“Why is it that you’re always the one who makes my job difficult?”
“You’re confusing me with Royce,” Coen corrected, never missing the chance to throw another teammate under the bus. He would have come up with something to say about Keane and Sawyer as well, but he needed to end this conversation and get back to freezing his ass off. He desperately needed to put one hand in his pocket for warmth. Why did people choose to live in such an unbearable place? “You’re losing your step in your old age.”
Coen leaned a shoulder against one of the two white pillars that was in desperate need of paint. He took another drag on the cigarette, squinting when he inhaled a little too much nicotine. His younger brother inhaled these damned things like they were cinnamon candy sticks, but Coen had never seen the appeal. The thought had crossed his mind that maybe the frozen air might counteract the smoke, but that was almost certainly wishful thinking.
“You might want to double check your birth certificate, friend,” Brody replied with a laugh. He was their technological wizard in all things electronic, so it wouldn’t surprise Coen if the man had everyone’s shoe size listed in a relational database somewhere. “You have a few digits on me, if I recall correctly.”
“You’re confusing age with IQ again.” Coen caught sight of Ms. Lambert’s door opening. “Listen, I need to haul ass. Tell Calvert I’m staying put for a few more days.”
“Tell him your—”
Click.
Coen disconnected the line before Brody could finish his sentence, mostly due to the fact that the pretty little brunette he’d been watching for the past month had walked out of her front door and was carefully treading down her sidewalk…heading straight for him.
What did she think she was doing?
Coen didn’t like that he was drawn to her the way he was. He’d been observing her movements for the last four weeks nonstop, ensuring that she was safe from anything that Moss might have preplanned. His job had become rather difficult when she’d attended the wedding up on Mount Evan. He’d almost suffered hypothermia when he’d set up camp not fifty yards out from her cabin.
Technically, that’s how he’d been keeping her in his sights. The property line behind her house fed into a strip of woods that had been perfect for nighttime concealment. He’d set up a makeshift sniper’s nest, which allowed him the benefit of watching her unnoticed.
After the murder of Heidi Connolly, Coen decided it was best to have Ms. Lambert aware of his presence to establish a bit of trust should he ever need her to blindly follow his lead in an emergency. Using the local police had been beneficial, giving him a closer proximity to his target.
During his observations, he found that Brettany Lambert was an overtly compassionate type, optimistic about the outcome of virtually everything, loyal to a fault, and downright sexy as hell—though he was certain she would probably disagree with his last description. She was an attractive small-town girl who looked after her neighbors, brought soup to those who were sick, made cupcakes to brighten up someone’s day, and apparently didn’t have a materialistic bone in her body.
He shook his head in disbelief at the existence of a unicorn on the infamous dating scale. She was an unattached female ranking at least an eight or nine without being clinically insane.
Was that even possible in this day and age?
Brettany also looked much younger than her years, with natural brown curls that hung below her shoulders. Most females would have hated her for just that reason alone, but her smile could light up a room like nothing he’d ever seen. She made every effort to try and tame her charges, but she usually gave up by the time she came home from a full day of teaching seven year olds in second grade.
And her eyes?
Well, they were emerald green and held a touch of innocence that had been stolen by the sight she’d seen up at the campground. He had found himself wanting to restore her faith in humanity, until he remembered he had none of his own. She was a classic damsel in distress, and he found that he wanted to be her knight.
The human race was fallible. He knew this from personal experience in some of the world’s worst hellholes. People were only out for themselves, and he’d seen the ravages of war to prove it. He figured he was somewhat fascinated by her because she was unlike any other woman he’d known.
His very own unicorn.
His conclusion?
Brettany Lambert was the epitome of marriage material, and he better stay far away from her.
“Hi there, neighbor,” Brettany said with a smile that wasn’t quite as bright as he remembered when meeting her before.
Something must have happened, because she had never invaded his personal space. He’d made sure to mention last weekend that he was new to the area so that she didn’t find it odd to suddenly see him staring at her house from across the street. Whatever she had to say must be significant. He immediately snuffed out his cigarette on the stone footing at the base of the porch column. He then stripped the butt and tossed it into the buttcan he’d placed there, only to try and stem his guilt from her raised eyebrow. It didn’t take much to know he wouldn’t have lasted long in her classroom.
“Do you have a minute to talk?” Brettany asked, shifting the hood of her jacket so she could still see him when a gust of wind caught the side. “I wanted to run something by you.”
Coen had seen to it that the only time they’d ever exchanged words had been in the course of the investigation. He didn’t like the fact that he’d had to mislead her, but he’d made sure he never lied to her directly. Having a deputy introduce him as a state police investigator rather than stating that untruth himself was essential to maintaining his sense of integrity. There were times their conversations had become a balancing act, but those few interviews had gone fairly well. She’d never purposefully sought him out like this, and he honestly wasn’t too keen to find out why as he glanced up and down the street with unease.
“Has something happened?” Coen asked as he was finally able to slip both hands in the pockets of his jacket for warmth. He probably should invite her inside, but that would only be asking for trouble. “Are you okay?”
