by Leslie Nagel
“Well, well,” he drawled, thumbs hooked into his belt. “You just can’t help yourself, can you, Trenault? Always have to show up where you’re not wanted. Your boss is gonna love this.”
Marc gazed at him, his contempt clear. Even half naked he was twice as imposing as Drummond. “I just took your suspect into custody for you, Sergeant. We’re sworn to protect, on duty or off.” He smiled faintly. “Lucky for you.”
“I don’t need your help!” Drummond snarled. “This one’s gonna land you on dog-shit cleanup duty, hotshot.”
“You know that kid’s innocent, right?”
Drummond’s eyes bulged in disbelief. “He was caught red-handed! A witness placed him at the first scene! He resisted arrest and fled! He—”
“Where’s the weapon?” Marc’s hard voice cut through Drummond’s bluster. “Why would the killer stab a woman, dispose of the weapon, then return and kneel over the body until someone spotted him?”
“Remorse? Bad meth trip? Dropped his wallet?” Drummond waved his arms. “Who the hell knows? We’ll find the weapon, and it’ll prove Duncan’s guilty. Case closed, nice and neat and ready for the grand jury.”
“Come on, George,” Marc said, changing tactics, softening his voice. “You know that anonymous tip is bogus. Someone’s framing this guy.”
Drummond stared at Marc as if examining a strange new species of insect. “You’d do anything to make me look bad, wouldn’t you? Well, it ain’t gonna work this time, asshole. Now, get out of my way.”
As he stepped toward the body, he noticed Charley for the first time. His beady eyes raked her up and down in an open leer. She lifted her chin, anger simmering, and forced herself not to fold her arms or display shame. This was her street, not his. She felt Marc at her shoulder, his body tensing with coiled outrage.
Drummond’s smirk returned. “Guess I’m not the only one getting lucky tonight. Tell me, Trenault. Do you always bring your latest piece of tail along when you—”
And with that, Marc stepped forward and punched him in the nose.
Chapter 17
Charley emerged onto the front steps of the County Sheriff’s Office, squinting in the early-morning sunlight. It had been the middle of the night when she’d entered this building. It felt like a lifetime ago. In what she assumed was an act of petty revenge, Drummond had made her wait in a locked interview room for hours before having a deputy take her official statement. Someone had brought her a lukewarm cup of the worst coffee imaginable, but that was it. She’d had no access to a phone or even a bathroom. By the time the unsuspecting young deputy had entered the room with a notepad and pen, Charley had been ready to draw blood.
The worst part had been the total lack of information. Where was Marc? She was worried sick. Had he been arrested? After he’d thrown that punch, things had deteriorated quickly. Only Mitch Cooper and Kyle Cutter’s combined intervention had stopped the enraged Drummond from cuffing both her and Marc and hauling them in. Mitch had persuaded Franklin to let her grab jeans and a hoodie before heading downtown for questioning. By the time she’d come back outside, Marc had disappeared.
She heard a familiar voice calling her name and sagged with relief. Marc was leaning against the door of his midnight blue Mustang, which he’d parked squarely in front of a no parking sign. He wore a Sherriff’s Department T-shirt that was at least two sizes too large. This told her Drummond hadn’t allowed Marc to retrieve his own shirt before dragging him downtown. He hurried toward her as she leaped down the steps and into his arms.
“They wouldn’t tell me where you were,” she murmured against his shoulder. “Are you all right?”
“Suspended.” She gasped. His voice was tight, but he shrugged and murmured, “Not important. How are you?”
“Pissed off.” The deputy had returned her cellphone as she was escorted to the exit. She now switched it on and saw a dozen texts and missed calls from Lawrence and Frankie. After calling home and assuring her father that she and Marc were both in one piece, she clicked off. “Can we get out of here?”
Marc opened the car door with a flourish. “My lady’s chariot awaits.”
While he drove, Marc brought her up to speed. “Cooper doesn’t give a shit that I’m suspended. He’s been calling me every time there’s a development,” he told her. “Shortly after we left, a neighbor started screaming her head off. She found the murder weapon—well, that’s the assumption. It had blood all over it, and it was lying in the middle of her front walk.”
