Rocky Mountain Valor

by Jennifer D. Bokal

  Petra didn’t like that Martinez kept using her client’s first name—as if the championship MVP and the cop were somehow friends. “And how is my client?” she asked.

  Martinez shook his head. “Not good.”

  Petra bit her lip. “Any prognosis?”

  Martinez looked at the file, flipping through the first few pages. “None that I know of. Let’s get back to the radio interview. Is it true that, on air, you threatened to strangle Joe Owens?”

  Her face tingled. Her hands lay on the table, too heavy to lift. Her throat was unbelievably dry. She swallowed. “It was hyperbolic,” she said. “You know, for effect.”

  “I understand hyperbole, Ms. Sloane,” said the detective.

  She began to sweat. “And besides, Steve Chan made a joke about all of Joe’s recent scandals and asked me if I ever wanted to wring his neck.”

  “And then,” Martinez continued, “didn’t you threaten to outright kill Joe Owens the second time you called his cell phone?”

  “I was angry. I didn’t mean anything by it. It was just...”

  “Hyperbole,” Martinez offered.

  “Do I need a lawyer?”

  “You tell me. Do you?” He closed the file. “I want to believe that you had nothing to do with the attack on Joe, really I do. But you threatened his life twice today. You were covered in blood when the police arrived, your fingerprints are on the alarm. Yet you claim to have no memories of anything that transpired for over forty-five minutes. What am I supposed to think?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. Her voice was small, even in the tiny room. “I have migraines and sometimes I black out, but can still be on my feet, talking and active. I had an episode this morning.”

  Lying, or concealing her ailment, would only make things worse, she knew. Why was it that she wanted to keep these most important details from Martinez? Yet Petra wasn’t stupid. With her admission she’d certainly become a person of interest—maybe even a suspect.

  She dug her fingernails into her palm and continued. “I lost consciousness. That’s why I can’t remember.”

  Martinez bounced his pen on the file. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. “Then I guess I was wrong.”

  She looked him in the eye. “About what?”

  “You do need a lawyer. I’m naming you as a person of interest in the attack on Joe Owens.”

  * * *

  For Petra, the next seven hours passed in a haze. She cleared out her savings to pay the retainer for a lawyer who had a reputation for being both honest and brilliant. He’d gotten the police to release her car and her purse, and Petra waited alone by the precinct parking lot. A police officer pulled up next to the curb and said nothing as Petra slid into her seat and drove away.

  She felt as if she should call someone and check in. But who? Then again, she didn’t have a phone.

  With nothing beyond her thoughts for company, she couldn’t help but recall the last time she had blacked out. She’d been a sophomore in college and her mother had called to let Petra know that her father’s CAT scan looked suspicious. Then Petra found out that her roommate had stolen her boyfriend, when she saw them making out on campus. The headache had begun much like it had today. More than a decade ago, she’d lost almost an hour. When she came to, she’d had a pair of scissors in her hand and had cut her own hair.

  What bothered Petra then, as it did now, was the fact that she had the potential to destroy. It was her most closely guarded secret and still she couldn’t help but wonder, what did that say about Petra as a person?

  She’d never answered the question before. Could she now?

  Turning down her street, she saw her condominium complex come into view. The front gate was ablaze with lights from a dozen different TV vans, all the local stations and two cable news networks. Her heart stilled as she stared, wide-eyed. Petra expected that the media would learn of her involvement, but she’d hoped that it would take time, as in days—not hours.

  Now what? She eased her foot off the gas and the car slowed.

  Petra had no desire to drive through the gauntlet of reporters and questions, to have her privacy invaded by the press. But what else was she supposed to do? Drive around all night?

  She heard a sharp knock on her car window. With a start, she turned to the noise. A man in a Colorado Mustangs ball cap stood outside the car. He slapped the glass.

  “You,” he said, pointing a shaking finger. “I saw you on TV. You deserve to rot in jail until you die for what you did.”

  In the distance, she saw a group of reporters turn in her direction. Microphones in hand and cameramen on their heels, they ran toward her car. She didn’t like her chances in a tussle with the media. Or the crackpot in the ball cap, for that matter.

  Jerking the gearshift into Reverse, she dropped her foot on the accelerator. The tires screamed. A cloud of smoke surrounded her. The taste of burning asphalt clung to her lips. She backed up the street, and at the intersection, turned the steering wheel and sped away.

  Her heart raced and her pulse thrummed at the nape of her neck. For a time she drove without thought, but all the while Petra knew where she was going. She turned onto the tree-lined street, and her eye was drawn to the Tudor-style home midway up the block. She pulled in to the circular drive and stopped in front of the wooden door. Dark windows stared out like blank eyes. She turned off the ignition and stepped into the rapidly cooling evening air. Petra wrapped her arms over her chest as her flip-flops slapped across the pavement.

  She rang the bell. Chimes echoed. The lights remained dark, the house silent.

  No one was home, but how long until someone would return? Minutes? Hours? Days?

  Coming here was a bad decision, made in a moment of weakness. She considered leaving—renting a hotel room and waiting for the media to get tired of camping out at her condo complex. Then again, she needed more than a place to hide. She needed help and protection. She needed to be here.

