Dark Vengeance

by R. T. Wolfe

  The blinds to her office were open. She'd seen Duncan waiting for her when she came out of the stairwell. Spending the last several days on the Lacey Newcomer case, she only had one actual lead that felt right. Two neighbors from different parts of the street confirmed seeing a white box truck driving the neighborhood the morning of Lacey's disappearance. That narrowed it down to the thousands of white box trucks in this part of the state.

  She had been ready to take a break and call on Duncan Reed. Tall, dark and suspicious saved her the need to make up some lame ass excuse to get him in for interrogation. Purposely, she took a detour to the soda machine. She'd need the extra caffeine from the loss of sleep on account of researching the history of the exact man who sat... no lounged, she corrected herself, in her visitor's chair.

  As she entered her office, she twisted the top of her bottle, letting the slow crack and fizz announce her arrival. "Hello, Mr. Reed. What can I do for you?" She didn't offer a hand or even any eye contact but, instead, stepped over his outstretched legs, set her briefcase on the side of her desk and sat.

  After situating her desk area, she lifted her head and looked him straight on. His elbows rested on the splintered arms of her wooden chair, legs crossed at the ankles. He wore tailored slacks, amber, with a buttoned-down shirt in more of a walnut. It matched the eyes that stared at her now. They were chocolate and his hair such a dark brown, it was nearly black. He wasn't flashy, yet conservatively dressed in the best money could buy. She was well aware of what that looked like.

  And she saw why he was called the local boy who became the taste of L.A. It wasn't just the eyes, the hair or the toned, lanky body. It was the stoic way those eyes penetrated into hers at that moment. The confident, cocky way his long legs rested outstretched. Most women would shudder at the dark mystery. Except she didn't too much care for dark or mysteries.

  Stick to the books and to the facts, she reminded herself.

  "I have some information you might find useful." She noticed he had a way of talking without moving anything but his lips.

  Overtly, she sighed. "Why aren't you offering this useful information to your buddy, Dave?" She folded her hands without breaking eye contact.

  "Because you're the one who came out to pick up Melbourne. I assume that makes you the one who did the interview. You're the hotshot detective who is pulled out of area, including the city, and Dave's not here," he added as seemingly an afterthought.

  Pursing her lips, she looked down at her folded hands, then up again. "The last time you provided information on a case, it was information that in my professional opinion was obtained illegally."

  There was a pause before he corrected her. "Anonymously."

  She leaned forward. "And... is this information you're offering today also... anonymous?"

  This time, she noticed his eyes squint slightly before the corners of his mouth lifted faintly. "Can't a gentleman give a detective a helpful tip?"

  The Taste of L.A. reputation was making more sense to her. "All right, Mr. Reed." She leaned back and set one boot, then the other on the corner of her desk. "What've you got?"

  "I may have obtained a tip as to the whereabouts of Rob Brusco."

  Son of a bitch. As her feet hit the floor, she could literally feel heat radiate up her spine and into her head. "You're telling me the same Rob Brusco the department has been looking for twenty-two years is suddenly, and coincidentally I might add, at your disposal?"

  He opened his mouth, closed it, then answered simply, "Yes."

  She tapped her fingers on her desk, then pushed away and stood. After pacing to the thin set of windows at the back of her office she sat a hip on the edge of her desk. "How do you know his whereabouts? How is it you knew the dog was killed on-site? The necropsy results were in days after you told me that." Her voice slowly rose. "How did you know about the ashes? CSI didn't even find them. How did you happen to be so involved with both this attack and the previous ones involving your aunt? Do you see a pattern here, Mr. Reed? Because I see a pattern here and I don't like secrets."

  She'd maneuvered herself around to nearly inches from him. He remained stoic, although she could see the muscles in his jaw clenching and releasing like a geyser ready to blow.

  Very slowly, he spoke. "Do you really think an eight-year-old boy had something, anything to do with attempted murder?"

