Mike leaned forward, planting his hands on the desk. This meeting just went from being an annoying waste of his time to attempted murder.
“Where?”
“I’d just driven out to the old Johnson place—”
“What were you doing out there?” Mike interrupted.
“Trying to figure out if someone could have walked from there to Jaci’s without being seen by Andrew.”
Oh. That actually made sense. He’d been too busy to sit down and work out the mechanics of how the stalker had placed the locket on Jaci’s door.
“Could they?” he asked.
“It’s possible, but doubtful,” Rylan said. “You’d have to wade through the culvert that’s been turned into a swampy mess with all the rain.”
Mike gave a slow nod. It wasn’t just the Mississippi that had been flooded by all the rain. Every tiny creek and tributary in the county was swollen with water.
“What happened?” he asked.
“I’d just pulled out of the drive and onto the road heading to my father’s house when my back window was shattered.”
“You’re sure it was someone shooting at you?” Mike asked. He wasn’t trying to be a dick. Well, not entirely. But it’d been years since Rylan had driven on gravel roads. It was easy to forget the dangers. “A rock could have flown up and busted it.”
A muscle twitched in the man’s jaw, but grimly swallowing his hot words, he reached into his pocket and pulled something out that was hidden in his hand. Then, leaning forward, he opened his fingers and allowed a half dozen tiny balls to bounce on Mike’s desk.
“I’m sure,” Rylan snapped.
Mike pressed his finger against one of the balls, easily recognizing it.
“Buckshot,” he said, lifting his head to meet Rylan’s icy glare. “Did you see who was shooting?”
“No, I was too busy ducking,” Rylan retorted. “By the time I got out to look around the bastard had disappeared.”
Mike frowned, trying not to jump to conclusions. The one thing he’d learned over the past few years was that his job as sheriff meant that he had to be the one to see the “big picture.” He couldn’t just assume he knew what had happened. He had to have the facts to back up his conclusion.
“It could have been a poacher,” he said.
“It could also be someone who isn’t happy that I’m around to protect Jaci.”
Mike instantly bristled. The man talked about Jaci as if he had some right to claim her.
“Clarify your protection,” he commanded.
Rylan studied him for a long moment before answering. “I’ve installed a new security system,” he said. “And this morning I went with her on her deliveries.”
Mike forced himself to sit back in his seat. Right now nothing mattered but keeping Jaci safe. Even if it meant swallowing his instinctive male need to compete with Rylan Cooper.
“It’s possible the stalker is trying to drive you away.”
“I’d say they were more interested in putting me in an early grave.”
“Or it could have been whoever rented the Johnson place,” Mike continued. “You know as well as I do that people don’t like trespassers in this area.”
“True,” Rylan surprisingly agreed. “They obviously have something to hide.”
“Why do you say that?”
Rylan folded his arms over his chest, peering down the length of his nose.
“I have information from one of my contacts you claim you’re not interested in.”
“Christ, you’re annoying,” Mike snarled, shoving himself to his feet.
Rylan shrugged. “So I’ve been told.”
Mike took a second to leash his temper. It was ridiculous to let the man get under his skin.
“What did you discover?” he asked.
“The house is being rented by a Vera Richardson,” Rylan said.
“Vera Richardson.” Mike repeated the name, a faint memory teasing at the edge of his mind. “Why is that name familiar?”
Rylan snorted. “Maybe you attended her funeral.”
What the hell was he talking about? “She’s dead?”
“Yep,” Rylan drawled. “Three years ago.”
Mike thought back to when Frank had made a passing comment that he’d finally rented out his old place. At the time Mike hadn’t paid much attention. But he did know it hadn’t been three years ago.
“The house has only been rented for the past six months. Maybe less,” he at last said. “It has to be a stolen identity.”
“Or a miracle,” Rylan said in dry tones.
Mike rolled his eyes. “I’ll run out there and do some checking.”
