by Sandra Brown
Tough Customer
Sandra Brown
Colleagues, friends, and lovers know Dodge Hanley as a private investigator who doesn't let rules get in his way in his private life as well as his professional one. If he breaks a heart, or bends the law in order to catch a criminal, he does so without hesitation or apology. That's why he's the first person Caroline King who after a thirty-year separation continues to haunt his dreams asks for help when a deranged stalker attempts to murder their daughter... the daughter Dodge has never met. He has a whole bagful of grudging excuses for wishing to ignore Caroline's call, and one compelling reason to drop everything and fly down to Texas: Dodge's mind may be a haze of disturbing memories and bad decisions, but he arrives in Houston knowing with perfect clarity that his daughter, Berry, is in danger. She has become the object of desire of a co-worker, a madman and genius with a penchant for puzzles and games who has spent the past year making Berry's life hell, and who now has vowed to kill her. Dodge joins forces with local deputy sheriff Ski Nyland, but the alarming situation goes from bad to worse when the stalker begins to claim other victims and leaves an ominous trail of clues as he lethally works his way toward Berry. Sensing the killer drawing nearer, Dodge, who's survived vicious criminals and his own self-destructive impulses, realizes that this time he's in for the fight of his life. From acclaimed best-selling author Sandra Brown,Tough Customer is a heart-pounding tale about obsession and murder, the fragile nature of relationships, and, possibly, second chances.
PROLOGUE
HE WAS OUT OF THE TRUCK WHILE DUST AROUND THE TIRES was still rising.
The ambulance's emergency lights sent pulsing shafts of color into the surrounding forest. The doors of the ambulance had been left open by the EMTs, who, he assumed, were already inside.
His boots crunched in the gravel as he covered the distance to the porch in three long strides. He entered the house through the open front door, stepping into a wide foyer. His eyes swept the main room on his left. Nobody in it. Nothing apparently disturbed. Two empty wineglasses were on the coffee table in front of a slipcovered sofa. Traces of lipstick were on one of the glasses but not on the other.
The sofa faced a stone fireplace, where a leafy fern had been placed in the grate for the summer. Rocking chair with woven cane seat. Patchwork quilt folded over the arm of an upholstered easy chair. Magazines and books in shelves and stacked on various tables. Reading lamps.
It was as homey, cozy, and placid a setting as could possibly be.
He registered it all within seconds. Beyond the living room was a dining area rimmed by a bay window, but he left off exploration when noises from above drew his gaze up to the gallery that ran the width of the house. Taking the stairs two at a time, he rounded the landing, making sure not to touch the newel post, and proceeded up to the second floor.
He walked along the gallery, which led him into a short hallway and to an open bedroom door. Again he assessed the room in a glance. Matching lamps on either side of an unmade queen-size bed cast disks of light onto the pale, peach-colored wall. A ceiling fan with blades made of palm leaves circulated overhead. There were three wide windows. Through the louvers of the shutters he could see the continued play of the colored emergency lights on upper tree branches.
The EMTs were kneeling on either side of a prone figure, a man, judging by the bare feet and hairy legs, which was all of him that could be seen from this vantage point. Under the man, blood had soaked into the rug.
One of the EMTs glanced over his shoulder and bobbed his head in greeting. "Hey, Ski. We've been expecting you."
He walked into the room. "What have you got?"
"Messy GSW to the lower left torso."
"Is he gonna make it?"
"Don't know yet."
Until she spoke, Ski hadn't realized that the second EMT was a woman.
"A good sign, though," she added. "The lady said he was conscious right up till we got here."
"Lady?" Ski asked.
The first EMT nodded into an open doorway, which they were presently blocking. "She called in the 911."
"Name?"
"Hers? Uh..." He was distracted by situating the IV bag. The name escaped him.
The female EMT supplied it. "King."
"Caroline King? The realtor?" Ski asked with surprise. "This is her house?"
