Bed of Bones (A Sloane Monroe Novel, Book Five)

by Cheryl Bradshaw

  “I had no idea you drank wine.”

  “I don’t,” he said, holding it out in front of him, “but this is a lot better than I imagined. I might have to stray from my usual.”

  Stray.

  Something inside my head sparked.

  “Don’t lead me astray,” I said.

  He slanted his eyes. “What are you talkin’ about, darlin’?”

  “Don’t lead me astray. I said it to Carlo in the coffee shop the morning after he asked me to help him find Melody.”

  “I still don’t follow.”

  “There was a guy in there at the time. Plaid Shirt Guy. He had a rough look to him, long beard, hair pulled back into a pony-tail, I think.”

  “Was he sittin’ alone?”

  “I was so wrapped up in Carlo, I didn’t notice.”

  “You don’t usually miss things.”

  “I know,” I said, “but the conversation with Carlo got heated. I couldn’t focus on anything else.”

  “Why? What was you two talkin’ about?”

  “I was trying to get Carlo to tell me about Giovanni, to admit Giovanni’s role in the family business in exchange for me helping him find Melody Sinclair. At some point, I remember saying to Carlo, ‘Don’t lead me astray.’ I told him I’d take the case, but only if he told me about his family, their business, what they do. Carlo was furious.”

  “Why?”

  “I was talking too loud. Everyone could hear me. Carlo stood up, grabbed my arm, and the guy at the other table got involved. He told Carlo to take his hands off me. Then he asked me if I was okay. The whole thing happened so fast.”

  “I’m tryin’ my best to follow you, I am, but what are you tryin’ to tell me?”

  “The way I interpret the scripture given to Shelby is this: I was the righteous one, the upright one. Giovanni had confused me with his secrets, caused me to go astray.”

  “But this man, he couldn’t possibly have known Giovanni, right?”

  “That’s not the point. Let me finish.” I was standing now, pacing in front of the sofa. “The man heard our conversation, probably from the beginning. He was sitting there, slurping his coffee, and at some point, he must have felt sorry for me.”

  “And you think that’s why he intervened.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I also think he felt I was owed something. The end of that verse says the upright, meaning me, would have good things in my possession.”

  Cade smacked his hands together. “Shelby.”

  “I’d been done a wrong, and he made it right. He gave her back.”

  “It’s crazy.”

  “Not really,” I said. “Not to him. This guy sees himself as someone who has been granted a higher power to see justice is carried out, both good and bad. I’d be willing to bet he’s rescued a cat and killed someone all in the same day, and he probably didn’t think twice about it.”

  “You have no idea who he is though.”

  “Yes, I believe I do,” I said. “I may not have noticed everything, but I noticed one thing—when he asked me if I was all right, I looked right at him, into his dark, beady eyes. Eyes that looked too small for his face.”

  I’d seen those eyes before.

  CHAPTER 44

  I called Carlo, explained my theory. The man at the café had the same eyes as the man in the photo I’d seen earlier of Detective Hurtwick. Butch thought Chester had a partner. But I bet he never would have believed it could have been the good detective.

  Carlo was on his way back to Giovanni’s estate in Salt Lake City. He flipped around, said he’d drop by the Hurtwick residence, see if my theory amounted to anything before taking further action. He wanted me to sit home, wait for his call.

  Not a chance.

  I let him know I’d meet him there. Cade grabbed his coat just as Maddie arrived with Shelby. I tried convincing Cade to stay. I’d meet up with Carlo, I’d be all right. But he was just as stubborn as I was, and Shelby relished the opportunity to spend more time with Maddie. I couldn’t say I blamed her.

  …

  The Hurtwick residence was at the end of a long, quiet road. A snippet of light shone through the closed shades on the other side of the window pane in the front window. I hoped this meant someone was still awake.

  Carlo opened the passenger-side door. I stepped onto sheets of hardened ice.

  “I’d like Cade to stay in the car,” Carlo said. “It’s bad enough you’re here. If this turns out to be the lead we’re looking for, let me take over.”

