The Trouble with Temptation (32 page)

He’d thought he was done with one particular annoying bit of baggage, but perhaps not.

He had more questions to ask and since there were only so many people who could answer them, he was going to the source. He’d heard something rather troublesome at the pub, one thread of truth in all the rumors that were slung about Shayla Hardee and if that thread of truth
was
real, he had to know.

It wasn’t like he could just walk into the county courthouse and ask for a copy of the report or anything. If he’d developed any skills at hacking, he would have most definitely put those to use, but while he was more than adequate at picking locks and other slightly shady skills, his electronic know-how was just average. He could cover his trails when he was trolling about online and he knew how to find people, but any idiot with half a brain could do that these days.

Having some affinity with Google wasn’t going to help him anonymously access the police report for Shayla Hardee’s death. So he’d go to the one person who would know more than anybody, next to the cops.

The drunken fool her husband had become wasn’t even a shadow of himself these days. He was lucky that he’d been well off before all of this, otherwise, he might be on the streets already. His manager at the car dealership was running the show now and the last he’d heard, Roger wasn’t even keeping up the pretense of coming in.

It would make it easier, what he was going to do.

When a man spent seventy or eighty percent of his time drunk, he wasn’t going to think clearly and chances were, he wouldn’t remember very well either.

He banged on the front door after parking his car some distance away and taking his time to walk to the house, arriving at the Hardee residence soaking wet. When Roger finally stumbled to the door, he flashed the man a half desperate smile. “Let me in, would you? I’m soaking wet and my car’s stopped running. The motor club is giving me the runaround, too.”

Roger stared at him blearily.

To sweeten the deal, he held up a paper-wrapped bottle. “I’d picked up something for me to while away the night. Want to have a drink with me while I sort out the mess with my motor club?”

Roger nodded, rubbed at his bloodshot eyes, and stepped out of the way.

*   *   *

Thirty minutes later, his gaze foggy, Roger stared into his glass while the man silently worked the computer next to him.

Roger was so drunk, he hadn’t even questioned the thin, blue gloves he’d donned.

He might not even notice.

“Alright, man. That’s not working, either. Got any other ideas for passwords?” He gave Roger a charming smile. “You never know. She could have more information in her online video storage that could lead to her killer.”

It was nothing more than garbage, but the bereaved man didn’t have to know that. Roger’s eyes lit with hope and he rubbed at his heavily stubbled cheeks. “Cat. She had one, as a girl. Name.” He yawned and looked away, head slumping.

He waited patiently, but Roger didn’t say anything else.

“What was the fucking cat’s name?”

Roger jerked his head up and some of the clouds cleared from his eyes.

Calm the fuck down
, he told himself. With an easy smile, he nudged the bottle closer. He hadn’t had any himself, nor would he. He’d doctored the thing, spiking it with the same white powder he used with Ellison. “Want more?”

Roger stared at the bottle, his thick tongue coming out to wet his lips. Then he nodded.

Pouring more into the glass, he shoved it over and then leaned back to wait until the man had taken the first drink. He was taking a risk being here, but he had to take it.

Out of all those rumors, all of those twisted tales, two things had struck him. Somebody had mentioned that Hannah had actually made the
9-1-1
call from
Shayla’s
phone. He hadn’t even seen Shayla’s phone.

Then there was the other concerning fact.

Shayla’s camera was missing.

She’d been looking to blackmail him. He’d known it then, hadn’t had any doubt. What he hadn’t known was that she had all but made herself a career of doing it. He’d found her camera—it hadn’t even been hidden.

But apparently it hadn’t been the
only
camera. Or maybe it wasn’t. He couldn’t be sure. There was a camera, though. One that was missing. The police knew the make of the camera, they knew the model. They had countless videos that had been shot using it.

What they didn’t have was that particular camera.

Where the hell was it and what had she captured on it? Was
he
on it?

“Come on, Roger.” He couldn’t even pretend to be helpful anymore. He was just too pissed. Logically, he realized that if there was anything on this computer, the cops would know—they and would have searched it, taken it. But it was still here. And that fear was a gnawing little demon in his belly. “Roger!”

