Главная страница | Современные любовные романы | Holding Out For A Hero

Holding Out For A Hero
Pamela Tracy
This is more than just a case…Every instinct Oscar Guzman honed in the military and the police academy, is telling him that Shelley Brubaker is hiding something. It’s not just a secret; he’s sure of that. It’s something darker, more dangerous. And the only way to protect her is to convince her to open up to him. But Shelley isn’t about to let him get that close. Oscar knows that with her con-man ex still at large and probably threatening her, Shelley is suspicious of everyone. But he also knows that at eight months pregnant with a toddler to raise, she’s in no shape to fight this battle alone. And he’s not about to let her!


This is more than just a case...
Every instinct Oscar Guzman honed in the military and the police academy is telling him that Shelley Brubaker is hiding something. It’s not just a secret; he’s sure of that. It’s something darker, more dangerous. And the only way to protect her is to convince her to open up to him. But Shelley isn’t about to let him get that close. Oscar knows that with her con-man ex still at large and probably threatening her, Shelley is suspicious of everyone. But he also knows that at eight months pregnant with a toddler to raise, she’s in no shape to fight this battle alone. And he’s not about to let her!
There’d been a time when she wasn’t afraid of anything.
Now, everything, everyone, every action needed to be thought over, accepted or rejected, and it fell on her shoulders. Maybe it was the pregnancy playing havoc with her thoughts as well as her hormones. She hoped so. Because then, after her little girl was born, things would go back to normal.
No, they’d never go back to normal, but she’d at least be able to make good decisions again.
“Peeve likes kids.” Oscar’s voice was deep, his smile broad.
So were his shoulders. He was tall, with a square jaw and black hair cut short. There’d been a time when Shelley might have added gorgeous to her assessment. Now she was looking for a flaw.
Not his eyes. They were so deep a brown they bordered on black. And they spoke to her. They hinted at safety, yet...she wasn’t sure she could trust him with her secret.
Dear Reader (#ua098f4e0-e42f-54eb-9214-a86f3408103c),
I’m never short on story ideas because my life is a situation comedy without the thirty-minute time constraint and/or the perfect clothes, hair and body. The new point of humor in my life is a puppy named Lucy.
Regimented me, who likes lists and research, decided the family needed a dog. I have a ten-year-old son, and every boy needs a dog, right? My husband wasn’t sure. The cat voted no. I decided on an Australian shepherd, male, between one and three, a rescue that would already be housebroken and like cats. Maybe they exist. I’m not sure. I took the first puppy I saw.
Our little family now has a GIANT German husky who is still a puppy but looks like a full-grown dog. Oh, it’s a girl. She wasn’t housebroken because she was only eight weeks.
The cat’s not talking to me. The husband is talking to me but most of our conversations are about what the dog is eating: toothbrushes, socks, books (never a Harlequin Heartwarming!) and every dog toy (we get two days’ use max).
I walk Lucy every morning and night. One morning, I met a mother and her one-year-old. The one-year-old ran to Lucy (twice her size!), who took it with good grace and slobbering tongue, and the mother and I got to talking. Meanwhile, the one-year-old toddles to the closest house and peeks through the window. Her mother was aghast. Me? I got a whole story idea. You’re about to read it.
Thank you so much for delving into Harlequin Heartwarming books! If you’d like to know more about me, please visit www.pamelatracy.com (http://www.pamelatracy.com).
Pamela
Holding Out for a Hero
Pamela Tracy


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
PAMELA TRACY is a USA TODAY bestselling author who lives with her husband (the inspiration for most of her heroes) and son (the interference for most of her writing time). Since 1999, she has published more than twenty-five books and sold more than a million copies. She’s a RITA® Award finalist and a winner of the American Christian Fiction Writers’ Book of the Year Award.
To my wonderful editor Adrienne Macintosh, who will soon be out taking walks with a baby of her own. Enjoy every moment.
Contents
Cover (#ua6460021-36e6-5987-ad74-7b140058a54d)
Back Cover Text (#ue9b5bc15-e163-52df-9754-1aa4e82ca8ee)
Introduction (#u76333704-fdd3-5f86-91be-65b7aac32280)
Dear Reader (#u1b592535-e3fc-5205-a870-2c8b5c6e6902)
Title Page (#u4f78f8c1-d0dd-52c0-8c2e-fe905da5eea3)
About the Author (#u4d635545-5af7-5d83-9bb8-349adf37ea8a)
Dedication (#u01741598-c846-56ab-aca3-75f4eb49881a)
CHAPTER ONE (#u595a18e4-4c92-59f5-a86d-8d7bef6e2c33)
CHAPTER TWO (#u400fc6f5-37a1-5347-8587-d758a4f16f52)
CHAPTER THREE (#ub33e6656-9f16-54dc-beb5-8e77451424ed)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u71d60b16-044d-5e28-aa9a-5abbf96f4c86)
CHAPTER FIVE (#ub7b2bef3-d2ff-565e-ac85-1313e19aef8d)
CHAPTER SIX (#udb55da26-0ea3-5e05-b43e-602c59d963d6)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ua098f4e0-e42f-54eb-9214-a86f3408103c)
“IF YOU HAVE enough money for your son to be in the only private preschool in Sarasota Falls, you have enough money to pay me back. You owe me.” The anger behind the words was palpable. Shelley Brubaker disconnected the call.
Sarasota Falls, New Mexico, was a small town, and while Shelley didn’t know everyone by name or voice, she knew almost all by face.
They all—thanks to social media—knew her face.
So many people hurting, and her ex-husband was to blame.
In a few minutes, she would take her son to preschool—late, because the baby kicked most of the night and Abigail Simms’s dog kept barking, keeping Shelley awake. And echoes of the unpleasant phone call would follow her.
Shelley was never late. It bothered her.
Ryan could attend preschool only because she’d been awarded one of their benevolence tuitions. Mostly because of all the years her father had donated fund-raiser items from the grocery store he managed.
“Phone!” Ryan had the endearing habit of announcing a phone call well after all conversation ended. His words jarred her from her reverie.
“Thanks for letting me know.” She scooped the three-year-old up and did a half twirl. She used to do five of them, quickly, making Ryan scream with delight.
As she gave Ryan a quick sponge bath and dressed him, she figured it was time to change her number again. She couldn’t count how many people had demanded she pay them back these past six months, since Larry Wagner, aka lousy ex-husband, disappeared into thin air the first week in December. Most calls were local, but some were from as far away as Maine. Never mind that her ex-husband had robbed her of every penny she had.
At first, she’d attempted to explain. The callers weren’t interested. After explanations, she’d tried apologies, especially to the people she’d recommended her husband to. When the dust settled and she realized the extent of her ex-husband’s crimes, she’d almost had a breakdown—which she neither had the time nor the money for.
“Mommy, play.” Ryan, the spitting image of Larry with slightly curling golden hair and dimples, collapsed against her knee, all clean and dressed for fun, and looked up at her with a brown-eyed expression of glee.
There’d been a time when Ryan’s requests to play were met with enthusiasm. Shelley really wanted to say, “Yes! You can jump on my bed, and I’ll throw a ball to you.” But now her bed pulled out from the sofa, and at eight months pregnant, it was all she could do to play his second-favorite game of chasing him around the one-room apartment while he wore a mask and pretended to be a monster.
Shelley tried not to analyze why he was a monster being chased by a nonscary but very pregnant woman.
Right now, though, the caller’s raspy voice kept playing over and over in her head—you owe me, you owe me, you owe me—until Shelley couldn’t breathe.
Ryan took matters into his own hands by heading to his toy box, grabbing his Thomas the Train hat and saying, “Let’s walk.”
He mimicked her tone exactly. At least three times a day, she suggested, “Let’s walk.” Anything to get out of the tiny garage apartment, out into the air. This part of Sarasota Falls, on the edge of town, was a mixture of old and new. If she looked to the right, from the large picture window she could see a block of fairly new homes with a bed-and-breakfast—one of the oldest buildings in town—on the cul-de-sac. To her left, an established subdivision that led to the center of town.
“Okay, let me use the restroom first and then we’ll eat and head to your preschool.” This, her first pregnancy—as Ryan was her stepson—was a study in “Always go to the bathroom first,” and “Eat or you’ll soon feel nauseated,” as well as, “You will feel nauseated no matter what you do.”
Ryan was patient. He’d learned to be during the course of the investigation after his father disappeared. He’d done a lot of waiting for her, sitting on hard chairs in strange rooms with authority figures as Shelley’d been questioned. It had felt weird because some of the people asking her questions, especially the local chief of police, knew her well. Tom Riley knew the answers to the questions he was asking, but still he asked them.
It had been the other agencies, though, state and federal, that truly scared her. They tried to press her into admitting she knew where Larry was.
She didn’t know, didn’t even care where he was. She never wanted to see the man again.
Finally she and Ryan were ready. She opened the front door and went ahead of him. He could go down the stairs by himself, but if he tripped, she wanted him to fall into her instead of down to the ground.
Their new place was over the garage of Robert Tellmaster’s house. He’d been hesitant to rent to her. After all, most of the town had fallen victim to her husband’s crimes, but in the end, because he knew her mother, he’d relented. He was a computer geek who rarely left his house and had been alone since his mother died many years ago. He never so much as smiled at Ryan or offered a kind word to her.
There was no traffic on the street. At nine in the morning, most people had already left for work. Shelley had lived in the apartment only two weeks, and during that time the parking lot at Bianca’s Bed-and-Breakfast had been pretty much empty except for an oversize motorcycle. So far, Shelley hadn’t figured out who the motorcycle’s owner was, just that he worked strange hours. Bianca was one of the few in town who still nodded to Shelley when they passed each other. She’d even brought over some diapers and a crocheted blanket for the “little one.”
Speaking of little ones. “We’re going to be a tad late.” Shelley awkwardly bent to tie Ryan’s shoe. “But you’ll be there in time for play.”
