by Lisa Jackson
Chapter 7
“So get this,” Sage Zoller said an hour later as she strolled into Alvarez’s office. Though it was after five on Christmas Day, Alvarez was still on the clock. Then again, Zoller and Alvarez weren’t alone. The sheriff’s department still buzzed with voices, the ring tones of cell phones, hum of computers and televisions over the ever-present rumble of the overworked furnace.
Sage dropped a thin legal document onto Alvarez’s desk. “It looks like the person who inherited the bulk of Dan Grayson’s estate is his ex-wife,” she said. “And not his most recent ex-wife, but the first Mrs. Grayson, aka Cara Grayson Banks.”
“Seriously?” Alvarez, who had already skimmed Grayson’s phone records and credit card statements, was now looking for notice of releases of any con Dan Grayson had been instrumental in convicting.
“Uh-huh.” Zoller was a junior detective, smarter than smart, and worked long hours. Only two inches over five feet, Zoller ran marathons, her muscles tight, her face, surrounded by springy dark curls, definitely elfin. “I checked everywhere, including with Grayson’s attorney, who didn’t mind being pulled away from his Christmas dinner to talk to me. It looks like the will was last changed five years ago, before he married wife number two.” She held up two fingers, nearly a peace sign. “So Akina was never cut into the family fortune. According to the lawyer, that, too, had been in the works, but the marriage was so short, it hadn’t happened.”
“What about his nieces? He’s crazy about them.”
“Oh, yeah, they’re mentioned. They each get ten thousand, in a college fund, nothing to sneeze at. But the bulk of his estate looks like it’s in real estate. His cabin is owned outright and his portion of the Grayson ranch, that would be one-quarter, which is run by his brothers Zedediah and Cade, goes to Mrs. Number Uno.”
Alvarez leaned back in her chair. “Seems odd.”
“Odder yet? His retirement beneficiary and life insurance?” She nodded at Alvarez.
“Cara again?”
“Bingo. His lawyer said Grayson wanted to meet with him after the first of the year to change things, but so far that hadn’t happened.”
“Anyone else know about that meeting?”
“I asked, but the lawyer, Cromwell Buckner the Fourth—really, would you name a baby that four times?” She shook her head. “This one, in the long line of Cromwells, at least goes by Buck, and he said he has no idea who the sheriff told about the meeting.”
“Grayson’s pretty private,” Alvarez thought aloud. “Maybe no one.”
“Yeah, I know, I thought there was a chance Joelle might have known about the appointment as she pretty much runs the sheriff’s schedule, but, no, according to Buck, Grayson set up the meeting himself.”
“So, all we know is that the people in the law offices and Dan Grayson knew about it.”
“If it’s even significant,” Zoller said.
“Hmmm.”
“I already checked on the first missus. Alibi locked up tighter than a miser’s safe.”
“Who?”
“The current husband, of course.”
“Nolan Banks.” Alvarez had heard his name before but knew little about the man. He and Cara had children, though, she was pretty sure.
“One and the same.”
Zoller’s phone jangled and she plucked it from a pocket, saw the display, and, smiling for the first time that day, mouthed, “Bruno,” whom she often referred to as So, her shortened form of Significant Other. “Gotta take this. He’s pisssssed about me missing the meal with his folks. Guess it was a command performance with the PILs—Potential In-Laws—but, hey, too damned bad. Someone starts taking shots at my boss and I don’t like it, so all bets and command performances are off!” She swung the phone to her ear and said sweetly, “Hey, Bruno . . . what’s up? Yeah, yeah . . . I know . . . me, too, but this is a really big deal . . . um-hmm . . . Give them my love and I know they’ll understand. . . .” She sauntered into the hallway still cajoling Bruno while Alvarez checked her watch. She’d avoided the hospital all day, instead working the case, putting her efforts into finding the bastard who had tried to kill her boss. Yet she knew she would have to spend some time in the hospital, would want to be close to him. But the idea of sitting around with Grayson’s small family, doing nothing but waiting and silently praying, feeling impotent while Grayson battled for his life, wasn’t something she wanted to face.
So she turned her attention to Grayson’s will.
