BIG SKY SECRETS 03: End Game Page 3

  Working so shorthanded, with three officers on leave, had kept them on edge for weeks. But today, with the murder investigation weighing heavily in everyone’s minds, the mood was tense.

  Megan fidgeted in her chair and studied the other deputies in the room, eager for Hal to wrap up the meeting so she could get back into her patrol car.

  As if he’d read her mind, Jim Rigby caught her eye and canted his head in a subtle nod. Tall, fit and highly professional even after thirty years on the force, silver-haired Rigby was the deputy Megan most preferred to work with if she had a choice for a particular assignment.

  Now, he glanced out the window in Hal’s office, then turned to the others with a grim smile. “Mayor’s coming. He doesn’t look happy.”

  She smothered a laugh as Ewan Baker and Wes Dearborn simultaneously looked up at the clock, stood and—no surprise—edged toward the door. Short and hefty, with thinning brown hair, Wes was flat-out intimidated by the mayor’s tendency for histrionics and avoided him at all cost. Ewan took considerable pride in his own intellect, and only tolerated the mayor if under duress.

  “Guess we’re done for the morning. Right, Sheriff?” Ewan muttered, smoothing a hand over his military-cut red hair. “I expect he wants to meet with just you anyhow, so we’d better get back to work.”

  He and Wes were out the back door within seconds after Hal nodded.

  Mayor Taylor bustled in the front door and made a beeline for Hal’s office without stopping at the front desk, a folder clutched to his narrow chest and his gaunt face a mask of worry. He ignored Megan and Jim, and marched forward to plant his hands on Hal’s desk.

  “It’s been five days since that last body was found,” he barked. “What’s going on with this investigation? I need to know, Hal.”

  Megan rose to leave, but Hal motioned for her and Jim to stay. “You should see this,” he said. “It’s what you’ll be hearing out in the county, from now on.”

  Taylor pulled a section of the newspaper from his folder and spread it out on Hal’s desk with a flourish. “Look at these headlines and tell me what on earth we’re going to do.”

  The bold headlines were clear, even from a distance and upside down. Full Moon Killer On The Loose. Megan exchanged glances with Jim and shook her head.

  Some people fed on notoriety; the thrill of hitting the headlines and the sense of superiority gained from eluding the law spurring them on. Was that the kind of person they were dealing with? If so, the situation had taken a serious turn for the worse.

  An image of Scott Anders slid into her thoughts.

  There was nothing about him that suggested anything of the sort…but whether he’d been irritated or not by her visit, she’d only been doing her job.

  The sheriff leaned back in his chair, his face an unhealthy shade of gray. “We can’t stifle the press…much as I’d like to. But this is exactly what we’d hoped to avoid.”

  “You don’t look too surprised,” Taylor snapped.

  “Clayton was in here yesterday, asking questions. I tried to convince him to avoid running this kind of headline, but he obviously didn’t listen.”

  “Do you know what this is going to do to the area? Tourist season is just weeks away. Headlines like this will be picked up by the national news, and what will happen then?” His face ruddy, he took a deep breath. “We’ve already suffered thanks to gas prices and the economy over the last few years. Things were just starting to look up again, but some businesses can’t handle another bad year. Hysteria over the presence of a deranged killer in this county is the last thing we need.”

  “We’re doing all we can with the manpower and resources we have, Philip. This isn’t New York or Los Angeles.”

  “But—”

  “We’re short-staffed at the best of times, as you well know. And until Dalton and Harrison come back from medical leave and Gustafson gets back from settling his dad’s affairs, things are even worse.”

  “What about the DCI—don’t they have any answers yet? They were here last Thursday, weren’t they? That’s four days!”

  Hal tapped a stack of papers on his desk. “We got their preliminary report this morning.”

  “And?”

  “We’re doing all we can, but we don’t know much more than we did before.” Hal tipped forward and rested his forearms on the desk. “A missing persons report from Latimer County led us to the last victim’s identity. Dee Kirby. Jim spent the weekend interviewing her friends and family, and we know she visited the Halfway House Tavern—that rowdy bar on the south edge of Battle Lake. Dee was engaged, but still liked joining her old friends for a girls’ night out whenever her fiancé worked late. She was there at least twice during the month before her death.”

  “And?”

  “The last time they went, Dee’s friends went off with guys they met there, leaving her to drive home alone. They feel terrible about it now, but at the time she assured them that she’d be fine. The bartenders remembered her from a photo. No one remembers her being flirtatious or wild, or remembers seeing her being harassed by anyone when she left.”

  “What about all the customers?”

  “We’re still working on the regulars, but it’s impossible to find everyone. Cowboys come in on Saturday nights from remote ranches and pay cash, so there’s no way to trace credit card records, and some of those boys are fairly transient. People come from all over the county for the music, but there are others who are just passing through.”

  “So you have nothing to go on?”

  “No one we talked to remembers an altercation out in the parking lot that night, but it’s dimly lit and the loud music would make it hard to hear, so that doesn’t mean much,” Jim said.

  Hal nodded. “Anyone could have been lurking out by her car. Maybe someone even made a pass at her out there, then marked her as his next victim. Or secretly tailed her to find out where she lived.”

  “What about fingerprints? DNA, and all that?” Taylor sputtered. “Surely there must’ve been something out at the murder scene to go on.”

  “In a perfect world…or on TV,” Megan said evenly. “But we don’t believe she was murdered there, so there wouldn’t be signs of struggle, and the DNA tests take a long time. The DCI did an extensive sweep of the area where the body was found, but didn’t find anything—not even a clear footprint or tire track, which is hard to believe.”

  The mayor scowled. “And in the meantime, this killer is walking free, ready to strike again.”