Ryan didn’t seem to care. He was watching a bird fly across the street and land in a tree in front of the house belonging to the newlyweds.
They had to be newlyweds; they seemed so happy.
Shelley turned to the left. She’d pass the cul-de-sac that Bianca shared with Abigail Simms. Abigail was in her fifties and gardened but always much earlier than nine. Her son was unemployed and in and out, but he’d never be up this early. She also had a tiny white poodle that barked constantly.
Shelley knew most of her neighbors, thanks to her mother and all the years Shelley had helped deliver baked goods to parties and such. The only family in the neighborhood—besides the newlyweds—who weren’t Sarasota Falls natives were the Duponts, living farther down from Bianca. They had a special-needs son who kept Mrs. Dupont busy.
Shelley didn’t think too much of Mr. Dupont. The first week she’d been in the garage apartment, he’d approached her, and she’d gotten the idea he was trying—in a smarmy way—to figure out how desperate for company she was.
Not that desperate. If she’d learned one thing from her ex-husband, it was that love could be an illusion. She intended never to let her guard down again, not with a man who promised the moon but delivered only heartache.
Her distrust of relationships grew as her pregnancy progressed and her responsibilities to her father, Ryan and now the little one fell on her shoulders alone.
She’d expected a love like the newlyweds had. Thanks to her picture window, Shelley had seen them together fairly often. The woman was probably a few years younger than Shelley. She left in the morning carrying a tote bag. The husband worked for Little’s Supermarket, the grocery store Shelley’s father had managed before he got too sick to work.
The husband was gone long hours.
Yeah, Shelley knew about husbands being gone for long hours. Hers used those hours to steal and cheat. Yet when the young husband came home, he always seemed happy and rushed inside, often with flowers in hand.
The wife had family who’d already come to visit twice since Shelley’d moved in. An older man—probably the woman’s father—came once bringing a kitchen table and chairs and a second time with food. A woman came, too, probably a sister.
Interesting.
Shelley took a deep breath, hoping to ease some of her back pain, and hurried to keep up with Ryan as he sped down the sidewalk. Today it appeared Ryan had places to go, people to meet, things to do. His Thomas the Train engineer’s cap bounced up and down with each step he took. Yup, preschool was the social event of his season.
Shelley wished she had a place to go, anyplace other than here. A place where she could start a new life, make new friends, and where people might not remember that she was the hometown girl who’d married Larry Wagner, the villain who brought a small town to its knees. Thanks to social media, for a few days there her long jet-black hair and six-foot frame were the focus of a lot of attention.
The only thing she was thankful for was that her parents hadn’t witnessed her fall from grace. Her dad, thanks to his job, had known almost everyone. Beyond that, he’d been the guy who could fix anything. Right now, he couldn’t fix himself. Alzheimer’s was like that.
Her mother had, at one time, been in charge of the store’s bakery. When Shelley came along, her mom had started her own business and baked from home. For twenty-some years, she’d made the town’s wedding cakes, baby-shower cakes and designer cupcakes. She’d wanted Shelley to take over the business.
But Shelley’d been a dreamer and thought the big city offered something small towns didn’t. She’d been college-bound and career-ready. Now she was garage apartment–bound and unsteady.
She shouldn’t have to hide. After all, she hadn’t really been married to Larry Wagner because Larry Wagner hadn’t been his real name. She’d found that out too late. It was a name—one of many—he’d used to con people, and he’d certainly pulled the wool over her eyes during the lowest, most vulnerable point of her life.
Now she was too busy and too angry to let anyone take advantage. Or help. She had to take care of Ryan and get ready for baby Isabelle’s entrance into the world. So far, it felt like she was carrying a quarterback or trapeze artist in her belly. As if to prove the point, Isabelle kicked and Shelley whistled.
“I see dog,” Ryan said happily, and before Shelley had time to focus, he was in the street, crossing to the other side.
Large dog, Shelley noted as she sped up, putting a hand on her stomach and hoping the animal had a big heart, because no way was Ryan not going to pet it.
“Honey, wait a minute...”
The dog’s owner paused, seemed to realize he couldn’t get out of the way in time and, to Shelley’s surprise, stopped and calmly said, “Sit, Peeve.”
The dog obeyed, tongue lolling, just as Ryan wrapped his arms around the animal’s neck. Peeve looked like a stoic old man—er, old dog—resigned to the attention of small beings who tugged on his collar and gave hugs.
Shelley slowed, disaster averted. There’d been a time when she wasn’t afraid of anything. Now everything, everyone, every action needed to be thought over, accepted or rejected, and it all fell to her. Maybe it was just the pregnancy. She hoped so. Because then, after the baby was born, things would go back to normal.
Normal? She wondered if she’d ever see normal again.
“Peeve likes kids.” The voice was deep, the smile broad.
So were the shoulders. He was tall, taller than her, square-chinned, with black hair cut short but still managing to look somewhat shaggy. Shelley might have added gorgeous to her assessment. Instead, thanks to Larry, she looked for a flaw.
Not his eyes. They were so deep a brown they bordered on black. Bushy eyebrows. Yes, that was it. His eyebrows were too bushy. He reminded her of someone; she couldn’t place who.
“You have kids?” she asked. Maybe he was the dad of one of Ryan’s preschool peers.
“No, just the dog. He’s enough.”
“I want dog,” Ryan said, letting go of Peeve’s collar. “Big one.”
“Not until after the baby’s born,” Shelley said, silently adding the words years after. By her best estimate, if she were careful, she had enough money to support her, her children and her father for a few months. Now was not the best time to put in job applications.
“Soon,” the dog’s owner said to Ryan with a quick glance to her stomach, “you’ll have someone to play with who’s even better than a puppy.”
Ryan didn’t look convinced.
“Boy or girl?” the man asked.
“Girl.”
“Must be an exciting time for you,” he observed. Shelley had no response, just an empty, festering feeling that took her breath away—right when she needed it most. The back pain had her closing her eyes. She squelched the tears. She wasn’t even sure which of her many messes she wanted to cry about this time: her ex-husband, missing and wanted by the police, her father’s worsening Alzheimer’s or the loneliness that dogged her steps.
After a minute, she opened her eyes and cleared her throat, her mind scrambling for a response. She didn’t need to bother. Tall, dark and bushy knew a messed-up female when he saw one. He took about three steps back, his eyes guarded. “There’s such a thing as too much excitement. You all right?”
“I’m fine. We’re running late. Ryan, come on. Time to go.”
Ryan, however, had left the sidewalk and was hurrying toward the large front window of the house whose sidewalk they were standing on: the newlyweds’. Shelley’d waved a brief hello a time or two but never stopped to chat. If you didn’t count Mr. Dupont, tall, dark and bushy was the first neighbor she’d spoken more than a greeting to, apart from Bianca.
Not really a successful encounter for either of them. The man and his pet were already at the next house. Not looking back.
“Ryan, wait!” She skipped the walkway and rushed across the grass and around the back of the red Prius in the carport.
Ryan peered inside the house—a short, unafraid Peeping Tom—and asked, “Asleep?”
Great—just what Shelley needed. She didn’t want to deal with the woman waking up and seeing two people looking in the window as if they were spying. “Come on, Ryan. We need to get to your school. Then you can have something to drink.”
Shelley carefully bent down, her hands cupping Ryan under his arms, and started to scoop him up. Since his father disappeared, Ryan spent half his time being clingy and the other half being angry. She was doing her best to deal with both, but she’d had only a little over a year to practice. Ryan was Larry’s son, but Larry had gotten full custody when Ryan’s mother went to prison.
So many secrets in her ex’s life.
Ryan, giggling, struggled and pulled away. She understood. The mommy in her wanted to swing him high, tickle his stomach, get him laughing, maybe laugh herself. Ryan escaped her fingers and turned back to the window.
Shelley followed and stepped closer to the window. Judging by the blood and open, unblinking eyes, the woman who lay on the floor wasn’t asleep. She was dead.
Worst of all, Shelley recognized the man standing behind the woman.
Larry Wagner, her ex-husband.
CHAPTER TWO (#ua098f4e0-e42f-54eb-9214-a86f3408103c)
“I JUST MET Shelley Wagner face-to-face.” Oscar Guzman sat on his bed, Peeve content and panting at his feet, and spoke via phone to Lieutenant Colonel Lionel Townley. Currently, Townley was Oscar’s boss at the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Before that, during Oscar’s military service, Townley had been the second lieutenant who’d given Oscar most of his orders. Of all the men Oscar had served with, he respected Townley the most. So much so that when Townley requested Oscar be pulled from a long-term assignment for this under-the-radar case in small-dot-on-a-map, New Mexico, Oscar said yes before he’d known the specifics.
Of course, Oscar had spent a summer of his childhood in this small dot and had an aunt here. He had contacts in Sarasota Falls and could get close to Shelley Wagner without her suspecting who he worked for and what he wanted: her ex-husband, Larry Wagner.
“She was walking her son to preschool.” No surprise there. Since his arrival, Oscar had tracked her routine. Two weeks ago she’d made things amazingly easy by moving into a garage apartment just five houses away from his aunt’s bed-and-breakfast.
“I thought we were going to avoid contact for now,” Townley said.
Oscar thought about Shelley and just how hard, in the flesh, she’d been to avoid. For a moment, when he realized she was heading his way but also her son was doing a nosedive aimed at Peeve, he’d been unable to move.
She’d been wearing white capris, a huge red shirt and sandals. Her toes had been painted the same red as her shirt. Cops noticed things like that.
Even more, red-blooded men noticed things like that.
Pregnancy, if anything, only made her more beautiful.
But he’d not been in his cop persona. He’d been an overtired dog walker thinking about a big breakfast and his bed. “She must have been running late. Usually she’s gone when I walk Peeve.”
“Anything unusual happen?”
“No, not really. Ryan wanted to pet Peeve. She and I exchanged pleasantries. I acted like I didn’t have time. She acted like she wanted to get away. After a moment, I watched her hightail it back to her apartment. Funny, I thought she was taking the kid to preschool. Maybe she forgot something. Anyway, it was bound to happen, us meeting. We’re living so close.”
