Alice Walsenberg breezed toward Jo with her hand outstretched. “Detective Wyatt, I’m so glad you could make it. You look lovely.”
A polite lie. Jo tugged at the wraparound neckline that ended in an overblown silk bow. Online, the dress had appeared chic, a deep hunter-green velvet that came with a price tag Jo could afford. The reality was a scratchy velveteen fabric that hung awkwardly from her frame and imparted a jaundiced glow to her skin. “Thank you. And thank you for the invitation. I wouldn’t miss it.” Another polite prevarication.
“After the sheriff speaks, I’ll turn the microphone over to you.”
Jo’s mouth went dry. “I’m sorry, what?”
“The lectern will be up front. Be sure to adjust the microphone so it’s the right height. Oh, listen to me ramble. You know what you’re doing.”
“The chief neglected to mention that he was going to address the audience.” The bastard.
“Speak from the heart.” She dipped her head close to Jo. “And remember, the best speeches are short.” She twirled back to the other guests, leaving behind only a whiff of perfume and a sense of impending doom.
Quinn stepped into the space Alice had vacated. “You look like you’re about to puke.”
“Always a pleasure, Ms. Kirkwood. What brings you here?”
“Just hanging with my peeps.”
“You’re avoiding my calls.”
Quinn pulled her cell phone from the rear pocket of her pants. “Oh, look at that. Voice mail.”
The woman’s casual disregard pushed Jo dangerously close to an edge she hadn’t known she’d been skirting. “I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me.” She swallowed her frustration. The last thing she wanted to do was alienate Quinn. The conversation with Leila Horton demanded answers—and Quinn was the most logical source. “Were Tye and Derek Walsenberg dating?”
Quinn tapped her screen and dismissed Jo’s voice mail notification. “So much for small talk.”
“Yes or no?” Jo pressed.
“It’s my understanding that the whole reason for this shindig is because Derek Walsenberg is dead.” She slid the phone back into her pocket. “Kind of hard to date someone like that.”
“What about you and the professor? What’s your relationship?”
Quinn exploded like a bronc released from a bucking chute. Back arched, nostrils flared, fire in her eyes, she spun toward the exit. Jo figured she had the requisite eight seconds before Quinn left her in the dust.
She grabbed Quinn’s arm to slow her down. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Quinn’s narrowed eyes sliced across Jo’s body. “You really should burn that dress.”
* * *
Jo drew a few steadying breaths before she followed Quinn out the front door of the hotel. The valet hopped to attention, but Quinn flashed her pack of cigarettes, and he settled back into his vestibule. Overhead heaters in the portico kept patrons warm while they waited for their cars. Quinn chose the one farthest from the door to settle under.
Jo invaded Quinn’s personal space. “Mind telling me why a question about your professor has you so riled?”
“None of your business.”
“Okay, then let’s start with something easier. What’s up between you and Ronny Buck?”
Quinn tapped a cigarette from the pack and placed it between her lips while she dug a lighter out of her jeans. “We don’t see eye to eye on much.”
“Well, that little nugget told me a lot.” Every encounter with Quinn turned into a sparring match. Cops dealt with uncooperative people all the time, but Quinn took it to a new level. It ended now. Jo didn’t need Quinn’s permission to investigate a crime, nor did she need her cooperation. With or without her help, Jo would find the truth. “Look. It’s my job to ask about relationships and uncover all the nonsense people hide to make themselves look better. It’s how I reconstruct events. Maybe you don’t care if someone murdered your friend. That’s on you. But maybe—just maybe—you want to consider the link between the two of you.” Most people ran their words together when they got excited. Jo slowed hers and delivered each word hard as a punch. “Let’s play out the possible scenario, shall we? Derek’s dead. Tye’s dead. You’re getting death threats. So by all means, play the odds. Continue blocking me whenever I try to chase down a lead. Just remember, when I go home tonight, I won’t be shoving a chair under my doorknob.”
