Deathmarch (Broslin Creek Book 7)

by Dana Marton

  His phone rang as the last of the coffee was dripping out of the machine.

  “Captain.”

  “Do I need to come back?”

  “No, sir.”

  Captain Ethan Bing was spending two weeks at the FBI’s training center at Quantico. The feds were providing advanced training to police chiefs around the country on how to handle civil unrest.

  “Chase updated me on the crime scene,” the man said. “He told me you were making an arrest.”

  Detective Chase Merritt was substituting for the captain during his absence.

  “Allie Bianchi is in the interview room,” Harper said. “Waiting for her lawyer.”

  “Is Tony back?”

  “Killed in federal prison last year, according to Allie. I haven’t had a chance to confirm it yet, but I don’t think she’s lying. It’s too easily checked.” Harper turned his back on the coffee machine and looked down the long hallway, toward the interview room, making a decision he had no doubt he was going to regret. “I’d like to take the case, sir.”

  A moment of silence on the other end. “Chase is processing the crime scene.”

  “I’m the one who led him there. I figured out that a crime might have been committed. I’m the one who found the only viable suspect so far.”

  “Why don’t you tell me about that?”

  Harper filled the man in on the events that led to him calling for the wellness visit on Lamm. Then he added, before the captain could bring it up, “I spent a lot of time with Tony Bianchi in my misspent youth. I know how his mind worked. I’m thinking this could be something he set up before he died.”

  “You had a personal relationship with the suspect.”

  “Ten years ago. We haven’t met or talked since they left.” And then his last piece of ammunition. “Allie is more likely to talk to me than anyone else.”

  The captain took his time while he considered possible conflicts of interest.

  “All right,” he said eventually, in a tone of don’t make me regret this. “It’s your case. Until further notice. You’d better head out to the crime scene. Chase will file a report, but you have to see it for yourself.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  Harper hung up, filled a Styrofoam cup from the steaming pot, then added milk and sugar. Then he swung by the back room again and grabbed two large evidence bags, one for Allie’s clothes and one for her boots, shoving them both under his arm.

  “There’s fresh coffee in the back,” he called to Leila on his way to the suspect in what was now officially his case.

  “Thank you. I could use some. Attorney’s on his way.” She shot a speculative look at Harper. “That Bianchi girl grew up pretty.”

  “Not going to go there.”

  “What did your mother say?”

  “Haven’t talked to her yet. Might have to borrow a bulletproof vest.”

  As Leila laughed—but did not insist that Harper wouldn’t need protection—he walked back to the interview room.

  He pulled the cuffs off his belt before he stepped inside, and ignored the murderous look Allie flashed him as soon as she saw them. Treat her like any other suspect.

  “There’s no need for those. I didn’t do it.” She spat the words at him, her mouth and every muscle in her body tight, enough sparks in her eyes to set his hair on fire. “I didn’t kill Lamm. Or anyone else.”

  At one time, those bottomless brown eyes could convince Harper of just about anything. Not anymore. If she thought she was going to play him, she’d better think again.

  And yet… When they were standing this close to each other… A mix of emotions swirled inside him, half of which he wasn’t allowed to feel.

  No emotions.

  This was work.

  He put her coffee on the table. “I’ll cuff you up front so you can drink this, but I have to cuff you for the attorney’s safety. I’m going to let you have some private time with him before we start the official interview.”

  He gave her a few seconds to calm down before he clicked the metal on her slim wrists. “I think your father talked you into something before he died. I think the plan went south. Someone died. I’m sure you regret it, Allie. Best thing to do now is confess. I hope you can see that.”

  “I hope you trip, swallow your own tongue, and choke.” Red flashed across her face. “My father, Harper? That’s what you think? That I’m working with my father? What the hell is wrong with you? You know me!”

  “Not anymore. Ten years is a long time.” He stepped to the door then glanced back. “If it was an accident, if you didn’t mean to do it, confess now. Abram can argue for a lighter sentence. Think about that while I’m gone.”