Townley waited a couple of beats before saying, “You’re right. Do you think there was something unusual about her being late?”
“I do. Before this, she left at the same time every morning with a variation of only three minutes.”
Anyone else would have laughed. Not Townley. He’d taught his soldiers about punctuality. “Okay, let me know if anything changes.”
Punching the off button, Oscar lay down on his bed, sweats still on. He stared at his police uniform over the chair by the window. He was bone-tired and intrigued. He was still amazed that he worked for one law-enforcement agency and was undercover for another one.
The graveyard shift was a tough one, but he’d done worse.
Shelley Wagner wasn’t what he remembered or expected.
He’d known her briefly as a kid, but he’d not seen her in sixteen years. Nor had he kept track of her, so reading about her and studying her photos from before Larry Wagner’s departure had been informative. Ten years ago, she’d been a driven high school student; six years ago, she’d been accepted into every college she’d applied to; and two years ago, she’d come home to spend one more summer with her family.
From what he could tell, nothing had derailed her until her parents’ illnesses and her misfortune of meeting LeRoy Saunders, also known as Larry Wagner, and by a few other names—some even the FBI probably didn’t know.
He wasn’t sure why this morning’s encounter had him on edge. He’d never hesitated to think the worst of people; military intelligence had a way of wringing empathy and sympathy out of a man. He stretched out on the bed. He’d reported the encounter, knew where she was, and needed sleep. Still, his mind continued going over the scene and what was happening in the neighborhood. There’d been a black cat sleeping on the top of one of the parked cars. A child’s scooter had been tossed carelessly in one yard. A white car had driven down the road, not in a hurry.
Hours later, a light knock on the door woke him. The sun still brightened his windows, and he was due back to work in an hour. Peeve was long gone, no doubt given freedom the first time he whimpered at the door. Oscar was going to have a hard time separating Peeve from Aunt Bianca. Or would it be Aunt Bianca from Peeve?
“Oscar! Get up,” she yelled from downstairs. Aunt Bianca didn’t know how to whisper. She’d not been in the military, but she could take on any drill sergeant when it came to giving orders.
He headed for the hallway bathroom, and after splashing water on his face, he went down the stairs to the kitchen, where Aunt Bianca waited.
“I have chicken on the table.”
It was never that simple. Aunt Bianca usually had some household maintenance detail she’d like him to attend to, or worse. Tonight was the or worse.
“Abigail Simms’s granddaughter will be in town this weekend.” Bianca sounded very matter-of-fact.
Oscar didn’t take the bait. Instead, he finished his first helping of chicken.
Aunt Bianca was patient. She gave him a second helping before adding, “She’s here for Abigail’s birthday.”
“That’s nice,” Oscar said.
“I told Abigail that you had some free time Saturday and that you might be convinced to take her granddaughter for a ride on that bike of yours.”
Funny, when Oscar first arrived on his aunt’s doorstep, she’d hated the motorcycle.
“Death machine,” she’d called it.
Now it seemed the death machine was okay as long as she could connect it to a little matchmaking.
“I’m doing some undercover work this weekend,” he said, heading to the pantry to look for dessert.
Aunt Bianca placed an elbow on the table, crooked her hand and placed her chin in it, looking at him and waiting. His mother did the same thing when she wanted an answer.
Bianca loved that he’d joined the police department, never dreaming that strings had been pulled and procedures ignored. Even chief of police Tom Riley had no clue his new rookie wasn’t a rookie at all.
Somehow the deception felt wrong. He tried to blame it on keeping secrets from his aunt, but he’d grown to respect Riley and wished the man was privy to all the details.
His FBI boss, Townley, insisted on the assignment. “This legitimately gives you access not only to the files but also to the people who wrote them. If we can prevent Larry Wagner from conning even one more person, your role will have made a difference.”
Townley had that right. So far, Larry Wagner, Saunders, Templeton, whatever name he was working under, had conned a lot of people. He was an equal opportunity crook and didn’t care who he was taking advantage of.
That he’d married Shelley and left her pregnant without any remorse said it all. He was a man without a conscience, and his crimes were escalating. Sarasota Falls—a town with two squad cars and six officers—had been taken, from face-to-face fraud to account hacking. If acting as an officer, low man on the totem pole, working eight at night until eight in the morning, was what it took to bring Wagner down, Oscar would willingly do it.
Chocolate-chip cookies discovered, he headed back to the kitchen.
“You’re not working the whole weekend,” his aunt protested. “You need some time to play.”
“I’ll play when I’ve closed a few of these cases.”
Mainly Shelley Wagner’s, a woman who operated alone and who appeared to be a good—albeit hovering—mother.
“But—” Aunt Bianca started.
He put his plate in the sink and gave his aunt a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll let you know when and if I need a date, but believe me, I can find my own girl.”
“By the time you go looking,” Aunt Bianca muttered, “you’ll be too old to do more than watch television and complain about your health.”
“You’ve been talking to my mother again,” Oscar accused her.
* * *
THE NEXT DAY, he sat at his desk, finishing up his last report when his phone rang.
“Hi, Mom,” he answered, earning a few smirks from other officers in the room.
His mother filled him in on his sister’s latest antics as well as his brothers’ accomplishments. She segued to a funny story about his uncle Rudy’s garage, and finished by saying how excited she was that he had a date this weekend with a neighbor’s granddaughter.
Ah, the phone call was the result of a joint effort between his aunt and his mother.
“I’m at work, Mom, and need to finish up.” Since his return stateside a year ago, his mother had been trying to make up for lost time. She continued a moment more about family matters and then signed off. Oscar had just a few more things to do before he could go. Just as Oscar was closing up the last open file on his computer, thinking about getting to his aunt’s place and sleep, Lucas Stillwater came in, a Snickers bar in hand. On the small Sarasota Falls police roster, he was long-term, having been with the department for over twenty years, and he hadn’t been young when he joined.
Lucas now worked the day desk and no longer patrolled. The most pressing job he had was visiting schools and discussing Stranger Danger. He paused by Oscar’s desk to say, “Hey! Riley just called. We found a DB, and you’ll never guess where.”
Oscar waited. Lucas liked to play guessing games, which Oscar didn’t have time for. Stillwater talked too much and worked too little. It hadn’t always been that way. At least, that was what Oscar had heard. According to Chief Riley, Stillwater’s retirement was merely months away, and his goal was keeping alive and out of trouble. Oscar squinted at the computer screen and responded, “Where?”
“Vine Street. Right down from where you are.”
Oscar’s fingers stilled. His aunt had a few older neighbors. He hoped it wasn’t Abigail Simms from across the street. But...
“That young couple fairly new to the town,” Stillwater continued. “She’s a schoolteacher. Her husband manages Little’s Supermarket.”
Something heavy formed in Oscar’s chest. It moved to his stomach, started to churn. This wasn’t good.
“The last name’s Livingston. She...”
The chair squealed against the floor as Oscar scooted away from his desk. Candace indeed lived three houses down from him and had hung around with his little sister when they were in school. Candace and her husband, Cody, had moved here nine months ago when she secured a teaching job. Cody managed Little’s Supermarket, a chain owned by Candace’s father. Oscar stood, reaching for his badge and touching the sidearm already secure in his holster.
Lucas let out a low whistle and bemoaned, “We still haven’t gotten over the excitement of Larry Wagner and making the national news. Now this. Chief Riley’s not going to be happy.”
Oscar didn’t care.
Candace murdered?
She represented what was good and right in the world.
He had to pause a moment, get his bearings and ask the right questions. “Who reported this?”
“We got a call from Crime Stoppers.”
Anger, white-hot and immediate, sent Oscar to the door.
“Bailey and Riley are already on site.”
Officer Leann Bailey was all the help Oscar needed. Right now Chief Riley thought Oscar was wet behind the ears, good only for traffic stops and petty crimes...but this was different. Personal. Riley might take lead investigator, but Oscar would be alongside him for this, never mind the hours. He’d known Candace most of his life, and she was all of twenty-three and had been married just over a year. Who would take her life? She and her husband, Cody, didn’t seem to own anything of real value. True, her dad was a millionaire a few times over, but Candace and Cody preferred to make it on their own. Before taking the assignment here, he’d even driven up and joined her and her husband for a couple of barbecues in their backyard. Twice she’d tried to fix him up with a coworker. He should have gone, just once, to make her happy. Now...
Oscar paused as he opened the door. “They know time of death?”
“Just that it was yesterday morning,” Stillwater said.
“What was the cause of death?”
“Head trauma. Some sign of a struggle. Husband probably did it. Supposedly he’s out of town. They haven’t been able to—”
It took Oscar ten minutes to drive to his neighborhood. Already police tape cordoned off the house. He parked his motorcycle the next house down from Candace’s and swung one leg over the seat. He couldn’t proceed, though, because suddenly cotton billowed in his throat.
This was little Candace. He’d taken her to her first dance because the boy who’d invited her had backed out at the last minute, and Oscar’s little sister, Anna, had come crying to Oscar. Oh, his brothers had teased, but in the end, Oscar’d had a great time. He and his brothers had waylaid the date-breaker a few days later and made him aware that Candace and Anna were not in his little black book unless he wanted a big black eye.
The memories made it hard to move.
It occurred to Oscar that, except for fellow soldiers, this was the first death he’d be working of someone he loved. And now he was glad his case had sent him to the Sarasota Falls Police Department.
But to make a difference here, he’d have to convince himself to walk past the cordon tape, into Candace’s house, and ask Riley for the facts.
Oscar could see the facts displayed over the front yard. This was a house, cared for by two individuals building a home.
He took off his dark glasses, momentarily blinking at the sudden brightness. When his eyes adjusted, he noted a tiny lizard crawling on top of the gray block fence next to the carport. It was probably hoping for a scent of oranges, maybe the hint of an early spring breeze. No such luck. As if realizing the futility, the lizard scurried off and disappeared into a hole in the dirt.
