Shadow Ridge

by M. E. Browning

  “He might have thought you were disparaging his son.”

  “There’s no shame in being gay. It’s like being left-handed. You either are or not.”

  “Remind me of the last time you arrested someone for perpetrating a hate crime against a southpaw.” Squint leaned forward and studied the unused syringes in their poke-proof tubes. “There’s plenty of people out there who don’t approve.”

  “Yeah, well, they need to get over themselves.” She lifted the bag with the long-stemmed pipe and admired the craftsmanship. “So why stage Tye’s place to replicate the game? The fireplace, booze, pipe, and cat dish were all part of the gamescape.”

  “Crime scenes are usually staged to confound investigators. Frame someone else for the crime. Send a message.”

  “I’m leaning toward the message, but to whom?”

  “The cat?”

  “Funny man.” She indicated the syringes. “Quinn told me an interesting story. When she was in recovery, she once shot up.” Her voice trailed off.

  “Nothing unusual about that, people often relapse in recovery,” he observed.

  “What? No. She didn’t relapse.” She snatched the tube. Could it really be so simple? Could this be the one piece of information she’d been looking for? “Quinn used saline. It gave her the comfort of shooting up. Said it tricked her body into thinking everything was going to be okay.” She shook the syringe. “It always bugged me that Tye used a gun to kill himself when he had a needle.” Her mind raced. “Ingersleben hasn’t gotten the tox screen back yet, has he?”

  “Not that he’s shared.”

  “So we don’t know Tye’s alcohol or sugar levels.”

  “If he consumed the amount of alcohol we think he did, wouldn’t his sugars be off the chart?”

  “I would imagine so,” she murmured.

  Even though Jo had collected and recorded all of Tye’s medications and supplements, Doc Ingersleben had taken possession of them at the scene. They helped create a medical profile during the autopsy.

  “With such an obvious manner of death and without something to initially indicate foul play, would Doc Ing have initiated testing on the vials of insulin?” She had no doubt that if the toxicology report came back with something of interest, there’d be further tests, but forensic testing was expensive, and nothing was sent to the lab before it had to be. “What if the vials had been altered? Tye could have fallen into a diabetic stupor. Kind of hard to manipulate a shotgun when you’re unconscious. What if the blast was a cover-up to hide the true manner of death?”

  “That’s a lot of what-ifs.” He pushed away from the counter. “Let me call the good doctor. As much as I love to speculate, he can give us actual answers.”

  The evidence on the table blurred as Jo focused on the tube in her hand. If she was right, the murderer must have had some sort of ongoing relationship with Tye; how else could someone have gotten close enough to him to swap his medication?

  Behind her, Squint rang Ingersleben’s office, but his voice couldn’t compete with all the questions running amok in her head. The interviews she’d conducted had all reinforced the impression that Tye had a small circle of friends—two of whom were now dead.

  But not Quinn.

  Jo recoiled from the thought. Her gut said Quinn was a complicated woman, but not a murderer. Still, she forced herself to examine the possibility. Quinn knew how to wield a needle. She was in Tye’s circle. She and Ronny didn’t get along. But what was her motive?

  Squint hung up. “Ingersleben has back-to-back appointments until late afternoon.”

  “That’s disappointing.”

  “It’ll take you that long to go through all the evidence.”

  “Now that we know the scene was staged, I’ll need to print a bunch of things. Not to mention write up a new round of subpoenas. The major social media sites have online instructions and templates, but some of the other sites are pretty obscure and don’t offer much. Good news is they’ll all accept faxed requests and promise quick responses on homicide cases.”

  “Faxes?”

  “Ironic, right? In a digital age, faxes are still more secure than scans.”

  “I’ll start drafting the requests,” he said. “You can fill in the blanks after you get the info from Ms. Kirkwood.”

  Quinn. Everything always came back to Quinn.

  39

  For the second time in as many hours, Jo found herself in the chief’s office. The day was definitely not off to an auspicious start.

