by Lynn Lorenz
»»•««
Everything was going okay until the fight started.
“Give it here!” Timothy’s voice woke up Scott from a light doze in the recliner. The TV was off.
“Take it, if you can!”
Charles. What now?
He looked around. No kids. Bad sign.
He hoisted himself out of the chair and stalked to the boys’ room.
Charles held Teddy high above Timothy’s head. Timothy was jumping up and down, trying to grab it.
“Charles. Seriously. How old are you?” Scott crooked his finger. “Give it back or bring it here.”
“Shit.” Charles threw the stuffed bear at his brother. “Take it, you big baby.” He glared at Timmy as it hit him in the face. The little boy rocked back but clutched on to the toy for dear life.
“Charles. Step into the living room. Timmy, stay here.” Scott waited as Charles stomped past him and down the hall. He closed the door, giving the younger boy a wink.
Scott pointed to the sofa. “Sit.”
Charles glared but didn’t move.
Scott upped the command in his voice. As a werewolf, the boy would be unable to defy him. He hated to do it, but this kid had to learn some respect, not just for him but for the sake of everyone around him.
“Sit.” The words rumbled out of Scott’s chest.
Charles wavered, blinked, and sat. “How did you do that?”
“Alpha werewolf.” Scott pointed to his chest. “Pup.” He pointed to Charles. “Didn’t your dad ever use it?”
“No.” Charles snorted. “He just hit me.”
Scott sat in the chair opposite the sofa, leaned forward, and locked his hands together. “He hit you often?”
“All the time. He said a werewolf had to be tough. Had to know how to take a hit.”
Scott tensed, resisting the urge to rant about Wyatt and his parenting methods, if one could call them that. But attacking the boy’s father wouldn’t do either of them any good.
“Well, werewolves are pretty tough naturally. I remember getting a few smacks from my dad, but only when I’d really messed up. Like at school or sassing my mom. But here in this house, no one is going to hit you. No matter how tempting you make it.” He shot the boy a hard look.
Charles ducked his head. “I was just playing. That’s all.”
“No. You were being a bully. You were picking on your little brother. You were trying to make him cry. That’s not what brothers do. Brothers have each other’s backs. They play together, have fun, and get into adventures.”
The boy sat still, his hands in his lap.
“I’m going to tell this to you, for the future. Charles, listen to me.” His voice rumbled again, and the boy’s head shot up. “No one likes a bully. And you have a reputation as a bully. Frankly, it’s made finding you boys a home difficult.”
“So, no one is going to take me?” Panic filled the kid’s voice.
“That’s not what I’m saying. We’re not going to split you up. Not if I can help it. What I’m saying is you need to change your attitude and your ways. For your sake and for your brother’s.”
“But my parents are dead. I’m angry.”
“Those are just excuses, Charles. You were like this before, son.” Scott leaned back, worried he’d gone too far, but damn it, someone had to give this kid the truth. “I know it’s hard. My dad died when I was about fourteen. It sucked. And it took a long time to get over it, like I told you before, remember?”
Charles nodded.
“So I’m going to help you. I think together we can change the way folks think about you. Make them see you’re a good kid. One who deserves a nice home. Along with his little brother, not because of him. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“This can only work if you want it to work, Charles.”
“But even if I’m still no good, you’ll keep us together?” Charles raised his head and looked into Scott’s eyes. The kid didn’t believe he could do it. Or that Scott wouldn’t split them up.
“No matter what, I’ll do my best to make sure you and your brother will stay together. But I’d really like for you to work with me, get that attitude of yours in line.”
Charles chewed his bottom lip.
“It’ll make your life a whole lot easier. And remember, you’re going to make the change soon, and you need to have a guide. I’ll be that guide. Got it?”
“I got it.” He nodded.
“Good. Now go apologize to Timothy. And if you’re going to play, really play.”
“Okay.” He got off the sofa and exhaled.
