Shadow Ridge

by M. E. Browning

  “You obviously have me confused with someone who appreciates your attempt to expand my vocabulary.”

  “I only looked at this”—she held up the printout—“to take a break from all this.” She waved her hand over the piles.

  “Which is?”

  “Everything you ever wanted to know about computer forensics and were stupid enough to ask for.”

  “Anything interesting?”

  “Tons. Sadly, I only comprehend about a pound of it.” She leaned back in her chair and kicked her feet up on the corner of her desk. “The gist? Electronic stalking is the same as any other stalking case. It’s the background information a suspect gathers that’s going to make the case. Maps, emails, letters, photos, internet activity logs, phone records. Essentially anything that links the guy to Quinn is fair game. Unfortunately, most of the evidence we need is on the suspect’s computer, not the victim’s.”

  “Most, but not all.”

  “Not all, but backtracking is time-consuming and requires more knowledge than I have at the moment.”

  They both fell silent as someone clumped up the stairs to their office. Chief Grimes entered the bay, holding a cream-colored envelope.

  Jo slid her boots off the desk. The chief rarely wandered into the detective bureau unless there was a major case, and even then the detectives usually went to his office to give him the scoop.

  She crumpled the burrito wrapper, swept it into the trash can, and glanced down to make sure she wasn’t wearing any salsa. “Chief.”

  “Morning, Jo. Squint.” A large nose dominated the chief’s expressive face, but it was balanced by a wide mouth and deep-set brown eyes that never seemed to focus on any one thing.

  “Help you with something, Chief?” Squint asked.

  He held up the envelope. “Actually, I’m here to see Jo.”

  This couldn’t be good. She cleared the overflow files off the chair beside her desk so he could sit. He remained towering over her, and she swiveled in her chair and waited him out.

  “You may have heard about the Echo Valley Alliance for Life.”

  “Sorry, it isn’t ringing any bells.”

  “It’s the suicide awareness program the district attorney’s wife is spearheading.”

  “Alice.” Sheesh, the woman had a name.

  “She’s organizing the group’s debut fund raiser. For a group like hers to succeed, she needs stakeholders at the table, and she’s requested a department representative. I’d planned on attending, but something cropped up yesterday and I won’t be able to make it.” His eyes flitted around the room. “Your soft touch is exactly what a group like this needs.”

  Funny, when he’d told her he was promoting Cameron, he’d mentioned that one of the hurdles she’d face as a sergeant was her bluntness. “Using that criterion, Squint is definitely the better choice.”

  If her partner was annoyed by being thrown under the bus, Squint didn’t show it. One of the many reasons she never played poker with the man.

  “Alice asked for you specifically.”

  So much for it being a good day. “When is it?”

  “Tomorrow night.” He set the invitation on her desk. “If you can adjust your schedule tomorrow, I’d rather avoid the overtime.”

  “Let me check the calendar.”

  “I’ll need you to clear it.”

  A command performance, then. “Of course.”

  “It’s at the resort, so …”

  “Suit and tie?” She slid the heavy invitation from the envelope and read the details. Cocktail attire. Wonderful. Wearing heels in the snow was always fun. Only one thing could make this evening worse. “You weren’t making a speech, were you?”

  “The sheriff is. All you need to do is show up and look pretty.”

  Squint maintained his poker face. “I’m definitely the better choice then, Chief.”

  * * *

  “If I ever needed proof the chief hates me, this is it.” She tossed the engraved invitation onto her keyboard and kicked her feet back onto the desk.

  “Sounds like you impressed Mrs. Walsenberg when you met her yesterday.”

  “Yay me.”

  “Who are you going to take as your plus one?”

  Jo grabbed the invite. There it was on the front of the envelope. Mr. and Mrs. Grimes. Two people. Damn. “What are you doing tomorrow night?”

  “Not going to the fund raiser.”

  “Was it because I outed you as the kinder, gentler one of the two of us? Because, obviously, that was a joke.”

  Squint dug a file out of his drawer. “BIDWT.”

  “What?”

  “Because I don’t want to.”

  “I always forget how smart you are.”

  “It’s good to be underestimated.”

  “At least you’re not just a pretty face.”

  Squint snapped the file closed, folded his arms, and leaned forward on his desk. “The chief is an ass if that’s all he thinks you are.”

  Her mouth fell open. In all the years she’d worked with Squint, she’d never heard him swear. The compliment was a bonus.

  “And while I’m on it. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders. You would have made a damn fine sergeant—and don’t let anyone make you think any different.”

  A warm fuzziness infused her entire body. “Aw. You’re gonna make me cry.”

  “I’ve said my piece.” He sat back. “So what’s the plan for today?”

  “Try to identify the whackadoodle messing with Quinn.” Jo excavated the case file from the stacks of paperwork on her desk. “The email mentioning the Burnt Bean concerns me. To date, it’s the only one that suggests a local angle.” She removed an enlarged map printout and slid it to Squint. “Quinn lives in the apartments next to the main campus gate. The parking lot fronts the place. Her car and apartment doorway are visible from the street. The complex itself backs up to the hillside. It’d be easy enough for someone to hike in, conceal himself in the trees, and use the slope to look straight into her second-story window. I drove by last night to check it out in the dark.”