“In the middle of her walk?” Charley shook her head in disbelief. “No way.”
“Agreed. Only an idiot could believe Duncan stabbed her, laid the bloody murder weapon down three houses away, and then returned to kneel over the body.” He huffed in frustration. “Drummond is allowing personal animosity to blind him to the obvious.”
Charley was struck with a sudden thought. “Did Mitch tell you what the weapon was? What it looked like, I mean?” She told him about the sketch she’d seen on that autopsy report as she knelt under a table at Ground Zero.
Marc’s lips twitched. “I’m still getting used to the idea of you and Sharon joining forces. And Cooper did better than tell me. He sent pictures and video.”
He indicated his cellphone where it lay on the center console. She pulled up the photo gallery and found an image of an object with a metal blade six inches long and three quarters of an inch wide, with a round wooden handle. The business end had a squared-off tip that tapered to a wickedly sharp edge. Most of it was covered in a dark substance she assumed was Judith Sharpe’s blood.
“Notice how there’s zero spatter on the sidewalk?” Marc asked. “That thing wasn’t accidentally dropped as the killer—Oliver, supposedly—ran away, which is Drummond’s explanation. Someone placed it very carefully in full view.”
“It looks just like Sharon’s sketch. What is it?” she wondered. “Too heavy and sharp to be a palette knife, and I don’t think surgical tools have wooden handles.”
“Coop says it’s a woodworking chisel. Carbon-steel blade, handle shows plenty of wear. Not cheap, and not a new purchase.”
She gasped. “Oliver’s a carpenter!” Her mind raced as she sorted through the implications. “Somebody saw Oliver that night and waited for him to leave so they could kill Sarah. That same somebody obviously saw him with his truck; how else to get the plate number?” She groaned. “What do you want to bet this chisel turns out to belong to Oliver?”
“You think the killer took it out of his truck?” Marc frowned. “Why would he be driving around with something like that?”
She swapped his cellphone for hers and pressed a number. “He’s like Dale Penwater—like most tradesmen, actually. They use their own tools but never leave them onsite. Their tool collection is their livelihood…Hello, John? I need a favor. Or rather, a friend does.”
In a few terse sentences, she summarized last night’s drama and Oliver Duncan’s arrest for murder.
“You will defend him, won’t you?” she pleaded. “I know what you said about not knowing him well, but I’m more certain than ever that he’s innocent, and Marc agrees with me. Besides, everyone deserves a good defense, right?”
John chuckled drily. “Trust you to use the one argument I can’t refute. Between you and my wife, it’s a wonder I’m allowed to pick out my own neckties.” His tone became brisk. “Based on what you’ve told me, I’m inclined to agree with you and Marc. Someone is trying to frame this man for murder, and Sergeant Drummond is playing right into their hands. The grand jury won’t meet over the weekend; they’re still hearing testimony on the other capital case, which should take them at least through Monday. That gives me a few days to try and sort through this mess. I’ll be in touch.”
They arrived home to find Hawthorn reopened to traffic, although the boulevard was still draped in yellow tape with a sheriff’s deputy standing
guard. Thankfully, the media had packed up and moved on to their next lurid crime story.
Lawrence was in a towering temper. “Dr. Sharpe has gone downtown to make the official identification of his wife’s body.” He fumed. “You are not going to believe this. The man was drunk out of his skull last night. All that noise, the front door wide open with those children upstairs in bed, and there he lay, snoring on the couch, dead to the world, empty bottle of scotch on the floor. I practically had to drop him on his head to roust him.”
“You’re sure he was passed out?” Marc asked sharply. “He wasn’t faking it?”
Lawrence’s brows rose. “You’re wondering if he could’ve killed his wife? Depends on how long she was out there. He’d been drinking for hours, but it’s that last one that lays you low. All I know is, he was well and truly down for the count when I found him. That was about midnight, give or take.”
Charley glanced around. “And the twins?”
