Dylan shook his head. “Nate’s always been a stand-up guy. I can’t imagine him doing anything serious enough to take his own life, much less committing wrongs against his friends.”
Jensen made a note on her device. “From what I understand, Nate had no immediate family members.”
Dylan thought about Nate’s rough past. “The courts sent Nate to live with his grandmother at an early age, after his parents disappeared. His grandmother couldn’t have been prouder when he graduated high school with honors, but she passed days later, leaving him with no family.”
Jensen held her stylus over her screen. “Tell me what you know about his parents.”
“Not much.” Dylan thought back to the early days, when Nate and the others had come together and named themselves the CoS. “Law enforcement tracked his parents to the Mexican border, where they crossed and vanished. They could have been dead for all Nate knew.”
Jensen made another note on her device. “He mentions the CoS in the letter. Why do you think that is?”
Dylan pushed up the brim of his Stetson. “Those of us in the CoS were Nate’s only real family.” Dylan thought about the time the seven of them had truly bonded. “That’s my best guess. I’m going to have to give it more thought.”
The detective asked a few more questions and Dylan answered each one even though he’d rather have been left to his own thoughts and conducting his own investigation.
Jensen clipped her stylus into its place and put away her phone. “If you come up with anything, here’s my number.” She pulled a card out of an inside pocket of her blazer and handed it to Dylan. “Office and cell numbers are both on it.”
“I’ll do that.” Dylan took out his billfold and tucked the card inside for safekeeping with his credentials, pocketing them again after.
He set the suicide note back on the workbench as Jensen walked away. Since photographs had already been taken before Dylan had touched the note, an officer came and bagged and tagged it. He pulled off the surgical glove and stuffed it into his pocket.
Dylan didn’t look back as he walked out of the shed and into the rain. Water pounded down, soaking his overshirt, T-shirt and jeans. His boots squished in the mud. The Stetson protected his head and water dripped from the brim.
Several law enforcement and emergency response vehicles were parked around the scene. Dylan focused on walking from the shed and the short distance toward Nate’s home, which he had inherited from his grandmother. Dylan jogged up the stairs to the door. It had been left open for BPD officers, who were collecting information to make sure no evidence of foul play could be found. Reaching the porch, he wiped his muddy boots on the welcome mat and shook the rain off his Stetson.
The smell of paint and new carpeting hit Dylan first thing when he walked into the house. He held his hat in his hand as he stood inside the doorway and surveyed the room.
Nate had always been a disaster when it came to his home, at total odds with his perfectionism in the world of accounting. He had worked out of his home and visited clients rather than having clients come to him. His office had always been more organized than the rest of his house.
Dylan had thought of Nate as something of an enigma. He hadn’t looked like a stereotypical accountant—no pocket protector and no button-down shirts or slacks. He’d been all about jeans and T-shirts unless he had to meet with the IRS to handle an audit or visit clients’ offices.
Nate had been more compact than Dylan and not quite as muscular. He’d stood just four inches shorter than Dylan’s six-three. Nate had been popular with the ladies and liked to party but had never married and had never had kids. After high school and the CoS drifting apart, Nate hadn’t let anyone get close to him except Dylan. Even then he knew Nate had kept secrets.
But secrets big enough to commit suicide over?
Dylan let his gaze drift over the living room and calculated the variables. A mess of objects littered the room, but the new carpet, freshly painted walls and dust-free surfaces told another story. The mess didn’t appear natural, but more as if someone had arranged things to appear out of place.
He frowned. A mess that looked intentional didn’t make one damned bit of sense, but neither did the new carpet and painted walls, or lack of dust. Not too long ago, Nate had made a comment that he wanted to dump his grandmother’s house. He’d even said he didn’t plan to put any work into the place because he didn’t have the time, the skill or the money it would take. He must have had a change of heart, because the living room seemed better than it ever had.
Yet something didn’t feel right. He gripped his Stetson as he walked past a couple of BPD officers and gave them a nod. He set his hat out of the way, and spent the next ten minutes searching the room for something that might confirm what instinct told him.
