by Lisa Jackson
“And could I bother you for another knife? I see a spot on this one’s blade.” Smiling, the woman held up the flatware in question and yes, there was a bit of a water stain on the stainless steel.
“No problem. I’ll be right back.”
“Wait! Please bring some hot water, would you be a dear? My tea’s already gone cold.” Her smile was beneficent, but a little malicious gleam shone in her eyes, as she narrowed her gaze on Jessica through rimless glasses. “If you wouldn’t mind.”
“Not at all.” Jessica was off and the woman turned to her husband again.
“Harry?” she said, catching his attention. “I asked you what you mean by mutilation?”
Though he answered, Jessica couldn’t hear the conversation, whispered as it was. When she returned with the requested items, the woman ended her conversation quickly, then eyeballed the new knife and bottle skeptically.
She took a sip of her tea after Jessica poured hot water into her cup and teabag, then let out a satisfied sigh. “Aaah. Much better,” she intoned, finally sated, probably just because she was able to get someone to do her bidding.
Jessica had the sneaking suspicion that the little errands she ran for the fussy woman were more for the old lady’s amusement than from any real need, but she kept her thoughts to herself and tried not to panic over the bits of information she’d overheard. A dead body had been found? It was a woman? There was mutilation? Oh. God. Jessica’s stomach clenched and she nearly stumbled as she was carrying water glasses to a booth where a man and a woman in uniform had taken a seat.
Pull yourself together.
Fortunately, as they were at one of her tables, she was able to overhear their conversation, or at least snippets of it, as she waited on them. What she hadn’t expected when she placed the ice water on the table was that the man was wearing a badge marked SHERIFF.
“Coffee?” she asked, reading his name. BLACKWATER. The man she’d heard was taking over Grayson’s position, at least until the next election.
“Black,” Blackwater said, his eyes cool, his expression without the hint of a smile.
“Sure,” said his compatriot, a woman whose name tag read DEPUTY DELANIE WINGER. “With sugar.”
Nodding, Jessica slid menus onto the table, then, her knees trembling a bit, motioned to the whiteboard hanging near the swinging doors. “We’ve got some interesting specials today,” she said by rote, though she felt the sheriff’s gaze upon her. “Marionberry waffles, a BLT with a fried egg, and a peanut butter and chocolate smoothie. I’ll give you a few minutes.” She was sweating nervously, her hands nearly shaking under his piercing glare, almost as if he could see through her disguise. Impossible. She’d never met Blackwater, nor the deputy he was talking to.
Servicing the other tables near the booth where they were seated, she heard bits of “shop talk,” but nothing more than general information.
“Waiting on the autopsy,” the sheriff told his colleague. “No, nothing yet from Missing Persons . . .” and “checking other jurisdictions.”
That conversation, Jessica figured, was about the woman they’d discovered.
Then, very seriously, he said, “. . . a shame . . . yep, a good man . . . irreplaceable, but I’ve got to try.” Words for Dan Grayson.
There was other talk about what she assumed were open cases, but she couldn’t hear much as they spoke in low tones, and became quiet as she served a breakfast burrito to the deputy and a spinach and egg white omelet to the sheriff.
“Refills?” she asked on a second go-round when they were nearly finished.
The deputy said “Yes,” and Blackwater nodded, so she started pouring the coffee.
Crash! The clatter of silverware rang through the building and Jessica jerked, slopping hot coffee as a stream of angry, rapid-fire Spanish emanated through the pass-through to the kitchen.
“Sorry . . . oh, I’m so sorry,” she said, seeing that she’d sloshed coffee onto Blackwater’s wrist.
“It’s fine,” he said shortly.
“I’ll get a towel.”
His eyes turned on her and she quickly withdrew her hand. What the hell had she been thinking? She never touched a customer, and especially not a cop.
“Sorry,” she repeated and turned away, carrying the coffee back and retrieving a clean towel from the linen storage inside the kitchen where Marlon was busily picking up knives, forks, and spoons, then loading them into the dishwasher haphazardly.