Quinn took a step back and cocked her head, appraising Jo. “I think I’m starting to like you.”
“I doubt it.”
She grinned. “Yeah, the moment’s passed.”
“I’m going to ask again, and if you decide not to answer, I’m going back inside before I freeze out here in this god-awful dress.”
“It really is hideous.”
Jo pressed her lips together. She didn’t know how many questions Quinn would deign to answer, so she started with the one she most wanted to know. “Was Tye seeing Derek before he died?”
Quinn flicked the lighter and touched the flame to the end of the cigarette. “Yes.”
“Did Derek’s parents know?”
Quinn blew smoke out of the corner of her mouth. “I don’t know.” Jo’s expression must have conveyed her annoyance, because Quinn hastened to add, “Seriously. I don’t know. Tye told me he’d found someone really special, but he was conflicted.”
“Why?”
Quinn countered, “You’re a cop, you tell me.”
Jo thought a moment, trying to suss out the intentions of a man she’d never met. “Derek was underage.”
“Bingo.” Quinn tapped a bit of ash onto the pavement.
But there was more. Jo read it on Quinn’s face. Indecision tightened the lines around her mouth, skittered behind her gray eyes.
Finally Quinn sighed. “I already told you that Tye wanted feedback on a game he’d designed. He hit up Ronny and me, and then Ronny suggested adding Derek. Tye didn’t want to give his game to just anyone, and he insisted on meeting him first. Tye told me later it was love at first sight. But here’s the thing. Derek was still in high school. He hadn’t come out as gay. At first it was strictly about the game. Tye didn’t want to pressure him into anything. Derek was the one to make the first move.” She dropped the cigarette and ground it under her Doc Martens boot. “Then it was too late.”
“Derek suicided.”
“Tye was devastated.”
Close-set headlights sped up the driveway, and the security cart careened around the corner. A green interior light from the dash area cast a ghoulish glow on Ronny Buck’s face. Without his police escort on board, he drove the cart like he drove his truck. Under the portico, he slammed the brakes and slid into the curb. He waved to the valet. Halfway out of the cart, he noticed the two women and reversed course. He cranked the steering wheel hard and stomped on the accelerator. The electric engine whined in protest and the rear tires sent a spray of slush onto the sidewalk.
“What an asshole,” Quinn muttered after he’d passed.
“Why does Ronny dislike you?” Jo had met the woman only five days ago and she already had a list of reasons, but what had she done to Ronny?
“I told Tye he was batshit crazy for even thinking about starting a relationship with a confused high school kid.”
She’d sidestepped the question, but her answer piqued Jo’s curiosity. “Did Tye break it off? Is that the reason Derek killed himself?”
“Yeah, but I don’t know if that’s why Derek offed himself. Could be. After it happened, Tye took back his games and refused to talk about Derek.”
“That still doesn’t explain Ronny.”
“He thinks I killed his best friend.”
24
Quinn would donate an ovary if it meant she could sleep.
The party had ended hours ago. She pummeled her pillow into a new level of fluff and rolled over. Ten seconds later, she rolled again.
It was too quiet. The resort walls were thicker than the toilet-paper-and-spit walls of her
apartment, and Stu/Stan’s latest musical addiction wasn’t wafting up to her apartment on a cloud of premium-grade sinsemilla. She flopped on her back, her tank top a twisted mass around her waist.
What the hell was she doing here?
All night she’d been surrounded by a bunch of rich assholes, and Alice had made it her mission to introduce Quinn to every last one of them. The only time she’d had any relief was when Alice went off to corner some poor staff member and demand they do something trivial to keep the fund raiser humming at a level of unattainable perfection. People had reacted to Quinn in one of two ways. They’d either pegged her as waitstaff and ignored her, or they’d fawned over her because Alice Ambrose-fucking-Walsenberg had returned to the ballroom and was within earshot.