“Oh, I’m fine. Though I can’t answer your first question, because I’m not really sure.” Brettany hedged her response before hesitantly gesturing toward his front door with her mitten. “Would it be possible to talk inside where I assume it’s warmer?”
Coen had purposefully grown out his five o’clock shadow to battle the cold in this godforsaken state, and he was never more grateful for that decision than now. She most likely couldn’t see his jawline tightening in irritation. It wasn’t like she’d left him any real choice. Well, technically, he always had a choice, but he didn’t want to come off as an asshole.
“Of course. Please, come in.” Coen stepped back and cleared the way for Brettany to walk up the two steps that still only put the top of her head to his chest. According to her dossier, she was five foot, four inches, but he could swear someone had added an inch by mistake. “Is this about Heidi’s murder?”
Brettany pulled back the hood of her parka, allowing her loose curls the freedom to move in the wind. Speaking of which, the gusts were becoming stronger with each passing moment. It wouldn’t surprise Coen if the second round with Mother Nature started a little earlier than the predicted midnight forecast.
“Yes, it is, actually.” Brettany looked over her shoulder as if someone might overhear them. He wanted to tell her no one in their right mind would be outside in these temperatures, but that would technically include both of them. He remained silent as she finally clued him in on what information she might have. “I remembered something about that night that I forgot to mention.”
Coen prepared himself for the inevitable questions that were sure to come the moment he let her inside the house. There were no unpacked boxes, no personal effects, and it basically looked the same as the day he’d arrived. It was the lack of Christmas decorations that would no doubt catch her attention f
irst. Her home was like something out of Whoville. He opened the door for her anyway, following behind and trying not to groan in satisfaction as the warmth of the inside enveloped them. Damn, but he missed the Florida sun.
“Would you like some coffee?” Coen wasn’t much for the bitter brew, preferring orange juice in the morning and water during the afternoon. But he did need the aid of caffeine once in a while, so he kept some grounds on hand. Besides, a hot beverage sounded good right now. “It will only take me a few minutes to make some.”
“No, thank you,” Brettany replied as she removed her mittens. She was certainly concentrating hard on the task at hand, but Coen was fine with that. It kept her from noticing that the rental house didn’t have one item that would individualize it from any other empty property in town. His suitcase was still packed in the bedroom, though it was lying open on the floor next to his go-bag. A quick glance toward the hallway showed the door was partially closed. It was in a good enough position that she wouldn’t catch sight of his luggage. “Could we sit down?”
“Yes. Please, have a seat.” Coen shrugged out of his jacket and hung it up on the coatrack that had come as part of the packaged deal. The small house was furnished, though the furniture was quite generic. It wasn’t like he needed anything spectacular, anyway. “Are you sure I can’t get you something to drink?”
“Something stronger than coffee might actually be beneficial at this point, but I really don’t drink that much,” Brettany said with a half-smile of embarrassment.
“That’s actually commendable.” Coen was surprised when she’d let him take her coat and thanked him. He honestly thought she’d wave him off since she wouldn’t be staying long. She still had her scarf tied around her neck and a rather tight grip on those mittens. God help him if she actually crocheted them herself. He’d have to nominate her for some type of award for being the perfect woman. “Your clear recollection of the night of Heidi’s murder certainly aided in our investigation.”
The other members of the wedding party had consumed quite a bit of alcohol that evening, so their statements weren’t as reliable as Brettany’s account for what she’d witnessed. That included the times she’d seen the guests and where. Granted, she was the one to find the body, but their suspect pool was quite narrow considering the location and circumstances. Of course, that was unless Moss had discovered the remote site and decided it had been an ideal opportunity to make another selection to drive home his point.
Coen was aware his opinion was a little far-fetched, but Brettany and Heidi were similar in their builds. Add on the fact that they both had naturally curly brown hair, and it sure as hell would have been easy to get the two confused if someone needed to get in and out quickly under the cover of the storm. It was possible the killer had mistaken Heidi for Brettany in the weather, especially with the guests all bundled up the way everyone had been because of the weather. It was either that or Heidi had a connection to Shailyn Doyle that none of them had been able to uncover as of yet.
“You asked me that night about the blood in the snow,” Brettany said, taking the overstuffed chair that had seen much better days. She sat on the edge of the cushion and leaned forward, almost as if she needed reassurance about what she remembered. “I told you that my flashlight landed a couple of feet away and that I saw no footprints. But that’s not exactly true.”
“What do you mean?” Coen didn’t want to make her feel uncomfortable in any way, so he took a seat on the couch. Her green eyes were situated squarely on him and his reaction. It was then he caught sight of the fact that she was scared. “Do you recall seeing something in the snow?”
“I assumed the snow was disturbed because of the guests walking back and forth to the main cabin, but you said that Heidi had been…” Brettany’s words trailed off as she collected herself. Coen didn’t forget that she had been friends with the deceased for quite a long time, and the death of someone close to her was no doubt hard to accept. “You mentioned that the medical examiner put her death earlier that day. The snow shouldn’t have been disturbed at all at the rate it was falling. What I’m trying to say is that someone deliberately tried to wipe away their footprints, as if they’d just been made. Why would the killer have come back after getting away clean?”