Armando shook his head over the grill. “Por el amor de Dios. ¡Qué idiota!”
Breathing fire, Misty flew through the swinging doors, her mouth set in a red bow of disgust. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she demanded of the busboy.
As Misty unleashed the reaming out, Jessica hurried back to the dining area where a few of the patrons were craning their necks toward the kitchen and Blackwater was reaching for his jacket.
“It’s fine,” he told her as she offered up the towel.
“No no no. I’m so sorry.”
For the briefest of seconds, his eyes, dark as obsidian, seemed to look through her facade, past her disguise. In the brightly lit diner, she sensed that he could see deeper into her soul, which was absolutely ludicrous. It was all she could do not to take a step backward.
“Of course, your breakfast . . . both of your meals,” she added with a quick look at the younger deputy, “will be comped. I’m really sorry.”
To her surprise, he flashed her a smile, white teeth against darker skin. “I think I’ll live.”
In an instant, the awkward moment had dissipated as if it hadn’t existed and Jessica told herself that she was jumping at shadows, reading more into the situation than there was,
Blackwater, even though she slid the plastic receipt holder back into the pocket of her apron, left enough money on the table to cover the cost of both meals and include a decent tip. “Accidents happen,” he said and shrugged into his jacket.
“Miss?” a man in another booth said, flagging her down and holding up his coffee cup for a refill.
“Be right there.” To the sheriff, she said, “Thanks for coming in,” and turned her attention to the man in the baseball cap with the empty cup.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Blackwater give her another once-over as he held the door open for his deputy, and that look chilled her to the bone.
As acting sheriff, Hooper Blackwater had a lot of responsibilities. No problem. He easily shouldered most tasks assigned him. In fact, he welcomed them. The more the better, he thought as he drove his Jeep along the older section of Grizzly Falls, where the town sprawled upon the shores of the river as it had for well over a hundred years. Traffic moved slowly past the storefronts with their western “Old Montana” flair. He noticed the county courthouse, an ancient brick building where he’d often given testimony, and nestled beside it, a bank building that had the appearance of the Hollywood stereotype of buildings robbed in old black-and-white movies set in the late 1800s.
Ahead of him, in her own vehicle, Deputy Winger was heading toward her assignment as one of the road deputies who patrolled the county. She was one of the few people in the department he completely trusted, and so he’d initiated their breakfast meeting, which, he reminded himself, was not a “date.” One thing was certain, he wasn’t going to mix business and pleasure again. The women on his staff were off-limits. Period.
He’d made that mistake once already and wasn’t about to do it again. Besides, aside from Deputy Winger, he didn’t trust anyone working for him. It wasn’t that the other men and women on the force weren’t good officers. Just the contrary was true. But nearly every one of them was so loyal to Sheriff Grayson that they weren’t as yet swayed to the inevitable fact that he was the right man to step into the job as acting sheriff.
I’ll have to change that, he thought, pausing at the railroad tracks as a long freight train barreled through the town, blocking his route up the steep hillside. He watched the cars hurtle past, just on
the other side of the crossing’s flashing arm, and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. An ambitious man by nature, he looked upon Grayson’s passing as a tragedy, but an opportunity, as well. Not that he would have ever wished his predecessor ill will or an early death. But since Grayson had passed on, Blackwater wasn’t a man to let a chance like this slip through his fingers.
He believed in the old adage his great-grandmother had conveyed to him when he was very young. “Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” she’d told him on more than one occasion and he’d used that saying as his personal credo from the time he’d entered school and sensed that he was different from his peers. He’d been able, from an early age, to know when someone was lying or hiding something, even if that person was adept at concealing their feelings. It was an ability that had served him well in his job. That waitress at the diner, Jessica, according to the pin on her uniform, had definitely been afraid of revealing something about herself. He’d known it as if she’d suddenly announced it to the world. When she’d recognized he was “the law,” she’d been all thumbs, as evidenced by the coffee splatters on his clothes.
