by Morgan Blaze
She snuck another glance at the wall clock, and her blood ran colder. It’d been almost an hour since he said he’d be right back.
“…have to ask Goddard about that.”
The name snagged her attention, and she focused fully on the chief. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Could you repeat that, please?”
“I said, if you want to know about accident cleanups, you’d have to ask Ethan Goddard. He signs off on those.”
She stopped breathing. The missing signatures did belong to Ethan—who hadn’t come to work today. He was out there somewhere…and so was Adam.
Chief Smallwood frowned. “Am I keeping you from something, Miss Solomon?”
“No,” she rasped, and then cleared her throat sharply. “No, I—”
The phone on the chief’s desk rang, and she jumped.
“Excuse me a second.” Smirking, the man picked up the handset and spoke into it. “Fire, Chief Smallwood.”
She watched his face change from mild annoyance to concern, and then to near anger. “They’re both down there?” he said. “How bad is it? Anyone hurt?”
No! She wanted to scream. Somehow, she knew the call involved Adam.
“All right,” the chief said. “I’ll be right down. Thanks, Brad.”
He’d no sooner hung up the phone than Winter demanded, “What happened?”
“You seem a little involved, for an insurance investigator,” he said. “Apparently Rhodes and Goddard got into it at the Klinker.”
“They what?”
“They had a fight. Goddard’s in custody, and Rhodes…” Chief Smallwood looked away. “He’s okay. A bit banged up.”
She stood so fast, the chair nearly fell over. “Where is he?”
“At the sheriff’s station.” The chief pushed back from his desk. “I’m headed that way,” he said. “You can ride with me, if you want.”
Her heart pounded so hard, she could barely make sense of the words—but there was something in the man’s tone she didn’t like. “That’s all right,” she said, speaking carefully as she fought against panic. She had to get to Adam, right now. “Thank you, but I’ll drive.”
He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
“Yes. See you there.”
She rushed out of the office, heading for the stairs to the ground floor. She wanted to tell Dom what happened—not that she knew, exactly. But he was out on a call, which was why she’d been trying to wrap up the rest of her interviews.
Something about Chief Smallwood needled her. But she couldn’t pinpoint it, and her mind refused to focus on that. All she could think about was Adam. How had he managed to get into a fight with Ethan Goddard…and why was he banged up? She’d seen him handle Ethan easily, like he was swatting a fly. This didn’t make sense.
The drive to the police station seemed endless as her GPS directed her through turns and stop signs. Finally, she arrived at a low brick building situated on a hill. She drove up, parked the ridiculous truck in the tiny front lot, and rushed inside.
The lobby was empty except for an older woman behind a desk, who looked up in mild surprise when she entered. “Adam Rhodes,” she said. “Is he here?”
“Well, I don’t know.” The woman leaned aside and peered through the glass front of the building. “That’s Karl Jessup’s truck,” she said. “You aren’t from around here, are you?”
“Please.” Winter crossed the lobby on legs that wanted to shake and stopped in front of the desk. “I need to see Adam. He’s been hurt.”
The woman’s expression softened. “You mean that nice firefighter boy, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she breathed. “Is he…”
“Just a second, honey.” The woman pressed a button on a plastic speaker box beside her. “Hey, Nick. Come out here a minute, will you?”
“Be right there, Lolly,” a male voice responded.
“All right.” The receptionist smiled at her. “Nick’ll take you to him.”
“Thank you,” she said, nearly collapsing in relief.
A door behind the desk opened, and a tall, solidly muscled deputy stepped out. He looked at her and smiled. “You must be Winter Solomon.”
“Um. Yes,” she said. “How did you know?”
“Adam’s been asking for you. Come on back.”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
She followed the deputy through the door and down a long hallway. “Your name’s Nick, right?” she said.
“Yes, ma’am. And I’m glad you’re here, because I was about to go looking for you.”
“You were?” she said. “Why?”
