by Paula Graves
“I heard four hit that black car parked next to your truck. I don’t know if any hit the truck.” She shot him an apologetic look. “Might’ve.”
“We’ll check it out when the deputies get here.”
She couldn’t hold back a frown.
“Any particular reason you don’t want the deputies to come?”
She shook her head. “I’m just not a favorite of anybody I work with.” She chuckled grimly. “Some of them probably sympathize with the shooters.”
“Are you hard to work with?” He didn’t sound as if he’d be surprised to hear she was difficult.
She tried not to bristle. “I don’t think I am.”
His gaze angled up to meet hers briefly, a hint of skepticism glittering in his eyes.
“You think I’m difficult?”
“I think you’re complicated. And a little defensive.” He finished putting the last bandage on her hand. “All done.”
“Defensive?”
He gave her another silent look.
He was right. She was defensive. And prickly. And at the moment, simmering with a slow roil of anger—at herself, at Hamilton Gray, at her parents and her coworkers and the whole damn world that kept on spinning, day in and day out, as if her sister wasn’t lying six feet under the earth in a grave marked with her killer’s last name.
Or was she wrong about that, too? Did Carrie’s murder have nothing at all to do with her husband and the difficulties she’d been experiencing in their marriage?
She folded her hands in her lap and looked up at J.D., who was putting the leftover supplies back into the first aid kit. “What if we’re both wrong?”
He stopped in the middle of zipping the bag and met her gaze. “Wrong about what?”
“About Carrie’s death. What if it wasn’t Hamilton or your alpha and beta serial-killer pair?” She pushed to her feet, the new theory racing through her mind making her feel edgy and full of restless energy. She paced across the room to the window, pulling aside the curtains to look out at the darkened parking lot. “What if her death had something to do with being a Becker?”
“You think someone could be targeting your family?”
She moved away from the window, putting the solid wall rather than breakable glass between her and the outside world as she turned around to look at him. “My father is a wealthy oilman who can be ruthless in business. He’s ruined people—not intentionally as far as I know, but the result is the same. He’s fired employees, cut loose contractors—”
“Made enemies,” he finished for her.
She nodded. “What if Carrie’s murder was an act of revenge?”
J.D.’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know. The crime scenes were similar, weren’t they? You’ve seen the photos in my files.”
“Yes, but—” She pressed her lips together, frustrated. It seemed as if every time she took a step forward in her investigation, she only discovered more questions. “I don’t know,” she finally admitted. “I don’t know what’s behind it, but I think we shouldn’t discount revenge or some sort of vendetta as a motive. People with grudges can be ruthless and dangerous.”
“Tell me about it,” he said drily.
“I don’t think your determination to find the man who murdered your wife is the same thing I’m talking about.”
He shook his head. “Actually, I was thinking about my brother Luke. He’s got a price on his head—the whole family does, in a way. He was a Marine investigating allegations that peacekeeping troops in Sanselmo were selling American surplus arms to the rebels during the El Cambio uprising a few years ago—”
She nodded. Her father’s company had holdings in the South American nation of Sanselmo, and during the six-month uprising, the violent rebel group El Cambio had targeted foreign companies to put pressure on outsiders to isolate the government in power. Her father had made a few enemies in the El Cambio himself.
“My brother was in one of those situations where you have to kill or you and a lot of civilians could end up dead, too. Luke shot a terrorist. Turned out he was the son of Eladio Cordero.”
“My God.” Eladio Cordero was one of the most ruthless drug kingpins in South America. He’d kidnapped five of her father’s employees in Sanselmo, and killed two of them when the ransom money didn’t arrive as quickly as he’d wanted. “What is your brother doing to stay off Cordero’s radar? What are the rest of you doing, for that matter?”
“Cordero sent men after my brother and his wife and son last year. Los Tiburones—his enforcers. My family and the local cops killed or captured them before they could hurt any of us,” J.D. answered. “I guess Cordero realized we won’t be so easy to take out. Luke’s been sticking close to home, too, not giving Cordero any more easy chances to get to him.”
