She can’t save herself...but he can

It took the twenty-fifth anniversary of his kid sister’s death to bring Zach Carter home. Determined to solve her murder with his training as a homicide detective, he discovers that his estranged brother has beaten him to the punch and is already on the local force. The two, divided in their parental loyalties and their suspicions, struggle to make headway, until Zach is witness to a fatal beating where the guy left standing is a cop. And a second witness is a gorgeous brunette. Zach is in the impossible situation of protecting Tess Granath from the sheriff’s department while fighting his attraction to her. He’s always known he’s a man who can’t commit. Except now he’s met a woman he can’t walk away from...

They looked at each other across the body.

Momentarily stunned, he just stared for a few beats too long. If she’d never seen a violent death, she might be in shock, he reminded himself. Her right hand was bloody, he saw when he could wrench his gaze from her face. She’d touched the victim when she first fell to her knees beside him. Zach lifted his own hand to see that, yeah, his own fingertips were bloody, too. The guy’s face was a chunk of raw meat. The hands and arms he’d raised in defense weren’t any better.

Recalled by the sound of an approaching siren, he said gently, “There’s nothing you can do. The medics will be here any minute.”

She looked down, then back up. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Why?” she whispered.

“I have no idea.”

Dear Reader,

I love to write stories fresh out of the news. Actually, given my law-abiding (possibly even staid) lifestyle, where else would I get my ideas? In this case, the newsworthy drama provides the perfect setup to challenge my hero, who has zero interest in a long-term romantic relationship. After his childhood, how can he trust a woman not to betray him?

If you’re a regular reader, you’ll recognize where I’m going with this. My stories frequently hinge on the lasting effects of childhood trauma. I firmly believe that our most essential character is formed by the time we leave home at eighteen. Often, way before we leave home.

In The Closer He Gets, I have a hero bearing a lifetime of proof that he can’t rely on anyone. He returns to his childhood hometown to right a very old wrong, and finds the brother who abandoned him—and a woman under siege after she witnesses a horrendous crime. For the first time, Zach has met a woman he can’t walk away from, no matter how much his feelings for her scare him. And in his brother, Bran, he finds another man as damaged by their shared past as he was.

Yep, my kind of story! And, yes, in a flip of the coin, look for Bran Murphy’s story, The Baby He Wanted, to come in May 2016 from Mills & Boon Superromance.

Good reading!

Janice

The Closer He Gets

Janice Kay Johnson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

An author of more than ninety books for children and adults, JANICE KAY JOHNSON writes about love and family—about the way generations connect and the power our earliest experiences have on us throughout life. An eight-time finalist for a Romance Writers of America RITA® Award, she won a RITA® Award in 2008 for her Harlequin Superromance novel Snowbound. A former librarian, Janice raised two daughters in a small town north of Seattle, Washington.

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Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

BRAN MURPHY WOULD have said he wasn’t given to self-reflection. He made one major exception, however. Something like every six months he would feel the pull and next thing he knew he’d be driving slowly by his childhood home instead of parking in his assigned spot at his condo.

This was one of those times, and he had an idea what had provided the impetus today. A couple of months ago he’d decided the time had come to find a wife and start a family. Three weeks ago he’d asked Paige to marry him and she’d agreed. They’d just taken a vacation together to Hawaii. Last night, after they flew into SeaTac, he had dropped her at her place, carrying her suitcase in for her and then gone home alone. He hadn’t slept well and had found himself feeling edgy this morning.

What if his desire for a family and the logical way he’d gone about it had started him on a trajectory that would end in a crash landing like the one that had destroyed the not-so-happy family that had lived here in this house?

Maybe every life had a Before and After. Divorce. A death. Another kind of loss that created a divide. His own happened to be a little more violent than most.

Today he sat brooding in his car, remembering a time when his family had been whole. There were signs the family who lived in the house now might be. A kid’s bike lay on the lawn, and the barbecue and lawn mower under cover of the carport made him think all-American.

As tense as if he was about to kick in a door to arrest a violent offender, he got out and followed the sidewalk to the corner, turning and going far enough to be able to glimpse the backyard, possible because none of the houses on this block had fences. The neighborhood was holding its own—not upscale but not run-down, either.

He’d put some work into this place before he’d sold it after Dad died. Sometimes he still had trouble believing his father had stayed in this house when he knew the local cops and plenty of the neighbors thought he had killed his own daughter.

And Bran had stayed with him until he’d graduated from high school, using his fists on any kid who dared say anything about Dad or Sheila.

People forgot, of course. The tragedy that fractured his family irrevocably had taken place twenty-four years and eight months ago. Probably he was the only one who ever thought about it.

No, wherever his brother was, he wouldn’t be able to help remembering, either. He’d made a different choice than Bran but would have suffered the same wounds.

Today, seeing how little the house had changed unsettled Bran. As a teenager he’d convinced his father to paint it a pale gray with white and black trim instead of the white it had always been. Wouldn’t you know the latest homeowners had gone back to white. Nothing had changed the basic lines of the house. Seeing it today was like stepping through a time warp.

God, he thought, what makes me think I’m capable of being a husband and father?

The basics wouldn’t have changed inside, either. Two bedrooms downstairs and one up, that one tucked under the eaves with a single window in the small dormer that looked over the front porch. He and his brother had shared it.

From here he could see some boards still clinging drunkenly to a Y high up in the maple that filled the backyard and shed a bounty of leaves every fall. Dad had helped his boys build the tree fort. Bran didn’t remember ever going up in it again after Sheila died. He didn’t think Zach had, either.

From the tree fort they would have been looking right down at where her body had been found.

What am I doing here?

It was a compulsion. Unresolved issues. He snorted at the thought, however accurate it might be. Open questions ate at him. If Sheila’s killer was ever arrested, Bran doubted he’d feel the need to turn down this street again.

A police detective, he knew how to find answers. He’d even worked cold cases.

There were any numbers of problems to prevent him from pursuing this one, however.

To start with, this house—where his little sister had been killed—wasn’t in his jurisdiction. The small city of Clear Creek had its own police force, which consisted of a police chief and twenty officers. He worked for the county sheriff’s department.

The general ineptitude of the Clear Creek PD back then was problem number two. Unless he’d missed a whole lot, the investigation hadn’t gone anywhere. He knew more than his parents ever would have guessed, having eavesdropped on police interviews and even Mom and Dad’s whispered arguments in bed. Would evidence even have been saved? If so, carefully enough to allow DNA to be run?

Problem three? Several of the current Clear Creek officers had lived in the area as long as he had and knew Bran’s connection to the unsolved case. The way they looked at him when he asked questions made him wonder whether detectives had ever considered him a suspect. He’d been young but not so young he wasn’t thinking about sex.

The chilling thought had only recently occurred to him. He’d spent a lot of years refusing to think about the murder at all. Convinced that knowing what really happened wouldn’t change a thing for him.

But the twenty-fifth anniversary of Sheila’s death was approaching. A lot that had been buried in his psyche had begun crawling out, giving him nightmares.

Who was there to give a damn but him? Zach had been even younger than him when it happened and had probably forgotten more. Bran had no idea, since he hadn’t seen his brother in twenty-four years. Anyway, Zach wasn’t here in Clear Creek. Bran was.

And Sheila deserved justice. Now that Dad was gone, there was nothing to stop him.

Skin prickling despite the warmth of the sun, he walked back around to the front of the house. He’d swear the cracks on the sidewalk were unchanged, too. Took him right back in time.

* * *

HE COULD FEEL the book bag bumping on his back as he headed home. He’d do his homework...later. It was cool having an hour before Sheila and Zach got off, when he became unwillingly responsible for them. Except...that was partly posturing for friends. Really, he and Zach were tight. He couldn’t talk to his little brother about girls or these strange, physical urges he was starting to feel, but that was okay. Zach would get there. And Bran loved his little sister. She thought he was a superhero, which felt good—

* * *

BRAN BLINKED, MADE a rough sound and ran a hand over his face. Damn. He hadn’t expected to flash back like that. If he was going to go back at all, it should be to the night when Sheila was taken from her bed. When—

“Shit,” he muttered, getting into his car. Flashing back to the kid he’d been? What good would that do? He had to look at the crime with a cop’s ability to be dispassionate. To do that, he needed to get past the memories.

Paige had never said anything to make him think she knew about his past. He sure as hell hadn’t told her. Didn’t plan to unless it became absolutely necessary. Except for his regular six-month visit to this damn house, he was focused on the future not the past.

As he pulled away from the curb, he took a last look at his childhood home and felt an unexpected pang. How many times had he thought of searching for his brother? Too many. Kids or not, they’d parted as bitterly as their parents had. Chances were they’d pass on the street without even recognizing each other. There was no going back.

Then why am I trying?

A good question. It wasn’t as if he believed in the psychobabble about needing closure or any crap like that.

But he couldn’t deny that the tragedy had shaped his life and still hung over him. He would soon be starting a family of his own. He wanted the foundation to be solid, that was all.

* * *

ZACH CARTER’S GAZE roved unceasingly as he drove, touching on his rearview mirror every few seconds before scanning for movement on each side of the street. He identified the speed of cars ahead and behind without conscious thought. Although returning to patrol had been an adjustment for him, the instincts were still there. He made constant, automatic judgments.