He tossed a smirk over his shoulder. “Because if you didn’t get here soon, Adam would’ve killed someone. Probably me,” he said. “He’s worried about you.”
Her heart did a wild, fluttering flip. “He’s worried about me,” she murmured. “From what I hear, I should be worrying about him.”
“Well, he’s not pretty,” Nick said. “But he’ll live.”
Somehow the words failed to comfort her.
After a few words, they reached a plain gray door with a narrow mesh window set near the top. “He’s in here,” Nick told her.
She frowned. This looked like an interrogation room. “Is he under arrest?”
“No, ma’am. Sheriff just wanted to get his statement—and make him sit down for a few minutes. He’s a bit agitated.” Smiling, Nick reached out and pulled the door open. “Go on in. It’s not locked or anything.”
Winter nodded her thanks and stepped inside.
He sat in a folding chair at one end of a wooden table—eyes closed, arms folded across his stomach. His lower lip was cut, one eye badly bruised, and there was a nasty scrape on his cheek. More cuts and scratches decorated his hands and arms.
“Oh, God,” she gasped. “Adam…”
The instant she spoke, he was on his feet, wincing as he came toward her. Without a word, he pulled her into a crushing embrace.
Despite her best efforts, a ragged sob escaped her as she laid her head on his chest.
“Winter.” His voice rumbled through her, warm and wonderful. “Are you okay?”
She managed a weak laugh. “You’re asking if I’m okay?” she said, shifting slightly to stare up at him. “Have you seen yourself?”
“I’m fine,” he said—and winced again. “Mostly.”
“Sure you are. What happened?”
His eyes darkened, his features tight for an instant. “I ran into Ethan,” he said. “So I went to have a chat with him. Turned out he wasn’t as alone as I thought.”
She shuddered. “How many…”
“Including Ethan, five,” he ground out.
Five against one. So that was how he’d gotten so hurt. “Adam, they could have killed you,” she said hoarsely.
“Maybe. But they didn’t,” he said. “And the son of a bitch is behind bars now. He all but confessed to me.”
“He did?”
Adam nodded. “He said—”
“Rhodes, what the hell were you thinking?”
They both flinched as Chief Smallwood’s voice filled the room. Adam moved back a little and gave a careful half-shrug. “Honestly? Not much, Chief.”
“Yes, I can see that.” The man strode in, and Winter caught a glimpse of a tall man with a badge and a cowboy hat standing in the hall. That was probably the sheriff. “Brad says five of ’em jumped you,” the chief said. “That right?”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re still standing.” The chief shook his head. “Boy, I thought you were the one with brains.”
Adam smirked and rapped the side of his head—gently, Winter couldn’t help noticing. “Still there,” he said.
“Good. You can use them to take your fool self to the hospital and get checked out.”
“I’m fine, Chief.”
“No, you damned well aren’t.”
“I’m fine,” Adam repeated firmly. “And I’m going back to work.”
The chief snorted.
“You’re lucky I like you, Rhodes,” he said. “But if I see even a hint of you falling down on the job, I’ll drag your ass to the ER myself. See you at the station.” He nodded to Winter. “Miss Solomon. I’ll let you have the honor of bringing him back.”
“Thank you,” she said, distracted again by the needling idea that something wasn’t right with this man. Something in the way he said her name.
Chief Smallwood stared at her for a moment, and then left the room. As he did, the sheriff came in. “All right, Mr. Rhodes,” he said. “I’m convinced. You can have your legal entry to Ben Schaeffer’s house.”
“Thank you,” Adam said. “Out of curiosity, what convinced you?”
“That Goddard’s a real piece of work.” The sheriff looked downright disgusted. “He’s definitely guilty of something, besides assault. He seems plenty capable of doing what you think he did.”
A ripple of unease passed through Winter. “Did he confess to you, too?”