“We’ll go get some lunch before we visit my mom. Are you hungry?” They’d had a big breakfast—eggs, sausage, and biscuits.
“Whatever.” He shrugged.
“See. Right there. Attitude.” Scott looked down at the boy. “Let’s try that again.”
“Lunch sounds good.” He held Scott’s gaze.
“Good. Go on.” Scott jerked his head toward the bedroom, and Charles wandered off.
Scott leaned back and exhaled.
Parenthood sucks.
»»•««
Ted leaned back against the car seat and rubbed his eyes. This was going nowhere fast. He’d interviewed all the people connected with the furniture store and learned not much more than the couple fought, the boss loved his business, and no one had a clue why or where he’d gone.
Dead ends.
Maybe the king of furniture was dead. All that money made a good motive.
Random robbery?
But how could they transfer the funds? Your usual criminals didn’t have offshore accounts and know how to make money disappear. But they did know how to make bodies scarce.
A contract hit?
Could Mrs. Buchanan have paid someone to kill her husband and then moved the money? It would explain a lot of things. But why hire him to find her husband and the money? Why not just let the police stumble around, find nothing as he was, and send it to the cold-case locker?
Why not take all the money? What was the point of leaving three hundred thousand? A lot of damned money, for sure. And she had access to it.
Why?
She could have laid low for a while, closed the business, and quietly disappeared. No one would have thought twice about it. They would have completely understood the grieving widow relocating and not ask any questions.
But why kill him? Was it just the money? Was there something he was missing?
A lover?
For her or for him?
“Argghh.” He ground his teeth together.
It was all too made-for-TV for Ted. It made sense the man had just had enough, taken the money, leaving enough for his wife to keep the business going, and skedaddled.
The simplest explanation was usually the right one. And everything in Ted screamed this was the simple explanation. The wife was in denial about their relationship, and she wouldn’t be the first.
Although Ted had never made it to detective on the force in New Orleans, it had been his goal, until he’d resigned in disgrace. He exhaled. The memory of his patrol partner, the straight man he secretly loved, dying in his arms flooded his mind.
He blinked, shook his head to get rid of it, and swore. Taking the dive for him, letting everyone think Ted had been shaking down that convenience store owner in the French Quarter, thus sparing his partner’s family the disgrace, well, Ted owed him that.
Or so he’d thought at the time.
Now he wasn’t so sure he’d done the right thing, except for his partner’s kids. They believed their father had been a hero, and yeah, Ted wanted it that way.
That had been the only time Ted had ever done anything for someone’s kids. This thing with Wyatt’s kids wasn’t the same at all. The boys knew who and what their father was; no one had sugarcoated him for them.
He pushed the memories away. He had to look at the facts of this case, what little he had to work with. He needed to think through all the variables, moti
ves, possibilities.
The night Buchanan disappears, the assistant manager of the store says good-bye to him outside the store. He gets into the car and drives off.
But never reaches home.
Or does he?
There was only Mrs. Buchanan’s testimony that he’d never come home. However, she hadn’t called the police until the next day. Why wait so long?
To give her time to dispose of the body? Or to give whoever killed him time?
Okay, that worked, but Ted couldn’t think of Mrs. Buchanan as a stone-cold killer. She wasn’t the type or at least didn’t look it. But sweet little old ladies killed; children killed. Ted knew there was no monopoly on what a killer looked like.
There were only circumstances, motives, and ability.
So if Mr. Buchanan made it home, might there be some proof along the way?
Ted started the car, plugged in the Buchanans’ address, and brought up the route on his GPS. Maybe along the way, a camera had caught him.
Chapter Thirteen
Scott pulled up to his mom’s house in the woods and parked.
“We’re here.”
“Wow. It’s even more in the woods than you!” Timothy stared out the window at the surrounding trees.
“The bayou is just down that path.” Scott pointed.
“Cool!” Timothy bounced. “Can she show us?”
