by Jo Davis
Sharp pain began to make itself known, and he inspected the damage. His right forearm was scraped, bloody, and dirty, but once it was cleaned it wouldn’t be too bad. The laceration across his kneecap might be more problematic. Probing it, he hissed a breath. The cut was nasty, and he was bleeding like a stuck pig. It was a tricky spot for stitches, though, so he’d just have to tend it as best he could.
Getting to his feet was more difficult than he expected. He was already hurting all over, getting stiff. Of course, there was nobody around on this quiet street to help him, and he hadn’t brought his cell phone. He’d jogged about four miles, and he was looking at a painful walk home. He was going to be late to the station.
He started off, wincing with every slow step. His body was throbbing everywhere, so to occupy his mind, he tried to focus on what he recalled about the truck.
The vehicle was black. Completely. Tinted windows that were beyond legal. Thinking harder, he realized it was a Ford. Newer model, from the grille and logo. He hadn’t been able to get a glimpse of the driver or the plates. As for who might hold a big enough grudge to try to run him down? Fuck, he’d been a cop since he was twenty-one. That list would take all day to compile.
That was all he had, and it wasn’t much.
The walk home took over half an hour. By the time he limped up the porch steps, he wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed and give the finger to this whole day. Instead, he took a hot shower, paying special attention to getting the dirt out of his scrapes and the cut on his knee. It hurt like shit, and he knew he’d feel worse tomorrow. Joy.
Once out of the shower, he toweled off and gathered some first-aid supplies, then sat on the toilet lid. The arm could wait. His knee was still bleeding like a bitch, and he doused it with antiseptic. Several gauze pads later, the bleeding had slowed, and he closed the laceration as best as he could, using some wound glue he’d bought at the drugstore a while back. It worked okay, and he bandaged and taped his knee for good measure. He’d have to watch that wound for infection.
There wasn’t much he could do for the scraped-up arm. He hit it with antiseptic as well, downed a couple of ibuprofen, then hobbled into the bedroom and spotted the time. Just after seven. Before getting dressed, he had to make a call. Picking up his cell, he sat on the bed, brought up his contacts, and punched the number.
Shane answered on the second ring. “Hey, what’s up?”
“I’m going to be a little late, half hour or so. I, um, had an incident.”
“What kind of incident? What happened?” He could hear the concern in his partner’s voice.
“Truck tried to turn me into road kill while I was out running this morning.”
“On purpose?”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck. You okay?”
“I’m fine, just moving slow. Scraped my arm and cut my knee after he hit me—”
“The bastard actually hit you?” his friend barked. “Why the hell aren’t you in the ER getting checked out?”
“Calm down, partner. Like I said, it’s not that bad. I got clipped by the bumper, is all.” He cut Shane off before the man could get started again. “After I get there, I’m going to file a report so the guys on patrol can watch for the truck. Black Ford.”
“The one with the fucking dent in the front.”
He had to smile. “That’ll be the one.”
“I’m already at the station. I’ll give them a heads-up so they can go ahead and start looking,” he said, an angry edge to his words.
“Thanks, man.”
“You need a ride? I can send a squad.”
“No, I’m good.” The last thing he wanted was to call even more attention to his situation.
“All right. Take your time and I’ll see you soon.”
Ending the call, Taylor went to the closet and chose an acceptable pair of jeans that were comfortable. Then he lingered over the shirts. A short-sleeved one would be better because it wouldn’t rub on the scrapes, but then he’d have to field questions all day from people who hadn’t heard about this morning. Debating, he settled on a dark, long-sleeved cotton shirt that would hide the wounds and any dots of blood that might seep through.
Once he was dressed, putting on his shoes was an effort. Amazing how fast the body became bruised and sore. Good thing he was going in to the station—if he sat around here much longer, he might never move again.
Downstairs in the kitchen, he settled on coffee and half a toasted bagel. He needed something in his stomach, and he couldn’t live without his daily jolt of caffeine. Especially today. He carried both with him and eyed his new Challenger before climbing in.