The sudden ring of the phone sliced through the air, and with a sound of impatience, Mike reached to grab the receiver, pressing it to his ear.
“O’Brien.” He felt a chill inch down his spine as he listened to Jenkins’s brief report. “You’re sure?” he demanded before he could halt the words. “Okay, got it,” he soothed the analyst. “Thanks for getting back so quickly.”
He replaced the receiver, lifting his head to discover Rylan watching him with an unwavering gaze.
“Was that about Jaci?” the older man demanded.
Mike paused before releasing a slow sigh. As much as he wanted to toss Rylan from his office, the phone call had been a sharp reminder that this was bigger than him and his pride.
Right now he needed any help he could get.
And as Rylan Cooper was so quick to point out, he could provide resources that were way out of Mike’s reach.
“A hunch,” he at last admitted.
“And?”
Mike grimaced. “This isn’t public information, but Anne Dixon is missing.”
Rylan gave a sharp lift of his brows. “Are you sure? We ran into Payton and she said her housekeeper was on vacation.”
“I’ve asked her not to talk about Anne until we know what’s happened,” Mike said, relieved to learn that Payton was actually doing as he asked.
Surprise, surprise.
“Did you find her?” Rylan asked.
“No.” Mike tapped his finger on the top of his desk, his mind absorbing what the latest information meant. Anne might be technically a missing persons case, but he was already preparing for the worst. “I spoke with her sister this morning, and while I was there I asked her Anne’s blood type.”
Rylan was smart enough to guess why he would be interested in her blood type.
“The locket?”
Mike nodded. “The blood type matched.”
Rylan’s nose flared, as if he was struggling to hold back his burst of emotion. No doubt he was already thinking of Jaci, and how this was going to impact her.
“Has the DNA been run?” he asked.
“No.” Mike’s lips tightened. “All I know is that the blood type is A-negative.”
“Rare,” Rylan said.
“Yep.”
“So the blood on the locket belongs to the missing housekeeper.” The words were a statement, not a question.
Mike shrugged. “I’m not prepared to leap to conclusions.”
Rylan nodded. He’d worked in a sheriff’s office before. He understood that Mike wasn’t going to commit himself. Especially not to someone who wasn’t on the payroll.
“What about the body in the field?” Rylan moved to the next logical question. “Do you have an ID?”
“No.” Mike didn’t bother to hide his impatience. “Like I said, this isn’t Hollywood. Testing takes time.”
Rylan held his gaze. “I can make a few calls and get the evidence fast-tracked.”
Mike’s muscles clenched, but he forced himself to give a sharp nod. “Then do it,” he said, lowering himself back into his seat as he sent his companion a dark glance. “Now, I have work to do.”
As if sensing Mike had reached the end of his patience, Rylan turned to stroll toward the door. Of course, he couldn’t let Mike have the last word.
Pulling open the door, he g
lanced over his shoulder. “One more piece of information.”
“What?” Mike snapped, understanding why someone had taken a potshot at this man.
He wanted to squeeze off a couple bullets himself.
Not to kill, but . . .
Rylan’s lips twitched, clearly reading his annoyance. “You might ask Christopher Hamilton what he’s been doing the past two years.”
Mike frowned. Okay, he hadn’t been expecting that. “He was in St. Louis,” he said.
“Maybe,” he said. “But if he was there, he wasn’t attending college.”
Stepping out of the room, Rylan shut the door behind him and Mike released a hissing breath as the throbbing behind his right eye amped up to a full-blown headache.
“Crap.”
What had Christopher been doing for the past two years? And why had he been driving past Jaci’s house yesterday? And when was the last time he’d seen their housekeeper?
Questions that clearly needed to be answered.
Unfortunately, he’d dealt with the powerful Hamilton clan before. As soon as they realized that he was trying to dig up information on the precious Christopher, they would lawyer up. Mike wouldn’t have a chance of having a reasonable conversation that would easily clear Christopher of any suspicion.
