Dyed and Gone to Heaven (Curl Up and Dye Mysteries, #3)

by Aimee Nicole Walker

  “Holy fuck!” he exclaimed. “I look so different with short hair.” It wasn’t quite the Bieber look I had mentally threatened him with when I first met him, but it was pretty damn close.

  “Do you like it?” I asked. I could tell from his reaction that he did, and despite the impression I gave to some, I wasn’t some damn glory hog. I was proud of my talent, sure, but I wanted to make others feel good.

  “I love it, Josh. It’s just the change I needed too.” He ran his fingers through the long bangs that cut across his forehead. He’d picked an asymmetrical cut that worked wonders for his bone structure. “There won’t be any hair for him to fist,” he muttered under his breath. His eyes widened when he realized what he spoke out loud. “Um…”

  “You don’t have to say anything else,” I told him. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear it.” I left him alone in his bathroom and went to the kitchen to start packing up my supplies.

  Emory returned to the kitchen and headed into his pantry. He returned with a broom and pink cheeks. “I saw something that I am not prepared for now, probably never if I’m honest. I just thought maybe this,” he gestured to his hair, “might change the course of things.”

  I knew next to nothing about psychic abilities or how the universe worked. I had a feeling if Emory was destined to end up in Jonathon Silver’s arms, it would happen whether his hair was long, short, or non-existent.

  Emory began to sweep the hair into piles. “River didn’t want to go out that night,” he said softly. “He wanted to stay in, order pizza, and watch his favorite movies. I insisted we go out on the town for his thirtieth birthday. If I had just listened to him…” His words broke off, and he began to cry.

  “Emory.” I dropped what I had in my hands and hugged the man tight while his body shook with the force of his sobs. “I’m so sorry.”

  “He was my whole world, and I didn’t listen to him. I put myself first and lost everything that had any meaning to me. I don’t want to feel or love again. That part of me died with him in that icy water.” He ran his fingers through his bangs again and said, “River loved my long hair; I just can’t stand the thought of anyone touching it like he did.”

  “I wish I could make this better for you, Emory.” I hated feeling helpless when someone was hurting. I wanted to do or say anything that might put a smile on their faces. My first reaction when those feelings bubbled up was to alleviate the emotional turmoil with my snarktastic sense of humor, but there was no place for that in Emory’s kitchen.

  “Nothing and no one can help me,” he said. I knew he was wrong because I had felt the same way before I met Gabe. Our situations were not in the same hemisphere of tragedy, but broken is broken, and I knew that the right man could come along and mend his heart—if only he’d let him. Emory would have to be the one to decide when and if he was ready for that. Cleary, he wasn’t ready yet. After several long minutes, he pulled back and wiped his tears. He groaned as if he was embarrassed and covered his face with his hands.

  “I hate to leave you here like this, Emory. I will cancel the rest of my appointments and…”

  “No! Don’t do that for me. I promise you that I’m okay. The whole thing with Jonathon hit me hard and has left me reeling since. Thanks to you, I feel better now.”

  The old Josh would have remarked that hair grew back and, unless he had a time-stamped vision, it could’ve been a glimpse of years in the future. The new Josh hugged his new friend once more and kept his shit together until he stood by himself in the kitchenette in the rear of his salon. Only then did I allow myself to grieve for Emory because had it been me, I don’t know how I would’ve gone on.

  I had to believe there was more for Emory than a life of loneliness, but that didn’t mean I thought that Jonathon Silver was the answer to his broken heart. Emory seemed like a good man with a tender soul, who deserved to be happy. I had lived both sides of the coin, and I knew damn well which one I preferred.

  “You okay?” Chaz asked, popping his head into the room. “Mrs. Tasker is here.”

  I wiped my tears and nodded. “I’ll be right there.” I could tell he wanted to know what was going on, but I couldn’t share Emory’s private pain with anyone, except maybe Gabe. Gabe.

