In Full Force: Badges of Becker County

by Kathy Altman

  Unless the killer had never left the parking lot.

  “Think he’s out there?”

  Charity cursed herself for flinching. She offered Mo a shrug. “Remind me to check across the road for tire tracks. Maybe he panicked and left the scene in a hurry. And we should search the ditches. Fifty yards in each direction.”

  “You got it. Could be a she, you know.”

  “Could be.” Charity led him back to his Chevy and opened the top drawer of his heavy-duty kit cabinet. Bandages and crumpled evidence bags. The next drawer contained a tangle of zip ties. The next, a jumble of gas receipts and accident forms. With a huff of disgust, Charity pushed the door shut. “You’ve got to straighten this up, Mo. How do you find anything?”

  Scowling, he nudged her aside. “What are you looking for?”

  She leaned around him, held up her hands and waggled her fingers.

  “Coming right up.” He lifted the plastic bag of puked-on paper towels, revealing a box of latex gloves in the corner. He snagged a pair and with a smug flourish, presented them to Charity.

  “Thank you.” She peered over his shoulder, checking that Smiley was steering clear of her crime scene as she worked her hands into the latex. “So what’s the story?”

  “Mrs. Langford was first on the scene. She was passing by, saw something, pulled in for a closer look, spewed her dinner plus three or four cocktails, and called nine-one-one.”

  “What time?”

  He pulled out his notepad. “Twenty-two thirty-seven.”

  Just past ten thirty. “Time of death?”

  With a roll of his eyes he offered up the usual disclaimer. “I’m a coroner, not a medical examiner. The ME in Great Falls has to do his thing before we know for sure.”

  “But if you had to guess...”

  After shoving his notepad back into his belt, he pulled out the drawer with the zip ties, scooped them out and replaced them with the box of gloves. “She died about two hours ago. Ligature strangulation. The marks slant upward at the back of her neck. Not wire—her skin’s not broken.” His fingers were stiff as he straightened the strips of black plastic. “No obvious signs of molestation.”

  Charity opened drawers until she found the first aid kit and tucked the loose bandages from the top drawer inside. “Could she have been killed somewhere else and dumped here?”

  “Always a possibility. But there’s scuff marks on the pavement nearby, and the heels of her boots are all scratched up.”

  Pushing aside the image his words induced, Charity moved away from the SUV and looked from the road back to where the body lay. “Mrs. Langford mention which way she was headed when she spotted the body?”

  “East.”

  Interesting. “Where would she be going this time of night? Headed out of town?”

  Mo slammed the tailgate closed. “Didn’t get that much out of her. She’s pretty upset.”

  “And you?”

  A pause. “I’ll be fine once we catch the son of a bitch who did this.”

  Charity gave his arm a quick squeeze. “How about next of kin?”

  “Sarah’s parents live in Virginia. Okay if I handle notification?” At her nod, Mo cleared his throat. “Looks like they’re done with our witness. You want to run her in, or have her wait?”

  “The kindest thing would be to get her to the station. I don’t think either of us should leave, though.” She nodded her head at the men and women grouped around the back of the ambulance. The man who’d strung the caution tape was a trained volunteer who served with the sheriff’s reserves.

  “I’ll get Tim to take her back and keep her company. While he’s at it, he can take care of booking my brother and his buddy. By the way, what happened to your camera?”

  Color seeped into his face. She’d bet that under that surfer-blond hair, even his scalp was scarlet.

  He dropped his head and took his time adjusting his rig. “I, uh, must have left it somewhere.”

  “You’d better find it before the sheriff gets back.”

  “You gonna call him?”

  Crap. Her hands went to her hips. “You mean you didn’t?”

  His head came up and he didn’t bother hiding his smirk. “You’re the undersheriff. I’m just a lowly deputy.”

  “Thanks a lot, Mo. I’ll remember that the next time you’re looking to trade shifts for the sake of a hot date.” Ignoring his pained expression, Charity watched with approval as across the lot Yolanda steered Justine away from the ghoulish Phil Smiley.

