Cutting Edge f-3

by Allison Brennan

  Duke inspected the equipment and shook his head. “It’s live feed. Not recorded.”

  “Meaning there are no tapes?” Nora asked.

  “Exactly.”

  “What’s the point of having security if you don’t have recordings?”

  “It’s supposed to be a deterrent, and to give the clerk an advance sign if there’s going to be trouble.”

  “Seems shortsighted to me,” Nora mumbled.

  They left the gas station and drove to the Starbucks where Russ had been only hours before his death. This neighborhood fit the image of a college town with several cheap restaurants, a few clothing stores, bookstores, and a large corner Starbucks with tables inside and out. It was noon and the sun beat down on the desert city. They stepped into the cool, air-conditioned Starbucks. It was busy, half full with mostly college students, some chatting, some working on laptops, some doing homework alone or in groups. The scent of coffee had Nora’s stomach growling.

  “What do you want?” Duke asked.

  “I’m fine,” she said.

  “Your stomach says you’re lying. My treat.”

  “She should shut up.” She was mildly embarrassed that her hunger was audible. “Iced mocha, with whipped cream.”

  “Nora has a sweet tooth.”

  “Nora needs the sugar,” she replied with a half smile. When they reached the cashier, Duke ordered and Nora asked to speak to the manager.

  Shortly after their drinks were served, a cute blonde, not more than twenty-five years old, approached. “Can I help you?” Her long hair was pulled back and she wore no makeup. The green apron was tied three times around her impossibly skinny waist. Her nameplate read Sandy, Assistant Manager.

  Nora introduced herself and Duke and asked if they could speak with her in private.

  “We don’t really have the space in back,” Sandy said. She motioned to a vacant table in the corner.

  It would have to do. They sat and Nora asked quietly, “We’re interested in this man.” She pushed over a photograph of Russell Larkin that Duke had brought. It was his DMV photo, enlarged, and printed on quality photo stock.

  She looked. “I don’t know. Should I know him? I see a lot of people, and he might look familiar, but he has a familiar face, you know?”

  Larkin was average, clean-cut and pleasant-looking without being a standout. “He’s just over six feet tall and thin. He was here Sunday morning.”

  “I don’t work weekends-let me grab the schedule and see who was on then.”

  The girl jumped up and Nora sipped her iced mocha. Duke had gotten her the largest size. It hit her empty stomach and felt like heaven. She really needed to eat regularly. She told herself that all the time, but still rarely managed to eat two meals a day.

  “Thank you.”

  “Watching your face is thanks enough,” he said.

  She didn’t quite know how to take the comment. Duke just grinned at her.

  Sandy returned with a petite Asian girl named Summer. “Summer worked Sunday from opening until two,” Sandy said.

  The girl looked at the picture with interest. “I remember him. He used his Starbucks card. It was one I hadn’t seen for a long time, two people in a car with a dog.”

  Nora showed the card through the clear plastic evidence bag. “Like this?”

  She frowned. “Yes. Is something wrong?”

  Sandy was also concerned. “Do I need to call the regional manager?”

  “No, this isn’t related to your business, but the owner of this card was murdered the day he came in here, and we’re retracing his steps.”

  Summer put her hand to her mouth. “Oh no, that’s horrible.”

  “The receipt shows that he ordered two drinks and pastries. Do you recall who he was with?”

  “He came in alone, ordered the drinks, and went outside to the patio. We had our Sunday morning special, buy one, get one half off. He went out on the patio and I was at the register, so I couldn’t see him from my position, but about twenty minutes later we had a lull and I went out to wipe down tables. He was sitting with a girl.”

  “A girl? What did she look like?”

  She shrugged. “Brown hair, round face, very pretty.”

  “Would you recognize her if you saw her?”

  “Maybe, I don’t know. I think she’s been in here a couple times, but not recently, and maybe I’m wrong? I’m good with faces, but I tend to remember those who come in regularly.”