“Maybe. Come on, let’s go.” He got out and waited for the boys.
Timothy climbed out, but Charles took his time, looking all around him.
“Expecting something?”
Charles shook his head. “This place gives me the creeps.”
Scott laughed. “Wait till you meet my mother.”
The boy gave him a funny look, but Timothy’s cry made them both turn.
“It’s a kitty!” Timothy stood on the porch, holding Scott’s mom’s huge black cat. Well, actually, the cat dangled from his hands; the bottom half, claws extended, swung side to side as Timothy rocked.
“You better put him down. He doesn’t like to be handled.” Or at least, Scott had never seen anyone touch or hold the animal.
But Timothy just grinned. “He likes me. He’s purring.”
“I think that’s a warning growl.” Scott came up the stairs. “He’s got sharp claws and teeth. If he scratches you, it’s going to really hurt.”
“Okay.” Timothy lowered the cat, which found the porch with all four feet, shook itself, and then strolled away, tail in the air.
“Come on, Charles. Let’s get this over with.”
“You make it sound bad.” He grimaced.
“Mais non. It is what it is.” He walked to the door and knocked.
In a few moments, the door opened, and his mom pushed open the screen door.
“Well, come on in!” She smiled at the boys.
Aromas wafted out of the door. She’d been baking. Scott’s mouth watered.
“Gingerbread?” He sniffed.
“Of course.” She winked at him.
“Hey, didn’t the witch in that fairy tale make gingerbread?” Charles stood in the doorway.
“No, cher. She made gingerbread from those pesky kids.” His mom cackled.
Charles stepped back, and Timothy sneaked in. “Smells good! Are they ready?”
“Sure are! Come on in and sit down. We can have some milk and cookies.” Timothy marched past her.
She glanced down at Charles. “If you dare.”
Scott laughed. “Quit scaring the boy.”
“Well, he’s got to be braver than his little brother.”
“I am.” Charles glared at her.
“So get going. We ain’t got all day, and I’m not air-conditioning the rest of South Louisiana.”
Charles entered, and the wicked old lady let the screen door slam behind him, making him jump. She laughed. “Kids today. No sense of humor at all.”
“Sit down on the couch, boys.” She pointed at it. “I’ll bring in the cookies and milk.”
“Do you have chocolate milk?” Timothy asked.
“Sure do. Got some chocolate syrup to mix in it. Is that okay?”
“Yes!”
“Whatev—” Charles caught Scott’s glare. “That would be nice.”
At least he was trying; got to give him some credit. Scott smiled at him, and Charles nodded back. Maybe his talk had done some good.
His mom brought the cookies and milk on a tray and handed them out. Timothy took two cookies, and Charles took one. Scott couldn’t resist one either.
“So this is my mom, Mrs. Dupree. She’s going to watch you while Ted and I are working.”
“Here?” Charles asked. He didn’t look happy as he glanced around the living room. “Do you have a Wii or a DVD player?”
“Nope. Just a TV. Got one of those new digital boxes, no cable.”
“Can we stay at your house, Sheriff?” Charles looked hopeful.
“What do you think, Maman? Is coming to our house a problem?”
“No. I’m fine with either.”
“But I want to play with the kitty!” Timothy pouted.
“That cat?” Darlene made a rude noise. “He’s not a play-with kind of cat. He’s more like a keep-him-outside kind of critter.” She frowned.
“Oh.” Timothy shrank into himself. “I like kitties. I wanted one, but Daddy said no. He said a wolf shouldn’t own a cat.”
“Well, I’m not a wolf, and I don’t own that dam—darn cat.” Darlene huffed. “He’s just hanging around until he finds something better.”
“I think he’s pretty.” Timothy took another bite of his cookie. “These are good.”
“Thanks, Timothy.” Darlene grinned. “How’s that milk?”
“Chocolatey!” The brown milk mustache on his upper lip smiled. He tried to lick it off but missed most of it.
