Читать книгу High School Reunion - Mallory Kane - Страница 7

FBI Special Agent Laurel Gillespie rang her friend’s doorbell for the third time.

“Come on, Misty,” she muttered. “Answer the door.”

She rested her hand on her Glock .23 and eyed the carved, wooden front door. No way could she break it down. But she remembered from childhood that the Wallers’ back door was half glass—one quick whack with the butt of her gun and she could be inside.

She rubbed the back of her neck. It had been prickling ever since she’d driven into Dusty Springs. She didn’t want to be here. Didn’t want to run into anyone she knew from high school.

“Come on, Misty. Where are you?” Laurel knew Misty Waller as well as she knew herself. Her best friend from grade school was dependable to a fault—practically obsessive-compulsive. It wasn’t in her nature not to be where she said she’d be.

Laurel had called her as soon as she’d landed in Memphis, just like they’d agreed. But Misty hadn’t answered—not her home phone or her cell.

So Laurel had picked up her rental car and driven the forty-five miles south to Dusty Springs, Mississippi, in record time. She’d called several more times, but Misty had never answered.

Something was wrong. And that was why she’d tucked her paddle holster into her waistband at the small of her back before she’d approached the door.

She rang the doorbell one last time. The chime echoed hollowly throughout the house.

She drew her weapon and carefully turned the doorknob, expecting resistance. It turned!

Instinctively, she flattened her back against the door facing as her boss’s voice echoed in her ears. Every suspicious circumstance is a crime scene until you prove it’s not.

And right now, too many things weren’t adding up. Misty never left a door unlocked.

Carefully, she nudged the door open, cringing when the hinges creaked. She angled inside, leading with her weapon, her senses on full alert. The sight that greeted her in the foyer sent alarm thrumming through her.

Scraps of paper littered the floor, lit by the blue glow that flickered from the living room to her left.

TV with no sound. Another habit of Misty’s from high school. She’d always studied in front of the TV with the sound turned off.

But not with the lights off.

Laurel pressed her back against the wall, prepared to lead with her gun. A muffled thud sent her heart rate soaring.

“FBI,” she called. “I’m coming in. Identify yourself.”

A plaintive yowl echoed through the doorway. A cat. Of course. Misty had always had a cat.

Taking a deep breath to steady her pulse, Laurel stepped around the door facing, her Glock at the ready. The cat bumped her leg.

On the floor in front of the couch, silhouetted in the TV’s eerie glow, she saw a crumpled form. Her fingers tightened on her weapon and her heart rate doubled. “Misty? Is that you?”

No response.

She fought to keep her breathing even. Training had taught her that danger sent the pulse sky high—three-hundred beats per minute or more. But training also taught her how to control it. She had to keep her cool.

She felt for the light switch but couldn’t find it. Swinging her weapon around one more time, she squinted in the dim blue light. The living room looked like the day after a ticker-tape parade. Photos and scraps of paper were scattered everywhere. No sound reached her ears except the discordant hum of an ancient window air conditioner.

She eyed the body on the floor with growing apprehension. “Misty?”

Nothing. She crossed the room, careful to keep her back to the wall and her finger on the trigger. One glance at the woman’s pale face and hair told her it was her friend. Blood blackened the left side of her head.

She held her breath and watched Misty’s chest. There—a faint flutter.

Thank heavens. Misty was alive. Laurel hated to leave her friend lying in her own blood, but neglecting the basics could get them both killed.

So, gripping her weapon more tightly, Laurel edged her way through the dining room and into the kitchen. She quickly and efficiently cleared the house.

Whoever had attacked Misty was gone.

Back in the den, she knelt beside her friend. “Misty? Honey? Can you hear me?”

She didn’t answer. Laurel reached for her cell phone to call 9-1-1.

“Damn it.” She’d left it in the car, plugged into the charger. She glanced around. An old-fashioned dial phone sat on a side table, but from her position Laurel could see the naked wires. Whoever had attacked Misty had jerked the phone out of the wall.

She moved to stand, and the toe of her pump touched something. It was a baseball bat that had rolled partway under the couch. Laurel nudged it with her foot. There was wet, shiny blood on the end of it.

She hated to leave Misty alone, but she had to get to her phone. She had to report an assault with a deadly weapon.