The man coming out of a garage? Homeowner. The cluster of tattooed young guys clustered around a car with its hood raised? Currently harmless, although the way they all turned as a unit to watch as he passed had him keeping an eye on them in the rearview mirror for another block. Car that swerved and corrected course? A momentarily distracted driver.

He’d been on the job for not quite three weeks. The population of this rural county wasn’t large but the square mileage was. Logging trucks still traveled an east-west highway that followed the river deep into the forested foothills of the Cascade Mountain Range. Only one big lumber mill remained in operation, however, which meant logging as an industry was in decline.

The dairy farms he remembered from when he was a kid had mostly disappeared. In fact, the east county communities all had an air of desperation. For Rent, For Sale and Going Out of Business signs were common, boarded-up shop windows even more so. It was beautiful country, but tourism hadn’t taken hold. Didn’t help that the couple motels he’d spotted were pretty run-down, in keeping with the general atmosphere.

So far, he’d been assigned to patrol the river valley part of the county. Today’s route combined new developments, older housing sprawls just outside the city limits of the county seat and farms.

It had been an incredibly mild winter. With it now the first week of April, daffodils were showing hints of bloom and tulips would follow, weeks earlier than usual. He’d seen the fresh green spikes of corn in fields. Peas weren’t the big crop they’d been when he was a kid, but were still grown, and strawberries, too.

He’d already discovered that the older neighborhood he’d just turned into was heavily Hispanic. New immigrants and probably some undocumented aliens provided cheap labor for agriculture. He’d been instructed to leave Customs issues to ICE—Immigration and Customs Enforcement—and stick to local law enforcement, which was fine by him.

Whatever his assignment, Zach varied his route every day, trying to learn every byroad. Despite flashes of familiarity, most of it was new to him. What kid paid attention when he was slumped in the backseat of a car?

The stretch of county closer to the freeway had changed the most. Real estate in Seattle and its suburbs was priced beyond a lot of people’s means these days, which meant if they wanted to own a home, they bought farther out and resigned themselves to a two-hour-plus round-trip commute to work. Most of the residents of the newer, more upscale developments eating up what had been farmland were commuters. Midday, he could drive up and down the winding streets of any of those developments and hardly see a soul.

In contrast, this neighborhood was what he thought of as in-between: the houses modest but still decently cared for. At least some were owned rather than rented, at a guess. No traffic and the last human he’d seen had been a couple of blocks ago: an old man peering suspiciously from his front porch.

A rack of lights atop a car down the block on a cross street caught his eye. Surprised, Zach made the turn. What was another sheriff’s department car doing here? By necessity, patrols didn’t have a lot of overlap and he hadn’t heard any calls from dispatch that would have sent another deputy out here. Currently empty, the police car was parked on the gravel verge—no sidewalks in this neighborhood. Guy might live here, it occurred to Zach. He’d taken his own lunch break not half an hour ago.

He was still half a block away when he spotted two men arguing. They stood toe-to-toe on a concrete walk leading to the front porch of a small house. Whatever was happening was intense. The one with his back to the street wore the same olive-green uniform as Zach’s. Then... What the hell? The deputy pushed the other guy, pulled his arm back and punched.

Oh, shit, Zach thought. No. The cop was using his baton, not his fist. Hammering with it. Blood sprayed.

Zach slammed to a stop and leaped out, now able to hear the snarls, the cries for help.

A good thirty feet away, he broke into a hard run. A woman was tearing across the lawn toward the men from the house beyond, too. She was screaming.

Showing no awareness of anyone else, the deputy threw his baton away and began using his fists instead. “I warned you! Stay away from her. But—” smack “—did you listen?”

“¡Socorro! ¡Socorro!” The Hispanic man stumbled back.

Zach caught a glimpse of his face, already battered to a pulp before another fist caught him dead-on and his lights went out.

Time seemed to have slowed. Zach saw what was coming and knew he was too late to stop it. The Hispanic guy toppled back. His head struck the edge of the concrete step. The sound was terrible. A pumpkin being smashed.

One step too late, Zach grabbed the deputy’s shoulder and yanked him back. “What the hell are you doing?” he yelled.

The guy staggered, righted himself and lurched around in a fighter’s stance. Face crimson with rage, he started to swing at Zach before recognition dawned in his eyes and he stopped himself.

“He went for my gun.” He gasped for air. “He went for my gun, goddamn it! I had to defend myself.”

Hayes, that was his name. Andrew Hayes. Big, beefy guy starting to go soft. Ugly sense of humor. Zach knew him only from the locker room.

“Oh, my God. Oh, my God.” Keening, the woman had dropped to her knees beside the victim, who wasn’t moving. “Is he dead? I think he might be dead.”

Hayes looked past Zach and said sharply, “Ma’am, you need to back away. This is police business. Return to your house.”

She lifted her head to sizzle him with green-gold eyes. “Antonio is harmless. You killed him.”

“Ma’am, you need to listen—”

Zach gave him a hard push. “Back off and shut up. Do you hear me?”

That earned him some invectives.

Ignoring him, Zach turned his attention to the victim when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hayes lean over to pick up his baton. Swearing, Zach slapped a hand onto the deputy’s chest. “Do I have to cuff you?” he asked, voice hard. “You will keep back. Don’t move. Don’t touch. Do you hear me?”

“What the hell? We’re on the same side. The asshole grabbed for my weapon! I did what I had to.”

“This is now a crime scene. Don’t touch anything. Wait.”

Zach called for backup and an ambulance. When he saw Hayes take a step toward his vehicle anyway, he snapped, “Do not move!”

Then, finally, he crouched beside the fallen man and gently touched his throat.

Oh, damn. The lady with the green-gold eyes was right. Antonio was dead. Zach couldn’t even figure out how to administer first aid, the guy’s head was such a sickening sight.

The woman and he looked at each other across the body. Momentarily stunned, Zach stared for a few beats too long. Her right hand was bloody, he saw when he could finally wrench his gaze from her face. She’d touched the victim when she’d first fallen to her knees beside him.

Zach lifted his own hand to see that, yeah, his own fingertips were bloody, too.

At the sound of an approaching siren, he said gently, “There’s nothing you can do. The medics will be here any minute.”

She looked down then back up. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Why?” she whispered.

“I have no idea.” An ambulance rocketed to a stop in the driveway only a few feet away. Zach stood, circled to her side of the body and held out his hand. “Let’s back off and let them do their job.”

An unmarked police SUV blocked Zach’s car in. Having cut off the siren, the undersheriff himself, a whipcord-thin guy with buzz-cut gray hair, stepped out and started across the lawn. Paul Stokes. He’d been in on the interview when Zach was hired.

“Hayes? What the hell is this?”

The woman still hadn’t moved.

“Please,” Zach said quietly. “I need to talk to people. They’ll want to hear what you saw, too.”

After a moment her head bobbed. She let him pull her to her feet and backed away as medics crouched to conduct an assessment. It wasn’t long before one glanced up and gave his head the faintest of shakes. Zach nodded and walked toward the undersheriff and Andrew Hayes.

Seemingly unaware that his hands were battered and bloody, Hayes was doing all the talking. Zach, eyes narrowed, listened but kept his mouth shut. He’d have his turn. And unless the woman wimped out, there was a second witness.

Unable to help himself, he turned his head. She stood right where he’d left her, shoulders hunched, hugging herself, her stricken gaze fixed on the dead man.

But suddenly, as if she felt a pull, her head turned, too, and her eyes met Zach’s. Once again they stared, neither blinking, nothing hidden.

“Deputy Carter,” Stokes said sharply.

Zach shook himself, bent his head in acknowledgment to the woman—of what?—and faced his commanding officer.

* * *

TESS GRANATH LEANED against the fender of one of the police cars. She had declined the offer to sit in the backseat—behind the wire grille.

“Ms. Granath...or is it ‘missus’?” the officer asked.

Not officer, she reminded herself, or even deputy. He had identified himself as a detective. She groped to remember his name. Delancy or Delaney or something like that. He was in his forties, at a guess, and had too many muscles, which meant off the job he lived at the gym.

“Ms. is fine.”

“Are you married?”

Tess raised her eyebrows. “How is this relevant to what I saw?”

“Just trying to get some background, ma’am.” He paused. “Spouses, what we do for a living, influences our perceptions.”

The “ma’am” irritated her, after all that crap about whether she was a Ms. or a Mrs. The use of the word “perceptions” irritated her even more. The event she’d witnessed was straightforward. It had happened too fast for any filters to kick in.

“I’m not married.”

“All right then, Mi-izz Granath.” He dragged it out, his tone laden with condescension. “You live here close by?”

Since he held her driver’s license in his hand, he knew exactly where she lived. She said, “No.”

“May I ask your purpose for being here?”

“I was checking on a friend next door who recently had surgery.”

“And this friend’s name?”

“Lupe Estrada.”

“I’m surprised this friend hasn’t come out. Given all the commotion and all.”

“As I said, she had surgery. Abdominal. She is barely able to get up long enough to go to the bathroom. I stopped by to see if she needed anything because her husband had to work today.”

The detective wanted to know if she and Lupe had been friends for long. Since high school. So that meant Tess might have met some of the neighbors, too. Yes, she had.

“What about the fellow who was involved in this fracas?”

