by Lauren Hope
“For whatever or whoever really did kill Evan.”
She thought for a moment, sat abruptly on the edge of the sturdy wooden coffee table. “Well who told Chaz to do it?”
“Some guy he and all the other addicts call Guard.”
“Guard?” She wrinkled her nose. “Can we get him in for questioning?”
“Don’t know who he is,” Grant shrugged and sat in front of her on the couch. “I don’t know if he had anything to do with it anyway. Though Chaz says Guard found out Evan was a cop and told the others he would be dealt with and not to worry about it.”
Marxie put her head in her hands and gave a quick moan. “Do you think he was in pain, Grant?”
He took a calming breath. “I’d love to tell you no, but I can’t say for sure.” She sucked in a sob and he scooted forward, put a comforting hand to her shoulder and patted. “I would say most likely not. They probably shot him and took him to the river. They would’ve had no reason to drag it out.” While he stroked her back with large, gentle hands, he spoke, considering. “Thing is, I’m not near as worried about finding out who this Guard guy is as finding out who was behind giving the orders.”
Marxie raised her head. “Wouldn’t it be him?”
“Maybe, likely not though. There’s always someone higher up. Someone the lowlier people never see. They bark orders from the veil of anonymity.”
“Who could be doing that? Who would want Evan killed?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out . . . and I’ve got my suspicions.”
“Who?” She widened her eyes, nearly jumped into his lap, wanting to shake the answers out of him.
“Rick Williams.”
She stared for a minute, mouth open. “You mean, Rick Williams, as in my client, Rick Williams? The lawyer, Rick Williams?”
He nodded.
She rose from the edge of the table on legs that were no longer wobbly. “Are you crazy? Rick didn’t even know Evan. He’s a lawyer at a highly respectable firm. What in God’s name would he have to do with someone like Chaz or this Guard person?”
“I don’t know.” Grant looked up at her standing over him. “But I want to find out. And I’m going to need your help.”
“No,” she yelled, incredulous. “Are you out of your mind? He’s a client. My biggest and best at the moment. I am not prodding him for answers to a murder he knows nothing about.”
She began to storm off, had already turned to walk away, but he grabbed her arm, whirled her around to face him. “I was at the office today, Marxie, I heard him.”
“Heard what?” she yelled right back into his scorching stare.
“He was talking on the phone.”
“About Evan?” she breathed shakily, overwhelmed now, Grant’s words seeping through her anger.
“No, about you. He was talking to someone about hitting on you and how
you were a fine piece of female tail. His words, not mine,” he said, lifting up a hand when she glared at him.
She jerked her arm from his grip. “As distasteful as that may be, we already knew he had an attraction to me. What does that have to do with Evan and the case?”
“Seemingly nothing. But it’s a feeling.”
She stared at him, letting the anger that had begun to subside break to the surface. “So instead of real police work, you base your facts on feelings?”
“Instincts. And that’s a lot of what detective work is, using your instincts and gut feelings.”
“Well, your feelings are wrong on this,” she assured him, crossing her arms over her chest.
“I found your ring in the parking lot.” He pointed to the ground with force. “Right there at my feet, it sparkled and shined in the sun. What are your feelings on that?”
TWENTY
She uncrossed her arms, let them dangle at her sides. For a moment she was speechless, her face twisted into a pitiful site of confusion and bafflement, hurt and worry. Grant would’ve liked to have gone to her, wrapped her in his arms and wiped away all that hurt. If he kissed her one good time, like before, he could bet her face would turn into that graceful beauty that softened her petite mouth and big eyes into dreamy, willing participants.
But he couldn’t do that. He had to stay at a distance. Tough love was needed now. Marxie would not want to believe someone she knew could be involved with Evan’s death. But she had to let this sink in and get used to it. Because if she didn’t like his suspicions about Rick Williams, she really wouldn’t like what else was coming.
“Marxie,” he stepped closer to her, put both hands on her arms, “you okay?”
“Yes, I’m just thinking . . . wondering. How?” She spoke a bit bewildered, like she was lost, trying to piece together a puzzle he’d already begun to solve.
“That’s my question too: How? You have to believe Rick knows something. Why would your ring be in that parking lot otherwise? I know it’s not pleasant, thinking about someone you know and spent time with involved in something like this . . . but you have to consider it.”
“I am considering.” She snapped out of her daze and glared at him, defiant. “I’m just not sure I believe.”
“Believe it or not, it’s real.” He dropped his hands and stuck them in his pockets.
Marxie narrowed her eyes. “If all this is true, why haven’t you arrested Rick? If you really think he’s involved, why not bring him in, question him?”
Good girl, still thinking, still using that logic. He knew she’d come around. “That’s what I was working on today, trying to get enough for a warrant. I just don’t have that yet. But I will,” he nodded, determined. “And in the meantime, I want you to stay away from Rick. I don’t want you working there, going to the offices, speaking to him over the phone, anything.”
She stared at him, blankly. He had figured she might be upset, might take the news hard, he knew how important this client was to her. But he hadn’t expected the fierce, bold, absolutely vicious glare she pegged him with now. “You cannot be serious,” she rumbled in a low voice.