The woman EMT shrugged. "That's the name in our database."
"So who's the guy that got shot?"
"Lady said his name is Ben Lofland."
"Are they the only two in the house?"
"Appear to be. The front door was standing open when we got here. We followed her shouts upstairs. Found him lying here as you see him. She was kneeling beside him, clutching his hand, crying. We haven't seen anybody else. She's shaken up pretty bad."
"Did she shoot him?"
"That's your job," the woman EMT replied.
Satisfied that the shooting victim was stabilized enough to transport, the two competently placed him on the stretcher they'd carried up with them, affording Ski a better look at him. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties. He had even features and the trim build of a runner or tennis player. No facial hair, visible tattoos, or distinguishing scars.
He was wearing nothing except a pair of gray knit underwear. It had been cut away on the left side, where there was now a large bandage. The woman EMT threw a blanket over him. The guy was out cold, but he groaned as they strapped him down.
Hearing the clomping of footsteps, Ski turned just as another deputy barged into the room, then drew up short. "I got here as soon as I could," he huffed. His wide-eyed gaze moved past Ski to the dark, wet bloodstain on the rug, then to the victim on the stretcher.
He was younger than Ski by more than a decade, nearly a foot shorter, soft around the middle. His apple-cheeked face was flushed, and he was out of breath, either from excitement or from running up the stairs. He was a rookie. This was his first shooting. To him, it must represent the Big Time.
Ski said, "Give them a hand, will you, Andy? Getting that stretcher around the landing might be tricky. Don't touch anything in the process unless you put on gloves."
"Right."
"Hal's on his way to help secure the house."
"He's got some miles to cover."
"And until he gets here," Ski said sternly, "it's up to you not to let anybody else inside, and that includes our own men. I'm counting on you. Got it?"
"Got it." The younger deputy hiked up his slipping gun belt and accompanied the EMTs out.
Ski crossed the room and went to the open door that had been blocked by the fallen victim.
He looked into a bathroom, where a woman was sitting on the rim of the tub, rocking back and forth, her elbows on her knees, her head in her hands. He had a bird's-eye view of the center part in her hair. Ski thought it might be auburn, but it was hard to tell because it was wet. It formed a heavy curtain on both sides of her face.
A summer-weight cotton robe had been carelessly tied at her waist. The wide sleeves had fallen back to reveal slender arms sprinkled with pale freckles. The skirt of the robe had separated above her knees, leaving her legs bare. Her toes were curled into the deep pile of the bath mat.
She wasn't Caroline King.
Inside the bathtub, the porcelain was wet. Three of the pewter rings holding the shower curtain had been detached from the rod, leaving the wet curtain hanging unevenly. A bottle of shampoo in the corner of the tub was uncapped.
She must have been interrupted while taking a shower, which explained the damp patches where her robe was stuck to her skin.
Lying on the floor a few inches from her feet, incongruous with the vulnerability of her pink, bare toes, was a .38 revolver, a standard Saturday night special. The base of the co
mmode would have kept it from being seen by the EMTs. Ski wondered if that had been deliberate.
He removed a pair of latex gloves from the hip pocket of his jeans and worked his right hand into one of them, then cautiously walked forward and bent down to pick up the revolver by the trigger guard. He thumbed the latch, and the cylinder swung out. There was an unspent bullet in each of the six chambers. He sniffed the barrel. It hadn't been fired recently.
As though only then realizing that he was there, the woman lowered her hands from her face and looked up at him. Her light brown eyes remained disconnected and vague. The whites of them were streaked with red from crying. Her skin was very pale, her lips practically colorless.
She swallowed noisily. "Is he all right?"
"Not really."
Whimpering, she looked past Ski to the bloodstain just beyond the threshold. "Oh, God." She pressed trembling fingers against her lips. "I can't believe this happened."
"What did happen?"
"He's got to be all right. I should be with him. I must go."
She tried to stand, but Ski placed his hand on her shoulder and pushed her back down. "Not now."