  He wanted to drive out to the crime scene while Allie had her initial meeting with her attorney. Chase might already have found enough proof to seal the case. And then that’d be that. Allie Bianchi would be formally charged, shipped off to the county jail in West Chester, and out of Harper’s hair.

  And not a moment too soon, he thought as he closed the door behind him, while she yelled, “I hate you, Harper Finnegan!”

  * * *

  The lawyer was going to get her out because she was innocent and the police couldn’t possibly have any kind of serious proof against her. She had not killed Old Man Lamm.

  Allie tempered her fury and frustration and closed her eyes as she struggled to bring up an image of the guy. Skinny and bald, Lamm had been at least forty years older than her. As a teenager, she’d had little interaction with him. For one, he was a recluse. Two, she hadn’t hung out with guys Lamm’s age.

  She’d done most of her hanging out with Harper—a past that clearly meant nothing to him. He was treating her like a criminal. All the times she’d imagined meeting him again, she’d never imagined that.

  She wanted to grab him by his ridiculously wide shoulders and shake him. Gah! If she’d ever been tempted to murder a man, it was Harper.

  She was too wound up to sit, so she began to pace the small interview room along the wall, where the table and chair weren’t in her way. Ten steps to one end, turn around, ten steps to the other end.

  No way, no flipping way, would Harper be able to find a connection between her and Lamm. She couldn’t wait until her lawyer got there. They were going to have to let her go, and Abram was going to tell them.

  She rounded the table and dropped into her chair just as he came in, midthirties, black eyes, shaved head, dark suit matched with snow boots, tie crooked as if he’d dressed in a hurry.

  He gave her an encouraging smile as he sat across the table from her. “Devon Abram, attorney. Nice to meet you, Miss Bianchi.”

  He looked more like an absent-minded English professor than a lawyer.

  “Allie. Thank you for coming.” And thank God, she didn’t remember ever seeing him before. “New to town?”

  “Five years or so.”

  He hadn’t known her father, then. Hopefully, that meant her government-provided attorney wouldn’t be prejudiced against her.

  He tugged an expensive silver laptop from his bag and opened it, glanced at her over the top. “You are being held on suspicion of murder.”

  Okay, she’d known that, but the simple sentence, so officially spoken, still had the power to steal Allie’s breath.

  She swallowed painfully. “Based on what evidence?”

  “Property stolen from the victim was recovered from your car. The police have also found some blood on your vehicle.”

  He might as well have spoken in another language. She shook her head. Maybe the words banging around in her brain would make sense if they got rattled into a different order. They didn’t. “I don’t understand. My car? 2011 Chevy Malibu.” She rattled off her license plate number. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m afraid so.” He flashed her a patient look. “Let’s start at the beginning. From your point of view. What happened?”

  She told him in a rush, starting with the storm, her car spinning out and getting stu
ck in the snow, Harper’s rescue, then the inexplicable arrest.

  The lawyer took notes.

  He paid attention. He seemed thorough. He would get her out of there.

  “Do you have any firearms registered under your name?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Do you own any unregistered firearms?”

  “An antique, nonfunctional, Old West hunting rifle I use in my job as a historical reenactor. They don’t have to be registered. I never had bullets for it. I don’t even think they make those bullets anymore. Did they find the murder weapon in my car too?” She felt the blood drain from her head.

  “Not that I know of, but I don’t have all the information yet.”

  She held the man’s gaze, tipping over from incredulous to desperate. “I swear to you. I have nothing to do with any guns, or murder.”

  Not that anyone in Broslin would believe her, once the news broke in the morning. Just like, back in the day, nobody had believed that she had nothing to do with her father’s criminal activities. She’d been holding on to the hope that her innocence might actually mean something, but this was flipping Broslin. They would do their best to railroad her if she let them.

  Screw that.