What had it seen? Heard?
Nothing it was willing to share with law enforcement.
The neighborhood was quiet, as if nature knew there’d been a disturbance and was now withdrawing—like the lizard—leaving them to investigate the disruption.
Next to the front door, two chairs boasted bright blue cushions. They appeared new but had been used. Candace’s tennis shoes were under one of them. She’d obviously been playing in the mud again, pretending to garden. She’d complained last week about “everything dying.”
And now she was dead.
A tiny table was situated between the two chairs. On it, a pair of gardening shears sat with the same black, lumpy mud on its blades as on the bottom of the shoes. Maybe she’d been digging with the shears instead of using a trowel. There was also a pair of flowered gloves that surely were too big for Candace’s small hands. He’d watched her one day, on her knees in the sodden yard. She’d wanted perfection, every rock moved, every weed eliminated. Her fingers had gone through the loose dirt, pushing tiny holes into sections, reinventing space and filling it back in with something that would grow: new life.
A garden hose lay in the front yard. Dripping water spread onto a small section of struggling grass. If Candace died yesterday morning, it had dripped all night. Judging by the amount of sogginess, it had.
Ornamental chimes hung overhead.
No wind today.
No sign of life, literally or figuratively.
Chief Riley exited the front door, carefully closing it behind him. He joined Oscar and gestured to the yard. “You see anything out of place?”
The cotton in Oscar’s throat doubled in size, and tears threatened to spill as he shook his head. He didn’t mind. He’d watched Lieutenant Colonel Townley, who Oscar considered the biggest hero America had, break down and sob over situations he had no control over.
Men he’d lost.
Riley seemed to understand and waited while the sun beat down on them and minutes ticked by.
“You call the medical examiner?” Oscar choked out.
“You think I don’t know my job?” Riley queried.
It was the kind of sarcastic response Oscar needed to snap out of his stupor. “I’ve known the victim all my life. She’s from my hometown of Runyan, New Mexico.”
“I didn’t know that. And the state police who are already on their way will be interested, too.”
“You know who else has a home in Runyan?”
“Who?”
“Jack Little, who owns the chain of Little’s Supermarkets.”
“And that concerns us because...”
“Candace is his daughter.”
Riley said a bunch of words Oscar knew he would not want put in the report, ending with “No kidding. Why didn’t I know that?”
“She didn’t want people to know. She wanted to make friends, get established, before everyone started seeing her for her family’s name and power instead of who she was.”
“It’s time to make some phone calls,” Riley said. “Give me a few minutes.”
Oscar figured it would take more than a few minutes before he was ready to go inside. Carefully he stepped over the cordon tape and stood at the front of the driveway, looking at a pair of sandals by the side gate. They, too, were Candace’s. She always preferred going barefoot.
Riley returned, but he didn’t share who he’d called. “See anything?” he asked.
“Nothing out of place in the yard that I can see, except the hose has dripped all night. Candace never would have left it on.”
Riley nodded, waiting.
“You need to find Shelley Wagner. She lives in—”
“Shelley Wagner,” Riley interrupted. “What does she have to do with this?”
“She lives in the garage apartment across the street. I encountered her yesterday morning walking her little boy. He ran to this window and she followed. Maybe she saw something.”
“I know Shelley Wagner,” Riley said. “And I know where she lives. You say she’s involved in this?”
“I didn’t say she was involved.” If she was, no way would she have been so calm—
But she hadn’t been calm. Not exactly, not when she was hurrying away. Maybe it hadn’t been the encounter with him.
“I don’t think she is involved,” Oscar started again. “She just happened to be out here, taking a walk.” What he couldn’t tell Riley was that she walked every morning and he knew what time she returned. Oscar couldn’t share that she was paying four hundred dollars a month for her one-room apartment and that she had two thousand, three hundred dollars in her bank account.
Oscar knew because Townley via the FBI had provided the information.
“You sure it was Shelley?” Riley asked. “I wasn’t aware you were acquainted with her.”
“Just under six foot, very pregnant, not much older than Candace. Ran into her yesterday morning during my walk with Peeve.”
She’d worn sensible shoes, Oscar remembered. They’d landed silent on the sidewalk when she’d stopped to talk to him. Peeve, his German shepherd, had sniffed at them and then been distracted by a bird fluttering in a nearby bush.
“That’s our Shelley,” Riley agreed.
Oscar remembered her chasing the toddler, who’d taken off across the sidewalk and tottered into Candace’s yard and then to the picture window. He hadn’t watched what happened next. There’d been a noise, and Peeve had barked until finally a cat scurried from its hiding place. When he’d turned back to the street, Shelley had been carrying Ryan up the apartment stairs, and Ryan had been crying. Just another day. That was what he’d figured.
He’d been wrong.
He wished more than anything he hadn’t been distracted by Peeve and the cat.
“Anything else you remember about the encounter?” Riley asked. “It might be important.”
“No, except something was bothering her.”
“You could tell that by how she looked?” Riley smirked.
“I’ve a sister. She had the same look Anna gets when something is bothering her.”
Speaking of Anna, Oscar needed to call her, break the news about her best friend, let her know he would do all he could to bring the killer to justice.
Riley raised an eyebrow. “I’ve got Bailey canvassing the neighborhood, asking if anyone noticed anything out of the ordinary yesterday. I’ll have her go to Shelley’s apartment. They know each other.” Immediately Riley pulled out his phone, called Bailey and gave the order.
Riley managed only a few words before he stopped talking to listen. It was all Oscar could do not to snatch the phone from his chief so he could hear, too.
“You’re sure?” Ending the call, Riley shook his head in disbelief. “Bailey’s talking with Shelley’s landlord right now. Apparently she’s packed most of her stuff and fled. Shelley Wagner’s gone.”
Not what Oscar had expected. He glanced up at Shelley Wagner’s apartment. Bailey and Shelley’s landlord, Robert Tellmaster, were just coming out the door.
Oscar turned to Riley. “I need to see the...the crime scene.”
Riley raised an eyebrow. “The State boys wouldn’t like that. It’s best—”
Oscar took a breath, opened and closed his hands a few times before balling them into fists. “Candace didn’t deserve this. She’s—was—a kindergarten teacher, great sense of humor, could play second base like...” Oscar was rambling, which was out of character. But he knew the victim, knew her well. Loved her like a sister.
The two men stood, sizing each other up. Oscar didn’t so much as blink. He had two inches on Riley, but that didn’t seem to matter. Maybe Oscar needed to check—Riley sure looked ex-military.
“One minute is all I ask,” Oscar finally said. “I won’t go in. I won’t touch anything.”
Riley’s eyes narrowed.
“I’ve been in this house several times. You asked me about what I noticed outside. I can tell you about the inside.”
Riley didn’t like it, Oscar could tell, but he marched to the front door and opened it, backing out of the way. Oscar didn’t hesitate.
He saw Candace first, lying belly-down on the floor. She wore a pink nylon shirt and jeans. One foot still had a sandal. The other was bare. Her brown hair was matted and her head was next to a leg of the coffee table. The table was scooted a few feet from its regular position near the middle of the room. Blood smeared a corner. The couch was bare, except for two pillows and an upended book. The television was off and a few movies were stacked next to it. Across from the couch there were a dozen antique wall clocks. All told the correct time of fifteen minutes after ten. Two easy chairs were in the room. Nothing on them. No animals—Candace’s husband, Cody, was allergic. Oscar couldn’t bring Peeve when he visited.
A large wedding portrait hung over the couch.
Except for Candace, nothing appeared out of place.
He stepped back, bowing his head to say a quick prayer, mostly thinking of how devastated Cody would be.
“Everything is as it should be.” Oscar proceeded to fill Riley in on his and Candace’s history, last time he’d seen her, family and friends. After a few minutes, he asked, “What do you know about Cody’s whereabouts?”
“He’s supposedly at a two-day meeting in Albuquerque. We’ve got the police there looking for him. He’s not answering his cell, and it doesn’t look like he was in his hotel room last night. No one’s seen him since yesterday morning.”
“I know Cody. He wouldn’t kill his wife.” Oscar heard the conviction in his own voice yet knew the husband was always the first suspect in a case like this.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Riley said, but Oscar could tell he didn’t mean it.
It was after eleven when he made it back to his office and started searching the computer for information about where Shelley might be. With Ryan, she’d need to stop. And since she was eight months pregnant, she’d likely need to stop, too. A lot.
He called Townley, who was able to tell him that Shelley had withdrawn two hundred dollars from an automatic teller before she left town. If she used her debit card again elsewhere, she could be tracked.
Townley suggested that Oscar head for Santa Fe. It was big enough to get lost in. “She has no known relatives except her father,” Townley reminded him. Oscar added the address of the father’s care center to his notebook. Townley sent a file detailing Shelley’s history, including names of college roommates, instructors, people she’d worked with.
Oscar printed it out and compared it to the file Sarasota Falls had on her, looking for repeated names. There weren’t many, as her local file had more to do with her connection with Larry Wagner.
Wagner had stolen and scammed roughly seven hundred thousand dollars from the good people of Sarasota Falls.
Over three hundred thousand of that came from the sale of Shelley’s family home and its furnishings.
Riley was good. Thorough. He’d ferreted out two women who’d had affairs with Wagner during his short marriage to Shelley. One worked at the bank. The other wasn’t named, but a desk clerk at the Sarasota Falls Inn swore Wagner had checked in with a high-class blonde at least five times. The signature on file matched Wagner’s handwriting. Unfortunately, the female hadn’t signed any receipts, and Wagner hadn’t called her anything but Sugar.
Picking up the phone, Oscar called Riley. “I’m going to head over to the care center where Shelley’s dad is.”
“Good idea. Wait for me. I’m coming in.”
“State police arrived?” Oscar asked.
