Winter Song (Seasons Pass Book 1)

by Susan C. Muller

  “Don’t worry, one of your ancestors did and that was enough to do the job. I’ve seen you talk a squirrel out of his nuts, though Jeannie might be a harder sell. Tell her you think it’s a bunch of hooey, but I insisted. Or better yet, tell her Jansen insisted. Hey, let’s go talk to the old fart. He will insist and then you won’t be lying. I know what a piss poor job you do of it when it comes to Jeannie.”

  Noah jumped out of his chair and headed for the lieutenant’s office before Conner had time to stand. He didn’t make it halfway through his report before Jansen insisted Conner move Jeannie somewhere safe.

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can. I want to go over every scrap of evidence we have, be ready to move when the reports come back from the lab in the morning.” Conner grabbed his coat and headed for the elevator, already planning the fastest route to Jeannie’s school.

  Noah snatched up his cane and hobbled behind him. “Stay with Jeannie tonight. You can go over the nonresident cases on your laptop. Warn me first if you find something. I’d hate like hell for some other jurisdiction to snatch him from under our noses. I’ll stay here and examine everything we’ve got. Maybe I’ll get lucky, find something new.”

  At the elevator, Conner stopped, his hand on the down button. “What about Rachelle and her family? He wouldn’t go after them, would he?”

  Like a bad case of déjà vu, Conner watched Noah as the blood drained from his face and he fumbled for his cell phone, his hands shaking.

  Finally, Ryan’s mother had quit fussing over him and left for the grocery store. She might even lower herself to cook tonight. Pops was in his usual spot; parked in front of the TV.

  Ryan closed his bedroom door softly, no sense alerting his father, and booted up his laptop. Time to troll the cop’s computer. See if he could learn anything new.

  His keyboard clicked rapidly as he typed in the cop’s password, but Pops would never hear it over the television. He had the volume so high, Ryan could feel the vibration each time Han Solo shot down another Empire Star Ship.

  Damn. No new information on the case. Just the same draft of a warrant listing an unknown witness. If he could find that fucking witness, he could make this all go away.

  Could he have hidden the information in some innocent sounding folder? Might as well check. This was more fun than window peeping.

  Fuck, where’d all that money come from? Cops were supposed to be broke, he was broke last June. Must have been when he bought the house. So where did it all come from? Ah, insurance.

  Ryan scrolled forward. Damn, the man had never touched a penny of it. He ought to at least buy himself a decent suit. Well, if he doesn’t want it, I do. All I need to do is figure out where to transfer it so it can’t be followed.

  He had just finished setting up an account in the Cayman’s when he felt his father’s hot beer breath on his neck.

  “Don’t be stingy, send a little of that my way.”

  Ryan jumped, almost knocking his chair over. Shit, Pops had planned this from the beginning, turning the TV up so high, he couldn’t hear him come in. There went half his profit. The old man might be past his prime, but he still had a mind like a bank vault door. He’d try, but he didn’t see his father falling for it.

  “We’ll leave it here till the heat dies down. If you start spending now, bells will go off all over town.” Ryan hit enter and watched the money magically move from Houston to the Caribbean in less time than it took Pops to send another beer laden breath into his face.

  “Good one, son. I’d have been disappointed if you didn’t try.” The hand that had been resting gently on his shoulder began to squeeze, gradually tighter and tighter until pain shot down one arm and up his neck into his head. Acid rose in his mouth and Ryan cried out. His father loosened his grip.

  “Now, let’s set me up one of those nifty accounts and move half that total over to my name, or whatever identity I choose. Go slow. I want to learn how you do that.”

  Ryan’s arm hung limp at his side. The army of hungry caterpillars eating his brain receded, millimeter by millimeter.

  “Take your time. Whenever you feel up to it.” Pops patted him on the shoulder and stinging ants crawled the length of his arm.

  Ryan cleared his throat and struggled to raise his arm to the keyboard. “Here Pops, let me show you how to do it.”