  She shook off the bleak hopelessness that tried to settle on her shoulders and channeled Calamity Jane, who never backed down once in her life, and then she added Annie Oakley’s gunslinger gaze.

  “Listen to me.” She was no longer a teenager. She was a grown-ass woman. “Harper Finnegan and the good people of Broslin are not going to shuffle me off to prison, just because they never liked my father. We’re going to clear this up and fast.”

  “That’s the plan.” The lawyer nodded with a smile. “Let’s organize what we know. Chuck Lamm was killed. And then his gold was allegedly found in your car.”

  Allie nodded. “I don’t know how. Detective Finnegan is the only person who had access to my Chevy. The whole time I was walking through the snow, after my car got stuck, no vehicle passed me going in either direction. Ditto during the ride to town with Harper. Other than Harper, I didn’t see anyone out there. And he had my keys. He asked me for them so he could tow my car in.”

  A disturbing thought was forming in her mind, one that didn’t entirely surprise her. Yes. Yesyesyes. It all makes sense.

  Maybe Harper Finnegan hadn’t metamorphosed from town black sheep to town Wonder Cop while she’d been gone. Maybe, under the protection of his shield, he’d continued down the path of crime and destruction her father had set him on a decade ago.

  Allie let anger fill her all over again, because she preferred that fury over surrendering to defeat. She looked Devon Abram in the eyes. “I’m going to tell you something you probably won’t believe.”

  “People tell me unbelievable things all the time. I’m willing to listen.” The lawyer leaned back in his chair. “Go ahead.”

  Allie dropped her hands on the stainless-steel table in front of her, metal clinking against metal, and said words that sent a chill down her spine. “Harper Finnegan is framing me for murder.”

  Chapter Seven

  “This is what happens when people never grow out of playing fort.” Mike McMorris, a transplant from Boston, third-generation cop, pointed at the barbed wire around the chimney on top of the victim’s fortified rancher. “Crazy, huh?”

  Harper hurried up the front walk. “Matches the rebar over the windows.”

  He scanned the house. The steel security door had DO NOT ENTER hand-painted in red in the middle, and under that JUST AS SOON SHOOT YOU AS LOOK AT YOU.

  “No security cameras,” he observed. “Would have expected a couple, considering.”

  “None inside either. Chase says not everyone Lamm’s age feels comfortable with modern technology. The old guy didn’t even have a computer.” Mike tapped his boots together for warmth, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Coming from Finnegan’s?” His red hair, slightly longer on top in some new style he was experimenting with, whipped in the wind. “Could have brought a pint.”

  Harper leaned closer to the door that had suffered some damage. “From the station.”

  “Ah well. Hey, I’ve got a good one for you.” Mike grinned. “There’s this doctor sitting at the bar in a pub. An Irishman walks up to him and says, Doc, do you treat alcoholics? The doctor nods. Absolutely. So, the Irishman slips onto the barstool next to him and says, Well, then get your wallet out. I’m thirsty.”

  There was a pause for applause, which Harper used to roll his eyes. “You’re getting worse, and I didn’t think that was possible. Don’t quit the PD. I don’t think standup is in your future.”

  He patted Mike’s shoulder before he crouched to bring the lock to eye level, while Mike said with a hand to his chest, “That hurts.”

  The porch light provided enough visibility to make out a muddy boot print on the busted wood.

  “Forced entry.” Harper snapped a photo with his phone. The grainy image would have to serve until he could take another look at that print in the daylight.

  He stood, grabbed the disposable paper booties and rubber gloves from his pocket, then pulled them on.

  “I was on my way to grab the backup battery.” Mike ran off to his cruiser, calling back over his shoulder, “Chase is in the kitchen. I’ll be in in a second.”

  “Do the universe a favor and don’t think up any more jokes.”

  Harper stepped inside the house, ducking under the yellow police tape that twisted in the wind. He closed the door and focused on the moment, pushing everything else from his mind. The first impression of the crime scene was the most important.