  Charity gestured to Mo and they started back toward their victim. “Heard anything from Dix?” Only a few bystanders had parked on the side of the road to watch the excitement, but with police scanners a household item in these parts, it wouldn’t take long for others to gather. They had to get this scene worked before they lost any more manpower to crowd control.

  “He’s on his way.”

  As soon as Charity called him, the sheriff would be, too. So much for his long-awaited fishing trip. Any trout playing hard-to-get with the sheriff’s pole would have to stay in the Gallatin River.

  She stopped, lifted her hat, and scrubbed her fingers through her hair as Mo walked on. If Justine Langford proved to be anything more than a witness, yet another male would be on his way back to Becker County. The Grady West she remembered wouldn’t sit on his thumbs while his sister faced criminal prosecution.

  Would he bring his wife and child?

  Charity rolled her shoulders up and back. Seriously, what did she care? What was past was past. She’d moved on. Grady had moved on. She hiked her chin and trailed Mo to Sarah Huffman’s lifeless body.

  Besides. Some things just couldn’t be undone.

  * * *

  Grady West strode across the poorly lit parking lot of the Becker County courthouse, gaze locked on the innocuous beige door that separated him from the family he’d seen maybe a handful of times since he’d left town twelve years earlier. He knew his parents were inside—he’d parked his rental car beside a gleaming Mercedes sporting the IMADOC vanity plate. His father had claimed a space reserved for sheriff’s office employees.

  Good ol’ Dad.

  Grady straightened his tie. He should have stopped at the house and changed his suit before rushing here from the airport. Especially now that he knew his parents hadn’t been home.

  He grimaced. No doubt Drs. Hampton and Roberta West were raising quite a ruckus on the other side of the courthouse door. Justine had asked him not to contact their parents, which meant someone else had clued them in.

  Dammit, he wasn’t ready for this. For any of it. Returning to Becker County, making nice with his mother and father, finding some way to sort out Justine and her troubles. He’d been out of the loop a long time. But not long enough.

  Hell. The sudden heaviness of shame slowed his stride. Grady hesitated at the edge of the lot, next to an SUV made doubly brown by the fresh mud spattered across its paint. His parents weren’t getting any younger. His sister needed him. Besides, he’d never managed to ditch the feeling he’d let Justine down by moving away. Answering her call for help was the least he could do.

  He exhaled, his thoughts settling on the other woman who’d ruled his brain the past few hours. Charity Bishop. He hadn’t seen her since that god-awful night after high school graduation. And now she’d arrested his sister. For murder.

  Didn’t bode well for a cheery reunion.

  He jerked at the cuffs of his jacket and stepped up onto the concrete path. The overpriced ham sandwich he’d forced down his throat at the airport lay heavy in his gut. Justine hadn’t exactly been coherent over the phone, but Grady had heard enough of the pieces to allow him to put together one hell of an outrageous puzzle.

  Disturbing the peace, he could understand. When they were still married, Justine and her husband had regularly entertained their neighbors with their disagreements, producing about the same number of decibels as a subway train passing ten feet away. Sadly enough, Grady could even buy that his s
ister had been picked up for driving under the influence. But murder?

  As he reached for the door handle, he froze, and squeezed his eyes shut. Oh, Jesus. Don’t let it be a hit and run. He pulled in a breath, held it, felt it burn inside his lungs. He yanked open the door.

  At the end of a short corridor, he found a layout not unlike an emergency room waiting area, with rows of battered plastic chairs on one side, reception area behind glass on the other, outdated posters scattered across the walls, and rusted rings on the floor mapping the rearrangement of furniture. In the corner, a soda machine gave off a quiet, continuous hum.

  Besides the positions of the chairs, not much had changed.

  “What are you doing here?” a female voice demanded.

  Including this.

  “I came to help,” Grady said, and held out his arms. “How are you, Mother?”