Trying to decide how he could investigate without wading through the Hamilton lawyers, Mike’s dark thoughts were interrupted when the door opened and his deputy stepped inside.
He frowned as the young man strolled forward, his black Windbreaker lightly coated with raindrops. “Where have you been?”
Sid tilted his head, as if confused by the question. “You wanted me to go to the airport, didn’t you?”
Mike deliberately lifted his arm to glance at the watch strapped around his wrist. He’d called Sid before dawn this morning to ask him to wait in the airport parking lot to see if Blake Hamilton was one of the passengers.
“The plane took off hours ago,” he said.
Sid shrugged. “I stayed for the second and third flights. Just in case he overslept.”
Mike swallowed his angry words. Sid was a good deputy, but he’d been born and raised in Heron. Under normal circumstances he couldn’t leave the office without stopping to chitchat with every person who crossed his path. With the dead body as the center of town gossip, it was going to be impossible for the younger man to complete a task without taking time to savor the limelight.
“I’m assuming Hamilton didn’t make an appearance?” he asked.
“Nope,” the deputy said. “They haven’t seen him for two days. Of course, they said it wasn’t that unusual. One of the pilots said Mr. Hamilton told him that he intended to do more work from home and only go to his office on days when he sees his clients. Do you want me to track him down?”
Mike considered before giving a shake of his head. He’d deal with the Hamiltons.
“No.” He scribbled a name on a sticky note and held it out. “I want you to do a search on this name,” he commanded.
Sid reached for the paper. “Vera Richardson?” he read out loud. “Who is she?”
“Supposedly she rented the old Johnson place. I want to know everything you can find out about her.”
Sid shrugged, turning to leave the office. “No problem.”
Chapter Thirteen
Leaving the sheriff’s office, Rylan strolled around the corner of the courthouse. He’d left his dad’s truck with the local auto body shop, who promised to have the window replaced by Monday. In the meantime, he was driving a decrepit Ford truck that was as solid as a tank and apparently built without suspension. Which meant even the smallest bump sent him bouncing off the seat and hitting his head on the roof.
He quickly realized it was wise to keep it on a paved road whenever possible.
Thankfully his father had an SUV that he preferred over his truck unless he was driving through the fields. The older man wouldn’t be forced to rattle around in the loaner.
Heading for the monstrosity that was parked at the end of the block, his gaze was captured by the recently remodeled storefront across the street.
When he’d been a young boy the narrow brick building had been used by the local physician. Dr. Marsh had been an old-fashioned sort of doctor. He offered suckers that took the sting out of vaccine shots. He shared stern warnings of what happened to young boys when they jumped off roofs while he set broken arms. And unfortunately doled out Valium like candy, keeping a considerable number of upright Heron citizens in a glorious haze until he’d retired twenty years ago.
Now the brick facade had been whitewashed and large plate-glass windows installed, with gold lettering that read: NELSON GALLERY.
Unable to resist the opportunity to check out a man who had access to Jaci’s property, he crossed the street and entered the gallery through the glass door.
Instantly he felt as if he’d been transported far away from Heron.
Gone was the dark paneling and low ceilings of the reception room. And the walls that had sectioned off the two exam rooms and farther back the doctor’s private office had been torn down.
The inside had been completely gutted, giving a chic, industrial style that was more suited to a big city than a small farm town.
The space was long and narrow, with exposed brick walls and an open ceiling where the muted lighting hung from iron wires. The floor was a polished cement, and toward the back was a small reception desk.
The stark decor ensured that the focal point of the room was the enormous photos that were hung on the walls.
Rylan’s nose wrinkled as his gaze skimmed over the pictures. Most of them had been shot in black-and-white, featuring bleak locations. An overgrown car lot. A barn with peeling paint. A wet city street with a homeless man curled in a corner.
Grim.
