CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Matt drove toward the gun range. The morning sun glared on the hood of his SUV. He glanced at Bree in the passenger seat. “You don’t look like you slept at all.”
“I didn’t.” Bree stared out the window. “Erin’s ex dropped by last night.”
“Craig Vance?”
“Yes. He said he wants the kids.” Bree’s brows dropped into a troubled line as she described her conversation with Craig. “At one time, all she wanted was for him to want to be a husband and father. But that ended the night he beat her.”
“Do you have any proof he’s unfit?”
“No.” She sighed. “I called a family law attorney this morning. Craig can file a paternity petition in family court, which will probably order a DNA test. Erin isn’t here to object.”
“He can get custody.”
“Yes.” Bree’s voice was tight with bitterness. “If Luke objects, the kids would be separated, just like me and my siblings were.”
“How did that happen?” Matt couldn’t imagine having his parents and siblings all ripped away at the same time.
Bree hesitated. “Erin and Adam were raised by my grandparents. I was too difficult to manage. I acted out in school. I got into fights. I threw tantrums. What I remember most was an overwhelming sense of everything—my life—my emotions—being out of control. My grandparents were elderly and not in the best health. They couldn’t deal with me. A cousin in Philadelphia volunteered to take on the job.”
“You were older and probably more traumatized.”
“Not more traumatized, just differently traumatized,” she said in a matter-of-fact voice. “Erin and Adam had their own problems. Adam has a hard time making emotional connections. You’ve seen that. Erin was the opposite. She had emotional dependency issues, and Craig manipulated her need to be loved.”
“That’s terrible.” Matt respected her lack of self-pity.
Bree shrugged. “My cousin did the best she could. She made sure I received all the therapy I needed. I went to exclusive private schools. She gave me every advantage she thought was important, but she wasn’t a warm person. She didn’t realize how much I needed my bond with Erin and Adam. We understood each other in ways no one else possibly could. After I moved to Philadelphia, we only saw each other on birthdays and major holidays. We should have been kept together. No Ivy League education could make up for our lack of connection.”
“You must have missed them.”
“Yeah.” Her voice was wistful.
“You went to an Ivy League college?”
“Yes. Prelaw at Penn. My cousin was very disappointed in me when I applied to the police academy instead of law school.”
“But you wanted to be a cop.”
Bree was quiet for a minute. “I remember the night my parents died more clearly than I’d like. I remember huddling under the back porch. It was the sheriff who found us. I remember him pulling us out from under the porch, wrapping me in his coat, telling me I was safe.” She paused. “It sounds hokey, but the way he treated us made a difference in my life, and I wanted to make a difference too. I don’t think it takes a genius to figure out why I wanted to be a cop.”
“It’s not hokey at all.” Matt respected her wanting to give back.
“Why did you become a deputy?” she asked.
“I wanted to help people, and I liked that every day was a new challenge.”
“So, what will you do now?”
“That’s a good question.” For which Matt had no good answer. If he’d needed money, he probably would have figured it out by now. “I still want to train K-9s. I might start one of my sister’s rescues with some basic training. She’s too antsy and driven for most households.”
“No long-term goals?”
“Not yet. I spent the first couple of years in denial that my law enforcement career was over.” But now that he’d come to accept that fact, he did feel a little aimless.
“There’s no chance you’ll be able to go back?”
“No. I can’t fire a weapon with my dominant hand, and I’m not even good enough with my left to qualify for concealed carry.”
Former law enforcement officers could carry concealed as long as they demonstrated proficiency with their weapon.
“You could go into law enforcement administration,” Bree suggested.
“A desk job? No, thanks. The routine would drive me crazy.” He pulled into the driveway of the shooting range. He retrieved his gun and ammunition from the safe in the cargo area of the SUV and led the way into the indoor range, which had just opened.
“Hey, Matt.” Carl waved from behind the counter. “You have the whole place to yourselves. Pick any stall you want.”
“Thanks.” Matt introduced Bree, paid the fee, and walked to the last partitioned stall. He set down his weapon. He was glad the place was empty. He didn’t like to run into anyone he knew.
Bree set up in the next stall. They both donned ear protection.
Matt loaded his weapon. Just for the hell of it, he picked it up with his right hand first and pointed at the paper target twenty-five yards downrange. But he couldn’t even squeeze the trigger.
Damn cold weather.
With a frustrated exhale, he gripped the gun in his left hand and aimed at the target. He fired six shots, lowered the gun, and pushed the button to reel in the target.
“Hey, you’re getting better,” Carl called out.
Matt wished Carl had something else to do.
But he was right. Five of Matt’s shots had actually pierced the center mass of the man-shaped image printed on the paper. One shot hit the man-shape just outside of center mass, in the belly.
During the first year after the shooting, he’d had three surgeries on his hand. The following year had been full of rehab. He’d endured three physical therapy sessions a week. He’d stretched and strengthened through excruciating pain and progress that felt as slow as the movement of glaciers.
