She was at home, dog at her feet, cat slipping in and out of the shelves on the bookcase, O’Keefe rattling around in the kitchen as she double-checked her phone and e-mail for any contact from Tydeus Melville Chilcoate, a computer genius and hacker who was known to be antigovernment and had made it clear that he had no love of the sheriff’s department. But stronger than his feelings about the department was his hatred of Cort Brewster, who had, in younger years, pulled him over for speeding and other traffic infractions that Chilcoate had maintained were a “setup” and an “abuse of his rights.” She’d met with him in a remote location, her car pointed one way at the old rock quarry, his the other, and they’d made a deal. Chilcoate, in an effort to get back at Brewster, was on board, though, of course, all of her dealings with him were very much on the Q.T. For once, she wasn’t going to confide in either Pescoli or O’Keefe. For once, she was going off the rails and not playing by the rules.
So far, Chilcoate hadn’t gotten back to her.
“I thought the case was closed,” O’Keefe said as he set a cup of herbal tea on the desk next to her laptop. The scents of ginger and lemon filled the air and she inhaled deeply.
“It just seems a little too . . . perfect, for lack of a better word. I just happen to be in Brewster’s office when I get the SOS from Pescoli. He then insists on going with me, rather than sending one of the deputies or another detective? And when we get there, he shoots Maurice Verdago dead. The same guy who robbed him of his computer and rifle, then used the .30-06 registered to Brewster in all of his attacks?”
“He’d reported it stolen.”
“Around Thanksgiving.”
“Sometimes you get lucky.”
Glancing up at him, she smiled. His dark hair was rumpled, his jaw unshaven, hints of sleep still tugging at the corners of his eyes. He hadn’t bothered getting dressed, still wore only a pair of boxers, so that his abdomen with its compact, hard muscles was visible. His shoulders and arms moved fluidly as he leaned back against the breakfast bar.
“Are you trying to seduce me?” she asked, leaning back in her chair and sipping her tea.
A slow smile spread across his jaw. “Would I do that?”
“Always.”
He cocked an eyebrow in invitation. She shook her head and said regretfully, “I’ve got to be at the office.”
“You have to shower. We could—?”
Laughing, she said, “Forget it.” God, she loved him. Someday she’d settle down and marry him. This time she wouldn’t let him get away, but right now, right this minute, she couldn’t, wouldn’t, be distracted.
“You know, Verdago’s rifle, the one he stole from Brewster, had his prints on it and Brewster’s, which is expected, but . . .”
“But what?” he prodded.
“I don’t know. It’s just the way Brewster seemed to know exactly what Verdago was planning. The man’s a decent enough cop, his instincts are usually on target, but this time he was just so damned good. So ahead of the game.”
“You think Brewster not only killed Verdago, but somehow he took out the judge and shot at the sheriff?”
“I know what it sounds like, but . . .” She broke off, frustrated, then said, “He also killed his own girlfriend who was wearing nothing but boots and an engagement ring.”
“And?”
“It just doesn’t make sense.” That’s what had really gotten the wheels turning in her mind. Carnie’s death. It just seemed so far off the rails for Verdago to kill her, even though, according to Wanda Verdago, Maurice had killed Joey Lundeen in a fight. But that murder had been an accident, one punch too hard. Carnie’s was a point-blank killing.
But again, Joey Lundeen had died and Maurice had dumped his body high up in the wilderness where it was yet to be found. Maybe it made some kind of sense that Verdago had killed Carnie. Alvarez just didn’t see it.
Meanwhile, Brewster had worked with the D.A. for Wanda’s immunity. Deputies and volunteers had started scouring that area of the government land, looking for Lundeen, though until the snowpack melted in the spring, nothing much would be found.
If ever.
But it had played well to the press, all the local stations picking up the story, Manny Douglas finding a way to massage yet another story highlighting Brewster onto the front page of the local paper.
“Verdago and his girlfriend could have had a fight. He had a temper,” O’Keefe reminded.
“So they get into it, he leaves, comes home, and just shoots her cold?”
“Maybe he had a few drinks?”
She shook her head. “No trace of alcohol in Verdago’s body.”
“Stranger things have happened.”