The Closer He Gets Read online

  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 ha
dn’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.