  She didn’t answer, stepping out of his hug as fast as her three-inch heels would allow. He caught a whiff of her signature scent—the finest bourbon money could buy—and noticed a few extra lines had sidled onto her face. He shifted his shoulders up and around, but they wouldn’t settle back into place.

  Lately his son Matt had been pestering him about needing more time with his grandparents. Seemed Grady had been right to put him off.

  His mother patted the hair gathered at the back of her head and gave Grady the once-over. “Where’s Matthew?”

  “I left him with Valerie.”

  “Was that wise?”

  “Wiser than yanking him out of school so he could visit his aunt in the pokey.”

  An amused, muffled sound wafted from behind the thick glass window. His mother yanked at the hem of her blouse. “That woman will let him stay up all night and eat cold pizza for breakfast.”

  And yet two more reasons for his preteen son to hope Grady took his time getting back to Seattle.

  “‘That woman’ is his mother,” Grady said. “He’ll be fine.” He hoped. Valerie didn’t seem to have much time for their son anymore, and it was ironic as hell, considering Matt had made it clear he’d rather live with her. Grady extended his hand to his other parent. “Dad.”

  His father had money, smarts, charm, and a solid reputation as an orthopedic surgeon. What he wasn’t smug about? A son who’d snubbed medical school, a divorcée daughter who continued to reject his hand-picked candidates for spouse number two, and a wife who exceeded her husband’s height by a solid three inches. When she managed to stand upright.

  Oh, yeah. Hampton West was a bitter man. He clasped Grady’s hand and squeezed hard. Too hard. Surgeon’s roulette, Grady liked to call it. Because one of these days someone would squeeze even harder in return and shatter the good doctor’s livelihood.

  Then Grady looked closer. His father’s eyes were red-rimmed and dazed, like he hadn’t been sleeping. “You okay, Dad?”

  “I had to get him over here from the hospital. He was working late.” His mother pursed her lips. “Again.”

  Christ. “Neither one of you should have been driving tonight.”

  His father swayed, and promptly sat. “How’d you know about your sister, anyway?”

  “Justine called me.”

  “Why would she do that?” His mother looked like she’d caught the housekeeper bringing in the groceries through the front door.

  “Maybe she thought I could help.”

  His father made a flicking motion. “If you’re that determined to be useful, why don’t you get someone to tell us why they haven’t released her?”

  “No one’s talked to you yet?”

  “And while you’re at it, apply some of that crisis management training you’re so proud of and put a gag on the local paper. That damned Phil Smiley—”

  “That’s what you’re worried about? The press?”

  His mother, sought after more for her talents as a hostess than a psychiatrist, gave a throaty huff of anger and rifled in the outside pocket of her handbag for the mints she always carried. “You don’t have to live here. We do. We all know who’s behind this, don’t we?” She tossed back a handful of mints as though they were aspirin. “Keeping us waiting here on purpose,” she seethed. “Making sure the entire county knows exactly where we are. Arresting Justine for no better reason than to promote a run for sheriff.”

  “We haven’t arrested Mrs. Langford. At this point she’s a witness only.”

  Grady’s stomach dipped. That voice. He’d never forgotten that voice. Huskier, after twelve years. An even stronger a reminder of his grandfather’s favorite drink—heated rum and honey, with a splash of lemon.

  His father struggled to his feet. His mother frowned, wavering as she pivoted on too-high heels. Grady turned more slowly, memories of the sass he’d heard spoken in that voice tempting his lips into a smile.

  He resisted the temptation. He needed answers, not a rehashing of the past. Still, when Grady met Charity’s cool hazel gaze, every nerve in his body quivered as if strummed. He had to admit, there were some moments in the past he wouldn’t mind reliving.

  And some he’d give anything to undo.

  Charity stood before him in a long-sleeved, mud-brown uniform, same pretty face, same pale skin, same wicked curves. She’d exchanged her curly ropes of butter-colored hair for a short, wispy cut, and the bridge of her nose sported a telltale bump. He wanted to ask her about the injury, about her job, longed to pull her close and hear the lusty laugh that once upon a time had never failed to pull him back from the edge.

