by Nora Roberts
“Morning, Chief.”
“Zane.” His glance rose up to the boarded doors. “No doors yet?”
“Coming in next week, and my trusty painters are going to finish up at the office, fix the damn bullet holes in the bedroom here. Want something cold?”
Lee looked at Zane’s tall glass. “Is that iced coffee?”
“It is. Come on in. I’ll get you one.”
“I won’t say no. Darby around?”
“She had a couple consults this morning. She should be back before too long if you want to talk to her.”
“Girl keeps busy,” Lee commented as Zane led the way inside.
“She does. May be why she sleeps like the dead. So, are you on duty, Chief?”
“Summertime’s usually all hands on deck. This one especially.”
“Yeah.” Zane got another tall glass, filled it with ice. “How’s that going?”
“What we got is a victim nobody but his family and a few reprobates liked, drunk, pumped up with pills, out on a vendetta who ends up with his skull caved in on your property before he’s dumped, already dead, into the lake.”
After picking up the pitcher of room-temperature coffee he’d already brewed, Zane glanced over. “Do I need a lawyer?”
“It’d make my job easier if you did.”
Zane poured coffee over ice, added milk from the fridge, handed it over. “If I’d gone out there, I might’ve seen something, someone.”
“And gotten yourself shot.”
“There is that aspect. How about we go porch sitting?”
“I won’t say no to that either. You do make damn good coffee, Zane, hot or cold.”
“The law thing doesn’t work out, I could try a career as a barista.”
They went back out, sat. Zane picked up the baseball he’d brought out with him, rubbed the seams. “I hear the Drapers are having Clint’s funeral tomorrow.”
“Dexter’s Funeral Home. None of the Drapers are churchgoers, so that simplifies that. And they’re burying him in their family plot.”
“That’s still legal, under some basic guidelines, in this state.”
“It is, and in this case, simplifies things again. I’ve talked to everybody I know had a hard-on for Clint, or the Drapers in general.”
“You get overtime for that?”
Lee let out a huffing laugh, drank some coffee. “I can tell you it took a hell of a lot longer than talking to those who ran with him. But in both cases, it’s not falling in line. Turns out that Clint had some hard words with Richie Fields a couple weeks back, and Fields is the type who could bash a skull in. Thought maybe I had a line there, but at the time in question he was a guest of the county facilities after getting pulled over outside of Hickory for speeding, reckless driving, and DUI—which he added to by taking a couple swings at the county mounty.”
“Well, you don’t get a more solid alibi than that.”
“You don’t,” Lee agreed, and drank more coffee, looked out at the hills. “With your work in Raleigh, you’d have gotten some threats.”
“Goes with the job, Lee, just like it goes with yours.”
“It does. I need you to start thinking if you got any credible, any that would’ve brought somebody here looking to cause you trouble.”
“I have been thinking about it.” Zane studied the ball, ran his thumb over the seams. “There might be a few.”
“I’ll want those names, son.”
“Yeah.” Zane turned the ball around and around in his hand. “I’ve been thinking about taking a trip to Raleigh, having a conversation with Graham.”
“We’re on the same page there, too. I’ve already had one with the warden. Graham’s had a few cellmates in his time, connected with others. Some are back out in the world. We need to tug that line, too.”
“The truth, Lee, while it doesn’t feel like something he’d think of—he likes to be the one causing the pain—if it is his doing, I’m more worried about Darby. He’d never get over being put down by a woman.”
“How about I make the arrangements, and we go talk to him together.”
“I’m good with that. You let me know, and I’ll work my schedule around it.”
“I’ll let you know. Meanwhile, are you really going to represent that idiot Cal Muldoon for popping Larry Easterday after he and Easterday got into that fender bender?”
“What can I say, Chief? Everybody’s entitled to a defense.”
“Lawyers.” Lee let out a sigh. “This is damn good coffee.”
“More where that came from.”
Lee shook his head, set down his empty glass. “I gotta get on. You know,” he added as he stood, “your building in town’s looking pretty good. The mayor gave me some chatter about how maybe we should encourage other property owners along Main to think color.”
“Always look for the upside.”
Lee’s eyebrows disappeared under the brim of his cap.
“Darby.” Zane grinned, shrugged. “I’m trying to latch on.”
“Good luck with that. I’ll be in touch.”
“Love to Emily.”
“Always.”
Zane sat, rubbed the baseball.
He’d send Lee the names from those credible threats, the data on them, but … Those weren’t so worrying in his opinion. He had more concern about the ones he’d helped put away who hadn’t made threats. Who’d been smart enough, careful enough not to make them while they bided their time inside imagining payback.
If Lee felt he’d eliminated anyone local, it was time to take a harder look back, time to dig through some case files.
He went inside, switched tablet for laptop. He had enough data on it to get started on what would be a long process.
He hoped Darby would be another hour or so, and not just because she’d promised (threatened) to give him a garden maintenance lesson on her return. He wanted to make some progress, eliminate or list possibles before she got back.
He didn’t want to cloud their weekend with … undercurrents, he decided.
About twenty minutes in, he heard someone coming up the road, automatically saved his work, closed the file. And as cover brought back up one of the car dealerships he’d scanned before.