It hadn’t been until the third year that he’d really faced facts. He would never regain full use of his right hand. He could manage most large motor functions. He could pick things up and put them down, so to speak, but his fine motor skills had reached their limit. Matt had spent a few months being depressed, then he’d started coming to the range and working on his left-hand accuracy. In the past six months, he’d made significant improvement.
He glanced at Bree in the next stall. She was shooting the absolute hell out of her target.
He sent his target downrange again, increasing the distance. As a deputy, he’d drilled in off-hand shooting at close range. He could hit his target with his pistol at close range, but his accuracy dropped off at longer distances. He fired nearly fifty bullets, inspecting and replacing the target as necessary.
Matt emptied his magazine, then reeled in the target for the last time. Most of his shots were within the outline. Some had missed the paper entirely, but he’d definitely improved.
Bree stepped to his side and removed her ear protection, letting the earmuffs hang around her neck. “That’s decent shooting.”
He pointed at her targets, which she had destroyed. “Not as decent as yours.”
She shrugged. “I was the top marksman in my class at the academy. Most cops can’t shoot like that.”
“I used to.”
She nodded at his target. “I think you could qualify.”
“I don’t trust my aim.” Matt shook his head. “Anyway, it’s time to meet with Stephanie.”
He packed up his gear and walked out of the range without giving Bree a chance to respond. After locking his weapon in the safe in his SUV, Matt slid behind the wheel. Bree climbed in. He could feel her gaze on him as he drove. He’d been rude, but he didn’t want to talk about his shooting. Could he meet the bare minimum standards? Maybe. But the fact remained that Matt wasn’t comfortable with his now-limited ability, and he might never be.
The Wallaces lived on a country road about fifteen minutes outsi
de of town. It wasn’t a formal development, but mailboxes lined the road, each house sitting on what Matt estimated to be an acre.
Stephanie’s house was a gray saltbox, with a flat facade and a centered front door painted red. Matt parked in front of the house, although the driveway continued around the house to a detached two-car garage. Behind the garage was another building. The truck in front of the garage bore the logo for Wallace Carpentry.
They walked up to the house and rang the bell.
A man in his late thirties opened the door. He wore jeans and a flannel shirt over a blue tee. “I’m Steph’s husband, Zack. Steph’s in the kitchen.”
She was pulling a baking sheet out of the oven. Clearly dressed for work, she wore tall boots, black tights, and a short black dress. Tears were streaming down her face. Matt sniffed the air. French fries. Steph dumped the fries into a bowl, salted them, and carried them to the table.
“Please sit down,” Zack said.
Matt and Bree chose chairs next to each other, facing Steph and her husband over the table.
Steph dropped into a chair. “Does anyone else want fries?”
Matt and Bree declined.
“Oh, my God. I can’t believe she’s gone,” Steph cried. The words came out in between sobs and huge, heaving breaths.
“You’re going to hyperventilate,” Bree said. “Take slow breaths.”
“You need to calm down, sweetie.” Zack’s voice was firm. “This isn’t good for the baby.”
“You’re pregnant?” Matt asked.
“We just found out.” Zack patted his wife’s hand. “I told her she shouldn’t talk to you. It was stressful enough when the police questioned her. She doesn’t need this.” Anger flashed in his eyes.
“I’m OK,” Steph said. “Just a little morning sickness.” She ate a fry, then reached for another.
Zack lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed it. “Those aren’t good for the baby, and the grease will upset your stomach.”
She frowned. “I need to eat before work, and I couldn’t get anything down. This is the first thing that’s appealed to me today.”
“I’ll get you some milk.” Zack got up and headed for the fridge.
She smiled weakly. “He takes such good care of me.” She blotted her teary eyes with a napkin. “I’m sorry. I just”—she hiccupped—“miss Erin.”
“We understand,” Bree said.
Steph reached across the table and clutched at Bree’s forearms. “Do you know who killed her?”
“No,” Bree said. “What was up with Erin the last few weeks?”
Zack set a glass of milk in front of Steph, but she didn’t reach for it.
“I’m not sure.” Steph ate another fry. “At first I thought it might have been the thing with Jack, but now I think it was more.”
“What thing with Jack?” Matt asked.
“She didn’t tell you?” Steph sniffed the milk. Her nose wrinkled in disgust.
“No.” Bree shook her head.
Steph drank a sip of milk, then grimaced. “He’s been hitting on her. She’s been doing her best to not engage but also not be confrontational.”
Zack’s nostrils flared. “You need to quit that job. Jack is an asshole.”
Matt agreed. “Erin could have sued him for sexual harassment.”
“That sounds great until you try to prove it.” Steph set down the glass and pushed it away. “In the real world, she would have been fired. It would have been her word against his. Jack would have told all the local salons that she was a problem employee. She wouldn’t have been able to get a new job. This is a small town. She didn’t have any other skills. Her career would have been over.”
Matt swallowed a lump of anger. Was this the trouble Erin had called Bree about? Had she thought Bree, as a cop, would have been able to stop Jack or give her legal advice?
“Did you see Erin on Tuesday?” Bree asked.
“Yeah. We said goodbye when she left around four o’clock.” A tear rolled down Steph’s face. “That was the last time I spoke to her.”
