Raven's Cove - Jenna Ryan (17 page)

Unflattering color mottled Cyrus’s face. “Yes, I frigging mind. You’re out of your jurisdiction, Rogan, and so’s your lackey here.” He kicked out a foot, but wasn’t stupid enough, Jasmine noticed, to connect with Boxman’s shin. “Go ahead and call the sheriff, but in the meantime, both of you, back the hell off.”

Boxman squinted into his face at close range. “I think he’s pissed at us, Rogan. Why do you think that is? All you want to do is have a little look-see at his new phone, and suddenly he goes all prissy and possessive.”

Cyrus maintained his belligerent stand. Brave of him, Jasmine thought, since Boxman appeared ready to shove his chair into the now red-hot oven.

“I’m done with you two.”

Cyrus might have attempted to thrust Boxman’s arms away if Rogan hadn’t come up beside him wearing a rather dangerous look on his face. “You’re not done with anyone, Bowcott, least of all with us. When you moved a moment ago, I saw something other than a cell phone in your pocket.”

A chill sprinted along Jasmine’s spine as he drew a long black feather from Cyrus’s jacket. Only his eyes moved to stare at the man’s face.

“I suggest, former detective, that we take this to an official setting and go through that story you told us from start to finish one more time.”

* * *

T
HE MORNING EVENTUALLY
dawned to gray clouds and drizzle. After a hot shower, Jasmine donned a pair of worn jeans, a red cashmere sweater and her black trench. She resigned herself to accompanying Rogan and Boxman to the police station, then paced off her nerves in the front office with Costello, who’d been brought in as backup while they did whatever it was cops did to wear suspects down in tiny interrogation rooms.

“Bowcott’s phone’s at least eighteen months old.” Kicked back in the late chief’s chair, Costello ran his finger over a series of scratches. “Contrary to the claim that he accidentally switched cells with Victor, this is definitely the property of one Cyrus Bowcott. Now, what, pretty Jasmine, do you make of that?”

“I’d like to think it could be as simple as, I was wrong about Cyrus, and the killer’s been caught. But life’s seldom that obliging, so I’ll tack a maybe onto the second thing and cross my fingers that I’m right. You?”

“Leaning. But I’ll need many more facts before I commit.”

Jasmine stepped over Boris, who was curled up beside the desk. “Will you come and stay at Blume House now? I really don’t like you being out in the woods alone.”

His eyes twinkled. “It worked for Grandma.”

“Yeah, until a wolf ate her and took her place in bed.”

“It bothers you, doesn’t it?”

She smiled over her shoulder. “I assume we’ve left Red Riding Hood’s woods and returned to Cyrus.”

“Who looks so much like Victor, it’s rather eerie.”

“I agree, but you’re the one who swore they were—are—twins. And Rogan’s been all over the computer. Same conclusion.”

“Yes, but are we sure which one of them Rogan and Boxman are currently questioning?”

“Well, God.” With a humorless laugh, Jasmine pushed her fingers into the pulse points at the back of her neck. “I thought we agreed that Cyrus is here and Victor’s undercover in Baja.”

“So deep undercover that no one, including his captain, knows his current whereabouts.”

“Isn’t that normal?”

“Can be.”

“Just not necessarily in this case, is that what you’re saying?”

“Not really. I’m throwing the possibility out there more to keep it alive than because I believe it.”

She stopped pressing to slide a mistrustful look between him and the back room. “Did you by any chance train Rogan?”

Costello chuckled. “Sorry to say, that was Ballard’s burden. And I say burden because it wasn’t long before the student outshone the master. Rogan was born to be a cop. Ballard spotted it right off. Old Gus had an eye for people and situations. He handpicked the teams for the safe houses. Grit and muscle—that was Boxman. Cool head—that was me. Victor had the ears and the eyes. Carla was all about details. Dukes? Well, for lack of a better description, I’ll call him a worried old woman.”

“And Rogan?”

“Two steps ahead ninety percent of the time. Unfortunately, our situation in Raven’s Cove falls into the frustrating ten percent where we’re all reduced to the quickness of our reactions.”

Jasmine glanced at the interrogation room door. “Rogan wasn’t supposed to be part of the safe-house team, was he?”