But it wasn’t a truck, wasn’t Darby.
Instinct had him taking a fielder’s grip on the ball as the beige compact stopped beside his convertible.
He didn’t recognize the man who got out, not at first, but saw tall, well-built, neatly dressed in khakis and a polo shirt, close-cropped brown hair, square jaw, probably late thirties.
Then the visitor removed aviator sunglasses, started forward.
Military, Zane thought, from the posture, the stride.
“Zane Bigelow—sorry,” he corrected. “Walker.”
“That’s right.” Putting it together, Zane got to his feet. “It’s Bo Draper, isn’t it? Sergeant Major Draper now.”
“It is. I’m sorry to come to your home uninvited, but I hope to have a word with you.”
“Come on up. Want some iced coffee?”
“I … That’s very kind of you, but I’m fine. This is quite a place. New since I’ve been around Lakeview.”
“About eight years old. You’ve been gone awhile.”
“Just over twenty years now. I enlisted at eighteen. I haven’t been back since, but…”
“It’s hard to lose a brother.”
“Even one you can’t claim to know. I guess he was eight or nine when I left.”
“Have a seat, Sergeant Major.”
“I’m fine,” he repeated. “I won’t keep you long.” He glanced at the baseball Zane still held. “I watched a few of your games well back in the day. Do you still play?”
“Not really.” Zane set the ball down.
“That’s a shame. Mr. Walker—”
“Zane.”
“Zane, I’ve heard what my family has to say. I’ve heard what the police chief has to say. I’m not able to talk to Clint’s widow, as she’s
… away. I’m leaving right after the funeral, but before I do, I’d like to hear what you have to say.”
“Your brother’s widow is a client. I can only tell you that she’s in a safe place. It was necessary for her to seek a safe place as, by her account, which is credible, your brother physically assaulted her. Not just on the night of July third, but routinely. She came to me for help. I got her help.”
“She’d be Allie Abbott’s younger sister? I knew Allie a little when I lived here.”
“That’s right.”
“My family claims Clint never laid a hand on her, then I hear them say he never laid a hand on her that she didn’t deserve.” Bo’s jaw tightened. “I’m a married man, and I have two daughters. I wouldn’t take kindly to anyone who laid a violent hand on them. I’m not my brothers. I’m not my parents.”
“I’m not my parents either.”
Bo nodded. “I heard some about that. My family’s saying you and Clint’s widow were having an affair.”
“I met Traci twice since I got back to Lakeview. Once when Clint brought her with him to my office hoping to file a frivolous and, frankly, vindictive suit against his neighbors.”
“The McConnells?”
“That’s right. He wasn’t pleased when I refused to take his case. I met her again when I went to their place because I saw the signs of abuse. She wouldn’t talk to me, but I left my card. I’m involved with someone, seriously involved. Traci’s my client, nothing more.”
“The woman you’re involved with—Darby McCray—she’d be the one who was here that night?”
“That’s right.”
“Clint defaced her property as well as your office. And the windows upstairs—doors,” he corrected, “the ones that are boarded up. He shot them out.”
“Evidence would indicate he did all of that. I don’t know who killed your brother, Sergeant Major, whether it was friend or foe, a deliberate act or an accidental one. I do know it happened on my land, right over there, while the woman I love woke to have bullets from Clint’s rifle hitting the wall three feet above her head.”
“He was the runt of the litter, my pappy used to say. And he’d give the kid a smack just for the hell of it. That’s not excusing what he did—and I believe he did all you’re saying. But he was raised up mean.”
“You were raised in the same house.”
“I got out,” Bo said simply. “The marines didn’t just make me, Zane, they saved me. You were raised hard, and it seems to me you made different choices than my three brothers.”
“My family saved me. My sister, my aunt, the man she married, my grandparents.”
“I remember your grandparents,” Bo continued. “They’re good people. I can’t say my family’s good people, but I’m going to stand with them while we bury my baby brother. And I’m going to stand here now, look you in the eye, and apologize for what my brother did.”
“Not necessary.”
“It is for me. Maybe if I’d stayed longer I could’ve helped him see a different way of being. But I saved myself, and I can’t regret it. I’ve got one brother in prison, another who’s so like the old man you can barely tell them apart. Now I’ve got one going in the ground before he hits thirty.”
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t going to say it because I didn’t feel it. But I can say it now. I’m sorry, Bo.”
“I thank you for that. I’d like to pay for the damage my brother did to your home, your office, Ms. McCray’s property.”
“Absolutely not.”
“If you won’t take that, I want to ask you to let me pay for any of Traci’s legal expenses.”
“They’re pro bono.”
Bo sighed, squeezed the bridge of his nose. “You don’t owe me or my family a single damn thing, but I’m asking all the same. There has to be some restitution. I want justice for Clint, I want to believe whoever killed him will be caught, tried, and punished. But there has to be restitution for what Clint did for me to settle myself on it all.”
“If you give me your contact information, and a few days, I’ll give you the name of a women’s shelter. You could make a donation.”
