Born to Die Page 10

  “I appreciate that you didn’t take the CI’s word as gold, Isaacs. I haven’t seen or spoken with Ruby Jean in a long time, too many years to count to be precise. Perhaps, and this is a wild guess on my part, she’s found someone who resembles me and is using it as a means to strike back. She’s done it before.”

  Isaacs cleared his throat. “You’re serious?”

  “Sadly, yes.”

  “Man, I’m sorry to have brought this up, but we have to verify everything that comes through.”

  “No apologies necessary, Isaacs. I understand. I’m just sorry you had to be put through it. If you need anything else, you know how to contact me.” They ended the call.

  Boyce noticed the tremors when he lowered his arm. Shit, that was too close. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he closed his eyes and calmed himself down. One time, that’s all it took to get caught and blow the whole case, and his career. The stupid thing of it was, he’d been at that warehouse on an unrelated matter. He hadn’t pieced together until too late that it was affiliated with a dummy corporation one of Mother’s associates had created.

  Boyce dropped his hand and glared at his haggard reflection in the mirror behind the TV. What bothered him was the CI’s claims that Boyce had been around before. Had Ruby Jean discovered who the FBI’s CI was and then learned of Boyce’s accidental visit? How could she have not? That warehouse had to be under video monitoring. Mother’s diabolical mind would use all of this information to frame him, turning the CI into a double agent and further destroying anything the FBI held against her.

  Because of Boyce.

  “Shit,” he muttered and pushed to his feet.

  His temporary, thirty-day transfer was up next week. He’d done what Cedar Rapids had asked of him—this jaunt to Eider for the bank robbery was something to kill the time until his transfer was over—and he’d be expected to return to Memphis. But with this new revelation, how could he? The case against his mother was too precarious for him to be anywhere near “the birthplace of rock ’n’ roll.” There had to be something to delay his return, give the guys time and space to finish the job, and give him a solid alibi that would hurt Mother’s attempts to discredit the whole operation.

  His gaze landed on the clutter across the top of the bed. The answer might be right here before his eyes.

  • • •

  Three nights of pitiful sleep. Cassy snarled. If Boyce tried that little game again, she’d knock his block off. Her snarl turned to a groan when she remembered tonight’s dinner with Mom and Pop at Nic and Con’s. She might as well surrender to sleep deprivation now.

  She parked her truck next to the sheriff’s. Apparently he wanted an early start to the day, too. Gathering her gear, she headed inside the dimly lit building where the soft strains of bluegrass drifted out of Hamilton’s office. Cassy deposited her stuff at her desk then quietly approached her boss’s open door.

  Hamilton was racked out on the battered leather sofa, his Stetson covering his face. By the looks of things, he hadn’t gone home last night, which meant there would be some hungry horses beating down their stall doors.

  Cautiously moving closer to the sofa, Cassy checked for his sidearm and found it tucked in its holster on his right hip with the fingers of his left hand draped over the butt. Jennings had made the mistake one time of jarring their boss awake—the poor kid had found himself pinned to the wall by his throat. He hadn’t wet himself, thanks to Nic’s erratic behavior desensitization.

  Cassy turned off the CD player and took a big step back.

  “You don’t need to creep around like a thief in the night, Rivers. I heard you come in,” Hamilton said from under his hat.

  “One can never be too cautious with you, Hamilton.”

  He chuckled and tipped his hat back as he sat up. Stretching, he grumbled about aching joints and stood.

  “Maybe sleeping in your bed instead of on that hunk of junk would prevent that,” Cassy pointed out.

  “I don’t recall asking for your two cents on the matter, Deputy,” he said as he entered the small bathroom.

  “Making an observation.”

  Hamilton grunted and shut the door to the private bathroom. She cleared her throat and discreetly stepped out of his office to make a large pot of coffee. As a dispatcher, Jolie was usually the first one in the office in the mornings and, thus, did the honors. Cassy turned her wrist to check her watch—looked like Jolie was running behind.