Feeling a little like a Peeping Tom, Alvarez started reading the Last Will and Testament of Dan Grayson even though the man was still struggling for his life. If he pulled through, and she prayed fervently that he would, she’d feel even more guilty of voyeurism, but in the name of bringing his assailant to justice, she really didn’t give a damn.
“I’ll be home soon, I hope,” Hattie whispered into her cell. She was standing outside the wing of the operating rooms at the hospital, in a hallway of Northern General where cell use was permitted. She’d taken a much-needed trip to the restroom, then stopped to call her mother and check on her daughters. “Just feed the girls and, if I don’t get home before bedtime, please let them each pick out a story to read, and tuck them in.”
“They’re asking about you,” Zena said, and Hattie detected a hint of recrimination in her mother’s voice. “Mallory’s complaining about not seeing her mama on Christmas.”
“I was there this morning, and we had breakfast and opened the gifts from Santa and . . .” Why was she arguing the point? Zena wouldn’t understand, nor would she listen. She bought into her granddaughters’ acts hook, line, and sinker, and Mallory, a bit of a conniver who’d already announced she planned to be an actress when she grew up, knew exactly how to play her grandmother and get what she wanted. Zena never understood that she was being manipulated. Today was no exception.
“Well, honey, they’re worried about their uncle, of course.”
They should be. Hattie backed up to let a man with a walker and his wife ease past. His wife was tending to him, guiding him, her hand patiently placed upon the middle of his back, leaning forward to whisper to him, as he tried to steer the walker toward the elevator bank.
“I don’t suppose Cara has shown up?” Zena said, drawing her back to the conversation.
“Not yet, but I called and left her a message.” That had been a little weird. “I’m not even certain I have her correct cell number, my call went right to voice mail.”
“I don’t have her cell, just the house.”
“I’ll try that later if she doesn’t call back.”
“When’s the last time you talked to Cara?”
Hattie remembered distinctly. “A year ago. I called Christmas night to wish them all Merry Christmas.”
Zena gave off a little huff of disgust. “She sent me a card last year. One of those preprinted things with a picture of the family. No note. Nothing.”
Hattie imagined her mother’s face as she talked about her eldest daughter. Her face would be tight, her lips pursed in disapproval, her eyes sharp with pride, her chin inched up a bit. Zena always felt as if she were the persecuted one, the victim.
But today, it wasn’t about her. “Look, I’ve got to go.” She glanced down the short hallway and saw a grim-faced man in scrubs appear and draw Dan’s two brothers and the detective aside. “I think the doctor’s got some news about Dan.” Before Zena could say another word, she clicked off and hurried to the waiting area where she heard the tail end of what the doctor was saying.
“. . . with this kind of trauma to the brain, we just can’t be certain. He’ll be in intensive care, where he can be closely monitored around the clock, but that’s no guarantee.” The doctor, a neurosurgeon named Kapule, took their questions and explained some more about decompressive craniectomy, in which part of Dan’s skull was removed to take pressure off his brain where swelling had occurred. The more the doctor talked about blood loss and brain trauma and infection, the more worried Hattie beca
me. She wasn’t alone. Detective Pescoli was somber, Big Zed’s eyebrows slammed together, and even Cade had lost some of his bluster and anger, his rage replaced by dread.
The long and the short of it was that even though a neurosurgeon who had worked with brain injuries on soldiers from the battlefields of Iran and Afghanistan had operated on the sheriff, Dan was still in critical condition. Since the wound had been through and through, the bullet entering and exiting his brain, back to front, with no major blood vessels hit, he surprisingly had a chance of full recovery; though, of course, the odds were against him. “He’ll be in ICU within the hour. It’s on the third floor and he’ll be monitored closely.”
“There will be a guard posted,” Pescoli said and the doctor nodded, understanding that the cops were going to take care of their own. Already there had been a parade of deputies and detectives through the doors of Northern General, and Hattie had seen several police cruisers and SUVs in the parking lot. Obviously, someone bold enough to strike Grayson at his own home on Christmas morning might not be deterred by the hospital’s security.
