any clearer.

“Staying with Wesley for the moment. Inasmuch as he shouldn’t have made it possible for a prisoner to escape, by doing so in his case, he might have saved Daniel’s life.”

“‘Might have’ being the operative phrase.” Rogan thumbed a text message on his iPhone. “Daniel might be any number of things at this point. Alive, dead, injured, in the country, out of it—though I doubt the last thing.”

“He could also be stalking the murderer.”

“That would be suicide.”

“Sorry to say, he wouldn’t see it that way.”

“Then he’s a bigger idiot than I thought.”

Choosing not to take the remark personally, Jasmine drummed restless palms on her knees. “I know you can’t answer definitively, but do you have any idea why Ian Cutless is dead?”

“It could be as simple as a case of wrong place, wrong time.” After tucking his phone away, Rogan threaded his fingers through her hair and tipped her head back. “You give the impression of holding up well, Jasmine, but I know you can be a convincing actor when you want to be.”

“Put it down to a case of good old-fashioned shock. Either that, or after spending so much time in a safe house, the grand finale being an attack by Wainwright’s gorillas, two deaths and a disappearance, I’m getting used to your world.” And her mother would be shaking hands with Bigfoot any day now.

“Seeing dead people is like having your emotions tossed in a blender,” he told her. “It chops you up inside and out. Your lone saving grace? The more you see, the faster you learn to cope.”

“You know that’s gross, right, verging on inhuman?”

“It’s a mechanism,” Rogan corrected. “One you hope like hell doesn’t break down.”

“What about guilt? Do you deal with that the same way?”

The fingers touching her jaw slid to the base of her throat and the pulse that beat faster there than it should. “Are you blaming yourself for Cutless’s death now, too?”

“Not entirely. But like Dukes’s, I feel partly responsible.”

“The deputy doesn’t.”

“It might surprise you to learn that Wesley’s not someone I want to emulate. I still can’t believe he used Daniel’s bribe money to buy high-end boots and a pricey watch. He might as well have worn a sign. As for his mini grow-op—abandoned house in a remote location—stupid and illegal, yes, but at least he thought that one through.” At Rogan’s doubtful look, she rocked her head. “Okay, thought part of it through. We’ll agree, brilliant’s not his middle name.”

“We’ll agree he’s a jackass with local connections, and he should never have been given a badge. That was Cutless’s mistake and what can happen when decisions come from below the belt.” After checking the clip in his backup, he handed it to her. Then did the same with his primary weapon.

She regarded the barrel and his face over the tip. “Tell me something. Do you believe there’s any chance at all that Wesley’s even remotely connected to the chief’s murder or the seven before it?”

“Anything’s possible.”

“He has no motive.”

“None that we know of.”

“I knew you’d say that.” She moved her lips into a smile. “Are cops allowed to be optimistic about anything?”

To her surprise, he tucked a knuckle under her chin and drew her forward for a kiss that shouldn’t have stripped the air from her lungs but did. He didn’t release her right away, either, which not only heightened the dizzying effect, but almost sent her brain into a tailspin.

“Okay, I’m lost. You want, you don’t want. You push, you pull. In terms of communication, Rogan, you’re completely bipolar.”

He stroked a thumb across her lower lip. “My life’s not something you want to get mixed up in.”

“Really? Any more decisions you want to make for me while we’re here?”

The half smile appeared. “Only the ones that’ll send you running in the opposite direction.” A final kiss and his hand fell away. “Come on, love. There’s still some light outside, and I want to see the room behind that window you showed me earlier.”

Bipolar, she reminded herself and stood. “It’s on the third floor. Should be a fun climb, given the condition of these stairs. Deputy’s gone, no ravens in sight. Take Boris or not?”

Rogan glanced at the foyer, where the dog looked to be playing hide-and-seek with a mouse. “Let him have some fun. We’ve got weapons.”

And she sincerely hoped, more cautious trigger fingers than Wesley.

