by Webb, Debra
Nothing in the two drawers. She crouched down in front of the vanity and opened the doors.
“What are you looking for?”
She glanced up. “Something for my hair.” She shoved a handful of the wild stuff behind her ear.
He loitered in the doorway, wedging those massive shoulders from jamb to jamb. “I don’t think . . .”
“Here we go.” She held up a ponytail holder. Black in color. Hmm. “You have a girlfriend with black hair?”
Frustration lined his brow. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”
“Really?” Adeline held up a bottle of douche. “When did you start using this stuff?”
Their gazes held for a few drama-filled seconds. The kind where you’re scrambling to come up with what to say or do next. The reality of what her feminine finds meant had abruptly sunk into her brain.
It felt intensely strange . . . he had a girlfriend. She’d had plenty of guy friends. Sex whenever she wanted. No real relationships but plenty of repeat dates. Nine years had passed. Of course Wyatt had been with other women. Maybe even moved one into his place—which was exactly what this felt like. What had she expected?
Adeline blinked first, looked away. She tossed the Summer’s Eve back into the vanity and stood. “This’ll work fine.” She slid the holder onto her wrist, fingered her hair into an acceptable bunch and tugged the stretchy holder into place. She checked her work in the mirror. Ignored the fact that Wyatt was watching her in that very mirror.
She turned to the door and the tall frame blocking her path. “I’m ready. You?” He looked ready. All the way down to the boots.
“Her name was Rita. She works in the courthouse.”
He swallowed. Adeline’s gaze followed the tense movement.
“You don’t need to tell me this.” She took a breath. Did not want to hear about his sexual escapades. “Let’s just go.”
He continued to stand there, staring at her. The building tension seemed to push all the oxygen out of the room. She’d been right about his eyes. They looked greener with the shirt. Somehow that fact prevented her from breathing at will.
“I don’t want to . . .” He shook his head, his mouth a firm line, those eyes full of regret or sadness. “I can’t just pretend the past didn’t happen. Maybe you—”
Music drowned out his words.
His cell phone.
She relaxed marginally, grateful for the reprieve.
He pulled his phone from the holder on his belt. Read the screen. Frowned, then answered the call. “Henderson.”
Adeline managed to suck in a lungful of scarce air.
Wyatt listened another moment or two. “I’ll be right there.”
He closed the phone, the look in his eyes giving her the details before he said a word.
She guessed, “The second princess has been taken.” Her gut clenched.
“Real estate agent over in Wiggins.” He slid the phone back into its holder. “She got a call early this morning, went to meet a client.”
“On Christmas?” Adeline thought she was the only female who made that sort of socially unacceptable sacrifice.
He nodded. “She promised to be back within the hour. When she wasn’t back, her husband started calling her BlackBerry. She didn’t answer so he loaded the kids up and drove to the property she’d gone to show. He was pretty pissed since it’s Christmas.”
“He found her car,” Adeline guessed.
“No sign of her or the BlackBerry or her purse.”
“Any message?” Adrenaline was pumping through her veins, shocking her heart into a frantic rhythm.
“On the windshield of the car. The message instructed whoever found it to call my office. Dispatch just got the call.”
“Come on.” Adeline pushed him away from the doorway. “We’ll take the Bronco.”
He argued all the way out of the house. She ignored him, hurried down the drive, past his SUV, to where she’d parked her Bronco.
She stalled.
An envelope was tucked beneath a wiper blade.
She was at the vehicle and climbing onto the running board before she realized she’d moved.
“Don’t touch it, Addy!”
He was right. She took a breath. Ordered her hands to steady.
Wyatt poked around in his SUV then walked over with a pair of latex gloves.
She tugged on the protective wear and reached for the envelope. She hopped down, opened the unsealed envelope. A single sheet of white paper . . . like the others. She unfolded the paper and stared at the words pasted on the page.
Merry Christmas, princess. You’re next.
Chapter Seventeen
Wiggins, 12:05 P.M.
Wyatt asked one of the officers at the scene to escort the husband back home to his children. An aunt had picked the boys up a couple of hours ago.
Penny Arnold’s husband was still in shock. He’d answered every single question without hesitation and yet neither his expression nor his tone had altered in the slightest. Not even once. The man was terrified that he’d lost the woman he loved forever.
Wyatt’s attention swung to where Addy sat in Penny Arnold’s car. The lab boys were ready to take the vehicle away as soon as Addy had finished doing her thing.
If anything happened to her . . .
That band of uncertainty that had been wrapped around Wyatt’s chest since the moment he heard her voice during that call with Huntsville’s police chief tightened a little more. She’d been here two days and already the idea of losing her forever—again—was gnawing at him.
You’re next.
Having her go back to Huntsville when this was over was one thing, but having some bastard do this—he surveyed the crime-scene tape draping the area—he couldn’t let that happen. Somehow he had to protect her.
Who the hell was this son of a bitch? Unless they came up with something from Arnold’s friends or coworkers, there wasn’t a single connection between her and Prescott.
