“You know the owner might not want to chat. He’s not what you’d call friendly.”
“You know him?”
He shrugged. “I wouldn’t say I know him, per se, but I know of him. I know enough to say I think being down in that mine has pickled his brain a little.”
“Is he dangerous?”
“I guess we’ll see.”
“Have you had run-ins with him before?”
“A time or two. Nothing serious. He’s a crazy old coot, but basically harmless. As long as you don’t try to take his pot. Then, we might have a problem.”
“Great. Another pot grower. You might want to remind people there’s a law against that.”
“Not since Prop 215. Gotta love those liberal California voters. As long as you’ve got a medical card, not much the law around here is going to do about it. I don’t have the resources to chase after every illegal grower. My superiors have a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy. You know how it is around here. Nothing much has changed. Besides, they’re harmless. They grow their weed and if they’re left alone, they leave everyone else alone.”
“It’s still against the law,” she said stiffly.
“Yeah. But I’ve learned to pick my battles.”
She met his gaze briefly and looked away, unable to stare too long without fear of falling into those blue eyes and drowning. “I suppose you have a point, but it’s still not right,” she added.
They rode in silence, letting the music fill the car instead of their chatter—not that she could’ve mustered anything resembling frivolous chatter, her nerves were so taut. She had just managed to allow her mind to settle down when Matthew deliberately seemed to poke at a tender spot.
“Why didn’t you come to the funeral?” he asked in a deceptively casual voice, as if that question wasn’t charged with emotional pitfalls. When she didn’t answer right away, he said, “Your name was the last word he ever spoke. Did you know that?”
“No.”
“Of course you didn’t. You weren’t around.”
“Don’t do this.”
“Don’t do what? Talk about the past? Why not? We’ve got a lot of history. Nothing wrong with reminiscing.”
“You’re not reminiscing. You’re dredging up old crap. When did you turn into such a passive-aggressive prick, Matthew? If you’ve got something to say to me, get it out. Say it. Say it or shove it up your ass because I don’t answer to you. I never did and I never will.”
“You need to work on your people skills.”
She shot him a look. “And you need to work on professional civility.”
He drew himself up and then sighed, surprising her with his agreement. “You’re not the first person to tell me that. But then, Neal was always the talker. The one who could smooth everything out and make you wonder what the hell you were mad about in the first place.”
True. A vision of Neal as she liked to remember him came back to soften the tense muscles in her mouth. He was grinning like the devil, that ridiculously adorable dimple of his flashing as he threw his head back and laughed at something they’d said in their long-ago past. “Yeah, he was quite the charmer when he wanted to be,” she admitted. She had a treasure trove of memories to draw from. She remembered how her heart had broken when she realized Briana was not Neal’s. She couldn’t even pretend. Whereas Neal had been fair-haired and looked the part of the beautiful beach bum, Matthew had always looked the part of…law enforcement. She stifled an inappropriate urge to giggle. Matthew couldn’t look like a bum if he tried. Neal had been adept at making lounging look like art; Matthew had been adept at making lounging look like hard work. A smile born of sweet memories tilted the corners of her mouth until she remembered that Neal was gone. The smile faded and she swallowed the lump in her throat. “I heard his parents moved away,” she said, feeling as if she were listening to the conversation from elsewhere.
“Losing Neal…it was too hard for them.”
She could imagine. Neal had been an only child. She shuddered to think of how bereft she’d feel if anything happened to Briana. “I loved them. They treated me like family,” she murmured, feeling that awful twinge of guilt again. She’d wanted to go to the funeral, desperately, but she’d just found out she was pregnant and couldn’t hold a cracker down, she was so sick. If she’d shown up, barfing her guts up every two seconds throughout the ceremony, it wouldn’t have been hard to put the pieces together. Only everyone would’ve assumed the baby was Neal’s, and even then she had an inkling it could be Matthew’s. And boy, would that truth have been a barn-burner. She couldn’t do that to Neal’s parents.