The last rail car shot by in a clatter of steel on steel, the train heading underneath a tunnel on the south end of town. As he half listened to the crackling police band, Blackwater watched the signal’s flashing blade lift slowly. He eased onto the gas while on the opposite side a girl in an older Ford Mustang was looking down, no doubt paying attention to her phone and unaware the signal bar had lifted. On the road behind her, the irritated driver of a huge Suburban laid on the horn, startling the girl. She hit the gas and the Mustang lurched forward, the woman in the Suburban scowling darkly as she followed close on the blue car’s bumper.
Road rage. Never good. A part of him wanted to pull over both drivers, one for possibly texting, the other for tailgating, but he had other fish to fry, specifically solving the cases that would help him be elected at the end of Grayson’s term. He snapped on his wipers as the snow began to fall again. He was probably ambitious to a fault, but so what? Even though this job had just fallen into his lap, he wasn’t going to let it go. In his thirty-eight years, he’d already learned that real opportunity knocked only once on a man’s door, and sometimes passed by a person’s house altogether.
The engine strained a little as the hills steepened, the road slicing into the hillside and skimming the top of the ridge.
Blackwater had been a poor kid growing up. His dad had loved baseball, alcohol, and other women more than he did his family and had bailed on his wife and kids when Hooper was a sophomore in high school. From that point on, he’d been the “man of the house,” and he’d reveled in the responsibility . . . and yes, power. And he wanted the power that came with the job of sheriff.
He drove his Jeep into the lot for the station, and with a sense of rightful ownership, parked in the space marked SHERIFF. First up on his to-do list was make certain Grayson’s killer was prosecuted to the full extent of the law, convicted, and locked away forever. He had limited control on that one. His department could only provide testimony and evidence to convict, but he’d been in talks with the DA ever since hearing the news of Grayson’s death and that office was definitely on the same page. A couple other potential homicides would keep his staff busy and the public concerned, and that didn’t begin to touch the normal crimes involving robbery, drugs, domestic violence, and such. Yeah, the department would be busy.
He loved it.
As he yanked his keys from the ignition, just for a second, he thought of the waitress again. Along with her anxiety at slopping hot coffee on him and the fact that he was a lawman, he’d sensed there was bone deep terror that she was definitely trying to conceal. He’d been left with the feeling that covering things up and hiding were all a very integral part of who she was. A mystery, the waitress.
Not your problem. You have more than enough to deal with.
After locking his Jeep, he jogged through the lightly falling snow, past the poles where the flags were drooping at half-mast, to the front door. It was cold, but he found the change of the seasons invigorating, the winters bracing after spending so much of his life in the Southwest. Inside, the bright lights and gleaming floors didn’t match the somber atmosphere. Even Joelle, usually bubbly to the point of being ridiculous, was subdued, her demeanor sober as she looked up and told him that several reporters had already stopped by for interviews.
“Not this morning,” he said. “Maybe a press conference, later. If necessary.”
He started to turn away, but she held up a beringed finger. “Sheriff, I mean . . . Sir, I was thinking,” she said.
He noted that the black stones of her ring matched her earrings, part of her mourning attire, he presumed.
“Maybe we should dim the lights for the rest of the week, make a little shrine here, beneath Sheriff Grayson’s picture”—she motioned to the wall where the past sheriffs were displayed—“and, you know, have a moment of silence every day?”
“No.”
“But—”
“This is the sheriff’s department. Our business is the public’s and we’ll remain open at full staff, with the lights on. No shrine. I’ve got the flags at half-mast and we’ll run the department with a skeleton staff for the funeral so any and all officers who want to go can attend. Sheriff Grayson will get a full-blown law enforcement funeral, motorcade, three volley salute, the whole nine yards, but the department will remain open, uncompromised, ready to handle any and all calls and emergencies. We owe that to Sheriff Grayson’s honor.”
Though her lips were pursed in disapproval, she didn’t argue, just nodded tightly and turned to a ringing phone.
