Colton's Twin Secrets

by Justine Davis

  But as he watched, a different sort of pattern emerged. As if he’d been here to observe, he saw a model of life here in this small apartment emerge. Saw the most frequent paths walked—couch across from the flat screen to the kitchen and back, and almost never to the narrow table in the eating nook. Couch to the bathroom and back. Bathroom to the bedroom in the back, which had been enough to make even the casual-living Dante’s nose wrinkle. Did the guy never do laundry? Poor Flash, he thought. Although he supposed to the dog the stronger the smell, the headier it was, no matter that to a human it was nearly gagworthy.

  He wished there was a way to train the dog to go for the faintest scents first, but he knew that was counter to Flash’s every instinct. And so he’d settled into the routine, letting the dog do it his way, because he almost never failed. And if he did fail to find something, it was because there was nothing to find.

  Dante watched the dog work in the kitchen now—this was the only time Dante didn’t have to worry about the animal’s impressive counter-surfing skills, as he never strayed when working—wondering not for the first time if a negative result of a bloodhound’s scent work would be as acceptable in court as a positive. If he didn’t find something, was that proof in reverse? Would there come a case when a bloodhound’s nose would be used in court to prove someone’s innocence rather than guilt? He supposed it was only a matter of time, if it hadn’t happened already. He should look that up—it was always good to keep on top of things like that so—

  Flash pawed at a cupboard door. Dante went still. And then it came—the dog’s look back over his shoulder that told him he’d found something. He crossed over to the dog, gave him a pat. He gloved up then crouched and pulled open the door. Bare seconds later he’d shoved aside a saucepan that looked like it had once bounced down three flights of stairs. Then he pulled out the only other thing in the cupboard. And stared as Flash proudly nudged it with that nose.

  A five-pound sack of flour.

  “Seriously, dog?”

  Flash gave him a mournful look. But then, he always looked mournful. Others called it solemn, others dignified, but to Dante it was always mournful. And just now it was as if the dog was hurt Dante didn’t trust him.

  “All right, all right.”

  He picked up the bag, straightened up and put it on the counter. Pondered. What the hell would a guy who didn’t have even a saltshaker in his kitchen, and nothing in his fridge but beer and leftover pizza, be doing with a bag of flour? Cutting drugs? That made no sense—the stuff was entirely the wrong texture. It looked practically full, anyway.

  Collins made a smart-ass comment from the living room about whether they were searching or baking cookies. Dante flipped him a hand gesture. They both laughed.

  He studied the bag for a moment longer, then unrolled the haphazardly folded top. Hesitantly—even with the gloves, he was a little wary of what might be in there, judging by the state of the microwave alone, let alone the rest of the kitchen. He was hardly manic about housecleaning, but this was a cut below.

  He was glad not to see anything moving, although there were a couple of suspect dark specks amid the white. He bent again, picking up the battered saucepan. Then he pulled out one of the plastic evidence bags he always carried and used it to line the pan. Finally he picked up the flour and started to pour it into the bag-lined saucepan.

  “Sarge’s car just pulled up,” Duke called out.

  Dante grunted an acknowledgment, his attention on going slowly. By the time a third of the bag was emptied, he was beginning to get antsy. He trusted Flash implicitly, but—

  Something fell out of the bag, sending up a puff of white flour. Dante leaned over to look. And went very still.

  It was a phone. A cheap throwaway phone. A burner.

  He was almost afraid to breathe. He reached out to touch it with a fingertip, half-afraid he was seeing things. It shifted slightly in the flour. He picked it up.

  “Damn,” Duke muttered, crossing the room now. He joined Dante, staring down at the phone. “He really is that good.”

  “Yeah. He is.”

  * * *

  He couldn’t mean it, Gemma thought. Dev couldn’t really be breaking up with her.

  “But—” she began.

  He shook his head. “I’m going to give you that chance to find that guy,” he said again.

