by Nancy Bush
The dogs barking had changed to whining. September moved forward, ducking her head around the edge of the jamb, her heart racing.
No! Her worst fears were confirmed. Brianne was lying on her back at the other side of the room, the dogs milling, whining, and nosing her.
September ran forward, saw the spreading darkness on her chest. Blood on her clothes. Gunshot wound, she would bet.
“Shit!”
She yanked out her phone and punched in 9-1-1. Before the woman at the other end could finish her intro, September yelled, “Need an ambulance to the Happy Times Animal Shelter. Gunshot to the chest. Victim’s name is Brianne Kilgore . . .”
* * *
Dallas was shrugging into his jacket when he heard Luke’s voice in the outer office. Billie was standing by her desk, her purse over her arm, when Dallas opened his door, and Luke was heading straight to Dallas’s door.
“Hey, brother,” Luke said, but he appeared grim.
“Go ahead, Billie,” Dallas said, stepping aside so Luke could precede him into the office.
“I can wait,” Billie said, glancing from one brother to the other.
Dallas waved her away. “No need. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She threw a look at Luke’s disappearing back. There was a certain amount of disapproval in her gaze, but she gave Dallas a deep nod and headed out.
Dallas followed Luke, closing his door again.
Luke didn’t waste time. “Someone’s feeding that reporter, Jeb Duarte, information about Grassley’s finances. The detective on the case is Charley Simms. I don’t know him well, but he’s tough and fair. The leak’s not coming from him.”
Dallas grunted an assent. He, Layla, and Lucy had met Simms at Grassley’s apartment the night Layla had discovered his body. “Simms wants Layla to come in tomorrow morning for an interview.”
“You talked to him today?”
“Yep.”
“Good. The forensic accountants are taking apart Grassley’s finances. Don’t think they’re coming up with quite the same results as what Duarte’s been reporting.”
“Who’d you talk to?”
“Opal Amberson.”
Luke had worked for the Portland PD and still had a lot of friends there. “Opal hear anything more about the transferred funds into Layla’s account?”
“Either Grassley did it himself or someone else used his computer. Knew his passwords. But it’s a little more sophisticated than that. They hacked into Layla’s accounts, got enough info to send the money.”
“Never heard of hackers putting money in. Usually works the other way,” Dallas pointed out.
“Whoever did it is probably the killer. It’s right in the window of time of Grassley’s death.”
Luke was probably right on that, although they wouldn’t hear the definitive word on time of death until the medical examiner gave his report, most likely when the results of the autopsy were released.
“Simms is looking at the videotape from the security cameras at Grassley’s apartment, but the one on the eighth floor was messed with,” Luke went on. “We were lucky to get some footage from the front gate.”
Layla Crissman was on that camera; she’d gone to Neil’s apartment a couple of times.
“What about Courtney Mayfield?” Dallas asked him.
“Still trying to pin her down. Everybody wants her, but she’s gone silent after those interviews smearing Layla. Won’t pick up her phone or answer her door. That can’t last forever. And, per your request, I checked on Jerome Wolfe. It’s known that he didn’t like Grassley, but then, he doesn’t like anyone he deems to have as much, or more, money as he does. And he really doesn’t like the Crissmans. There’s a long-standing feud between the two families. Wolfe thinks the Crissmans got the better part of the deal, and it’s taken years for his family to catch up and surpass the Crissmans financially. As far as Grassley goes, haven’t heard yet if he’s on the security cameras. There’s a way to avoid the front camera, if you come through the garage, side door, but you have to have a key. That camera was disabled, too.”
Dallas absorbed all that and said, “If Layla were the killer, she wouldn’t keep going through the front gate.”
“If the doer wants to blame Layla, they’re doing a piss-poor job. It’s amateur hour,” Luke agreed.
“The killing might have been more spur of the moment.”
They talked it over for a while longer, and Dallas, whose attention was still sliding off point whenever he thought of Lucy and Evie, was brought back to the moment when Luke suddenly asked, “Something you’re not telling me?”