If Blackwater had to be a hard-ass as commander to keep the county safe and well protected, so be it.
Noting that the offices seemed quieter than usual, he walked briskly along the hallway to the office marked SHERIFF. No doubt about it, he felt a twinge of satisfaction as he hung his jacket on the hall tree near the door. This, he sensed, was where he belonged.
Chapter 9
The last thing Pescoli needed was Hattie Grayson seated across her desk bringing up the same damn topic she had in the past. When it came to the subject of her ex-husband’s death, the woman was a broken record. Worse, she’d come in with Cade Grayson who, rather than take a seat, decided to stand, leaning against the file cabinets, looking enough like his brother to give Pescoli a weird sense of deja vu.
“So you don’t think it’s odd that two of the brothers are dead?” Hattie asked, her eyes red-rimmed, her face drawn. She’d been close to her brother-in-law and had, according to the local rumor mill, dated not only Cade, but Dan, too, before marrying Bart, or some such nonsense. The timeline seemed skewed to Pescoli, not that she cared. She did know that Dan, in the past couple years, had spent a lot of time with Hattie and her daughters. Then Cade had returned, and Hattie had turned her attention to Dan’s younger, wilder brother. It seemed, them being together, that Hattie and Cade were a couple.
Pescoli gave a mental shrug. What did it matter? Considering her own love life, she wasn’t going to judge Hattie on hers. But the obsession about Dan and Bart’s deaths being connected was nonsense. Bart had committed suicide; Dan had been shot by an assailant.
“I think it’s tragic that we lost the sheriff and that his brother died before him,” Pescoli said neutrally.
“Bart did not kill himself,” Hattie insisted, as she had ever since her ex, supposedly despondent over their split, had walked into the family’s barn, tossed a rope over a crossbeam, and hung himself.
“I know that’s what you think, but his death was ruled a suicide.” There it was. The bone of contention.
“He wouldn’t do that to . . . to the girls,” she insisted, then more softly, “or to me.”
“We know who killed the sheriff,” Pescoli reminded the distraught woman seated on the edge of one of the visitors chairs positioned near her desk. The detective’s gaze moved to that of Cade Grayson to inc
lude him in the conversation. “There’s no argument. That man’s behind bars. He’ll be prosecuted and convicted.”
“Are you sure?” Hattie asked.
Dear Jesus, yes! I saw Dan go down, I witnessed him take the bullets. And I was there when the son of a bitch who killed him was arrested. I almost lost my own damn life to that psycho. Though her emotions were roiling, she managed to keep her voice calm. “Of course.”
Hattie squeezed her eyes shut and held up her hands, fingers spread wide as if she knew she’d stepped over the line. “Yes, I know that you got Dan’s killer, but you told me you’d look into Bart’s death again. Reopen the case.” Blinking rapidly, she swiped under her eyes with a finger.
Pescoli located a box of tissues under an unruly stack of papers. Nudging it around two near-empty cups of decaf to the far side of the desk, she said to Cade, “You think someone killed Bart, too?”
“Don’t know.” His jaw slid to one side and Pescoli remembered that Cade had been the unlucky person who had found his brother’s body hanging from a crossbeam in the barn.
“Could be.” A couple years younger, Cade looked a bit like Dan with his long, lean body, square jaw, and intense eyes. The Grayson genes were strong enough that a family resemblance was noticeable, though he was a couple inches shorter than the sheriff had been, and, from all reports, a lot more of a hellion in his youth. He’d ridden the rodeo circuit, only recently returning to Grizzly Falls. “Bart was having his problems,” Cade said, his gaze drifting to Hattie for a second. “We all know that.”
Hattie’s face grew more ashen.
“But she’s right,” Cade said, hitching his chin toward his ex-sister-in-law. “Bart loved those girls and it seems unlikely that he would take himself out, denying McKenzie and Mallory from knowing their dad.”
Pescoli felt trapped. “Look, I said I’d look through the files, and I will. But I didn’t mention reopening the case.”