  Dispersing her gear where it needed to go, Cassy returned to the coffee station, poured herself and Hamilton a mug each, and returned to his office to find him kicked back in his chair, booted feet propped on the corner of his desk.

  “If you were married, I’d get why you were hiding out in your office”—Cassy handed him a mug—“but that’s not the case.”

  Hamilton nodded his thanks and sipped his coffee before answering her. “I lost track of time while I was reading through all these cases. Con was here for a while, until Nic called him home.”

  Cassy sank into the comfortable chair Hamilton kept for his deputies to use. “Who’s taking care of your livestock?”

  “Neighbor boy. He gets extra gas money outta the deal.”

  “Did you and Con learn anything new?”

  “Not a damn thing we didn’t already know. I got the videos from the news stations, but I don’t know what you’re looking for, so we didn’t watch them.”

  Cassy popped up from the chair. “Where are they?”

  Hamilton waved at the computer set up in the corner of his office. After dragging the chair over, Cassy dropped into it, pulled up the video player, and put in the first disc.

  The front door buzzed open. “Sheriff, I’m sorry I’m late,” Jolie called out. “My little brother had my family all in an uproar last night.”

  Cassy swiveled around when she heard Jolie’s footsteps in the doorway. The diminutive redhead was flushed and disheveled, like she’d plowed her fingers through the smoothed-back hair in her ponytail one too many times.

  “What’d he do this time?” Hamilton asked.

  “Dropped out of college and didn’t tell Dad. He got the news from the school yesterday, and it took Dad a long time to finally track Ian down at an old friend’s house. There was a nice big fight over that. I thought I was going to have to cuff Dad just to keep him from killing Ian.”

  “Your brother is home now?” Cassy asked.

  Jolie sighed. “Yes, but I don’t know if it’s a good idea. All he and Dad do is fight. Makes Mom go bonkers some days.”

  Cassy pursed her lips and turned her back to Jolie. The younger woman didn’t know about the Rivers family’s dysfunctional ways or the years of agony the Rivers daughters had gone through because of their father.

  “Growing pains, Jolie,” Hamilton told her. “Don’t take it to heart. Your brother’s trying to find his way in this world, and it might not always agree with your dad’s ideas.”

  “I hope you’re right. They’ll probably have it all worked out by the party.” A phone rang out in the bullpen. “I’ll get that.”

  Tapping on the play icon, Cassy turned her attention to the video of the vigil.

  “What are you looking for, Rivers?”

  “Someone who looks out of place.”

  “Good luck with that.” Hamilton gripped her shoulder then left the office.

  As she watched, dread planted a seed in Cassy’s gut and quickly sprouted the more she thought about facing Pop tonight.

  She stopped the video and rubbed her eyes. She’d missed a lot of it, again.

  Stay on task.

  Moving the cursor back a few minutes, she repeated the footage. People, many of them holding candles, stood in a tight circle around the pastor saying the prayer. The cameraman panned to beyond the crowd, to the stragglers who hadn’t decided to join or were just gawking. Eventually, the camera panned back to the crowd and landed on the reporter, who began speaking. Cassy ignored what the man was saying and tried to get a good look
at the group behind him, until the camera zoomed in on the reporter and nothing could be seen behind him. The video ended there.

  She exchanged that disc for a new one. This news crew had been positioned in a different spot. When the camera began panning over the crowd, Cassy glimpsed herself and the other news crew. This must’ve been the one Boyce had been watching.

  The seconds slid past, but nothing and no one stood out to her. Cassy was ready to stop the video when something finally caught her eye. She tapped the pause icon and peered at the odd object behind the female reporter’s head. Letting the video play forward a frame at a time, Cassy focused on someone standing right behind the reporter, holding a small object that blended into the dark.

  The reporter shifted to show the crowd, and Cassy got a full view of the suspect. Crap. Just a young man holding up his cell phone, either taking pictures or recording the vigil.

  She exchanged that disc for the last one. Maybe she was reading too much into this. After all, the candy wrapper could have blown from anywhere. She’d been so intent on this being a key to learning something new about Wallis’s murder. Apparently it was nothing more than her imagination running wild.