“If by that you mean the man who was just beaten to death? Yes. I knew him to nod at. I wouldn’t call him a friend.”

“But you know his name.”

“Yes. Antonio. Antonio Alvarez, I think.”

“So you saw him as a nice guy.”

“He seemed pleasant. I understand he lived here with his uncle and a couple of cousins. Antonio is a friend of Lupe’s husband, Rey. As I said, I don’t—” the word caught in her throat “—didn’t know him well.”

“All right,” he said. “When did you first see him today?”

“I’d left my sweater and handbag in the living room. On my way out, I was reaching for them when I glanced out the window and was surprised to see a police car parked in front of Antonio’s house. I could just see him and the deputy, speaking.”

“And where were they standing?”

“Antonio had stepped down from the porch. I could see that the conversation was...heated.”

“Could you hear what was being said?”

“Not at that point. Only enough to know they were yelling. The deputy’s face was flushed, as if he was angry.”

“Now that’s quite an assumption, given you don’t know him.” The detective affected a look of surprise. “Or do you?”

“I do not.” And wouldn’t want to, she thought grimly.

“Then you have no basis for comparison.”

“No, I don’t. However—” She lifted her hand when he started to interrupt. “In my experience, a combination of a raised voice and flushed cheeks generally suggests anger in any individual.”

It went on that way. He tried hard to persuade her to admit she hadn’t seen what had preceded the first blow. But she had. By that time she’d been on the Estradas’ front porch with a clear sight line to the two men arguing.

“I was concerned because the police officer was considerably larger than Antonio. His voice and body language were belligerent.”

“But your friend Antonio was angry, too.”

“As I’ve said repeatedly, I wouldn’t describe him as a friend. It was clear they were arguing about a woman. Just before the first blow was struck, Antonio accused the police officer of hurting her. The deputy told him to stay away from her, pulled his nightstick from his belt, lifted it and swung. That first blow knocked Antonio back a step. The deputy pursued.”

Delancy kept circling back to what she’d seen when. “Now, you must have looked away at some point.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think I so much as blinked. I may have missed something as I bounded down the porch steps, but your deputy was well into the beating by then. The second police car had pulled up and I saw that officer racing toward them even as I ran across the yard.” She swallowed. “We were both too late.”

“You approached from the left of the two men engaged in the argument.”

Since she’d described, ad infinitum, exactly where she was at all times, she said nothing.

“Deputy Hayes wears his service weapon on his right hip. Chances are good you couldn’t see it.”

She considered and finally agreed that, no, she probably hadn’t been able to.

He looked satisfied, thinking he’d made an important point. It wasn’t hard to figure out what that was.

Tess continued. “However, if you’re suggesting Antonio reached for the weapon, I can tell you that he did not. From where I stood, I was able to see his hands. He did not raise them or reach toward the deputy until he tried to cover his face after the beating commenced.”

God. She sounded like an attorney in court. Had she ever used the word “commenced” before? She kind of doubted it. But she’d never been interviewed by a police detective before, either. Or, in fact, anybody at all who so blatantly disbelieved every word out of her mouth. She’d had angry customers before, but none of them had tried so hard to twist what she said.

He asked more questions that were re-phrasings of ones he’d already asked.

Finally, Tess said, “Detective, I really need to get back to work. You’re welcome to contact me later if you need any more information.”

She had to ask for her driver’s license before he handed it over. The last thing he said was, “You’ve made one hell of an accusation here, Ms. Granath. I hope you know what you’re getting into.”

She had started toward her car but a sudden chill raised goose bumps on her arms. She turned around. “Just what is that supposed to mean, Detective Delaney?”

“Delancy. And I think you have a good idea. Deputy Hayes is a sixteen-year veteran of this department. He’s well liked and respected. And now here you are, suggesting he killed a man because he was a little annoyed.”

“Try furious,” she said bitingly. “If you didn’t know your Deputy Hayes has an anger-management problem, you should have.”

He said something else to her back but she didn’t listen and she didn’t look at him again.

Tess drove several blocks before she let herself pull over, put the gearshift in Park and rest her forehead against the steering wheel. Her heart raced, her hands shook and she was gasping for breath.

Oh, great. Now I’m falling apart.

Because she’d just seen a man killed? Or because she’d just been threatened by a police officer?

A broken laugh escaped her.

Eenie, meenie, miney, moe. God help her, she’d definitely caught a tiger by the toe.

She wanted rather desperately to believe she was overreacting. The detective might have been testing her to find out how strong a witness she’d be. It wasn’t as if shutting her up would do any good, considering that other sheriff’s deputy had been there, too. She would swear he’d been as appalled as she was. Angry, too.

Tess closed her eyes so she could picture him. Tall, lean, with unruly dark hair, shoving Deputy Hayes and snarling, “Back off and shut up.” And he’d said it was now a crime scene.

Her heartbeat picked up again as it occurred to her that he might have been warning the deputy to shut up before he said something they wouldn’t want her to hear.

But she remembered the way he’d touched Antonio’s neck in search of a pulse and then held out a hand to help her to her feet. When she asked why Antonio had had to die, the deputy had said, “I have no idea.”

And then there was the way he had looked at her. The way they had looked at each other. He’d been completely in command, except when his very blue eyes had met hers. Then he had let her see that he, too, had been shaken.

Or—God—she was imagining some kind of intense connection and his face hadn’t given away anything at all. He hadn’t shared the same stunned bewilderment, the same horror and grief she’d felt. She’d seen him talk quietly with whatever superior officer had arrived after the fact, and then he’d driven away in his patrol car. She wasn’t sure he’d so much as glanced at her again. He sure hadn’t attempted to speak to her before leaving.

It didn’t matter. She’d told the truth and she would keep telling it. And even if the sheriff’s department didn’t want to admit they had a bad apple, they were on the side of law, order and justice, right? That meant the investigator might pressure her, try to sway her testimony, but certainly wouldn’t threaten her.

Tess lifted her head from the steering wheel and made a face. No, she wasn’t that naïve, but she’d try to have some faith in local law enforcement.

Starting with the sheriff’s deputy who had run faster than she’d believed possible in his futile effort to save Antonio Alvarez.

CHAPTER TWO

“YOU HAVEN’T BEEN with us very long,” Sheriff Brown said kindly, although his eyes were a lot less friendly. “I know you come from a large city police department. Different atmosphere. We don’t get much turnover here, and there’s a reason. We think of ourselves as one big family. Times of trouble, we stand behind one another.”

Zach’s primary emotion was disbelief.

His initial, brief interview yesterday with Paul Stokes had been direct, an appropriate opening to a serious investigation. His impression was that the undersheriff had been as disturbed as Zach had been by the situation.

The talk he’d had earlier today with Stokes had been different. The undersheriff had been a little more closed off, his questions sharper, as if he was trying to shake Zach. He had suggested they handle this “incident” internally.

Zach now had a pretty good idea who had been leaning on him.

Sheriff Brown had used the word “incident,” too, when he’d made it clear that he wanted it swept under the carpet. Zach was supposed to be the broom.

His disbelief progressed through pissed to full-on fury.

A few minutes ago, as Zach had arrived in answer to the sheriff’s summons, Hayes had swaggered out of the office. As they’d passed within a foot of each other, he’d given Zach a look dark enough to lift the hairs on the back of his neck.

“You’re right,” Zach said calmly now to the sheriff. “My experience is with a considerably larger police force. Professionalism was emphasized.” He paused, watching Sheriff Brown’s eyes narrow. “What I saw yesterday was a deliberate, brutal beating that led to a death. Maybe Deputy Hayes didn’t intend it to go that far. I can’t say. But the fact is, it did. What I heard gives me reason to believe the confrontation was over a personal issue, but Hayes was wearing the uniform when he instigated it, and he used his police baton as part of the beating. As far as I’m concerned, that takes him a step over the line from second-degree murder. He shamed law-enforcement officers everywhere.”

That hard stare never wavered from Zach’s face. Until now, he hadn’t made up his mind about the longtime sheriff. In his sixties, George T. Brown was mostly bald and carried forty or fifty pounds too much. His strength was a folksy, reassuring charm that appealed to voters.

Call him a cynic, but from his initial job interviews, Zach had suspected Brown was a figurehead, with the real decisions being made by Stokes, the undersheriff.

Looking into these shrewd, angry eyes now, Zach changed his mind. Brown was no figurehead. And he had to have been leaning heavily on Paul Stokes.

In his short time with the department, Zach had heard some sexist and racist jokes he didn’t like. There were only a couple of female deputies on this force. He couldn’t help noticing how few Hispanic deputies had been hired, too, considering the county population had to be a third Hispanic. One had risen to sergeant. Otherwise the command structure was Caucasian and male. Ditto for the detectives.

He’d heard the same kind of jokes on his last job, and the hiring of female and ethnic officers had lagged in most police departments. Here in Harris County, part of the problem lay in the fact that so many deputies were long-timers. Change would come, but only as those long-timers retired.

He wondered whether the prevailing attitude might have been a little different if the dead guy had been Caucasian. Say, the son of a local businessman instead of an uneducated farmworker who had turned out to be in this country illegally.

That meant the uncle and brother, presumably also illegals, had disappeared, unable to demand justice for Antonio.

