Shadow Ridge

by M. E. Browning

  Her father had been the watch commander that night. He never once asked her what happened, simply told her that if anyone disrespected the uniform like that again, she’d better put him in the hospital, not jail.

  She eased the tumbler from his hand. His snore turned into a snort, but he slept on.

  Raising the glass to her nose, she sniffed. Bourbon. Her dad drank Old Crow only with Cameron. A moment later she found the second glass on the mantel next to the police scanner. Heaven forbid her soon-to-be ex actually walked anything to the sink.

  Ever since she’d left her husband a month ago, Cameron and her father had become thick as thieves, and just as clandestine. She found their nascent camaraderie suspicious. And hurtful. It used to take an act of God to get Cameron to accompany her when she visited her father for Sunday dinner. Growing up, the meal had been a tradition as rigidly adhered to as attending church on Sunday morning. Brisket, mashed potatoes, green beans, rolls. Her mom always baked a pie. After she died, her father cooked. Following the second fire department response, self-preservation kicked in, and Jo took over the culinary responsibilities. Her father caved without an argument, and it marked the last time he tried to maintain the high standards set by his wife.

  When Cameron joined the department six years ago, her father had been his sergeant. Respect was something Joseph Charles Wyatt demanded from his troops and they had to earn in return. Coming in, Cameron had three strikes against him: he wasn’t a local, he rooted for the Patriots, and he was sleeping with the sergeant’s daughter. Marrying her only made it a modicum better.

  That was before her father retired. Things had changed since then.

  She walked the glasses into the kitchen and set them in the sink. Barbecue-smeared containers from the Feed Trough littered the counter next to the nearly empty bottle of Old Crow. Her stomach growled. Food or sleep? Did one rank higher on Maslow’s hierarchy of needs? She splashed a dram of the amber liquid into her dad’s glass and shot it. Alcohol probably hadn’t made the list, but after the day she’d had, she was fairly certain Maslow wouldn’t begrudge her the nip.

  Tye Horton.

  She reached for the bottle again, then reconsidered.

  Growing up, she’d been a willful child with a rigid sense of justice constantly at odds with her mother’s. After one particularly egregious dressing down for some forgotten indiscretion, Jo had laid on the floor with her arms stretched wide, her body forming a perfect cross, and played dead. She waited for her mother to find her, hoping she’d realize how unfair she’d been to Jo and die of grief. Her mother stepped over her and told her to set the table for supper.

  But that was literally child’s play. What could override all instinct of self-preservation and prompt a person to take his own life for real? Diabetes? Depression? Relationship issues? She’d seen enough despair during her career to know that people often sought to escape the pain of the now, forgetting that they were erasing their tomorrows in the process.

  What had compelled Tye Horton to such an end?

  She didn’t have a clue, but tomorrow she’d find out. Talk to the people who knew him. Landlord. Doctor. Professors. Friends.

  Quinn had said they shared a couple of classes. Was Tye failing? That would certainly add stress to the life of an undergrad. The academic quarter was nearing its end. Their project was due. What if he’d shirked his share? Or did it have something to do with the missing laptop?

  She should have asked Quinn more questions earlier instead of trying to keep her estranged husband from ruining the death scene. She’d had two shots at Quinn and blown them both. She scrubbed her hand across her face. The screw-up at the station was on her. With any luck, Quinn would return to the department tomorrow. After her little meltdown, though, Jo doubted Quinn ever wanted to see her again.

  You of all people should understand, she’d said.

  Quinn knew nothing. Jo had spent her entire life in Echo Valley. In a town that defined its locals by the depth of their roots, she was as inside as could be.

  When you going to get your stripes, Sarge?

  Jo plunged the glass under icy water and rinsed away the fumes.

  She was pensive tonight. Death calls, though infrequent, always did that to her.

  The chime from her mother’s clock tolled the half hour.

