The Blade Brothers of Cougar County

Chapter Two

Rain came down hard and steady as Deep Water’s chief of police, Jack Blade, was waved through the barricade by a slicker-clad patrolman.

Wadding up the wrapper from a greasy cheeseburger, Jack tossed it back in the sack, then rolled down the window to speak with the officer.

“Who’s all here, Hank?”

“Ellis, Martinez, Shepherd, Fitz. The D.A. did a quick walk-through about forty-five minutes ago.”

“What about our illustrious medical examiner? He make it by yet?”

“Been called.” Hank nodded toward the food bag. “Thought you were swearing off fast food, Chief.”

“Yeah.” Hitting the gas, Jack nosed the car forward before casting a jaundiced glare down at the bag.

Hank was right. He really had to start eating better. He also needed to begin carving out some kind of life for himself. He’d thought making the move to Deep Water would be enough, that with the change of scenery, he would also change. But he hadn’t. It was pretty much business as usual, his life revolving around police work, and not much else.

Except, of course, for that one night nearly two months ago when he’d met a woman. A very intelligent and beautiful woman.

He’d thought they’d made a real connection. He’d called several times after that, hoping to pursue something with her, but she had been pretty blunt the last time he’d contacted her.

Just his luck, the only woman he’d met who interested him wasn’t interested in return. And to make matters worse, he couldn’t seem to get her out of his head.

Reaching down, he switched on the defroster to clear the windshield. Though he’d relocated from Atlanta nearly two years ago, he still couldn’t get used to the damp cold of a Florida winter, where thirty-nine degrees cut through you like thirteen. And where three days of gray skies felt like an eternity.

There was no sign of any media yet, but he suspected it would be only a matter of time before they made an appearance. Reporters and bluebottle flies. Both fed on the dead, but it was the reporters who usually showed up first.

Like any midsize, modern city, Deep Water had its share of murders, but up until tonight, none of them had taken place in Thornton Park, an affluent area of large, historic homes with sweeping, deep-green lawns and brick streets.

Jack looked up as the house came into view. Most of the homes in the area were dark now, but light flooded from this one, and vehicles crowded the driveway as if some swank gala was under way. And in some ways, it was a party—a morbid one—attended by crime scene techs and police officers, and with the host already dead.

Jack swung in behind the department’s white crime-scene van—a recently purchased, fully equipped vehicle. It had taken him nearly a year to convince the city council that the vehicle wasn’t a luxury, but a necessity.

Jack grabbed gloves and shoe covers, dug a roll of mints out of the center console and flicked off two. He could still taste the cheeseburger. In another hour or so the sour taste in his mouth would be even worse.

A patrol officer, Billy Ellis, stood just outside the front door, hunched in a jacket that was too lightweight for the weather, stamping his feet against the cold. As Jack approached, Ellis scribbled down his name in the security log.

“You first officer on the scene?” Jack asked.

“Yes, sir.”

Still outside, Jack slipped on vinyl gloves—he was allergic to the more common latex variety. Glancing up as he was tugging on the second shoe cover, he noticed the kid’s lack of color and shell-shocked expression. “First homicide?”

Ellis nodded nervously. “Yes, sir.”

Jack suspected that no matter how many other homicides Billy Ellis worked in his career, tonight’s would always be the most vivid. At some point during the next week or so, the kid would probably tell himself that the next one would be easier. It wouldn’t be. In Jack’s experience, they never got easier—a man just got better at coping.

Another new recruit looked up as Jack stepped into the foyer. The officer, who stood in front of the chest against the opposite wall, was sifting through what appeared to be mail, and used his head to motion toward a set of double doors. “Body’s in there.”

“Who called it in?”

“The ex-wife. Fitz is in the kitchen with her now.”

After the week he’d had, Jack would have liked to bypass the room with the body—to spend time with the living instead of the dead. But no matter how much he wanted to, he wouldn’t. Because when it came right down to it, homicide investigations weren’t about the living. They were about the dead—about attaining justice for those who were beyond needing it.

Jack stepped inside what appeared to be a home office. Every lamp had been turned on and additional lights had been brought in to flood the space.

It wasn’t the type of room you expected to see in one of these older homes. The wood floor had been left bare and the walls were a stark white, as was just about everything else in the room. Even the large brushed-metal-and-glass desk seemed too cold and sterile for the space.

The body was slumped over the slick surface and belonged to a white male with his head—at least what was left of it—resting on the desktop.