“An hour ago. A couple of pretty decent guys. They looked over our reports of what the people in the neighborhood did and didn’t see. They took even more photos than I did. They think she was pushed and happened to hit her head on the table. But, based on the condition of the bedroom, they know there was a struggle. Coroner arrived right after they did.”
“Struggle in the bedroom. Did...?” Oscar hated that his attempt not to contaminate the crime scene meant he’d gone no farther than the front door. There’d been more to see, more that other people might miss.
“Lead guy said he didn’t think so. Seems someone broke in and disturbed her while she was getting dressed.”
“Time of death?”
“Between six and eight a.m., but only because she was dressed. The coroner says it could have been earlier. He prefers, for now, to say midnight and six.”
“If she fell and hit her head, then it might not be a murder.”
There was a full ten-second pause. “There are marks on the back of her shirt that could be handprints. Then, too, the way she landed implies speed and gravity. They figured this out by measuring. At the very least, it’s involuntary manslaughter.”
“Yes, but—”
“They’re still gathering evidence, from a strand of hair they found on the floor to a drop of blood taken by swab from the edge of the coffee table.”
“Have they moved her body yet?”
“Yes, but it will be a few days before we know anything.”
“And you’ve told them about Shelley Wagner and—”
“Yes,” Riley interrupted, “and they find it quite interesting that from the window of Shelley’s garage apartment, you can see right into Candace’s living room and backyard. One of Candace’s coworkers said Candace noticed the young woman across the street watching her and was spooked about it.”
CHAPTER THREE (#ua098f4e0-e42f-54eb-9214-a86f3408103c)
Tell and you’ll be sorry.
SHELLEY HAD ALREADY been frantically packing when the text from her ex-husband arrived. It had only made her pack faster because—just great—after Larry had taken her life savings and left her to deal with the authorities, her first communication from him was a threat.
Sorry? She was already sorry. Sorry for making such a bad decision as marrying Larry.
Unfortunately, every decision she’d made in the hours since receiving the text had been wrong, really wrong, and downright stupid.
If she could do one thing over, she’d scream for the man with the dog to come back. She’d scream as loud as she could. Scream so loud they’d hear her in the next county. There’d been a moment when she could have brought down her husband.
The memories of what he could do when angry had stilled her voice; the memories hadn’t stilled her feet. Which was why her first instinct had been to run.
She squinted at a green sign up ahead and shook her head when she could make out the town’s name. One more small town she’d never heard of. She’d already put almost three hundred more miles on her old green Impala. She wasn’t even sure where she was heading.
She checked the rearview mirror. Ryan slept at last. She’d not handled him well, either. It was her own fault she’d wound up traveling with a tired, confused three-year-old because she’d utterly failed during the split-second packing stage. She’d correctly grabbed his worn Thomas the Train backpack and necessary box of Legos. However, she’d undervalued the beloved Winnie-the-Pooh stuffed animal.
She’d never do that again.
The only thing she’d done right, because she couldn’t leave that poor woman lying in her living room with no one knowing she was there, was stopping at a convenience store and telling the cashier that she thought she might be in labor and needed to call her husband but didn’t have a phone.
Sometimes being eight months pregnant got results.
She’d called Crime Stoppers. Then she’d headed west. That had been over four hours ago and it was time to stop for gas and check her messages. She had one.
And not from her ex-husband; she’d blocked his calls.
A nurse at her dad’s care center texted to say her dad was having a bad day and was restless and confused. Would she please come?
If not her, who else?
A new wave of guilt and worry overtook her. She couldn’t run away from Sarasota Falls. Her dad was all she had left of her old life, and there was no one else who cared as much as she did.
And, really, where was she heading to? How would she survive? Who could she turn to?
She’d been relying on herself since Larry left. She’d continue to do so. Only now she’d need to constantly look over her shoulder.
The middle of nowhere offered the perfect turnabout, and soon, she was making her way back home. Glancing in the rearview mirror again, she made sure Ryan was still asleep. Tears streaked his cheeks. Winnie-the-Pooh was the least of her worries. Returning to Sarasota Falls was not the safe or sane thing to do. But she couldn’t leave her father alone.
Soon her cheeks looked like Ryan’s.
The miles passed as one small town after another whisked by. In each, people did normal, everyday tasks. None would guess the turmoil going through her mind. She envied them, their quick trips to the store or to pick up kids. A simple day sounded heavenly.
But not for her. Her back hurt, her side had some sort of pulled muscle and all she wanted to do was walk. Maybe that wasn’t what she wanted, but what the baby wanted. Sitting still this long hadn’t been easy. Careful to check for traffic—none—she queried Siri and found out that Sarasota Falls was still miles ahead.
It would be an hour or so before she could check on her father. She’d called, and a nurse reported that her dad was in his room sleeping. Shelley needed to see for herself, first thing, before she returned to an apartment that would never again feel safe.
Eventually, the city limits shimmered ahead. There were no tall buildings, more a gentle sloping of a small business district surrounded by homes.
She stopped at the first light, feeling panic start to surface. Then the light changed to green. Shelley needed to turn right to get to the apartment. Instead she turned left. She wanted her father. It didn’t matter that he could offer her no real advice.
A few minutes later, she pulled into a fairly deserted parking lot. She gathered her purse and rounded the car to help Ryan from his car seat. She’d just put her hand on the door handle when her phone pinged.
Don’t look at it.
She took Ryan from his seat, balancing him against her. He was getting heavier, growing, and with her advancing pregnancy, she was getting bulkier. She kicked the door shut with her foot and was soon inside the building, at the front desk, saying, “Did you just call me?”
“No,” said the nurse, scooting the sign-in sheet toward Shelley.
“How’s my dad?”
“Better now. He was very agitated, awake several times and roaming the halls more than usual.”
Shelley wrote down her name and the time of arrival on the sign-in sheet before heading down the hall. Music came from the piano room. Wheelchairs were in the hallways. Most of their owners were elderly, but not all. Alzheimer’s wasn’t limited to those in their twilight years.
Her dad was in his room, sitting on the edge of the bed, just staring at the closet. He had a shirt on, plus a tie, but no pants. Laying Ryan on the couch, she placed protective cushions on the floor and then—glad for something to do, something to take her mind off her troubles even for a moment—turned to help her dad with his pants.
When she finished, her dad went back to staring at the closet. On the couch, Ryan continued sleeping. She sat down next to her father, thinking about decisions she didn’t know how to make.
Maybe a minute passed, maybe twenty, before her dad finally moved. He stood, rounded the bed and picked up the newspaper that waited on the bedside table. She noted how the bottom half of his shirt was unbuttoned and how he put the paper down, picked it up again and then did the same three more times until she gently removed it from his hand.
“Dad, how are you doing today?” She didn’t really expect an answer. “Would you like me to read some of the articles to you?” Immediately she decided that was a bad idea. There might be something in there about the murder. Information she needed to know but couldn’t stomach just ten minutes after returning to Sarasota Falls.
He sat down on the couch, one of his hands going out to pat Ryan’s foot. She checked her phone. A message from her service provider, but nothing from Larry. Could he get to her father, and what should she say to the front desk to warn them? One thing was for sure—she’d made the right choice returning. It wasn’t just herself and Ryan she had to consider. It was her father, too.
“So, Dad, did you hear that Abigail Simms’s son got a new job? He’s working at the car wash.”
Her dad wasn’t listening, but Ryan stirred, looked at her, turned over and went back to sleep.
Shelley kept talking, more to fill the silence than anything else. “When I picked up Ryan from preschool the other day, everyone was talking about whether or not all-day kindergarten would be offered next year at the elementary school. Guess I should be thinking about all that, huh, for the future?”
If she had a future...
Her dad started nodding at her every word—as she’d jabbered on about the weather, politics, TV shows—but he offered no response for over an hour. Just when she was about to say her goodbyes and figure out her next move, he spoke up. “I have a daughter named Shelley. She’s a little younger than you.”
She sat back down. “I am your daughter, Shelley. I’m here visiting you, Dad. I brought you some peppermints for your candy bowl.” At a convenience store halfway home, she’d spent money she didn’t have for candy he shouldn’t have. Because...because she might have to leave, disappear, figure out how to keep her children safe from their father.
And in the process she’d lose contact with her own father when he needed her most.
“Shelley’s in college. She’s studying finance,” Dad said.
“I graduated a few years ago, Dad. With a major in English and a minor in finance.” Those were happier days, when she believed everyone was a friend and the world was for the taking.
He continued, “She’ll finish school in a month.”
Shelley shook her head. She’d worked her way through college as a bank teller. Once she had her diploma in hand, she’d moved back to Sarasota Falls and intended to apply at the local branch. Her mother’s illness, followed by her father’s Alzheimer’s, had changed all that.
“We’re hoping she moves back home for a while,” her dad said. “I wonder where my wife is. Martha? Martha!” After a moment, he surmised, “She must have gone to the grocery store.”
Shelley smiled, playing along.
“You will stop by again?” her father asked. “When Martha’s here. She can probably answer your questions better than I can.”
Shelley wanted to tell him she’d be by again and soon. Instead, she bit back tears and patted his hand. She hadn’t asked any questions. Today she’d merely filled his candy dish, watched Ryan sleep peacefully on the living room couch, chattered aimlessly and stayed close to her father, wishing more than anything that he could put his arms around her and say, “We’ll get through this. Larry Wagner’s not gonna touch you. Somewhere out there, someone will see to it that justice is done.”
The baby kicked.
“Ow.” Shelley couldn’t stop the sharp intake of breath.
“Martha, we need you,” her father called, waking Ryan up.
“Want Pooh,” Ryan wailed.
“If Martha were here, she’d give you Pooh,” Shelley’s dad said.
Shelley fled the room. Right now, all she wanted was someone to help her get from today to tomorrow.
But that person didn’t exist.
CHAPTER FOUR (#ua098f4e0-e42f-54eb-9214-a86f3408103c)
THREE CARS DOWN from the entrance, Oscar called Riley and told him Shelley was at the care center. “Why didn’t you wait for me?” Riley sputtered.