  She’d always been a little jealous of her parents’ relationship. Not that she wasn’t loved—she was—but they shared something that excluded her. Something she’d never felt with Cameron, and even now, she wondered exactly what it was.

  Loyalty?

  Her father claimed he’d taken only two oaths in his life. One to his wife, the other to his department. The only reason he wasn’t still pounding the beat was because of the blown-out knee he’d earned chasing some mope who stole a six-pack of Coors from the gas station on the edge of town. That night they’d both ended up at the hospital.

  Cancer had severed the vow he’d made to her mother. The pain of her death had crippled Jo, but it almost killed her father.

  Who, she wondered, would mourn Tye Horton?

  Jo scooped coffee into a filter. Eyeballed it. Added another heaping tablespoon and set the timer on the coffeemaker. In a couple of hours, she’d pull on clean clothes, shrug off her fatigue, and do her best to shed light on the darkness of Tye’s final days.

  6

  Jo entered the detective bureau and hung her coat on the old wooden rack by the door.

  Squint peered over his computer. “Any luck?”

  “Does bad count?”

  “Wasn’t exactly what I was hoping to hear.”

  The police department employed a total of forty-four people: six civilians and the rest sworn. The building held a collection of administrative offices, holding cells, a property room, his and hers locker rooms, a briefing room that occasionally doubled as the emergency ops center, and an armory. Technically, it was a two-story building, but the upper level was only a fraction of the size of the lower one. Located on the second floor, the detective bureau was hardly larger than its name and not nearly as grand. Jo’s desk abutted the back of Squint’s. The sergeant’s office had space for only a desk and a locked file cabinet, but at least it had a door. Factor in a small break room and an even tinier interview room, and every available inch was in use.

  She flopped down in her chair and unlaced her boots. “I was on the landlord’s porch at seven, but no one answered. My business card was still wedged in the door. No tracks in the snow.”

  “I’ll stop by the assessor’s office after the autopsy and see who owns the place.”

  “I peeked through the curtains. If I had to guess, I’d say an elderly lady. Lots of chintz and china, although the gun cabinet might skew the odds.”

  “How long have you lived in this town?”

  “I said might.” Jo peeled off her wet socks and then dug around in her bottom desk drawer until she found a dry pair. “I canvassed the whole block. Made contact with six people: the couple next door, two sorority girls who only knew Tye as the owner of the old Volvo covered in Pokémon stickers, a blind woman across the street, and a creepy guy who didn’t know Tye but invited me in for breakfast anyway.”

  “Was it good?”

  “Let’s just say I’m still hungry.” She folded the tops of the wet socks over the lip of the drawer to dry and pushed the drawer closed. “I need a new pair of boots. These suck.”

  “You can always get a pair of those green rain boots the good doc wears.”

  “Ever run in a pair of wellies?”

  “Can’t say as I have.”

  “I have. My mom had a pair she wore when gardening. I used to clomp around in them. Of course, I was six at the time.”

  “I heard you found the car.”

  “Thanks to the sorority girls. It’s pretty distinctive once you know what to look for. Dickinson’s sitting on it until I can get a search warrant.” She drew on the dry socks and reveled in the warmth, flexing her toes.

  “How’
d you get so wet?”

  “I saw something silver down the river embankment. Thought it might be the laptop.”

  “And?”

  “It wasn’t.” She powered on her computer and waited for it to wake up. “You?”

  “Horton’s been contacted by the police twice. Two years ago, deputies nabbed him for an open container on the Fourth of July. Nine months ago we took a report from him when he reported his bike stolen. The sheriff’s office listed his address on the north end of town—the same address that’s on his driver’s license—but he lived on Fifth when his bike was stolen.”

  “I don’t suppose the report mentioned the name of the landlord?”

  “No, but Horton thought some things inside the house may have been stolen too. Said he’d check and call back. Never did.”

  “Damage to the door?” Jo asked.

  “Wasn’t locked.”

  “You’d think that would be a lesson.”

