Читать книгу Murder And Mistletoe - Barb Han - Страница 11

Chapter Three

“Of course, I did. Clara never lied to me,” Leanne responded with a little more heat than she’d intended. So much for keeping things cool in front of the sheriff.

Bethany made a harrumph sound and pushed to her feet. “I’d like to speak with the sheriff alone.”

Leanne started to protest but the sheriff cut her off.

“There’s coffee at the end of the hall and everything said here will go into my report,” he said, motioning toward the door.

It was his witness, his investigation. With no other viable choice, Leanne stood and walked out the door. She’d been too harsh with her fragile half sister and this was going to be the price. Everything had balance, a yin and yang, she thought, except for her personal life, which had been turned upside down since having a baby six months ago. She wouldn’t change a thing about her life with her baby girl, except maybe more sleep. Definitely more sleep. And if she could turn back time, she would make sure that Mila’s father wouldn’t have died on her watch.

Dalton followed her out the door and she could feel his strong presence behind her.

“Coffee’s this way,” his low rumble of a voice said, and the sound penetrated a place deep down, stirring emotions she had no desire to acknowledge as existing anymore. Her traitorous body wanted to gravitate toward the feeling and bask in it. A little reality and a strong cup of coffee was all she needed to quash those unproductive thoughts.

She stepped aside, allowing the man with the strong muscled back to lead her down the unfamiliar hallway. He made a left before what she figured was an interview room. She closed up her coat, shivering against the cold temperature in the building.

A dark thought struck that the sheriff might be hauling her sister to the interview room any minute. Bethany had no idea how much her actions were about to impact her life, and a mix of protectiveness and frustration swirled in Leanne’s chest. Bethany might be clueless but she’d had a rough start, had cleaned up her act, and Leanne knew deep down that her sister was trying her best. Was it good enough? Before having Mila, Leanne might’ve judged her sister more harshly. After having a baby, she realized the job wasn’t easy and didn’t come with instructions.

“The coffee here doesn’t taste like much, but it’s strong,” Dalton said, pouring two cups and handing one to her.

She took the offering, wondering why he knew so much about the quality of the coffee at the sheriff’s office. “I’m afraid I’m at a disadvantage here. You already know my name and more about my personal life than I share with even my closest friends, but I don’t have the first clue who you are.” The part about having close friends was almost laughable. Happy hours after work and shopping with the girls had never been high on her list of priorities. She’d worked hard to make detective by thirty and there hadn’t been room for much else in her life.

“Dalton Butler. And I’m pleased to meet you.” He switched hands with the mug and offered a handshake.

She took his hand—his was so much larger and rougher than hers—and realized making physical contact had not been a good choice. Electricity exploded through her, bringing to life places she didn’t want awakened. She reasoned that it had been a long time since she’d had sex and her body was reacting to the first hot man she touched, but there was so much more to it, to him, than that.

From the callouses on his skin, she deduced that he must work outside, which in these parts most likely meant on a ranch. His outfit of jeans, boots and a denim jacket had already given the same impression.

“Why does that name sound familiar?” She examined him, his clear blue eyes that seemed to hold so many secrets. She was beginning to hate secrets.

“My father owned a famous ranch in the area,” he conceded as the contents of his mug suddenly became very interesting.

“Maverick Mike Butler of the Hereford Ranch?” That explained why the man seemed to know the layout of the sheriff’s office so well. At first, she’d feared he might have been previously on the wrong side of the interview table, especially with the way he related to the sheriff. Now, she realized he’d been there because of his father’s murder. The fact that the case still wasn’t solved would explain his chilly response to Sawmill.

But what did he want with this investigation?

“What’s on your camera?” she asked, figuring she could ask at another time why the son of a famous rancher—and one of, if not the, richest men in Texas—would have so many callouses on his hands. There were other things she didn’t want to notice about him, like the half-inch scar above his left brow at the point where it arched. And the crystal clearness of his blue eyes.

He fished his phone out of his pocket and held it out on his palm between them. Leanne stepped closer to get a better look at the screen and that was another mistake because she inhaled his scent, a mix of outdoors and warm spices. A trill of awareness shot through her. She blinked up, trying to reset her body and thought she caught the same reaction from him as his pupils dilated.

