by Olson, Mal
“I always do.” She faced him and forced a small smile. “Especially when there are murderers on the prowl.”
Before he could respond, she raced to her truck.
In the dark, grinding gears as she drove down the long drive, she kicked herself. That certainly hadn’t gone the way she’d intended. Unless, of course, she’d set out to alienate her superior officer with smart–mouth remarks that bordered on insubordination.
If she knew what was good for her career, she sure as hell had better start practicing her “yes–sirs” and minding her Ps and Qs. Meanwhile, she would assemble enough evidence to prove Coogan wasn’t the man Blade thought he was.
****
The eastern sun hung over Thunder Mountain, promising the Little Chute Valley another blistering day. From his office window, Blade soaked in the landscape and dwelled on last night’s confrontation with Brandy. He concluded that, yes indeed, he’d done a damn good impersonation of an asshole.
What was he going to do about it?
Brandy had raised enough questions about Coogan to tie Blade’s insides into knots. He’d get to the bottom of her accusations. Anyway you sliced it, there was a murderer running loose. Maybe he could clear both Amanda Wilcox’s and Skip Coogan’s names if he dug deep enough. Meanwhile, he had other problems to address.
He focused a pair of high–powered Nikon binoculars and viewed a spot high in the Coeur d’Alene forest, which could be the epicenter of Reverend McKee’s underground operation.
You are your own man, Blade, not the man who fathered you. Brandy’s words echoed in his head, a foreign thought… but somehow it made him feel better about himself.
A knock on the office door interrupted his moment of reverie. He lowered the binoculars and angled his head. Brandy stood framed in his doorway. He was surprised when she waved a small white flag made from a napkin glued to a pencil. For a second, he wondered if most of what he thought he knew about women was wrong or had somehow gotten lost in the translation when it came to Brandy Wilcox. He’d certainly expected a cooler approach this morning.
Juggling two coffee mugs along with the flag, she entered and set the peace offering on his desk. “L.C.S.M. Good for what ails you.”
With no mention of last night’s altercation, she slid into the chair opposite his desk, business as usual.
He lifted a mental brow, because God only knew there was nothing usual about anything that transpired between the two of them.
“Thanks.” He took the coffee and handed her a computer printout. “Forensic report comparing the note from your apartment with the one tacked to our front door yesterday and the original that was left in your duffle bag. They were all written by the same person.”
“Is there any way we can connect them to Reverend McKee?”
“That’s the obvious link, since the threats started with our run–in at the cabin with the Neo Nazi Freedom Fighters, whom McKee openly embraces. And things escalated when we increased aerial surveillance over the suspected campground. But as far as concrete proof, no. We’ve got copies of his handwriting. Doesn’t match. But then, he wouldn’t have written the notes himself.”
“The chopper hasn’t spotted anything new?”
“Only the occasional smoke that indicates activity near the summit of Thunder Mountain.” Blade turned and looked out the window again.
“Montana’s jurisdiction or Idaho’s?” Brandy asked.
“Changes from day to day. They move around.”
“Are we going to check it out?”
“Yeah. That is, if you’re still up for that backpacking expedition. Elevation 8,000 feet, dense forest, daily average high temperature edging over a hundred degrees. No established trails.”
“Hey, I’m no cream puff. Of course I’m up for it.”
“Piece of cake, huh?” Blade teased, loving her enthusiasm.
“It’s not Mt. Everest.”
“I’m waiting for the formal go–ahead from Sheriff Noble. Meanwhile, the revolutionaries are getting bolder by the day. Could be McKee’s got a militia to back him up.”
“You think the encampment’s that big?”
“They seem to have enough foot soldiers to distribute hate mail to every minority family around northern Idaho. They saturated the Indian reservation downstream from the dam with propaganda aimed at forcing them to pack up and move.”
“Wow.” Brandy picked up the binoculars and strode to the window. “My friend’s family lives on that reservation.”