  Chief Grimes sat at his desk, the phone pressed to his ear. He motioned her in. Harriet, her lips flattened into a slash of disapproval, discreetly shut the door.

  A large conference table dominated the corner office. Windows on both exterior walls allowed in plenty of light when the blinds were open, but they had yet to be drawn, and harsh fluorescent lighting painted everything in the room with an unhealthy patina.

  The chief’s computer sat atop a plain banquet table that ran perpendicular to his desk and displayed the status of the on-duty officers and every call in real time. Her call sign indicated that she was clear. If only.

  “I’ll most definitely speak to her about it.” The chief tightened his grip on the receiver, his knuckles momentarily white before he relaxed enough for the blood to flow back into his fingers. “Yes, of course, sir. Thank you.”

  Sir. City manager or mayor? Neither one boded well for her.

  “Please extend my personal regards to your wife.” He hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair. “Sit.”

  Normally, she appreciated brevity. Today, not so much. Two chairs crowded the space in front of the chief’s desk, and she selected the one closest to the door.

  “That was the district attorney.” He steepled his fingers in front of his chin. “He’s under the impression you feel it’s appropriate to harass him on his day off.”

  He hadn’t asked a question, but his silence implied that he expected an answer. “I wouldn’t say the word harass is correct. I merely asked him a few questions.”

  The vein in Chief Grime’s forehead started to pulse. “And was one of those questions if his son was gay?”

  “No, sir. His son was gay. I asked him if he knew it.”

  The tempo increased. “The boy has been dead a year. It’s none of your business.”

  “Under normal circumstances, I’d agree, but the information could be relevant to a case. You already know a man died at a property owned by the district attorney and his wife. Are you asking me to compromise an investigation because of who is involved?”

  “Tread carefully, Detective.” He dropped his fingers. “Are you happy here?”

  The question took her aback. “Very.”

  “Then please, enlighten me. Why did I have to field telephone calls yesterday from reporters from as far away as Denver wanting to follow up on an article that I knew absolutely nothing about until it hit the newsstands? And to add to that, if you’re so damn happy here, why is the district attorney calling me before I’ve even had my morning cup of coffee to complain about your behavior? It seems to me, Detective Wyatt, that you may actually be happier somewhere else. Would that be closer to the truth?”

  “No, sir. I was as surprised as you by the article.”

  “Really.”

  “Probably even more so. I’ve worked hard to gain the respect of everyone on this department.”

  “Before I ask this question, let me remind you that lying is a fireable offense. Did you speak to Everett Cloud?”

  The very assumption that she’d lie felt like a slap. “Yes.” The word had a bit of a hiss at the end, and she steadied herself. “He came up to my table at Finnegan’s the night of the badge ceremony. He had a copy of the memo and wanted to ask me questions. I shut him down.”

  “Was that before or after you complained to him about not being promoted?”

  “I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize my job. The day I took my oath of office was the proudest day of my life. I t
old you I’m not the one who instigated the story, and I’ve never given you any reason to question my integrity.” She leaned closer to the desk. “Do I need my union rep?”

  He assumed a disappointed air, but the vein in his forehead still pulsed. “I certainly expected better of Joseph Wyatt’s girl. We’re done here, Detective.”

  If his earlier salvo had been a slap, this was a broadside. She opened her mouth to respond, but the chief’s expression stopped her. She rose so abruptly, the chair nearly tipped over, and the short walk to the door stretched on forever. When she finally placed her hand on the knob and opened the door, she paused. Her father might not have always been the best role model, but he’d damn well taught her to never run from a fight.

  “With all due respect, sir, I may have given you the wrong impression. I’m not responsible for what’s in the article, but that doesn’t mean I don’t agree with it.”

  She shut the door behind her.