  Small foyer. Booties or no booties, mud and snow had been dragged in, but no further damage, the chair next to the hall closet—so Lamm could sit to put on his shoes—was not turned over. No sign of struggle.

  Harper crossed the cramped space and stopped on the threshold of the kitchen. Not a chair turned over; the dirty pots lining up on the counter had not been knocked onto the floor. “Hey.”

  Chase glanced up, his tall husky frame folded into an uncomfortable-looking crouch next to the body. “About time.” His steely-blue eyes did not turn welcoming. “The captain told us you’d be taking the case. You think that’s a good idea?”

  “I can handle it.”

  “Allie Bianchi?”

  “I can handle it.”

  “We’ll see.” Chase rose and stood aside at last to give him a full view of the body.

  The victim lay in the middle of the floor, his head resting on its side, a small hole in his forehead, a large one in the back. His brain was scattered all over the kitchen tile. Harper recorded his initial impressions in his notebook.

  Single shot. Close range. Instant death.

  While he absorbed every detail, Mike hurried back in, snapped a new battery into the camera he’d left on the counter, and went back to recording the scene. “Almost done here.”

  “How are we with fingerprints?” Harper asked Chase.

  “Close to being done with this room, then I can do the rest of the house,” Chase said with a slight edge in his voice. “Unless you want to take over.”

  Harper didn’t want to interfere with either man. “Just want a good look at the crime scene. I’m about to start questioning the suspect at the station. She’s talking with her lawyer right now.”

  “Allie Bianchi.” Chase’s tone was loaded.

  Mike didn’t miss it. He lowered his camera to squint at them. “Who is she?”

  “Daughter of the town screwup. Harper’s ex-girlfriend,” Chase said. “They cleared out about a decade ago.” He raised an eyebrow at Harper. “She tell you where they moved?”

  “Haven’t asked yet.” And he wasn’t about to stand here and engage in a pissing contest with Chase. He took another good look at the victim, then at the kitchen. “What do you think happened here? Gut instinct.”

  Chase took the hint and found his professionalism. “First thought was forced entry, but now I’m not su
re.”

  He set down his brush, then led Harper back to the front door and aimed his flashlight at the slightly bent lock, pointed at the single boot print next to it. “See?”

  Blood on the print. With more light, the red was unmistakable.

  “Lamm let the killer in.” Harper thought about that for a couple of seconds before he continued. “The killer shot him, robbed him, then on his way out, he made sure to bust the door so it’d look like forced entry.”

  “Round-toe work boots would be my best bet,” Chase said.

  Definitely not tapered-toe cowboy boots with spurs, Harper thought, as Chase added, “Around size twelve or thirteen.”

  Too large for anything Allie would wear. “I’ll need good-quality, high-res photos of this.”

  “Mike might have a few already.”

  The wind picked up again, cold and wet, so they went back inside and closed the door behind them.

  “Did you call the coroner to let her know to expect a body?” Harper asked as Chase returned to dusting for prints.

  “As soon as I got here. But the side roads are buried. Route 202 has a tractor trailer tipped and turned sideways, blocking everything. They won’t send the van out from West Chester until morning, when the roads are cleared. I turned off the heat in here to better preserve the body. When I’m finished processing, I might crack a window open. It’ll be as good as cold storage. If that’s all right with you.”

  “It’s fine. Thanks.” Harper looked through the kitchen window into the black night. “What are the neighbors saying?”

  “Saw nothing, heard nothing,” Mike told him, the camera glued to his face. “Figured they’d spot the cruisers and be running over to find out what’s going on, so I went and talked to them first thing. Didn’t want them to trample any possible clues outside.”

  “Find anything?” Harper asked without much optimism, considering the weather. “Tire tracks?”

  Mike confirmed his low expectations by shaking his head, while Chase said, “I was first on the scene. Nothing but fresh snow by the time I got here.”

  Since he and Mike had the kitchen in hand, Harper headed for the living room, careful not to step into any blood as he passed the body.