When he didn’t find anything, he walked through parts of the house that better reflected Nate’s personality. In the master bedroom, clothes lay scattered across the floor, piles of laundry needed to be washed and stacks of books rose haphazardly from every surface. Thick layers of dust covered the dining room table and buffet.
Nate’s home wouldn’t qualify for Hoarders and Dylan wouldn’t call the place disgusting by any means. Nate just hadn’t cared about keeping a clean house.
Dylan opened the door to the room serving as Nate’s home office. Again surprise caused him to pause. Nate had kept the place spotless and organized, but today it appeared disordered and somewhat messy.
Dylan pulled out a pair of surgical gloves. “Now let’s have a look and see what we can find. Did you leave anything, buddy?” He didn’t have any clue what that something might be, but he needed some way to make sense of this.
As he poked around the office, he had the odd feeling someone had been there, searching for something.
After examining the desk, which had a desktop computer, he paused for a moment, wondering where Nate had stored his laptop. Dylan spent a few moments searching drawers and cabinets but didn’t find anything.
He went to the bookshelf and ran his gloved finger over the titles, mostly classics. Nate had loved to read. Dylan stopped when he came to one book sticking out by half an inch past the others on the shelf. He recognized it at once by the name on the spine and he felt an odd twist in his gut.
Baseball, An Informal History.
Nate had carried the book around with him in school. It had been the last gift his father had given to him before he’d disappeared with Nate’s mother.
Dylan’s heart clenched as he carefully withdrew the book from the shelf. Tears in the well-worn book jacket exposed the hard cover beneath.
He went to the copyright page and saw the publisher had printed the hardcover in 1969, long before Nate’s father had given it to him. He continued on through the yellowed pages but stopped because something dropped out of the book and hit the floor. He crouched to pick up a postcard of Main Street in Old Bisbee. When he turned it over, he saw his own name and address printed in Nate’s handwriting. In the space to the left of the address he’d written a note.
* * *
Dylan,
While you’re off on vacation, I’m stuck here in good ol’ Bisbee. I want you to promise me something. Remember what you had, buddy. If it happens, second chances only come once. Don’t let it pass you by.
Hey, remember when I served in Iraq? At the risk of sounding like a lovesick teenage girl, I missed your surly ass then too.
WYB,
Nate
* * *
Cold prickles ran up and down Dylan’s spine as he stared at the postcard. Not only had he read something from the dead, but Nate had gotten one big detail wrong. Nate hadn’t served in Iraq. He’d served in Afghanistan. He’d received the Purple Heart because he’d ended up with a leg full of shrapnel, along with an honorable discharge.
Dylan took a plastic evidence bag out of his pocket, dropped the postcard in, then sealed it. He knew he should give the postcard to the BPD, but instead he shoved the bagged car
d into his pocket. It couldn’t be seen beneath the overshirt that also covered his service weapon, a Desert Eagle .357 Magnum. The postcard was between him and Nate and Dylan didn’t intend to leave it for the BPD to take over before he had a chance to study it.
He stood and slid the book once again into its place on the bookshelf then ran his finger along the spine. What the hell had been going through Nate’s mind for him to have written that note? He shook his head and turned to leave the room. Dylan strode through the office doorway and closed the door behind him. The postcard in his back pocket seemed to physically weigh him down.
Iraq? Maybe Nate had drunk too much beer when he’d written the note. Dylan frowned. No, Nate would have to have been beyond plastered to mess up something like that. But why would he purposely make the mistake?
Dylan found it difficult to put the postcard and the questions out of his mind. He did his best and went into the kitchen, where Nate had left a few dirty dishes piled in the sink with several more stacked on the counters. Empty takeout and pizza boxes lay scattered on the surfaces and the kitchen table and crammed into a tall garbage container.