Bree touched her forearm. “Did Erin talk about anything unusual recently?”
“One day last week,” Steph said. “I think it was Friday. Justin showed up at the salon. He was really upset. Erin tried to calm him down. Jack made them go out into the parking lot, and then he wrote her up for leaving her station. I think he wanted to use the reprimand as leverage to make her sleep with him.”
“Has he done this before?” Bree asked.
Sexual predators were typically repeat offenders.
Steph lifted a palm. “I heard he’s pressured other girls but not me. He knows Zack is very protective.”
“Damned straight.” Anger flushed Zack’s face. He punched his palm. “He knows better.”
“Do you know when Jack started hitting on Erin?” Matt asked.
“After she split up with Justin. He only targets girls without husbands or boyfriends.” Steph bit into another fry.
“He doesn’t want to piss off someone who can kick his ass,” Zack grumbled. He pushed the glass of milk toward his wife.
Looking at it, Steph covered her mouth and bolted from the kitchen.
“Damn it,” Zack said. “Her morning sickness is usually better by now.”
A few seconds of silence ticked by.
“So, Zack, you’re a carpenter?” Matt asked while they waited for Steph to return.
“Yeah,” Zack said.
Matt remembered the truck parked outside. “You have your own company?”
“I do now.” Zack frowned. “I used to work for a contractor, but he ran into some financial problems and had to let me go.”
“That sucks,” Matt said.
Zack lifted a shoulder. “Owning my own business has its ups and downs. I like being my own boss, but the hours are long.”
Steph returned, her face pale. “I’m sorry.”
Zack glanced at his wife. “You can’t go to work until you keep some food down. You haven’t gained any weight yet.” His phone vibrated, and he picked it up. “It’s a client. I have to answer this. Excuse me.” He walked into the next room, closing the door behind him.
“I’m sorry if we’ve upset you,” Bree said.
“It’s OK.” Steph waved a hand. “He worries too much. The doctor said it’s perfectly normal to lose a couple of pounds in the early months.” She stopped and sighed. “The pregnancy is really bad timing. We can’t afford a baby right now. Zack already practically lives in his workshop, and when he comes inside, he has to shower right away because the smell of sawdust has been making me sick. Me getting pregnant has added a lot to his stress.”
“You didn’t get pregnant by yourself,” Bree pointed out.
“I know.” Steph’s eyes were troubled. “That’s what Erin said. She was such a good friend.” She lowered her voice. “Zack and I went through a brief separation a couple of months ago. Erin was my rock. She was always there for me. I don’t know how I would have gotten through it without her. She even let me stay at her house for a few weeks. She didn’t judge me or tell me to go back to him like my mother did. Erin understood.” Steph cradled her still-flat belly with one hand. “She was the best friend. I’ll never have another like her.”
“Did Erin talk about Justin at all while you were staying with her?” Bree asked.
Steph nodded. “We talked a lot about our marriages. They’d been separated a little longer, but the subject was still raw. I know she loved him. Making him move out was the hardest thing she’d ever done. She only did it for the kids, because of the drugs.”
“Did she mention anything else that was on her mind?” Matt asked.
Steph frowned. “Yeah. She’d had some hang-up calls on her phone, and a few weeks ago, someone slit the tires of her car while she was at the salon.”
Bree straightened. “Did they check the parking lot surveillance cameras?”
Steph shook her head. “Employees have to park way in the back. The cam
eras don’t show that part of the lot.”
“OK. If you think of anything else, please call me.” Bree gave Steph her cell number.
“You already have my number,” Matt said. “You can call either one of us.”
They said goodbye and left the house. Back in the SUV, Matt reached for his vibrating phone. He glanced at the screen. Kevin. He held a finger to his lips.
Bree sat back and watched him.
“Yeah,” Matt answered the call.
“I heard rumors about a white pickup truck,” Kevin said. “What’s that worth to you?”
“Fifty bucks,” Matt said.
“The truck is at the old Fresh factory.”
“I’ll pay you the extra fifty when you set up the meeting with Nico.” If Matt gave Kevin more money, the CI would disappear to party for another couple of days.
“You’re an asshole.” The call went dead.
Matt lowered the phone and stared at it. Could this be their first big break?
Bree straightened in the passenger seat. “What?”
“That was an old CI. I asked him to keep an ear out for news of Justin’s whereabouts or Erin’s vehicle. He says there’s a white pickup at the old beverage factory.”
“Good lead.” Bree clicked her seat belt, then sat back.
Matt started the engine and put the SUV in drive. He pulled a TV-style U-turn on the main road, squealing tires and all. Then he punched the gas pedal. This was big. He could feel it.
Matt raced toward his house, taking the turns fast enough to make Bree reach for the armrest for balance.
“This isn’t the way out of town,” Bree said.
“I want to pick up Brody. Are you OK with that?” But her response would not have changed his course. He needed the dog.
“Sure,” Bree said in a half-hearted tone.
“It’s important. He’ll sense people before we can see them.” And if Justin was in the factory, Brody would find him faster.
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