Other than Detective Wyatt, Ronny Buck had been the only person she knew. Neither had particularly brightened her evening, although the cop was starting to grow on her. Quinn liked anyone who was having less fun than she was, and Detective Wyatt hadn’t been able to get out of there fast enough when it was all over.
She gave a good speech, though.
The muffled snick of a key card sliding into the security slot of her hotel door thundered across the room. The little electronic sensor whirred, and the person in the hallway pushed down on the door handle.
Quinn slid from the bed.
A man’s voice mumbled a curse.
By the soft glow of the bathroom night-light, she pulled on her jeans, then searched for a weapon. Pillow, ice bucket, alarm clock. She unplugged the banker’s desk lamp and wrapped her fingers around the brass neck. It would do.
The person in the hallway swiped the key card a second time. The lock held. Another curse, followed by a gentle tap.
She’d thrown the interior security latch. Hell, she’d even hung the do-not-disturb sign on the door. But she missed having a chair to jam under the knob and a kitchen knife close at hand. This was a five-star resort. She hadn’t planned on needing such preparations.
Another tap. Slightly louder this time.
She tiptoed to the door, the marble base of the desk lamp held high, and peered through the peephole straight into an eyeball trying to peer inside. She hammered her free fist against the door. A man stumbled backward, and amber liquid sloshed out of the tumbler he held.
Alice’s husband.
He regained his balance but wobbled as he approached the door. “My key doesn’t work. Let me in,” he whispered.
Not a chance.
“Come on, sweetheart.” He tapped again. “This isn’t funny.”
“You’ve got the wrong room,” Quinn said.
He straightened to his full height and tugged the bottom of his suit coat. “This room was rented by my wife.” He abandoned his whisper. “Who are you?”
“Not your wife. Go away or I’ll call security.”
She imagined the confrontation between Ronny Buck and Alice’s husband. Her fingers itched to make the call.
“Quinn.”
It wasn’t a question. Goose bumps rose on her naked arms.
“I’m calling security.”
“Wait. You were one of Derek’s friends. I just want to ask you a few questions about my son.”
“Hello, yes. I need to talk to security.” She pretended to speak to the receptionist, never looking away from the peephole.
“Please, Quinn. Let me in.”
She raised her voice to make sure he heard her through the door. “I’ve got some creepy old guy trying to get into my room. Yes. Room five-oh-three. Thank you.”
He squeezed the tumbler until his knuckles whitened and she thought the glass would break, but then his shoulders slumped, and he shuffled toward the elevators.
She stared through the peephole for several minutes, waiting. Nothing moved in the hallway, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t camped out around the corner.
This was bullshit.
The entire Walsenberg clan was seriously whacked. Alice could keep her money. Quinn rummaged in her backpack for her hoodie and pulled it over her tank top, not bothering with her bra. She finished dressing and then swept the toiletries from the bathroom into her opened bag. The free shampoo was the only thing that even came close to making this place worthwhile.
Packed, she crept to the door. Another peek. No one. She eased the door open. Rather than heading toward the elevator, she took the stairs.
The lobby was deserted. Even the bellhop had abandoned his post, although based on the giggles coming from behind the reception area, she suspected she knew where he was and exactly what he was doing.
Soft lights illuminated the covered valet area in front of the hotel. Sometime during the night, the landscape had morphed into one of those overblown Victorian Christmas cards. Old-fashioned streetlamps bordered the driveway and highlighted fat flakes of falling snow.
The driveway circled the resort and led to the darker parking lots. It had to be heated. Already five or six inches of snow covered the cars, but the driveway was merely wet. Maybe that was how they earned that fifth star. It certainly wasn’t for the quality of their security.
The valets had the last laugh. She found her Mini Cooper sandwiched between a white SUV on one side and a Hummer parked so close it blocked her driver door. One more thing to add to a royally screwed up night.
Snow stuck to her eyelashes, and she blinked away the moisture. Fuck if she’d cry.