He used a dishtowel to open the fridge, keeping his fingerprints off the handle, and peeked inside. The only things on the shelves were a range of condiments and more takeout boxes from local restaurants and delis, as well as Bisbee’s best-known pizza place, the Puma Den. He studied the kitchen, seeing Nate in everything.
Joe’s leash hung from a hook by the refrigerator. Nate had always been good about taking the dog for walks.
Returned to the living room, Dylan felt a twinge in his gut again.
Something was definitely off.
He squinted along the baseboards, which had not been painted like everything else had. Strange. His gaze came to stop on a dark circle, a tiny spatter he hadn’t noticed before. He moved to the baseboard and crouched to study the dime-sized spatter. The dark substance could be dried blood.
Detective Jensen walked into the house just as Dylan looked up. Jensen appeared to read Dylan’s expression and headed toward him.
She came to a stop beside him. “Surprised you’re still here, Agent Curtis.”
He stood, towering over the petite detective, and gestured to the spot. “I believe that’s a blood spatter.” He made a motion to encompass the room and explained about Nate and the conclusion he’d come to. “I’ve got a feeling the new paint and carpet is a cleanup job.” He explained about Nate not planning to make improvements on the house and its general appearance before.
Jensen frowned then nodded slowly. “We’ll take care of it and I’ll give you a call when everything is processed.”
“Thank you.” He gave her a grim nod. “Just to let you know, I’m taking the dog until I can find him a home.”
She nodded. “He needs a good home now.”
Dylan went to the kitchen and took the leash from its hook. He returned to the living room and picked up his hat from where he’d left it.
He settled his Stetson on his head and touched the brim as he inclined his head toward Jensen in a brief nod. His mind continued to work over the death of his friend while he turned to walk out of the house.
Dylan reached the bottom of the stairs and stood in the rain to regard Joe sitting in the dog run. A doghouse stood at one end, but the shepherd clearly had no interest in it. With the leash in his hand, Dylan walked toward the run.
“Hey, boy.” Dylan let himself into the run and the drenched dog turned his gaze on him. “I won’t leave you just to see you taken to the pound.” Dylan shook his head. “Guess you’re coming home with me.”
Joe barked in response and Dylan wondered if the shepherd would leave his master’s home. Joe remained still as Dylan crouched beside him and clipped the leash to the dog’s collar.
Dylan stroked the top of Joe’s wet head. “I’m sorry about Nate.”
Joe barked as if in response to Dylan’s words.
“Wish you could talk.” Dylan frowned, rubbing rubbed Joe behind the ears. “You might be able to tell me just what the hell happened here.”
Joe whined as if asking the same question. He licked Dylan’s fingers.
Dylan got to his feet, opened the gate and led Joe out of the dog run.
Joe bared his teeth, growled and jerked against the leash. He stared at the shed where BPD officers were still working. Joe barked, the sound vicious and filled with fury.
Dylan frowned. Joe had never been a hostile dog but he had been protective of Nate. What made the shepherd bare his teeth, snarl and bark like this?
For a long moment, Dylan let Joe carry on as he pulled hard on the leash. Finally, Dylan tugged on the leash to get Joe’s attention. The well-trained dog calmed and walked beside Dylan to the truck. Once he’d settled Joe in the back of the king cab, Dylan climbed into the driver’s seat and drove away from the Saginaw section of Bisbee to head to the DHS office near Douglas.
Smells of wet dog and rain filled Dylan’s office. Joe sat by the desk, looking like a sphinx as he stared ahead, ever on watch.
No matter what he’d seen in his line of work, the calls Dylan had just made were the hardest he’d ever had to make. He gripped the phone, wrapping up his conversation with Christie Reyes.
She’d broken down and tears were still in her voice. “I just got a postcard from him yesterday. It didn’t feel like a goodbye note.”
Dylan went still, remembering the card in his back pocket. “You received a postcard from Nate? By U.S. Mail?”
“Yes.” She said the word in a way that told him she was having a difficult time speaking. “It surprised me. We live in the same town, yet I haven’t heard from him in so long.”