Someone had attacked her friend and left her for dead.

POLICE CHIEF CADE DUPREE turned onto Misty Waller’s street and parked near the corner. He’d been investigating a report of a break-in at the Visitor Center of Dusty Springs’ brand new convention complex when the call came in.

Mrs. Gardner, Misty’s neighbor, was frantic, because someone was lurking around their street. That was the word she’d used. Lurking. To hear her tell it, people had been lurking all afternoon.

A break-in and a lurking in one evening—that was more crime than he’d seen since he’d left the FBI to take over his dad’s job as chief of police of Dusty Springs. His mouth curved into a wry smile as he walked down the sidewalk toward the Wallers’ house.

Not quite what he’d pictured himself doing after completing his training at Quantico. Still, at least this job wasn’t dangerous.

Or interesting.

A curtain fluttered in Mrs. Gardner’s window. Cade resisted the urge to wave at her as he spotted a rental car parked in front of Misty’s house.

That was what he’d figured. The lurker was a friend of Misty’s in town for the high-school reunion.

He pushed up the brim of his cap and squinted in the bright sunlight. The driver’s side door was open, and a well-rounded backside above long shapely legs faced him. Not Misty. This bottom was skinnier, sexier. And those legs…

“Evening, ma’am,” he said, as he approached the front of the car.

The woman tensed, then straightened. The car’s interior light glinted off blue steel.

Gun. Cade rocked to the balls of his feet and moved his hand to his belt holster. “Hold it right there.”

She froze.

“Now set that gun down on the car seat and straighten up slowly.”

She obeyed. As she straightened, the car’s light caught coppery highlights in her collar-length hair. She held out her hands in a nonthreatening gesture.

Her brows lowered and her mouth dropped open for a split-second, but before he could wonder what she found surprising, she composed her face and looked him straight in the eye.

“It’s all right,” she said. “I’m FBI.” She slowly pulled her jacket aside to reveal the distinctive badge pinned to her waistband.

“FBI?” Unwelcome memories assaulted his brain. The excitement of making it to Quantico. The sense of purpose that the FBI had chosen him. But then his older brother had died, his father had suffered a stroke and he’d had to give up his dream and return to Dusty Springs.

Cade forced his attention back to the woman. “What’s going on?”

“Misty’s hurt. I need to call 9-1-1. I left my cell phone in the car.”

“I’m 9-1-1. Do we need the EMTs?”

“Yes. She’s got a blow to the head.”

Cade didn’t stop to ask any more questions. He sprinted up the steps and through the front door.

“The living room,” the woman called out.

He rounded the doorway and saw Misty crumpled on the floor. He crouched beside her. There was blood matted in her hair.

“Misty, you all right?” Damn, that was a lot of blood.

Misty stirred and moaned. Relief loosened his tight neck and shoulders. “Lie still. I’m calling an ambulance.”

He punched a preset number. “Get the EMTs over here,” he barked. “The Wallers’ house. Misty’s hurt. And no sirens. Don’t wake all the neighbors.”

The FBI agent’s heels clicked on the hardwood floor, but Cade kept his attention on Misty. “You’re doing fine, Misty. Hang in there another couple of minutes.” He patted her hand, then spoke to the agent. “I don’t think the injury is serious. She may have a concussion.”

“The weapon’s right under your feet.”

“So you found her like this?”

“That’s right.”

“You didn’t see anyone leaving the area? Didn’t pass a vehicle?”

“No.”

“How’d you get in?”

“The door was unlocked.”

Cade swiveled and eyed her. He hadn’t taken the time to examine the door. “Unlocked?”

She nodded, looking past him at Misty. “Yes. Definitely. And no sign of forced entry. It doesn’t make sense. She has an obsession about locking her doors.”

He heard a truck pull up outside. Within seconds, heavy footsteps on the wooden porch announced the arrival of the EMTs.

“Here we go, Misty. They’re going to take good care of you.” He rose from his haunches and moved out of the way so the EMTs could check her out.

He met the FBI agent’s gaze and found her watching him with a pensive expression.

She blinked, and then held out her hand. “I’m Laurel Gillespie. You don’t remember me. I was a year behind you in school.”