But Roger wasn’t looking at him anymore. He was fumbling with the phone in his hand, hands clumsy, swiping at the screen.

Swearing, he lunged for him and knocked it out of the man’s hands.

Roger made a startled grunt as the phone was ripped away. Swinging his head up, he stared at the phone, now out of reach.

Out of reach … and talking.

“Hello…? Roger, is … Roger, is everything alright?”

Roger’s face crumpled. And then he started to cry. “Ellie. Ellie, he took my phone.”

Fuck
.

*   *   *

He left.

There was no other choice.

He did pour the rest of the bourbon in the glass down Roger’s throat and watched as his eyes went more and more glassy. By the time he’d washed out the glass he hadn’t even used and put it away—couldn’t have anybody thinking Roger’d had company—Roger was nodding off on the couch.

He tossed the phone down next to the man and left.

He’d like to take the computer with him, but it wasn’t an option now.

He barely had the time to get out of there and move his car, because he knew exactly who
Ellie
was.

Ellison. One of Ellison Shaw’s other lovers was Roger Hardee … and if he knew anything about the good doctor, she’d be on her way to check on him.

He was in such a hurry, so pissed off, that he left behind one crucial thing … all without realizing it.

The bottle of bourbon remained sitting on the table in front of Roger and when the door slammed resoundingly, it jerked the man out of the drugged, drunken daze and he leaned forward, grabbing the bottle. He miscalculated and half of it spilled.

It didn’t matter, though.

There was still enough inside the damn thing that he could pour more down his throat … and just forget.

*   *   *

“He’s dead, alright.”

Gideon looked at Griffin, his eyes gritty, head pounding. He’d stayed up a little too late, drank a little too much whiskey and the last thing he wanted to be doing tonight was standing over a dead body.

But here he was.

The dead body also stank of whiskey, piss, and shit.

And misery.

Looking into Roger Hardee’s death stare, Gideon dragged a hand down his face and then looked around.

Everything looked too pat.

The man had sat down for a drink and then just kept on drinking. There was a mostly empty bottle of Jack Daniels, which was Roger’s poison of choice.

Then there was the other bottle. It was a better brand of bourbon, the small batch craft kind that had been popping up more and more. It lay on the floor by Roger’s bare, mottled feet, just a few drops left inside.

Could have seen he was running out, Gideon supposed.

Gotten up and gone to crack out the good stuff, sat down and just drank himself to death. He sure as hell smelled bad enough—like a day-old vat of clothes that had been soaked in pure alcohol and piss, then left out in the sun.

But Gideon wasn’t buying it.

Something was off.

For one thing, Roger Hardee just didn’t have the stomach to drink himself to death. Not that he thought Roger was a complete and utter
no
when it came to suicide. To be honest, Gideon wouldn’t have been surprised to get that very call, had half expected that to be the case today. But it wasn’t.

Roger half-sat, half-lay on his couch, face slack and vomit dried on his mouth and chin. Had likely choked on it and never even realized. This was just all wrong.

Gideon crouched down in front of the bottle, careful to avoid touching the carpet, stinking of puke and piss and alcohol. The smell would permeate the room for a long, long time. “There’s a little bit left in the bottle,” he said to Griffin, one of the other cops who’d shown up to answer the call. “Make sure they sample it.”

Griffin nodded and moved away, leaving Gideon there with Outridge.

A woman’s sob caught his attention and he looked up.

Dr. Ellison Shaw was sitting on the couch, arms wrapped around herself.

Her husband, Officer Beau Shaw, stood behind her. The expression on his face was a terrible one.

Nobody had yet mentioned just why Ellison had come over here.

It was pretty obvious, given the way she was dressed.

Beau had been out riding patrol tonight and Gideon wished to hell the man had been off … at
home
.

Beau’s eyes met his and then bounced away.

Ellison sniffled again and she looked up at Gideon blearily.

Averting his gaze, he said to Outridge, “Why don’t you go talk to her? Send Beau over here, if you think he can handle it.”

“This is going to do them in, you know that.”