  Squint slid the file onto Jo’s desk. “Criminal history is negative. No warrants. DMV is clean. Couple of parking tickets. No pawns. Credit is middle of the road. No guns registered to him.”

  She flipped through the documents in the folder. A lifetime reduced to a bit of ink revealing that Tye Horton had been your average law-abiding citizen. “Who’d the shotgun come back to?”

  “It’s not registered.”

  “Of course it isn’t. That’d be too easy,” she said. “I’ll contact the gun club. See if anyone knew him.”

  “Might have come out of the gun cabinet in the main house.”

  “Maybe. I noticed two empty slots.” She tucked one leg under her while her boots dried. “I can’t get in to see Dr. Koster until they break for lunch, so I’ll knock out the search warrant for the Volvo and then head up to the college, see what I can find out. Try to track down Tye’s professors.”

  “Why don’t you let me pull the warrant? I’ve got time before the autopsy.”

  “Promise to let me know if you find the cat.”

  “You have my word.”

  Jo propped her elbows on the desk and rested her chin against her folded hands. “You ever have a really bad feeling about something?”

  “Every time you walk through the door.”

  She closed the file and leaned back. “I’ve got a really bad feeling about this.”

  7

  Echo Valley College perched on the east bluff and overlooked the town. Dubbed “Harvard on the Hill” by the locals, the only thing the liberal arts institution shared with an Ivy League school was its tuition rate.

  “There’s no way I was going forty-three through a school zone,” Professor Frederick Lucas said.

  Early in her career, Jo had discovered that policing a town where she’d grown up had both pros and cons. She often knew where the bodies were buried, but everyone expected her to let them get away with murder. “That’s why we have court.”

  The college office was even smaller than the closet Lucas had occupied when he worked for the city as its one and only IT tech. He rocked back in his desk chair, and it leaned against an overflowing bookcase filled with software manuals and DVD cases. She read a few of the titles before realizing they were video games and not movies.

  He waved his hand toward a second bookshelf stuffed with modems, gaming consoles, and devices in various stages of dissection that choked the shelves and spilled onto the floor around Jo’s feet. “As if I have time for court.”

  Which is why you were speeding. “Can we get back to Mr. Horton?”

  “I am getting back to Mr. Horton. You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.”

  “You want to leverage your student’s death to get out of a speeding ticket?”

  He shrugged. “They’re expensive.”

  “Maybe you should slow down.”

  He shifted his weight forward, and the front legs of his chair smacked the linoleum. He folded his hands in front of him and leaned over the cluttered desk toward Jo. “Maybe you should get your information elsewhere.”

  When she’d first met him, she’d noticed that Fred Lucas had the smoothest hands she’d ever seen on a man. No calluses, no freckles, not even hair dispelled the impression that those hands had never worked an honest day’s labor. That had been eight years ago, and except for a couple of liver spots, they hadn’t changed.

  “According to the admissions office, you’re his only instructor this semester,” Jo said. “Your class was the last one he needed to graduate. Most people celebrate that milestone. So what happened?”

  Lucas flicked his wrist and glanced at an expensive-looking watch. The pay must be good up on the hill. “I’ve got to administer a final in ten.”

  “Have you noticed Mr. Horton acting differently lately?”

  He thrust a stack of papers into his canvas messenger bag and stood. “I’m late.”

  Jo remained seated. “Do you have such little regard for your students?”

  “I am truly sorry to hear about Tye.” He stepped around his desk and leaned over Jo to grab his coat from the hook on the back of the office door. “But I can’t afford another point on my license.”

  This was a new low—even for a man who’d resigned after a shipment of desktop computers disappeared from the city inventory. Nothing had ever been proven against him, but the cloud of suspicion followed him like blowflies on roadkill. It didn’t speak well for the college’s human resources department.

  “What was he working on?”

  He shoved his arms into his wool coat. The addition of tweed did nothing to enhance his credibility.