The sheriff’s chair creaked as he leaned back. “Son, I’m going to give you a few days to think about this before you damage the reputation and career of a fellow officer. You go that route, I can’t swear anyone will buy in to what you have to say, anyway. Judges, prosecutors, defense attorneys...they all know and respect Andy Hayes. The man is a sixteen-year veteran of this department. You have any idea how many times he’s testified in court in those years?”

Zach didn’t say a word.

“Nobody knows you.” He gestured, as if holding a weight in each hand. One sank while the other rose. “One thing for sure, I can guarantee you won’t be real popular in this department if you hold on to what looks a lot like a vendetta. You might find yourself deciding to go back to your big-city department.” The last was a drawl barely disguising a sneer.

Zach kept his expression from changing in any way. He held the stare long enough to make it plain he wasn’t intimidated and rose from the chair he’d been offered facing the sheriff’s desk. “Sir,” he said politely, bending his head and walking out of the office.

He knew he was in deep shit, made worse because he was the new guy. A couple other deputies had quietly expressed their support, but a number had urged him to retreat from his “story.” Andy Hayes was a fine officer, a good guy. He wouldn’t have just beaten a man to death for the hell of it. No, sir. Accidents happened. If the fellow’s head hadn’t happened to hit that concrete step... Damnedest thing, him stumbling back and falling in just the wrong place. But when a man went for a police officer’s gun? Well, he was asking for anything.

Zach was ninety-nine-percent sure Antonio Alvarez had not gone for Andy Hayes’s gun. Even if he had, Hayes had dominated the encounter from that moment on. He could have had Alvarez on the ground, cuffed and arrested without breaking a sweat. Zach couldn’t think of an excuse in the world for Hayes to have beaten the shit out of the guy. What’s more, he had a suspicion Alvarez had been dead before he’d hit the concrete. Maybe he’d only lost consciousness, but he’d looked like a dead man from the instant his head snapped back and his body collapsed like a puppet’s with the strings cut.

Nobody wanted to talk about why Hayes had been there in the first place—well out of his patrol sector. They weren’t talking about the results of the autopsy, either—if it had even been done yet. As was common in rural counties, the coroner wasn’t a physician. Zach wanted to believe he wouldn’t cooperate with a cover-up.

No matter at what point Alvarez had died, going for a police officer’s gun was not a crime deserving of the death penalty, not if the officer had the ability to control the situation. Which Hayes unquestionably had.

Zach had no doubt he’d already have been fired if the sheriff hadn’t been afraid of the repercussions. Whatever Stokes thought personally, publicly the undersheriff would have to bow to his boss. Right now, they controlled the contacts Zach could talk to. If they cut him loose, they had to know he’d go straight to the press, the county commissioners, activists representing the Latino community.

The killing of an unarmed Hispanic man by a red-neck white deputy had the potential to explode into a scandal of nationwide proportions. The sheriff and undersheriff had to be seeing Ferguson and Pasco in their nightmares.

Too bad no one had had a camera phone, Zach thought grimly.

The good news was that he hadn’t been the only witness. It was pretty clear the woman hadn’t backed down yet, at least. She hadn’t gone to the press, either, but if they pushed too hard, they couldn’t stop her.

Zach knew her name now. Teresa Granath. Ms. Granath, the detective had said with sarcastic emphasis.

Zach had just come in from patrol. The sheriff’s department couldn’t afford to lose two of them at the same time and, as was standard practice, Hayes had been placed on administrative leave since a man had died during an altercation.

The incident.

Having finally clocked out, Zach had decided to contact Ms. Granath. He’d been careful yesterday once Stokes had arrived at the scene not to make eye contact with her or to try to speak to her. He didn’t want anyone thinking he’d influenced what she had to say. He’d be in trouble if he was seen with her now, but he’d passed the point of caring. He wanted to know how much shit they’d been giving her and whether she could stand up to it. Whether he could depend on her.

He assumed she’d have left her workplace, which he’d learned was a home improvement store. He’d planned to pay it a visit one of these days, anyway, because he was only days from closing on a house that needed work. He’d be out significant money if he lost his job.

But forget the house. If he didn’t last on this job, he’d lose the chance to investigate his sister’s murder. His jaw was tight as he jumped into his pickup. Damned if he’d give up this easily.

No Teresa Granath appeared in the local phone directory, so, despite the rules against it, he’d accessed DMV records to find her. She lived within the city limits of Clear Creek, which would reduce the likelihood of anyone from the sheriff’s department happening to drive by and see his Silverado parked out front.

Just to be on the safe side, he left it a block away. The neighborhood consisted of nice family homes, ramblers and some split-levels. Most probably dated to the 1980s. Hers was a rambler, not a big place but in good shape, with a white picket fence and flowerbeds. She or someone she lived with was a gardener. The concrete walkway passed under an arch covered by rose canes unfurling green leaves.

If she was home, her car was in the garage. He rang the doorbell and waited...

He frowned and glanced toward the front window. Unfortunately the wood blinds were drawn.

At the sound of the door opening he turned back sharply. The sight of her disturbed him, renewing the strange bond they’d formed yesterday when they’d looked at each other over the dead body.

This time he was able to assess her, although no physical evaluation would tell him how strong an ally she’d be. As a man, he did like what he saw.

She was pretty, with beautiful hazel eyes and a cute bump on the bridge of her nose. A few freckles gave her a girl-next-door look—except that she had a sexy mouth. The hair he’d vaguely thought of as brown was actually glossy and caramel-colored.

Otherwise...she was tall for a woman. Five ten or even eleven, and slim. He’d have said skinny except she did have curves. They were subtle but plenty female. And long legs. Damn, it was no wonder she’d crossed that lawn so fast.

“Deputy,” she said, her voice just a little husky.

“Ms. Granath.”

Her mouth curved. “Your detective really wanted me to be a miss or a missus. ‘Ms.’ seemed to disturb his sense of order.”

Zach chuckled, although her smile along with those really fine legs stirred his body in uncomfortable ways. He reined it in. “This area seems to be lagging a little behind the times.”

She made a face. “I’ve noticed. Please, come in.”

He followed her in and waited while she closed the door.

“Why don’t you come on back to the kitchen?” she suggested. “I was working on dinner.”

“I’ll try to make it brief, then. I, uh, just wanted to make sure you’re being treated decently.”

He was distracted as they went by the glimpses he had into her living room, what looked like a library and home office and a dining room. He was impressed. She must have had some serious work done.

He doubted floors in a house of this era had originally been hardwood, for example. The molding could have been from a 1920’s cottage, the effect enhanced by wood blinds either white-painted or warm-maple-stained throughout and a French door that led from an eating area out to the back garden. Kitchen cabinets had a cottage look, too.

The stained maple was the same color as her hair, he couldn’t help noticing.

Countertops had been tiled in a bold red picked up by the display of antique stoneware on a shelf above the upper cabinets.

And, damn, something smelled good.

“You’re a gardener,” he said, gazing out at a backyard that, like the front, wasn’t very big but was bound to be a profusion of cottage-garden bloom in another couple months. There was color even now, mostly from daffodils and crocuses and a shrub with vivid yellow blooms. She seemed to have a lot of rosebushes.

“I am,” she agreed. “It’s my hobby. I especially love antique roses. There are moments I wish I had a way bigger yard so I could grow more of them, but I remind myself how much maintenance what I have takes. I don’t want gardening to quit being fun and start being work.”

“I know what you mean,” he agreed. “I just bought a fixer-upper to flip.”

She raised her eyebrows in surprise.

“I’ve remodeled a couple before,” he explained, “and made a decent profit when I sold them.”

“Really.” After adjusting the heat on a stove burner, she leaned back against the counter. “You know I’m in the home improvement business.” She waved at the bar stools. “Have a seat.”

Because he wanted to ease into his real purpose, he asked a few questions and learned she didn’t just work at Fabulous Interiors, she and a partner owned it. Her area of specialty was window treatment and ceramic tile. Her partner, flooring. The partner was a man—she called him Greg—but Zach couldn’t get a feel for whether the relationship was business-like, friendship or romantic.

He was irritated at himself for even wondering.

“What got you started flipping houses?” she asked. Pretty obviously, she was sounding him out the same way he was her.

So, okay, he could give a little.

“I had a stepfather who was a contractor.” Actually the stepfather whose name he’d taken. “I worked for him summers during high school and college. That’s not what I wanted to do for a living, but I enjoy working with my hands.” He shrugged. “It’s a good hobby.”

She glanced ruefully toward her garden. “Except you actually make money at your hobby.”

He had to laugh. “Mostly. When too many problems don’t turn a house into a sinkhole.” After a pause he asked, “Are you a local?” This was edging a little closer to what he really needed to know. How woven into the fabric of this community are you? Can I depend on you not to buckle under the pressure?

He hoped she hadn’t noticed his stomach rumbling. He’d try to get out of here before he embarrassed himself.

“Yes and no. I graduated from high school here, but left for college. I came back three years ago because my dad is in poor health. Mom is gone...and I thought he needed me.” She huffed. “Not that he agrees. He’s determined to stay in his house. And although he finally let me hire someone to do the housework, he still insists on doing too much.”

“Heart?”

“Stroke.” Grief shadowed her face. “It’s probably just a matter of time before he has another one.”