Chalking the whole scene up to overwrought emotions, she studied the picture he brought up on his phone.

“Why is this important?” She shot him her best don’t-feed-me-a-line look.

“It’s the type of knot used.” He enlarged the hangman’s rope and her heart squeezed, looking at the device that had killed her niece.

“Which is?”

“The trucker’s knot,” he supplied.

“Why is this significant other than I’m guessing that only a Boy Scout would know how to tie it?” Examining the knot shot pain through her. She had to set aside her personal feelings, block out emotion and focus on finding the jerk who’d done this to Clara. “Justice for Clara” was Leanne’s new marching orders.

“Right. A Boy Scout would know this and that has to be taken into consideration in finding the killer, but the person who did this gave them an out.” His inflection changed and she could sense his relief at talking about this... But relief from what?

“You said killer. How do you know this wasn’t a suicide?” She latched on to the first piece of good news in hours. Hours that felt more like days.

“Was your niece ever a Brownie? Girl Scout?” he asked, ignoring her question.

Leanne shook her head and his lack of surprise made something dawn on her.

She blinked up at him, searching his eyes.

“I know it wasn’t suicide.” His tone was finite and his jaw muscle ticked.

“How can you be so sure?” She wanted to hear those words so badly.

“The knot. One tug in the right place and they could’ve been free,” he supplied.

There was more to the story based on how much he seemed to care. There was something else present behind his eyes, too. Hesitation? Lack of trust? Her investigative experience had taught her when to press and when to back off. This was time for the former.

“Can I ask a question?”

Dalton nodded.

“Why do you care about what happened to my niece?” And then she thought about what else her police training had taught her. Actions were selfish. People were motivated by their own needs and rarely put anyone else’s first. She’d seen it time and time again through her work as a detective in a major city. The only reason he’d care about Clara was if her death was connected to something important to him.

He glanced at her and that one look spoke volumes.

And then she realized that he’d said the word they and not her.

“How many others have there been?”

* * *

DALTON STOOD IN front of the beautiful detective trying to decide how much of his hand he should show. It sounded a little far-fetched even to him that the same murderer would strike fourteen years later. But he knew without a doubt this was the work of one person. And the odds increased when he considered the event had happened on the exact same day at the same spot. “As far as I know, one. But there could be others in different locations.”

Proving his theory was a whole different story, and he also had to contend with the fact that the detective was about to find out that he’d been the prime suspect in his then-girlfriend’s murder.

“How long ago did the first occur?” Her voice was steady, calm. There was so much going on in the detective’s mind that he could almost hear the wheels churning behind those intense honey-brown eyes.

He hesitated before answering, wondering if she’d accuse him of being out of touch like the sheriff had. On balance, she needed to know.

“Fourteen years,” he said, expecting her to end the conversation and try to get back into the office with her sister.

“Other than the knot, what makes you think these two crimes are connected?” She stared at him, and he got the sense she was evaluating his mental capacity.

“Same day and location, same tree and same method,” he stated.

“The knot.” She took a sip of coffee as she seemed to be considering what he’d said. “But fourteen years apart.”

“There could be others that I’m not aware of.” Dalton saw this as the first positive sign that someone other than one of his siblings was listening. Of course, they’d been supportive. The Butler children had always been close. But shortly after the crime, his twin and best friend, Dade, had signed up for the military. His sisters had been busy with college and high school. His father, the Mav, had slapped his son on the back and told him the calves needed to be logged and the pens needed to be cleaned, like his teenaged heart hadn’t just been ripped out of his chest. Guilt ate at him, even today.

Dalton mentally shook off the memory and lack of compassion his father had shown.

“Have you considered the possibility of a copycat?” She had that same look the sheriff had worn so many times when he discredited what Dalton had told him.

“Enjoy your coffee.” He turned to walk away and was stopped by a soft touch on his arm.

“Hey, slow down. I wasn’t saying that I didn’t believe you.”

“Yeah, you did.” Dalton had no plans to go down that road with anyone again.

The detective held up her free hand in surrender. “I’ll admit that I was skeptical, but that’s what makes me good at my job. I don’t take anything at face value. But I’m also good at reading people, and whether there’s a true connection to these cases or not, I can tell you’re not lying. You believe the two are related and I want to hear you out.”