“Gillespie?” he repeated absently.

Laurel saw the blank look in Cade’s eye and her heart sank. She knew he wouldn’t remember her, but that didn’t make it any easier.

He stepped aside as the EMTs lifted Misty onto a gurney. He was close—too close. She could smell his aftershave. It was fresh and subtle. Sexy.

Dear heavens, she was really standing next to Cade Dupree, her high-school crush. She’d thought that by now, ten years after she’d graduated from high school, she’d have forgotten his confident stance, his broad-shouldered, slim-hipped silhouette.

Now that the threat of danger and her worry about Misty were over, she was practically shaking with reaction. Partly from finding Misty collapsed and bleeding, but partly from seeing Cade.

She turned her head. His handsome, familiar face was only a few inches from hers, his thick lashes lowered as he watched Misty. He hadn’t changed except that his face had more character and his body had filled out with lean, hard muscles.

Her pulse fluttered as his gaze met hers and roamed over her face. How could she still remember that voice, those long powerful legs, that lanky frame? And his sky-blue eyes. She’d swooned over those eyes in high school.

He sent her a taste of his killer smile. “So—Laurel Gillespie,” he drawled, “FBI agent.”

Despite the unwelcome return of her adolescent jitters, Laurel bristled at his patronizing tone. She’d thought she was prepared for Cade Dupree. She wasn’t.

He straightened, and rested his hand on the butt of his gun. He was chief of police—the job his dad had held for as long as she could remember. And he was taking charge of the crime scene.

Laurel took a deep breath. She wasn’t about to wait for him to order her out of the house.

“I’ll take charge of the front. Keep people out.” She turned on her heel without waiting for an answer.

Great. She’d put herself exactly where she didn’t want to be. In full view of the entire town of Dusty Springs.

She felt like a threshold guardian as a parade of curious neighbors tried to get inside. She had no trouble flashing her badge to turn away the owner of the hardware store and his wife, or a young mother with a toddler in her arms, or a couple of teenage boys, all of whom gasped in awe when she informed them that the house was a crime scene. But she dreaded running into any of her former classmates.

Her memories of high school were of not fitting in, of the nightmare of braces and glasses, unruly red hair and painful shyness.

Within a few minutes, a familiar man in his early fifties, wearing a badge and a gun, walked up to her. Behind him, a younger man in a misbuttoned police uniform shirt carried a roll of yellow crime-scene tape.

“Evening, Laurel. That is, Special Agent Gillespie. I didn’t know you were an FBI agent.”

“Officer Evans, hi.”

“Cade—Chief Dupree—called us to tape off the scene. He said you might need some help.” He punched a thumb backward through the air. “This is Officer Shelton Phillips.”

She nodded at Phillips and smiled at Officer Evans. “Thanks,” she said gratefully.

Just like Cade’s dad, Fred Evans had been a police officer since she could remember. His daughter Debra had belonged to the snootiest clique in school.

Officer Phillips quickly cordoned off the front of the house and then headed around back.

Laurel turned toward the dwindling crowd just as a tall woman with skinny legs and a haughty air walked up. Kathy Hodges.

Speaking of snooty. Kathy and Debra and a couple of other girls had named themselves the Cool Girls. The rest of the class called them the CeeGees. They’d made it their mission to target certain classmates, usually the shyest ones, to humiliate and embarrass.

Laurel’s confidence drained away as scenes from the most embarrassing night of her life swept through her head with the clarity of a high-definition movie.

Afterward, she’d kicked herself for not seeing through the cruel prank. But on the night of the Homecoming Dance her sophomore year, she’d really believed that senior football captain James Dupree, who was the Homecoming King, wanted her to dance the traditional first dance with him. Although she was smitten with James’s younger brother Cade, there was no way she would pass up the biggest honor in a sophomore girl’s year.

Remembered excitement and apprehension swirled through her as she relived that awful moment. Standing on the dance floor in a brand new gown, clutching the note from James in her hand.

Please do me the honor of dancing the first dance with me.

Her heart fluttering as James’s cocky gaze swept the room, stopping to wink at her.

Then he held out his hand and smiled. And Laurel had started climbing the stairs to the stage.

Still smiling at her, James named another girl. Everyone’s laughter still rang in her ears. By the next morning, it was all over school and Laurel was humiliated.