There was a stir of movement as a woman rose from the desk and moved to stand in front of him. She was young, not much more than twenty, with dark hair that was carefully smoothed to frame a pale, oval face. Her lips were painted a brilliant red and her dark eyes took a bold survey of Rylan.
She was at the vulnerable age where she craved male attention without fully understanding just how shallow it could be.
“Hi, I’m Lilly,” she said, her voice pitched low, as if she was trying to sound sexy. “Can I help you?”
“Yeah.” He glanced around the gallery. “I need to speak with Nelson.”
“I’m sorry.” She stepped forward, her tight, gray dress barely covering the necessary parts. “He’s busy with a project.”
Rylan flashed his most charming smile. “Tell him an old friend is in town. I’m sure he’ll want to see me.”
“Oh. Okay.” A flustered blush touched her cheeks. “Wait here.”
She hurried toward the back of the room, exiting through a small opening. Rylan absently ambled toward one of the pictures. It looked like a vast forest that had been frozen in time. Pure white with hints of shadows between the trunks.
His gaze moved to take in the rough wooden frame. Jaci’s work? It seemed likely. Then his gaze lowered to see the discreet tag at the bottom of the photo.
Four thousand dollars.
Holy crap.
“Hello?” A male voice cut through the air and Rylan turned to watch the man approaching him with a frown.
Nelson Bradley looked like an artist. His blond, naturally curly hair was long enough to brush his shoulders. His face was lean, and his dark eyes were emphasized by a pair of round, wire-rimmed glasses. His smile was crooked and his teeth perfect. At the moment he was wearing a pair of faded jeans and a suit jacket.
His approach slowed as he realized just who was waiting for him.
“Rylan Cooper,” he said.
Rylan smiled. “Nelson.”
The younger man studied him with a gaze that seemed to peel away his outer skin. Like most talented photographers, he no doubt had a keen ability to see the truth beneath the surface.
The knowledge was more than a little
unnerving.
“Lilly told me that an old friend had stopped by for a visit,” Nelson drawled, a humorless smile playing around his lips. “You’ll forgive my surprise. I didn’t realize we’d ever been buddies.”
Rylan shrugged. Nelson was two years behind him in school and had enjoyed shocking the community by embracing the whole goth fad. His hair had been spiked, his thin body covered in an ankle-length black coat, and his nails painted black.
“We were at least schoolmates,” he pointed out.
“If you say so.” Nelson shrugged, not particularly impressed. “Are you here to buy a print?”
“They are”—Rylan searched for a suitable word—“something,” he at last landed on. “A little grim.”
Nelson curled his upper lip. “If you want daisies and clowns painted on velvet you might try the convenience store near the highway.”
Rylan kept his expression bland despite the fact he’d just been called a philistine. He wasn’t an art expert and he never would be.
He was, however, skilled in getting people to talk.
“I remember you were always taking pictures when we were young,” he said.
Nelson shrugged. “I was the photographer for the school paper.”
“That’s right.” Rylan snapped his fingers, as if he’d just remembered something. “Jaci Patterson did something with the paper too. Didn’t she?”
“Yeah. She was the editor.” The overhead lights glinted off Nelson’s glasses, making it impossible to see his eyes. “I wasn’t in journalism class, but she talked me into helping out.”
“She clearly could spot talent even at an early age,” he said.
A portion of Nelson’s tension eased. He liked having his ego stroked.
“Jaci has her own share of talent,” the younger man said. “I tried to convince her to get her art degree when she left for college. Instead she went into advertising.”
Rylan nodded toward the photo of frozen trees on the wall. “Where was this taken?”
Nelson stepped toward the photo, pride etched on his lean face.
“Siberia.”
“Impressive,” Rylan said. Now he knew Nelson’s vulnerability. He liked to talk about his work. For some people it was their family. For others it was a hobby. Or sex. Or the past. Once you knew how to open them up, it was easier to steer them toward what he actually wanted to discuss. “I bet you didn’t think when you were growing up in this small town that you would one day leave and travel the world.”