  Pops leaned over his shoulder, grunting occasionally and asking him to repeat a step once, but otherwise silent. When the transfer was complete, Pops gave what might pass for a smile and left the room.

  If he was lucky, Pops would leave one or two hundred in the account to keep it open while he moved the rest to the new account he’d undoubtedly open immediately.

  He wouldn’t be able to follow the money to the new account unless he was sitting at Pops’ computer. And that would never happen while Pops was still alive. The cop might be fool enough to use the same password for everything, but Pops wasn’t.

  Wait, wait, wait. The cop. The same password. Why hadn’t he thought of that? The guy probably used the same password at his office. It might be possible to find the witness after all. Then he wouldn’t have to run. Leave his comfortable life behind.

  A hard hour working with an arm that was only now beginning to respond, and he’d broken through HPD’s firewall and into the cop’s office computer. Bingo. The same string of numbers he’d used at home. A date of some kind. A birthday? Anniversary? Who cared? He had it. A chuckle escaped before he clamped his lips together. He couldn’t afford to alert his father.

  He learned plenty about how the cop built a case with painstaking work and meticulous records, but no witness name. In a file marked ‘Little Turd,’ he found a new warrant for his arrest. Cute, Detective Dickhead. Your turn will come.

  The warrant listed other cases he was suspected of; Galveston, Fort Bend, Sugarland. How had the flatfoot figured that out? Those jobs were clean.

  Derrick. They were all the jobs he’d used Derrick on. None of the ones he’d done alone. Good, a decent lawyer could put all the blame on Derrick, who had obviously run when he felt the heat.

  He scrolled down to the last page and his heart stopped. The Houston job. They’d found something on it. He couldn’t tell what. And a lab report, connecting his mom’s sleeping pills to a substance found in the cop’s house.

  He slammed his hand on his desk and the ants returned to remind him of his mistake in trying to put one over on Pops. That fucking cop. He could trace all his troubles back to him.

  He had to be ready to run in case he couldn’t find that missing witness. There were things he couldn’t bear to leave behind.

  He snatched up his keys and backpack and started toward the front door. “Hey, Pops. I’ve got an errand to run. I’ll be back in twenty minutes. You need me to do anything for you while I’m out?”

  “You’re not old enough to buy beer, so what good are you?”

  Good enough to set you up so you can afford your own beer.

  His hand rested on the doorknob when he heard Pops mutter, “Try not to get caught this time. You’ve done such an outstanding job of that so far.”

  All his treasures, his beautiful mementos. Ryan sat on his bed, caressing each item as he watched the door, making sure Pops hadn’t seen him come home. Could he bear to part with them? He’d have to if he was going to run.

  Maybe he could pare them down. Just keep the ones that meant the most to him. But which ones? He loved them all.

  He fingered a tiny cat collar, listening to the bell tinkle. Certainly not this one. His first. He could still feel the silky fur, and the heart beating so fast. . . until it didn’t beat at all.

  No, he’d have to take them all. He’d save a small piece of Crystal Hudson’s jewelry and sell the rest. With the money he’d saved, and now the cop’s insurance, he’d be fine. He’d be even finer if Pops hadn’t helped himself to half of it.

  Shit. Thirty minutes with the old man’s landline, and he’d have it back where it belonged. He glanced towar
d his open bedroom door and rolled his shoulder. Better not risk it.

  He didn’t need it anyway. Running was only a last option. Once he took care of the witness and that nosy cop, he’d be golden. They couldn’t prove a thing.

  That little dog would just be icing on the cake.

  Sweet Pea scrambled across the kitchen to meet Noah, her tail wagging. He bent over and scooped her up with one hand.

  “How you doing, Pea? You miss me?” He set the take-out bag on the counter. “No hamburger for you tonight. You remember what the vet said.” Sweet Pea cocked her head to one side. “So I got you chicken instead. Will that satisfy your majesty?”

  The dog wiggled excitedly as the aroma of grilled chicken filled the room.