  “Anything that stood out about her? Height, weight, a mole or anything else?”

  “Not really. She was on the skinny side, but kind of turn-your-head gorgeous. She had big round eyes, I remember now. I think one of the guys was talking about her eyes. I wish I could help, but really, it’s just a vague memory.”

  “You’ve done great,” Nora said. “How long were they here?”

  “They were still there when I came back inside, and then gone next time I went out to straighten up, but that was at least thirty minutes later.”

  Nora looked at the receipt. Russ Larkin bought the coffee just after ten in the morning. Approximately 10:30 a.m., Summer went out and saw him talking to an attractive brunette. By 11 a.m., they were gone.

  “How did they act together?” Nora asked. “Friendly? Romantic? Upset?”

  “I guess friendly. They weren’t laughing or fighting or anything, just having a conversation. Low-key.”

  “Thank you for your time.” Nora handed her a card. “If you see the girl, or remember anything else, please call me as soon as you can.”

  “I will.”

  As Nora and Duke left, she said, “I’m going to have Sara Ralston follow up with the male staff, see if anyone has something more to add to Summer’s statement.”

  In the car, Duke climbed in the passenger seat and held up two sandwiches. “Turkey or cheese and avocado?”

  “You don’t look like a cheese and avocado guy,” Nora said, taking that sandwich. They’d parked under a shade tree and Nora rolled down the windows. A warm breeze tamed the sun.

  “I wasn’t sure if you were a vegetarian or not.”

  “No, but I love cheese and avocado.” She unwrapped her sandwich. “That was thoughtful of you.”

  “You haven’t eaten all day. It has to be messing with your thought process. When I’m hungry, I can’t concentrate.”

  “Does the pretty brunette ring any bells?” she asked Duke.

  “No. I don’t know Russ that well.”

  “He had an overnight bag.”

  “Possibly-but he could have that with him all the time. I have an emergency kit in my car.”

  “You do?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Yes, but I’m a first responder. A requirement of my position.” She paused. “And sort of habit. We often moved when I was growing up, usually on the spur of the moment. Sometimes because my mother just felt like it, other times because we had to. I was used to traveling light and keeping what was important to me in my pack at all times.” And my bag with me at all times, too.

  “That’s hard.”

  “I was a verifiable bag lady.” She laughed humorlessly. “I grew up more or less homeless, not because my mom couldn’t work, but because she refused to. She did odd jobs here and there, but there were times when we lived in a place, usually with a group of people. She also had a scam going from county to county claiming to be a victim of domestic violence, so we could get a place for a couple weeks, she’d get a temporary job, and when she had enough money to split, we were off again on the next ‘adventure’ as she called it. Mostly she stole what she wanted and never felt a moment of guilt. I hated it.”

  She put down the second half of her sandwich, her face flushed. “I can’t believe I told you all that.”

  “I’m glad you did.”

  Nora was angry with herself. She had sounded bitter, but she wasn’t. She’d come to terms with her past, and maybe that’s why she could speak of it to a virtual stranger. No, she was deceiving h
erself. While she’d accepted her past, it wasn’t something she discussed with anyone … just Duke. She felt comfortable with him, and she wanted him to know, to understand who she was. But here? Now? It wasn’t the place or the time.

  “That was highly inappropriate.” She started the car. “I’ll attribute it to hunger.”

  Duke took her hand and squeezed until she looked at him.

  “Thank you for telling me.”

  She smiled.

  Yeah, she was glad she’d told him.

  Duke watched Nora as they headed back toward Sacramento. Even as she expertly maneuvered the vehicle, he saw that she was lost in thought. Thinking about the past? About her cases? About this case? Maybe everything.

  Up until their parents were killed, the Rogans had led a charmed life. They hadn’t been wealthy their entire life, but right before the twins were born, Duke’s parents, Paul and Sheila, ended up with a patent for law enforcement and military gear that went big.