He loved muscle cars, and this was a really cool one. But he missed his old Chevelle, which had been fucked up a few weeks ago when Shane and he had taken a dip—car and all—into the Cumberland River while in pursuit of a suspect. The car was currently sitting alone and forlorn in Christian Ford’s big garage out back of his house. Chris was Shane’s cousin and a fellow Homicide detective, having recently transferred in from Texas. The three of them tinkered on fixing the Chevelle when they had time, and Taylor had the extra cash, which wasn’t often.
God, he missed that car.
The Challenger started with a throaty roar, which he had to admit was pretty butch. Too bad he couldn’t enjoy driving it today, with his knee screaming every time he switched from the gas to the brake. Maybe he should’ve accepted the ride. Too late now.
He made it to the station and was thankfully able to give his report with little fanfare. Apparently, Shane had told only those who needed to know: their captain, Austin Rainey, and a couple of uniforms. He had no doubt that the entire department would know within the hour, but at least he was able to have some breathing room. A few minutes later, he limped into his partner’s office and closed the door.
Shane looked up from some papers, giving him a half-smile. “Hey. He must’ve winged you good.”
“For sure. No point in sitting around at home, though.”
“You might reconsider tomorrow, when it’s worse.”
“We’ll see.” He wouldn’t call in sick unless he was on his deathbed, and they both knew it.
Shane just shook his head. “Tell me exactly what happened.”
Taylor spent the next few minutes giving his partner the rundown, though there wasn’t much to tell. They went back through some of their most recent cases to try to form a list of who might still carry enough of a grudge to commit attempted murder, but although there were several candidates, none was that strong.
Taylor tried to get comfortable in his chair, wincing as he squirmed. “Most of them are in prison or dead. And the ones that are out . . . I can come up with a list as long as my arm of who would run me over if they had the chance, but . . .” He frowned.
“What?”
“This had a different feel. Nothing I can put my finger on, just intuition.”
“Like he was waiting for the opportunity?”
“Exactly. I’ve got no proof, though.”
“You and I both know people kill for two main reasons—passion or money.” His partner eyed him. “Which one do you fit?”
Taylor snorted. “Since I’m not loaded, I’m guessing passion. And there’re all kinds of passion-motived killings. Specifically hate, when it comes to cops.”
Unbidden, his nightmare intruded. Viciously, he shoved it into its box.
“Okay. Someone you, or we, arrested, then.”
“Maybe.” Rubbing his eyes, Taylor let out a tired breath. “Can we talk about this later? It might not even happen again.”
“Sure.”
Somehow, Taylor didn’t really believe that. A chill slithered down his spine, telling him this was only the start. Could be his overwrought, stressed mind, but it didn’t seem likely that was all there was to it.
A knock interrupted his thoughts, and Captain Rainey stepped into Shane’s office. “We’ve got a body at the Sugarland Motel. Caller reported the sound of a
gunshot, and Jenkins found the guy shot between the eyes.”
Shane stood, groaning. “And let me guess. It’s our turn.”
“Yep.” The captain looked at Taylor. “You up for this?”
“I’m here, aren’t I? If I was going to laze around, I’d stay home.”
Rainey grinned. “That’s the spirit. Now, go get fucking busy.” Turning, the captain strolled out, whistling.
“He’s all heart,” Shane said, making a face.
“At least he’s in a good mood today. Wonder what’s up with that.”
Their captain was having serious marital problems—as in going down the tubes, permanently. He’d been tired and haggard the past few months, and they had all been worried about his health. Today, however, he had a spring in his step.
“No clue, but let’s not rock the boat.”
Taylor rose with some difficulty and stiffly followed his partner out the door. Turning down Shane’s offer to drive, he slid behind the wheel, and they were off.
On the way, he thought he saw a black truck in traffic, three cars behind. Then it turned and was gone.