“I had the time, and we needed to find her. That’s what I did. I—”
“And now,” Riley said, his voice steel, “you’re going to wait for me.”
Oscar said, “Yes, sir,” and recorded the time and date on his report.
He’d barely finished when Shelley burst out the front door, ran to her car and began frantically scrounging through the trunk. Oscar practically fell off his motorcycle in his hurry to get to her side.
“Looking for something?”
She whipped around, and when he saw the tears shimmering in her eyes, his chest tightened. He hated that she’d been hurt. And he might very well hurt her more because he was a man with a mission—hunt down her ex and no way could she avoid being caught in the cross fire.
Then her lips pursed as her eyes went up and down his uniform, recognition immediate. “A cop?” she said. “It just figures.”
“One of Sarasota Falls’ finest,” he said. “So, what are you looking for?”
“Nothing that concerns you.”
“What if I told you that the only reason I’m here is you?”
Surprise flickered on her face for a moment, but she recovered quickly. “Then I’d tell you that you have too much free time.”
He didn’t hesitate before responding, “I wish that were true.”
She took a deep breath and then released it. Oscar waited. Finally she turned back to her trunk and said, “I’m looking for one of Ryan’s toys. He’s inside and upset.” As if to prove it, she grabbed a coloring book that had been squished in a corner and was wrinkled from its proximity to a suitcase.
Oscar nodded and slowly walked around the car, noting the fast-food wrappers on the floorboards as well as the toys in the backseat and the suitcases and such stashed in the trunk.
“Want to tell me why you’re all packed up? Going somewhere? Returning, maybe? Does it have something to do with what you saw in your neighbor’s living room?”
He watched expressions flitter across her face as she tried to compose a safe response.
“The truth always works best,” he advised.
“I heard about Candace. I’m so sorry. She seemed like a nice woman. But I’d already planned on having an adventure today with Ryan. We went to Santa Fe, the children’s museum there, and just got back. It’s been some time since we’ve seen my dad, so we stopped by.”
“You have a receipt from the museum?”
Riley would admonish him for interrogating without him or his permission, but Oscar didn’t care. He was in Sarasota Falls partly to investigate Shelley Wagner, and that was what he was doing.
“It’s none of your business.” She looked back at the care center as the wind picked up, billowing her oversize shirt and emphasizing her pregnancy. She tugged at a loose strand of hair, curling it behind her ear. He remained quiet for a moment. Her hair was limp against her head and needed combing. Not once in all the time he’d been watching her had she been anything less than put together. This was a woman on the edge, and she needed to talk to him.
“I promise,” he told her, “whatever you say, I will listen to and believe.” It was an awkward promise, because he intended to honor his declaration, but knew, just knew, she wouldn’t tell him what he really wanted to know.
She didn’t respond.
“Is someone after you?” He nodded toward her suitcases.
She looked at him with a serious expression. “Everyone’s after me. Because Larry Wagner was my ex-husband, I must know where he is.”
“I’ve never seen you like this.” Too late, he wanted the words back.
“I just met you yesterday. How would you know what I’m like? Oh, wait—you’ve been watching me?”
“Not long.”
Shelley stared at the sky. He wanted to tell her that she’d find no answers there. He doubted she’d appreciate the advice. She focused on him again and shook her head—dismissing him as she closed the trunk and turned toward the entrance.
Two steps had him by her side. “Chief Riley’s on his way. He has a few questions he’d like to ask you. Why don’t we go inside and sit down?”
He watched her hands fist, release, fist.
She quickly looked left and right, searching for something. He looked, too. Then she turned and marched back inside, past the front desk and down a hallway. Oscar stayed right behind her. He faltered at the door she passed through. It led to a combined bedroom and living area. An older man, her father, sat on the couch. His black hair was uncombed and unruly. The television was on, but the man wasn’t watching. Ryan, who Oscar had met yesterday morning, clutched a pillow, his cheeks wet, his head on Shelley’s dad’s leg. Shelley’s purse was on the floor at her father’s feet.
“Everything okay?” Oscar asked.
“No, nothing is okay, but if you’re asking if my dad and son are all right, then I think so.” She sat on the edge of the bed, looking from her dad and Ryan to him. “What do you really want?”
He recognized the tone of voice. She was trying to sound brave.
“Just for you to share what you might have seen in the neighborhood yesterday,” he said as he sat down.
Chief Riley appeared in the doorway.
Oscar watched as Shelley tensed. Thanks to her ex-husband, she probably knew that now started the questions, and more questions, and then a million more, and a file and reports to go in that file.
“So, Shelley,” Riley began. “Looks like you found trouble again.”
Actually, Oscar thought, trouble had found her. He watched as emotions danced across her face. She felt some kind of pull, a connection that he couldn’t tell whether was good or bad.
Probably bad.
It resembled the longing he’d felt ten minutes ago, wanting to pull her into his arms.
Riley glanced at her father, his face softening. “Is there someplace private we can talk?”
Oscar stood. “I noticed a few vacant rooms earlier. One of them should do.” He needed to ignore the connection between himself and Shelley and act like the professional that he was. He didn’t blink, didn’t give her a chance to say no. He stepped toward the door, expecting her to follow.
Except she didn’t move. Instead she asked, “What makes you think I know anything?”
“You want us to start with you leaving the scene of a crime and then fleeing the city?” Riley said.
She looked from Riley to Oscar, and he had to give her credit. She kept her voice steady. “I didn’t flee. I took Ryan to Santa Fe for an adventure. I had nothing to do with that girl’s death, nothing.”
“I hope that’s the case,” Riley said.
Shelley looked up sharply. “It is.”
“I didn’t like it there,” Ryan mumbled. “Mommy forgot to pack Pooh.”
“I hate when that happens,” Oscar told the little boy. “My mom once forgot my stuffed Spider-Man. I cried for an hour.”
Ryan nodded.
“I had to hold on to a pillow.” Oscar smiled. “It made it a little better.”
Ryan nodded again and clutched his cushion tighter.
Oscar sat back down, facing Shelley. “We pretty much know your every step starting early yesterday morning.”
“Because you knew who I was yesterday morning.”
He heard accusation as well as an edge of disappointment thread through the question. “Yes, I did. But—”
Luckily Riley interrupted. “We didn’t start looking for you, Shelley, until your landlord told us you’d packed up and left. With a murder just across the street, and a witness putting you at the victim’s window and looking in, you became a priority.”
She grimaced. “I don’t want to be a priority.”
“Good,” Riley said calmly. “Tell us what you know.”
“I don’t know anything.”
“Shelley Wagner, you know plenty,” Riley accused her.
“I’m Shelley Brubaker,” Shelley corrected him.
“I knew a woman named Shelley Brubaker.” Shelley’s father spoke up from the couch. “Can’t remember if she was a relative or a neighbor. But she was a good girl.”
* * *
SHELLEY WANTED TO tell her father that Shelley Brubaker was no longer good, but if she did that, she’d start crying. No way, not in front of the cops. “Dad, I’m taking Ryan to Cara up front, and then I’m going to go down the hallway and talk to these gentlemen. I won’t go far.”
Then she looked at the two cops, the ones ready to escort her away as if she were a criminal. Bad enough to deal with Riley, but Officer Guzman was the man from yesterday, the nice one with the German shepherd. She’d thought he was just a guest at Bianca’s bed-and-breakfast.
She took Ryan by the hand. He came willingly, holding the cushion and looking up at Oscar somewhat in awe.
“I ’member you,” he said. “You have dog.”
“Peeve,” Oscar supplied.
“I like dog,” Ryan said.
Shelley silently agreed. She liked the dog, too; she didn’t, however, like the cop. She followed him, determined not to cry, noting how Riley brought up the rear, in essence trapping her.
She’d known Riley all her life. He was a good cop. He’d been the officer she’d called just six months ago after the first frantic phone call came from an irate friend who’d just been notified by her bank that she no longer had any money.
Shelley’d already been gathering the proof that her husband had taken her for every dime. She hadn’t, however, known the full range until she’d heard the shrill voice. “I went to buy Christmas presents and my bank card was rejected!”
Shelley still remembered holding her cell phone tight, letting the truth of the words sink in and knowing the black hole of her life had just gotten blacker.
“The bank says,” the caller continued, “that the money was withdrawn by your husband. The check I wrote him was for six hundred dollars, and the check he presented was for six thousand dollars. All I had!”
Shelley’d mumbled an apology, followed by a promise to find out what had happened, and then tried Larry’s cell number: disconnected. Before she could move off the couch, three more calls came from friends experiencing the same thing. Then the bank president had called. Seemed Larry had been busy that morning. The bank president deemed it suspicious activity. Soon the whole town knew.
By the time Chief Riley arrived, Shelley had checked the dresser where Larry kept his things. His clothes remained, except for a few favorites. She’d have never noticed them gone if she hadn’t looked.
She’d been so upset, she’d thrown up.
Once the story broke, Shelley became the scapegoat. No surprise—she’d been the one left behind with no money to start over. She’d changed her phone number and email address, but still the calls and emails came. Most were from people who wanted her to pay them back. Not possible. Riley couldn’t offer any meaningful advice except that she “wasn’t the only one it had happened to.” Not what she needed to hear, but she’d seen it in his eyes. She was just one more victim: not a role she desired and not one she intended to keep forever.
Now here she was again, walking down the hallway with Chief Riley, curious glances aimed her way and an unsettling feeling of guilt warring with the flutter of the baby’s movements.
A shout came from her father’s room. “I think Shelley Wagner was a neighbor!”
Shelley blinked hard. She would not cry.
Riley offered, “Maybe it would be better if we headed to the station and—”
“Not an option, unless you’ve got a warrant for my arrest.” She wasn’t heading anywhere. Thanks to Larry and the myriad of police officers who had taken over her life six months ago, she knew her rights.
“That can be arranged,” Riley said.