Now here she was, facing Kathy for the first time since she’d graduated and moved away with her parents. Despite her success, she suddenly felt like the plain, shy girl she’d been ten years ago.

Kathy’s blond hair was sleek and newly colored, her makeup was perfect, but her eyes were bloodshot, and not even expensive makeup could hide all the tiny veins visible around her nose. A lit cigarette smoldered in her perfectly manicured hand. She looked thin and pinched and miserable.

Laurel stood straighter as Kathy walked purposefully up the steps.

“Pardon me,” Kathy said, waving the hand that held the cigarette. Even with the cigarette smoke, Laurel could smell whiskey on her breath.

“Sorry, Kathy. This is a crime scene. No one’s allowed inside.”

Kathy’s perfectly shaped brows drew down as she eyed Laurel. “Nonsense. Misty’s my friend.”

Doubt it, Laurel thought.

Kathy made a shooing gesture toward Laurel. “Check with Cade—Police Chief Dupree. Now excuse me.”

Laurel’s initial flutter of apprehension at facing Kathy evaporated in a flash of anger. She held her badge in front of Kathy’s face.

“Sorry, Kathy. FBI. Please step back.”

“Who the hell are you?” Kathy nervously flicked ash off her cigarette.

“Special Agent Laurel Gillespie.” She met Kathy’s hard green gaze and was rewarded by a look of frank shock.

Just as Fred Evans walked up, Kathy recovered.

“You have got to be kidding.” She tried to sidestep Laurel.

“Hold it, Kathy,” Officer Evans said, taking her arm.

Kathy looked down at his hand. “You don’t want to do that, Fred.”

Laurel frowned. Were Kathy’s words slurred? She’d smelled the booze on her breath. But was she really drunk at just after eight in the evening?

“One word to Harrison and you—” Kathy pointed her cigarette at Fred, “will be facing assault charges.” That came out as ashault sharges.

“Right.” His brown eyes twinkled as he glanced at Laurel. “Your husband’s a real estate attorney. Come on, let’s take you home. All the excitement’s over. I’ll tell Harrison to get you into bed.” He gestured to Officer Phillips.

“Oh, please, Fred. Harrison hasn’t gotten me into bed in two years.”

“Shelton, walk Mrs. Adler home and make sure Harrison’s there. I’ll stay here in case the chief needs anything else.”

Phillips led Kathy away.

Laurel didn’t have any more trouble, although several more people she’d known in high school showed up. Obviously, word still spread as fast as it always had in Dusty Springs.

Within a couple of minutes, the EMTs rolled Misty out on a gurney. Fred and Phillips and a couple of guys they’d recruited kept the rubberneckers at bay as the EMTs loaded Misty into the ambulance.

Static erupted from Fred’s radio. He listened, said something, and then walked up the steps.

“I’ve got everything under control out here, Agent Gillespie,” Fred said. “Chief Dupree wants you inside.”

“Thanks. But please call me Laurel. It’s good to see you. So you’re working with Cade now.”

He chuckled and nodded. “Yep. Worked for his dad and now for him. Kind of a tradition in Dusty Springs I guess.”

“How is Debra?”

His chuckle faded. “She’s fine. Cade’s waiting for you.”

Laurel thanked him again and went inside. The living room’s overhead light was on. It spotlighted the scrapbooks and photo albums that were torn and tossed all over the floor amidst dozens of loose photos and piles of books.

Somebody had been looking for something, and Laurel was afraid she knew what it was. The question was, had they found it?

Cade’s head turned a few degrees. “I guess you’re here for the reunion. You were in Misty’s class, right? How’d you happen to turn up just in time?”

He faced the back of the couch, looking down at the spot where Misty had lain. Laurel had her first fully lighted view of him.

Her mouth went dry and her throat fluttered, just like in high school. Most of the girls in Dusty Springs would have given their eyeteeth for a smile from his brother James, but it was Cade who’d always been able to stop her heart.

He filled up the room, just like he always had. He’d never been as big or tall as James. And while James’s sparkling personality and talent in sports made him the envy of every guy and the heartthrob of every girl in town, Laurel had always preferred Cade’s quiet good looks and shy smile.