  “And?”

  “You’ll never guess who I saw knocking on her door holding a bottle of champagne.”

  “Ronny Buck.”

  “Close. Fred Lucas.”

  “How is that even close?”

  “I’m being generous.” Still talking, she collected their coffee mugs and went into the break room to refill them. “Quinn didn’t look particularly thrilled to see Lucas, though. But I think she has a thing for making people freeze on her doorstep.” She returned with steaming cups. “With so many threads connecting Quinn, Tye, Ronny, and now the good professor—I don’t know. The whole thing’s not passing the sniff test.”

  Squint took his mug. “The autopsy ruling is only a preliminary. Doc Ing could be wrong.”

  “Have you ever known him to be?”

  “That’s beside the point. What’s got you worried?”

  Jo worked her pencil end over end across her knuckles as if it were a poker chip. “I haven’t dug deep enough yet.”

  “So grab your shovel.”

  “Sergeant Begay nabbed me on the way in. Graveyards got hit with a string of car burglaries last night on the west side.”

  “Unless you need backup, I got it. Go find your answers.”

  19

  “No way. Nothing you can say will make me believe Tye took his own life.” Leila Horton’s hands rested in her lap, fluttering weakly as she spoke to Jo, glancing over her shoulder at her husband, who stood behind her. She looked like a woman walking along the edge of a cliff, and he like a man about to push her off.

  “Tye had problems—everyone does—but my brother-in-law was a good man,” she added quietly.

  Her husband twisted his mouth as if he were looking for a place to spit. “A good man.”

  In-person interviews always yielded more than phone conversations, and Jo had decided to drive the forty minutes to talk to Tye’s relatives. The small c
attle ranch consisted of a forlorn home that sagged steps from the road as if shielding the rest of the property from judgment. When she turned into the gravel driveway, a blue Australian cattle dog with an attitude and a man with a shotgun had come out from behind one of the two broken-down outbuildings. She’d been more worried about the dog.

  “Turner,” Leila chided. “He was your brother.”

  “Was.”

  Maybe Jo had been too hasty about the dog.

  In contrast to the grounds, the interior of the home was spotless. Jo sat on a wooden desk chair brought into the small living room just for her. She balanced her notebook on her right thigh while holding a cup of coffee in her left hand. “When was the last time you saw your brother, Mr. Horton?”

  “At my father’s funeral.”

  Leila studied her toes. “He was Tye’s father too.”

  Jo raised the mug toward her nose, but the smell of the coffee convinced her it was more for decoration than consumption. Mr. Horton watched her closely. She took a sip, keeping her face neutral. “And when was that?”

  “Four years ago. August fifth. Four o’clock in the afternoon.”

  “That’s very precise.”

  “It was my father’s funeral.”

  “Is that when Tye moved into town?”

  “That’s when he left the ranch. What he did with himself after that wasn’t my concern.”

  Leila leaned forward, her hands momentarily stilled. “Ranching’s hard work, Miss Wyatt. Everyone pitches in. They have to. The chores still had to be done even after Daddy passed. But Tye, well, he wasn’t the ranching type.”

  Jo looked for a place to set the mug, but the table was too far to reach. “I don’t understand. He grew up here, didn’t he?”

  “He wanted to sell—”

  “That’s enough, Leila. Family laundry don’t need to be aired in public.”

  Jo focused on Turner. “Did you have a falling-out?”

  “I wouldn’t call it a falling-out,” he said.

  “What would you call it?”

  “Wouldn’t call it anything.”

  Selling the ranch might not have resulted in an influx of cash, but it might have been enough to finance a game. “Did Tye ever ask you for money?”

  “Oh no.” Leila’s hands took flight. “He was making quite a name for himself with those electronic video games.”

  Turner crossed his arms. “Games.”

  Jo placed the mug by her feet on the pretense of thumbing through her notebook. “You don’t approve?”

  “Not my place to judge. He never paid me no nevermind anyway.”

  “So he never asked you for money. Did you ever ask him?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “My money ain’t no concern of yours.”

  “I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but your brother was found dead. It’s my job to determine how that happened.”

  “Sheriff here said he killed himself with a shotgun. Seems to me it happened when he pulled the trigger.”

  “According to your wife, that’s out of character for him.”

  Turner’s fingers dug into the back of the chair by his wife’s shoulder, leaving dents in the upholstery. “We don’t know what’s out of character, now do we. Fact is, we don’t know my brother at all.”

  He spoke to Jo, but his words were clearly for his wife.

  “How long since either of you spoke with Tye?”

  “It’s been about a year,” Leila said.

  “Please forgive my next question, but why do you suppose Tye listed you, Mrs. Horton, rather than his brother as next of kin?”

  Leila flushed.

  “Yes, Leila, why is that?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know.”

  Jo was certain she did—and that her husband knew the reason too.

  “Did Tye retain his share in the ranch?”