“Yes, I am,” he said, standing his ground physically, and mentally. Fine, she didn’t want to play it his way with considerate explanations and time to let things sink in and think them over clearly, that was all right. He’d play her way. Or better yet, he’d play the way he normally did. It was high time he started treating Marxie Vaughn like the family members and loved ones of the victims in every other case he dealt with. She wanted facts, details on the case? That’s just what he’d give her.
“I am completely serious,” he said, calm and stone-faced. “And before you tell me you’re absolutely not going to do it, I have one more small morsel for you. Since you’ll be staying away from one person—Rick—how about you make that two?”
She dropped her mouth open now, stared up at him and grinned mockingly. “Really, two? Humor me, please.”
“Chief Raines. The whole Pembroke police department, in fact.”
“Wait, I’ve gotta laugh on this one.” She stepped back, put a hand to her stomach and sighed with artificial amusement. “No way you’re telling me you think the Chief of Police in Pembroke, or his entire department is a danger to me.”
He reined in his temper, spoke evenly. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“And your basis for this?”
“Shall I list them all?”
“Please.”
“One,” he held up a finger near her face, “I think that our friend Rick was talking to Chief Raines today on the phone.”
She pushed his finger out of her face. “And you came to that conclusion, how? Let me guess, gut instinct again.”
“Exactly,” he growled, knowing he was losing the temper battle. “Two, your friend the chief has been exceptionally skilled at avoiding me. Seems every time I call to talk to the man, he’s never available.”
“And? He is the Chief of Police. I’d say he might be busy.”
“Yes. But too busy to talk to the man he antagonized over
getting files from? He prodded our dispatcher into emailing him most of my files on this case, and since then, he’s been no where to be found for me to speak with.”
“So, what, you think he’s hiding something?” Marxie gave him a pitiful look, like he was the scum of the earth come knocking at her door. He ignored it and kept his pace, wanting to make her see what he did.
“It’s very possible.” He stepped toward her, kept his eyes on hers. “It doesn’t strike you as odd, Marxie, that the chief of the department can’t explain the events of the night a man under his watch died?”
“He has explained it!” she yelled inches from his face.
“Yes, after two years. And after his widow demanded it. You were the one who said you had to threaten legal action to even get them to talk.”
“But I went over the line. I panicked and wasn’t thinking clear. That wouldn’t have been necessary. They would’ve told me without the threat.”
“Wouldn’t they? Seems they waited a long time, and made no attempt to do so before you paid them a visit.”
She brought her hands to her hair, pulled on the ends of the thick strands and shouted at him. “I think you’re nuts. Look, you can’t just go around telling people you think their friends killed their husband. It’s not right. You’ll drive someone crazy that way!”
“Marxie, I’m not saying they killed him, just that they haven’t been upfront with you, with me. Did you know that the medical examiner who ruled Evan’s cause of death is now head of the entire medical department in Atlanta? The same division where Beau Raines was able to hire and fire for that position. Or that Jim Clark, first officer on the scene the night Evan died was shot to death nine months later. A mugging in Jackson.”
“So? People get promotions. People get mugged.”
She strode away, left him standing with hands balled into fists by his sides. “I know. But—”
“No,” she rounded on him, glared with heated eyes and a beet red face. “You don’t know. And quit saying that. You can’t know. You can’t know the numbness, the complete emptiness you feel when someone is taken from you, brutally, abruptly, completely. It’s a nightmare. It’s hell on earth. How could you ever understand that? Until you’ve walked in my shoes, don’t tell me anything. Don’t console me or comfort me. Give me facts, Detective, not theories and crazy guesswork.” She paused, stared at him a moment and lowered her voice to a solemn tone. “You may be as stubborn as you first lead me to believe, but not as results driven. You can’t go making things up just because your investigation hasn’t brought you anywhere.”
“What?” His hands loosened, his body went slack, totally shocked by her callous words. “Are you serious?”
“I can’t take all your ‘instincts’ and ideas anymore.” She placed her hands firmly on her hips. “I need facts. Evan taught me police work was based on facts, real evidence. You’re using nothing but ‘feelings’ to find out why and who murdered my husband? That doesn’t fly with me, Detective.”
He thinned his lips, parted them only slightly to speak, low and deep. “Then maybe you should get a new detective if you think this one is so lacking.”
“Maybe I should,” she huffed. “Maybe I will. No,” her eyes flared, shooting fiery darts, “I’m doing it now. Detective Carter, you are officially off duty in the case of Officer Evan Vaughn.” She stomped away down the hall, called behind her, “And that includes taking care of, keeping an eye on, and/or following his poor widow any and every where she goes. Consider yourself laid off.”
He marched after her down the hall, into the guest room and watched as she stuffed clothes and toiletries into her overnight bag. Without even looking at him she spoke. “I’ll call Chief Burns tomorrow, tell him I’d like someone else to look into this. If for some reason that can’t be worked out and you do happen to remain involved on my husband’s case, do me a favor and do your job.”
And with that, she threw her bag over her shoulder, walked to the front door, slammed it behind her, and was gone.