  But that fairy tale was long since over. And even though she’d forgiven him, or once claimed she did, one glance at the jut of her chin made it clear she’d never forget.

  Didn’t matter. Grady had come to help his sister, not make nice with an ex-girlfriend. Despite the gravity of the situation, though, he couldn’t help feeling smug that Charity had no choice but to see him. Ten years too late, but still. This time there’d be no blowing him off over the phone.

  “Charity.” He offered a grim nod. Then his mother’s words worked their way to the front of his brain. Arresting Justine for no better reason than to promote a run for sheriff. He narrowed his gaze on that pale, no-nonsense face.

  Charity was running for sheriff, and a high-profile case had just dropped into her lap. Complete with a convenient suspect. One whose brother had once managed to get Charity arrested.

  Shit.

  Chapter Two

  Charity knew exactly what Grady West was thinking and it took every last ounce of her willpower not to reach for her Taser. So he figured she’d toss his sister under the bus for the sake of a little payback, did he? Nice. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about conflict of interest. The suspicion in his eyes made it clear there was no interest.

  She tucked both thumbs into her rig, narrowed her eyes, and treated her high school sweetheart to her most intimidating cop face. Crap, crap, crap, crap, crap. Twelve years. Twelve years and the jerk still had the ability to knock her off balance. To heat her belly with a slow, liquid curl of need. Could the timing be any worse? She had a lot to prove, to the department, to the community, even to his smug-ass family. With Grady around dredging up feelings best left buried, she’d wind up trying to prove something to him. She couldn’t afford the distraction.

  And she resented the hell out of him for being one.

  Dark brown eyebrows jacked over the same navy eyes that had rattled her when she’d first seen Justine at the crime scene. He’d caught her staring. She shook off the shock of seeing him again and jerked a nod in return.

  “Grady.” Her jaw ached, as if saying his name had exercised long-unused muscles. She lifted her chin, took in an extended breath, and noticed the color of Hampton West’s face had deepened from brick to magenta. Seemed he’d been trying to get her attention.

  “I asked you a question,” he thundered. “What do you mean, ‘at this point she’s a witness?’” He was glowering at her, hands on hips, neck thrust forward. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It m
eans we’re still trying to figure out what happened.”

  “She told you what happened.” Hampton West was so spun up, he actually lifted up onto his toes when he spit the word “told.”

  Charity nodded. “We need to corroborate her version of events.”

  “Are you calling my daughter a liar?”

  Charity gritted her teeth. Think overwrought father. Think public servant.

  Think of the hours of paperwork one knee to the groin would kick off.

  “A murder has been committed,” she told him. “We’d be doing this community a disservice if we failed to conduct a thorough investigation.”

  Roberta West dropped her designer bag on the chair behind her and crossed her arms, the peach silk of her blouse making angry shush-ing sounds as she moved. “Is my daughter under arrest or not?”

  “Dr. West, your daughter found the body. She’s a key witness, and she’s agreed to give us a statement.”

  “You’ve had more than enough time to get her statement.” The woman’s hand flew to her mouth when she almost spit out a mint. “She’s in shock. She needs her rest. We’re taking her home.”

  “We shouldn’t be much longer.” Charity blinked up at the standard government-issue, black-rimmed, slightly off-center clock on the wall. Half past one in the morning. Was it too much to hope that Brenda June had packed an extra sandwich? Or a Valium? “If you’re tired of waiting, we’d be happy to drive Mrs. Langford home after the interview.”

  Hampton West had made his unsteady way over to the soda machine in the corner. Dear Lord, were both of Grady’s parents drunk? Had everyone been drinking tonight?

  The surgeon swung back to face the room, a bottle of ginger ale in his hand. “Of course we’re tired of waiting, but we’re not going anywhere.” He sounded like he suspected that once they set foot outside the building, Charity would toss his daughter behind bars and swallow the key. She might at that, if Brenda June didn’t come through with that sandwich.