  Gemma frowned. He sounded as if he were giving her some great gift, not destroying their life together. And somewhere deep inside, where she was the woman who knew her place in this world, she felt a spark of anger.

  “That’s big of you,” she said sharply. “So, what, you’re just going to walk away from me? From us?”

  “Yes.”

  “And just what,” she asked imperiously, “do you think you’re going to find with someone else that I don’t have? Just what is it you think I’m lacking, Devlin Harrington?”

  Dev looked almost sad. “An ounce of maternal instinct,” he said.

  Maternal instinct? Her brow furrowed. What on earth did that have to do with anything? Then a memory struck her.

  “Is this about your cousin and her baby?”

  She found it hard to believe one awkward moment with a tiny, squalling, squirming infant could have brought them to this. Sure, it had been clear she didn’t know the first thing about babies, but why would she? She was Gemma Colton, daughter of Fenwick Colton—not to be confused with her distant cousin with the same name, who had had to deal with that awful virus a few years ago in Dead River, Wyoming, the best reason she’d ever heard for not becoming a nurse—and any children she might ever have would be safely ensconced with a nanny.

  “That was just the demonstration of what I already knew,” Dev said. And now he was sounding sad. “Gemma, keeping Harrington Incorporated in the family is my responsibility. And that requires children.”

  She might not know much about kids, but that seemed a rather cold-blooded way of thinking about them, even to her. But she loved Dev, and so she plowed on. “So? I want kids...someday.” She shoved aside the doubt. “And they’ll have a good life,” she declared. “The best schools, the best care, a dozen nannies if that’s what it takes to find the right one.”

  “Exactly.”

  Gemma blinked. “What?”

  “I want a woman who will be hands-on with our children. Who will be a great mom. Like mine. She never turned us over to a nanny. Never abdicated her responsibility.”

  “Abdicated her responsibility? You make it sound like giving up a crown—” She cut off her own words when she heard how snarky she sounded. Secretly, she thought Dev probably had a rose-colored-glasses view of the mother who had died. Kind of like her father did of his first wife, Layla’s mother.

  Layla.

  “Wait, what about your father? Who’s to say he and Layla won’t have children when this crazy killer is caught?”

  Something flashed in Devlin’s eyes. Was he not happy about his father being engaged to a woman only three years older than him? Surely he didn’t think he would be supplanted by any children they had, since he was already a crucial part of the company.

  She herself wasn’t thrilled with her sister marrying Dev’s father, and not just because it would make things complicated—her father-in-law would also be her brother-in-law—but because she couldn’t quite believe Layla loved the guy. Not like Gemma loved Dev, anyway.

  And belatedly she remembered she was thinking about complications that would now apparently never arise. Because Dev was breaking up with her. Her ultimatum had gone seriously sideways.

  “You can’t mean this,” she said.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again. “It’s just not a good match. But you’ll be all right, Gemma. I wish...” He paused, then said decisively, “I’ll let you find the happiness you deserve.”

  He’d let her? She’d had about enough of this royalish munificence
of his. She wanted to ask who put him in charge of the world, but didn’t.

  She’d show him. No one broke up with Gemma Colton. She was the one who did the breaking up. He wanted maternal instincts? She’d show him maternal instincts. She’d make him sorry he’d ever doubted she had them. She’d have him crawling back, apologizing, in no time at all. She’d never been thwarted in her life, not for anything she’d really wanted.

  And she would not be now.

  * * *

  “I’ll go let the Sarge know you found something.”

  Dante nodded, didn’t even look as Duke left. His attention was fastened on the phone. The screen was tiny compared to his own, and it was obviously bare-bones, but it booted up quickly enough.

  The call log was empty. No contacts saved. Neither of which surprised him. He opened the messaging app. His mouth tightened a little at the short list of text conversations. Top name meant nothing to him, nor did the next. In fact, none of the four names did.

  But the next three had only phone numbers listed, no names assigned.

  And that middle number looked familiar.

  He pulled his own phone out of his pocket and quickly called up a file. Scrolled down to a list of numbers...