It was always the odor that hit Jack the hardest. With a new body, there was the raw, metallic scent of fresh blood, sometimes so strong that when you opened your mouth to speak, it seemed to collect on your tongue. If the victim had gone undiscovered for a longer period of time, the odors were even stronger, but no more unpleasant. Death was simply death.

Two men worked the room. Detective Frank Shepherd was a 30-year veteran of Deep Water PD. A tall, rail-thin man with sharp features. Even though the department had relaxed its dress code for detectives, Shepherd continued to wear starched shirts and neckties. And freshly polished shoes. Jack liked him for his intellect and his thoroughness—both important qualities in a detective. At the moment, Shepherd was shining a flashlight at an oblique angle, looking for prints around the front window.

“Window’s unlocked. And I have what appears to be a decent thumbprint,” Shepherd called over his shoulder. Neither man had yet seen Jack.

The other man was 26-year-old Andy Martinez, the only crime scene tech currently employed by Deep Water PD. Where Frank wore a starched shirt and a necktie, Andy wore a white T-shirt, with CRIME SCENE printed on front and back, and jeans. A black ball cap turned backward and athletic shoes encased in paper covers completed his uniform. At the moment, Andy was digging through the large, black case that he liked to call his toy chest. The box contained everything he needed, from pencils and pliers to dusting powder and a strong flashlight.

“Been expecting you, Chief,” Andy commented without looking up.

Everyone in the department knew that Jack showed up at every homicide. Mostly to make sure his detectives were getting what they needed to do their jobs. Sometimes, especially if there was DNA evidence involved, that meant contacting the Florida Department of Law Enforcement lab in Daytona Beach, and other times it just meant handling the media and running interference with several town councillors.

“I didn’t get the call until the plane hit the ground,” Jack said.

Shepherd had turned as soon as Andy had spoken, and nodded a greeting in Jack’s direction before going back to studying the area near the window.

“That explains the suit,” Andy said as he walked across the room to hand Shepherd dusting powder and lift tape.

“How’d it go in Philly?” Andy asked as he passed Jack the second time.

Jack had flown up to Philadelphia to be at his brother’s side. Not because Alec wanted company, but because Alec’s eight-months-pregnant wife, Katie, had wanted Jack there.

“Jury deliberated for six hours before coming back with a guilty verdict,” Jack said. “Penalty phase starts next week.”

“Let’s hope the bastard gets what he deserves,” Andy said.

The man on trial was responsible for the brutal slaying of Alec’s first wife nearly two years ago. At the time of her murder, Alec had been a criminal profiler with the FBI. He’d retired only months after his wife’s death so that he could, with his usual tenacity, devote every moment of his time to bringing down her killer.

Alec didn’t know how to fail at anything. It was one of the things Jack admired about his brother. It was also one of the characteristics that at times could get under Jack’s skin.

He moved farther into the room, careful to stick with a straight path that he could later backtrack. “What do you have so far?”

Andy had closed in on the body’s right side and seemed to be examining its position. “The victim is a 36-year-old male. Cause of death appears to be gunshot to the head at very close range. By the look of it, he didn’t go right away. Too much blood.”

“I assume we have a name?”

“Dan Dawson. Local doc.”

At the name, Jack looked up from the body, everything inside him tightening. If this was Dr. Daniel Dawson, then that made the woman in the other room… Not a stranger.

Andy, who had been examining the floor beneath the victim, stuck his head above the desk edge, but didn’t seem to record Jack’s reaction to the name.

“I completed the video and sketches, as well as the preliminary 35 mms and a few digital shots. There was a nickel-plated .357 revolver on the floor on the victim’s right, and I found powder residue on the victim’s right hand, right cheek and shirt collar.”

“So you think it was self-inflicted?” Jack asked, and waited tense seconds for Andy’s answer.

“You’ll have to ask the medical examiner that one.”

“I’m asking for your opinion, Andy.”

The crime scene tech looked up from what he was doing. Jack wasn’t surprised to encounter speculation in his eyes. Andy was probably wondering what was different about this murder, why his boss had just asked him to comment on an aspect of the scene that was clearly the M.E.’s territory.

After nearly a half minute, Andy looked down at the corpse. “I obviously haven’t moved the body, so the most I can tell you is that the bullet appears to have entered just behind the right condyle and then exited low on the left side of the skull.”

“Not the usual positioning of the weapon for a suicide,” Jack said.

Shrugging, Andy started to collect items from the desktop. “The bullet trajectory pretty much did away with any chance of survival. Which is usually the goal.”