“Tell me everything I should know about your niece,” he said, testing the detective to see how far the information sharing would go. If she trusted him, she’d open up at least a little.

The detective bristled. “She’s in high school.”

Dalton set his mug down, turned and walked out. He had no plans to share his information with someone unwilling to go deep. Telling him a seventeen-year-old was in high school was like saying coffee beans were brown.

The detective was on his heels.

“Hold on a minute. I just said that I know you believe what you’re saying is true and I told you something about her,” she argued.

“I know,” he said out of the side of his mouth. He’d seen the distrust in her eyes. She thought he was as crazy as the sheriff had all those years ago. And since he had no more plays left in present company, he walked outside to where his truck was parked. He’d had one of the ranch hands drop it off since he rode here in the back of a deputy’s SUV. Reporters had started gathering in bigger numbers, no doubt looking for something to report since news—and leads—about the Mav’s murder had gone cold. He shooed them away as he made large strides toward his truck, ignored the detective and shut the door, closing him in the cab alone.

Dalton pulled out of the lot, squealing his tires, although not meaning to. His adrenaline was jacked through the roof at the thought that a murderer—her murderer—was still in Cattle Barge. One of the reasons he’d believed there’d only been one murder in town since was that he thought the killer had moved on. But now?

This guy was shoving the murder in their faces. And he could be anyone. For all Dalton knew, he could be walking right past the bastard every day. Greeting him when the man should be locked behind bars for the safety of other teenage girls.

A question tugged at the corner of his mind. Alexandria’s killer had been quiet for fourteen years. Why strike now?

There had to be a trigger. Dalton intended to figure out what the hell it was and finally put to rest the crime that had haunted him for his entire adult life.

The one spark of hope was that with modern-day forensics, the sheriff would be able to find a fingerprint and nail the jerk. Either way, Dalton had plans to see this through. Tonight was the closest he’d been to Alexandria’s killer, and he could feel it in his bones that these two crimes were related beyond a copycat. He knew for a fact that the use of the trucker’s knot had not been reported in any of the stories. He shouldn’t read them, but how could he help it? He owed Alexandria that much.

Hell, he’d been the one to point out to the sheriff that was what they were dealing with when Sawmill had shown him the picture of the hangman’s rope fourteen years ago. Pointing out the type of knot used had also most likely helped put him on top of the suspect list. At seventeen, he had been naive. He’d believed that he was helping the investigation.

Dalton was no longer a kid. And he didn’t give up so easily.

* * *

HOURS PASSED BEFORE Dalton deemed it safe to revisit the crime scene. The sheriff had said that he wanted it cleaned up as fast as possible before copycats got any more ideas and reporters fed them with notions. His remarks were further evidence that Sawmill was considering this a suicide.

The sun was beginning to rise in the eastern sky, allowing enough light to see clearly since the trees were barren of leaves.

It was the dead of winter, close to Christmas but Dalton wasn’t in a festive mood. There were two killers on the loose, his father’s and a teenage girl’s. Plus, no matter how complicated Dalton’s relationship might’ve been with the Mav, he couldn’t imagine the holiday without his father’s strong physical presence.

A foreboding overcame Dalton every time he came near the spot where Alexandria had died and this morning was no exception.

Between law enforcement and emergency personnel, there were too many footprints leading up to the tree. Dalton took out his phone and started snapping pics of everything. The unforgiving earth leading up to the tree. The oak from every angle. The perimeter of the crime scene.

He didn’t know when he’d get the chance to return and evidence was still fresh even if it had been trampled all over. He had no idea what could be significant, so he figured he’d capture everything and study the photos later.

The tree was mature, coming in at a height of forty-plus feet. It was majestic and had been around for as long as Dalton could remember. He’d seen it more times than he could count going back and forth to town from the ranch as a kid.

This location was between Dalton’s family ranch and Alexandria’s house in town. He could almost still see her silky blond hair flirting with the breeze on a warm summer night. Her nervous smile. The way she tugged at his arm when she wanted him to put it around her. When Sawmill couldn’t prove that Dalton had anything to do with her death, he’d ruled suicide. Did Alexandria have a difficult relationship with her parents? Yes. There was no question about it. That didn’t mean she took her own life.