She blinked, and the image of the boy turned into the reality of the man.

He stood, legs hip-width apart. Worn, perfectly fitting jeans emphasized his buttocks and muscled thighs. His fists were propped on his hips, which pulled the cotton of his Ole Miss T-shirt tight across his back. Under his baseball cap, his brown hair was dark with sweat.

He was surveying the crime scene, which was what she should be doing.

She forced her gaze away from him and looked at the floor where Misty had lain. Her brain queued up a stop-action movie of the crime, based on Misty’s position, the blood spatter and the condition of the house.

She put herself into the head of the attacker. I sneak up behind Misty and hit her while she’s sitting on the couch.

No. If Misty had been sitting, she’d have slumped over onto the couch, not fallen on the floor in front of it.

Cade turned his head and pinned her with his electric-blue gaze. “My question wasn’t rhetorical.”

She forced herself not to look away. “I didn’t think it was. What do you think about her position on the floor?”

“I asked you first.”

“Fair enough.” She stepped closer. “Yes, I’m here for the reunion. I flew in to Memphis this afternoon and drove straight here.”

“Flew in from where?”

“D.C. I work at FBI Headquarters. I’m a criminologist with the Division of Unsolved Mysteries.”

His gaze sharpened, but all he did was nod.

“Misty invited me to stay with her. I tried to call her several times, on her cell and her home phone, but she never answered, which was odd since she’d made me promise to call. I pulled into her driveway at 8:03 p.m. Rang her bell, knocked on the door, then drew my weapon and turned the knob. It was unlocked.”

Cade turned around and crossed his arms. “You said that. Do you know how unlikely that is? Misty’s—”

“Borderline agoraphobic. I know.” She nodded. “Not to mention a tad obsessive-compulsive. Even in grade school she couldn’t stand to be inside a house alone with the doors unlocked.”

“Which means either she let someone in or they picked the lock.”

“That lock’s at least sixty years old. It could probably be opened with a credit card.”

“So you walked into a dark house that you knew shouldn’t be unlocked, not knowing whether you’d find a burglar, a murderer or a rapist?”

“Or my best friend from high school.” Laurel kept her expression neutral, but it was an effort. “I’m a trained agent with field and crime-scene experience. I know how to enter a suspicious dwelling.”

His face darkened. “Without backup?”

Laurel shrugged. She knew he was right to question her, but she wasn’t wrong. Not totally. She let it drop. “So what do you think about her position?”

“Someone conked her from behind.”

“While she was sitting on the couch?”

“Nope. She’d have slumped over.”

Images of what must have happened played out in Laurel’s head. “Picture this.” She turned to look at the foyer door. “I come in the door. Either it’s unlocked—doubtful—or I somehow unlock it without Misty hearing me.” She stepped toward the couch and raised her hand. “I’m holding the baseball bat. Did I bring it in or pick it up here?”

Cade still had his arms crossed. He nodded toward the couch. “I’m thinking the bat was Misty’s. It was probably near the front door—for protection.”

“What did you do with it?”

“I gave it to Shelton—Officer Phillips—to check for prints.”

“Okay, I’m holding the bat. I raise my arm and swing—” She demonstrated.

“What are you doing?”

The scene in her head freeze-framed. She looked up at him. “Trying to get a picture of what happened.”

“You do realize you’re talking as if you’re the attacker?”

“Oh. A lot of the time I work alone, looking at forensic evidence from photographs or video. I talk to myself.”

His brows drew down. “So you walk in the perp’s shoes. I reckon I see the crime unfolding like a movie—it’s how my dad always did it. I guess everybody’s got their own way of doing things.” He scrutinized her. “So, Gillespie, if you’re acting out what the attacker did, you need to use your other hand. The blow was to the left side of Misty’s head.”

She felt her cheeks heat up. “You’re right. The attacker had to be left-handed.” She looked at her hands. “Wouldn’t you think at least one perp would use the wrong hand, just to throw off the police?”

Cade’s mouth turned up at the corner and Laurel’s pulse jumped at the hint of his killer smile.

He shrugged. “Plus you’ve still got Misty sitting on the couch.”

“Okay. Let’s start over.” She started to turn back toward the door.