  I knew what I needed to do to feel better. I whipped out my phone and sent a quick I love you text before I squared my shoulders and entered the salon. I knew it was going to be obvious as hell that I’d been crying and I didn’t want to give them the wrong idea. The last thing I wanted was for their tongues to be wagging all over town and telling people that Gabe and I broke up.

  “I can’t believe Missy and Mark broke up,” I said, rattling off the name of the latest Hollywood it-couple to call it quits.

  “I know,” Mrs. Tasker said. “I heard he had an affair with his nanny.”

  “It’s always the nanny,” someone said.

  “Nanny? It was the young Russian co-star,” another added. “I could tell there was going to be trouble when they announced that she was playing his wife in the movie. She’s broken up about five marriages already.”

  Crisis diverted.

  DORCHESTER AND I DECIDED not to drive to Cincinnati unless something new developed in the case. We had already met with all the witnesses who were available to interview in person and would have to wait until the Robertson brothers returned to town to speak with them. In all honesty, Lawrence Robertson didn’t like or trust his nephews, but we had found no evidence to connect either of them to his death or the others. Rick Spizer was the only one I could tie to the deaths, with Owen Smithson being the exception. What bugged me the most was not understanding Rick’s motive to commit the crimes—if he did. I’d been in law enforcement for too long to think that every case was going to get wrapped up in a pretty package like it did in cop shows.

  Sometimes, people did things that made no sense at all. Were the homicides an example of that? I honestly couldn’t say, but I was certain that the CPD would consider the cases solved soon unless new evidence surfaced that pointed to, or concluded, someone else was involved. They had the possible weapon in evidence along with a note from the man who claimed “responsibility” for their deaths before he supposedly took his life. There were too many uncertainties for me, but I didn’t have the final say.

  If something broke on the case, we would head to the city. Until then, Dorchester returned to his partner with the CCSD, and I was happy to sit across from Adrian’s desk and get caught up with what was going on locally. There’d been a recent string of break-ins and vandalism cases that had kept Adrian busy.

  “Any similarities to the break-in and vandalism at Georgia Beaumont’s?” I asked. It still bothered me that we couldn’t connect that to her death. I hated unsolved cases because, regardless of their size, a crime was a crime.

  “No, buddy. As best we could tell, nothing was stolen from Georgia’s,” Adrian stated.

  “According to her murderer, Wanda Honeycutt,” I mumbled. Wanda confessed to everything else and had no reason to lie about ransacking the place. It was most likely someone else that Georgia had been blackmailing. What was the likelihood that her attempt to blackmail the county commissioner was the first time in her life? On the other hand, it was personal for her since his lover happened to be her ex-husband; who was also her lover at the time of her death.

  Adrian’s laughter reverberated through the small police department. “Oh, how I’ve missed razzing you about her,” he remarked.

  I ignored his comment and turned the conversation to my future goddaughter, as I had started to think of her. It had been less than a week since I last saw them and got updated on their health, but it felt like a year had passed. Adrian immediately started talking about the final plans for the nursery. He joked and said that Sally Ann had changed her mind at least four different times, but had finally settled on a theme. “For now,” he added. “I’m sure that will change by the time I get home.”

  I laughed, but not too hard because I figured Josh would
be the same exact way if we decided to have a family. I knew in the deepest part of my soul that I was going to marry Josh, even though we hadn’t discussed it, but I had no idea where he stood on fatherhood. I did know that he would be an amazing dad to a very lucky kid if we were so blessed. If not, we’d be the best uncles on the planet.

  I was just about to say something to Adrian when I noticed I had a new email from the state lab. They had finally sent back the test results of the paint transfer found on Nate’s bumper. I opened the email and read it out loud to Adrian.

  “The test concludes that the paint sample provided for testing is a hundred percent match to the Absolute Black color used on Ford’s F-150 trucks.” I looked up from my email and said, “Hot damn!”

  “Does Spizer or anyone in his immediate circle own a Ford F-150 that matches the criteria?” Adrian asked.

  “Damn, Adrian,” I admonished. “Let me have this little victory before you go throwing cold water on me.”