She could feel Matthew judging her again. His silence said volumes. Her mouth itched to admit that she’d wanted to come but she couldn’t very well tell him why she’d spent that day bawling her heart out on her secondhand sofa, crying so hard her body ached from the pain twisting her in half instead of being here, where she’d belonged, weeping alongside those who had also loved Neal.
“I couldn’t get away,” she said, the words strangling her, yet she kept her gaze locked on the scenery. “I was new to the bureau. I couldn’t just leave on such short notice.”
She caught his dark look. Total bullshit, that’s what it said. Who was she to argue? She didn’t even try. Instead, she turned the heat on him. “Who’d you end up marrying?”
“You don’t know her.”
“So she wasn’t from around here?”
“No.”
“How’d you meet?”
He shot an assessing look her way. “You really want to know?”
She shrugged. “Why not?”
Matthew slowed to take a tight ten-mile-an-hour switch-back, answering as the road straightened out. “We met at a bar in Fort Bragg. She was singing in a band called Phoenix Landing. She had a way about her that just forced you to pay attention. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Just like everyone else in the bar. But for whatever reasons, she and I hit it off. We were married within three months and divorced after five years.”
“Let me guess…she didn’t take very well to the isolated small-town bit.”
“Good guess. Mari was…free-spirited. In the end, it was better to say goodbye than try to hold on to something that died a long time ago. She went back to singing in her band and I haven’t seen her since.”
“You sound like you’ve handled it well,” she observed, curious if the calm face was an act. Matthew had always been good at poker. “I mean…you don’t sound all broken up about it.”
“My marriage ended. It wasn’t my finest moment. I loved her. I wanted to build a life with her.”
The last statement stung for a reason Kara wasn’t comfortable examining any further. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out,” she murmured, needing to say something in the face of that quiet admission.
He shifted minutely, as if her condolences didn’t sit well with him and the moment returned to its previous awkwardness. Her sentiment hung between them until Kara wished she’d remained silent.
The girl, head aching from the stuff that had knocked her out, twisted in the tight bonds that lashed her feet and hands together. She clamped down on the nasty-tasting gag to keep from whimpering when the rope bit into her wrists. She could hear a television in another room of the house, the volume suddenly getting louder, until it was no trouble at all making out the newscast.
They were talking about a missing girl. Her hopes rose. Were they looking for her? She strained to pick out the details. Just as suddenly as her hope took flight, it crashed to the ground when she realized they weren’t looking for her, but some other little girl. Someone named Hannah. She squeezed back tears of fear and shifted in her bonds. The urge to pee intensified until her bladder ached. Would this person make her pee in her pants? She swallowed against the gag. Fresh tears rolled down her cheeks.
She wanted her mommy. “Please find me,” she whispered against the bond, her tongue automatically pushing against the wet rag until she made herself ga
g. “Hurry, please.”
Chapter 6
Matthew cursed himself for sharing personal—painfully personal—information with Kara. It just sort of slipped out and that was out of character for him. His grip tightened on the steering wheel as he concentrated on the road. But a quick glance at Kara told him she was squirming under the weight of the moment, too. It had been frighteningly easy to fall into old habits, lulled by the phantom of their long-dead friendship, to let that bit of information out, and Matthew didn’t like it.
But there was something about Kara that pulled at him. She had that enigmatic quality that so few have that drew a person to her. Much like Mari. Except Mari’s charismatic energy had needed the stage to come alive. Kara was the opposite. She worked actively to downplay that magic. He could tell from the news conference footage he’d downloaded from the Net the night Kara arrived. He’d told himself he was watching to get more acquainted with the case but he’d really wanted to see how much Kara had changed, or if she’d remained the same. Physically, she was the woman he remembered. The woman made a man’s teeth ache for want of something to bite. She had that sultry, secret and intense focus that reflected from her steady, unfaltering stare but there was a guardedness that hadn’t been there before. What had happened to put that there? She hadn’t been very forthcoming about anything personal in her own life, that much he noticed. And something had her on edge. She said it was the case. Certainly plausible. This case was giving him problems, too. Kara knew things like this just didn’t happen in Lantern Cove. To call the small inland town sleepy would be like calling the pope mildly religious. And he liked it that way.
