Cold Case Reunion

by Kimberly VanMeter

  She wrenched the tap and moved out of the way as water came pouring down from the showerhead. Stepping into the spray she let the water sluice over her, pelting her with almost painful force. Calm down, she told herself. Get focused. She refused to be that woman people pitied because she’d read more into a physical act than it warranted and had ended up crying over the rejection.

  So they’d had sex. So what? Mya scrubbed at the prickling in her eyes, hating that she’d wanted it to mean more to him than it obviously had. How could he fail to notice how his hands had trembled when he touched her? How they’d both lost all sense of reality in each other’s arms? She stifled a growl of frustration—both with herself and the situation—and stepped from the shower to towel off. Fine. He could kiss her—

  “Mya…”

  Angelo’s urgent voice at the door halted her mental diatribe. “Yeah?” she called out, tucking the towel tighter around her. “What’s wrong?”

  “Sundance just called. Something’s happened to Bunny. Ambulance is en route to the clinic.”

  He didn’t need to tell her that they had to get moving. She hustled into her clothes, still half-wet and sticking to the fabric. “I’ll be out in a flash,” she said, throwing her wet hair into a messy bun. She opened the door and Angelo stared for a moment, as if stunned. He swallowed and in a blink of an eye he became once again the man who’d casually mentioned she could shower if she chose. No cuddling, no snuggling—just polite disinterest.

  She moved past him, thankful for something else to focus on aside from the mess they’d made of things. Great Spirit help her, Iris had been right. Good thing they hadn’t placed money on that wager. She’d be lighter in the pocketbook.

  Mya shrugged into her coat. “Any details?”

  “Bunny’s been shot. Sundance said he thought we ought to know seeing as we were planning on returning to his place today to question him.”

  “Oh, my God.” She nodded. “Let’s go then.”

  “I’ll follow you,” he said, grabbing his keys.

  They both climbed into their respective cars and within minutes they were driving toward the clinic. It seemed dangerously coincidental that the minute they started asking questions about a case that obviously had Bunny and Hettie jittery, Bunny ended up hurt. She just hoped it was simply that—coincidence—but she held on to the hope with the weakest grip. Bad things were circling the reservation. She could feel them.

  Angelo cursed himself for being a randy idiot, letting his hormones and unresolved issues take control of his actions last night. He’d tried his best to appear as if he weren’t questioning every decision he’d made since stepping foot on the reservation again but it was hard to ignore the facts. The minute he’d seen Mya, the emotions had nearly swamped him. If it had been difficult to remain focused with only the distant memory of their time together, now it would be downright impossible. Everything was fresh and real in his head. He could still smell her on his skin.

  Lying there with Mya tucked against him it had been easy to slip into an illusion of happiness, to forget that they were worlds apart in their beliefs and compatibility. Being good in bed together wasn’t a recipe for relationship success. Neither was being on separate ends of the spectrum when it came to loyalty. Mya was stubbornly loyal to the tribe, whereas he felt nothing.

  A memory burst forth of Waylon, right before he died. The kid had been so proud of that damn canoe. He’d been sanding it with Papa, next they were going to paint it. Waylon had been wiping it down, ensuring that the wood was clean and smooth and free from any remaining sawdust.

  “Why are you doing this?” Angelo had scoffed, earning a scowl from Waylon.

  “Why wouldn’t I? I’m proud of my heritage.”

  Angelo thought of the poverty that went hand in hand with the rampant alcoholism on the reservation and he didn’t see a proud people. He saw a broken remnant of what had once been a strong tribe. Why celebrate the tribe’s failure to survive and adapt?

  “Paddling a canoe across the peninsula isn’t going to put you in touch with your ancestors,” he’d told Waylon. “It’s a waste of time.”

  “To you. Just because you refuse to care doesn’t mean I can’t.”