For the first time since he'd come into the room, she focused on him. "Are you ... Who are you?"
He unsnapped the leather wallet on his belt and opened it to show her his ID. "Deputy Ski Nyland, Merritt County S.O."
"I see." But Ski didn't believe she actually did. She'd barely glanced at his ID. Her watery gaze was imploring. "Please tell me he's going to be okay."
"What's your name?"
She seemed to have to think about it. Then she hooked her wet hair behind her ears and answered in a husky voice. "Berry Malone."
Ski noted that her last name wasn't the same as that of the man who'd been shot. Neither of them was named King.
He said, "The wounded man, Ben Lofland ... is that right?"
She gave an abrupt nod.
"He's on his way to the ER."
"He's not dead?"
"Wasn't when they left with him."
"He bled a lot."
"He did, yeah."
"He can't die."
"Unfortunately, he can."
She made a choking sound and whispered, "I must call his wife."
"His wife?"
She stared at Ski for several seconds, then covered her face with her hands and began to cry in loud, wracking sobs.
Ski planted his feet wider on the bathroom floor tiles. "What happened here tonight, Ms. Malone?"
She moaned into her hands and shook her head.
"Is this your pistol? Did you shoot Lofland with it?" He didn't believe she had, at least not using the pistol now in his possession. But he wanted to see what kind of reaction he'd get by asking.
She dropped her hands from her face and gaped at him. "What?"
"Did you--"
"No!" She surged to her feet, reeled slightly, then steadied herself by placing a hand on the edge of the pedestal sink. "I didn't get out the pistol until after I'd called 911."
"After you'd called 911?"
Her head bobbed an affirmation. She gulped a breath. "I was afraid ... afraid he would come back."
"Who?"
Before she could answer, sounds of a commotion downstairs reached them. A door slammed. Voices were raised. Ski heard Andy telling someone that they couldn't come in. Just as insistently, a female voice, ordered him out of her way. Apparently Berry Malone recognized the woman's voice, because suddenly she gave a sharp cry and slipped past Ski through the bathroom door.
"Hey!" He was careful to hurdle the bloodstain on the rug as he chased after her. Midway across the bedroom, he made a grab for her arm but came up with only a handful of cotton fabric. She whirled around and yanked it from his grip, but not before he got an eyeful.
Then in a flash of bare skin and printed textile, she vanished through the bedroom door.
Ski went after her, crossed the gallery in a run, and bolted down the stairs, hot on her heels.
CHAPTER 1
WHEN HIS CELL PHONE'S JINGLE PULLED HIM FROM A deep sleep, Dodge figured the caller was Derek. Likely his employer had had one of his famous middle-of-the-night brainstorms and wanted Dodge to act upon it immediately.
Dodge couldn't think of what might be so crucial that it couldn't keep till daylight, but Derek paid him to be on twenty-four-hour call, if for no other reason than to act as a sounding board.
He fumbled for his phone in the dark and, without even opening his eyes, figuring he was about to be sent out on an errand he wasn't in the mood for, answered with an unfriendly and unenthusiastic "Yeah?"
"Dodge?"
Surprised to hear a woman's voice, he sat up and swung his feet to the floor. He reached through the darkness for the lamp switch and turned it on. Using his lips, he pulled a cigarette from the pack, then flicked on his lighter. As he took his first inhale, he wondered which woman, among the vast number with whom he was acquainted, he had pissed off this time. He didn't remember getting on anyone's fighting side recently, but maybe that was his transgression--disremembering.
Since he hadn't yet responded to his name, his caller asked with uncertainty, "Have I reached Dodge Hanley?"
He was reluctant to confirm it before he knew who was asking. He preferred keeping a low profile. He had a driver's license because it was a necessity. He carried a single credit card, but it had been issued in Derek's name. Dodge used it only when doing business for the law firm. Privately, he operated strictly on a cash basis, and not even Derek knew his home address.