  It was there.

  Holy bloodhound nose, it was there. They finally, finally had a link to the Larsons. He looked at the patient dog. “Flash, you’re a genius.”

  Okay, Dante thought, that look was dignified. And it fairly screamed, “Of course I am.” He grinned. His Monday was turning out not just decent, but great. He quickly checked the rest of the bag—nothing but flour. Sealed up the evidence bag. Picked it up. Headed back toward the living room.

  Boom.

  The front windows of the apartment shattered. Gunfire. Dante grabbed Flash and hauled him back to the kitchen, out of the line of fire. More shots.

  His mind was racing. Ran through it in a split second. Three quick rounds. Not fast enough for fully automatic. Large caliber, but not huge. No hope of hitting anyone, so a warning. Then a squeal of tires on pavement. Picking up speed. Maybe—

  A horrendous crash from outside echoed through the now broken windows. Metal versus metal, and more glass raining down.

  But no more shots.

  Can’t drive and shoot at the same time.

  The ominous silence held. Then he heard shouting from outside. He ordered Flash to stay in the no-nonsense voice the dog always obeyed unless he was on a scent so strongly that his nose shut down his ears.

  He made his way into the living room, keeping out of the line of sight of the front windows. Still more shouting, but no shooting. He edged his way over to the window, still in the shelter of the solid wall. Pulled his Glock 22 from the holster, just in case. Risked a quick, darting glance. Behind the relative safety of the wall, he played the scene back in his head.

  It was ugly. A big heavy white van had T-boned a small, expensive—and in this case too easily destructible—sports coupe. Crushed it up against a power pole. Signals at the corner were dark, and he’d bet the power was out for blocks around.

  The white vehicle was the shooter. Had to be—only one on the street heading the right direction. So the guy he’d glimpsed running from it had to be him. And whoever was in that little coupe had never had a chance, they—

  It hit him then. The coupe. The little bright yellow coupe.

  He knew that car. There might be more than one in town, but in this neighborhood?

  “Dominic,” he breathed.

  Gun still in his hand, he bolted out the door.

  Chapter 3

  “He got away,” Collins was saying.

  Dante registered the words but couldn’t speak. He was only barely aware of Flash sniffing around the shooter’s car, and he ignored the dog’s questioning look as the animal wondered why he wasn’t getting the order to track.

  “He’s hurt, though. He left a little blood on the steering wheel.”

  Again, Dante didn’t react. He was staring at the second gurney being loaded into the coroner’s van. When the doors of the van were slammed closed, the coroner’s assistant glanced back at him. He supposed someone had told the guy who he was. His connection to the fatalities.

  As the van pulled away, he shifted his gaze to his hands. At the blood already dried, staining his shirt cuffs.

  “You tried, man,” Duke said softly from behind him. “There was nothing you could have done. They were gone the moment that shooter plowed into them.”

  “They should have stolen a sturdier car,” Dante mumbled to himself. Although he’d never been able to prove it, he’d known his brother had stolen the coupe, probably with his wife’s help. If for no other reason than Dominic never bought what he could steal, and Agostina had expensive taste.

  She had had expensive taste.

  “Run the VIN, if it’s not ground off,” Dante said.

  “Already did,” Duke said. “Matches the logo, comes back to Red Ridge Delivery Service.”

  Dante registered the name; he’d been so focused on his brother he hadn’t even glanced at the side of the van. One of the Larsons’ front companies. And suddenly the shooting made sense. Sending a message: don’t talk to the cops. They must not know we already have the guy.

  “I meant that one,” he said, nodding toward the bright yellow wreckage, which would now just about fit in the back of the van that had hit it.

  “Your brother’s?” Duke asked hesitantly.

  “Odds are it’s stolen,” Dante said flatly. Not from here in Red Ridge—the car was too distinctive, he thought. They’d likely done their version of car shopping in a bigger, easier-to-be-ignored-in place.