Tires crunching on gravel caused him to spin around. The detective parked her sedan and exited the vehicle. The sun was to her back, rising, creating a halo effect.

“What are you doing here?” he bit out sharply.

“Looking for you.” There was so much hurt in her voice, even though her set jaw said she was trying to put up a brave front. He knew exactly how difficult it was for her to be there, in this location, facing down that tree.

“How’d you know where to find me?”

She tucked her hands into the pockets of her blazer and shivered against a burst of cold air. Dalton hadn’t really noticed before but his hands were like icy claws. He put them together and blew to warm them.

She shrugged. “This is the first place I would come if I were in your shoes.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” he stated. He had no intention of discussing Alexandria with her. Since there was nothing else to say, he stalked toward her because she was in the way of getting to his sport utility.

“Hold on,” she said as he passed her.

He paused as he heard the hum of a car engine on the farm road. The noise was growing louder, which meant the vehicle was moving toward them. It was probably nothing but he didn’t like it. He should’ve heard her approach as well, but he’d been too lost in thought and the winds had blasted, muffling other sounds.

Dalton watched as it turned toward them into the empty lot where all kinds of summer fruit stands had been set up over the years. There was only one time that growers had moved to a different location, because this one had had bouquets of flowers all around the tree’s massive trunk and the ground had seemed sacred.

Or maybe they were afraid. Afraid the place was cursed. Afraid a murderer was still out there, watching, searching for his next victim.

This sedan seemed out of place at this time of morning. There were no signs of law enforcement and that got all of Dalton’s radars flashing on full tilt.

Had news of Clara’s murder leaked? The sheriff had intended to keep details as quiet as possible, but then it seemed like reporters were everywhere since the Mav’s murder and especially since the will would be read on Christmas Eve.

Would the media play to Dalton’s advantage? Surely, reporters would be just as suspicious as he was about two suicides playing out in the same spot and on the same day fourteen years apart.

On the other hand, media coverage this early could work against them. There’d been a reporting frenzy after his father’s murder and the sheer amount of false leads that had been generated as a result had bogged down the sheriff’s office.

Dalton didn’t want to risk the same thing happening to this case.

The detective muttered the same curse he did, seeming to realize how little the sheriff might appreciate the two of them being photographed at the scene of his investigation.

Dalton needed to create a distraction. But what?

One thing came to mind. Plan A might get him punched in the face, but there was no plan B and he was running out of time.

He hauled the detective against his chest—ignoring the feel of her soft skin and the way her breasts pressed harder into his chest with her sharp intake of air—and then dipped his head to kiss her.

Every muscle in her body chorded as he pulled hers flush with his in an embrace. He half expected the feisty detective to bite him but then she seemed to catch on. This maneuver would keep her face away from whoever was behind the wheel.

Dalton Butler was well-known, but she wasn’t. As long as he shielded her, it would be next to impossible to figure out who she was. That would most likely keep her name out of the headlines. It was a risky move, though. There were a dozen ways this could come back to haunt them, but time was the enemy.

Out of Dalton’s peripheral, he watched a young man pop out of his small sedan. He stood in between the opened door and his vehicle, causing Dalton to brace for the possibility that the young man had a gun, but stopped short of closing his car door. His body remained wedged in between the car and door with one hand on the wheel and the other on the door casing.

“Excuse me,” the young man said.

Dalton’s hands tunneled into the detective’s hair as her palms pressed firmly against his chest. She repositioned, wrapping her arms around his neck and a sensual current coursed through him when her firm breasts pressed further against him as they deepened the kiss. Heat penetrated layers of clothing and caused his skin to sizzle.

He was going to need a minute when this was over to regain his bearings, because in that moment, this stranger felt a little too right in his arms.

“Sorry to bother you, but I’m lost,” the young man said.

Dalton took in a sharp breath before pulling back. As he looked at the man, he saw a camera being aimed at him.

“Don’t turn around,” he said under his breath to the detective before looking straight at the guy who had to be a reporter. “What the hell do you want?”

“Nothing,” the startled voice said in reaction to Dalton’s tone. “I already got what I came for.”