  “Sorry, partner,” he said, but I could tell he wasn’t.

  I pulled up the Bureau of Motor Vehicles database, and none of Spizer or his cronies had an F-150. In fact, no one involved owned… “Oh fuck!” I just realized why the photo on Spizer’s desk caught my eye. I’d seen it before. “I didn’t see this coming,” I said.

  “Saw what coming. What’s going on, man?” Adrian said, rounding his desk to stand over my shoulder.

  I typed a name into the database and confirmed what I knew. “You’d think after Wanda we’d get tired of saying we didn’t see something coming, but I’m with you, partner.”

  “I can’t believe I didn’t look deeper into all the people involved in the case or who knew the victims. Damn it!” I picked up my cellphone from my desk and called Dorchester. “It’s Rylan Broadman,” I said as soon as he answered. “He has the same exact photo of a baseball team hanging on his wall that Spizer had on his desk.”

  “You’re sure?” Dorchester asked.

  “Positive,” I responded. “I got the paint sample results from the state lab that tell me the vehicle I’m looking for is a Ford F-150 painted in Absolute Black. Guess who has a black 2015 Ford F-150 registered with the BMV?”

  “Rylan!” Dorchester said excitedly. “What the hell is his role in all of this? Money?”

  “We’ll find out when we ask him. I’ll be there in ten minutes to pick you up,” I told him then disconnected.

  Adrian had gone to his computer when I called Dorchester. He looked up when I hung up the phone. “I found another connection,” he said. “They served in the same army unit. Call Dorchester back and tell him and Whitworth to meet us at his office. You two aren’t going in there alone if he’s responsible for four deaths.”

  We didn’t go in with blazing lights and blaring sirens because the last thing we wanted to do was tip him off and end up in a potential hostage situation. We met the two men in the dollar store parking lot a few blocks away from Broadman’s office. Dorchester got in the car with me while Adrian and Whitworth headed over on foot. The deal was they’d wait for us to go inside to speak to Broadman then cover both the front and rear entrances.

  The bubbly receptionist smiled broadly when we walked into the office until I pulled my gun out of my holster and slid the safety off. “Pick up the phone and ask your boss to come out here, but don’t tell him why.” There was no way I was going into his office not knowing what he was doing behind the closed door. Our team was going home safe to our loved ones that night and that was final. The receptionist’s hand shook like a leaf as she reached for her phone.

  “There’s no need, Lucy. I’m right here,” Broadman called from down the hallway. He walked out with his hands up in the air. “I’m unarmed,” he said softly and rotated slowly so we could see that he didn’t have a gun shoved in the back of his pants.

  “Hands above your head and don’t move, Broadman,” I commanded. I nodded for Dorchester to move in while I kept my gun aimed at him. I began reading him his Miranda Rights as Dorchester holstered his gun and started forward. “Rylan Broadman, you are under arrest for the murders of Nathaniel Turner, Owen Smithson, Lawrence Robertson, and Richard Spizer. You are also under arrest for arson. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the rights to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand the rights I have just read to you?”

  “I know my rights,” Broadman said sarcastically, as Dorchester pulled his left arm down and bent it so that his hand rested on the small of his back. I heard the familiar sound of the handcuff locking into place.

  “I’m just following the rules so you don’t get off on a technicality,” I told him. “With these rights in mind, do you wish…”

  Broadman made a spin move and head-butted Dorchester just as he started to bring Broadman’s right arm down to cuff behind his back, knocking Dorchester out cold. Broadman grabbed for Dorchester’s gun from his holster, and I had no choice but to take a shot.

  The receptionist screamed as the sound of the gun reverberated loudly in the tight office space. Broadman clutched his shoulder and fell to the ground. Adrian and Whitworth entered the building shouting after the gun discharged but my sole focus was making sure Broadman stayed down.

  “Don’t you fucking move,” I shouted, “or I’ll put you down.”

  “Call 911,” he said between gritted teeth.