Late yesterday the search for Cherry Prescott had formally been called off. After five days of looking, they still had nothing. Now, the local police here in Wiggins would go through the same steps looking for Penny Arnold. Wyatt had assured the chief as well as the Stone County sheriff that his department would assist in the search. He’d called in six of his deputies already.
Wyatt scrubbed a hand over his face. The fear in Trent Arnold’s eyes haunted him. Why the hell couldn’t they get a single lead on this bastard?
The perp had left not one tire-tread imprint or shoe impression, much less a latent print. No trace evidence. The only certainty so far was undeniable proof that the perp was one careful asshole. The words cut from printed material had come from a dozen different magazines and newspapers that could be picked up on any sales rack. The glue was one available for purchase at all Wal-Marts and dozens of other places. Same with the paper and the envelopes. The phone call made to Penny Arnold’s BlackBerry was their one hope. But Wyatt wasn’t holding his breath. This guy had proven far too cunning so far. The probability that he would fuck up with something as simple as a phone call was highly unlikely. The search of the Hattiesburg computer server had given them nothing.
“One of the deputies has already interviewed a couple of Arnold’s close friends.”
Wyatt jerked to attention. He hadn’t realized Addy had gotten out of the vic’s car and walked over to him. “Anything relevant?”
Addy glanced back at the car as if something about it nagged at her. “Maybe.” She met Wyatt’s gaze. “Do you have any idea how focused the vic was on making the dream of owning her own agency come true?”
“The husband mentioned that was her goal.” Wyatt surveyed the upscale housing development. The model home Arnold had come to show was the first completed construction at the site. “She considered getting this contract a major coup.”
Addy chewed on her bottom lip. She did that when she was mulling over what she intended to say next. Wyatt’s throat went dry. His lips b
urned at the memory of kissing that sassy, sexy mouth.
“She has notes posted on every day of the calendar she keeps in her car.” Addy flared her hands. “You know, the inspirational stuff. Like ‘No one can stop you but you.’ ‘There is no time like the present.’ ‘Persistence is the key.’ The husband didn’t want her working so much outside the home.” Her gaze searched Wyatt’s. “But she wasn’t stopping for him or anyone else. I found out that conference she went to in Phoenix actually ended the day before she came home. But she stayed an extra day despite the fact that it was Christmas Eve and her kids were back home waiting for her.”
“You think it was all work or was something else going on? An affair maybe?”
Addy gave her head a quick shake. “No, I don’t think there was anything like that happening. The lady was just determined to make the right impression on the people with the power to authorize the opening of her own agency. According to her husband and her friends, she wanted that bad.”
“You have no doubt the letter found at this scene is the work of the same man who sent your and Prescott’s letters?” She was still insistent that the break-in at the motel was unrelated. He wasn’t a fool. He understood that it was possible someone in his department had leaked the information, but it hadn’t been reported in the media. One generally went hand in hand with the other.
“None at all. The random spacing and cockeyed alignment of the words are consistent with the note I received this morning and the one found on Arnold’s car.”
“You do realize,” Wyatt voiced what they both already knew, “that the only persons who would want to vandalize your possessions are those connected to your uncle. That greatly narrows the scope of who may have leaked the information.” All the way down to his department, in fact. He didn’t want to believe that possibility was real, but it was his job to follow all leads, even when he didn’t like where they were going.
“I do.” She kept those baby blues fixed on him. “It came from your department, Wyatt. Face it. There are still a lot of people here who have a grudge against me. Passing on the info to Clay or some of his thug friends would be the perfect way to get a little vengeance.”
Wyatt wanted to be madder than hell at the whole notion. But he couldn’t. She had too valid a point. No one, including him, wanted a dirty cop on his force. “If I learn that’s the case, I’ll be collecting badges.”
Addy turned away from him and headed for the Bronco. He fully understood that she wanted no part in the collection of badges. She’d been there, done that, bought the T-shirt. She was here for the case. Not to rehash the past. How many times had she said that?
She climbed into that big old Bronco and settled behind the wheel. She’d had that damned thing since she turned sixteen. Her father had bought it for her. He figured that was why she’d kept it all this time—especially considering the price of gasoline. When that big-ass vehicle rolled up to a parking slot, no one expected a waiflike blond chick like Addy to climb out. As pint-sized as she was, she could hold her own in a shoot-out or a brawl. Yet her heart was every bit as huge as that big-ass Bronco.
So was her sense of justice as well as her discernment of people.
Wyatt wanted to believe the break-in at her room was about the case, but if she said it wasn’t . . . he’d wager it wasn’t. Addy possessed an uncanny cop intuition. He’d always envied that keen ability.
He just hoped like hell that intuition could keep her out of this bastard’s clutches.
For now, another talk with Cyrus was in order. If his errant son was planning any more theatrics, he’d better think twice. Wyatt would love nothing better than to put him in lockup.
For the rest of his sorry life.
First, however, there was one housekeeping detail he couldn’t put off.
3:15 P.M.
Wyatt waited for one of the three men sitting across from his desk to break.
An hour and counting. He’d called these three deputies into his office as soon as he’d returned from the Arnold crime scene.
Brett Guthrie. Lance Cochran. Dillon Swift.
