Shadow Ridge

by M. E. Browning

  The coffee shop door opened, and wind rattled Jo’s notes. Officers Ryan Estes and Elijah Dickinson entered. Both wore dark-blue police uniforms, but the similarities ended there. Estes lived life like he chewed his gum: loud and full of smack. Dickinson, though taller, always seemed to fade into the background. When they both landed on day shift, patrol had taken bets on who would kill the other first. Jo put her money on Dickinson. She’d trained him. Sure, he was quiet, but those were the ones you had to look out for.

  The officers ordered coffee, then approached her table, their progress marked by the eyes of curious patrons.

  Estes spun a chair around and straddled it. “I hear you’re stirring things up again.”

  She wondered briefly what he meant, then decided she didn’t care. “By all means, please join me.”

  Dickinson stepped around his partner and claimed another seat. “Don’t mind if I do.” He surveyed her notes. “That’s a lot of notes for a suicide.”

  Jo tapped her pen against the page. “And not nearly enough if it turns into something else.”

  “Finch said you’re chasing your tail over this.” Estes cracked his omnipresent gum.

  She imagined that Cameron said a lot about her when she wasn’t around. She focused on the bright logo on her recyclable cup. It lacked the heft of the plain crockery of Hank’s Diner. There, if someone wanted a to-go cup, they brought in their own thermos.

  Dickinson leaned in, the scent of coffee on his breath. “Tough break about the sergeant’s test. I was pulling for you.”

  Estes snapped his gum again. “No surprise about Finch, though.”

  Dickinson backhanded his partner on the shoulder.

  “What?” Estes asked. “Everyone knew he’d get promoted.”

  Dickinson raised his voice to be heard over the hiss of the espresso machine. “You’re being insensitive.”

  “I’m the most sensitive guy you’ve ever met.” Estes turned back to Jo.

  She hooked the tab of the tea bag under her finger so it wouldn’t hit her face and sipped her Earl Grey. They really didn’t need her for this conversation.

  A woman in high heels splashed across the street at a full sprint and barely paused to open the door. A blast of arctic air followed her inside. Jo shivered and wrapped her hand around her tea, but the cup had already cooled. How any woman could run in heels defied comprehension. Add in puddles, sleet, uneven pavement, and traffic, and it should qualify as an extreme sport. Which probably explained why Merrells and UGGs were the most popular shoes in Echo Valley.

  “It’s nothing against Jo, I just think Cameron’s the better man.” Estes stopped chewing his gum long enough to take a pull of coffee.

  “Using that criterion, I’d have to agree,” she said.

  Estes elbowed Dickinson. “See, she gets it.”

  “An absolute paragon of sensitivity,” Dickinson said.

  Jo glanced at the notes she’d made at the doctor’s office, again. She was missing something. He was a diabetic. If he had consumed alcohol, wouldn’t his body have started to go into hypoglycemic shock? He’d have been disoriented at best, and comatose or dead at worst. Would he have been physically able to manipulate the shotgun? Then a more obvious question presented itself. Jo tapped her pen against her notes. “Why would a man shoot himself if he could overdose on insulin?”

  “What?” both men asked in unison.

  She lowered her voice so the people at the next table couldn’t hear her. “Is there some macho reason a guy would blast his face off rather than just overinject his medication if he wanted to suicide?”

  Dickinson tapped his finger against the table while he contemplated the question.

  “I know more men than women suicide with guns,” Jo continued. “But if you had a relatively easy way to check out, wouldn’t that be your first choice?”

  “We don’t know what went through the man’s mind,” Dickinson pointed out.

  Estes’s jaws worked overtime. “Last I heard, it was double-aught buck.”

  Jo shot him a withering glare. “Have some respect.”

  “Relax, he can’t hear us.”

  “Don’t you have reports or something?” Jo asked.

  Estes pushed off from his chair. “As a matter of fact, I’m down four.” He picked up his coffee cup and tipped it toward Dickinson. “You coming?”