“I’m sorry,” he said gently.

“Thank you.” She turned back to the stove, giving something a stir before turning off the burner and pulling the pan off. This time, when she turned to face him, her expression was resolute. “You didn’t come to exchange gardening and home improvement tips.”

“No.” Zach moved his shoulders a little to ease the tension. “The department wants the ‘incident’ never to have happened. The two of us are an inconvenience.”

“I’ve noticed.” Her tone was dry. “Should your department be investigating when it’s one of their own officers accused of a crime?”

“No,” Zach said bluntly. “My guess is some of the pressure is being applied now in the hope the department doesn’t have to hand off the investigation to someone else. Which, in my opinion, should have happened immediately.”

“Well, it definitely hasn’t been. Detective Delaney—excuse me, Delancy—grilled me two ways from Sunday. And then he stopped by the store again today. He seems to think if he keeps circling back, I’ll either change my story or he’ll get me to admit that Antonio and I were having a torrid affair and I’m lying through my teeth because—who knows?—I’m protecting his memory. I haven’t a clue.”

He nodded. “Ms. Granath, I won’t ask you what you’ve told him, and I’m not going to tell you what I’ve said, either. It’s easy to be subconsciously influenced once you share what you saw with other witnesses.”

She nodded. “That makes sense. Please, call me Tess. You’re Deputy Carter?”

“Zach Carter.”

Her gaze became challenging. “Are you here to lean on me a little, too? Point out how much damage I’m doing to an upstanding officer’s career?”

One side of his mouth tipped up. “Never crossed my mind. I will tell you that Andrew Hayes is an ass.”

Her carefree laugh came out of the blue, considering what they’d been discussing. “In that case, unless you’re expected home for dinner, you’re welcome to share mine. It’s chicken in a wine sauce on brown rice.”

“It smells amazing.” Damn, he had to swallow his saliva. “Are you sure you have enough?”

Eyes hinting at amusement, she said, “Positive.”

He asked where he could wash up and she sent him to a half-bathroom connected to a small laundry and mudroom.

Tess had produced a salad by the time he returned to the kitchen. She’d set the small table by the French doors rather than the larger one in the dining room. Bright red tulips in a simple white pitcher sat in the middle of the table. A few petals had fallen.

“These were already in bloom?” he said in surprise.

“Oh, I doubt it. I assume they were forced. Truthfully, I bought the bouquet at the grocery store. I spoil myself by buying some occasionally through the winter. I grow daffodils and tulips, but not enough for cutting.”

They served themselves then looked at each other across the table. “I guess I kind of stuck you with company, didn’t I?” he said ruefully.

Smiling, she shook her head. “I wouldn’t have invited Deputy Hayes to stay for dinner if he’d dropped by. Or Detective Delancy.” Her green-gold eyes met his. “Do you know him very well?”

“No. I’m new with the sheriff’s department. I haven’t even finished my third week. I moved up from Portland.”

“What brought you away from the city?”

Zach hesitated. He should have thanked her for the invitation but then declined. He’d have to make it clear to her before he left that they needed to keep their distance from here on out—at least, until the review and trial. And that could be a very long, drawn-out process. Just the prosecutor’s decision to file charges—or not—could be six months or more away.

He was attracted to her, but shutting down anything like that wouldn’t be a problem. Yeah, they had some interests in common, but didn’t share anything close to the same underlying motivations. He liked turning a dump into a house, but not because he was creating a home for himself the way she obviously had.

As far as women went, he enjoyed sex, but only when it came with no strings. Nothing in his life to this point had made him even distantly imagine himself ever getting married. He rarely had a relationship—if you could call it that—that lasted longer than a couple months.

An alliance was what they were building, one that would ensure justice was done.

“I lived here in Clear Creek until I was nine,” he said abruptly. “Then my parents split up and...” He shrugged. “I’ve gotten to an age when I needed to figure some things out.” Like who raped my little sister and then strangled her.

“Oh.” Tess’s expression softened. He was pretty sure she wasn’t thinking anything close to what had happened. “Do you still have...? I mean, are your parents alive?”

“My mother is. My father...” Another shrug. “No idea.”

She went still with a bite suspended halfway to her mouth. “You mean you didn’t see him after the divorce?”

“No. He went one way, Mom the other.” Although he could have kept seeing his father, that decision had been allowed to be his.

Her eyes searched his. After a moment she said, “I’m sorry.”

Jaw tight, he nodded.

She started eating again and kept her gaze on the table, which made him feel like a jerk.

“What about you? Any other family to help you with your father?”

“A brother, but he’s in Alaska. In a pinch he’d fly down to help with moving Dad or cleaning out his house but, you know, it’s hard for him to get away and expensive to make the trip.”

Zach nodded, feeling awkward again. “Ah... Antonio. Was he a friend?”

“I thought we weren’t going to talk about him.”

“I’ll stay away from anything you saw. I would like to know if they’re going to be able to trip you up by claiming you’re not an impartial witness.”

“No,” she said flatly. “That detective tried. I knew Antonio’s name only because Lupe waved and said hello a couple times when we were coming or going. I nodded and smiled at him a few more times. I don’t even know if he spoke English.”

“Do you speak Spanish?”

“As someone who took it in high school, which was way too many years ago. My vocabulary has increased because we get customers in the store who don’t speak very good English. But all I’m capable of are broken sentences in a lousy accent. Oh, and I don’t remember anything I learned about verb tenses. I’ve actually been thinking of either buying a set of language tapes or taking a class at the community college.”

“Lupe speaks English, I take it?”

Tess smiled. “Lupe and I went to high school together. They let her take fourth-year Spanish, which totally destroyed the bell curve. Of course, she pointed out that the rest of us got to take English, which wasn’t any more fair to her.”

Zach laughed then looked down at his empty plate. “This was great. Thank you.”

“There’s a dab more if you have room.”

A polite man would say no. “Uh...”

She dished it up and he polished it off.

“I’m afraid I don’t have any dessert to offer,” Tess said. “But if you’d like a cup of coffee...?”

He would have loved a cup of coffee. And maybe to see her smile a few more times. Which meant it was past time he left.

“Thank you, but I’d better be going.” He hesitated. “I shouldn’t have come at all. I won’t ask you to lie, but it would be better if nobody knows we’ve talked.”

“If you’re parked out in front...”

“I’m not.”

Her eyes widened. “Do you want to sneak out the back and hop over the fence?”

“I’d probably trample on whatever you have growing out there, tear my pants on the fence and discover your next-door-neighbor has a Doberman.”

Tess chuckled. “No Doberman, but the rest sounds possible.”

“Let me give you my phone number in case you run into trouble.”

She nodded and jotted it down. He hoped she’d put it in her phone. She would probably never need it, but...the stand they had taken was infuriating a dangerous man.

She walked him to the door. “I’m glad you were there,” he said. “With two of us speaking out, we may be able to force the department to hold Hayes accountable.”

She offered her hand. “If you hadn’t been there, I’d have lost all faith in the police. So thank you.”

They shook, her hand fine-boned and a little cool to the touch. He opened the front door to find that dusk would enable him to depart unseen. He’d pass through the circle of light from only one streetlamp. No sheriff’s department cruiser lurked. “I’ll hope to see you in court,” he said politely. And not until then.

She’d retreated as obviously as he had. Like his tone, her smile was courteous and no more. “Don’t forget Fabulous Interiors when you get to that stage on your house.”

“I won’t.” He took the porch steps two at a time and moved with long strides to the sidewalk and down the street. Behind him he heard the quiet sound of her door closing.

* * *

SUNDAY, TESS VISITED Lupe again, giving only a single, shuddering glance at the small house next door. That was enough to tell her nobody had cleaned up the blood that had dried on the step and the concrete walk. Had the police ever even put up that yellow crime scene tape? If so, it was gone. Probably the landlord would eventually slosh soapy water and wash Antonio’s lifeblood off into the unkempt lawn.

It bothered Tess to know that everything Antonio and his relatives owned had been left behind, too, to be thrown away or given to a thrift store. Unless neighbors knew where his uncle and cousins had gone and helped them reclaim their possessions. Tess rather hoped so. She was tempted to ask if Lupe knew, but didn’t want to put her on the spot.

Lupe and Rey wanted to know what the police had said and what they’d asked Tess. She was even more conscious of the tension from Rey. He wasn’t hostile, but his usual wariness around her had been better disguised by civility. Lupe kept stealing quick, nervous peeks at him.

Tess made her excuses and left sooner than she’d planned.

She felt both angry and disturbed all evening. Reading about tragedies like Antonio’s death was one thing, seeing it in too vivid color was another. And the police response was just as unnerving. Her simple faith in her friendly local cops had been shattered.

Except for Zach Carter, of course, who’d made it clear he’d be keeping his distance.

She was a little bit sorry about that. He was a sexy man who also had integrity and construction skills. It was hard not to wonder whether he might have been interested in her under other circumstances.

Well, chances were she wouldn’t see him again until they both appeared in court—if that happened.

* * *

MONDAY MORNING SHE had parked in her usual spot in the alley behind the store and rounded the Dumpster before seeing the piece of paper pinned to the plain back door of Fabulous Interiors. That was odd. A message from one of their installers?