Gideon shook his head. “They were already done. Beau just hadn’t figured it out.”

He felt for the man. He knew what it was like to put his heart into a woman’s hand and watch her crush it. But unlike Ellison, Moira hadn’t done it out of any selfish needs. She’d done it because she’d been focused on those around her, those who needed her. Focused on everybody but him.

It still didn’t make it hurt any less. Especially now, twenty years later when he’d had his hands on her—
again
—and then just hours after it happened, she saw him, colored, and then walked away.

Beau joined him at the circle of whiskey, vomit, and urine.

Gideon asked quietly, “Can you be a cop here or should I just send you home?”

“It ain’t his fault Ellison is how she is,” Beau said tiredly. “Maybe if he was alive, I could hate him for it. But he ain’t. And I’m a cop. Always.”

“Good.” He pulled out the gloves he’d jammed into his pockets. “You’re assisting while Outridge tries to calm her down.”

Some bitterness worked its way in Beau’s voice. “He’ll be lucky if she don’t climb into his pants.”

“It won’t happen.” Gideon gave him a steady look. “The man is in love with his wife and even if he wasn’t, Outridge respects you.”

“Don’t see why.” Beau shook his head. “I stopped respecting myself a long time ago.”

Then he shook his head and methodically pulled on gloves of his own. “Let’s do this, Chief. You thinking suicide?”

“No. I’m thinking somebody fucked up.”

*   *   *

And he was right.

Gideon wanted a tox screen and any other damn thing the medical examiner could find. His team was looking for trace evidence. He wanted
something
—skin under nails, a stray hair, anything that would prove this wasn’t an accident. Too much alcohol in his system, not enough …
something
. “I want the best,” he ordered as Hardee was loaded up onto the gurney. “I don’t want some new kid doing this and I don’t want some hack. I want the best fucking body they can find. I’m tired of this shit and I want answers. I want everything, no matter how trivial.”

He was a man who was considered to be calm and collected under most circumstances and that response had more than a few giving him the side eye, but he received several solemn nods. When he turned back to the house, he found a uniform from the county in front of him.

He’d called for help and he’d gotten it. One thing about playing nice with the rest of the boys, it meant he usually had extra hands when needed.

“Chief.” The woman’s eyes gleamed. “I got something for you.”

She indicated he should follow with a jerk of her chin and he fell into step behind her, his tennis shoes soaked through with rain, his hair dripping.
All
of him was dripping.

“What the hell could you have that survived this?” he demanded.

“You’ll see.” The deputy smiled, a wide, brilliant smile. “Trust me. You’ll like it. You might even want to kiss me when you see it.”

He cocked a brow. “Then why don’t you show me?”

Thunder boomed in the middle of his sentence and he had to raise his voice to be heard.

She grinned and led him over to the far side of the porch. Rain still reached there but with less force, although the rain was slowly encroaching on what remained of the dryness.

“Here,” the deputy said, crouching down.

He glanced at her nameplate, saw that it read
Cordell
.

Lights had already been strung up, but the house was painted white and that tiny bit of paper was plastered against the house, making it hard to pick up with just an ordinary glance.

He frowned, watching as she used tweezers to carefully peel it away and place it in an evidence bag.

It was hard to make out the print, half smudged away from the rain, but he saw enough.

A receipt.

Dated today from a liquor store … in Baton Rouge. Refusing to get excited, he looked up at her. “This could belong to anybody,” he said. “Hell, Roger could have been out there.”

“No.” She smiled slowly. “He couldn’t have. It’s dated for 3:23 p.m. At 3:48, I was pulling Roger over. He was veering and I had to give him a sobriety test. He was most definitely
not
in Baton Rouge today at 3:23.”

Hot satisfaction ripped through him. “You fucked up, you son of a bitch.”

Cordell’s smile wobbled before it firmed. “It’s … well, Chief. It’s just a receipt. Might not be anything.”

“True.” He lifted it to the light and eyed the area where rain had ruined half of the paper. What had been sold was illegible, but he could see the cost. Seventy-six dollars and change. Close, he thought, to what some of those small batch bourbons ran.