  Still, even before that change of fate, the Rogans always had a home. Duke was born and raised in the same house he still lived in. When they had the money, they remodeled the hundred-year-old farm-style house in Rancho Cordova. The area was known for tract homes and lower-income families, but the Rogans had a five-acre parcel that butted against the American River. He hadn’t wanted to move after the plane crash to avoid uprooting Sean when he desperately needed stability. And now? It was comfortable. It wouldn’t occur to him to move anywhere else.

  The house had long been a gathering spot. J.T. and Jax Caruso had practically lived there, since their parents were divorced and neither cared much about what their kids did. The kids from the neighborhood had always come by after school; Sheila had always said it was better to come to her house than to get in trouble on the streets. She had fed the neighborhood, monitored potential problems, and always listened.

  That was what Duke missed the most about his mom.

  She’d always had time for him and his brothers and sister. Even when she was working, even when she had outside commitments, she listened. She rarely offered advice unless directly asked, but she’d always ask one or two questions that guided you to the right answer. His dad was more cut-and-dried, right-and-wrong, but he, too, believed that family was everything, and as long as the Rogans were together, they could handle anything.

  Their deaths left such a gaping void that the family split apart. Duke never understood how it had happened. Duke had been back from his months fighting Kane’s wars in Central America for less than a year when their parents died. Kane returned and tried to be the patriarch, but it was not in his blood. He handled grief differently from most people, Duke supposed. So the responsibilities fell to Duke, and too soon the twins left the country to run their own security business and Kane turned over the business he started with J.T. Caruso to Duke, and returned to Central America. And Duke and Sean kept the house up, though it was far too big for the two of them.

  But through it all, if Duke needed anything, Kane was there. Home base was always … home. And having the foundation that his parents gave him was irreplaceable.

  He stared at Nora. She was now aware he was looking at her; he could tell by the way she drove, keeping her eyes on the road, her focus on the other drivers. Everywhere but on him. He made her nervous, and he didn’t know why. He was the one in awe of what she’d accomplished in her life. To have grown up in that situation and to turn out not only smart and sharp, but to be a cop. A fed. It couldn’t have been easy, but at the same time she was well-suited for the job. She believed in what she was doing, understood the people she fought against, and had incredible compassion for all concerned. A rare, rare trait, and perhaps that, more than her own conflicts about her childhood, was what made her so tense. To be able to see all sides of an issue, to understand the predators as well as the victims, was not easy. Duke had known a lot of cops, local and federal, who burned out far too fast because they couldn’t tame their emotions. Nora’s grim steadfastness was an act, and Duke saw right through it. She had a shield that kept her sane, but that’s all it was-a shield to protect her.

  He wanted to get under that shield and see Nora English for the woman she was. The Nora English that kissed him last night, the Nora English who was inside.

  And he would. Duke got everything he set his mind on.

  When the car started down the mountain on the California side of the Sierra Nevadas, Duke’s phone vibrated. He had a voice mail.

  He listened, his face falling.

  “That was Sean,” he said. “He left a message.”

  “Your brother?”

  Confession time. “I’ve had him snooping around Rose College the last couple days.”

  She didn’t say anything, but he could tell she wasn’t happy about being kept in the dark.

  “Three students were found this morning, dead, apparent suicides. And they left a note claiming they killed Jonah Payne.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Rose College was in mourning.

  Nora walked through the campus amid a sea of shocked faces. The media had been held at bay by the sheriff’s department, and Sheriff Sanger was speaking to the dean of students in the lobby of the dormitory where three students had apparently killed themselves.

  Nora herself was stunned. For the forty minutes it took from when Duke got his brother’s call until they arrived she tried to reconcile political activism with serial murder. It didn’t make sense.

  “Sheriff,” she said as she approached.

  “Agent English,” Sanger said formally. “That was fast.”

  She raised her eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

  “I just talked to your office ten minutes ago.”

  “Funny. I heard about the suicides forty-five minutes ago, and even then the information was old. I should have been contacted as soon as the suicide note was found.”