Ten feet away, she froze, clenching the straps of her handbag in a white-knuckled grip. In livid red marker, someone had printed BACK OFF BITCH OR ELSE.

Deep breaths, she told herself. Sticks and stones. Really, as threats went, this was high-school caliber. Immature and not specific.

But when she blinked, she saw Andrew Hayes’s face, flushed with uncontrollable rage. His fists flew. Blood spattered. Antonio’s head snapped back and he fell.

Deputy Hayes might be immature, but he was big and muscular and violent. And she was a threat to him.

Oh, God. Oh, God.

Fear seized her until she shook, but a rising anger gradually enabled her to move again. What she should do was call 911, wait for a Clear Creek PD officer to arrive and then let him talk to Detective Delancy.

What she did was take the piece of paper between her thumb and forefinger and carefully peel it off the door along with the packing tape that had been used to hold it in place. She then returned to her car. The sheriff’s department wasn’t ten minutes away. Before she put the car in gear she called Greg, told him she would be about half an hour late and asked if he could open.

“I might be five minutes late, but no more,” he said. “Is something wrong?”

“Yes, but I’ll tell you about it when I get there.”

She parked in a visitor spot in front of the sheriff’s department that, along with county offices like the assessor’s, was attached to the county courthouse. After carefully picking up the piece of paper with the same two fingers in the same place, she stalked inside.

Going straight to the counter, she glared at the officer behind it. “I want to see Detective Delancy. Now.”

He looked twitchy, so her glare must have been effective. “Uh... I don’t know if he’s in or free to speak with you right now, but I’ll find out. Your name?”

She told him.

“Thank you, ma’am. If he isn’t in yet, I’m sure another detective is—”

“I want him.” She must have looked as mad as she felt, because he hurriedly picked up his phone and held a low-voiced conversation coupled with darted glances at her and the piece of paper she was holding in front of her as if it was a soiled diaper.

“You can go on back,” he told her, indicating a door at the end of the counter.

Just as she reached it, she heard a lock disengage.

She wasn’t impressed by the detective bullpen, if that’s what this was, she thought as she stepped through the door.

There was something like ten desks, each with a computer. A bank of file cabinets suggested not all records were computerized. Besides Delancy, the only other two people present were a middle-aged man and a younger one half a head taller. Both turned to look at her when she entered, but her eyes never left Detective Delancy’s as he rose from behind one of the desks.

“Ms. Granath.”

Gee, he’d gotten it right.

“This—” she thrust the paper at him “—was waiting for me when I arrived at work this morning.”

He grabbed her wrist and turned it so he could read the threat. “It would have been better if you hadn’t touched it.”

“I was very careful to touch it only on the one corner. But, really, what idiot doesn’t know how not to leave fingerprints? Especially since this was very likely left by a police officer.” Her voice had been rising. She let the paper flutter onto his desktop.

“That’s a serious allegation...”

“Yes, it is. Murder is a serious crime, Detective. It does not seem unreasonable of me to assume Deputy Hayes or one of his friends is responsible for this.”

Out of the corner of her eye she was aware that the other two men had taken a few steps closer. What did they think—she was going to pull out a gun and start blasting?

Delancy gestured. “Please have a seat, Ms. Granath.”

“I don’t have time. I need to get to work. All I have to tell you is that this was taped to the back door of my business when I arrived this morning.”

He frowned. “That’s within the city limits.”

“Yes, it is. But we both know this has to do with Antonio Alvarez’s death and my insistence on being honest about what I saw.”

“There’s nothing that specific here.” His eyebrows rose. “You might even have an unhappy customer.”

“I am not currently involved in collecting on a debt. Otherwise, unhappy customers want faster service. They are annoyed because an installer failed to show or was late. The absolute last thing they want is for me to back off.”

“Now, Ms. Granath, you’re getting pretty riled over something that may be entirely unrelated to the events you witnessed.”

She stared hard at him then shook her head. “Maybe what I should be asking is how close you are to Deputy Hayes.”

He stiffened. “Your implication is offensive.”

“This is offensive. And I’m here to tell you I won’t be backing off. Feel free to spread the word. And, oh, by the way? I’ll be going to the press if this investigation isn’t taken over really soon by another agency that has some semblance of impartiality.”

She spun on her heel and walked out, both exhilarated by the electric crackle of her anger and a little bit afraid because she might as well have waved a red cape.

Come and get me.

CHAPTER THREE

ZACH WAS DRAGGING by the time he parked his patrol car and walked into headquarters to log out. Given that this was the first day of his workweek—Tuesday through Saturday—he had no excuse for being so beat.

He’d issued half a dozen speeding tickets today, one failure to yield right of way, a couple of warnings, had responded to two reports of stolen items, one of which he suspected was an insurance scam, and had administered first aid to a child choking on a gumball at a convenience store. An average day, except that he’d been aware of some hostile stares in the Hispanic neighborhoods. He hoped it had occurred to his boss that whitewashing the beating would be, politically speaking, a really bad move.

Like it or not, this was going to play out as a big, bad, white cop killing a defenseless, younger, physically less imposing immigrant. That they were quarreling over a woman and skin color might have been irrelevant? Not nearly as sensational.

Mood grim, Zach was striding toward the exit when he glanced down a short hall that connected to the county offices and saw a man approaching. An automatic assessment took in the badge and holstered handgun at the man’s belt. A detective he hadn’t yet met?

The guy froze between one step and the next, just as Zach did the same. He felt as if he’d walked into a sliding-glass door.

Breathing hard, all he could do was stare. This could not be... But the eyes were his. The height, the build. Not the face. This man’s was craggier, rougher. His hair was a dark russet.

He’d been a redhead as a boy.

“Bran.”

“Zach?” His brother shook his head. “It can’t be you.”

“Why not?”

“Someone mentioned the name of the new guy.”

“You mean me. I was adopted along the way. I’m Zach Carter now.”

“Jesus.” Bran dragged his hand through his hair. “What are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here?”

Zach’s brother grimaced. “Dad and I never moved. I left for college, worked for Seattle PD for a few years...but this feels like home.”

“Dad stayed?” Zach gaped at Bran, trying to take that in. “Didn’t he know what everyone thought?”

“Not everyone,” Bran said sharply. Then he let out a long breath. “Sure he knew. But you can’t have forgotten how stubborn he was. People could think whatever the hell they wanted.”

“Man, this is unreal.”

“You can say that again.”

Neither of them had moved or did anything to initiate what was bound to be an awkward hug. And yet, part of what Zach felt was something so unrecognizable it took a minute for him to label it as joy. His brother, here in front of him. A cop, too.

He hadn’t forgotten the vast wash of hurt, though. This was the big brother who had abandoned him.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Bran said suddenly. “Why come back to Clear Creek?”

“Sheila. Why else?”

This was so bizarre Zach had trouble taking it in. He felt too much. He was thrilled but angry, too, even if he knew that was childish. And still...stunned.

As, in a completely different way, he’d been in that odd moment when his eyes had first met Tess Granath’s.

“Wow.” Bran gave something like a laugh. “Your shift over?”

“Yes. You?”

“Yeah, I took a recent vacation. Payroll got confused.” He indicated the door behind him with a gesture. “I had to clear it up. Uh...any chance you’re free? We could go get a drink. Have dinner.”

“I am.” He thought quickly. “You know The Creek?”

“Sure. Decent burgers and not a cop hangout.”

They walked out together, which Zach found to be surreal. He hadn’t seen this brother in twenty-four years. Never thought he would again, even though he’d worshipped Bran. He smiled sardonically at the thought because they’d fought, too. Zach had resented knowing his brother was in charge when Mom and Dad weren’t home. He wasn’t that much older. Sometimes Zach got almost mad enough to tell about the Playboy magazine Bran had under his mattress. But of course he never would have. Mostly, it was him and Bran against the world. And taking care of Sheila.

Until...nobody took care of her.

And then it wasn’t him and Bran together. He’d have sworn he’d grown past the hurt but discovered he hadn’t. Even so...

He’s here now. Unbelievable.

“I drive the Silverado.” He gestured.

“This is mine.” Bran stopped by a sleek, obviously restored classic Camaro. The only thing it had in common with Zach’s pickup was that both were black.

“This is a beauty.” Zach circled it. “What year?”

“A ’73.”

“You do the work yourself?”

“With some help. I really wanted one of these when I was a teenager. Took me a few years to get one.”

A memory surfaced. “You had a picture of one on your bulletin board.”

God, Bran’s grin was familiar. “A pinup,” he said.

Zach narrowed his eyes. “In place of one of the naked women in that Playboy.”

“You knew about—?” Bran gave an incredulous laugh. “This is really something.”

“Yeah, it is.” What, Zach wasn’t sure. He lifted a hand and strode the rest of the way to his pickup. That did not require him to assume a pretzel shape to get behind the wheel, was good for hauling construction materials and was just as cool, in his opinion.

He found himself smiling. Okay, almost as cool. He wouldn’t turn down the Camaro. Although Bran must have sunk one hell of a lot of money into it.

Ten minutes later his brother parked right next to him in front of the tavern. This early, they found most of the booths empty when they walked in. Two men sat on stools at the bar, one at each end. Neither even looked to see who’d come in. Zach didn’t hear any crack of a cue striking a ball from the billiards room.