Bo closed his eyes briefly, nodded. “I can promise to do that.” He took out his wallet and drew a card from it. “You can contact me when it’s convenient. I’m going to do my duty to my family, then I’m leaving, going back to my wife, my daughters, my life. I won’t be back again.”
He held out a hand, and they shook.
“I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me.”
“I’m going to say the same, and thank you for your service, Sergeant Major Draper.”
Bo started back to his car, paused, looked back. “You couldn’t have been more’n thirteen, fourteen when I lit out.”
“That’d be about right.”
“You sure could play baseball.”
Zane watched him head down the road, then sat, picked up the ball again.
Maybe the marines had made Bo Draper, and saved him. But to Zane’s mind, they couldn’t have done either if he hadn’t chosen to let them.
“Not just what you’re born into, who raises you,” he said aloud as he rubbed the ball. “It’s what you do about it.”
He set the ball down, picked up the laptop again, and got back to doing what he could do to protect what mattered to him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Emily pulled up in front of the bungalow with her youngest in tow just after nine a.m. Together she and Brody hauled out the fresh sheets and towels, the soaps, shampoo, lotions, and the bags of groceries the guest had ordered.
Far from a morning person, Brody grumbled and scowled as they carted the supplies. “When I take over the business, I won’t be cleaning cabins.”
Emily just let out a snorting laugh. “Yeah? Let me know how that works out for you, pal.”
Since she heard the television through the open windows, noted the Privacy sign absent from the front door, she shifted her load, knocked.
She had a smile ready when the door opened. “Good morning, Mr. Bingley. Is this a good time for housekeeping?”
He beamed a smile back. “It’s always a good time if I’m not doing it. I was expecting Janey.”
“Janey’s mama tripped, broke her ankle this morning, so we’re covering for her.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. How’s it going, big guy?”
Brody barely resisted the sneer, dragged out his polite voice. “Just fine, sir.” He walked the groceries straight back to the kitchen. “Do you want to check, sir, make sure your order’s correct?”
“I’m sure it’s fine.”
“Brody, you go on and put the groceries away, make sure to pin the receipt to the board there.”
The polite tone dropped away like a stone in a well. “I know, Mom.” Like he hadn’t done it a zillion times before.
“Good, then you can start loading up the trash. I’ll start in the bedroom, Mr. Bingley, if I won’t be in your way.”
“The handy thing about writing? You can do it anywhere. I’ll just take my laptop out on the porch, and get out of your way. I’ll see if the view inspires me to get my quota done this morning.”
She wasn’t bad-looking for an old broad, he thought as he unplugged his laptop from the charger. Definitely had a fine ass, but the tits probably sagged seeing as she had two kids.
Plus, she was married to the local cop, so best to keep hands off that one.
Her brat didn’t look happy with his assignment. Couldn’t blame him. Groceries, housekeeping—women’s work.
“I bet you’d rather be off with your friends than cleaning houses, huh?”
Brody shrugged. “That’s how it goes with a family business.” He put the quart of milk, the bottle of mango juice in the fridge, glanced at the paperback on the kitchen table.
His mood perked up some, because book.
“I know that one won the Pulitzer and all, but I liked Cannery Row better.”
“What?”
“That one�
�s a total bummer if you ask me. Mom likes East of Eden best, and it’s pretty good. But I still like Cannery Row.”
He just gave the boy a blank stare. “Good for you.”
Brody gave Bingley a long look. “My cousin got me into Virgil Flowers, and he’s way cool. I’m going to do Sandford’s whole series this summer.”
“I don’t watch much TV,” Bingley said as he took his laptop out to the front porch, and ended any sort of conversation.
Thinking it over, Brody put away the rest of the groceries he figured Bingley was too lazy to go buy himself at the market.
Knowing his job—and his mother—he loaded the breakfast dishes Bingley had been too lazy to put in the dishwasher. Then, following routine, he dumped the kitchen trash into the big plastic bag before he noticed Bingley hadn’t separated the recyclables into the second can.
With a strongly disapproving look aimed toward the front door, Brody did that job before carting the bag to the bedroom. His mother had already stripped the bed, loaded the sheets and bathroom towels into the laundry bag.
Brody started to speak, thought about open windows, and saved his comments.
He put the fresh sheets on the bed—something he’d rather do any day than clean somebody else’s bathroom.
Just gross, man.
He knew he wasn’t supposed to, but he eased the night table drawer open just a little. Condoms. Then the one on the other side of the bed. Nothing.
He did his job, emptying the other trash baskets, dusting off the furniture, putting the glass and plate beside the bed into the dishwasher.
He did both bedroom floors, though it didn’t look like the guy had stepped foot in the second bedroom, left the second bath for his mother to wipe down, and did the dusting, polishing in the living area.
In a rhythm, he went out to sweep the back patio, check the water in the pots while his mom dealt with the kitchen.
In under an hour, they hauled out the dirty linens, trash, recyclables. And Brody noted instead of writing anything, Bingley had Candy Crush going before he toggled quickly to his screen saver.
“All done. Enjoy your day.”
“You do the same,” Bingley told Emily. “It sure is a peaceful spot. Oh, I meant to say the grounds are really beautiful. You must have a bright green thumb.”