Shelley rolled her eyes and led them down a hall. After turning Ryan over to Cara, who worked the front desk and always had time for the little boy, Shelley headed for the piano room. On weekends sometimes it held as many as forty people: patients, staff, visitors. During the week, it was usually empty unless Mr. Vaniper was in the mood to play.
He was and doing a perfect rendition of “Send in the Clowns.” If she hadn’t been on the brink of tears, she’d have laughed. Who were the clowns? The cops? The people her ex-husband had ripped off? Her?
Mr. Vaniper, who had the room next to her father’s, wore his black tux. He played music he no longer remembered the words to in front of an audience he didn’t know wasn’t there. The tune came to a crescendo and ended. Mr. Vaniper wandered from the room.
Officer Guzman stepped up to the front desk and said something to Cara while Chief Riley escorted Shelley to a beige couch, covered with roses and vines, flanked by two pink high-back chairs. A coffee table with a fake flower arrangement was in front of the couch. Shelley sat on a chair. No way did she want to be trapped between these two cops. Her innocence had dissolved almost as quickly as her trust in the system.
“We know,” Riley started, taking a seat opposite her, “that you contacted me about Candace’s murder. What exactly did you see yesterday?”
Shelley swallowed back hot bile. It rose inside her like a mountain of fear. She couldn’t trust the cops. Yet she had a dozen things she wanted to say. She wanted to tell them that she was almost out of money, that her father was drifting further and further away, that she’d started introducing Ryan as Ryan Brubaker but that he was legally Ryan Wagner and she was terrified that someone would figure out her name wasn’t on the custody papers and take him from her. She wanted to tell them she’d seen her ex-husband standing there in that living room yesterday morning, and that she’d run home, dragging Ryan with her, and sat down on her couch, fumbling with the phone, intending to call.
She wanted to tell them that her ex-husband still had the ability to pull her puppet strings and that he’d killed Candace and had threatened Ryan and seemed to know her every step. She couldn’t answer the cops’ questions honestly because she knew her ex-husband would make her disappear.
It could even happen today.
CHAPTER FIVE (#ua098f4e0-e42f-54eb-9214-a86f3408103c)
OSCAR COULDN’T DENY that he felt drawn to Shelley. And it made no sense when examining what was stacked against her. There was the packed car, the fact that she’d fled the crime scene and the town. No matter how he looked at it, Shelley Wagner—Brubaker, that was—was more involved in this murder than they originally suspected. Too bad. Oscar had gotten the idea that he could like this kind, determined woman.
Didn’t mean she was completely innocent; he had to remind himself of that.
She was working hard to keep control, and Oscar had the feeling it wouldn’t take much to get her to reveal what she knew. She kept looking past them, through the wide doorway, at the front desk, where the nurse and Ryan were playing some online game on the computer.
Riley placed an audio recording device on the coffee table in front of them. Oscar couldn’t tell where he’d stashed it earlier. “Do you mind if I record this?”
“I do mind.”
Riley didn’t hesitate. “Then I’ll take notes.”
A visitor or two wandered into the piano room, seemed to sense the seriousness of the situation and quickly wandered out.
Shelley, her voice shaky, said, “Look, I got scared yesterday. Maybe I made a few bad decisions, but what’s happening now, you here questioning me, is exactly why I didn’t report the...the body immediately or report it in person.”
Oscar watched Riley regroup and understood exactly what the other cop was doing. They needed Shelley to work with them, not against them. Riley rested his pencil on his notepad, and Oscar used the opportunity to take over.
“Right now, all we want is to know everything you saw yesterday morning. Start with the fifteen minutes before you met up with me.”
She didn’t answer. She sat quiet, but certainly not calm. She perched on the edge of the couch looking poised for flight.
Oscar downplayed the seriousness of her situation by sharing, “I’ve already told Riley what I noticed during the walk.” He cleared his throat, hoping his comment would relax her. “I’ve told him how no one was out, not even Mrs. Simms taking care of the flowers in her front yard. I told him about seeing you, and about a white car that turned the corner.”
For a moment, she was so still, he couldn’t even tell if she was breathing. Then she said, “I’ll tell you what I know, but it’s not much. We were running late. I’d had trouble sleeping because Abigail’s dog woke me up about five. Then the phone rang, and I got upset. That cost us precious time. Fifteen minutes before we encountered you, I was getting Ryan ready for preschool. I tried to hurry him. As we started I didn’t see anyone out.”
Oscar asked, “What got you upset?”
Shelley looked at Riley. “Someone got my number and wanted me to pay back money that Larry took.”
Riley nodded. “Go on.”
“It was hot outside. I was miserable. We walk to preschool. I’m watching my pennies, saving gas. Even if it makes us later, we walk. We’d just made it past the first house.” She looked at Oscar. “The young couple.”
“Candace and Cody,” he supplied.
“We saw you, and Ryan fell in love with your dog. Then he got distracted, and you saw him run up to the big picture window. I followed. That’s when I saw her, lying on the floor. I could tell she was dead.”
“Why didn’t you holler for me?”
Shelley looked like Mona Lisa with her lips pressed together. His sister looked exactly the same when she felt backed into a corner and about to come out fighting. “You were already down the street.” Shelley kept her words quiet, monotone.
“You could have caught me.”
“I didn’t want to upset Ryan.”
Riley took control of the interview. “Ryan saw Candace Livingston?”
“That’s her last name?” Shelley whispered.
“Candace Maria Livingston,” Riley said.
Shelley shook her head. “Poor woman. Yes, Ryan saw her and thought she was sleeping. I don’t think he even noticed the blood.”
“How well did you know her?”
“Not at all. I’d seen her once or twice in the driveway. She’d say hi, and I’d say hi back. Nothing else.”
Riley asked, “You’d never seen inside her living room?”
“No, just yesterday morning when I was looking in. I got away from there as fast as I could. I took care of my son, kept him safe, and I eventually notified the police.”
“It’s the eventually that concerns us,” Oscar said.
Riley added, “Want to tell me why you packed up and left?”
Shelley rolled her eyes. “I’m not staying in the neighborhood. Not only has someone been murdered, but also I’m the one who found her. I’ve got enough on my plate and plenty of reasons not to trust the police. Another reason I called you and didn’t leave my name. I wanted to let you know what I discovered and stay anonymous. Shouldn’t I be given the courtesy of reporting a crime while remaining anonymous?”
“There are ways,” Riley agreed, “to stay anonymous. You didn’t choose that route.”
“I was flustered,” Shelley said.
“What I can’t explain,” Riley mused slowly, “is why you came back.”
“Again, as I told Officer Guzman earlier, I came back because of my dad.”
“Your dad is safe.”
She glanced down the hallway. Nope, Oscar thought, this woman did not truly believe her dad was safe. That meant she didn’t feel that she or Ryan was safe. Oscar needed to find out why. If it wasn’t for the fact that nothing had been taken from Candace’s house—not money, jewelry or electronics—Oscar might think Larry Wagner had something to do with the crime.
Oscar had to act. He was losing this argument. “Ms. Brubaker, Candace was a friend of mine. I’ve known her since she was in kindergarten. She was a good person who never hurt anyone. Anything you can tell us would be appreciated.”
“I can’t tell you any more than I already have,” Shelley whispered.
“Can’t or won’t?” Oscar demanded, ignoring the look of reprimand Riley shot him.
“I didn’t know her,” Shelley protested. “I followed Ryan to the window. He said, ‘She’s asleep.’ I took one look and knew that wasn’t the case. I was terrified. It hasn’t even been six months since my ex-husband took off. You called me Shelley Wagner. You’ve been in town, what, a month? And you already know who I am, so you must know the destruction he left and what I went through, what I’m still going through. I get calls every week from people wanting my story or wanting me to reimburse them for what my husband stole from them. If I had waltzed into the station and reported seeing a dead body, I’d have been on the five o’clock news yesterday. Ryan doesn’t need the circus to begin again. He’s just now sleeping through the night.”
“What if your hesitation, your unwillingness to tell us everything you saw, gives the murderer an opportunity to kill again?” Riley queried.
Not the direction Oscar would have taken, but it didn’t seem to faze Shelley Brubaker.
“Maybe it’s the husband,” Shelley responded. This time she didn’t whisper, and Oscar got the idea she’d given the conclusion some thought. “I don’t have much faith in husbands. Have you asked him?”
“I thought you didn’t know the family,” Riley countered.
“I know that the young man managed the store my dad used to manage. My window looks right down on their house. I did see enough of them to realize who they were.”
“Funny thing,” Riley said. “Her husband is out of town and you left town. Were you meeting up with him?”
Oscar almost slid off the chair. For a small-town cop, Riley knew how to unnerve a witness. He was unnerving Oscar. The cop in him should have been prepared. The human in him wasn’t. He’d been watching Shelley for weeks. He knew she wasn’t seeing Cody Livingston. The woman took care of her son and took care of her father. That was about it.
“I don’t even know his name,” Shelley said indignantly.
“You sure packed quickly.”
“Did you see the size of my garage apartment? Everything I own will fit in a laundry basket. Oh, and take a look at what’s in my car,” Shelley offered. “You’ll find what amounts to fifteen minutes of packing up clothes, games and food. I had no intention of putting myself, or my son, in front of the media again. Fat lot of good it did me.”
“You could have done a fat lot of good yesterday,” Riley stated. “We’d have found the body sooner. The first twenty-four hours are the most important. You cost us a few of those hours when you didn’t report what you saw immediately.”
Shelley huffed. It was the wrong reaction. It bothered Riley enough that he tossed out words like subpoena and civic duty and even mentioned that leaving the scene of an accident was a class two misdemeanor.
The last one, Oscar knew, was overkill. There’d been no accident. Candace had been murdered. Then Riley pulled out his cell phone. Oscar watched as his fingers danced over the screen, and suddenly he was swiping through photos.
He was probably going to show Shelley a close-up of Candace Livingston—go for the shock and guilt tactic. Oscar closed his eyes for a moment, steeling himself against the sudden pain in his heart.