They’d almost reached the second floor, when her cell phone rang. Her first response was to delete the call without looking. Her second was to be annoyed. The killer had her jumping at her own ring tone.

Removing the phone from her jacket pocket, she regarded the screen. And swore.

Rogan, who’d been several steps ahead, came back down. “Something?”

“Not sure.” She couldn’t drag her eyes away, or force her mind past the worst-case scenario because…

As it had the night before, the name on the screen read Colleen Ellis.

* * *

“
O
KAY, SPOOKED,”
J
ASMINE
admitted. “I’m good with witches and ghosts. Ravens and creepy phone voices, not so much. It could have been the killer masquerading as my mother again.”

Thankfully, though, it hadn’t.

“She’s gotten lost three times so far, but thinks she might have spotted a footprint as she was winding her way back down a mountain. She says I should forget the long weekend and take my vacation now. She wants me to spend the next three weeks exploring the Olympics with her and some buffalo-size man who, like her, wants to make the discovery of a lifetime before they scatter his ashes in a Tennessee bog. God, it was great to hear her voice.”

Rogan cast her a slow and knowing grin. “Seems to me you did a lot of hearing and not much talking.”

“Thought you’d notice that.”

“She’d be fascinated.”

“She’d be horrified.” Jasmine poked both index fingers at her chest. “Only child, Rogan. Back under threat of death and, no offence to your protection skills, but sans safe house this time.”

“That said, the faster we relegate this case to the Solved pile, the sooner we can get on with our lives. Ready?”

“As I ever am.”

Keeping to the inside wall, they tested the treads for strength before putting their full weight on them. To Jasmine’s relief, the upper landing felt more solid. She ran her flashlight over worn planks and along dirt-streaked walls to a ceiling coated with filthy webs.

“These must have been the maids’ rooms. Oh, God, ick.” She ducked under a hanging spider. “Why would anyone use a room up here to do whatever it was he or she was doing last night?”

“Good question.” Rogan shone his beam to the end of the corridor before bringing it partway back. “This is the door.” He glanced at her. “Wanna do it Hollywood style?”

“You mean, break it down with your shoulder?”

“Nothing quite that dramatic.”

Standing back, he used his foot.

The hinges gave the anticipated screech, but beyond that, nothing happened. No terrified body launched itself at them. No bullets flew past their heads. No lights burned inside.

“Well, that was anticlimactic.” Jasmine inspected the floor. “So far so good. And the planks look sound. Except…” Kneeling, she swept experimental fingers over the old wood. “Pretty sure these should be dusty.”

“You get a gold star, love.”

“Call me Columbo.” Turning as she went, Jasmine walked into the empty room. “What now? Do we set a trap and see who springs it?” When he didn’t respond, she shone her flashlight on him. “Rogan, why are you fixated on that window?”

“I can see Blume House.”

“And I can see this place
from
Blume House. What’s your— Damn!” She spun from the glass. “I saw his window, and he saw mine. That’s not good.”

“Depends which window you’re looking through.”

But Jasmine had no time for humor. Had she changed into her sleep cami in the bathroom or simply thought to hell with it, there were no neighbors, and stripped off in the bedroom?

She balled her hands into fists. “Oh, crap.”

Rogan examined the scarred sill. “I’d echo that, except I don’t think last night’s visitor was your usual voyeur.”

“What then?” Another thought struck, this one like a dagger in her chest. “You think he was going to shoot me?”

Kissing her cheek, Rogan replied simply, “Just one feather, love.”

The sensation that shivered through her was only partly rooted in fear. Which was sick, she reflected, and went to prove that insanity was contagious. God help her if she couldn’t find an antidote.

In the yard, lingering patches of twilight filtered through the fog and tall trees. As it had been that morning, the woods remained eerily hushed. High above, Jasmine heard a rustle of pine needles and saw a raven take flight. On the path below, two small animals scurried toward the underbrush.