  “I’ll catch up with you later.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Another blast of icy air tore through the small shop in his wake. That was one more reason Jo hated this place. It didn’t have a foyer to keep the people inside from freezing every time someone opened the door. She should have insisted on meeting Quinn at the diner. At least at Hank’s a person could hear themselves think, have a cup of coffee that didn’t cost a day’s salary, and know who was sitting in the adjacent booth. Plus, no one ran a short-order line like Hank, and even at three thirty in the afternoon he’d serve her breakfast to make up for the one she’d skipped earlier.

  “Don’t mind him.” Dickinson took a long pull on his coffee. “He forgets to engage his brain before his mouth. You think there was something more going on with your call?”

  “I owe it to the man to find out.”

  He rolled the edge of his cup along the table. She recognized the stalling tactic and waited him out.

  “You know,” he finally said. “You’re going to make a great sergeant someday.”

  “Someday.”

  “Don’t give up.” He smiled mischievously. “I have aspirations of sleeping my way to the top.” He slid out of his chair before she could hit him.

  “It’s your lucky day. I have it on good authority that Cameron’s available.”

  “Nah.” He nodded at her notes. “Good luck finding your answers.”

  She glanced at the clock on the wall. It confirmed her fears. “The person I was supposed to meet is half an hour late. I might have to look for answers elsewhere.”

  “You’ll find them.” He started to weave around the chairs to the door.

  “Hey, Eli,” she called after him.

  He turned.

  “Thanks.”

  He touched his forehead, then his heart, and swept his hand in a small flourish. When he got to the door, he held it wide. A small, dark woman slid past him and into the shop, blowing into her bare hands to warm them while she surveyed the room.

  Dickinson made eye contact with Jo and held four fingers in front of his chest—a signal to make sure she was okay. Jo nodded and he left.

  Quinn picked her way through the crowd. Unlike yesterday, she was wearing a proper coat. Patagonia. A style that Jo had looked at earlier in the season and decided she couldn’t afford.

  “You’re late,” Jo said.

  Quinn drew her bag over her head and flopped into Dickinson’s vacant chair. “I can leave.”

  “Or you can grab yourself a cup of coffee and we can talk.”

  “You buying?”

  Jo sipped her tepid tea. “Nope.”

  Quinn rummaged in the bag and dragged out a file. “Here.” She tossed it in front of Jo. A stack of printed emails fanned across the table. “You might as well start reading.”

  9

  Quinn stood in line for coffee and sneaked a peek at the detective. Wyatt thumbed through the file, turning pages as she read. Her expression never changed, but around the fourth email she started to take notes.

  Lots of people crowded the Bean today. Every time someone opened the door, the pounding sound of rain followed them in, but no one looked up. No one cared—exactly the reason Quinn had chosen this place over the diner. Here there were no ranchers camped out in their booths like they fucking owned them, giving her stink-eye when she walked in.

  The woman in front of Quinn ordered one of those froufrou eighteen-syllable skim-soy-triple-something bullshit drinks, and then eyed the pastry display. For someone who knew exactly what she wanted in a drink, she couldn’t figure out what to stuff in her pie hole to save her l
ife.

  “Try the peanut butter chocolate protein balls,” Quinn suggested.

  Indecision clouded the woman’s face. “Are they good?”

  Quinn had no idea, but with any luck, the woman had a nut allergy. “Fabulous.”

  The woman dithered some more.

  “Jesus Christ, lady. Pick something.”

  That ruffled the woman’s feathers, but before she could reply with something phenomenally stupid, the door opened and the woman’s eyes widened.

  “Just the coffee,” she said to the barista. “To go.”

  The drone of the shop crowd quieted, then picked up with increased ferocity. Cold clung to the person who fell in line behind Quinn. She glanced over her shoulder. No wonder everyone had shut up. Even in the Bean, this guy stood out. Everything about him was massive, especially his don’t-fuck-with-me aura. The tat climbing up his neck was a bonus. “Hey.”

  He chucked his chin. Didn’t smile. “You’re up.” His voice rumbled.