He spoke so calmly, as if a firefight with some of the world’s most brutal assassins was just another day in Gossamer Ridge, Alabama. But before she could question him further, there was a knock on the door.
Even though she was closer to the door, J.D. beat her there, putting his solid wall of muscle between her and the flimsy wooden door. Once he peered through the security lens, the tension in his shoulders eased a notch. “Deputy Massey,” he murmured. He opened the door and let the investigator in.
Massey’s eyes widened as they met Natalie’s. He took in the bandaged hands and the casual, almost ragged clothes she’d donned back at the house and quirked one brown eyebrow in surprise. “You were the target, Becker?”
She started to bristle, then remembered her earlier conversation with J.D. about her work problems. She forced herself to answer in a neutral tone. “Yes. About ten minutes ago.” She told him what she could remember about the incident, gratified to find him taking careful notes as if he intended to look into the case seriously. “It happened so fast, and I wasn’t expecting anything like that—I just didn’t get a good look at the vehicle. I’m sorry.”
“Actually, I can tell you it was probably a Mercury Milan, late model, midnight blue,” Massey said.
“Did you find the car?” J.D. asked.
“No, but a blue Mercury Milan was reported stolen about two hours ago outside a residence on Lafayette Road,” Massey answered. “Bit of a coincidence, huh?”
“I’d say.”
“Devlin’s outside checking the crime scene. When Toler and his evidence kit get here, we can start gathering info in earnest.” He glanced at her. “Are you sure it was a sound suppressor? Maybe you just thought you heard shots and the thuds on the car were gravel kicking up?”
“I saw the gun. I heard the silencer.”
“Well, we’ll look. But if they took the care to steal a car, they probably used an untraceable gun.”
“I know,” she said.
Massey’s expression softened. “You okay? Looks like you got banged up a little.”
She was surprised by his solicitous tone. She and Massey had never been very friendly. She suspected he thought she’d gotten her promotion for political reasons rather than earning it. “Just scrapes. I’m okay. Could have been a lot worse.”
“I don’t think you need to go back to your house and stay there alone,” Massey murmured.
Natalie glanced at J.D. and found him looking at her in clear agreement with Massey. As much as she hated to concede the point, they were both right. “I could stay with my parents tonight. They’ll hear what happened by tomorrow at the latest—you know the grapevine in this town—and wonder why I didn’t tell them sooner. So might as well get it over with.”
Massey turned his attention to J.D. “Still in town, I see.”
“Family here, remember?”
“Been doing any trespassing lately?”
“No, sir, not me.”
Massey’s lips quirked just short of a smile. “I didn’t know you knew Deputy Becker. Should have told me. She owns the property you were trespassing on, so she could have helped you work it out.”
“Seeing as how she’s the one who called the sheriff on
me, that probably wouldn’t have helped,” J.D. said drily.
Massey cut his eyes at Natalie. “But now you’ve made up?”
“It was a misunderstanding,” she said.
“Which murder theory did you two decide to go with?”
“We’ve agreed to disagree,” J.D. answered.
Massey crossed his arms over his chest. “Well, if I could suggest an alternate theory, it seems a little hinky to me that someone took a shot at killing a second Becker sister tonight.”
“We were just discussing that,” Natalie admitted.
“Maybe you should talk to your daddy about that party he’s throwing tomorrow night,” Massey said. “If someone’s really gunning for the Beckers, it sure would be tempting to catch the whole family in the same place at the same time.”
The party. She’d forgotten all about the party.
“What party?” J.D. asked.
“It’s a fundraiser for Amelia’s Grace, a charity for battered women. Carrie started it a few years ago after her high school friend Amelia died from a spousal beating. It was already scheduled before Carrie’s murder, and we didn’t think she’d want us to cancel it.”
“I don’t reckon she’d want you to put yourself in any more danger, either,” J.D. said.