CHAPTER THREE
‡
Brett was exhausted. She hadn’t had a good night’s sleep for over a week, which was why she’d turned down Coen’s offer for coffee. Another excuse not to close her eyes certainly wouldn’t be beneficial at this point. She’d come close to making an appointment with her doctor, thinking maybe a prescription of some sleeping pills would help, but she hadn’t been able to make the call. Was it vanity or pride that she didn’t want to appear weak?
“Ms. Lambert, why didn’t you call the sheriff with this information?”
Why? That was a good question and one she could answer. Bret found herself constantly on edge, looking over her shoulder for some monster to come out of the darkness. The problem was that she was afraid she would recognize the face. The police were hellbent on proving one of her small group of friends was a killer, but she couldn’t accept that.
“Ms. Lambert is my mother,” Brett corrected, finally able to relax enough so that she could sit back and sink into the comfortable cushion. She’d been on an emotional roller coaster all week, and today had been no exception. Being in his presence somehow made it so that she didn’t have to keep looking over her shoulder. The holster he wore might also have something to do with that feeling of security. “Please call me Brett.”
Coen didn’t respond to her request. She noticed that he purposefully remained silent at times, and she wondered if he’d been trained to conduct interviews in this fashion to obtain more information. His technique had certainly worked on her last week, and she found herself caving under his dark stare now.
“Sheriff Whitney thinks one my friends murdered Heidi, and I know that’s not true,” Brett insisted, somehow sensing he believed her. “Everyone is being treated as a suspect, but Louise and Chad’s family and friends are not murderers. They did not hurt Heidi. They were all drinking together that night except for Heidi and me. I’m afraid anything I say could get one of them in trouble.”
Coen leaned forward, resting one elbow on his knee as if he were about to tell her something she didn’t want to hear. Did he know something she didn’t? She couldn’t wrap her mind around the fact that the local police literally thought someone she knew could brutally murder an innocent woman.
Brett braced herself for the accusations against her friends that the sheriff had already spouted, though she could see how this situation might look to someone on the outside. Heidi’s funeral was scheduled for tomorrow and she’d seen enough crime television shows to know that the police would be in attendance in hopes that someone stood out as a suspect. She certainly didn’t want to add to their suspicions.
“Wait. Am I a suspect?” Brett asked astonishingly, never having taken that possibility into consideration. Her heartrate accelerated at the thought the sheriff could believe she would do something so atrocious, but it made sense now. It was then that something else crossed her mind, instantly causing her stomach to roll in nausea. “Oh, my God. That’s why you rented this house, isn’t it? You think I killed Heidi and you’re—”
“Ms. Lambert, my living across from you has nothing to do with me thinking you killed anyone,” Coen reassured her, though it was anything but comforting. His intimidating demeanor said otherwise. “There’s no evidence to support that theory at all. It’s Sheriff Whitney’s job to question those who knew the victim and eliminate them from the suspect pool, as well as take into consideration the fact that it would have been all but impossible for anyone else outside of the guest list to be the guilty party. We’re all well aware of how severe that snowstorm was last week. No one could have made it up to the mountain range and back down again without preparation. That is, unless Heidi’s murder was premeditated and someone set up camp w
ell before anyone else arrived at that site.”
Brett sat back in surprise, though a weight had suddenly lifted off her shoulders. Had he meant to do that? He’d practically given her a gift. It was the only plausible explanation that made sense, and she was able to start connecting the dots.
“That’s why the person tried to cover their tracks, isn’t it? Although it doesn’t explain why the killer would have gone back to Heidi’s cabin.” Brett eagerly started to run through several possible scenarios. “Unless whoever it was wanted to get rid of her body and maybe buy himself some time for the storm to stop so he could escape.”
“Ms. Lam—”
“Brett,” she insisted in frustration, unable to sit still as she tried to put the pieces together. She tossed her mittens behind her as she stood up and started to pace back and forth in front of the old brick hearth, honestly feeling better than she had in the last seven days. “This changes everything. Have you looked into Heidi’s past? Wait. Of course, you have. She was an open book, even telling strangers intimate things one normally would keep private. Once she got going, there was no stopping her. Maybe she—”
“Brettany.”
She spun around with a slight gasp, surprised Coen had moved from his position on the couch to a foot behind her without her hearing a sound. The mention of her name was also quite startling, especially since this was the first time he’d ever addressed her in that manner. The faint odor of cigarette smoke mixed with his cologne was somehow reassuring, and she resisted the urge to step closer to his imposing presence.
“You need to let the police do their job.” Coen shook his head in what appeared to be disappointment. The slight stir of anger felt good compared to the fear she’d been experiencing every night. Every dream consisted of Heidi’s sightless eyes with her pale lips moving slowly…as if she were trying to say something underneath her breath. “Whoever killed Heidi is still at large, which means he or she is watching the news intently for any signs that the authorities might be closing in. The last thing the sheriff needs is for you to put your own life in danger because you couldn’t leave well enough alone.”
Honest Intentions (The Safeguard Series, Book Five) Page 3