  Noah carefully mixed the chicken breast with dog food and set her bowl on the mat, before unwrapping his own meal. “Want to tell me about your day, Pea? Any door-to-door salesmen come by? No cat prissed across our yard, did they? You must have done a good job of keeping them out.”

  The grilled chicken didn’t taste too bad. He hadn’t wanted to order a hamburger if Sweet Pea couldn’t have one, and watching that pudgy teenager had reminded him that he’d better improve his own eating habits before criticizing others.

  He leaned back and stretched out his leg. “My day wasn’t so great. Our friendly neighborhood murderer is out on bail and living down the street from us. I had to talk Rachelle and her family into bunking in with Frank’s folks for a few days. You can guess how that went over.”

  Sweet Pea finished eating and tried to wipe her face on the mat.

  “Conner and Jeannie are in seclusion. Even Laurel and Rosaria are hiding. One psychotic little twerp and half the city moved out of their homes. What do you think of that, Pea? We’re the only ones dumb enough to stay home. I called two motels, but they wouldn’t take dogs. We should be safe. He wouldn’t dare try us again.”

  Sweet Pea belched.

  “Yeah, I agree with you.” This whole mess made him want to puke. Good people in hiding while that murderer sat at home, eating his mother’s cooking.

  Maybe I should call Laurel, check that she got to her mother’s okay. He had her cell phone number. Now why did that make him smile? It was only conscientious police work. She had still been at home when he left.

  He would change his clothes, get comfortable, then make the call. But only to be certain that the last of the little chicks he’d put in harm’s way was now tucked away safely.

  Noah hobbled to his feet. He’d leaned his cane against the table when he lifted Sweet Pea and now used it to cross the kitchen toward his crutches, waiting in the corner. His knee had held up fairly well for most of the day, but by afternoon it had started to swell. The skin felt tight and bending it was a bitch.

  He slid the cane between the counter and the refrigerator, hooking the brass dog’s snout over the countertop. Man, he hated going back to the crutches—they hurt his pride almost as much as his sore hand and arm—but he had to be able to walk without help tomorrow if he wanted to be in on the arrest. And the only way to accomplish that was to rest his knee tonight. Absolutely no weight on it until he reached the office tomorrow.

  He maneuvered his way down the hall to his bedroom where he sat on the edge of the bed to change into sweats. When he stood to put his gun and badge away in the nightstand, he caught a glimmer of light reflecting from under the bed.

  That damn violin. What was he going to do with it?

  He remembered his mother’s pleading as if it was yesterday instead of fifteen years ago. When the police notified them that someone had tried to hock his father’s violin, they’d both assumed his murder was solved. But the evidence disappeared and no charges were filed.

  She began to obsess about getting the instrument back. It had been in his father’s family for several generations. She wanted Noah to have it, to hand it down to his kids.

  Noah didn’t care about the sentimental value—he was only twenty, and it was years before he met Betsy or considered having children of his own—but he needed the money it would bring to help pay for his mother’s care.

  Her health had declined rapidly and she seemed to lose the will to live. The pills the doctor had given her couldn’t control the breakthrough pain that overcame her at night. He’d pleaded with the doctor for something stronger. The doctor had refused, claiming she might become addicted.

  Addicted, who cared? She’d been dying and in pain.

  He would sit up with her while she begged him to retrieve the violin, her voice that had thrilled millions, now only a hoarse whisper.

  He hadn’t been able to ease her pain, so he tried to ease her mind.

  He’d gathered every penny he could scrape together—$1,178.00—and headed for the dump the guy lived in. Naively thinking he could buy the instrument back.

  What a joke. Expecting the guy to hand over a violin worth a quarter of a million dollars, not to mention evidence of his part in a murder.

  Noah shook his head. What a fool he’d been. Rachelle was right. Betsy had been right. That violin had brought his family nothing but sorrow. He could never bring the man back, but he could get rid of that evil talisman.

  Grabbing his crutches, he hobbled into the living room. At Betsy’s insistence, he’d laid out wood for a fire the day they’d moved in, ready for the first cold day of winter. She hadn’t lived to see it and he hadn’t had the heart to light it.