“I’ve seen your previous press conferences. You want me to do the honors this time around or are you going to do it?” he asked.
She seemed relieved, if not troubled by the topic, to break the silence with something they could talk about safely. “As much as I would relish handing that hellish detail off to someone else, I’ll do it. I figure it won’t be long before the press hears about Hannah Linney’s body. The next of kin was contacted last night. It won’t be long before you’ve got reporters crawling all over this place.”
“If they can find it,” Matthew said, only half joking. Lantern Cove was the only town on the Lost Coast not connected by Highway 1 or 101. It was as if the Cove’s forefathers didn’t much care about being connected to the rest of the world. And sometimes it still felt that way.
“Don’t let the geography give you a false sense of security,” Kara warned derisively. “When the press get a hold of something, they turn into bloodhounds. They’ll be here. If they’re not already. Trust me.”
Great. Just what he needed to deal with, a bunch of nosy reporters, asking questions and making a general nuisance of themselves for the sake of a thirty-second news clip.
Kara looked troubled. “I really want to have more to go with than what I’ve been saying already. The press are having a field day with this and I’d rather not feed the two-headed media beast without something to whet its appetite.”
“You don’t think the news that another child has been found is juicy enough to keep them chewing on that bone for a few more days?”
“Oh, it’s juicy enough. That’s the problem. It’s too easy to sensationalize the tragedy. That’s what I don’t want. The killer is out there, no doubt watching just like everyone else, loving the attention. I don’t want to feed that bastard’s lust for pain.”
For just a moment Matthew caught sight of the woman he used to know, compassionate and dedicated to the cause of justice, and he had to remind himself to pull back.
“Why were you chosen to be the mouthpiece for the Babysitter cases?” he asked, curiosity winning out. He knew Kara didn’t enjoy the spotlight.
Her mouth tightened. “All the wrong reasons.”
“What do you mean?”
She shook her head, obviously not wanting to go further. It only made him need to know more. “So it wasn’t your experience level?”
“That would’ve been the right reason,” she answered, huffing a short breath before looking at him to answer bluntly. “My face.”
His confusion was clear. “Come again?”
“My director wanted me on the case because I have a nice enough face—pretty.” She nearly spat the word, making it sound like a bad thing. “Because he believes the bureau could use some softening up in the eyes of the press. It’s stupid, I know. But not much I could do about it. The fact is, I am the most qualified to handle the press on this case but I hate that my director didn’t think of that as the reason. It’s like thirty years of feminist advances never existed.”
“So what you’re saying is your director is a sexist idiot.”
She risked a small smile. “I guess I am.”
“Well, that may be true but I’ve watched your footage and you handle it well. I think you’re the right person for the job. If my opinion counts for anything,” he added as an afterthought.
A part of him hoped to see that tiny twitch of her lips turn into a full-fledged grin like old times, but she smothered it and returned to watching the scenery.
Matthew followed her lead, feeling like an idiot for even wandering into such territory with her. It was dangerous. If he started to think of her as a friend, the lines he drew in the sand might blur. Ten years was a long time to nurse a wound, he knew that. But after what she did to Neal, what they both did, if he couldn’t forgive himself, he sure as hell couldn’t forgive her, either.
That left them both in a very lonely place.
And he sure as hell already knew that. Something told him, so did she.
Dillon walked to the place called Tally’s at the Pier and wrinkled his nose at the fishy smell of the waterfront that not even the heavy aroma from the fried food could smother. He’d never been one for the ocean. He pushed open the narrow door and went inside the dimly lit diner. The only light came from the porthole-type windows facing the ocean, which were designed to make tourists feel as if they really were aboard some kind of fishing boat. It just made him feel claustrophobic.