“Given the lack of responsible adults in that house, we brought them over here again.” Lawrence’s furious expression relaxed a fraction. “Fee took them to Shafor Park for a change of scenery. Didn’t want them seeing that tape and such right across the street. Poor lambs have lost their mother.”
“Where’s Brandon?” Marc asked.
“No one knows where Brandon is. I spoke to that Deputy Franklin, who seems like a decent enough person. The police are supposedly keeping an eye out, but now that they have their suspect—” Lawrence stopped abruptly, seeming to notice their appearance for the first time. “You two look wiped out. Pancakes and scrambled eggs coming right up, and the coffee’s hot as always.” He turned for the kitchen, muttering, “The world’s gone crazy, and that is a fact.”
Charley pressed fingertips to her tired eyes. “He’s not wrong. This is a nightmare. What are we going to do, Marc?”
“Right now?” Marc put his arms around her. “Zehring wants to see me in a couple of hours. But first, we’re going to take a little breather and have a decent meal.” He kissed her softly, then with more urgency. “Actually,” he murmured as his hands slid into her hip pockets and squeezed, “I find I’m not that hungry. At least not for scrambled eggs.” He nuzzled her neck, and her eyes drifted closed. “What do you say we pick up where we left off?”
The sound of a throat clearing had Charley springing back. Bobby sat in the family room doorway. He grinned crookedly and held something out to Marc. “Think this is yours, young man.”
Charley recognized it as the shirt Marc had worn the night before, and which he’d left lying on her bedroom floor. She blushed scarlet with mortification as the implications sank in. Bobby had the shirt. Therefore…
“Thank you, sir.” Marc quickly exchanged the oversized shirt for his own, apparently not embarrassed in the least. “I don’t think this loaner was too clean. Guess I should be grateful they didn’t make me put on an orange jumpsuit.”
“Staying for breakfast, son?” Bobby asked. “When Lawrence is angry, he cooks, so we’re in for a feast.” He smiled at his daughter. “If you both want to shower first, I can tell him to hold off on—”
Okay, this was just too awkward. “Marc can’t stay, actually. He’s got a meeting with his boss. Right, Marc?” She felt her cheeks flaming as she glanced toward her father, then back at Marc, hoping he’d get the message.
Marc studied her face, his own expression unreadable. After a moment he nodded. “I should get going. This meeting with Zehring is probably not one I should attend in jeans and a T-shirt, no matter how clean it is.” He smiled ruefully. “I feel as though I’ve been summoned to the principal’s office.”
“You going to be all right?” Bobby’s forehead creased with concern.
“That’s up to the Chief.” Marc shrugged. “However it goes down, I’ll be fine.”
“Thank you,” she whispered as she walked him to the door. “My dad needs me. It’s been so crazy, and I just think I should…Family,” she finished lamely. “You know?”
“Understood. I’ll see you tonight.” He kissed her cheek and headed down the walk.
“Good luck!” she called, feeling uneasily that the sentiment was too little, too late.
Marc waved a hand as he climbed behind the wheel. “Don’t worry about me. It’s not like I need the money.”
Charley stared after the retreating Mustang in confusion. What the hell did that mean? She turned to find Bobby glaring at her. Despite his drooping face, he was clearly furious. Furious at her?
“Daddy? What’s wrong?”
“I knew my daughter was bullheaded, but I didn’t think I’d raised a fool.”
She blinked in surprise. “A fool? What are you talking about?”
Bobby cut her off with a gesture. “I’m not deaf. And just because my ass is stuck in this chair, I am also not blind or senile. I know exactly what’s going on, and I’m not having it, young lady. You hear me?”
Charley thought she understood where this was heading. She blushed deeply. “Daddy, I’m so sorry about last night. Marc was only—”
“Don’t change the subject. Marc’s conduct is not the issue here. Yours is.”
“Change the subject?” If he wasn’t upset about last night, then she was still lost. “What did I do?”
Bobby’s faded blue eyes flashed with temper. “The same thing you’ve been doing for the last three years. Using me as an excuse. Hiding in this house so you don’t have to get out there and live your life.”