He debated with himself for a moment but wasn’t ready to go into his personal life. He said instead, “Grassley’s lawyer, Penelope Gaines, called me. She and Grassley had been trying to set up a meeting with Layla to go over his will, but Grassley died before it happened. Grassley was apparently dead set on marrying Layla. He already rewrote the will, and Layla and his sons are his beneficiaries.”
Luke whistled. “A lot of money coming her way.”
“Strong motivation,” Dallas agreed grimly.
“You said sons, plural,” Luke said, his brows pulling together. “Meaning the child Mayfield’s carrying, if she still is?”
“That’s right. Gaines said she wants to meet with Layla and go over the will. She didn’t immediately feel that way, with what’s come out about the murder, so Layla referred her to me. But she’s changed her mind. Maybe Layla’s a beneficiary and Gaines is just being careful about how much to reveal.”
“Something Gaines knows, but the police don’t yet.”
“Or maybe it’s the other way around. There’s a lot of money at stake. That deposit to Layla’s account is only a fraction of the whole.... I don’t know ... maybe it’s a smoke screen, meant to throw blame on Layla when the bulk of the estate goes elsewhere. But if Layla’s a beneficiary, she has the right to know what her part of the estate is.”
“Who’s in charge of those kids, and Grassley’s money, if Layla dies?”
“Don’t know yet.” Dallas nodded grimly. “In the meantime, I’m looking forward to seeing that will. In fact, as Layla’s attorney, I’m demanding it. They can only stall so long.”
Luke got to his feet. “Okay. I’ll keep at it.”
“Good. One more thing: Find out where Grassley was going on that business trip and why he canceled, if he did, or if something happened that kept him here.”
Dallas’s cell phone buzzed, a text.
Luke hesitated in the doorway to the outer office.
Dallas sucked in a breath. “It’s from September. Brianne Kilgore has been shot in the chest and is in emergency surgery right now. . . .”
* * *
September stood in the waiting room outside the OR at St. Anne’s Hospital in northwest Portland, where Brianne had been life flighted. She’d texted Dallas and called Gretchen, who was on her way. The Wharton County Sheriff’s Department was in charge of the attempted murder case, and to that end, Deputy Morant had gone to be with Mona Kilgore. He would come to the hospital later.
September was sick with guilt. She’d known this was going to happen. Had sensed it. Felt like it was all her fault, even though she knew she was being unfair to herself.
Gretchen strode into the OR waiting room, saw September, and crossed the carpeted expanse where she was standing. “You okay?” she asked, reading September’s face.
“I should have been on this. I knew it was dangerous. She knew about the poisoning.”
“You warned her. You talked to the sheriff’s department.”
September shook her head.
“You know this kind of thing happens,” Gretchen reminded her. “You gotta get past this and think about what you need to do next. Who did this?”
September had been asking herself the same question over and over again. “I don’t know. Jerome Wolfe, maybe. Or someone working for him. But it doesn’t make sense if he wants the Kilgore property. He needs Brianne’s signature.”
“One of the Crissmans,” Gretchen posed. “John Linfield knew something about them or their company that could have exposed them somehow.”
“Brianne hinted Linfield wasn’t the target,” September reminded her.
“Then who was?”
“One of the Crissmans?” September asked. She and Gretchen discussed each of Abbott’s children and Abbott himself but determined they didn’t have enough information to point a finger at any one person. Yet. They were still discussing the possibilities, seated at two chairs in the semiprivate corner of the room, when Deputy Morant showed up about an hour later. He plopped onto a short vinyl couch and shook his head. “Jesus.” He was beside himself over the shooting. “Nine-millimeter bullet was in the wall behind her.”
September nodded. Brianne was lucky to be alive. “You spoke to Mona?” she asked Morant.
“Yes, and I waited for her friend to get to the house. The friend will drive Mona over ASAP.”
“Good,” said September.
A doctor appeared through a swinging door to the operating room and searched the waiting area. September caught his eye and moved toward him. “Brianne Kilgore?” September asked.