“Damn,” Jack whispered. “What drives a man, a seemingly successful one, to just give away his life?”

Andy picked up a photo that had been facedown on the desk. Blood dripped from the frame edge as he held it for Jack to see. “Maybe losing something like that.”

Both men knew who she was. Andy because he would have seen her when he arrived, and Jack because they’d met once before—under very different circumstances.

The photograph was a close-up and had been cropped so there was no background—just hair and face. An interesting face with a strong chin and steel-gray eyes so direct that some would find them intimidating. Then there was all that dark gold hair, not smooth and neat, but full and, from the looks of it, hard to restrain. What the picture didn’t show was the supple, well-muscled body. Jack’s fingers curled into a loose fist as he tried to forget the warm, satiny skin.

Andy placed the frame in the box with other items that would be transported to the lab for evaluation.

Jack scanned the room again. With the exception of the evidence markers scattered about like a toddler’s toys, the space looked tidy. Definitely no signs of a struggle.

“Were there any indications of forced entry?”

It was Shepherd who responded this time. “No. At least not on the first floor. When I finish up in here, I’ll check upstairs.”

Andy had collected a pile of manila files from one corner of the desk and was placing them in another cardboard box.

“What are those?” Jack asked.

“They look to be patient charts.”

As Jack moved closer to the victim, he was still very aware of where he placed his feet. “It appears as if he may have been sitting here reviewing them.”

On the surface, the pieces seemed to fit, but…

Jack lifted his hand, intending to massage the stiffness in his neck, then realized he was still gloved, and allowed it to drop again. “He brings work home with him, and then stops in the middle to put a gun to his head? Why look over charts if you have no intention of seeing or treating the patients?” Jack paused. “Unless you were being sued?”

“And the charts belong to women who might be called as witnesses at a trial?” Andy had keyed in on the direction Jack was going. “He realizes he’s screwed and reaches into the drawer…. Bam. No suit. No trial.”

“Just happy trails,” Shepherd chimed in.

Jack took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Or he brought the charts home because he hadn’t had time to take care of them at the office. Someone comes in here and puts a gun to his head.” He looked over at Andy. “The powder residue on his hand—any possibility that it got on him when he was trying to grab the gun from someone else at the time it went off?”

“Sure.”

Shepherd moved in closer to the body. “The only entrance is in front of the desk. If he didn’t do this to himself, then whoever did knew him well enough to get in close and personal.”

Jack scanned the room again. Shepherd was right. There was no way anyone could’ve snuck up on him.

Shepherd handed the dusting powder back to Martinez. “My money is on the ex-wife.”

Jack’s mouth tightened. The possibility that the woman in the other room—the same woman who had too briefly shared his bed two months ago and who had haunted his mind ever since—had put a gun to a man’s head and pulled the trigger left him feeling exposed.

LEXIE HAD BEEN SITTING in the kitchen’s breakfast nook for nearly two hours now. For the last hour, she’d been answering questions asked by Detective Joe Fitz. He was somewhere deep into middle age and had one of those Moon Pie faces that would go unnoticed in a group photo.

“So you arrived around eleven-fifteen?” Fitz asked.

“No. I arrived at eleven-thirty.” How many different ways were there to ask the same question? She leaned back, pressing her spine against the hard surface of the bench. She was so tired. Not just physically exhausted, but she was weary of answering the unending questions from the police.

“I know you’re just trying to establish when it happened, but I guess I don’t see why it really matters when Dan…when it happened.”

“It’s just routine procedure, ma’am.”

She nodded in understanding, and solemnly waited for the next question.

Fitz glanced at his notes. “You came in through the back door?”

“Yes. It was open.”

“Was it unlocked, or was it open?”

“Unlocked.” Lifting her chin, she massaged the back of her neck slowly. Even without the black tweed jacket that was folded on the banquette next to her, the room was suffocatingly warm. There was blood on the coat, just as there was on one sleeve of her blouse. Unable to face the sight of it, she’d concealed both—that on the jacket by removing the garment and carefully folding it in half, and that on the blouse by turning back the cuffs. But it was still there. Just as the bloody images of Dan were there when she closed her eyes. Just as the smell of blood and death seemed to cling inside her nostrils.

“Was it normal for the door to be left unlocked?”

Shaking her head, she hunched forward, her fingers tightening around the mug on the table in front of her. She didn’t want the coffee, but couldn’t seem to let go of it, either—just as she couldn’t seem to let go of what was happening inside her head.