  “We are 911 you son of a bitch,” Whitworth said, as he knelt beside his partner.

  “He’s just been knocked out,” I told the distraught detective. “Adrian, call it in.” I secured Broadman’s hands and used Lucy’s cardigan to apply pressure to the wound that appeared to be a clean shot through the fleshy part of his right shoulder. I didn’t want him to bleed out because death would be too good for him. He would need surgery to repair torn muscles and ligaments, but then he could recover and get physical therapy in the prison infirmary while he awaited trial.

  I wanted to pin that fucker down and get my answers, but I knew they wouldn’t hold up in court if asked while he was under duress. He whined and cried about how miserable he was and how he planned to sue. I laughed at the lawsuit portion of his comment, but not over his remarks about being in pain. I was certain that Nate, Owen, Lawrence, and Rick would’ve much preferred to have his injuries over their grave ones. It took everything I had not to dig my fingers in his wound and make him suffer even more. Luckily for him, the paramedics got there before I forgot that I was a decent man.

  Unfortunately, the Goodville Police Department arrived and wanted to take over the crime scene and the investigation. Technically, Dorchester and Whitworth’s deputy sheriff status trumped Goodville’s authority, but the jackasses who showed up wanted to fight for it. My adrenaline was pumping quickly through my veins and, to tell the truth, I was spoiling for a fight. I would’ve preferred to fuck it out of my system, but that wasn’t an option right then. I was prepared to settle for the next best thing until two loud voices rang out loudly in the office.

  “I got this, Detective Wyatt,” Captain Reardon said. “Stand down, Officer, our men are taking the lead in this case.” I slowly released the fistful of the starched uniform of the officer I had grabbed when he implied that country people were too stupid to investigate a crime properly, acting as if Goodville was a fucking metropolis. It had one extra traffic light, two extra dollar stores, and a McDonald’s.

  “This man is being arrested for crimes our task force is investigating—a force that includes law enforcement agencies from Carter County Sheriff’s Department, Blissville Police, and Cincinnati Police. Detective Wyatt leads the task force and will oversee this investigation also,” Sheriff Tucker stated firmly. It was the first time I’d ever seen them agree on anything. “The shooting today was a result of our investigation into four homicides, and it takes precedence over your investigation. We’ll inform you if we need your assistance beyond securing the outside of the premises t
o keep the onlookers away from our crime scene.” Tucker nodded to dismiss the man, who swallowed hard then got to boot scooting it out of there.

  Lucy was taken outside and questioned while we searched the office for evidence, making sure to stay out of his client files. We were coming up empty until we found a safe hidden inside a closet. Lucy provided the combination and gasped when she saw what was inside.

  “That wasn’t in there last night when I put the bank deposit inside,” she said. I stared down at the stacks of cash that obviously came from Robertson’s safe deposit box. They were the same straps that we initialed after the money was discovered and counted. “I wasn’t involved in any of this,” she said, tears running down her face. I wasn’t falling for tears again so easily. We’d double-check everything to make sure she was telling the truth, if not, she’d be going to jail too.

  I realized that I set my phone down on Broadman’s desk while I was in there and went to retrieve it. I noticed that I had missed a text from Josh that simply said he loved me. It gave me the warm and fuzzy feelings, and I returned a quick message to him so he wouldn’t think I was ignoring him. Tucker and Reardon followed after me for reasons I didn’t know because they both got distracted by the diploma hanging on the wall.

  “A Wisconsin graduate,” Reardon scoffed.

  “You can’t ever trust them,” Tucker added.

  The situation was grave, but I couldn’t keep the smile off my face. The only thing that could bring a Michigan fan and an Ohio State University fan together was the hatred of another rival Big Ten school. And, perhaps solving crimes too.

  “Your deputy did a good job,” Reardon said to his father-in-law with a tone of voice you’d expect someone to use while discussing a rectal exam, which should never be confused with a prostate massage.

  “Your detective isn’t so bad either,” Tucker replied as if I was a half-step above a root canal.