  Angelo remembered the proud, defiant tilt of his brother’s chin, the way his eyes flashed with indignation at his dismissal, and for a moment Angelo wondered where that fire in Waylon’s heart came from when his own heart felt cold. For a quick, disconcerting moment he’d desperately wished he felt the same as Waylon, that tribal pride pulsed in his veins in the same hot, vibrant way as it did for his brother. But it didn’t. At least not anymore. Maybe once it had. Before their parents had died. But where had Great Spirit been when their car had careened off the Pititchu Bridge and straight into a tree? Where had their ancestors been when their parents had started drinking and never stopped?

  And where had Great Spirit been when someone put a bullet through his little brother’s back?

  If he ever felt the stirrings of tribal pride, it was answerless questions like those that snuffed out any flame that might have sparked to life.

  And he doubted there was anything that would ever change that fact.

  Mya hurried through the side door of the urgent care facility, Angelo on her heels. She caught sight of Iris running by with a packet of blood and foreboding followed. The commotion of the emergency room narrowed her focus. Dr. Frederich Solvang, her replacement, worked quickly to stem the blood that seemed to pour from Bunny’s wound like water through a holed bucket. She stayed out of the way and gestured for Angelo to do the same. She could sense his impatience, his frustration, but he held back.

  It seemed an age before Dr. Solvang muttered an expletive and resignedly called Bunny’s time of death.

  Angelo swore under his breath, and Mya held back her tears. He’d been alive only yesterday. She turned away. It wasn’t that she was squeamish around death, it was that she couldn’t escape the feeling that they’d caused this to happen somehow.

  “I need to speak with Hettie,” Angelo said in a low tone as they put some distance between themselves and the body.

  “I think she’s in the lobby. Let me speak to her first,” Mya said, worried over how unstable Hettie was going to be with the death of her husband. They’d fought like cats and dogs but, deep down, they were twined together in a codependent knot, and without him she might unravel. Angelo seemed reluctant but nodded. She found Hettie nervously rocking in her chair, a tissue clenched in her hand. She looked up when Mya appeared and with one glance, Hettie knew Bunny was dead. “Hettie—” Mya began gently but was interrupted by a low, keening sound that tore at Mya’s heart.

  “My Bunny…he’s dead, isn’t he?”

  She nodded sorrowfully, moving to sit closer to the older woman. “What happened?” she asked.

  Hettie shook her head, unable to speak. Mya soothed her, but caught sight of Sundance and Angelo heading for the distraught woman. She sighed and moved away, going to Sundance. “She’s pretty upset. I doubt she’ll be able to answer your questions.”

  Sundance nodded. “I’ll have to try just the same. Details are fresh in her mind right now,” he said, going to Hettie. Angelo kept a respectable distance but Mya could tell it was killing him.

  “Where was Bunny when he was shot?” Sundance asked.

  “He was outside by the woodpile. I told him not to leave for the river before hauling me some logs for the woodstove.” She wiped at her running nose. “I can’t lift them anymore and my arthritis acts up in the cold so Bunny always made sure I had wood for the day before he went fishing. And then I heard a shot.”

  The statement drove home how close the two had been, even if the face they presented to the world had been antagonistic.

  “Who would’ve wanted to hurt Bunny?” Sundance asked gently, to which Hettie jerked her head in an agitated movement. “Was someone angry with him?”

  Hettie pursed her lips but the tears started to flow again and Mya felt her brother�
��s frustration. She moved in, giving Sundance a gentle nudge. She gave Hettie a fresh tissue and tried a different tack. “Does this have something to do with the sore on Bunny’s arm?” she asked quietly.

  Hettie blew her nose loudly, taking a long moment to answer and when she did, there was fear in her rheumy eyes. “They were going to kill him one way or another,” she whispered. “Just like that agent…just like little Waylon.”

  Chapter 17

  Every muscle in Angelo’s body was strung taut. He fought the need to shake the answers out of the old woman, knowing it would only cause her to clam up even more.