“Hold it.” Cade stopped her with a hand on her arm. A large, blunt-fingered, warm hand.

Crime scene, she thought. Crime scene, not high school.

“Are you planning to act out the entire thing?”

“I like to when I can.”

He cocked his head to one side. “Okay, go ahead.”

She gave him a sheepish smile. “Why did Misty get up? Did she hear something and turn around? Here. You be the attacker and I’ll be Misty.”

Cade sent her a look. “Might as well. We don’t have much else to go on. Shelton lifted prints off the dining table, but Misty had a reunion committee meeting here a couple of days ago, so there are going to be dozens of prints.”

“It was three days ago. You stand here, behind the couch.” She moved to go around to the front but Cade caught her arm again.

“Aren’t you going to give me the blunt object?”

“Ha ha. Don’t make fun of me unless you have a better idea.”

He shook his head.

“Here’s something else to think about. Look at the couch.”

“Yeah, I know. Blood spatter across the cushions. Proves she wasn’t sitting.”

“Have you taken samples?”

“Got a few. Don’t forget that this isn’t D.C. It’s Dusty Springs, Mississippi. We’re not equipped to handle a lot of lab work, and I can guarantee you that the state lab won’t consider a minor breaking and entering, even with injuries, top priority.”

Laurel didn’t comment. She knew she could use the FBI lab in D.C., but if she offered, Cade would want to know why she’d use their resources for such a relatively insignificant crime. And she wasn’t ready to explain the reason she’d violated her promise to herself never to set foot in Dusty Springs again. She knew the suspicion that had drawn her back here was flimsy at best. She needed to gain Cade’s confidence before she told him her theory.

“Okay,” she said. “I’m sitting on the couch, watching TV. I hear something. I get up and turn around. It would explain the blow to the left side of her head—”

Cade swung the imaginary bat. “But not her position on the floor.”

“Use your left hand.” Air stirred against her cheek as he feigned a blow to the left side of her head. “I crumple into the exact position where she was found.”

“So she had to be facing the TV.”

“But if she stood because she heard the intruder, why didn’t she turn around?”

“Her cell phone.” Cade said it at the same time as Laurel spotted it on top of the TV.

“She got up to answer her cell phone.” Her stomach sank to the floor. “It was me. I called her from the airport at that very moment.”

“Your call may have saved her life.”

Laurel frowned at him.

“If she’d been sitting on the couch, the attacker would have had a much better angle, and the blow would have struck much harder. It could have killed her.”

Laurel looked at the cell phone. “Have you got gloves?”

“Nope. You’ll have to use a tissue.”

“Misty assured me she’d be at home. She always watches Secret Lives at six. At first I thought she didn’t answer because she was engrossed in the show.” She pulled a couple of tissues from a box on the end table and used them to pick up Misty’s phone. She accessed the incoming calls.

“I called her at 6:25 when the plane landed. Then at 6:58, and 7:20.” She looked at the muted TV. The logo in the corner of the screen identified the station that carried Secret Lives. “If she was watching the show, then she was attacked after it started but before it ended. So she was attacked between 6:00 and 6:30.”

As soon as she’d seen Misty’s floor littered with photos and paper, she’d known what the attacker was after. But now she had to face her own responsibility for Misty’s attack. Her mouth tasted like cotton. She couldn’t delay any longer. No matter what Cade thought of her shaky theory, she had to come clean. She needed his help.

“So you think my phone call kept her from being hurt even worse. I suppose that’s some comfort, considering—” She stopped. This was as hard as she’d known it would be.

His intense blue eyes held hers, lasering holes in her confidence. “Considering what?”

She didn’t know if he was reacting to the guilt that must be written all over her face or the sudden tension that tightened like springs through her entire body, but his demeanor changed.

He uncrossed his arms and casually flexed his fingers near the pocket of his sweats. At the same time he shifted his weight to the balls of his feet. He was poised and ready for anything. The transformation was an awesome and frightening sight.

“Do you see what’s all over the floor? Photos. Scrapbooks. Journals.” She gestured toward the hardwood floor. “I know why Misty was attacked.”

Cade didn’t speak, nor did he move his hand.

“All this—” this time she included the bloodstain on the floor and the couch in her sweeping gesture “—is my fault.”