  Jennings’s voice joined Jolie’s and Hamilton’s in the bullpen. Everyone working a shift today was here. If Nash showed up, Cassy was going to ride him home on a rail.

  The last video featured the same angle on the crowd as the second one—in fact, she found herself again—but it was much closer. Cassy focused on herself, trying to understand what Boyce always saw in her. It was amazing how well he could read her when they hadn’t been together that long. He managed to pick up on her moods and thoughts, things that only her mother—someone really close to Cassy—had been able to read.

  This cameraman stayed on her side of the crowd longer than the others, widening the view to encompass the pastor praying. Criminy, she’d been in the frame a full forty-five seconds and still rolling; no wonder they’d captured her war of emotions. That must have been what prompted Boyce show up. ’Course, when his true motive became evident later at her home, all charitable feelings toward the southern playboy had gone out the window. Damn it, he’d tuned in to her fears. Given half a chance, he’d dig further, and she’d cave, blabbing the truth to him. The last thing she wanted was for him to try to fix her. Working through what The Priest had done to her was something she had to do on her own.

  The video zoomed out to capture the whole crowd. It was a flash, a flicker of movement that caught Cassy’s attention. She paused the video, backed up a few frames, and played it forward at slow speed.

  The candlelight and the lights on the camera reflected the glossy sheen of an orange Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup wrapper as it was tossed. She hadn’t imagined that. It was the same type of wrapper as the one she’d found, being discarded by someone at the vigil. She let the video play at normal speed, hoping the cameraman had picked up the person who’d thrown the wrapper.

  There! She watched the figure move through the crowd at a slow pace. A bulky coat disguised this person well, and she couldn’t tell what kind of footwear he or she was wearing; the snow did a good job of hiding that. The mourner emerged at the edge of the crowd, stopped, and looked off beyond the camera’s view. Cassy scowled. It was too dark to make out a profile or catch a glimpse of any distinguishing features. From this vantage point, she couldn’t even tell if the person was male or female.

  But it was something. More than she’d had before. And that wrapper might hold enough evidence for her to track this person down.

  “Find what you were looking for, Rivers?”

  She looked back at Hamilton. “I think so.”

  He beckoned her with the crook of a finger and stepped out of his office. Curious, she followed then came to a screeching halt.

  Boyce and Liza had joined their little cadre. Heat flushed through Cassy when her and Boyce’s eyes locked. A swell of victory quickly replaced the embarrassment, however; there was a tic in the corner of his mouth, and he had to look away from her. She’d scored a hit last night. His façade was shaken.

  “Agents Hunt and Bartholomew have something we need to know,” Hamilton announced.

  Cassy crossed her arms. “What’s that?”

  Liza gave Boyce a squinty-eyed look. “Agent Hunt learned yesterday that the clerk who was working the night of the convenience store robbery sent Officer Wallis after the robbers.”

  Nausea gripped Cassy. As Boyce had predicted, the cases were beginning to intermingle. And her life continued to slide down the path to hell.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Christmas music with a decidedly country twang piped through the sound system. It made Boyce feel right at home, like he hadn’t left Tennessee. He’d sequestered himself in a corner booth at the back of The Killdeer Pub with a leaning stack of newspapers, his tablet, and a bottomless glass of tea—the right kind. Iowa wasn’t known to serve tea as it was made in the South, but someone in the pub had managed to get the proper portions of sweet to tea.

  Liza had complained of a headache, citing these cases and Boyce’s constant emotional upheaval over Cassy as the reasons, and was camped out in her hotel room trying to get some sleep. He didn’t mind in the least shaking his former partner to do some snooping through Eider’s weekly newspaper archives. In the last four hours, he’d gotten caught up on the fallout over The Priest incident, read about Cassy joining the sheriff’s department, and, for the eye-roll moment of the day, the big news about a Jimmy John’s chain moving into Eider. Oh, and Eider’s high school girlsʼ volleyball and boys’ basketball teams made bids for state championships two years running. Other than that, nothing gave him an indication, other than the lagging economy, why anyone in the area might want to rob local businesses.