The sheriff regarded her with a raised eyebrow. “I must’ve missed something,” he said. “Who are you, and how are you involved in this mess?”
“Sorry, Sheriff,” Adam said. “This is Winter Solomon. Winter, Sheriff Brad Tanner.”
“I’m with the fire marshal’s office,” she said. “Investigating insurance fraud.”
“Insurance fraud!” The sheriff gave an incredulous laugh. “And you think Goddard’s your man? That boy hasn’t got two brain cells to rub together.”
“It was him,” Adam said. “It had to be. He killed Ben.”
Winter drew a long, careful breath. “Sheriff, did he confess to you?”
“Hell, no.”
“Then why do you think he’s guilty?”
“Because when we brought him in, the son of a bitch lawyered right up,” the sheriff said. “You don’t do that unless you’re guilty.”
Or if you’re smart, and being charged with a crime you didn’t commit. She decided not to say that aloud. Right now, all she had was a half-formed intuition that something wasn’t right. They needed that evidence. “All right,” she said. “When can we get into Ben’s place?”
“Soon as I can, I’ll drop by the fire station with a warrant and the key to the place,” the sheriff said. “Have to pull the judge off the golf court first. It’ll probably take me a few hours.”
“Thank you.” She braved a smile and turned to Adam. “Shall we get out of here?”
“Absolutely.”
As they walked back through the police station toward the front entrance, Winter tried to shake the idea that her culprit—Ben’s killer—was still out there. Adam was completely convinced it was Ethan, and she should be, too. Everything they knew so far pointed to him.
But the doubt remained.
Chapter 14
It was dark by the time Winter arrived at 357 Kings Way, armed with a house key and a search warrant. She’d been uneasy driving up the curving hill that had sent Ben to his death, but determined to get here and find what she needed.
One way or another, she had to know for sure who was behind this.
Adam was out on a medical call. The plan was for him to print out a few files she’d requested for comparison purposes when he got back to the station, and then meet her here. He hadn’t been thrilled with the idea of her coming here alone, but she didn’t want to wait any longer to start the search.
She still suspected they might have the wrong man in jail. Not that Ethan didn’t deserve to be locked up for what he’d done to Adam—but it was possible he wasn’t guilty of murder.
Ben Schaeffer’s home was a tall, two-story brick structure with a small, scruffy yard and a wraparound porch. She parked the truck in the driveway and let herself in the front door, then felt the wall for a light switch. For an instant she worried that the power had been turned off. But when she found the switch and flipped it, light flooded the room.
The living room was neat and silent, with the faintest hint of mustiness. There was a couch and a chair, an entertainment center with a television, cable box and DVD player, and wall-built bookshelves that displayed books, knick-knacks, and framed photographs. No computer.
She moved further into the room, glancing at the shelves—and her gaze happened on a picture of Ben and Adam, holding beers and laughing over a fire pit. Tears stung her eyes at the sight. She almost turned the picture around so she wouldn’t see it again, but that felt disrespectful.
A quick circuit of the first floor turned up nothing in the way of a computer or hard copy files. The bedroom was the next logical place to look. She wasn’t sure how she felt about going into a dead man’s bedroom…but she told herself Ben would’ve understood.
At the top of the stairs, she tried the first door and got lucky. Bed, dresser, computer desk. There was also a small two-drawer metal file cabinet next to the desk. She’d check there too, in case he’d printed the files for backups.
The computer was more modern than the one at the fire station, a slim desktop model with a flat panel monitor and laser mouse. Encouraging, because it meant Ben had known at least something about computers. She sat at the desk and turned the machine on, watching the screen as it loaded. Windows 7—definitely an improvement.
While waiting, she leaned down and pulled the top drawer of the file cabinet. It didn’t open. She frowned as she spotted the barrel keyhole on the bottom corner of the drawer. He’d kept it locked, but maybe the keys were here somewhere.