  She let out a small growl. Facing him, she leaned back on the edge of her desk, then crossed her arms, ready for war. "What I think is that your parents died in a plane crash when you were four years old. Your uncle took you in, you and your little brother. You survived through the divorce of your uncle's first wife, survived through a move six hundred miles away from your home. You had your uncle all to yourselves until Brie Chapman came along. That little boy's report of the attempt on her life read like a textbook. Literally. And why would a man complete college, then enlist in the army just to come back after three years and continue a job few could have dreamed of in the first place? You're making a mint and living the life. You work as an artist, yet your hands are covered in calluses. You make trips back here. Built an enormous home that you use once, maybe twice a month. I think I want to know where all these dots connect."

  Duncan's nostrils flared. He straightened in his chair, resting his forefinger on his cheek and thumb under his chin. "Two can play at this game, detective. It would appear Nickie Savage, excuse me, Nicole Monticello of the Maryland Monticellos grew up a textbook rich girl. Disappeared for eighteen months from the age of fourteen to fifteen. A pathetic, yet highly public search ensued. On your return, you soon worked yourself into the role of ward of the court. At age eighteen, you legally changed your name to Savage, and you never answered my question."

  Her chest rose and fell rapidly. That information was long buried. Not that it couldn't be dug up, wouldn't be, but not by this man. She didn't want that part of her life rubbed in her face by this man.

  And then, she felt the scowl on her face melt away. Hadn't she just done her own rubbing? "No, Mr. Reed." Her shoulders fell. "No, I don't think an eight-year-old boy had anything to do with an attack that left him with a gun pointed at his head. I've seen you around your sister, I... mean cousin. I remember your reaction to the idea of me questioning your aunt the day after she returned from the hospital." She walked tired and slow and sat back in her desk chair. "But my job isn't about only my instincts. It's about facts. And the facts, Mr. Reed, are that there are questions about you that need to be answered. I don't like secrets. Give me the info on your supposed lead. I suspect it's solid. Then get out."

  Chapter 5

  Lightning flashed through the windows on the top floor of Duncan's home. If one wasn't aware, they might think it was a fireworks display. The loud booms and harsh flickers fit his mood. She wasn't the first to hint at a possible connection between him and Melbourne, but this time it left bile in his throat. Decades of keeping his secret safe and Savage was poking around after only a few days. Well, he supposed she had her radar on him since they brushed paths last year, but this was unacceptable. Savage was proving to be annoyingly observant, intuitive and damned smart. He would have to remember that.

  His adjustable swivel stool sat directly beneath the three skylights that faced the southerly storm and angled with the tilt of the steep line of his roof. It was his preferred stool, wooden with no padding. It kept him crisp and alert. Except what he needed right now was to blur his mind. That was never going to happen.

  Rob Brusco's bank account, social networking sites and work email had given Duncan enough to go on. Automatic deposits each Friday from his job. Still posting pics from his bartending gig in the southern New York town of Liberty. Still using his work email for spam. Yada, yada, yada. All still under the alias of Tom Johnson.

  He looked to the canvas that waited patiently for his attention. Many used photographs as a painting reference when a subject wasn't directly available. He didn't.

  Although the scene out his basement door w
as presently one of late winter, he was able to work the whiskey browns and burgundy reds with clarity. The process of mingling the pointed leaves of the maples and the rounded ones of the white oaks helped to sooth his pointed edges. The thick smell of the oils he used, the clean smell of woodworking in the room, it helped. The idea of Melbourne free, taking a hit at his aunt... didn't.

  As he began the finer details on his canvas, he thought of the voice that sang about a landslide. Her voice. He closed his eyes, hearing it in his head.

  He heard the footsteps long before he saw his brother.

  "Looking good. How much longer've you got?" Andy helped himself into the chestnut settee next to Duncan's tripod.

  Duncan looked to the side, then up. "I have no idea, actually."

  "Well, tell me when it's break time. We've got horse shit to shovel. That woman has the memory of an elephant. The appetite of one, too. And if you tell her I said that, I'll have to kill you in your sleep." Andy lay on the small couch, propping his legs over a side. "So, are you gonna tell me about your visit with Savage?"