  Folding the last issue from May of this year, Boyce set it on the read pile and rubbed his aching eyes. Someone clearing his throat jolted Boyce. He peered up at the tall man, the bottom of a stylized cross tattoo peeking out from under a rolled-up shirt sleeve. The new bartender, Xavier Hartmann, held a plate loaded with tiny red potatoes glistening with butter, a still sizzling rib eye, and steaming collard greens.

  “Miz O’Hanlon told me to bring this to you.” That confirmed it—Hartmann’s faded accent hinted of Australasia.

  Pushing his mess aside, Boyce indicated for Hartmann to place the plate on the table. He scanned the pub; it was half-empty but the patrons were adequately satisfied with food and drink. “Do you have a few moments to spare, Mr. Hartmann?”

  One dark eyebrow lifted while Hartmann’s gaze held his. They stared at each other before the bartender sat.

  Without breaking the stare-down, Boyce picked up the napkin-wrapped silverware and freed the utensils. “Pardon me if I’m intrusive, but where did you lose the leg? Iraq or Afghanistan?”

  Hartmann didn’t flinch. “FBI? Am I right?”

  Boyce smiled. “Bartender. Everyone’s shrink.” He cut into the steak, stabbed the piece, and savored the tender meat.

  “Afghanistan, IED.”

  “You look oddly familiar.” Boyce shrugged. “Maybe it’s the pub’s lighting.”

  “I get that a lot. What’s an FBI agent doing in a town like Eider?”

  Boyce pointed to the headline of the most recent newspaper. “Robbery is my game.”

  “Hmm, good luck with that.” Placing his hands on the tabletop, Hartmann pushed himself upright. “My momentary break is over. Enjoy the meal, Agent Hunt.” With that, he strode back to the bar, nary a hitch in his stride.

  Impressed, Boyce saluted the man’s back with his knife then continued to read through the papers, making notes on his tablet, while he ate. Piling his fork with collard greens, Boyce nearly hummed. Con O’Hanlon’s sister, Farran, was one damn fine cook.

  A slim article on page five caught his attention. Setting his fork down, Boyce held the paper up with both hands and read. Former McIntire sheriff Eli Murdoch and his family were putting on their annual Christmas party benefit; invi
tes to partygoers had been sent out, and the bash was expected to be a good one this year. A list of past attendees set Boyce’s mind whirling with ideas.

  Two names in particular piqued his interest: Peter Clyde and Cassandra Rivers. Eider Savings Bank’s manager and a McIntire County sheriff’s deputy.

  “How do I get into that party?” Boyce asked himself.

  “Easy, ask Cassy to take ya.”

  Startled by the thickly accented female voice, Boyce looked up at the smirking, matronly woman. “Ah, Maura O’Hanlon has graced me with her presence.”

  “Agent Hunt, my daughter-in-law warned me you were back creating havoc and leaving destruction in your wake.”

  He stood, offering her a seat across from him. Maura waved him off and slid into the booth. Boyce parked his butt in the indent in his own bench. “I’m to understand that your new title as grandmother has been enjoyable.”

  “Ah, but it has. And I’m to be, again.”

  “Nic is pregnant?”

  “T’at she is. She’s revealing the news to her family tonight.”

  Boyce frowned. “Brigadier General Rivers and his wife are in town?” Cassy had given no indication her parents were arriving. The biggest thing that stood out in Boyce’s memory of his previous visit to Eider was the fallout with Cassy and her father after she learned of the general’s involvement in Nic’s state of mental instability. It hadn’t been pretty.

  “You didn’t know? Hmm. It’s best t’at you stay out of it,” Maura stated.

  “And what if I refuse?”

  Maura’s eyes twinkled. “Do you really want to push Nic’s buttons tonight?”

  Leaning forward, Boyce gave her his most devastating smile. “I’m all about pushing buttons.”

  • • •

  Cassy had a death grip on the stuffed sofa’s arm. She wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if there were claw marks in the fabric. Across the living room, her father sat in the recliner, his posture as rigid as her own.