A fast search of the desk drawers turned up nothing. By then the computer had finished booting, so she opened the Documents folder. It contained a few text documents and a handful of images, but nothing that looked promising. She opened the documents anyway. They were all warranties or manufacturer’s instructions for things like appliances and auto parts.
She tried the main C drive directory. A folder called VRFD—Valley Ridge Fire Department, she assumed—contained the right type of files, but none of them were the missing ones. She copied the file extension and ran a search for it.
There. Six files in one folder, named with nonsensical strings of letters and numbers and buried in multiple subfolders. If you knew something about computers but weren’t at a professional level, this was how you hid files.
She opened the first one on the list. It was an incident report and accident cleanup claim, one of the four she’d marked for review. She scanned the numbers and instantly realized the key figures were lower than the ones on the copies, and the ones reported to the insurance company. Much lower.
That was why they were blurred on the copies. They’d been changed after the report was filled out.
Barely breathing, she scrolled through to the end of the document and the signature page that had been cut off on the copies. The handwriting wasn’t the best, but the name was clearly legible.
Mike Smallwood.
“He’s the chief,” she muttered under her breath, trying to calm her racing heart. “This doesn’t have to mean it was him. It makes sense for him to sign off on claims.”
But she didn’t believe it, and she’d just realized why. Because when the chief said her name at the police station, he’d pronounced the first syllable strangely—Soul-uh-mon, not Saul-uh-mon like most people said.
The same way the man in her room at the Whispering Rose had pronounced it.
“Oh my God,” she whispered. “It was him.” She went for her phone, desperately hoping that Adam had finished the call and would be able to answer. That was when she heard a soft, rustling sound behind her, like a shoe slipping on a carpet.
Before she could turn around, sharp pain exploded in the back of her head. There was a blinding white flash—and then darkness.
* * * *
The call hadn’t taken long, but Adam was still in a hurry when he got back to the station. The sense of urgency he’d felt ever since Winter insisted on going to Ben’s alone refused to fade.
He stripped his turnout gear and took the stairs two at a time, running for the records room. There he fo
und Archer Black, one of the night shift firefighters, tapping away on the computer.
“Shit,” he said.
Archer looked at him when he spoke. “Problem, Lieutenant?”
“Kind of.” He gave a crooked smile. It figured—no one ever used the computer here, except right now when he actually needed it. “I was going to use that,” he said.
“Oh. I’m almost finished—just typing up a paper for class.” Archer gestured to a stack of handwritten pages on the desk beside him. “Or I can just save this and wait until you’re done.”
“No, it’s fine.” He was surprised to get an explanation. Archer rarely spoke to anyone unless he had to. This was the most words Adam had ever heard from him. He was a good firefighter, but something of an enigma as a person. “I’ll just ask the chief if I can use his.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. Thank you, though.”
Archer nodded and turned back to the screen.
Adam left the room, jogged down the hall to the chief’s office and knocked. “Hey, got a minute?” he called before he turned the knob and pushed the door open.
But there was no one in the room.
Adam glanced at the wall clock and realized it was later than he thought. Chief must’ve gone home for the day. Shrugging, he went in, sat at the desk and turned the computer on. Mike wouldn’t mind if he printed a few files.
While he waited for the machine to load, he pulled the rollout keyboard tray. It came out halfway and stuck. He jiggled it a few times, but it wouldn’t move beyond the halfway point.
“Huh.” He stuck a hand into the space, feeling for the tray bracket. One of the wheels was probably misaligned. His fingers brushed something smooth and cool along the underside of the desk above the keyboard—and then flapped the stiff corner of what felt like a file folder.
Frowning, he bent to look under the desk and up. It was too dark to see what he’d touched, so he turned his phone flashlight on.
And found a small stack of manila folders jammed into the top rails of the keyboard tray.
A heavy weight settled in his gut. He knelt on the floor and started working the folders loose, trying not to rip them. Finally, they pulled free with a flat thunk, and he counted them.