“They’ve also targeted the Gay Rights Offices in Fort Shoshone, along with NAACP’s county office.”
“Prejudiced bastards. But then, the Neo Nazi splinters have never been fussy about which non–white group they target.”
“Meanwhile,” Blade said, “today we’re following up on the Secada case.”
She steadied her gaze on him.
He handed her the folder. “The raft hasn’t turned up yet. Here’s the death certificate and report from the medical examiner’s office. You can bring the file along in the car. We’re on our way out to Tour D’Alene’s launch site.”
“Yes, sir.” Her face lit up.
“Bring along swimwear and a change of clothes. We’ll be checking out the rapids firsthand.”
“Cool. You can’t say our job’s boring.”
Blade studied Brandy, the picture of cooperation and congeniality as she scooped up the folder and grabbed her coffee.
Not one word about Coogan.
He scratched his head and followed her out the door.
CHAPTER TWELVE
While Blade drove, Brandy buried her nose in the Secada report, carefully studying the first page. “Subcutaneous damage to the skull congruous to blunt force trauma. Stab wounds to the chest.” She glanced at Blade for a second, her fingers trembling with excitement, then back to the report. “I thought the chest injuries looked like more than rock bashing.” Friction burns on the upper torso indicating the body was dragged. Defensive wounds to the hands and arms, as well as broken nails indicative of clawing a hard surface. She stopped and took a quick breath. “You read the part about the broken nails. Right?”
“I know. We’ve got ourselves a homicide investigation.”
“So someone stabbed him and hit him over the head.”
She bit her tongue and kept reading. The stab wounds indicated he’d been attacked by someone approximately five foot six or seven. Her heart dropped into her stomach. Coogan stood well over six feet tall.
“Obviously, someone had reason to get rid of Joey Secada,” Blade said. “Our investigation will bring out any connection between this case and your probe into the Abbott murder. If there is a connection.”
You bet your ass there’s a connection. Brandy looked up from the report just as they arrived at the launch site, and Blade swung into a gravel parking area near the river.
Day two of the investigation of Joey Secada’s death was underway. The launch from where he’d reportedly started his rafting expedition was closed to the public and cordoned off with yellow crime scene ribbon. It had been divided into segments. Dr. Elliot, the county pathologist, a man with a short–cropped beard, stood with a clipboard as four deputies walked at arm’s length to one another, combing the landscape.
Brandy’s excitement manifested as a tingling sensation in her stomach. Her pulse rate sped up. This investigation could be the catalyst that would lead to reopening the Abbot murder case.
“Finding anything?” Blade asked Christiansen.
The deputy straightened, his glance settling on Brandy for a second before he quickly turned back to Blade. “We just got started. And, yeah, we found fibers snagged on a branch and typical debris. Gum wrappers and cigarette butts. Footprints all over the place. This is a popular spot this time of the year.” He scratched the back of his head and nodded at the raft Blade was preparing to launch. “Some people have all the luck. And you call whitewater rafting work?”
“It’s a tough job, but you know how it g
oes. Someone has to do it,” Blade replied.
Christensen snickered, and Blade and Brandy busied themselves with muscling the bright red bubble off the car top carrier and into the water. Blade steadied the raft for Brandy while she stepped in, juggling helmets, life vests, and a dry bag that held their pistols and phones.
“Bon voyage.” Christiansen saluted as the current quickly grabbed the raft and launched it downstream.
Brandy tried not to focus on Blade’s ripped body displayed by swim attire and lack of a shirt. It left little to the imagination. Of course, she had glimpsed his washboard abs and honed guns before. Even so, she couldn’t tear her eyes from his flexing muscles and the sweat–beaded, tanned skin. Thank God, he finally secured his life vest and obscured the view.
“I thought the weatherman said we were supposed to get a break from this heat.” Blade drew the paddle through the water until they hit the current.