Three holdovers from the old regime. Good deputies but loyal to the end to former Sheriff Zeke Grider. All three were buddies with Jed Stovall and Simon Cook, men who worked for Cyrus Cooper and his no-good spawn, Clay. If there was anyone in Wyatt’s department—and that was a big-ass if—who would leak details of an investigation related to Addy, it would be one of these three. Before a single one walked out of this office, he would know which one, if any, it had been.
“Sheriff, it’s Christmas,” Cochran said, breaking the silence. Tall, skinny red-haired guy who typically followed the lead of the men sitting on either side of him. “My kids are probably wondering why their daddy’s not home. How long you going to keep yanking our chains with this nonsense?”
Wyatt turned his palms upward. “We can all leave as soon as I have the truth. Otherwise,” he said, reclining in his chair, “I’ve got all night. My family had Christmas dinner last night.”
Addy and Womack were going over the new interview reports that Robert Cummings, the detective in charge of the Arnold case, had faxed over. Comparing any comments by friends and family to what they had in the Prescott case. He didn’t want her to know about this little tête-à-tête.
For more reasons than one.
Guthrie stood. “Fine. You want someone to speak up, I’ll do it.” He hitched a thumb toward the door. “You let her come back here after what she did. You’re working with her like none of that stuff ever happened. That’s what’s wrong here. We haven’t done a damned thing wrong, Wyatt. You’re the one who’s making this department look bad.”
Wyatt checked the immediate reaction. No need to let the man see he’d hit a nerve. That would only confirm his accusation. Guthrie was the oldest of the three. He’d been closest to Grider. Like a brother. But he was a third-generation cop and he hadn’t wanted to give up his badge despite his indignation over the events that had transpired nine years ago. At fifty, his hair had grayed and he needed glasses for reading, but age hadn’t slowed him down when it came to taking care of the business of being a cop. Wyatt understood that despite his loyalty to the badge, Guthrie’s hatred for Addy ran deep.
Fierce emotions were involved. Maybe Addy was more right than he wanted to admit.
“Sit down, Guthrie.”
His deputy defied him for about two seconds before lowering his bulk back into his chair.
“This isn’t about whether or not you agree with my decision to allow Detective Cooper to be involved with this case,” Wyatt explained. “This is about breaking the law. Violating the department’s trust. If one of you passed the details of those letters along to anyone else who might have let it get out, I need to know. Now.”
Swift wouldn’t meet his eyes. Hadn’t since he’d learned the topic of this meeting. He was the one Wyatt had pegged for the infraction. If there had been an infraction.
“Tell him,” Cochran said with a fierce glare at the man beside him. “I’d like to get the hell out of here before Christmas is fucking over.”
Swift glared right back at his fellow deputy.
“Are you saying there’s something to this?” Guthrie jumped to his feet once more, sent a glower first at Cochran, then at Swift. “Dillon Swift, I’ve known you since you were a snot-nosed kid. If you did this you’d better fess up, buddy. You do not want me to find out some other way.”
Swift launched to his feet and stuck his finger in Guthrie’s face. “I didn’t do nothing,” he snarled before sending another drop-dead glare at Cochran.
Swift was the youngest and most hotheaded of the three. He’d joined the department the same month Addy had. They’d been rivals of a sort from the beginning.
“He and Clay Cooper have gotten to be pretty big pals,” Cochran said to Wyatt, cutting to the chase.
“Asshole!” Swift shouted.
“You better settle down, boy,” Guthrie growled. Swift held his ground. “You m
ay not agree with the sheriff’s decision but you owe him the respect that goes with the office. Now sit your skinny ass down and explain yourself.”
After Swift had taken his seat once more, Wyatt gave him a moment to pull himself back together. “Start at the beginning,” he instructed, the fury simmering deep inside him making his teeth clench on each word.
“Me and Clay are buds, that’s right,” Swift boasted. “It’s a free country. I chill with him and the others from time to time.”
“The others” meaning Stovall and Cook. “Did you share any of the details of this investigation with him?” Wyatt asked, working hard to keep his cool.
“No, sir,” Swift shot back, “I did not.”
“Tell him,” Cochran grumbled.
Swift’s shoulders shook with fury.
“What’s he talking about, Swift?” Wyatt demanded.
“Clay was bragging about how his cousin was finally gonna get what she deserved. Said he had some inside information.” Swift raised his chin in a defiant gesture. “That’s it. He didn’t say nothing else.”
Wyatt mulled over the admission, then zeroed in on the points Swift had bypassed either inadvertently or by design. “During that discussion or since, did Clay make any reference to where he’d gotten his inside information or if it was related specifically to this investigation?”
Swift shook his head, adopted one of those this-isa-waste-of-time expressions. “When I asked him what the hell he was talking about, he just laughed and said ‘You’ll see.’ He never brought it up again.”
That fury he’d managed to keep in check so far threatened to break into a boil. “What was your response to that comment?”
“That he’d better not break any laws or you’d throw his ass in jail.”
Good answer. “You understand that you should have reported this incident to me immediately.”
Swift nodded. “I figured he was just running off at the mouth. He’d knocked back some serious JD and was all worked up over something his daddy had done.” The deputy shrugged. “I didn’t think no more of it.”