“He’s a fighter,” Zed said when Kapule, his cell phone ringing, had left them alone in the waiting area. Others, including the woman who’d been knitting and the older man thumbing through magazines, had left, replaced by a Hispanic family of four and a nervous middle-aged woman with her daughter, but they, too, had just departed from the hospital. Because Grayson’s surgery had been so involved and lengthy, their group had remained, and though Detective Pescoli had sometimes left the area, she’d always returned within the hour, sometimes moving away from them to talk quietly on her cell phone.
“I need some air,” Cade said, stalking away.
Zed’s bushy eyebrows shot up and Hattie had a short, sharp memory of Cade and her in an argument that had ended with him throwing up his hands and telling her he needed some air. It was inside his pickup one night after a high-school football game. She remembered the way he’d slammed the door and the breadth of his shoulders and leanness of his hips as he’d strode away from the stadium lights, leaving her to either wait for him or slam out of the vehicle as well. She’d chosen the latter, done with his anger over her relationship with Dan, which had been more a benign high-school romance than the hot affair Cade had accused her of. Still, it hadn’t been his place to question her, but now, her throat felt hot at the memory; so many things had come and gone between them since.
“Mebbe you need something like this,” Zed said as Cade retrieved his jacket and hat. He reached into the back pocket of his jeans, as Cade turned around, dug out a can of Copenhagen, and tossed it at his brother, who caught it in his free hand.
“No, thanks.” Cade tossed the tin back. “I could use a drink.” He sent one blistering look Hattie’s direction, then headed toward the elevators. To Zed, he said, “I’ll check with J.D., make sure the herd is okay, and I’ll be back. Meet you at ICU.”
Detective Pescoli let out her breath in the wake of Cade’s departure. “Why don’t we all go down to the cafeteria for a while, until they get the sheriff moved and you can tell me about Dan, who you think might want to harm him.” She held up a hand as if she expected an argument. “I know we’ve been over this up here, but by now you’ve had some time to think about it. Maybe something’s bubbled to the surface of your memory.”
“Okay,” Hattie said, and at the mention of the cafeteria her stomach rumbled a bit, though she couldn’t really imagine eating anything. “Dan’s always been private. Holds things close to the vest.”
Zed was already walking toward the elevators. He was the one Grayson brother Hattie hadn’t dated, and he’d never much liked her, probably because she’d made a fool of herself first over Dan, then Cade, and lastly Bart, whom she’d eventually married. She’d been accused of “settling” and of being so enamored of the Grayson rumored wealth that she would have married any of the brothers, or worse yet, that she’d married Bart because her pride had been wounded when Dan had ended up with her half sister.
It was all pure fabrication and gossip, she tried to convince herself as she rode the elevator car to the basement level where Northern General’s cafeteria was located. True, she’d been fascinated with the Grayson brothers when she was in high school, but she wasn’t the only girl who had dreams of dating any one of the good-looking hellions. All four boys had grown up without a mother, wild sons of Brett Grayson, a rodeo star in the sixties and seventies, who had not only inherited his ranch, but, with his success on the circuit and smart investments, had expanded his ranch land and his fortune.
The Grayson clan wasn’t Kennedy-rich by any means, but for a town the size of Grizzly Falls, they were royalty, if a bit tarnished. Hattie knew that her interest in them had nothing to do with money, but sure, she’d probably been looking for stability like a lot of young women of that age. Still, to be involved with three out of four of the brothers could be viewed as obsessive. She probably would have been interested in Zed, too; he was handsome enough. But there was a darker side to him, one that ran much deeper than Cade’s wild streak.
She walked through the cafeteria line, ordered a salad and bowl of tomato bisque, and feeling uncomfortable, carried her tray to a table where Zed was already chowing his way through the first of two pastrami sandwiches and the cop, Pescoli, had begun to pick at chicken strips and fries. She was an interesting woman, tall and rangy, athletic-looking with wild reddish hair and intense eyes that shifted from green to gold. She came off kind of folksy, and Hattie couldn’t determine if Pescoli really was all country-girl or if it was an act. One thing Hattie was sure of, Detective Pescoli hadn’t asked them to the cafeteria because she was lonely and wanted someone to join her for a meal. No, Hattie thought, the other woman was forever on the job, listening, asking questions, hoping to find some little nugget of information that would help the case.