  Petra made a deal with herself. The door was controlled by an electronic lock. If the combination hadn’t been changed, Petra would take it as a sign, and stay. If not, she’d leave.

  She pressed the first number. The second. The third. Then she entered the final number. She gripped the handle and pulled down. The door swung open.

  She stepped inside and quickly turned on the light. A grandfather clock stood in the corner and began to ring out the quarter hour. She closed the door and inhaled deeply. The scent was exactly as she remembered, sandalwood and musk and whiskey.

  It smelled like him. Ian.

  Stepping in farther, Petra ran her hand along the curving newel post. The wood was smooth and warm. Behind her, the door opened. Petra turned at the noise. He stood on the threshold, regarding her with steely gray eyes. He wore black pants and a snug black shirt. His hair was disheveled and stubble covered his cheeks and chin.

  Her pulse raced. She gripped the newel post tighter. “Hello,” she said.

  Ian gazed at her for a moment before kicking the door closed with his heel. “I definitely didn’t expect to find you here,” he said.

  He was neither pleased nor angered. She’d hoped for one or the other, not cool neutrality—especially since energy coursed under her skin, leaving her feeling raw and exposed “I’ve been accused of attempted murder,” she said. “And I need you to help me find out what happened. I want to hire Rocky Mountain Justice.”

  Chapter 3

  Petra’s words surrounded Ian like smoke.

  The last time they spoke, his job had been the topic. She’d cried. He’d yelled. The accusations had been plentiful on both sides. And now she wanted to hire him? In a day that was anything but smooth, this was the last wrinkle he’d expected.

  A bolt of anger shot through Ian. She was the one who’d left—and now she was back, asking for help? Damn her!

  He checked his emotions
and cleared his throat. “You can’t hire me,” he said. His stomach clenched into a hard ball of resolve. “I closed Rocky Mountain Justice today.”

  Petra recoiled as if she’d been slapped. “What do you mean? I thought you were working with the FBI. I heard something on the news this morning that made me think of you...”

  “There was a raid,” he said, “and we were working together, but we got sacked.” Before she could ask why, he added, “I got caught trying to steal evidence.”

  “I know you, Ian. You’re impulsive, but not careless. What’s going on?”

  He shook his head. He didn’t want to talk about it anymore, and even if he did, Ian hardly knew what he would say. Nikolai Mateev was out there and Ian was going to find him. He didn’t need this distraction.

  “I’m sorry, Petra. I can’t help. It’s too complicated for me to explain, but without my license, anything I do will be considered illegal. It won’t be admissible in court and could send me to jail. And I certainly wouldn’t be of much use to you, under the circumstances.”

  “Sure, I get it,” she said. And then added, “I should go.” Her gaze traveled from his face to the door. “The media was at my condo, so I’ll need to find someplace to stay for the night.”

  Ian’s chest tightened. He knew Petra, knew she’d already be thinking about the next steps in her case. Should she plea-bargain for minimal jail time?

  No, Ian couldn’t turn her out, not if he could help—even if it was only to hear what she had to say. Maybe he could add some perspective.

  “Stay,” he said. “Tell me what happened.”

  “One of my clients was attacked in his home,” she said. “The police think I did it.”

  “And did you?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Shock?” he asked.

  “No. It was a migraine.”

  Ian had been in business long enough to know that most crimes had as much to do with the victim as the perpetrator. “Which client?” he asked.

  “Joe Owens,” she said.

  “The Mustangs’ quarterback?”

  “You know him? I thought you didn’t really follow American sports,” she said, surprised.

  “I live in Denver,” Ian said pointedly. “The name Joe Owens is hard to avoid.”

  He paused. Was this all she wanted from him—help? Then again, hadn’t he imagined this exact moment time and again where he got a chance to face her, to find out what had led her to walk out on him? She was asking for his help—but looking at her, he was forced to admit all the time she’d called to him from his dreams since she’d left. Although in his fantasies, she had rushed into his arms for solace...and passion.

  In the reality of the moment, she remained rooted by the stairs, and the past two years stretched out around him like a desert. It seemed as though little of their once-blazing desire for each other had survived.

  Ian studied her face, trying to catalog what had changed since he’d seen her last. There was a scrape on her chin and a bruise to her cheek. But those differences were superficial.

  She wore her hair longer than when they’d been together, and even in the baggy clothes, she was still toned with well-defined muscles, he could tell. There were fine lines around her eyes and slight furrows between her brows. Far from the changes making her less attractive, she had gained gravitas and wisdom. In fact, she was more beautiful than before.

  Then that begged the question—what changes did she see in him?

  “What happened?” he asked, bringing the conversation around to the reason she was in his home.

  Petra’s fingers trailed along the railing. His gaze followed her touch. Ian’s mouth went dry.

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “Like I said, I don’t remember.”

  Ian wasn’t in the mood for a mystery—not tonight. “What do you know?”

  Petra spent the next several minutes telling him about the events of the morning. The interview. The call. The migraine. The blackout. Finding the body, the arrest and getting bail. “I couldn’t think of anyplace else to go,” she concluded. “I hope you aren’t upset.”