  “Don’t much matter now, does it?” Turner remained planted behind his wife. “There’s work needs to be done, and I’m sure you’ll be wanting to head back before the storm hits.”

  Jo retrieved her cup. “Thank you for the coffee. Again, I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  Leila sprang from her chair and grabbed the mug from Jo. Together they walked to the door. “It’s strange to see a woman detective. Don’t you get scared?” She glanced over her shoulder at her husband and lowered her voice. “Does Tye’s partner know anything?”

  Jo spoke quietly as well. “Partner?”

  “Boyfriend. Surely you’ve talked to him?”

  “I don’t know anything about a boyfriend.”

  Turner’s voice cut across the room. “In or out, but I’m not paying to heat the entire neighborhood.”

  Leila pushed Jo out of the house. “I think his name is Dennis. Daniel? Something like that.”

  Jo spun. “Derek?”

  Leila shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe.”

  The door closed.

  20

  Alice drove to the college to find Quinn.

  From behind, the boy she followed from the campus parking lot could have been Derek. He walked with the same loose-jointed amble of young men not yet accustomed to the length of their limbs. Dark hair peeked from under his knit cap and curled at his neck. She ached to touch it. Touch Derek. Tell him she was sorry.

  The Digital Arts Building was her destination, but she continued past it just to revel in the moment. Intellectually, she knew there were no more minutes to share with her son. But emotionally, the shock of finding a piece of him in the real world tore open the cavity in her chest and reminded her how empty it had become.

  The man turned toward the Student Union Building. In the vestibule, he stepped sideways and held the door for her.

  “After you.”

  The voice was too deep. This man’s face held none of her son’s features. She drew a breath. Frigid air spread through her body until even her fingers went numb, freezing her in place while she stammered something about being lost.

  He pointed toward the Digital Arts Building and then disappeared inside. She straddled the threshold, a foot in two worlds.

  Another student pushed past her. She drew a second breath, inured to the cold. The past released its hold reluctantly. Cursing herself for wasting valuable time, she crossed the quad.

  The hallways inside the Digital Arts Building were nearly deserted. Wet with snow, her rubber-soled boots squeaked against the tile.

  The last time she’d been on the college campus was for the rededication of Ambrose Hall after its renovation. Derek was accepted into the digital arts program shortly thereafter. She’d never known for certain if that most recent endowment had anything to do with the decision. Considering the downward spiral of his senior year grades, she had her suspicions. Regardless, it should have been him, not her, wandering the school corridors.

  Alice entered the stairwell, and the fire door shut behind her with a thunderous clap. She climbed the stairs to the third floor. Here, more students milled around the halls.

  But not Quinn.

  A narrow window allowed Alice to peer through the door into the computer lab. According to Quinn’s schedule, she should be inside. Students took up every station. Most had earbuds or headphones on; some still wore caps. They all had their backs to the door, and Alice studied each one, determined not to overlook Quinn. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t there.

  Maybe this was God’s way of letting her know that meeting Quinn was a bad idea.

  Retracing her steps, she had to pass through the elevator lobby to reach the stairs. A petite woman stood inside the elevator as the doors closed. She had the kind of thousand-mile stare that suggested approaching her would be as much fun as dragging a badger from its burrow.

  Quinn.

  Alice rushed to the end of the hallway and descended the wet tile stairs as fast as she dared. At ground level, she hurried to the elevator and mashed the call button. Almost immediately, the doors opened. No one was inside.

  With a stifled oath, Alice dash
ed through the front door of the building and out onto the quad. Quinn was heading toward the parking lot. Lengthening her stride, Alice lessened the space between them and willed her heart to slow.

  “Ms. Kirkwood?”

  Even though the woman kept walking, she hesitated ever so slightly. It was enough.

  “Ms. Kirkwood, please.”

  The woman veered off the salted pathway and stomped across the unbroken expanse of snow. Alice followed in her footsteps. “Quinn.”

  Quinn spun, closing the distance between them, and Alice stumbled backward, her hands raised.

  Quinn stopped inches from Alice’s chin. “How do you know my name?”

  The file copy of the woman’s driver’s license hadn’t prepared Alice for the girl’s diminutive stature. Even wearing a down jacket, Quinn gave the impression of being dainty—which in her case certainly didn’t equate with demure.

  “I read it in the police report.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Which police report?”

  Good God, how many police reports did the woman have? “You found Tye Horton. I’m Alice Walsenberg.” She extended her hand but withheld her smile. Quinn wasn’t the type to be disarmed by a twitch of the lips. “My husband and I own the property where Tye lived.”

  Quinn ignored Alice’s hand. “I don’t know you.”

  “No.” Wind-whipped snow stung Alice’s face, and she lowered her hand. “But you knew my son, Derek.”

  “How did you know where to find me?” Quinn pressed.

  Alice had expected the question but couldn’t very well disclose that her husband had an entire dossier on the young woman’s comings and goings. A different truth would have to suffice. “I serve on the executive board for the college foundation.”

  “That still doesn’t explain how you knew where to find me.”

  “I’ve obviously stepped off on the wrong foot. I merely want to speak to you for a few minutes. May I buy you lunch?”