  40

  The browser was taking forever to load. What had Derek taught her? When things slowed down, it was usually a sign the cache needed cleaning out? Or something. This kind of stuff had been second nature to him. Olivia too. Alice would have to check the instructions she’d written in her notebook. She’d come a long way in the past year and didn’t have to reference her notes nearly as often, but she’d never be able to navigate the digital world as easily as her children. The sheer volume of information on the internet never ceased to amaze her. No wonder there were so many data breaches. Everyone lived their lives online. It made people vulnerable.

  “Are you even listening to me?”

  Alice jumped. “Holy smokes!” She slammed shut the laptop. How on earth had Olivia arrived home from school without her hearing her walk through to the sun-room? “What did you need, sweetie?”

  An oversized drab pea coat hung off her daughter’s narrow shoulders and practically hid her from view. She was going through a phase where everything she wore appeared too big for her. Alice couldn’t wait for her to abandon it.

  “I asked if you remembered to pick up my costume from the dry cleaners.”

  Crap. In her rush to beat the detective to the rental property yesterday, she’d forgotten all about the cleaners. Packing up the belongings had been on her to-do list since the police finished their investigation. But every day, something else had popped up to delay the task. Then Zachary’s call had completely derailed her. He’d been so annoyed. In hindsight, she couldn’t blame him. She should have known not to allow anyone onto the rental property without making sure he was available to supervise. But the possibility of a civil suit had never crossed her mind. One more thing to worry about.

  Olivia was still waiting for an answer.

  “I’m sorry, it was closed when I went by yesterday.” A white lie seemed less hurtful than the fact that she’d forgotten her daughter’s costume.

  “I told you we have dress rehearsal tonight.”

  Accusation dripped from her voice. Another phase Alice hoped her daughter would outgrow quickly. “Tell Mr. Foster I didn’t have time to pick it up. I’m sure he’ll understand.”

  “He won’t. He was very specific. Everyone had to have everything with them tonight.”

  Her daughter had morphed into four-year-old Olivia, and Alice almost expected her to stomp her foot. “I’m sorry, Olivia, but what’s he going to do? Fire you?”

  “I posted a reminder on the refrigerator.” She whipped out her phone, her fingers flying. “The dry cleaner’s open until six. We still have time.”

  “Except I’m working.” She braced herself for Olivia’s outburst. It seemed to be their lot lately. “Setting up a nonprofit takes a lot of work.”

  Olivia’s demeanor changed from accusatory to sad with just the slumping of her shoulders.

  If her intention had been to make Alice feel guilty, it worked. Although she’d read somewhere that guilt was a self-imposed emotion. “It’s only seven blocks away. Let me give you some money.”

  “Have you even looked outside lately?”

  Alice craned around in the love seat. Framed by the picture windows, the backyard shivered under a new layer of dreariness.

  “Fine. Let me get my keys.”

  “You know what. Don’t bother. I’ll tell Mr. Foster you’ve been under a lot of stress lately. Freaking out over launching the foundation and haven’t had time for your family. I’m sure he’ll understand.”

  That’s what Alice hated about teenage girls. Give them what they wanted and two seconds later they’d changed their mind—all while making it patently obvious that you were single-handedly responsible for ruining their lives. This time it wasn’t going to work. “Your choice.”

  Olivia rolled her eyes and let loose an Oscar-worthy sigh. She was going to make a heck of a Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come.

  “If I’d been Derek, you never would’ve forgotten.” She whirled around, and her coat knocked the dainty side table next to the settee. The small vase of winter-white peonies tottered.

  “Whoa! Where did that come from?” Alice called after her, but Olivia was already stomping up the stairs, her displeasure echoing through the house. Alice counted down the seconds, and as if on cue, her daughter’s bedroom door slammed.

  The therapist had warned her that they’d all have bad days. That each of them needed an outlet—for the anger and the unexpected wallop of sadness that would catch them unawares.