  I resisted the urge to slap him. “Gee, thanks.”

  Carlo turned. “You misunderstand me.”

  “I’m guessing you’ve been told to stay away from me, keep me off the case. I don’t have a shiny badge like you do. I get it.”

  “You’re brilliant, Sloane. The way your mind works sometimes is…fascinating. Why do you think I spent time trying to get into it tonight? All I meant to say was—”

  “I’m freezing. Can we get this over with?”

  While Cade kept the car warm, I tapped on the door. A faint, “Hold on just a minute,” echoed from inside. The voice was soft and light, a woman’s. The porch light flipped on. Two cats sprung free when the door opened, bounding into the darkness.

  “Toodles! Mitsy!” the woman shouted. “Get back here!”

  The felines didn’t give her a second glance.

  “Oh no,” she sighed. “It’s dark out. Once they’re out of the yard, I’ll never find them.”

  “I’ll grab them for you,” Carlo said, clicking on a high-powered flashlight.

  While Carlo commenced Operation Kitty Roundup, I charmed an exhausted looking, fussy, Mrs. Hurtwick, and gained entrance inside. I explained who we were and promised we wouldn’t stay long. She shuffled me into the living room, fidgeted with the sleeve of her nightgown until Carlo returned, one fur ball clutched in each hand.

  “Whatever you’re here for, why can’t it wait until morning?” she asked.

  “We’re looking for a missing girl,” I said. “We were hoping to speak to your husband, Detective Hurtwick.”

  “Arthur? He lives with the Lord now.”

  One of her eyes was half open, the other almost shut. I wasn’t sure we’d be able to keep her awake long enough to get any good information.

  Carlo took the lead. “Do you have any children?”

  “A son, why?”

  “Where is he living?” he asked.

  She pointed toward the ceiling.

  Dead as well. Terrific.

  “I’d like to know how he died.”

  “I’m not comfortable talking about it.”

  She was testing the wrong person.

  “I need you to answer the question,” Carlo prompted. “Right now.”

  She grabbed a half-finished scarf she’d been knitting, went to work on it. “My son shot himself in his garage.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Two years.”

  “Why did he take his own life?”

  “Forgive me, I fail to see where this conversation is going. There are other ways to get answers to your questions. Do your research, for heaven’s sake.”

  He was losing her.

  I looked around, spying several pictures on the mantle over the fireplace. I walked over, picked one up. “Who’s this?”

  “My son,” she replied. “Now please put it down.”

  I looked at Cade. “Too old.”

  Similar face though, same eyes.

  “Did your son have any children?” Carlo asked.

  “Two, yes. One boy, one girl.”

  “Can I see a recent photo of your grandchildren?”

  “I want you to leave. I’m tired.”

  Carlo took the knitting from her hands, set it down. “I can take you in if you choose not to cooperate.”

  “You can’t just haul me down there because you feel like it. I invited you into my home, without asking to see a warrant, I might add.”

  “This isn’t the fifties,
Mrs. Hurtwick. And I’m FBI, not a detective like your late husband.” He pulled a photo out of his pocket, shoved it right in her face. “This is Angela Rivers. She’s missing. By tomorrow she’ll be dead, if she isn’t already.”

  “Why are you telling me? I can’t help you.”

  “You can,” he said.

  “Why are you asking about my family?”

  Paranoia set in. Carlo zeroed in on it and mellowed. He sat beside her, smiled, gave an impression like everything was fine. “We have reason to believe your grandson knows the person who took our missing girl.”

  The lie worked. Her body relaxed, her eyes softened.

  “You mean to say Shawn witnessed it—he was there at the time?”

  Shawn Hurtwick.

  We had a name.

  I texted Cade, asked him to search for a Shawn Hurtwick in the area.

  “Shawn might have seen something, yes,” Carlo responded.

  She looked scared. “I don’t know. He asked me not to say anything to anyone. He said some bad people might come around asking questions. He said not to answer them or his life would be in danger.”

  “When was this?”

  “Two weeks ago, when he came back.”

  “Came back from where?” Carlo asked.