  He used the butane lighter and the fire caught right away. All those years of scouting finally good for something. He watched as the blaze grew, filling the room with warmth.

  Holding the violin between his knees, he removed the strings. His heart hammered against his ribs as he laid the bow on top of the burning logs. Then, holding his breath and closing his eyes, he smashed the violin across his good knee and tossed it in the fire.

  The smell of burning rosin filled the room. The fire crackled, and snapped, and spit embers, but the violin disappeared as if it never existed. His throat tightened as he watched the flames.

  He didn’t need the daily reminder. If he couldn’t remember that a man’s life was worth more than a musical instrument, he was no better than the doped-up scum who murdered his father.

  Ryan stowed each trinket in a zippered compartment inside his backpack. They didn’t add much weight or volume and what else did he need, really?

  He’d wasted an hour on his father’s computer. The old man was sharper than he appeared, more twists and turns and name changes than Ryan would have thought possible. The money was now back in his account where it belonged. Add the cash Pops had stashed in an old shoe, and he could run in comfort for quite some time.

  But he shouldn’t have to run. He’d had a comfortable life here. Until his mother walked in on him, all his treasures spread out before him. She immediately spotted her bracelet, then she noticed Crystal Hudson’s diamonds and gold. She started asking questions, her voice rising each time he didn’t answer. When his father came in, he’d had no choice, he had to take steps. Could he have shut her up if he’d offered her a piece of jewelry? Too late to think of that now.

  The one person who actually loved him, who believed every word he told her. Pops had been easy, but his mother, that had been hard.

  It was all that fucking cop’s fault. His life had started to fall apart the minute that big cop opened his mouth on TV. If he’d kept his nose in Houston where it belonged, Bellaire would still have their heads up their asses, and he’d be studying for his chemistry exam.

  Pops would have said everything unraveled when he hit that patch of ice and fishtailed, losing the target but deciding to make the hit anyway without proper planning. But Pops didn’t understand what it felt like when that itch came over him, the need that only one thing satisfied.

  Anyway, Pops wasn’t saying much of anything now, was he?

  He left his backpack inside the front door. Fifteen minutes, twenty, and he’d be back for it. He glanced around the shabby room. Not much to look at, but
it had been home. He might as well take Pops’ car when he left. It was more dependable than his. No, the cop’s big truck. He could almost feel the power that engine offered. Not like he’d be needing it any longer.

  After the way Detective Dickhead screwed up his carefully planned life, he deserved whatever happened to him. And plenty was about to happen.

  The back door creaked as he slid it open far enough to slip out. Cold night air caught his breath and turned it into fog. The moon hid behind thick clouds. His tennis shoes made no sound on the empty sidewalk.

  Lights were still on in the house next door, but most of the neighborhood was dark. The cop had gone to bed at eleven-thirty last time he was there, so he should be about ready to turn in. Relaxed and with his guard down.

  Ryan hugged the shadows as he made his way down the block to the cop’s house, his excitement building as he reached the familiar yard. Good, lights were still on in some rooms. He slipped around to the side door. Did it matter if he left prints on the knob? Probably not at this point, but he covered his hand with the sleeve of his sweat shirt out of habit.

  What the fuck? The garage door wouldn’t budge. The SOB had nailed it shut.

  Like that would save him. Or that sorry excuse for a dog.

  Ryan let himself through the gate and into the backyard, the soft ground almost silent beneath his feet. Winter bare trees allowed light to seep through the branches and he waited behind a large oak for the cop to open the door. Within five minutes, the back door swung wide, spilling light across a three-foot area of yard as the little mutt scooted out.

  “Hurry it up, Sweet Pea. Don’t let the cold air in.” The cop yawned and stretched, standing on the back stoop. No sign that he had heard the gate open or that he was expecting anything.

  Sweet Pea cocked her head as if waiting for him to join her.

  “Not tonight. You’re on your own. Managing even two stairs on crutches might as well be Everest.”