  He’d heard every word but the one that scraped like a hot razor across raw skin was his brother’s name. Everything came back to Waylon. Damn, what had his little brother been mixed up in? How could Angelo have been so ignorant? So blind to what was happening beneath his nose?

  Sundance helped Hettie to her feet and out the door of the clinic and Mya came toward Angelo, her expression grim. “Sundance is going to take Hettie to stay with her niece for the time being. She doesn’t feel safe at her place, not that I blame her.” She wrapped her arms around herself, shuddering. “This is getting scary. There’s no way we can pretend that bad luck was involved with the deaths, including Waylon’s.”

  “I agree,” he said darkly. “I’m wracking my brain trying to remember what Waylon had been into back then. But I was too self-absorbed and worried about what was going on in my own life to worry about my little brother.”

  Mya frowned in thought, then said, “Darrick was Waylon’s best friend. If anyone would know what was going on, it would be him.”

  “Yeah, but I thought you said his brain is pickled? Would he even remember?”

  “I don’t know. It’s worth a shot, right?”

  At this point what other choice did he have? He was chasing a ghost. And ghosts rarely gave up their secrets without prodding.

  Angelo excused himself to call Grace.

  “Miss me already?” she quipped dryly as she answered on the first ring. “What’s up?”

  “People are dropping like flies here on the reservation,” he grumbled, a frown creasing his forehead. “So much for low profile. When are you coming back?”

  Suddenly serious, Grace’s voice lowered. “What’s going on?”

  “Bunny Roberts, a man who ran the bait shop on the river, was killed. We were going to talk to him regarding my brother’s death when he was shot in the head about a half hour ago. Clean shot even though the sun had just begun to rise and the light was milky. Had to be done by someone with skill.”

  “He got any enemies?”

  “He was a cantankerous old man but everyone seemed to tolerate him fairly well. I mean, I can’t imagine that anyone was so angry with him that they’d pop his head off. No…this is related to the cases we’re working. He knew something. For that matter, his wife, Hettie, knows something, too, but she’s clammed up tighter than a drum because she’s afraid she’s next if she opens up.”

  “She might be right,” Grace said. “Listen, I can’t cut out of here for a few more days. And I don’t like you going all John Wayne—pardon me, Crazy Horse—on your own. Maybe we ought to turn this case over to another team. It’s probably time anyway.”

  He smirked, but there was nothing light in his heart as he said, “When have I ever done things the way they ought to be done?”

  “Never.”

  “No sense in starting now. No one is going to take this case from me. It’s personal.”

  “Exactly. You’re losing your objectivity.”

  “Give me a few more days. Can you run interference with the director for me?”

  “I suppose,” Grace said, her tone worried. “Just don’t get yourself killed, all right? I don’t want to train another partner.”

  He smiled. “I’ll do my best not to inconvenience you with something like my death,” he joked, but he knew she was concerned. Grace had been bounced from one partner to the next until she’d landed with Angelo three years ago. The two oddballs had been a good fit. “I’ll keep in touch.”

  “You’d better,” she said. “All right, chase after this, but I swear, if you put my ass in a sling…”

  “It won’t come to that. I’m going to stop whatever the hell is going on here. That’s a promise,” he said quietly. There was no stronger sense of conviction than what he felt right now. Someone had messed with his family long ago and now it was payback. Plain and simple. And even if the Bureau saw fit to pull him from this case, he wasn’t going to stop.

  Maybe that’s what Hicks had felt. That driving force, compelling him to keep digging while his efforts were taking him closer to a sinkhole that would swallow him whole.

  So be it.

  There was one thing he had that Hicks hadn’t—tribal knowledge. He knew the people, their ways and their weaknesses as well as their strengths.

  And he wasn’t above using any and every advantage, even if it wasn’t fighting fair.

  His gaze went to Mya—beautiful, strong, unattainable—and quite possibly the means to solving the case.

  Time to make amends.