“It’s very good. Thank you.” Charles sat very upright and stiff. Scott was happy to see him on his best behavior, but he knew the child struggled with the situation. It was probably killing Charles, wanting to say something rude or snotty, but he held it in.
Scott had no idea how long that would last. He was torn between thinking he’d stifled this kid and from being glad he was controlling his anger and being pleasant.
He worried what might happen when Charles lost control. If he were going to make his first change, Charles had to have his wolf under tight control. Wyatt hadn’t done the proper training. A boy his age should be on his way to undergoing his first change and all it encompassed.
It was a matter of life or death.
And obviously, Wyatt hadn’t given a rat’s ass about his boy.
“I’m so sorry about your mom and dad.” Darlene patted both boys on the shoulder. “So sorry.” She sniffed. “But I’m sure Sheriff Scott will find you both a good home. Soon.”
Timothy looked up, mouth full of cookie. “I want to stay with Mr. Canedo and Sheriff forever!”
Both Scott and Charles sprayed cookies all over the furniture, coughing and choking.
»»•««
Ted made note of every camera along the route. Of gas stations. Restaurants. Red lights. Anything that might have caught Mr. Buchanan’s vehicle on the way home at that time.
He was surprised at how many there were, and he knew he’d be going through video for a long time. But as he pulled up to the house, he checked his watch. Twenty minutes to get from the store to the house.
Ted decided to go back and retrace the route from the store to the bank for the night deposit drop. If he’d gone in that direction, there would be new cameras to cover.
He sighed as he settled behind the wheel, making the block and heading back to the store.
The route to the bank only took about five minutes and had far fewer cameras. Maybe a better chance to hijack the car and take the man. He pulled into the bank parking lot and got out. No time like the present to see if he could get a look at the bank’s security cameras.
If Buchanan had made a drop, it would accoun
t for one place he’d been that night. If he’d disappeared early that night and not sometime before the morning.
Ted met the bank manager and got the okay to run through the tapes, but he had to go to the main security office to view them.
Off he went to the next place in this odd chain of events.
When Ted arrived, the manager had called ahead. With a brief conversation with one of the staff, he found himself sitting in a small room with a laptop.
“We store our video in the cloud. Here’s the password for it. Just put in the date, and it should bring them all up.” The staffer disappeared.
Several files appeared, labeled by date and time. He found the one for the period during the closing of the store and clicked on it.
Ted leaned closer, trying to spot Buchanan’s car. He watched as the time sped by, until closing time approached, passed, and then…bingo!
Buchanan’s gray sedan pulled up to the bank, and he made the drop. Ted watched as the car drove off.
So Buchanan had been alive and well that night. Ted made note of the time.
He leaned back, ran his hands through his hair, and closed his eyes.
So, what if Buchanan had made the deposit and skipped town?
He replayed the video at normal speed, watching as the car drove up, Buchanan opened the night drop, pushed in the bag, and drove off. He got to the end of the parking lot and…turned left.
Turning right would take him home.
Turning left…would bring him down the main street and out of town, to the I-10, and from there…the world awaited.
Ted watched again, to make sure Buchanan was alone. He was.
Ted blew off the idea of checking more video. He wanted to skip right to checking out the Buchanans’ home computer. If Ted was right, he might find some evidence as to where the man had gone.
Ted wondered how Scott was doing with introducing the kids to his mom.
He chuckled. Thank God he didn’t have to babysit them, because it just might be what pushed him over the edge—that brat Charles shooting attitude at him all day or the little one’s neediness.
Scott was out of his mind thinking he wanted kids. Maybe this little experiment would be enough to change Scott’s mind about having children. But knowing Scott, he’d be unable to put that dream aside.
And if Ted truly loved him, he would want Scott to be happy, and if having a family made his mate happy, he should support Scott. After all, Scott had supported him with his art and with the PI business. And he’d even taken a major step in their lovemaking. Kids might be okay.