Well, bring it on, Hattie thought. She had nothing to hide. The trouble was, she didn’t know if she could help. She really had no idea who would want to harm Dan Grayson.
As she took her seat, she said, “I know this is far-fetched, but”—she slid a glance toward Zed, who was studying her while chewing thoughtfully—“but, as you know, I don’t believe for a second that my husband took his life.”
“Ex-husband,” Zed clarified and grabbed his Coke for a long swallow.
Hattie ignored Zed. She’d always found him irritating. To Pescoli, she went on, “The point is that Bart’s dead from an apparent suicide, if you believe that nonsense, which I don’t and never have, and now someone’s tried to kill his older brother.” She looked from Pescoli to Zed. “What’re the chances of that?”
“As he’s the sheriff, putting scum away for years, pretty high, I’d say,” Zed muttered.
“I don’t think it’s some felon bent on revenge,” Hattie declared. “It’s something else, and maybe it even circles back to Bart’s murder.”
“Suicide,” Zed corrected.
“Whatever.”
Cade drove his pickup to the nearest bar, which was about two miles from the hospital; but then he just pulled into the parking lot, parked the vehicle, and sat with his hands on the steering wheel. He thought about his brother, hooked up to God knew how many monitors and IVs and shit, lying in distant twilight, part of his skull removed, his brain swelling, unconscious to the fact that he might never wake up.
“Son of a bitch,” Cade swore, his breath fogging the windshield. He’d already lost his youngest brother to a self-inflicted noose around his neck.
Cade was the one who’d discovered Bart and, now, the scene unfolded in his head yet again: walking into the barn on a wintry morning, the sun not yet up, snapping on the lights and noting that the cattle and horses seemed spooked by something, then spying the body of his brother hanging near the huge sliding door at the back of the barn.
“Noooo!” he’d yelled, his boots ringing on hundred-year-old floorboards, denial ripping through his body. In an instant he’d found the ladder that had bee
n kicked to one side and righted it. He’d frantically climbed the metal steps as he reached for his pocket knife in the front pocket of his jeans. “Bart! Bart! You son of a bitch,” he’d screamed, hoping to startle his brother into waking, which he’d known even then was impossible. “No, no! Oh, God damn . . . !!!”
The horses had kicked at their stalls whinnying nervously, the cattle had snorted and lowed as Cade sawed through that thick rope and his brother’s body fell, collapsing onto the floor with a mind-numbing thud.
“Help!” Cade had screamed at the top of his lungs as he’d jumped to the floor, feeling for a pulse in his brother’s neck. Nothing, no sign of life beneath the beard stubble. He’d listened for even the faintest of breath, but knew there was none. Bart’s skin was cold and losing color, his eyes fixed. He’d been dead for hours. Still, Cade had pounded on his brother’s chest, and with tears streaming down his face, he’d kept at it, his hard fist useless in reviving a brother who had already left this earth.
He’d finally given up, just as Zed, swearing, had thrown open the barn door and then bawled out his own grief at the sight of his dead brother.
Now, with Dan fighting for his life, what he couldn’t come to terms with, what he couldn’t deny, was the guilt that was eating him up inside. It invaded his heart, making it ache as if he were having a goddamn heart attack. He’d cried out, “Why?” when he’d found Bart swinging in the barn, but he knew the answer then, and he knew now why Bartholomew Carlson Grayson hadn’t been able to stand another day on this earth.
And Hattie, Bart’s ex-wife, knew why as well, no matter how hard she tried to convince those around her that Bart had been murdered.
She knew.
Chapter 8
Leaving a deputy to stand guard near the intensive care unit and Hattie Grayson still seated in a waiting area, Pescoli drove away from the hospital a little after eight. “There’s nothing more you can do,” Pescoli had said to Hattie, but the woman hadn’t budged, just nodded tightly and stared out the wide glass windows to the night. Grayson’s brothers, after a discussion about returning in the morning, had taken off as well.