“Yeah, we’ll get that break—come November.” Brandy pulled the damp cotton fabric of her faded Bon Jovi T–shirt away from her chest. She had no intention of exposing her skin, nor the navy tank swimsuit beneath, to the elements of nature. Present company included. Tempting as Blade was, she’d vowed to make a stand against the war both of their hormones seemed to be waging.
They hit their first taste of whitewater, sped up, and rushed through a course of boulders, spinning and, in general, having fun. Brandy let out a whoop when the raft dipped into a trough and bounced back out. Blade purposely steered them toward the roughest water, a grin on his face, obviously enjoying the challenge. Once they passed the obstacles and the current tamed down, they settled back and let the river take them at a slow and easy pace through wooded forest that allowed easy surveillance of the banks.
“We’re almost to the spot where we found the body,” Blade said. “He must have gone overboard in the first rapids. The current probably carried the raft further downstream.”
“Someone actually thought they could get away with making his death look like a rafting accident?”
“You didn’t get to the second page of the report. There were marks on his ankles indicating he may have been weighted down. The murderer was probably counting on the body never surfacing.”
Brandy scowled. “And the murderer probably disposed of the raft to eliminate any chance of leaving DNA or forensic evidence behind.” She was counting on recovering hard evidence from the Shoshone. Something that would connect Skip Coogan to Joey Secada’s untimely death. The fact that Coogan was tall and the ME’s report indicated the stabber had been much shorter simmered irritatingly in the back of her mind. She concentrated on watching the left bank while Blade focused on the right. So far no sign of red debris or anything amiss.
Picking up speed, a swirl of white froth eddied around them. The raft sped toward the next, more wild rapids. Brandy grabbed a paddle and struggled along with Blade to keep the raft from colliding with boulders and to direct them around sunken logs.
Blade changed course and jabbed his paddle against a golf–cart–sized boulder, directing the raft toward the bank.
“What? Are you chicken?” Brandy grunted as she dug her paddle into the sandy bottom and helped navigate the tomato–colored vessel toward the bank.
“We’ll take a break here.” In shallow water, Blade jumped out and pulled the raft ashore. They tossed aside their life vests and helmets and climbed onto sun–baked rocks, settling on a boulder that rose four feet above the water and cantilevered over the river.
Brandy retrieved water bottles and a bag of homemade trail mix from the dry pack, poured a handful for herself, and handed it to Blade.
“Where are the M&M’s?”
“I ate them while I was mixing, so I added dried fruit instead.”
“Yum.” He turned up his nose and tossed back a handful despite the sarcasm. Then he surprised her. “So, suppose Secada lied about being with Skip the night of the murder. Aren’t there millions of people who weren’t with Secada that night?”
“Sure,” she said, a handful of trail mix midway to her mouth, “but the fact that Coogan lied about it is significant.”
“With Secada out of the picture, who’s to prove he lied?”
“Exactly. His death is so convenient.” Brandy’s stomach muscles tightened. Her gut feeling about Skip’s guilt remained as strong as Blade’s unconditional belief in the man’s innocence. “Why do you refuse to consider Skip could have a dark side?”
“Because his personal history is impeccable.”
“But—”
“Skip comes from a highly respected family. His dad was a cop who lost his life in the line of duty. And his grandfather was a Chief Inspector.”
“Things happen to people.”
“Not people who are made of the right stuff.”
“You really believe that? Like father, like son? And a person’s either born to be good or destined to be bad?”
He shrugged, and Brandy recalled his comment from the other night. I’m the product of an angel and a demon. “You’re living proof that theory is pure BS.”
The muscles in his cheek tightened, along with the set of his jaw.
“Blade?” She reached for him, not knowing her intention, simply wanting to reassure him. Before her fingers made contact with his arm, he grabbed her wrist. Her heartbeat surged. An eternity passed while his gaze burrowed into hers. Then he brought her hand to his mouth and nipped a Rice Chex clenched in her grip.