Charley gaped at her father, the injustice of this leaving her reeling. “Hiding? You think I’ve been hiding? Yes, I dropped out of college, but I started my own business, for pity’s sake. And I’m taking care of you. You are my father, not Lawrence’s. It’s my duty to—”
Bobby cut her off again. “I’m not talking about work, Charley. I’m talking about life. If you keep pushing that man away, you’re going to lose the best thing that ever happened to you.” He pointed at her with his good hand. “Stubborn girl. I wish Marc’s mother were here. Evie would know how to knock some sense into you.”
All at once she was furious, too. “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” she snapped, quailing inside even as the words left her lips. She had never spoken so harshly to her father in her entire life. In fact, this was the first time they’d ever really had a serious argument. Still, his accusation had her seeing red. “I am not hiding from anything. And not that it’s your business, but Marc and I are just fine. We’ve never even discussed…” She hesitated, inexplicably unable even to formulate the terrifying concept into words.
“It’s called the future.” Her father’s expression became knowing. “Whose fault is that, I wonder. Be honest. Has he tried to discuss the future with you? And I’ll bet you shut him down?” Charley knew her face betrayed the truth. “Thought so.” All at once his shoulders slumped in defeat. “My girl, I’m an old man on the sidelines, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about the final score. Don’t make me feel guilty for running down the clock.”
Fighting tears, Charley grabbed the keys to the Mystery Machine and stormed outside. She backed out of the driveway and took off, not caring where she was going. She drove aimlessly, muttering and cursing, winding through Oakwood on autopilot born of twenty-eight years spent roaming these streets, her father’s words drumming through her head in an endless loop.
Hiding in this house. Using me as an excuse.
Was he right? Had she been using duty to her father as an excuse to avoid making a commitment?
You’re going to lose the best thing that ever happened to you.
She certainly agreed with that last part. Marcus Trenault was the best thing that had ever happened to her. But what about the rest? With brutal self-honesty, she examined her heart. She didn’t like what she found there. Her fury had erupted because every word Bobby had flung at her was true.
From the beginning, she’d held Marc at arm’s length, justifying it as family duty. But that was a lie, or at least, it was only a small part of the truth. Lawrence took excellent care of Bobby. She hardly lifted a finger in the day-to-day running of the Carpenter household, unless she chose to do so. No, the real reason she kept stonewalling Marc’s efforts to take their relationship to the next level was because she was every bit the coward her father had accused her of being. She refused to stay the night in Marc’s bed, walked—or ran—away from his gentle attempts to put into words how he felt about her, refused, in fact, to discuss anything more long-term than weekend dinner plans, as if to assume more would be tempting the Fates. Hell, she’d never so much as left a hairbrush at his place. Coward.
Did the fear and self-loathing of adolescence and high school never end? Here she was, a successful, attractive, twenty-eight-year-old professional. Yet deep down that early self-image lurked, waiting to break through the façade of confident adulthood, to rear up without warning, warped and bloated like a reflection in a fun-house mirror. One glimpse and she was transported back to a head space where she was an ugly, awkward, starstruck tweener and Marcus Trenault was the unattainable demigod whose high-tops she was unfit to lick.
Now she found herself worrying that Bobby’s prediction had already come to pass. Had she pushed Marc away one time too often? With a chill, she recalled how he’d shrugged and left just now with hardly a backward glance, and— Oh, God! On the heels of his suspension, too. Could she have been more thoughtless? Despair and shame lay bitter on her tongue. She couldn’t lose him. But she couldn’t leave her father, either, no matter how awesome Lawrence was.
Charley had thought she understood family and duty. Now she wasn’t so sure. She considered Dmitri’s great-aunt Athena. Had the woman’s decision to take in a homeless nephew she hardly knew been prompted by duty or love? However their relationship had begun, the unlikely pair had evidently grown to love each other. In the end, perhaps love was all that mattered. Lawrence had found love with Afiya. Oliver had loved Sarah, a tragic story. Frankie and her beloved John were expanding their loving family with a new baby.