Senseless death.
He’d seen way too much of it in Afghanistan. As a cop, he wanted to help people. Yet cops and murderers were uneasy dance partners with one always trying to lead the other.
He wished the case was all his, that he could take over the questioning, demand answers, but he was pretending to be the new kid on the block.
“Here, maybe you need to see this.” Riley turned his cell phone toward Shelley, showing her a photo.
Shelley looked away. Oscar started to protest. This wasn’t the time or place, but her rescue came from a different source.
“Hello, Mr. Vaniper,” Shelley said. The piano player had returned. For a moment, Oscar thought Riley would continue to talk right through “Amazing Grace.” Oscar’d had to “ahem” twice to get Riley’s attention. Riley passed the cell phone to Shelley. She glanced at it, gave it back to Riley and announced that she’d be calling her lawyer.
Oscar saw the tears in her eyes. They barely shimmered, but they were there, and just as an hour earlier, when he’d seen the proof of her grief, he almost interfered. Oscar almost told Riley what he could do with the photo.
“Good,” Riley said. “Have your lawyer meet us at the station. I’m sure you know where that is.”
If looks could kill, Riley would have been a chalk line on the floor, because Shelley was now one very annoyed pregnant woman.
Shelley stood and started to leave, but her cell phone pinged. He watched as she pulled it from her pocket, checked a text or message and then turned pale.
“Everything all right?” he queried, wishing he could get a look at her phone.
“Just a typical day.” The words were typical; the tone was not. An edge that hadn’t been there earlier was present, a terseness.
Whatever she’d read on her phone had changed things. She’d been both angry and wary during the questioning; now she was visibly shaken.
She retrieved Ryan from the front desk, hefting him into her arms and holding him tight. She made it look easy, but the kid had to be heavy.
Oscar took one step toward her. “You need some help?”
She gave him a look that put him in his place. Alongside Riley, he was pond scum. Usually it didn’t bother him. Rarely could a cop arrest a perp without being called worse than pond scum. Shelley’s look, however, bothered him.
Bothered him a lot.
CHAPTER SIX (#ua098f4e0-e42f-54eb-9214-a86f3408103c)
“SHE’S NOT TELLING us everything.” Riley strode toward his vehicle, Oscar at his heels.
“You’re absolutely right,” Oscar agreed. “She just got a message on her phone and it spooked her.”
“What kind of message?”
Oscar knew Riley was hoping for details. Instead all Oscar could provide was “It was an email or a text, and she didn’t share.”
“I’ll see if I can’t get her to open up,” Riley said. “Usually talking to them at the station works. Doesn’t matter, male or female. It’s all about turf. If that doesn’t help, I’ll get a subpoena, make sure we can legally get to her phone messages. I can’t believe that she packed up her belongings, didn’t inform her landlord, was heading out of town and is unwilling to tell us where or why. Something’s going on. She didn’t act this hinky back when we were dogging her about her husband’s whereabouts.”
Riley got in his vehicle, but before he started the engine, Oscar rapped on the window until the man rolled it down.
“Everything’s happened so fast today. I probably should mention that Shelley Wagner and I have met in the past.”
“Really?” Riley frowned. “Where?”
“Here. I spent a summer with my aunt when I was twelve.”
“Anything I should know about?”
“Not really. Look, for what it’s worth, I think she’s telling the truth about what she saw. It’s what she’s omitting that has me worried.”
Riley just shook his head.
“Why is she omitting anything?” Oscar went on. “Why would she do that? What will it get her?”
It was the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, and Oscar didn’t have an answer. He pressed on. “Call it a gut feeling, and what would her motive be?” Oscar waited, hoping the other man would do a little back-and-forth, share scenarios.
Riley waved Oscar away before starting his vehicle and driving toward the station.
Oscar stood for a moment. He’d overstepped the boundaries set between new cop and seasoned cop. He’d questioned when he should have listened. He’d argued when he should have reasoned. He’d tried to lead when he needed to follow. Going undercover for the FBI meant playing the role, not risking everything because of passion.
He wanted the people who had hurt Candace. Wanted them bad. He hopped on the back of his Harley, gunned the engine and followed Riley’s vehicle. It made no sense to him, this insane feeling he had for Shelley. So what if he’d been watching her with Ryan, watching her idly rub her stomach? She was alone and determined to do right by her children. No, that wasn’t what had him wanting to pull her into his arms and comfort her.
But this wasn’t the time to be empathetic. Catching hardened criminals was part of his day-to-day job with the FBI, and each one had a sob story. Here, in Sarasota Falls, he might run into a hardened criminal—what? Once a year? Maybe. This wasn’t what he wanted, was it?
Still, Oscar hadn’t expected to like Sarasota Falls so much. He hadn’t been crazy about it the few times he’d visited as a kid. There hadn’t been a skate park or an indoor trampoline facility. Now, though, he was interested in other things. Things that had nothing to do with his job. First of all, there was his aunt. What a tough old bird. Oscar wasn’t sure, but he thought that Aunt Bianca was more angry at being ripped off by Wagner than she was hurt. When Oscar had called to say he was coming, she’d laughed, insisting she was fine. When she opened the door to invite him in, she continued to be fine. Now that he was living in one of her guest rooms, she claimed to be more than fine.
She liked his company.
Parking next to Riley, Oscar followed his boss to the station’s entrance and said, “Innocent until proven guilty. I don’t think Shelley Brubaker had anything to do with Candace’s death.”
“Here’s an idea,” Riley offered. “Since it doesn’t appear your Ms. Brubaker is having an affair with Cody Livingston, maybe we should consider that your friend Candace was having an affair with Shelley’s ex-husband. Maybe Larry Wagner—”
Oscar laughed, interrupting the chief. “Candace hasn’t even been married a year. She married her high school sweetheart. Beginning of the school year, they were moving into their first house and talking about which bedroom would be for their someday baby. Not the time to stray.”
“Best time, one last fling. You think you know someone...” Riley entered the station.
Oscar didn’t follow but stood thinking. His first thought was that Candace was smarter than that. But from what he could tell, so was Shelley. And maybe, right now, Riley wasn’t talking about either of them.
Everyone at the precinct was aware that Riley’s wife had left him years ago. According to Lucas, the cop who knew the scoop on everyone and everything and shared all of it, Riley had been gone too much and available too little. It was a common enough problem. Oscar’s last girlfriend had balked when he started training for the FBI. She claimed she’d have been afraid to answer the phone or door should he get a dangerous case. In retrospect, he probably shouldn’t have responded with “They’re all dangerous.” It had taken him a whole month after the breakup to realize that since he’d picked the career over her, he must not have loved her enough.
“But I believe you’re right about Shelley when you said she hadn’t had an affair with Cody,” Oscar said. “Trust me—”
This time, it was Riley who interrupted with a wry laugh. “As a cop, you can’t afford to trust.” Then, as an afterthought, he said, “Trust me on that.”
Oscar knew all about trust and its power. He could say the word even if he couldn’t believe in it. He’d learned the hard way that trust was fleeting, and now he stayed away from commitments unless they were to his immediate family or his job. Most of all, he spurned serious relationships. He didn’t want to marry, have a family, only to have it fall apart due to his work hours and conditions.
He never wanted to disappoint those who believed in him.
No one had been able to find his father. Now Oscar worked for an organization who not only found people but also actually made the world better.
Oscar would find Larry Wagner.
He would find Candace’s killer.
Unlike the police in his hometown, he would not give up. Funny how he’d wound up on the Sarasota Falls force. It was even smaller than Runyan’s.
Oscar wondered if that was why Chief Riley hadn’t paid more attention to a stranger named Larry Wagner when he’d come to town. Oscar would have.
Chief Riley wasn’t perfect, but he was a decent cop. Oscar hurried to keep up. “Candace wasn’t someone who would cheat.”
“You never know what really goes on behind closed doors.”
“Why don’t you let me talk to Shelley? Maybe, because I’m new and closer to her age, she’d be more likely to share.”
Riley raised an eyebrow. “You do much interrogating? That badge is still pretty shiny. And she already knows you were watching her even before the Livingston woman’s murder.”
“Can’t learn without opportunity.”
Riley shook his head. “I think she’d trust you more because of that fool dog of yours, not your age, but go ahead. Shelley’s car is over there. Convince her to get out of it and come in the station. She’s probably got cold feet.”
Oscar turned around. Sure enough, Shelley sat in her green Impala with her head leaning forward against the steering wheel. Slowly he walked toward her, trying to figure out what to say.
He thought about his job, his town, his state of mind. Maybe right now, as restless as he was, he needed to be here. Needed the ordinary before the extraordinary. He’d decided to be a cop when he was just ten years old and caught a rerun of some old cop show featuring a hero in every single episode. Oscar’d been enthralled. This cop would never run out on his wife and children. He’d wanted to protect people. Oscar figured the FBI was one step beyond that.
Extraordinary.
As much as he wanted excitement, craved it, he’d also loved how just a simple helping hand made a difference. He’d wound up changing a tire while on duty and heard later that it did indeed fall under his job description. Riley called it community policing.
He wished that was all he was doing with Shelley.
He rapped on her window. The look in her eyes as she climbed out of her vehicle told him how unhappy she was, yet she kept a smile for Ryan, who was just waking up and crawling over the seat and out of the car after her. He held a toy truck in one hand and a cookie in the other. “Want to go home. Now. Want Pooh.”
“Not yet,” Shelley said, pulling Ryan close to her side. “We’re just stopping by to answer a few more questions.”
“Don’t like it here,” Ryan said.
“Officer Bailey—that is, Leann—is on her way,” Riley said as they escorted Shelley and Ryan into an interrogation room. “She’ll be here in five minutes to watch over Ryan.”
“This shouldn’t take long,” Shelley said, for the first time her voice soft, no edge. “Can’t he stay with me?”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/pamela-tracy/holding-out-for-a-hero/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.