He ordered a pitcher and then slid into a booth, Bran across from him. For what had to be two or three minutes, they just looked at each other.

Bran had changed and yet he hadn’t. Zach wouldn’t have expected to recognize him at first glance, but he hadn’t had a moment’s doubt. His brother had grown into the nose and jaw and too big feet and hands Zach remembered. But in the important ways, he was the same.

“Your hair got darker.”

Bran grunted and rubbed a hand over his jaw. “My stubble has more red than my hair does.” He was making as thorough a survey. “You were a shrimp. I thought you might take after Mom.”

“I stayed a shrimp through middle school. No, later than that.” He’d fought a lot of battles to prove that small didn’t mean weak, but now he shrugged. “I had a growth spurt when I was fifteen. Seemed like an inch a month there for a while.”

Bran laughed but it didn’t last long. His face showed the same incredulity Zach still felt. “Mom alive?”

Tensing, Zach said, “Yeah.” This was a sensitive subject, but he wasn’t going to cover up, either. “On her fifth marriage, I think.”

“You think?”

“I keep my distance.”

His brother nodded. “Which one adopted you?”

“Number three. Lowell Carter. He was a good guy. The marriage only lasted four years, but he and I have stayed in touch. I worked for him summers during high school and then during college, too, after the divorce.” He hesitated. “Dad?”

Bran shook his head. “He died last year.”

Dead? Zach shook his head in shock.

“He was only sixty-two,” Bran continued, “but he had cancer. He tried to quit smoking a few times, but it never took. I, uh, wrote to the last address he had for Mom, but it came back.”

“We moved a lot,” Zach said even as he absorbed the news that his father was dead. There’d be no reunion. He was surprised to feel grief despite everything. He guessed he shouldn’t be. Even abused kids continued to love their parents, and he hadn’t been abused.

Dad’s death was a setback to his investigation, too. There’d be no chance to ask the hard questions now, although he hadn’t yet figured out how to ask your own father whether he’d committed an unspeakable crime. But he would have found a way.

If he’d come back five years ago, Dad would still have been here. Two years ago.

I wasn’t ready. Didn’t have the skills to tackle an investigation this challenging.

He shut down the niggling doubt in his pat explanation. Exploring subterranean fears held no appeal.

A curvy blonde squeezed into jeans that were too tight for her and button-up Western-style shirt delivered their pitcher and glasses and appeared a little miffed at their disinterest. They both ordered burgers and fries.

“You married?” Bran asked.

Zach shook his head. “Are you?”

“Engaged. Paige is a nurse in Mount Vernon. She’s kept her apartment so far.”

“One of you will have to commute.”

“She’s watching for openings at the hospital here in town.” Bran didn’t sound very interested. “Where are you living?”

Zach told him about the house he was buying.

“You’re planning to stay?” His brother sounded surprised.

“That wasn’t my plan.” Wasn’t? Isn’t.

“What was?”

“Like I said. Look into Sheila’s death. Make some money on the house. Get answers, get out of here.”

“And now?”

Zach took a long swallow of beer. “Still the same, except I’m not making myself popular on the job. The sheriff would really like to see me gone.”

Big brother leaned back with a frown. “Why?”

“Because I saw another deputy beat a guy to death the other day.”

“Right. Damn. You’re the new guy,” Bran said slowly. “There’s a second witness, too. A woman.”

“That’s right. I think she’ll stay the distance.”

Bran smiled. “Going by what I saw, I’d put money on it.”

“What you saw?”

“She came in yesterday morning. Nobody told you?”

Zach shook his head. “I’m off Sunday and Monday.”

“According to her, a threat was taped to the back door of her business. Instead of calling the city PD, she ripped it off the door and blew in, insisting she wanted Detective Delancy or nobody. Who’s a jackass,” he added as an aside. “She slapped it on his desk and as good as said Hayes wrote it. Said our department had no business investigating one of our own. That woman had fire in her eyes.”

Zach groaned.

“Then she told Delancy no threat would make her back off, and he could take it to the bank. Or words to that effect.”

Why hadn’t she called him? Damn it, he’d given her his number.

“What did it say? The threat?”

“‘Back off bitch or else.’ No comma. Red marker, slashed on the paper.”

“Sounds like Hayes, all right,” Zach growled.

Bran contemplated him. “I take it your stand is unpopular.”

He huffed out a laugh then nodded toward their approaching waitress. “Here comes dinner.”

A couple of Harleys pulled up outside. Zach didn’t recognize either of the black-leather-clad bikers who took a turn around the Camaro before coming in and straddling stools at the bar, not seemingly bothered that two cops occupied a booth. Bran stayed relaxed, but was watchful, too.

Zach had swallowed a couple of bites before his brother asked, “Are you sure about what you saw?”

He set down the burger. “You doubting me?”

If so, this was going to be a real short family reunion.

Bran scowled. “I don’t know you. What I heard is that a Hispanic guy went for Hayes’s weapon and they scuffled. He went down, hit his head on a concrete step and died. I’m asking what you saw.”

That was fair enough. It still took Zach an effort to unlock his jaw. He took a swallow of beer and started talking.

Eyes sharp, a couple of lines furrowing his brow, Bran never looked away from his face. At the end he said, “So you can’t swear this Alvarez didn’t go for the deputy’s weapon.”

“No, but the woman had a different angle. I’m hoping she knows.” He shrugged irritably. “Either way, Hayes had complete control from the minute I arrived. Alvarez was unarmed. Hayes could have had him on the ground and cuffed at any time. Instead he hammered him.”

“He’s on leave.”

“Yep. Because the ‘incident’ did result in a death,” Zach said with curled lip.

“You’re getting the feeling the department wants to soft-pedal it?”

“Oh, yeah. Because they think of themselves as one big family. In times of trouble, they stand behind one another. That’s a quote from the sheriff, by the way. Me, I wouldn’t understand that, coming from the big city the way I do.” He grimaced. “Stokes seems okay, but he’s bending to pressure.”

“What big city?”

“Portland, Oregon.”

Bran nodded acknowledgment. “Nothing like being the new guy and stirring up trouble.”

“Oh, yeah,” he said again. “But Ms. Granath is right. This investigation can’t stay in-house. Does the sheriff really think the two of us are just going to go away and the department can bury the whole thing along with the body?”

Still with that frown, which might be permanent, Bran swirled some fries in ketchup and ate them before saying, “I don’t know. I’ll keep an ear to the ground.”

What was that supposed to mean? I’m on your side? I’ll mull it over? Or he wasn’t taking a stand of any kind but felt he had to say something?

Zach resumed eating.

It had to be a couple of minutes before Zach asked, “Have you tried looking into Sheila’s murder?”

“Off and on. No one wants to talk to me. My last name is Murphy.” He shrugged. “A couple of the detectives were around then and know who I am.”

“Nolte?” The name rose from Zach’s subconscious, surprising him.

“You remember the cops’ names? You weren’t very old.”

He frowned, dredging his memory, finally having to shake his head. “Only his. Because of the actor.”

“Except he wasn’t Nick,” Bran added.

“Last name’s all I remember.”

“It’s Darren. But he has retired to Arizona. I tried to get access to records through Scott Wiegand, the other one I remember interviewing Mom and Dad. I didn’t get the feeling he cares much if they ever close the case.”

“I always wondered how much investigation they actually did.”

“DNA wasn’t on their register then.” Bran dumped salt on his fries. “I kind of get the feeling it still isn’t. I asked if they’d thought about testing her nightgown, but he mumbled something about no budget.”

Zach straightened. “They still have her nightgown?”

“I don’t know. The fact that he didn’t want to talk about it gives me a bad feeling.”

“Shit.” Zach brooded for a minute. “What did you find out?”

“Nothing. He shut me down.”

“You know they both thought Dad did it. They just couldn’t prove it.”

“That’s bullshit,” Bran snapped.

The two men locked eyes.

“Is it?” Zach asked.

“You’re seriously asking?” His brother was pissed. “What would make you think something like that? You knew Dad!”

Zach glared. “Who do you think did it? Came in our house without breaking a window, got Sheila outside without her so much as screaming? Tell me that.”

“One of Mom’s many lovers,” his brother said bitterly. “She might have handed out keys as often as she spread her legs.”

Zach wanted to take offense but their mother had liked to pick up men. A little thing like a wedding ring on her finger didn’t stop her.

Another thought occurred to him. “That’s why you went with Dad.”

“I tried to tell you. You wouldn’t believe me.”

“She was my mother!”

Turned heads told him he’d let his voice rise. As if he cared.

“She was a slut,” his brother said flatly.

“Dad lied to the investigators.”

Bran jerked back. “What?”

“He claimed he slept the night through. He didn’t. I heard footsteps...and he took a piss. Then I thought I heard the back door.” The memory haunted him. But he’d been a kid, barely nine. Maybe he’d dreamed it. Fallen back asleep after hearing his dad get up to use the john. Awakened again when the killer carried Sheila out. “He got up sometimes at night and went outside for a smoke.” Mom hadn’t let him smoke inside.

“You didn’t say anything.”

“He was my dad. I didn’t want to think...” He rolled his shoulders to release the tension. “But I did, anyway. And as an adult? A cop? Yeah, I think.”