“I could probably talk Roy into assigning a few deputies to patrol during the party,” Massey offered.
Boy, wouldn’t her father love that. Patrol cars crawling around his mansion as if it was a crime zone. “I’m not sure my father will go for that.”
“Then he probably wouldn’t go for armed deputies guarding the guests, either,” Massey guessed.
“I’ll go armed,” Natalie said. “I’ll keep an eye out.” She’d been considering making a quick appearance and leaving soon after, but if her family was in danger, she had to be there the whole time, on watch.
“I’d offer to go with you,” Massey said, “but I’m on call Friday night, too, so I can’t be out of pocket that way.”
“It’s okay,” she said, touched by the offer. “I’ll talk to my dad. Maybe I can get him to hire some extra security for the party.” She rather doubted her father would take any advice she gave him, but it wouldn’t hurt to try.
“Toler’s probably here by now. I’ll go let him and Devlin know what we’re looking out for. Then when we’re ready to leave, I’ll follow you to your folks’ house to make sure you get there okay.” Massey headed out, leaving Natalie alone with J.D.
He was looking at her, a speculative gleam in his eyes.
“What?” she asked.
“I’m good with a gun.”
“Yeah, I believe you established that with the whole ‘decimated the South American cartel enforcers’ story.” She narrowed her eyes. “Are you offering to work security?”
“No, I had something more subtle than that in mind.”
Her heart did a little flip. “You want to go as my date?”
His eyes twitched, and he paused a second before answering. “No, that’s not exactly what I had in mind.”
She tamped down a flicker of disappointment. “Then what?”
“Besides family members, who sees everything that goes on in any wealthy household?”
“The staff,” she said flatly, though she wasn’t sure she knew where he was going with this train of thought.
“What staff does your family employ?”
“We have a housekeeper, Helen, and Raymond, the gardener. My dad has a driver, Terrence. And it’s not exactly full-time staff, but my mom goes to the same caterer, Davina Dreyfuss, whenever she throws a party. Davina’s staff helps out with the behind-the-scenes things like setting up and serving, and they’ve done enough events at my parents’ place to be familiar with what goes on there.” She frowned. “What exactly do you have in mind?”
He grinned. “Think the party could use an extra waiter?”
Chapter Seven
Back in the day, before he joined the Navy and married Brenda Teague, J. D. Cooper had spent a couple of summers as a waiter at the Gossamer Shoals Country Club. The clubhouse restaurant was a favorite place for parties and events, and he’d served at dozens of them over the course of those two summers.
Of course, that had been twenty-five years ago. He’d been younger and a lot more limber. Plus, nearly three decades of crouching over engines had done a number on his knees, which were already starting to crackle as he walked through the gathered crowd in the ballroom at the Becker estate, balancing a large tray of champagne flutes between his hand and shoulder and praying he didn’t drop the tray and make a big scene.
Natalie still hadn’t shown up in the ballroom. He was beginning to worry.
The Becker mansion was literally that—an imposing estate with an enormous two-story house situated on the highest ground in the coastal town. According to Natalie, there’d been Beckers in Terrebonne for a couple of centuries. J.D. suspected some ancient Becker ancestor had built the hill from dirt hauled in by the wagonful, just to be certain their ancestral home wouldn’t be swept away in a storm surge in the Gulf during one of the coast’s frequent hurricanes.
He spotted a small, pretty woman with dark hair and eyes talking to a man in the corner. She looked like an older version of Carrie Gray—at least, the way she’d looked in the photograph that ran in the Terrebonne newspaper after her murder. Must be Natalie’s mother, Jeanine. Was the tall, gray-haired man speaking with her Darden Becker?
The man turned, and J.D. sucked in a quick breath, his grip on the tray of champagne glasses faltering, making the crystal flutes plink against each other. Jeanine Becker was talking to J.D.’s father-in-law, George Teague.