  “This isn’t about me, Fred,” Jo said. “Think of his family.”

  “We’re through here, Detective.” He loomed over Jo and thrust his chest forward in an obvious attempt to intimidate her. He must have forgotten about his hands.

  “I can subpoena your records.” Jo crossed her leg over her knee.

  “I’m sure you can.”

  “You won’t need to,” Quinn said from the doorway. “We were working on a new game together. It was our capstone project. Professor Lucas was our adviser.”

  “Well, there you go, Detective.” Lucas sidled around Jo’s chair and rested his hand on the doorknob. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to lock up.”

  Jo gathered her portfolio and stood, forcing Lucas to take a step back in order for her to pass and join Quinn in the hallway. Several of the other staff doors were open for office hours and students milled about, waiting to see their professors.

  Lucas locked the office door behind him and pocketed the keys. Almost as an afterthought, he addressed Quinn. “Did you need something, Ms. Kirkwood?”

  “Ah, it can wait.”

  Lucas drew on a pair of gloves. “Well then, good day, ladies.” He didn’t wait for an answer before sauntering off.

  “How long were you at the door?” Jo asked.

  “Long enough to know he didn’t give you squat.”

  Lucas disappeared around the corner of an intersecting hallway.

  “Is he always so evasive?”

  “He was when Tye confronted him about stealing his game idea and trying to sell it.”

  Jo swung her gaze back to Quinn. “He tried to do what, now?”

  Quinn readjusted the book bag hanging from her shoulder. “Sell Tye’s game without telling him about it.”

  “Your capstone project?” Jo pressed.

  “I wouldn’t be worried about my grade if that were the case.”

  Profit had certainly motivated its fair share of murders. Did Lucas have something to do with Tye’s death? Had Tye threatened to expose Lucas? This opened up a whole new line of inquiry, and she wanted some facts before having another sit-down with Lucas.

  “Let’s find someplace quiet to talk.”

  “Can’t.”

  “Can’t or won’t?” Jo lowered her voice. “Look, I’m trying to do right by your friend.”

  Quinn’s bluster fled. “Lucas is a prick,” she finally said.

 
Jo was inclined to agree but held her tongue.

  “Look, I’ve got an eleven o’clock final I can’t miss.”

  Twenty minutes. Not nearly enough time to ask all the questions Quinn’s revelation had sparked. Jo had a slew of things she needed to do today, but nothing that couldn’t be rearranged. “What time will you be finished?”

  “Maybe you should have listened to me last night.”

  “I believe I invited you to come back to the station.”

  They were at a standoff. Quinn crossed her arms. “You’ll check out the emails?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine, but we have to meet somewhere I can get a cup of coffee that doesn’t taste like it came from a vending machine.”

  That ruled out the station. “How about Hank’s Diner?”

  “I’ll be at the Burnt Bean at three.”

  8

  Jo hunched over a copper-topped table with her back to the wall and waited for Quinn. Rain drummed on the roof, and the small coffee shop smelled of spicy chai, earthy coffee, and wet wool.

  The day after a major event was always busy, and Jo didn’t have time to wait on a spoiled college kid.

  The shop bustled with tourists and students and an eclectic mix of unfamiliar faces. Despite the overstuffed chairs and intimate conversation nooks, the space lacked warmth. People came and went, lingering only long enough to gulp their coffee.

  Jo reviewed her notes again, but all she saw were questions.

  The interview with Dr. Koster hadn’t revealed any new medical insight. Tye Horton was a diabetic, had been for years, and was successfully managing the disease with medication. He’d last visited the doctor a month ago, and there hadn’t been any mention of depression. By all accounts, he was a model patient.

  According to his medical records, Tye’s emergency contact was his sister, who lived in the adjacent county. Jo had arranged for a deputy to make the death notification. Some things needed to be done in person. She’d follow up with a phone call after the notification was complete. Hopefully, the siblings had stayed in contact.