“You’re wrong.” Bran reached for his wallet, pulled out two twenties, tossed them on the table and slid out of the booth. He looked down at Zach. “And I’ll prove it.” Then he walked away.

He’d blamed Mom. Told Zach he hated her. No wonder he’d never written back to her and refused to come to the phone when she’d called him.

Zach hadn’t had the guts to say no when Dad called him. Mostly he’d mumbled and made the conversations so useless and awkward, the calls had come further and further apart until they’d ceased altogether.

It was Bran he’d refused to talk to at all. Zach had called it pride, then. Now, stupidity was the word that came to mind. In his hurt, he’d severed the ties that meant the most to him. Whatever happened with their parents, he and Bran could have stayed in touch. Continued to be brothers. Now...who knew?

Zach pushed his plate away but reached for his glass and drained it, his thoughts reverting to the quarrel that had stood between them then and, apparently, still did. Bran held Mom responsible for the tragedy.

Me? I blamed Dad. He lied. No matter what, he was supposed to keep us safe. Sheila’s bedroom was right next to Mom and Dad’s. How could he not have heard somebody grabbing her, carrying her outside, raping her right there in the backyard? Unless...

A harsh sound escaped him. He had loved his brother more than anyone else in the world. As if he’d time traveled, the devastation he’d felt when Bran had decided to go with Dad was new again. As painful in its own way as the one glimpse he’d had of his sister’s body before he’d backed into the house and yelled for his parents.

He could still close his eyes and hear his mother’s screams.

Dad had gone terribly silent and so angry everyone in the house had tiptoed around him. There’d been raised voices behind Mom and Dad’s bedroom door. Mom might not have actually accused Dad, Zach didn’t know. But their eyes had told the story. They had held each other responsible.

When Bran had told him about the men their mother saw during the day when Dad was at work, Zach had refused to believe him. He remembered Mom’s screams—and Dad’s lie.

So nothing had changed, he thought wearily. Bran and he had made their choices back then and they weren’t about to unmake them. Bran, at least, had an agenda—to prove their father’s innocence. Zach just wanted answers.

Working together apparently wasn’t an option.

It would be interesting to see whether Bran admitted on the job to having a relationship with the pariah in the department.

* * *

TESS WAS FUMING when she finally let herself out and locked the back door of Fabulous Interiors on Wednesday afternoon. She didn’t care what Todd Berry’s excuse was this time. She was so done with him. This was the third time in just over a month he’d failed to show up to do a job without having so much as called. She had gone out herself in his place to install tile today, which she hadn’t dressed for. She had no doubt the splotch of mortar on her blouse was permanent. The things she’d intended to accomplish today had gone undone. And, of course, she had to go back out to the Lacombes’ house tomorrow to spread the grout.

And, blast it, she liked installing tile. When she didn’t have a long list of other things that needed to be done. This was why the store relied on contract installers.

Of which she now had one fewer to call on.

Keys in hand, she reached her car, parked in its usual spot beside the big green Dumpster. She cringed every week when she heard the garbage truck drop the container back into place. Please don’t let them miss. So far, so good.

Then she saw her front tire and whimpered. Oh, crap. All she needed was a flat. A slow leak? Maybe she’d driven over a nail...

Heart pounding, she walked around her car. All four tires were flat. Slashed.

She made another circle, looking for a note or another kind of message. But apparently the slashed tires were the message.

Tess called 911, then a local towing company. And, finally, she scrolled her contacts until she found Deputy Zach Carter’s number, which she’d added right after he’d left her house last Thursday despite her certainty she would never need to use it.

Please let him answer. She desperately wanted to hear his deep, calm voice.

He answered on the third ring with an urgent, “Tess?”

She sagged in relief. “You recognized my number?”

“I put it in my phone,” he told her without apology. “Is something wrong?”

“Yes. Um, Monday morning, someone taped a nasty note to the back door of my business.”

“I heard about that.”

“Just now, I locked up and was about to get in my car to go home. But, gee, what do I find? All four tires have been slashed.”

“Are you parked on the street?” His voice had changed indefinably. Became cop.

“No, the alley. All the downtown merchants do. The street parking is for customers.”

“Are you alone?”

Suddenly wary, she turned to look up and down the alley. “I don’t see anyone else.”

“Go back inside,” he ordered. “I’ll be there in five.”

“No, I’ve already called 911 and for a tow truck. One of them will show up anytime.”

“You’re vulnerable, Tess.” The tension in his voice got to her. “Don’t wait out there alone.”

“Okay, now you’re scaring me,” she told him, hurrying back across the alley. Thank God she still had her keys out.

Then she heard an engine and looked to see the tow truck lumbering toward her.

“Tess?” Zach said. “Are you there?”

She slumped against the shop door, willing her pulse to slow. “Yes. Yes, I’m okay. The tow truck is here. You don’t need to come.”

“I’m already on my way.” He was gone.

She dropped her phone back into her handbag and smiled wryly at the muscular young guy hopping out of the tow truck. “Am I glad to see you.”

“I get that a lot,” he said with a grin.

She told him they were waiting for the police and then discussed options. He could load her car and take it to the tire store or he could go pick up four tires for her and change them here. Of course, she’d still have to take her car in for an alignment, but she could wait until tomorrow. Deciding on choice number two, she called Les Schwab and explained, agreed on the best tires for her car and gave the man her credit card number.

By that time a shiny black pickup had pulled into the alley behind the tow truck, and Zach had jumped out and started toward her, his gaze locked on her face. His intensity made it impossible to look away.

Tess was embarrassed by the rush of relief she felt. It wasn’t as if she had been assaulted or even that she’d been waiting alone. But until this minute, she hadn’t felt safe. Her knees seemed about to give out. The awareness she felt for Zach as a man—tall, lean, strong and purposeful—didn’t help.

Reaching her, Zach murmured, “Tess,” then finally turned to the tow truck driver and exchanged a few words. With a deep rumble, the truck departed.

“Still no police?” Zach asked, frowning.

“No. I’ve only had to call them once before, when we had a break-in. It took them half an hour that time, but it wasn’t an emergency. I mean, the guy was long gone.”

“This one presumably is, too, but I want to look around.”

He circled the Dumpster and went as far as each end of the alley, scanning the pavement as well as each side, pulling himself up a couple of times to look over fences. He returned, shaking his head. “Nothing.”

“What would you expect to find?”

He grunted. “Nothing. But you never know. The CCPD officer should look in the Dumpster to make sure our guy didn’t toss the knife.”

“Oh, sure,” she scoffed. “With fingerprints intact.”

His grin softened his usually bleak expression. His sharp blue eyes searched hers. “You okay?”

She’d crossed her arms tightly, Tess realized. Holding herself together. “I’m a little freaked,” she admitted.

“This is going to cost you, too.”

“My insurance might cover part of it. I’ll study the policy when I get home. If not—” Thank goodness for the indignation that made the fear recede. “Damn it, I bought a full set of new tires in November.”

Zach crouched beside one of her front tires, inspecting the slash and giving her an excellent view of his broad back with the olive-green shirt taut across it. “Nobody will be fixing these, that’s for sure.” He rose with an athletic ease she envied and faced her. “No note?”

Tess shook her head. “I assumed this was the ‘or else.’”

His eyes were very intense. “Or only the beginning. This kind of harassment may continue.”

She couldn’t help a small shiver. “What about you? Have you had anything like this happen?”

“Not yet.” His jaw muscles knotted. “I was given a few days’ grace to think about whether I want to rock the boat. I’m expecting to have another sit-down with the sheriff any day. The closest to a threat that’s come my way so far is being told I won’t be very popular with my fellow deputies if I insist on bringing Hayes down.”

Oh, heavens—her muscles were tightening and she wanted to retreat a step. “You’ve been worrying about whether I’d back down, but it’s more likely you will.”

“No.” There was no give in the one word, but his expression revealed his troubled state of mind. “The police culture does push us to support one another, and there’s good reason for that. We do a tough job. We have to be able to trust fellow officers. Civilians don’t always understand why we react the way we do...the split-second decisions we make. And we’re human. We make mistakes. This...was different.”

Watching him, Tess felt a burning in her eyes and sinuses. Yes, her first instinct had been right. This was a good man. She could trust him.

She took a shaky breath. “Okay. Thank you.”

“You didn’t call me about the note.”

“It made me mad, but I considered it petty. This is different.” In so many ways. What scared her most was that whoever had done this damage must have used a knife, and probably not a wimpy little pocketknife. This wasn’t just property damage. It was an escalation of the threat. Those deep slashes repeated the threat in an ugly way.

Or else.

At the sound of a car turning into the alley, they both turned. Tess relaxed to see the rack of lights atop the white police car that she knew would have a blue stripe down each side.

Then Zach focused on her again, the intensity burning in his eyes. “Tess, if anything else happens, however petty it seems, call me.”

“But...you implied we should keep contact to a minimum. You didn’t want us to be seen together.”

She couldn’t miss the determination in the hard lines of his face.

“This campaign to silence you trumps that. Promise me, Tess.”

Unable to tear her eyes from his, she finally nodded. “I promise,” she whispered. “But you have to let me know if they threaten you, too. Okay?”

“Deal.”

A door slammed behind him. Zach turned but rested a warm, reassuring hand on her back.

Safe, she thought, letting herself lean just a little. For now.

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