If she had arrived earlier, would Dan still be alive? Could she have talked him out of it? Or would he only have killed her, too? Was that his intention when he’d called? Had the anniversary gift been a bullet and not signed legal papers?

The thought that Dan had hated her enough to want her dead left her fighting to breathe. How could two people who had once loved each other end up as they had? How did that happen?

“Mrs. Dawson?”

She looked up, realizing Fitz must have asked her another question. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“Did you see anyone when you arrived?”

“No.” She pushed the coffee to one side. Obviously, she’d imagined the shadow inside the front door, just as she’d briefly imagined she wasn’t alone in the house. Of course, as soon as she opened the bathroom door and there had been no one waiting for her on the other side, she’d realized her mistake.

Just then the door into the dining room swung open. Her chest instantly tight with renewed apprehension, Lexie looked up, praying that it wouldn’t be Jack Blade.

She relaxed as soon as she realized that it was one of the officers who had been in and out of the kitchen several times in the past few hours.

“Medical examiner’s here for the body,” the officer announced.

Detective Fitz flipped his notebook shut and stood.

She looked up at him. “Can I go now?”

“You’re free to go at any time, though it would be helpful if you could stick around a bit longer.” The detective shrugged. “At least until we finish processing the crime scene.”

Lexie nodded with resignation. It wasn’t as if she’d be able to sleep even if she did go home. Better to stay here. To help as much as she could.

As soon as the detective left the room, she closed her eyes and leaned back, resting her head against the wall behind her. Her backside ached from the hard seating and her head hurt. There would be aspirin in the cabinet next to the sink, but she didn’t seem to have the energy to get them.

She still couldn’t get her mind around it. Dan was dead. He’d put a gun to his head. It just didn’t mesh. He was a doctor. If he’d wanted to take his own life, why not end it with pills?

Lexie let go of that line of thought because it wasn’t helping anyone. Certainly not Dan, who was beyond help, or herself.

For a period of time, in a numb trance, she listened to the clomp of feet just beyond the door and those overhead on the second floor. The not-so-quiet opening of doors and drawers as not only Dan’s death was probed, but his life, as well.

She recalled how when they were first married, she’d awaken early on Sunday mornings sometimes. She’d be sitting in the very place she was now, sipping coffee and reading the paper, when Dan, having slept in after a late night at the hospital, would come stumbling downstairs. They’d talk about the baby he’d delivered and about the three or four they wanted. He’d reach across the table, his fingers capturing hers, and he’d tell her that he wanted to make a baby with her, not sometime in the future, but right then. Had that all been an act?

What she wouldn’t give to go back to one of those uncomplicated mornings right now. To feel about Dan the way she had before everything went so wrong between them.

Reaching for her phone, needing to hear a familiar voice, she tried Fleming’s number again. Dan and Fleming were— had been—partners. As it had the last time she’d called, which had been just after she’d dialed 9-1-1, Fleming’s voice mail picked up. She hadn’t left a message before, but did this time. “Fleming, I really need to talk to you. I’m at Dan’s. Something awful has hap—” Voice mail cut off the rest.

And when it did, she realized just how alone she felt sitting there in the kitchen. The house was full of people, but she felt isolated, as if she’d been shut out, shut away.

Lexie scooted to the end of the bench and climbed to her feet. How pathetic was that—feeling sorry for herself? She had a dozen friends she could call. Who would do whatever she asked of them. But she was stronger than that.

She located the aspirin and poured water into a glass. As she took the pills, she thought about what morning would bring. Funeral arrangements needed to be made. And someone should call Dan’s parents. It would be easier on them if the news came from someone they knew and not from the police. Not from her, though.

Up until she filed for divorce, she’d always gotten along well with her in-laws. Better than she had with her mother and stepfather. And because she had, she felt the loss of them in her life more than she did the loss of her own parents, who, when the divorce was announced, had cut off all contact with her, but not with Dan.

Something banged in Dan’s office, a loud sound followed by tense voices. What was going on in there now? Had Dan’s body been carried out? In her mind, she envisioned him being placed in a body bag. She could almost hear the hiss of the zipper closing over his face.

Lexie turned around and stared at the door leading into the dining room. A sense of claustrophobia closed in on her. She couldn’t stay any longer. She had to get out of here. Go anywhere. She crossed to the bench where she’d left her purse and jacket.

Straightening, she came face-to-face with Jack Blade.

A solid jolt of panic shot through her. The last time they’d been this close he’d been smiling down at her, the look in his pale blue eyes… She derailed all thoughts about what she’d seen in his eyes that night.