  Duncan shrugged. "I said what you and I agreed on." Mostly.

  "You're making a face. What does that mean?"

  Brothers. "It means we had it out and I only relayed most of what we agreed on."

  Andy lifted his head and turned to him. "Did you tell her the scumbag works for a security alarm company?"

  Duncan shook his head twice, then switched to a smaller brush.

  "About him putting up Melbourne and helping her get all those pretty surveillance pics taken for her alibi?"

  Nope.

  Andy swung his legs around and sat up. "What the hell did you tell her?"

  "I gave her Rob's alias and his address. She's smart. She'll get the rest."

  * * *

  Bundled in one of Andy's yellow winter construction suits, Duncan chiseled away at the floor of the barn. "How does it get this hard?" he asked. "This is like concrete. Actually, don't tell me."

  Duncan looked over at his horse three stalls down. This was his third time with her since he'd been back, and she still turned her head away when he looked at her. He knew she watched him though. He caught her looking at him.

  Listening to the horses in the other stalls, hooves thumped and noses snorted in the cold. He understood the connection Andy's wife had with her animals, just not the commitment. She had been a friend of the family from childhood. Duncan had years of memories involving Rose as a volunteer at the local zoo and animal shelters all the way to her present job as a conservation biologist at the Birds of Prey Research and Action Center.

  As a small child, she'd been there the night of the attempt on his life. She had waited outside the locked house with Andy while Melbourne spewed her laundry list of reasons why she wanted his aunt dead. He could still feel the gun on his temple, see the scratches on the barrel, smell the fire swirling through the closed bedroom door in front of them.

  The sound of footsteps brought him back to the present. Soft heels clicked along the concrete sidewalk toward the barn. He kept working.

  "Reed." It was Savage's voice.

  Both Duncan and Andy stopped and leaned on their shovels.

  Savage corrected, "Um, I mean Duncan, Duncan Reed."

  Andy displayed what Rose liked to call his thousand-watt smile.

  "Nice place you've got here, Mr. Reed... Andy. Duncan, if I could have a minute." She didn't wait for him to answer, and instead walked a few yards from the barn into the crisp grass near the fence.

  He wondered why he kept following her when she did that. When he came out of the barn, minus the yellow jumpsuit, he found her leaning her backside on the split rail fence along the pasture. Her jeans were tight, her boots heeled, and her hands tucked inside the pockets of her leather jacket.

  "Your lead checked out," she called out before he had a chance to reach a reasonable distance. "Although, we both knew it would."

  Less is more, he decided, and responded with, "Yes."

  "I'm heading down to Liberty first thing in the morning. I'd like you to come with me."

  He tilted his head and looked at her from the corner of his eyes. "What are we doing in Liberty?"

  "You've been preapproved as a temporary consultant. It's legal."

  "I didn't ask if it was legal."

  She stood now with knees locked, distributing the weight evenly between her legs like a rock star. "I'll pick you up at six." She clicked her heels back toward her town car.

  * * *

  Duncan came by his aunt and uncle's home for a late night mug of tea. Brie was in her silk pajama pants and a short, matching housecoat. A few strands of gray must have escaped her tweezers as they twined among the wavy auburn. He sat at their enormous cherry kitchen table as the three of them lounged at one end, firing questions back and forth at each.

  "She asked you to go with her?" Nathan asked. "This is good." He nodded absently, his mind obviously ticking.

  "I'll call when I get back, if not sooner." Duncan picked up his mug by the handle. "She wouldn't tell me my capacity. She's not much into... conversation, but certainly she plans on questioning Brusco."

  Round, green eyes looked at him now with... mischief. "You like her."

  He let his brows drop. Then, he refilled his cup. "She's rude," he said as he poured.

  "Efficient," Brie countered.

  "Paranoid."

  "Thorough."

  Nathan sighed and intervened. "Nonetheless, we want to get to the bottom of this and be done with it, put Melbourne back where she belongs."