  Duke just looked at him for a long, silent moment. Dante stared him down, silently daring him to say something. Anything that would burst the gates on the dam that was holding back the tangled, messy emotions churning inside him. He and Dominic had never seen eye to eye on much of anything, had had only strained contact for years, but he was still his brother. And they’d had some good years together as kids.

  Kids.

  Dante’s breath jammed up in his throat.

  The twins. God, the twins.

  “Mancuso? You need the medics? You just went pale.”

  “I just thought of something,” he muttered, all he could manage.

  “About the crash, or the shooting, or the investigation?”

  They hadn’t been in the car. Thank all the gods there be, they hadn’t been in the car. “No,” he finally got out. “Personal... Family.”

  Duke eyed him. “Look, get out of here. I’ll handle this.” Dante blinked. His friend shrugged. “You shouldn’t be here anyway, with your brother and all. So whatever it is, go deal with it.”

  He didn’t often let his heart take the lead over his gut-level cop instincts, but this...this was huge. Too huge to be denied. No matter what or who his brother had become, no matter the problems that had caused Dante in his life, this was bigger than any of it.

  “Thanks, Duke,” he said, called for Flash and ran for his car. He hit the button on the fob for the liftgate and got the dog in the back of the big black SUV. Seconds later he was behind the wheel.

  It only took a few minutes to cover the distance to Dominic’s. He spent every second of it thinking about the tiny, helpless babies his brother and sister-in-law had brought into the world, perhaps unwisely, just six months ago. For a short while, the arrival of the tiny girls had smoothed things out between them all, but it sadly hadn’t lasted, for even that small pair of miracles apparently couldn’t change Dominic’s chosen path. He continued with his crooked ways, and Dante had had to back away once more.

  The place stood out on the quiet street; Agostina’s taste for flashy things didn’t stop at vehicles. Amid the wood-sided houses with big trees, lawns and carefully tended flower beds in the neighborhood, the tiled
roof, stone walls and concrete yard stood out glaringly. And even if they hadn’t, the statuary would have done it. He’d thought Agostina was going for the feel of a palazzo in Florence, although he knew she’d never set foot in Italy. Problem was she’d missed it by a very long shot; the statues were cheap copies lacking the life and vitality of the originals. He was all for respecting his Italian heritage, but this didn’t look impressive or grand, just completely out of place.

  The house was locked, which he’d expected. But the fact that no one answered the door made him wonder where the girls actually were. Agostina might not be the nicest person around, but surely she wouldn’t have left those two tiny children home alone.

  He walked around the side of the house. Most of the windows were shuttered, or masked with the showy ceiling-to-pooling-on-the-floor draperies his sister-in-law had chosen. Every possible point of entry was secured with high-quality locks, which he also expected.

  He took the flat stone path around to the back of the house, where the kitchen looked out on yet another courtyard full of statuary he thought would make a meal rather unappetizing. This was where Agostina had chosen to put the more brutal art—gods fighting with each other, warriors running through their enemies or beheading them. He’d expected—maybe hoped—she would lighten up a bit after the twins arrived, but there had been no visible changes yet.

  And now there never will be.

  He pried loose one of the larger stones from the pathway and used it to break a window in the kitchen door. He wasn’t worried about an alarm system; the very last thing his brother would have wanted was to have the police responding to his house when he wasn’t there. He’d told Dante more than once that while his brother was welcome in his house, the cop was not. And certainly not that ugly, drooly thing he called a dog, Agostina always added.

  He knew he was thinking about those things to avoid fixating on the images that were etched into his mind, probably permanently. When he’d first reached into the crumpled vehicle to touch his brother, he’d already known. The unnatural angle of Dominic’s head had warned him, and when he’d been unable to find a pulse, it only confirmed what his gut was already telling him. And one look at his sister-in-law had told him there, too; Agostina must have hit the windshield hard. She’d always hated seat belts, for they wrinkled her elegant clothes. And even becoming a mother, having two innocent souls depending on her, had made no difference.