“Are you family?”
“I’m with Laurelton PD. I found her.”
Gretchen flashed her badge.
The doctor nodded. “She’s in recovery. She’s stable . . .” He went on to explain that the bullet had missed her heart but had done damage to her lungs and blood vessels and there was nothing to do now but wait.
“Okay,” September said. She took a seat near the OR desk.
Morant growled, “We gotta get this asshole. I’ve known Brianne since she was a kid.”
“Find out who in her circle has a nine-millimeter gun,” September said.
“On it already,” Morant answered grimly, his eyes hard with determination as he headed out.
Gretchen checked her phone, then said, “You’re staying?”
“For now.”
“Okay. I’ll let Calvetti know. And by the way, glad you’re back with us. . . .”
* * *
Lucy was curled up on her couch, channel surfing through a number of television shows, finally snapping off the TV and tossing the remote aside. She was drinking a cup of decaf tea, unable to concentrate on anything. Evie was sitting by her, on her iPad, and she looked up when the television went off.
“Can we make some popcorn?” Evie asked hopefully.
Sure. Whatever. Why not?
Lucy went through the motions like an automaton, popping the corn in the microwave, then portioning out a bowl of buttered and salted popcorn for each of them. As Evie dug into her bowl, Lucy was still standing in the kitchen, eating her popcorn without tasting it, thinking hard. About Dallas. Of course. Her cell rang, bringing her back to the here and now. She looked around the room, listening to the muffled sound. The phone was in her purse, which was sitting on one of the barstools, just where she’d left it. As she reached for her handbag, she hooked the strap and knocked it to the ground. Shit. The phone bounced out, still ringing.
She saw the screen: Lyle.
She picked up the phone, which seemed no worse for wear, thank God, and answered. “Hello, Lyle.”
“Hey, um, are you going to the hospital tomorrow? They said Dad would probably be released then.”
“Are you going?” she asked. She took her half-eaten bowl and set it beside the sink. She’d been picking at the popcorn anyway. Lyle’s call had squelched what little remained of her appetite.
“Yes, I think so. Somebody needs to be there,” he pointed out, as if she might have forgotten that fact.
“What about Ainsley?” Lucy asked, a bit meanly. Her father’s new fiancée had clung to Lyle and been more of a hindrance than a help.
“So, you’re not going,” he bit out.
“No, I’ll go. He’s my father, too.” She didn’t need this now.
She hung up and stuffed her phone back into her purse.
Evie had been listening to the whole conversation. “You’re talking about Grandpa.”
“Yes, he’s fine,” she said flatly, not wanting Evie to get the wrong idea.
“What’s wrong, then?”
“What do you mean?” she asked automatically.
“You’ve been in a bad mood since Aunt Layla was here.”
Lucy blinked. Her mood had been mercurial ever since she’d told Dallas the truth about Evie. It hadn’t had anything to do with Layla. But she couldn’t say that to her daughter. “I’ll try to be happier,” she said, pulling her mouth into a wide, rictus grin and crossing her eyes.
Her daughter smiled and snorted. “Be careful or they might stay that way,” throwing one of Lucy’s own warnings back at her.
Lucy went to Evie and gave her a big, big hug. “I love you, y’know,” she said.
“Yeah, I know.”
After planting a kiss on her daughter’s head, she swept up her purse and headed down the hall.
“Love you, too!” Evie called, which created a huge lump in Lucy’s throat.
She swallowed hard. She’d done the right thing by telling Dallas, but now that he knew, he had the power to hurt her daughter.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Tuesday morning, Layla got up, took a shower, washed her hair, toweled off, and dressed carefully in black pants and a white blouse. Knocking the color out of her wardrobe just seemed like a good idea when she imagined herself being interviewed in a room at the police station.
When she turned off the blow dryer, she heard her cell phone ringing. She’d left the cell on her bedroom dresser and she approached it with a feeling of doom. When she saw the caller was Lucy, she expelled a relieved breath. “Hey, there,” she answered.