“Initially, no. Ballard asked him to go in. Captain’s plan was to put him with Daniel, but Rogan said Wainwright was more likely to go for the lesser target with the thought of kidnapping and using it—you—to blackmail Daniel into not testifying. Turns out, he was right. Though to this day, none of us knows how Wainwright discovered our location. One or two fingers were pointed at Boxman, but my gut told me he wouldn’t sell out.”

“Is your gut always right?”

He shrugged. “About eighty percent of the time. Victor’s name came up briefly. No idea why. He’s always been a solid cop, and he was extremely protective of you. One night, Dukes spotted you coming out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel. He liked what he saw so much that he made a few less-than-polite remarks. I put them down to cabin fever. Boxman said he wished he’d gone upstairs with Dukes. Victor called them both a few choice names and insisted we implement stricter rules where you were concerned before someone turned into a Peeping Tom, or worse. Couple days later, Rogan showed up and the problem more or less resolved itself.”

“Because everyone knew I was attracted to him?”

“Probably more because we knew he was attracted to you. And you can believe me when I tell you, that was a rare—as in it never happened—thing to see. There’s a general apprehension from the start when you’re dealing with a rogue cop. Depending on the situation—volatile in the case of a safe house—they’re perceived as being a little unpredictable. On the other hand, a few of us regular cops weren’t behaving as professionally as we could have. I singled out the towel incident, but there were others.”

Jasmine sighed. “So Dukes really wasn’t the teddy-bear uncle I envisioned.”

Costello winked. “You gotta watch those teddy-bear types. The cuddlier they are, the easier it is for them to lure you in. Sometimes a switch gets triggered, and bam, off comes the fuzzy face and out pops whatever was lurking inside.”

She returned to pushing on her pulse points. “I am so disillusioned.”

“Wanna go back to Cyrus?”

“Is that where we started?” Just about every part of her brain had gone off-kilter.

“We were postulating as to whether or not he might be the killer.” Costello held up the scratched cell phone. “Easy to say yes and hope we’re right, but one feather and a few lies won’t get anyone convicted or, unfortunately, even arrested. We can question him. I doubt we’ll be able to hold him.”

“He has no motive, does he? And if you say no motive that we know of, I’ll sic Boris on you. Tell me your gut feeling, Lieutenant. Guilty or not?”

“Like Rogan, I don’t believe Wainwright’s alive, so why, if Cyrus is the killer, would he want to make it seem as if Malcolm’s calling the shots? It’s a big, important question. I’m going to want a big, believable answer.”

“Is it possible he’s trying to cloud what is with what was…? Never mind.” She waved the question off. “Even if he is, that still doesn’t provide a motive.”

“Your turn, Costello.” Rolling the tension from his neck, Rogan emerged from the back room. “Boxman’s got him ready to launch, but I’m thinking the countdown might stall out. Bowcott claims he found the feather on the ground while he was walking around the perimeter of Blume House. We can’t prove he didn’t, therefore, circumstantial evidence.”

“Does the lie he told you about Victor and the phone-switch thing count?” Jasmine asked.

“It wasn’t an official interrogation, so, no. And it’s not a huge deal in any case. I’ve got calls in to Victor and a few other members of his family. We’ll see if anything develops there.”

Jasmine frowned. “I don’t think they have much family. Their parents are dead and so’s their brother.”

“There’s an uncle in Arizona and a grandmother who’s still needle-sharp according to Cyrus. Her ninetieth birthday party preceded the alleged phone switch, so maybe she can shed some light.”

“Meantime, let’s see what the friendly old sarge can worm out of him.” Standing, Costello tossed Rogan Cyrus’s cell phone and headed for the door.

As always, and even with Costello’s MP3 hitting the crescendo of the
William Tell
Overture,
Jasmine knew the precise moment when Rogan came up behind her. “You don’t think he’s the one, do you?”

“About as much as you do.”

“Is it vicious of me to almost wish he was?”

“You want an end to the horror. I don’t believe you’d want the wrong man convicted.”

“That’s a load off my mind.” She turned and her heart gave a solid thump. God help her, the man was gorgeous and even more now than before, a mystery she longed to solve. “Is any of what Cyrus told you the truth?”

“Some. I think he’s couching those truths inside a number of lies. Trick is to figure out which is which, and why he’s doing it.”

As answers went, it wasn’t much, but all Jasmine could see right then was the black feather he’d discovered and the idea that someone, maybe Cyrus, had been planning to attach it to her door. Well, that and Rogan, standing there unshaved and looking like a rebel rocker by way of a rogue cop.