She opened the passenger door, threw her bag on the floorboard, and retrieved the ice scraper from her glove box. She swept the snow near the top of the windshield off with her sleeve so it wouldn’t come sliding down the first time she used the brakes. That had been a fun lesson. She scraped the windshield and made sure the blades weren’t frozen in place. By the time she was through, her fingers were numb.
She crawled across the console, contorting her body and managing not only to snag her jacket pocket on the emergency brake but to bump her head against the steering wheel before flopping into the driver’s seat. She stashed her cell phone in the cup holder.
The snow continued to fall outside the car. San Francisco in December was beautiful. Brisk enough to wear sweaters, not so cold as to need eighteen layers of clothing. Quinn growled and hit the steering wheel three times with the palm of her hand.
“I hate this fucking valley!”
She jammed the car in reverse and plowed backward, unable to see over either car. Clear, she started down the mountain.
The road beyond the resort had recently been plowed, and Quinn eased the Mini Cooper faster. The craggy walls of the mountain kept her from straying too far to the right. No one else was on the curvy road at this ungodly hour, and she edged into the center to avoid any deer harboring a death wish.
Her headlights flashed against the falling snow, and the slap of the windshield wipers lulled her. She turned on the radio. Static. She climbed up and down the dial, searching for a station with reception.
The road curved right.
“Shit!” She yanked the wheel. The tires lost traction. Wide awake now, she jammed the brakes. The car spun. Time slowed while a sickening slide show of images unfolded in her headlights: the jagged mountainside, the road she’d just traveled, the abyss beyond the edge. Rocks, road, darkness. She squeezed her eyes shut. Her hands clenched around the steering wheel.
The Mini lurched to the side, and Quinn’s head struck the window. Metal scraped rock with a screech she felt in her fillings. The car rolled backward. Finally stopped.
Adrenaline pumped through her body, and she sucked in huge, gulping breaths. When she finally screwed up the courage to open her eyes, she saw that one headlight shone higher than the other. It took a moment before she realized both left tires had slid into the drainage ditch that ran parallel to the mountain side of the road.
With a shaky hand she touched her temple. Nothing warm and sticky. Good. She unlatched the door and pushed. Pebbles and snow tumbled in through the tiny crack she’d created. She battered the door with her shoulder, but it refused
to open wider. The car was too close to the rocks.
But it sure as hell beat the alternative.
She had to get off the mountain.
Her cell phone was no longer in the cup holder. Wonderful. She groped under the seat and found a pen, a couple of crumpled receipts, and a bent cigarette before her fingertips brushed against the phone.
Ugly yellow light flooded the passenger compartment. She popped up and was blinded by oncoming headlights. Quinn sat frozen in her seat, unable to breathe. The lights drew closer, bearing down on her. A pickup. It slapped the passenger side mirror. So close she saw Ronny’s terrified face.
It scraped past.
And then Ronny Buck and his truck slid right off the mountain.
25
The phone rang.
The light from the home screen illuminated the wall beside Jo’s nightstand like a lopsided Bat-Signal.
Jo cleared the sleep from her voice. “Hey.” She rolled onto her back but refused to sit up until she knew there was a reason to get out of bed.
“Are you awake?” Dakota’s drawl sounded more pronounced.
“It’s two forty-seven in the morning. Do I have to be?”
“Up to you, but I just fielded a call in dispatch. It was Quinn.”
Jo sat up. “Is she okay?”
“She is, but Ronny Buck probably isn’t.”
Jo threw back the covers. “Details.”
“Quinn crashed into the side of the mountain about two miles south of Peregrines. She said she was fumbling for her phone to call nine-one-one when Ronny’s truck nearly sideswiped her and then slid off the edge.”
“The edge of the road?”
“The edge of the mountain. Deputies are on their way.”
Jo pressed the phone between her neck and shoulder. “Who’s primary?” Her foot caught in the leg of her jeans, and she hopped to regain her balance.
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