  For Ian, there were several questions—some more important than the others. He began with one of the most benign. “How about we talk about this over a cup of tea?” He’d never gotten into the coffee habit, despite his colleagues’ ribbing him about his British tastes.

  “Actually,” she said with a sigh, “that’d be nice.”

  The kitchen was beyond the foyer, and for the first time, Ian saw it as a sterile place—one without use or meaning. The granite countertops and cherry cabinets were wiped clean and sparkled as if in a commercial for lemon-scented cleanser.

  It was completely opposite from when he’d lived with Petra. When she was here, the aroma of coffee always filled the house. The island in the center of the kitchen was covered with dishes, a smudge or two on the appliances. At the time, he’d found it too chaotic. And now? He missed the disorder, the sense of home she’d brought to his life.

  Who was he kidding? She’d been his home—and he’d been too focused, too obsessed with his target to appreciate everything he had with her.

  He set the pot to boil. “You’re in a mess,” he said. “But why come to me? This isn’t exactly the type of case that RMJ handles.”

  “Like you said. I am in a mess and isn’t that your specialty? People with problems?”

  It wasn’t the answer he was looking for. Ian needed to hear Petra say that she needed him. Yet she hadn’t.

  She sighed, “I’m not trying to escape the consequences, even if it means some time in jail.”

  Ian tried to admire her bravery, her character. Still, this was Petra, the woman he loved. Had once loved, he corrected, if only to himself.

  “Some time in jail?” he echoed her sentiment, each word dripping in incredulity. “You can end up spending your life behind bars. Or worse. Colorado is a death penalty state, you know.”

  Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. It was the first sign of vulnerability and it cut Ian to the core.

  “I’m scared,” she said. “Scared I did something horrible. Scared that I’ll be prosecuted for something I didn’t do—or worse, that I did but can’t remember doing. Scared that I’ll never know the truth.”

  Her words trailed off. Ian wanted nothing more than to wrap her in his arms, to keep her fears at bay. Yet he couldn’t—shouldn’t—touch her.

  He asked instead, “Why did you come to me, Petra?”

  “I want to know what happened,” she said. “No matter what, you can find the truth.”

  The kettle began to boil. At least he could offer her the comfort of a cup of tea. He filled a cup with water and a tea bag before handing it to Petra. “Sugar,” he said. “No cream.”

  She looked down and smiled, as if to herself. “You remembered.”

  How could he not? Everything about Petra was unforgettable.

  Petra scooped in sugar and stirred her tea. The silver spoon hit the side of the china cup, filling the room with a tinny chime. “I guess what really bothers me is that I feel like a ticking time bomb. I’m worried that I’m actually dangerous to everyone—my clients, my friends, my family.”

  Ian reached for her wrist, stilling her hand. “I’ll be honest, I have a hard time picturing you being violent—even if your job was at stake and you were frustrated.”

  Petra kept her eyes on the counter. “I’m not so sure I agree with you.”

  “Here’s the way I see it. Joe Owens is a big bloke—you’re easily half his size. He’s strong and not likely to let you stab him without a fight. Where are your wounds? Why aren’t you bruised from head to toe?”

  “But what if I surprised him?”

  “What? While stumbling through his house, blind with a migraine? It’s not in your nature to attack someone for no reason.”
/>
  “I had a reason,” she insisted. “My boss threatened to fire me because of Joe.”

  “Granted, you’re driven—but a life for a job? It hardly seems like an equal trade.”

  She pressed her lips together. “I wasn’t exactly in control. There’s no telling what I might have done and no way to gauge my actual strength in that fugue state.”

  A tremor ran down his spine. Petra’s honest nature might well be her undoing.

  “You didn’t point any of this out to the police, did you?” Ian continued with a warning, “Remember those Miranda rights. Anything you say is likely to be used against you.”

  “Are you telling me to lie?” she asked.

  “I’m telling you not to make it too easy.”

  “Understood,” she said with a nod.

  Petra’s situation was like a puzzle box, with only one way to solve it, and thousands of ways to be wrong. His mind began to work and he lighted on a rather simple fact. “You never saw or spoke to Joe after you arrived, correct? He could’ve been attacked and then left for dead.”

  “But if I didn’t attack Joe, who did?” she asked.

  “Who else might want him dead?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t think of anyone. Everyone loved Joe Owens. He was a hometown hero. Championship MVP.”

  “Obviously, someone didn’t.”

  Petra took a sip of her tea. A bead of tea collected on her lip. She licked it away.

  God help him, an image of his lips on hers, his mouth claiming her, their tongues intertwined, came to Ian and left him wanting more than a memory.

  He picked up his own tea and gulped down a swallow. The liquid scalded him. Then again, he’d been burned by her before. Passion and pain were opposite sides of the same coin, and in that regard, with Petra, he’d been a wealthy man.

  “You said you were on the radio talking about Joe and his most recent scandal...” He let his words trail off so that Petra could fill in the facts.

  “He threw a punch at a reporter for asking an embarrassing question at yesterday’s press conference. Last week he yelled at a waitress and his tirade ended up on the internet. Then the week before, he was arrested for disturbing the peace at a nightclub.”