  “Double-shot espresso.” Quinn leaned sideways against the counter while she paid and boldly checked him out. Typical biker type: scraggly beard, scarred hands from too many bar brawls, layers of long sleeves that probably covered blue-ink prison tattoos. She’d bet her espresso he was holding—he didn’t have the teeth for meth; maybe heroin. Although frankly, his corded neck suggested a physique too muscular for him to be sampling much of his own product.

  The clerk handed Quinn her change, and she moved down to the other end of the counter to wait for her drink.

  Most of the people in the Bean were trying to hide their curiosity in a don’t-make-eye-contact-with-the-wild-animal type of way that didn’t change the fact that they were all keeping Scary Dude in their periphery. Then there was Wyatt. She’d pushed her chair away from the table, her feet planted flat. Ready. It gave her away. Scary Dude marked her as a cop immediately. He dropped his right elbow against his waist. So he was armed. This could get interesting.

  The gal behind the counter asked him what he wanted.

  He towered over the counter, his voice low and quiet. “Mocha, please.”

  Aw, Scary Dude had a sweet side. And manners. His mother would be proud. Or not.

  A chain tethered his tooled leather wallet to his belt. Even from several feet away, Quinn saw the wad of bills inside when he paid. Left a tip, too. Business must be good.

  The barista slid Quinn’s espresso across the counter.

  Now what? The place was still packed, despite a couple of tourists grabbing their stuff and getting out. Were they cowardly or smart? Probably wouldn’t know until the dust settled. She started toward Wyatt. The officer held up a couple of fingers, a subtle hint that Quinn chose to ignore.

  “I don’t know what you’re planning, but he’s made you,” Quinn said when she arrived at the table.

  Wyatt scowled. “I’m not trying to hide.”

  “Good thing.” Quinn scraped the chair across the tiles and sat with her back to Scary Dude. She’d never had a bodyguard before; damn if she wasn’t going to take advantage of it. If nothing else, she’d have a front-row seat to the action.

  “So.” The detective adjusted her position slightly to improve her view over Quinn’s shoulder. “Tell me about the laptop.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “You asked us to retrieve a laptop computer from Mr. Horton.”

  “Isn’t Godzilla over there a bit more pressing?”

  “Last I checked, ordering coffee didn’t land a person on the ten-most-wanted list.”

  “Did you see his tats?”

  “And?”

  “Shouldn’t you harass him or something? He’s got a gun.”

  A grim expression settled on Wyatt’s face. “So do I.” She stood.

  Quinn’s head toggled between the mountain approaching them and the detective. The front-row seat no longer seemed like such a great idea.

  Wyatt held her ground.

  Quinn stood, too. It gave her a head start to the door if she needed to retreat.

  Scary Dude placed his cup on the table, and then with unanticipated quickness, he lunged at the detective.

  Wyatt giggled.

  Giggled. A cop. What the hell?

  Wyatt pushed against the man’s chest, unable to break the bear hug. “Put me down before I shoot you.”

  “Again?” He lowered her to the ground, but kept an arm around her shoulder.

  “Geez, let it go. Statute of limitations ran out on that a long time ago.”

  “You look great, Jo-elle.”

  Quinn would have sworn the cop blushed.

  “How long you in town?” she asked.

  “Oh, you know. Till it’s time.”

  Up close, Quinn saw that the tattoo on his neck was some sort of coat of arms or something.

  Wyatt handed him his mocha. “You staying at the ranch?”

  Scary Dude smiled. It completely killed his don’t-fuck-with-me aura. “Tonight, anyway. I’ll swing by the house later.”

  Something flashed across Wyatt’s face too fast for Quinn to catch, but it obviously left the detective uncomfortable. “I’ve moved.” She removed a business card from her portfolio. “Here’s my cell.”

  He flipped the card over. “Looks like we have some catching up to do.” He tipped his cup to Wyatt, then to Quinn. “Sorry to interrupt.”

  “No worries.” Still standing, Quinn admired his ass as he left. One thing she loved about Echo Valley was the Wranglers—the jeans, not necessarily the cowboy in them. The detective seemed to like them too. At least this particular pair. “You shot him?”