Dylan wanted to press her, but she sobbed and he made the decision to give her time to get used to the idea of Nate’s death. He needed to read his own postcard again.
She cleared her throat and pulled it together. “I’ll make funeral arrangements.”
In a voice thick with pain and regret he replied, “Thank you, Christie.”
“The CoS was Nate’s only family.” She echoed Dylan’s words to Jensen before adding, “We take care of our own.”
“Call me for anything you need.” Dylan tried to swallow. “Anything.”
“I will.” She sounded beyond sad. “I’ll call Belle and let her know.”
A rush of relief hit Dylan. He’d been dreading that phone call the most.
He shook his head. He was such a chickenshit.
He clenched one hand on his desktop as he imagined Nate watching him, his disapproving stare burning into Dylan.
Dylan let out a long breath. “Thanks, Christie, but it’s my duty. I’ll call her.”
Christie hesitated. “Do you need her number?”
“I’ve got it.” He’d kept her number for a long time but had never called it. “Thanks again. I’ll talk with you soon.”
A sniffle. “Yes, soon.”
He touched the Disconnect icon on his phone and stared at the mobile device. He’d called Leon, Tom, Marta, and now Christie. No one had taken it well and Dylan knew they had to be experiencing the same shock and ache of loss he felt.
The pain Dylan felt over Nate’s death rivaled what he’d experienced with his father’s death. A drug cartel hitman had murdered Ben Curtis while Dylan attended high school and not a day passed that he didn’t miss his dad. The man had been his hero and larger than life. If Dylan hadn’t been bent on revenge over his father’s murder, he probably would have been a rancher just like his dad.
Dylan turned his gaze to his office window and stared out at the dark skies and pouring rain. It hadn’t let up since early that morning, as if grieving for his good friend too. He’d need to call his mother and brother, Aspen, after he called Belle.
His clenched his jaw as he looked at his phone. It was the right thing for him to be the one to call Belle to let her know about Nate.
But then again, maybe she wouldn’t want to hear from him. It would probably be for the best
if Christie were the one to call Belle.
Shit. Dylan clenched the phone harder. No, it was his job.
God damn, but he’d never been so indecisive or been known to shy away from anything.
But this is Belle.
Joe let out a long sigh, drawing Dylan’s attention to the dog that had lowered his head to his front paws. Thank God Leon had said he’d take Joe. Leon’s three kids were older and would like having a dog around. Leon said he’d come by Dylan’s office in a couple of hours to get Joe.
Dylan would have kept the shepherd, but his job often kept him away from the ranch and Joe deserved better than that.
A knock came at the door and Dylan looked up to see Trace Davidson with his knuckles against the doorframe. Despite the fact that Trace, also a DHS agent, was a good friend, Dylan didn’t feel like talking to anyone at the moment.
“You okay?” Trace dragged his hand over the hint of a beard on his jaw.
“Yeah.” Dylan leaned back in his chair. “Fine.”
“If that isn’t a heaping load of bullshit, I don’t know what is.” Trace lowered his arm, his Texan drawl more pronounced than usual. He stepped into the room and shoved his hands into his front pockets. The motion pushed his overshirt aside, revealing his service weapon. “Nate was a good man. I’m sorry as hell to hear what happened.”
The ache in the pit of Dylan’s belly only seemed to grow worse. “That makes two of us.”
“I’ll let you get back to whatever you were taking care of.” Trace pulled his hands out of his pockets. “Just wanted to see how you’re doing.”
Peachy. Fucking peachy.
“Thanks.” Dylan didn’t mean to sound as terse as he knew he had.
Trace gave Dylan a long, hard stare. “Call me if you need anything,” Trace said then walked out of the door.
Dylan blew out his breath as he turned again to his phone.
He pulled up his contacts and found her name. Belle Hartford. As far as he knew, she hadn’t married, but there’d been spells where he hadn’t checked in on her. For all he knew, she could have married and kept her maiden name. He could have pushed harder, looked deeper into her life, but somehow that hadn’t seemed right.
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