“Whatever you do, don’t drop those things.” Natalie’s voice in his ear made him jerk, and the glasses rattled again.
He turned carefully to look at her. She gazed up at him with a bright smile that only made it as far as her eyes. In them, he saw raw tension, and a feral alertness that reminded him of their first official meeting at Millie’s bar.
But in every other way, Natalie Becker was a completely different creature. She was dressed in a simple halter dress in a dark bluish-green color. The skirt hit just above her knees, showing off well-toned legs he’d seen just a hint of the night before at her house, before she changed from those snug jeans into her sweats. Her hair was twisted into a sleek coil at the back of her head, making him want to reach behind her and free those cinnamon waves he’d gotten a brief glimpse of the other night. She looked every bit as expensive as she probably was.
He managed not to drop the tray. “You clean up good.”
She cocked her head, gazing up at him with a mixture of amusement and alarm. “Umm, thanks?”
He supposed his comment wasn’t the most complimentary thing he could have said. “Really good.”
She chuckled softly. “You look pretty good in a tux.”
He craned his neck. “Tie’s too tight.”
“Listen—I need to tell you something.” A waiter passing by, empty-handed, distracted Natalie from whatever she was about to say. She turned to call after him. “Dennis?”
The waiter quirked his eyebrows, as if he were surprised to be called by name. “Yes, Miss Becker?”
“Dennis, you used to call me Brace Face in school. I think you can manage Natalie now.”
Dennis grinned. “How can I help you, Natalie?”
“Could you take the champagne tray for a little while? I need Mr. Cooper here to help me with something else.”
“Certainly.” Dennis took the tray from J.D., shot Natalie another grin and walked into the crowd, offering drinks.
“Brace Face?” J.D. murmured.
“Orthodontics were not my friend. But I think it was his version of flirting. Listen, there’s a little problem—I just found out how my mother decided to handle tonight’s fundraising—”
A series of shouts and gasps broke out in the room, jerking J.D.’s attention to the front entrance.
Where pirates were pourin
g through the door.
His first instinct was to go for the gun strapped in an ankle holster on his right leg. He was already on the way down to a crouch when Natalie caught his arm. “It’s okay,” she murmured, tugging him back to his feet. “That’s what I was trying to tell you. This is how they’re taking the donations.”
J.D. watched in dismay as a dozen men in brightly colored pirate garb, accompanied by several pretty women in form-fitting pirate wench dresses, spread out across the large parlor, brandishing cutlasses and demanding booty. One of them headed straight for Natalie, his long, very real-looking sword aimed straight at her heart.
“Don’t move,” she told J.D. under her breath. “It’s okay.”
The man stopped just short of her, the cutlass hovering right over her heart. “Your money or your life,” he said in a low, menacing voice. But his eyes flashed with amusement, as if he were enjoying some sort of private joke.
“I’ve already contributed, Hamilton,” Natalie replied.
J.D. took a closer look at the pirate. So this was the grieving widower, Hamilton Gray. He was a head shorter than J.D. and elegantly lean. He had stylishly tousled dark hair and murky green eyes in a sharp, vulpine face that made him look far more authentic a pirate than the others who flitted about the crowd like raucous, brightly plumed parrots.
“I suppose you find it unseemly of me to take part in the players of this little charade,” Gray said, his eyes never leaving Natalie’s face. It was as if he were waiting for her to snap, to show the fire that J.D. saw lurking in her deep green eyes.
Natalie didn’t give him the satisfaction. “It was Carrie’s idea? The pirates, I mean.”
“Exactly.” Gray smiled, the flash of white teeth making him look more like a coyote on the prowl than a fox. J.D. could see why Natalie found it easy to imagine the man was capable of murder. He probably was, if J.D.’s instincts were still any good.
But being capable of murder wasn’t the same as committing it.
Gray’s gaze finally wandered away from Natalie’s face, settling on J.D. His eyes widened just a hair, making J.D. wonder if he recognized him for some reason.