  “After his father died he left, quit his job, said he wanted to see the world. I think traveling was a way for him to deal with the grief.”

  Or a way to lurk around the set of a movie.

  “Where did your son work?”

  “He was a contractor. He was always good at building things, making things, ever since he was a boy.”

  “When he left, did he fly or drive?” Carlo asked.

  “He left his daddy’s Ford here. Wouldn’t have lasted one day on a road trip.”

  A Ford which I was willing to bet had two different front tires.

  “Do you know where your grandson is right now?”

  “I can’t,” she responded. “I promised.”

  Carlo switched again. He spewed threats, frightening her.

  There were two halls in Mrs. Hurtwick’s house. I picked one when she wasn’t looking, found the master bedroom at the end of the hall. There had to be a photo of Shawn Hurtwick somewhere.

  A return text came in from Cade. There was no address for a Shawn Hurtwick. He’d owned a home in Park City, but sold it a couple years earlier. There was, however, an address for Roy, Shawn’s deceased father.

  A tray rested on top of a long dresser. On it were two bottles of the same perfume. Lavender Nostalgia.

  Lavender.

  I tore down the hall, yelling. “Carlo—”

  A gunshot went off.

  Mrs. Hurtwick screamed.

  CHAPTER 45

  Shawn Hurtwick stood over Carlo, a .45 Colt in his hand. Blood oozed from the back of Carlo’s head, spilling onto the rug below. He wasn’t moving. I’d picked the wrong hallway. Shawn must have been hiding, listening the entire time.

  Outside, footsteps approached.

  Cade.

  Shawn steadied the gun, zeroed in on the front door.

  Too late.

  I fired.

  Shawn turned, disillusioned. He didn’t think I would shoot him. The bullet cut through his shoulder, exactly where I wanted it to go. Dying was too easy. His victims deserved more.

  “This him?” Cade asked. “This the guy who took my daughter?”

  I nodded.

  Cade balled his fist, drilled it into the side of Shawn’s head. Shawn went down. Cade swung his boot backward and launched it forward, over and over again into Shawn’s chest. Shawn cried out. Mrs. Hurtwick screamed again, but she knew better than to move.

  I collapsed to the floor next to Carlo, frantically pressing numbers on my phone. I held the phone to my ear, waiting for it to ring. It didn’t. Water filled my eyes. “Hang on, Carlo, hang on!” I wanted to beat my phone against the wall. “Why isn’t this working?!”

  “Sloane…”

  Cade stood over me, hand out.

  My voice was shaky, trembling. “I don’t know why it’s not working. I can’t get it to work, Cade.”

  “Let me do it. I’ll make the call.”

  “We need an ambulance…and I need…I need…the chief.”

  “I know. I’ll take care of it.”

  His voice was soft, reassuring, but it didn’t quell the pain inside. Cade dialed with one hand, kept his gun directed at Shawn with the other, even though he wasn’t moving. Mrs. Hurtwick tried to rise. Cade stopped her.

  “Sit,” he warned.

  “Carlo…can you hear me?” I straddled Carlo’s body, felt for a pulse. There wasn’t one. Cade bent down, looked him over, sheathed an arm around me.

  “There’s nothin’ you can do for him now, darlin’.”

  It couldn’t be. This wasn’t happening.

  I broke free from Cade’s grip, cradled Carlo in my arms, his blood soaking my shirt.

  Shawn groaned as he flipped around, his gaze fixed on me.

  “Why?” I asked. “Why did you have to take his life?”

  “To deliver thee from the way of the evil man.”

  Cade stared at Shawn, stunned.

  “Stop it! Just stop,” I said. “No more.”

  Shawn’s face twisted into a wicked smiled. “But you said you understand.”

  “I don’t. I never will.”

  “He had to die. He was going to hurt my nana. I popped him before he even knew I was there.”

  Shawn laughed. I eased Carlo back down, lunged, slapped Shawn in the face.

  “Where’s Angela Rivers?!” I yelled.

  He didn’t answer.

  “I will find her.”

  “I’m sure you will.”