There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home. Dorothy’s words tugged at Marxie’s heart as she drove through the deep darkness. Oh how she wanted to be there—home. She wished she could click her heels and find herself in the arms of her mother, wrapped in a bear hug by her father. She needed them. She could trust them. They were wise and rational, not blaming innocent people for detestable actions. How could he? How could he toss blame, and murder accusations, no less, at innocent people.
Chief Raines? Ha! Rick Williams . . . maybe. She could imagine the slick lawyer involved in something criminal, but she hadn’t even known the man until three months ago when the firm contacted her about a consultation. How, and better yet, why, would he be involved in any shape, form, or fashion with Evan? It was ridiculous.
A hardened man frustrated at his inadequacies as a detective, off of homicide for too long and unable to do his job, Grant had fuddled the whole thing. Throw in what might be a crush on the main woman involved—Did he have a crush? He had kissed her back, enthusiastically. Oh she didn’t know or care—either way, that was another motivator for him to play hero and figure out the big mystery. When he couldn’t do it, he tanked and sank all the way to lying. Or at least crazy speculations. In her mind, accusations such as the ones he’d made were just as bad as a lie. Jerk.
And to think, in the beginning she’d told Chief Raines this detective was slow about setting facts in stone. How she’d eaten her words tonight.
Well, as of now, she was taking a break. She was getting away from Grant Carter and his gifts and his concerned looks and unfounded allegations.
Most, if not all, of the important plans in the Monroe-Williams account were taken care of. Her end of the job, at least for now, was wrapping up. Contractors would be coming in, painters and construction workers would fill the small offices and narrow halls. They’d have to do all their work before she could come in and put her finishing touches in the place anyway. Besides, she could delegate from home just as well as standing in the middle of the commotion. A site was always chaotic anyway, it would certainly raise her stress level to beyond bearable if she stayed in the midst of it all.
And one thing she did not need, was more stress.
So home, here I come.
TWENTY-ONE
Marxie had been at home for two weeks. Two blessed weeks of peace and quiet. Her mother had been wonderful when she arrived, her father the support she knew he’d be.
After fielding several calls from Sally—the assistant she’d hired for a full-time temp position while Marxie settled at home—to be sure today’s near demolition of John’s office was going smoothly, she cozied up on the sofa, a book in hand.
She’d been involved daily with the Monroe-Williams account, and had even traveled back to the store twice to meet with essential customers since coming home to Pembroke. Along the way, she’d somehow managed to skillfully avoid Rick . . . just in case. She had also tried, rather unsuccessfully, to push the question of why her stolen wedding ring was in the parking lot of the firm he partnered, out of her mind. But mostly, nagging feelings aside, she’d enjoyed the comforts of home and the people in it. Being around those who loved and understood her was a great relief to her heart . . . and her nerves. She hadn’t realized how stressed she was until she’d gotten out of the situation.
At the shrill ring of the phone, she hunkered further into the sofa, hoping if it was for her, they’d go away. Her book had taken her to Ireland, a land of fresh green, ancient beauty, and magical legends; she wasn’t ready to leave it yet. No one called for her immediately, so she figured she was either in the clear, or her mother had finally gotten the clue about monitoring who she spoke to . . . since there was one person in particular she was definitely not speaking to.
A few moments later, she was pulled from the Emerald Isle.
“Marxie!” Her mother walked into the room, phone outstretched, a questioning look on her adorably round face.
&n
bsp; Her mom didn’t have to say a word, Marxie knew exactly who it was. He’d called a billion times with her accepting those calls all of zero times. She had nothing to say to him.
She shook her head and her mother tsk-tsked as she walked away. From the next room, she heard her mom say into the phone, “I’m sorry Detective, she’s busy right now. Would you like to leave a message?”
Even though he’d called those billion times, Marxie had to admit she was slightly surprised by today’s attempt. He seemed to have gotten the picture by the end of week one when she’d refused his every effort at communication. In fact, three days ago, an SCMPD detective she didn’t know—Flanagan—contacted her and told her the news that they’d arrested those responsible for the break-in to her and Liz’s home. After checking in and coming up with nothing on Vandel—Liz’s ex the cops were afraid might have an agenda—apparently finger print dustings had brought up two different sets, and SCMPD picked up two guys, one in their late teens, the other in his early twenties. So far, the boys weren’t talking and hadn’t given a reason for the robbery or the cryptic message left on her mirror. Detective Flanagan seemed to think it was a random crime with a coincidental connection in the message.
Marxie wanted to agree, but couldn’t find it within herself to do so wholeheartedly. At any rate, she’d been surprised—and mildly hurt?—that Grant hadn’t called and told her the news himself. He had been the lead investigator on the case, had been with her when she found the destruction. She thought he’d be interested in finding out who the culprits were. Plus, if he’d called, it would’ve given her a chance to throw his ridiculous notions about Rick and the chief being involved in his face. Oh well, better that he hadn’t called. It would’ve probably ended up like their last conversation: Not good.
As Marxie was nearing the end of her chapter, her mother marched back in the room, a frown creasing her mouth and brow. “Marxie Elise Vaughn, you need to speak to that man.”