Lucy said, “Hi. How’re you doing?”
“Okay, I guess.”
“Good. I’ve checked the news. Not as bad today. I haven’t heard or seen Courtney once.”
“That’s an improvement.”
“Yep, so Lyle and I are going to the hospital to pick up Dad.”
“I feel like I should be there, but Dallas is picking me up and we’re heading to the police station.” She cleared her throat. “They want to interview me.”
“Oh.” Lucy was surprised. “Maybe I should go with you instead.”
“You don’t have to.” But truthfully, she wanted her sister to be with her. She needed the emotional support.
“I could meet you there,” Lucy offered. “Let me talk to Lyle. What time?”
“Ten o’clock.”
“Okay. I’ll make it happen and see you there.”
* * *
Lucy immediately called her brother and was irked when he didn’t pick up. She texted him and said she was going with Layla to the police station, so she couldn’t go to the hospital at this moment. She waited for him to get back to her, but it was Kate who called.
“You’re not going to the hospital?” she demanded.
“I’m going with Layla at ten to the police station. I think it’s important. What time is Dad being released?”
“I don’t know. You should talk to Lyle.”
“Well, I’ve tried, but he’s not picking up. Maybe you could have him call me?” Lucy suggested shortly.
“Lyle’s taking time off for work for this.”
“Okay, what do you want? You want me to pick up Dad, because I’m the one with time on my hands and Lyle’s job is so important?”
“Lucy!”
“Kate, sorry. I don’t have a lot of patience. As I said, I’m going with Layla, and then I’ll go to the hospital. I’ve never known any hospital to release a patient early, so I’ll probably be there in time anyway. If not, tell Lyle he’s on his own.”
She clicked off. She was sorry her father was ailing, but she sure as hell was still mad at both him and her brother.
* * *
At the downtown Portland police station, Dallas and Layla were led down the hall by a Hispanic officer to a drab, taup
e-walled room where fiftysomething Detective Charley Simms was talking to another officer and holding a paper cup full of coffee. The other officer left as Dallas and Layla were led into the room. Simms, tall, white, with a shaved bald head and a close-cropped beard, motioned them both to chairs.
Dallas had been through any number of these interviews. Mostly the detectives knew exactly what had transpired during the crime and were just learning what possible persons of interest might add to the mix.
Layla knew next to nothing about Neil’s personal life except what he’d told her, and Dallas advised her to just tell them that. “Just answer them directly. Make your answers simple. Just be transparent.”
The questions started, and he could practically see how tense she was, but as the interview went on, and she was able to answer clearly and calmly about her relationship with Neil and her whereabouts the last week, he thought she was relaxing a bit. The issue of hiring a surrogate required a lot of explanation, which she handled like a pro, and only when it came to her breakup with Neil, and his taking up with Courtney Mayfield, did Layla seem to falter. “I’d never met her before the Denim and Diamonds benefit auction,” she said. “Neil and I hadn’t been getting along for a while. I was surprised to see him there, too.”
“Did you think he was surprised to see Courtney Mayfield?” the detective asked.
“Uh, Neil? No, I . . . thought they came together.”
That caught Dallas’s attention and he made a note of it.
The detective then asked her about her finances, coming back to the twenty thousand dollars Neil had paid her for her eggs. He asked whether she had any ownership in the embryos created from those eggs, to which she looked at Dallas. “Legally, no,” Dallas said.
Layla said, “I was working to get them back.”
In the end, Detective Simms thanked her and then showed them both out. Dallas turned to Layla and said, “That went fine.”
“You think so? I was scared, so scared.”
“You didn’t show it, you—” He broke off abruptly when he suddenly saw Lucy in the reception area of the station. It felt like a kick in the gut.
Layla turned her eyes from his and focused on her sister. She hurried to her and the two women embraced. Dallas pulled himself together, both annoyed and surprised at himself, then went to meet her as well. “Hi, Lucy,” he said. Did his voice sound strained? He thought it did.