Stepping out of range, she asked, “Have you had any luck contacting Victor?”

“His captain’s a wall, but we’re putting pressure on the commissioner, who, I gather, owes Costello one or two good-size favors.” She hadn’t managed to slip completely out of range, Jasmine realized, and fought a shiver when he ran his hands along her arms. “Do you want to talk about last night?”

She saw his features reflected in the window.
Cautious
was an understatement for the expression he wore.

For some reason, amusement stirred and helped her relax. “You are so transparent right now, Rogan. I’d say considerate as well, but I know an I’d rather-hack-off-my-right-arm-than-talk look when I see one.”

His eyes met hers. “My whole right arm?”

“Okay, your left arm. Either way, I’ll cut you a break because it’s midafternoon, we’ve been up since 6:00 a.m. and neither of us got much sleep in our separate beds last night.”

When his gaze left hers, she gave his leg a light kick. “Excuse me, Lieutenant, but I’m being generous—here…” With a puzzled second look, she brought her hands together and directed her index fingers at the window. “That long wispy thing that just drifted past us didn’t quite look like fog, did it?” She raised her sights to a stand-alone building surrounded by trees. Something flickered behind the partly shuttered front windows. “Um, Rogan?”

“I see it.” He shouted for Boxman, then turned back to her. “Does this town have a fire department?”

“Volunteer. I’ll call Riese for the number while you—” she made an exasperated motion “—leave before I finish talking.”

A cranky Boxman strode out. “What’s wrong now?”

“Her line’s busy.”

“Whose line’s busy?” His head went up. “Why do I smell smoke?”

Pushing on his back, Jasmine directed him to the door. “You smell smoke, Sergeant, because that very big building across the street is on fire.”

* * *

T
HE VOLUNTEER FIREFIGHTERS
, only five strong with Ian Cutless dead and Wesley Hamilton-Blume currently under house arrest, did what they could to save the old town meeting hall. Unfortunately, after several fruitless hours and even aided by Rogan, Boxman and a handful of shopkeepers, nothing remained except a charred and smoldering skeleton.

“For all the good we did, I could’ve been at the station house taking chunks out of our uncooperative suspect.” Boxman swiped an arm over his sooty face and came up looking like a chimney sweep. “Were there any bodies?” he asked Rogan.

“Only the ones you steamrolled when your jacket got singed.”

“It wouldn’t have gotten singed if you hadn’t shoved me into a burning doorway.”

“Which I wouldn’t have done if you hadn’t decided to use Jasmine as a shield against the flames.”

“Look, kids,” Jasmine said, but held up her hands when both men shot her heated looks. “Fine. If it works for you, it works for me.”

“There was no one inside when the fire started,” Rogan said. “One of the volunteers is an electrician. He thinks the main box overloaded. Apparently some council members left a bunch of heaters switched on this morning when they left. Eight fifteen-hundred-watt heaters, one sparking electrical panel and a building that’s close to two hundred years old. Something had to give. Are you limping?” he asked Jasmine while a muttering Boxman snatched a water bottle from a bystander’s hand and guzzled it down.

“Broke a heel.” Unruffled, she opened a fresh bottle, took several thirsty sips and handed it over. “Where’s Costello?”

“Still at the station. You sure you’re not hurt?”

“I thought last year’s Prada boots would be a safe bet today, but apparently not. So, while my footwear’s on the injured list, I’m good.”

Rogan’s lips twitched. “I wouldn’t say that, love, or ask any magic mirrors you pass for their opinion.” He ran a thumb over her cheek. “You’re a little smudged.”

“Right back at you, Lieutenant. And I’ll take smudged over dead any day.” Stepping up to him, she hooked a finger in his waistband and gave a teasing tug. “All things considered, I’m feeling pretty fortunate. True, on the downside, you’ve got a feather that we agree was intended for me. But looking up, you’ve got a potential murder suspect in an interrogation room across the street. Still not sure I’m on board with that one, but Boxman’s convinced, so I’ll defer.” Moving closer, she lifted her mouth to his. “I know we have a long way to go before any of this is settled, but how would you feel about going back to Blume House and taking a nice hot bath before dinner?”

He responded by lowering his head and indulging himself in a long, deep kiss. “Best idea I’ve heard since last night.”