  Brie laid one hand on Nathan's and one on his. The warmth soothed him. "These things take time. We've learned that the hard way. I'm safe. She didn't hurt me. Listen to this Nickie Savage. She knows what she's talking about and she has Dave. And he knows MollyAnne."

  Duncan nodded and attempted to change the subject. "How's the pup?"

  "Growing, chewing. We've got him house trained, which was a task in upstate New York winter weather."

  "I should get him," Nathan offered.

  "When do you head back out West?" Brie asked as Nathan stepped out.

  Duncan shrugged. Pulling the steaming cup to his lips, he inhaled the scent of raspberry. Closing his eyes, he answered, "I'm not sure. I've got work, but—"

  The puppy led Nathan through the door. The frantic scratching of needle-thin nails scurried across the hardwood floor. The pup gagged as he choked himself on his collar.

  "He doesn't listen to me," Nathan said as they came in the kitchen with the leash hooked on the puppy's collar. "He never listens to me."

  Brie half-laughed, half-grinned. "You'll get it, you just aren't thinking like a dog."

  Nathan walked to her and used great effort to give Brie a kiss on the mouth, something the dog was having none of. "What the hell would I want to think like a dog for?" They all looked down at the puppy, squirming to get between the two of them.

  "When are you going to name it, anyway?" Duncan asked.

  Unconsciously, Nathan scratched the dog's ears. He immediately sat and cocked its head to get a better rub.

  "I can't think of anything. Duncan, what do you think?"

  Ideas flew out of him. "Scorched, Stormy, Brandy, Red, Fire, Backdraft, or Barrel." His post-war therapist would have had a field day analyzing them.

  * * *

  Duncan woke with enough time to get in a few dozen laps before Savage was due. According to some late night hacking, he learned the detective landed a warrant to search Brusco's apartment but not one for his arrest. She had connections across county lines. Impressive. Andy would definitely give him justified shit for using his personal computer from his home wireless hub to check.

  Sitting in his front room, he sipped his homemade to-go cup of java. He lifted it to his lips as he watched the town car spew steam from its tailpipe like breath from a dog running in the cold. He stood, draped his coat over his arm and pulled his keys from the hook by the door.

  The air smelled crisp
and woke his lungs more than the swim had. Savage stopped the car. He walked to the driver's side before she could get out. She wore her honey-wheat hair down. It rested in large waves over her shoulders. Looking through the glass at eyes the color of steel, he held up a bottle of Diet Coke.

  As he tapped on the glass, she rolled down the window. A breeze of the smart and sophisticated floral scent temporarily blurred his train of thought. "Good morning, detective."

  She tightened the already naturally thin opening of her lids before she spoke. "You're not driving."

  "Not this, I'm not." Reaching through the window, he handed her the soda and unlocked the door, opening it wide. "I won't drive over three hours, one way, in this contraption you call a car."

  She sighed deeply. Contemplating? Her lids closed briefly before she turned off the ignition. Watching, it looked like she was unpacking a camping trip. Placing a briefcase on her lap, she reached behind, taking a feminine purse from the back and slinging the long strap over her head. Beneath the driver's side was a gun; he assumed it was a spare. She even pulled two yellow sticky notes stuck to her dash and pressed the backs together.

  He chose his Aston Martin, One 77. It was quick, small, expensive, and new. He popped the trunk and gestured, offering to take her bags. She shook her head. Predictable. He'd already packed his small bag, including both his tablet and his laptop, in the compact trunk.

  Opening the door for her, she snuggled in and made herself at home. Her briefcase tucked well enough behind her feet. She didn't hesitate to recline the bucket seat.

  He enjoyed the feel of the road, the peaceful silence. The detective's black pants hugged her legs down to just above her calves before they tucked into her knee-high boots. The boots were black leather but with a thicker, lower heel than before. Did she think she might have a chase in Liberty? The bold, blue button-down shirt accented her hair and the badge affixed to her belt somehow made her look sexy.

  He needed to get his head on straight. She was far enough from his type. It shouldn't be a problem. He blamed his short exit from reality on the barely there scent that now wafted across his two-seater.