Openly suspicious stares came his way from the crusty locals seated at the bar, and he flashed a disarming grin their way that was not returned in the least. So much for making friends, he thought as he moved toward a man who looked as if he might be the owner.
With wild, white hair standing on end as if electrified, he stood wiping down beer steins behind the bar, noting the moment Dillon walked into the establishment.
As Dillon approached, the man gestured. “You one of those FBI guys?” he asked.
Dillon flashed his badge. “That obvious, huh? Are you Tally by any chance?”
The man raised an eyebrow made of stiff white hairs long enough to curl. “No. Tally was my pops. I’m Chuck.” He lifted a stein. “How about a beer? I know how you Brits love your beer. I have Guinness and Newcastle.”
“Tempting, but I just had breakfast and unfortunately, loaded up on orange juice,” Dillon joked, but the humor fell flat and died a quiet death as Chuck just gave him a fish-eyed stare that would’ve make Groucho Marx pack up and go home. “Right. On second thought, a beer sounds just the thing. Whatever you have on draft.”
Chuck took the stein in his hand and filled it up.
Wiping away the foam, he smiled. “Perfect. Nothing like a cold brew before 10:00 a.m. Invigorating.”
Chuck seemed to loosen up. Leaning against the bar, he flicked at a lone peanut and it skittered across the floor. “Sad news about that kid,” he said. “What a sicko bastard.”
It was one of those leading statements that people often used to draw someone else into a conversation. Dillon was happy to oblige. He was there for information. Besides, by all appearances, Chuck seemed the kind of guy who noticed things—or people—that didn’t belong.
“Yeah, that’s for sure,” Dillon agreed amicably, taking another draught, not even the least bit concerned that he was indulging while on the clock. “What can you tell me about the area o
f Wolf’s Tooth? Is it popular with the locals?”
“Only the ones who know what they’re doing. It’s not exactly tourist friendly and you sure as hell ain’t gonna find it on no hiking map. Too many steep inclines. That’s why it’s called that. One false move and you’re falling to your death. The ferns and bracken hide how sharp of a drop the ravine actually is.”
That’s what he figured. “So it’s only big with the locals?”
“Only the ones with a death wish or the ones who have something to hide.”
Pot growers, perhaps? Dillon wisely kept that observation to himself. Seeing as this was the only joint in town that served alcohol, Dillon asked, “Have you noticed anyone different coming in lately? Someone other than the locals?”
“Not this time of year,” Chuck said, grabbing another stein to dry with his less-than-pristine white towel. Dillon tried not to think of that and just hoped Chuck didn’t also use that towel to wipe his nose…or other places. “Tourist season—such as it is—is over. Now it’s just the locals coming in.”
“Is there anyone you think I might want to talk to?” he asked.
Chuck looked at him as if he’d grown another head, then shook his own. “Nope.”
Dumb question. Locals stick together in places like this. Loyalty ran thicker than blood. Knowing he wouldn’t get any further with this guy, Dillon finished his beer and then headed out.
He walked the tiny row of shops, digesting the ale and the information he’d gotten from Chuck. Was it possible the person they were looking for was local to Lantern Cove? It seemed an impossibly convenient break in the case, which immediately made the possibility suspect in his mind. Nothing was that simple. The obvious answer was not always the right one, especially when they were dealing with psychos like the Babysitter.
But he’d be stupid to overlook the possibility just the same. Pulling out his BlackBerry, he sent a group text to the CARD Team with the information he’d gleaned and headed for a shop that advertised maps of the area. He wanted to get to know Wolf’s Tooth just a little better. The topography, the history. He didn’t want to jump to conclusions but his intuition—not that he believed in that nonsense—was telling him to dig a little deeper. And he was happy to do so.
To Catch a Killer Page 5