  “Your grandfather, he was in it together with Chester Compton, wasn’t he?”

  “Still so wrong, Miss Monroe. How does it feel?”

  “How does what feel?”

  “Failure.”

  “Enough,” Cade ordered, “or I’ll shoot you myself.”

  “Shawn, what is she talking about?” Mrs. Hurtwick asked. “What did your grandfather do?”

  “Not now, Nana,” Shawn replied.

  “She deserves to know the truth,” I said. “And you should be the one to tell it to her.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Yes, you will, Shawn,” Mrs. Hurtwick said. “Look at me.”

  He stared up at her.

  “If there’s something I need to know, you tell me right now,” she said.

  Shawn wasn’t talking.

  “Do you remember the seven women who were found murdered in the fifties, the ones Chester Compton killed?” I asked.

  “Of course I do,” she said. “My Arthur proved Chester Compton was guilty. Chester was a horrible, evil man.”

  “No, Nana,” Shawn said. “He wasn’t.”

  “What do you mean, Shawn? Of course he was.”

  “Chester Compton never murdered those women. Grandpa did.”

  Detective Hurtwick had covered it up, planted the evidence in Chester Compton’s house. I’d been so wrong.

  “Who helped him?” I asked. “He didn’t do it alone.”

  “My dad.”

  Mrs. Hurtwick was wailing now, finally realizing the gravity of the situation.

  “But your father would have only been—”

  “A teenager at the time, yes.”

  “Do you see now? Do you see why I had to crush the lie?”

  “You didn’t have to kill innocent people to prove your point,” I said.

  “They deserved to die.”

  The front door blew open.

  Armed men charged forward.

  It was all over.

  CHAPTER 47

  Angela Rivers was found in the basement of Roy Hurtwick’s home, alive, strapped to a chair with duct tape, but otherwise unharmed. The only reason she’d survived was because Shawn was creating a new burial chamber for the three remaining women he never had the chance to take, and it
wasn’t finished yet.

  When questioned, Shawn spilled it all, proclaiming his actions were justified. He said it all began when his father confessed the truth about Shawn’s grandfather—the night before his father took his own life. Apparently Roy had stopped by Shawn’s home, desperate and forlorn because he’d just walked in on his wife, Shawn’s stepmother, catching her in bed with another man.

  “Your grandfather was right,” he’d said to Shawn. “The evil ones need to be punished.”

  In his hands, Roy carried a white, cardboard box. “Come here, I want to show you something,” Roy had said.

  They sat down together. Roy told Shawn about the murders, explained how Shawn’s grandfather, Detective Hurtwick, falsely accused Chester Compton. “It was easy. Your grandfather was a detective, well respected. No one questioned his judgment, and no one had any reason to believe Chester Compton wasn’t guilty.”

  Roy lifted the lid, removed a gun, a Colt .45. He said they’d purchased a pair of them together. One was planted at the fake crime scene; the other was saved as a memento. Detective Hurtwick hoped one day it would be passed down. At the prompting of his father, Roy tried killing once, but he botched the job. He’d shot the woman, but she hadn’t died, so he had to fire two more times. Then he vomited and had to call his father for help. In Roy’s opinion, Detective Arthur Hurtwick was a saint, but Roy couldn’t bring himself to do what his dad had done.

  For years before his confession Shawn had felt urges, an overwhelming desire to kill, but he fought it, never understanding why he wasn’t like everyone else. When he looked at the box in his father’s hands that night, felt the weight of the pistol, ran his fingers over the pieces of cut fabric taken from each woman’s clothing as a souvenir, he had been conflicted.

  A fire was burning hard and strong inside him, a yearning.

  The last thing Roy had said to his son that night was, “It’s up to us to make them pay.”

  The next day Roy took his own life, but not before posting a letter to Shawn in the mail. In the letter he admitted to ending his own life because he couldn’t bring himself to kill his wife, even after what she’d done. Roy felt like he had failed his father for so long, saying even though his dad was dead, he could feel his father’s presence, watching, waiting. Roy couldn’t live any longer, knowing he’d been such a disappointment.