"Dodge? Is that you?"
He replied with a sound that was half word, half dry cough. "Yeah."
"This is Caroline."
His lighter slid from his fingers and fell to the floor.
"Caroline King."
As if she needed to specify which Caroline. As if she needed to jog his memory.
After a long moment, she said, "Are you still there?"
He sucked tobacco smoke into his lungs and exhaled as he said, "Yeah. Yeah." To prove to himself that the call wasn't part of a dream, he stood up and took a few steps away from the bed. But because his legs were so shaky, he backed up and sat down again on the sagging mattress.
"Fair to say that you're surprised to hear from me?"
"Yeah." That seemed to be the only word he was capable of uttering. How many Yeahs did that make now? Four? Five?
"I apologize for the hour," she said. "It's late here, and I realize it's an hour later in Atlanta. I mean, I assume you're still in Atlanta."
"Yeah." Six.
"How are you? Are you well?"
"Yeah."
Shit! Had he forgotten the language? Find some other words for crissake! "Uh, I'm okay. You know. Okay."
He was okay except for a total brain shutdown, a heart rate that had shot off the charts, and a sudden inability to breathe. He groped for the ashtray among the clutter on his nightstand and laid the cigarette in it.
"That's good," she said. "I'm glad to hear it."
Then neither of them said anything for so long that the silence began to hum.
Finally she said, "Dodge, I never would have bothered you if not for ... I would never ask you for anything. I imagine you know that. But this is vitally important. Urgent."
Jesus. She was sick. She was dying. She needed a liver, a kidney, his heart.
Plowing his fingers up through his hair, he cupped his forehead in his palm and, dreading the answer, asked, "What's the matter? Are you sick?"
"Sick? No, no. Nothing like that."
Relief made him weak. Then he got angry, because--just like that--he'd become emotionally invested. To counter his stupid susceptibility, he asked impatiently, "Then why are you calling me?"
"I have a situation here that I don't know how to handle."
"Situation?"
"Trouble."
"What kind of trouble?"
"Can you come?"
"To Houston?" A place to which he swore he would neve
r return. "What for?"
"It's complicated."
"What about your husband? Is it too complicated for him? Or is he the problem?"
A few seconds ticked by. Then, "He passed away, Dodge. Several years ago."
This news filled his ears, his head, with pressure. Her husband was dead. She was no longer married. He hadn't known, but then why would he? It wasn't like she would have sent him an announcement.
While his ears thrummed, he waited for her to say more about her husband's demise. When she didn't, he said, "You still haven't told me the nature of this trouble."
"The kind you specialize in."
"That covers a lot of ground."
"I don't want to go into it now, Dodge. Can I count on you to be here?"
"When do you need me?"
"As soon as you can get here. Will you come?"
Her stubborn refusal to be more specific pissed him off. "Probably not."
A hostile silence quivered between them. He picked up his cigarette again, inhaled deeply, blew it out. He wanted to hang up on her. Wished he would. Wished he could.
Quietly she said, "I understand your reluctance to become involved. Truly I do."
"Well, what did you expect, Caroline?"
"I don't know what I expected. I acted on impulse without thinking it through."
"You call me in the middle of the freakin' night. You tell me shit, but I'm supposed to drop everything and come running to get you out of some kind of unspecified trouble?" He paused for effect, then said, "Wait. Why is this sounding familiar to me? Is this sounding familiar to you?"
She responded exactly as he'd expected her to: with pique. "I'm not asking you to help me, Dodge."
"Well, good. Because--"
"It's Berry who's in trouble."
"Looks like somebody actually cooks in here now." Dodge sat down at Derek and Julie's breakfast table in their organized but well-used kitchen. "Didn't used to."
Derek laughed. "I don't recall ever turning on the oven before Julie and I got married." He lifted the coffeemaker carafe with an implied offer of some.
"Sure," Dodge said. "Two sugars. The real stuff."