Pescoli was processing the information. Grayson was a private man and had kept his personal life as out of the limelight as an elected official could. She’d known he’d been married to both women, but she’d never realized Hattie was a sister to Grayson’s first wife. She’d thought Hattie’s relationship with Dan stemmed from Hattie’s marriage to Bart, Dan’s dead brother. “Wait a second,” she said, holding up a hand. “Your sister was—”
“Half sister,” Hattie corrected swiftly. “Dan’s first wife. Yes.” She drag
ged her glance from Cade to address Pescoli. “It’s . . . complicated.”
“Screwed up,” Cade clarified, gray eyes flashing. “Depends on who you ask.”
“That makes it easy,” Pescoli said to Cade as she reached into her pocket and retrieved her mini-recorder. “I’ll start with you. Let’s cover all the family relationships, then get to the last time you saw or talked with your brother.” She motioned Cade to the couch where his jacket and hat had been tossed.
Reluctantly, Cade perched on the edge of the couch, his gaze stormy, his back stiff. “I talked to him last night, late, around eleven, on my cell. But I wasn’t the last person to see him before the attack.”
“Who would that be, then?” Pescoli asked.
“You, Detective. You were the last person he saw.”
Once more, like a piece of film replayed over and over again, Pescoli witnessed Dan’s body jerking as the would-be assassin’s bullets ripped through his body. Cade had a point, though, much as she disliked the man. Other than the would-be killer, Pescoli was the only witness to the crime.
She was still interviewing the brothers when she saw Santana striding toward her. Before he reached ICU, however, a deputy who had been assigned to guard Grayson and who was stationed near the door to the unit blocked Santana’s path.
“Excuse me a second,” she said to Cade and Zed, as Santana looked in her direction. “I’ll be right back.” She hurried across the hallway. “It’s all right,” she told the guard as she reached the two men, then walked with Santana to a more private alcove near the stairwell. “What’re you doing here?” she finally asked.
“I had to see for myself that you were okay.”
She lifted both her palms toward the ceiling. “I told you . . .”
“Sometimes you tend to stretch the truth.”
“Bullshit, Santana. I’m fine.”
“Okay. I believe you,” he said as if he really didn’t. “Just don’t blame me for caring, okay?”
“I don’t.”
He glanced down at her ringless left hand. “I’m sorry about Grayson. He’s a good guy.” He didn’t add “And so am I,” but it was there, hanging in the air, unspoken.
“Just give me some time.”
“And space. Yeah, I know.”
He turned and headed toward the elevators, and she gave herself a swift mental kick. Why the hell did she keep pushing him away when she ached to be with him?
Because, damn it, you have a fear of commitment and a fear that if you get too close to someone you love, he will leave you.
Drawing a deep breath, she pulled herself together, then turned toward ICU, the Grayson brothers, and Hattie once more. Right now, she had to concentrate on the case. Someone was out to kill Dan Grayson. Just because they hadn’t put him into his grave the first time, didn’t mean they wouldn’t try again.
The dog was still missing. According to Pescoli, Sturgis, Dan Grayson’s black Lab, had taken off after the attack on the sheriff. Alvarez had worked most of the day and couldn’t face the hospital, so she’d returned to the crime scene to trudge up the ridge, which, it seemed, was the most likely place for the killer to have set up his attack.
Using metal detectors, the tech team found two shell casings buried in the snow near an old stump. Now there were footprints all around the area; the snow had been scraped away, a fresh layer in its place as the damned stuff kept falling.
Already the detectives had searched the area and concluded that the assassin had probably skied down the ridge to a waiting vehicle on an old logging road, though no fresh tracks had been found, new-falling snow having obliterated any significant tread marks. The team was still searching, but so far, they hadn’t come up with anything of use. And there had been no dog sightings.
“Where are you, Sturgis?” she wondered and let out a whistle before calling to the dog and hearing her voice echo back through the icy canyon. Listening, hoping to hear an excited bark, she stood still for a second, the frigid forest silent and, she thought dourly, unforgiving. She knew the pain of losing an animal, her own recently adopted puppy had gone missing once and she’d been frantic. So, along with nailing Grayson’s would-be killer, she intended on finding his dog.
“Sturgis!” she yelled again. “Come, boy!”
In answer, a clump of snow fell from the laden branches of a hemlock tree and she turned quickly, half expecting the Lab to appear.
No such luck.