  Mya had bigger things to consider than her own wounded ego, which was why when Angelo came to her for help connecting with Randy Willets about his son, Darrick, she placed her bruised feelings aside. There’d be a reckoning later, but she’d built her adult life on pushing away that moment. What was another item added to the list?

  “Are you okay?” she asked Angelo as they drove to the Tribal Center where Randy volunteered during the spring. She’d accepted Angelo’s offer to drive since it seemed silly to tail each other all over the place, but now that she was sitting close enough to see the texture of his skin and smell the sharp, clean scent of his deodorant, she wished she’d politely declined. She was only human. Even as she tried to keep her mind on task, memories of last night assaulted her without mercy—so much so that her palms had begun to sweat and her body temperature was climbing. Realizing Angelo hadn’t answered, she looked to him curiously. “Care to share what’s going on behind that faint scowl?”

  “This case…everything. It’s hard being back again.”

  “I can imagine,” she murmured, though it was difficult to truly understand what he was going through and she knew it. But if anyone had an inkling, she did. She curled her fingers into her palm, resisting the ridiculous urge to smooth away the lines in his face. That wasn’t her place, nor would he welcome it. Ah, crud. There rose those wounded feelings again. She pulled her gaze away from him to stare out the window.

  “Has Randy Willets changed much over the years?” Angelo asked, returning the conversation to the case. “I remember him being a bit of a snob, always looking down his nose at everyone. I can’t imagine why he stayed here, especially after what happened with his son.”

  “He’s not that bad. Maybe old age has softened him a bit,” Mya offered, shrugging. “I’ve never had a problem with him. He comes into the clinic for his annual check-ups and he’s always friendly.”

  “That’s because you became a doctor.”

  “And you became an FBI agent. I’d say we both did pretty well for ourselves.”

  He grunted in response and she smiled. Angelo still wore his feelings on his sleeve, even if he tried to hide them. Funny how he thought Randy was the snob. Growing up, people had thought Angelo was the one always looking with disdain at everyone.

  Angelo let that one go and said, “Tell me again what he does for the tribe.”

  “Well, each year the flooding has become worse, destroying houses and eating away at tribal land. We’ve been trying to make a case for an acquisition of more land in the Olympic National Forest but the wheels of government move slowly. Randy has been tracking the river’s flow and movement for us, documenting it each year with measurements and erosion comparisons so the Council has hard data to make our presentation.”

  “Why the interest?” Angelo asked.

  “What do you mean?”


  “No one does something for nothing. What’s his angle? There has to be something in it for him.”

  She stared at him, irritated. “Not everyone has an ulterior motive aside from kindness and altruism.”

  His expression said he didn’t believe that for a minute and her anger turned to sadness. Angelo lived in a world where nothing was taken at face value and he was trained to catch evidence of lying and deceit, just as she was trained to catch signs of disease or sickness. But it had made him hard inside. She longed to reach inside him and caress that cement lump that was his heart and mold it into something that could beat freely again. Her fingers fluttered in agitation as she shook off her thoughts and simply shrugged in deference to Angelo’s cynicism. “Believe what you want. Just try to be sensitive when you question him. His only son is…well, certainly not the man he’d hoped he’d turn out to be.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s life,” Angelo muttered. “At least he has his son. My little brother, Hicks, Bunny…they’re never coming back.”

  She fell silent. There wasn’t much she could say to that. It was true.

  They pulled up to the Tribal Center, a brand-new building nestled among the Western hemlock, red cedar and silver fir, built with grant money up and away from the flood plain. It still smelled of fresh lumber and paint, its newness representing everything that was possible for the tribe in the future. At least that’s how Mya chose to look at it. She wondered what Angelo saw. When he’d left the reservation, there hadn’t been much in the way of new beginnings. She hoped he saw how things were slowly changing.

  They walked into the Tribal Center, greeted by a gorgeous mural painted on the wall by a local talent, and he stood stunned for a moment. “This is pretty amazing,” he murmured. She seized the opportunity to brag a little.