• • •
As though nearly being run over wasn’t enough, the corpse with the neat little hole in the center of its forehead turned out to be a harbinger.
A sign of a shit storm heading his way.
Taylor stood next to Shane as both of them studied the dead man sprawled faceup on the floor. His salt-and-pepper hair was surrounded by a sticky pool of blood congealing on the industrial-grade carpet, and his expression was vaguely surprised.
“Who the hell was the poor bastard?” Taylor muttered. “And why did he get popped here of all places?”
Shane snorted. “He could’ve had the decency to get his ass killed in Nashville, out of our jurisdiction.”
Taylor rolled his eyes at his partner’s crappy joke.
“You know what I meant.”
“Yeah.”
Both of them glanced around the small motel room, but there wasn’t much to see. At least on the surface. Carefully stepping around the body, Taylor noted some clothes hanging in the closet next to the bathroom.
“Another suit, a couple of pairs of jeans, and three polo shirts.” He peered into the bathroom. “A shaving kit in there. That’s all.”
“Got a small leather carryall on the table containing underwear and socks. A plane ticket, too, round-trip from LAX to Nashville International and back. Looks like he arrived yesterday, was supposed to fly back in three days. Car keys and his wallet beside the bag.” Shane left the leather trifold sitting on the dresser and flipped it open with the edge of one latex-covered finger. “Max Griffin, born December 12, 1946. San Diego address.”
Taylor’s heart gave a lurch. He stared at Shane, his friend unaware of his sudden chill. It means nothing. San Diego is not Los Angeles. They’re two different cities, 121 miles apart, almost a two-hour drive.
“Interesting,” he managed. “So the car outside is his rental. He was here for a specific reason, but there’s no evidence of what that might’ve been.”
“Not yet.” Turning, Shane yelled out the open door to the officer who’d arrived first on the scene. “Jenk!”
Aaron Jenkins, their new hire at the department, stuck his head in the door. “Yes, sir?”
“Take these and open that rental. See if you can find anything inside to give us a clue why our dead guy was in town.” Shane tossed him the car keys, and the kid caught them one-handed. “Be careful about touching stuff.”
“On it!” His boy-next-door face lit up at the prospect of helping with the investigation.
As Jenkins ducked out again, Taylor chuckled. “Damn, were we ever that young and green?”
“Probably, once upon a time.” His partner quirked his mouth in a half-smile. “Do you ever wish you could go back to your early twenties?”
“For the wild social life and the hot young bod? Sure. For being the low cop on the totem pole again? Not so much.”
“True.”
“Though my bod is still hot.”
“If that’s what you want to tell yourself, old man.”
“Says he who turns the big three-0 next week,” Taylor shot back. “I’m only two years older than you.”
“Just fucking with you.”
“When are you not?”
In truth, Taylor gave as good as he got when it came to his partner. Shane and he had worked in Homicide together for over four years, since Taylor had moved to Sugarland, Tennessee, from Los Angeles. His mind shied away from the disaster that had prompted his move, and he focused on how content he was here, among people he liked and respected.
Shane and he might trade barbs, but it was all in good fun. His partner had become one of his best friends, and he’d do just about anything for the man. He had no doubt the feeling was mutual.
“Nothing much in the car, sir,” Jenk said, stepping into the room. “Just some fast-food wrappers and a map. Isn’t that odd?”
“What’s that?” Shane asked.
“Well, who uses a paper road map anymore, right? Most people use their smartphones or a GPS, especially if they’re traveling alone. Hard to read an old-fashioned map when you’re driving.”
That gave Taylor’s partner pause. “You’re right, though sometimes people prefer the old way of doing things. Reading a smartphone while driving alone would be just as tough.” He sighed. “Come to think of it, we didn’t find a phone at all. Good work.”
The kid beamed at the praise. Taylor suppressed a grin and was about to play razz the rookie when Medical Examiner Laura Eden arrived, along with the police department’s forensics unit.