  Sanger’s jaw tightened. He introduced the dean. “Greg Holbrook, Special Agent Nora English. And Duke Rogan.”

  “We’re all in shock,” Holbrook said. “All three of them exemplary students. All seniors with promising futures. Suicide-”

  “I need to see the letter,” Nora said.

  “Excuse us, Dean Holbrook,” Sanger said, moving away. Nora and Duke followed.

  Once they were out of earshot, Nora said, “Why did you wait so long to contact me?”

  “First, the letter isn’t a full-out confession, and it took responding officers time to put it together. By the time they did and I came on scene, I called your office.”

  Nora released her pent-up anger. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to jump down your throat, Lance, but we just came from the scene of another homicide; Russell Larkin, the head of Butcher-Payne’s I.T. department, had his throat slit.”

  “I didn’t hear about that,” Sanger said.

  “It happened in Reno, and he’s been dead a couple days. Probably since late Sunday morning.”

  “Sorry to hear it,” Sanger said to Duke.

  Duke acknowledged his condolences and asked, “What happened here?”

  “Three seniors dead. The dorm room is a mess-they all vomited violently. The medics came in and tried to resuscitate the female, who still had a pulse, but she was declared DOA at the hospital. She never regained consciousness. We found the letter on the desk. The M.E. took the bodies about twenty minutes ago, and my deputies are upstairs collecting evidence.” In Placer County, the sheriff’s deputies doubled as crime-scene investigators, which was common in many of California’s smaller counties.

  “Pills?” she asked.

  “Seems so, but until the autopsy we don’t know what they took.”

  “How were they discovered?”

  “The girl across the hall smelled something foul and knocked on the door early this morning. She didn’t get an answer, went to class, and then when she came back she tried again, and found the door unlocked. It was a pretty ugly scene. The poor girl is a wreck.”

  “And the three just stayed in t
he room vomiting and didn’t try to get help? Did the female have a roommate?”

  “No, she didn’t. And apparently, they wanted to die,” Sanger said.

  Or maybe the ingested drugs had a paralyzing effect, Nora thought. Still, it didn’t seem right to Nora. She’d seen pill-related suicides. They weren’t pretty, but she wouldn’t call them violent. Generally if vomiting began, the individual would purge enough from their system to survive or regret their decision and seek help. “Such a violent reaction seems unnecessary,” Nora said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “If they planned it, they would know how many pills to take to do the job, and what type of pills would minimize pain and suffering. Most suicides try for the most painless, easiest out they can find. They also talk about it to someone-even if that person doesn’t know the suicidal person is talking about killing themselves. They show signs of despair and depression-”

  “But they faced prosecution for arson and murder,” Sanger pointed out.

  “Did they? I don’t have a suspect right now, do you?”

  Sanger hesitated. “I see what you mean.”

  “Do you have an ID on the three?”

  Sanger checked his notes. “Anya Ballard, twenty-two, originally from Portland, Oregon. She’s been here for four years. Chris Pierson, twenty-three, from Richmond, California, also here for four years. Scott Edwards, twenty-two, from Los Angeles, California. He transferred two years ago from UCLA. He was a computer engineering major until he came here, then switched to environmental studies, like the other two.”

  Sanger looked at her. “I pulled their schedules. I wasn’t surprised that all three of them are in Leif Cole’s Social Justice class.”

  Nora raised her eyebrows. “Did the letter incriminate him or anyone else?”

  “No. It’s bagged and in the van, but I’ll have someone fetch it.” He spoke into his walkie-talkie.

  Duke asked, “Do we know about what time this happened?”

  “Just sometime last night. They weren’t at a meeting people expected them at, but no one thought twice about it. My deputies are interviewing everyone in the dorm, their political groups, and their classes. Holbrook has given us the student union for the duration of the interviews and investigation. As soon as we clear the dorm room, we’ll release the third floor.”