  It was a cruel twist of fate that something that had meant so little when Derek was alive could reduce her to tears after his death—Olivia eating the last of Derek’s favorite granola and then crumpling the empty cereal box into the trash, or the time she’d found Derek’s sock clinging to the inside of her favorite sweat shirt.

  She supposed it was impossible not to favor one child over the other. She used to tell herself she loved them both equally. It was more honest to admit that she loved them fiercely, but in different ways. Alice had a wonderful husband, a beautiful house, respect in the community. But Derek. He was her lodestar. The first time his tiny mouth latched on to her breast, she experienced a love so profound it hurt.

  Derek was always the sensitive one. His relationship with his father was more guarded, and he always turned to her for comfort. At least in the early years.

  Olivia was born with an independent streak and became the avenger of the family. There was no injustice too petty for her to champion, no grievance that didn’t wound her personally—and no rest for the remaining family until she’d remedied the insult to her satisfaction.

  Her daughter had never needed her like Derek had.

  But she needed her now. Over the last year, Alice had withdrawn. Maybe Olivia was right. Alice had abdicated her role as mother, too consumed with her own grief to notice the struggles of her daughter. Things with Derek needed to be put to rest. Through the Alliance, his name would endure. Now it was time to focus on Olivia.

  Gathering the laptop, she tiptoed upstairs. At Derek’s room, she stopped. On the other side of the door, she imagined him doing his homework. Perhaps getting ready for a date with the girl of his dreams or rereading his acceptance letter to college.

  Living.

  Alice continued to her own room, keeping her eyes averted from tracing the ghostly outline of the closet, and she stashed the laptop until her return. She still had more work to do, but it could wait.

  Once again downstairs, she donned her coat. It was a little act of service—picking up a costume from the dry cleaners. A fifteen-minute errand to ensure that Olivia had what she needed, and Mr. Foster wouldn’t need to know anything about the forgotten errand. She could hold things together for another day.

  Family first.

  Always.

  41

  The cell phone on the break room table buzzed with a call. Her father. Again. He hadn’t once left a voice mail, and Jo let it ring through. She was still smarting from yesterday’s lambasting. That the very thing he’d warned her about had come to fruition a mere twen
ty-four hours later only reduced her desire to talk to him. She couldn’t avoid him forever, but she could while she was at work.

  Butcher paper covered the break room table, its curling corner weighted down by the tackle box containing her print kit. She gently twirled the dusting brush until the filaments flared and deposited a faint layer of fingerprint powder on the crystal tumbler. She brought the glass closer to her face and inspected it. No ridges, no smudges. Nothing.

  The glass had nothing. The bottle had nothing. The remote had nothing. The pipe, nada. A pattern had emerged, but sadly it wasn’t of a fingerprint. She slipped the glass back into its evidence bag and resealed it with a new strip of evidence tape.

  Footsteps on the staircase announced Squint’s return to the office, his distinctive gait giving him away.

  He rounded the corner. “Still fighting the good fight?”

  “Down, but not out.” She slid the fingerprint brush into its tube and stowed it in the case. “Everything I’ve thrown powder on had already been wiped.”

  “On the bright side, that supports it was staged by someone other than Mr. Horton.”

  “A print would have been nice. But whoever staged the scene had a working knowledge of the game.”

  “Ms. Kirkwood?”

  “I can’t rule her out. Although to play devil’s advocate, if it was her, why would she share the details of the game?”

  “Guilty conscience?” He hung his hat on the rack and shucked his coat. “You want the good news or the bad news first?”

  “Go ahead with the good news. I need the lift.” She placed the evidence bag holding the glass with the other evidence.

  “Ingersleben’s appointment ran late, but according to his assistant, the toxicology report hasn’t come back yet.”

  “If that’s the good news, I can hardly wait to hear what’s next.” The plastic gloves made her hands sweat. She stripped them off and lobbed them into the trash, reveling in the touch of the chilly office air on her damp skin.

  “He also hadn’t had any reason to send off the vials of insulin.”