The room got crowded, so Jenk, Taylor, and Shane moved outside to let the others process the scene. There wasn’t much to find, and in less than an hour, Eden was giving them the short version.
“No surprises. Well, not counting the man with the bullet in his brain,” she said drily. “Based on the blood splatter, this is indeed the murder scene. Mr. Griffin was shot in the forehead at point-blank range with a smaller-caliber handgun. Nothing much to bag except a couple of hairs and some other fibers.”
“They finding any prints?” Taylor asked.
The striking brunette arched a brow. “In a motel room? Seriously, Detective?”
His face heated. “Right.” How stupid of him. Not to mention it sucked to sound like an idiot in front of a gorgeous woman who’d turned him down flat for a dinner date. Twice.
“Anyhow, I’d say he’s been dead for about an hour and a half. That’s all I know, but I’ll send you what I’ve got when I know more.”
Taylor cleared his throat. “We about done here, then?”
Shane nodded, running a hand through his longish brown hair. “Yep. Thanks, Laura.”
“No problem. See you, guys.”
It kind of smarted how she just went back inside without a backward glance, all cool professionalism. His partner must’ve noticed something in his expression as they walked to Taylor’s car, because he couldn’t resist making a comment.
“It’s not you, buddy. You’re the one who told me she had a thing for the captain.”
“Yeah, I know,” he grumped as he slid behind the wheel. “Why do women always want the guy who’s not available?”
“They’re twisted like that, my friend. Well, not all of them.” Shane buckled his seat belt. “Just find a different horse to bet on than Laura.”
“Easy for you to say. You snagged a fine woman, and you’ve got a great kid.”
A dopey smile split his friend’s face. “I did, didn’t I? I’m a lucky SOB.”
I will not be jealous. I’m happy for him.
He was, truly. Shane and his new wife, Daisy, had been through hell and so had Shane’s seventeen-year-old godson, Drew Cooper. Being colleagues at the police department had been a minor obstacle for the couple compared to their other troubles, especially helping Drew deal with the trauma of his father’s death. Then there were the awful secrets
Drew had been keeping and the danger those secrets had brought into their lives.
But it was over now, and the three of them were forging a new life together.
“Hey, you’re a great guy,” Shane said, sensing the dip in his mood. “You’re going to find a fantastic lady who loves everything about you. You’re funny and easygoing, and you’re a good friend to everyone who knows you.”
“Is this the part where we hug?”
“Shut up, asswipe.”
But he laughed, and Taylor couldn’t help but be a little cheered as he pulled out of the parking lot.
Maybe this day would take a turn for the better after all.
• • •
Max is dead! Oh, God.
Cara Evans pulled the baseball cap low on her head and watched the activity from her hiding place in the park across the street from the Sugarland Motel. Angrily, she swiped away the tears that refused to quit falling. Just as she’d done for the past four goddamned years.
Max had come to town, looking for Cara. Then he’d phoned, urging her in a hushed voice to meet him at the motel. Why had he come to her? Especially now, after all this time? Who killed him, and why? His visit could be related to her sister’s murder. Or their father’s estate. Any number of things. But the answers to those questions had died with Max in that awful room.
One thing for sure—the murdering asshole would pay for snuffing out the life of a good man. The only person she had still counted as a friend in the entire sorry world. Leaning her head against the rough bark of the tree, she gave up and let the tears flow. For several long moments, she allowed herself to grieve, barely aware of the sounds of activity across the street. Gradually, however, she gained a measure of control. Her fingers tightened around a solid object she’d forgotten about.
Max’s iPhone.
She’d be in a fuck ton of trouble if and when the cops thought to track its whereabouts. It would be hard to explain her presence in Max’s room and why she’d lifted the device. Harder still to convince them that she hadn’t killed him, that he’d been dead when she arrived. But she planned to get rid of the phone. As soon as she took a peek to try to determine why he had wanted to see her so badly. Why he had possibly died for it.