“Tasty…”
“You’re a good man, Blade.”
The scowl line on his forehead deepened.
She thought he was going to drop her hand and retreat, but he seemed to shake off whatever was bothering him, and suddenly heat simmered in his eyes.
She cleared her throat and tried to edge back.
“We could be headed for dangerous water, Brandy.”
“Are we talking about what I think we’re talking about?”
“I meant what I said. I’m not into serious relationships. You need to know the score before ”
“What? Before things get out of control and progress to the next level?”
“Something like that.”
The hair on the back of her neck ruffled. “Always so presumptuous—who said I want to take things to the next level?”
“So you’re not interested?”
“No,” she huffed. Then chanced looking him in the eye.
It happened so quickly, she felt like she’d been side–swiped by a Humvee. He jerked her tight against his chest, sealing his mouth over hers. For a second, every nerve in her body quivered.
She came to her senses, stiffened, and tried to pull away.
He held her tight. His tongue slipped between her lips, and his body heat burned against her skin. She couldn’t resist. She sucked him in, a moan escaping from her throat.
Before she had a chance to get her bearings and back off, he pulled away, a smile curving his lips. “Presumptuous, maybe. A bastard, definitely. But you just failed the lie detector test. Like hell you’re not interested.”
“Screw you, Beringer.” Catching him off guard, she gave him a forceful shove, and he flipped into the water. When he didn’t surface after a minute, she scurried off the boulder and waded into the water. “Blade?”
She started counting seconds.
“Blade, don’t mess around.”
Something clawed at her toes. Before she could brace herself, the something gripped her ankles. Her feet went out from under her, and she smacked the water butt first.
With a forceful kick, she freed one foot, twisted around and head–butted Blade in the gut. He snickered as he went sprawling.
Laughing, she sloshed toward shore, but before she made it to land, he caught her and spun her around to face him. And there she was again, in his arms, his chest snug against her drenched T–shirt. She could have freed herself with a well–aimed knee to the groin. But this wasn’t scenario training, and he wasn’t a perpetrator. And she didn’t really wan
t to get away. Not with his blue eyes darkening, looking at her the way they were.
“For a drowned rat, you sure smell good. What are you wearing? French Potion Number Nine?”
This was her cue to knock it off and wriggle free. “Shampoo.” Eau de drugstore gener–eek. The extent of her collection of seductive fragrances. Then she realized she’d splashed on Tendre Amour that morning, a sample packet of her favorite perfume, which she couldn’t afford to buy.
“Yeah, you’re right it’s French.” She shrugged and tried again, half–heartedly, to pull free. He refused to loosen his hold. “Tendre Amour,” she said, pouring on the French accent. And, wow, if it had this effect on Blade, maybe she should have splurged and bought a bottle. Every time she went to the mall in Fort Shoshone she picked up at least one free sample.
His fingers threaded through her wet hair, tugging her closer, twisting a curl around his index finger. He inhaled.
Her pulse throbbed in her throat. She remembered his lie detector comment. “Is this another test?”
“For me it is.” He sighed and released her, stepping back, his gaze slowly sliding over her, top to bottom. It settled on the soaked image of Jon Bon Jovi’s smiling face.
For lack of a rational response, she said, “My mom was a big Bon Jovi fan. We used to…” With his attention stuck on her chest, her blood boiled.The temperature seemed to rise twenty degrees in a second. She could only imagine the annoying shade of sunburned–lobster her face must have turned as out–of–control fire shot through her veins. Damn, Beringer.
Whish.
A few feet above the water, something sliced through the air so close to Brandy’s shoulder she felt the air stir against her skin.
Blade ducked, bringing her along with him into deeper water.
“What the hell was that?” she squeaked. She turned toward the raft and looked beyond. An arrow protruded from a close–by birch trunk.
“Stay down, behind the rock.” Blade dove under and disappeared. All Brandy heard was the sound of the rushing river and her pulse beating in her head.