  The girl who’d giggled disappeared. “He pissed me off.” Wyatt settled into her chair, pen poised over her notebook. “I believe you were going to tell me about a laptop.”

  “I already told you that.” Quinn dragged her espresso in front of her and removed the lid to let it cool. “I’m pretty sure we were going to talk about threats.”

  Detective Wyatt remained silent. Probably practicing her Jedi mind trick or something.

  “You think I wanted to steal it,” Quinn said finally.

  Wyatt raised her eyebrows. “Guilty conscience?”

  “Let’s set some ground rules. You don’t insult me, and I’ll answer your stupid questions.”

  The corners of the detective’s mouth twitched just enough to give her away. “Deal.”

  It was a small victory, but Quinn suspected it was the best she’d get from Wyatt. “It had our capstone project on it. A video game we designed.”

  “Talk to me about the one Professor Lucas tried to steal from Tye.”

  “Not much to say. Tye designed it over a year ago. Lucas tried to bogart it.”

  “Why didn’t Tye sell it?”

  “The response from one of the beta testers made him rethink the game.” Quinn lowered the zipper on her jacket. “He abandoned the project.”

  “Who were the beta testers?”

  “I was one of them. I met Tye in a class we shared on storytelling for digital design. We hit it off.”

  “So you played the game?”

  “Kind of hard to give feedback without playing.”

  “Touché.” Wyatt raised her cup in a toast. “What did you think about it?”

  In the light, Quinn noticed the dent around Wyatt’s left ring finger. Maybe she didn’t wear her wedding ring on duty. Or maybe she annoyed some poor sap as much as she annoyed Quinn. “A bit lacking in story but technically challenging. Appropriate gameplay level lengths. Responsive. World-building needed some fleshing out.”

  “Overall that sounds like a decent assessment.”

  Quinn shrugged. “It was a solid game.”

  The detective returned to taking notes. “Who else reviewed it?”

  “As far as I know, there were only three of us. Ronny, me, and Derek.”

  “You have last names?”

  Quinn worried the cuticle around her thumb, but caught herself and shoved her hands in her jacket pockets. “
Ronny’s last name is Buck. He’s the third guy in our capstone project.”

  Wyatt paused ever so slightly before writing Buck on her page, and Quinn knew she recognized the name. Probably was wondering if he had an active warrant or something.

  “What about Derek?” she asked.

  “You’d have to ask Ronny. He was the one who introduced him to Tye. I never met him in person.”

  “Did they like the game?”

  “Everyone liked it.”

  Wyatt looked up, her pen still on the paper. “I don’t understand the problem, then.”

  “Welcome to the club.”

  The detective flipped through her pages, searching for something. “Did Tye have a cat?” she finally asked.

  “What? No.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “You asked me a question, I answered. Yes, Detective, I’m positive. He was allergic. Some kid brought a service dog or something into the computer lab one day, and I thought I was going to have to rush Tye to the ER. He couldn’t even stay in the same room.”

  “Any idea why he had a cat dish at his house?”

  “How the hell should I know?” Quinn snapped the lid back onto her cup. “Can we get back to the threats?”

  Wyatt tapped her pen against the notebook. “Indulge me. I’ve only got a few more questions.”

  “I’m beginning to doubt you understand the definition of few.”

  “Did Tye own any video games?”

  Quinn snorted and leaned forward, curling over the table. “He designed games. He had a shitload of them.”

  That shut the detective up. Even the tapping stopped. Quinn could practically see the gears turning in her head.

  “Did you enjoy the football game Sunday night?”

  The detective had seriously lost her mind. “What are you talking about? I didn’t go to any football game.”

  “You said you went to the game but Tye didn’t show up.”

  Quinn laughed, started to answer, but got caught up in the ridiculousness of it and laughed even harder. “Do I look like the football type?”

  “Is there a type?”

  “There is. It ain’t me. The game was Dogs of War.”

  “Okay.” It was obvious Wyatt had no idea what the hell Quinn was talking about, and Quinn had no intention of bailing her out. “Where was it held?” the detective finally asked.