  “We’re dealing with someone who is smart. Skillful. Who knows how to avoid leaving clues. We know the other two murders and the two assaults are connected—the DNA evidence matched. Unfortunately, that DNA evidence didn’t match anyone in the national database.”

  “And now, the level of tension in this county is going stratospheric, and you can’t do anything about it.”

  “That’s not true,” Hal interjected. “This entire department is following up on every possible lead, day and night. This guy will slip up. Believe me.”

  The mayor’s eyes narrowed. “I hear you had a good lead just last week…and you let him slip through your fingers.”

  Jim, Hal and Megan exchanged glances. “Now, who would that be?” Hal gave a short laugh. “Believe me, if we find this guy, he won’t be getting away.”

  “Your deputy questioned him, right in the café.” The mayor’s face turned a deeper shade of red, his voice rising with every word. “I heard so, on good authority. It was a stranger, who’s been in the area for the right amount of time. Surly, too. And he walked right out that door of the café without even a peep from the law. Do you honestly think Megan is capable—”

  “Sir.” Through the open door of the office the receptionist’s voice rose. “You can’t just go barging in there. Sir—”

  A man responded, his voice too low for Megan to catch the words, and a second later, a tall, dark figure filled Hal’s doorway, silhouetted by the morning sun streaming in behind him. He radiated a com
manding aura of power and an all too familiar air of impatience, from the wide set of his boots to the muscular arms folded across his broad chest. Scott Anders.

  Megan stifled a groan. Great timing.

  “Since I seem to be the topic of conversation, I thought I’d better join in,” Anders growled, glancing dismissively at the others in the room, before settling his attention on her. “I thought we had this straightened out. Or did you come back here with an entirely different story?”

  The mayor shrank back, his color draining.

  Hal stood. “Now, see here, Mr.—”

  “It’s all right,” Megan said quickly. “Scott Anders, this is Sheriff Hal Porter, Mayor Philip Taylor, and Deputy Jim Rigby. Scott is a new property owner up in the hills. He bought the Swanson place.”

  Anders’s eyes didn’t veer from her face. “I guess it’s good that I came in about a dog license, or you might’ve had me behind bars before sundown.”

  “The mayor apparently heard some gossip down at the café.” She glanced at the other men in the room. “After a very brief encounter at the café, I considered Mr. Anders to be a person of interest, so I went to his place to talk to him.”

  “You just questioned him?” Taylor shot back. “What does that prove?”

  “He wasn’t in Montana during the time frame of the first two murders. He has proof.”

  The mayor’s gaze flicked between her and Scott, doubt creeping across his florid face. “What sort of proof?”

  “Stacks of receipts from Chicago, and from his trip out here. Receipts that he can produce, to end this once and for all. Right, Mr. Anders?”

  His shoulder jerked with impatience.

  “Which could be falsified. They could’ve been…been from someone else,” Taylor blustered. “Deputy Peters clearly isn’t competent if—”

  “Give it a rest,” Hal broke in. “We’ll take another look at his alibi, then consider it a done deal. I’m sure Deputy Peters was thorough and can handle this immediately. Right, Megan?”

  A muscle along Anders’s jaw jerked. Regret shone in his eyes as he slowly reached for the wallet in his back pocket, pulled out two cards, then flipped them onto Hal’s desk. “Chicago. Call Pearson day or night. Ask him anything you want to know.”

  Hal studied them, his jaw slack, then he dropped the business card in his shirt pocket and handed back the identification card bearing an embossed gold shield. “You’re a cop?”

  “Was,” Anders bit out. “Past tense.”

  Silence fell in the room, and Hal cleared his throat. “I’ll make that call, and Megan will follow up on those pertinent receipts. Then I imagine we won’t have to be bothering you again.”

  Out on the sidewalk twenty minutes later, Megan strode to her car, wondering if anyone could see smoke rising from her ears.

  Big mystery, she fumed. And she’d ended up looking incredibly stupid for thinking he could be involved in murder and mayhem.

  Then again…what was some underpaid Chicago cop doing out here, sitting on a valuable piece of property without a job? It didn’t make sense.

  Cops weren’t perfect. Even out here, there’d been a pair of crooked officers in the department just before she was hired, and those two were still serving time.

  “Hey.”

  Surprised, she spun around at the sound of Anders’s voice and found him leaning against the door of a black Ford F-350 crew cab pickup, his arms folded across his chest and one booted ankle crossed over the other.

  “Why didn’t you tell me that you’re a cop?”

  He held up his hands in mock surrender. “I’m not any longer.”

  “You didn’t think that information was pertinent when I stopped out at your place?”

  “I didn’t think I had to share my whole résumé. It’s no longer a part of my life that I even want to think about.”

  “Then why did you tell everyone now?”

  He shrugged. “They were questioning your ability. It seemed only fair.”

  She bit back a retort, realizing that he’d just tried to be kind. “Then what are you doing out here, now that you’re in Montana?”

  “Like I said back at my place, I’m changing gears.”

  “So, what’s the big secret?”

  He held her gaze for a moment, then looked away. “No secret intended.”

  In that brief moment of connection between them, a shiver of awareness danced across her skin. She took a step back. “Then tell me.”

  “Look, I’ve always been a writer of sorts, in my spare time, but I’m looking at trying to make it a career. As far as law enforcement is concerned, I’m on medical leave right now, but decided I’m not ever going back. End of story.”

  Given the ring of finality in his voice, he wasn’t planning to elaborate, which only spurred her curiosity. “So how long were you a cop?”

  Turning to open the door of his truck, he made a sound of impatience. “It doesn’t matter. Look, the sheriff wants verification of my whereabouts. I’ll drop off some photocopies of my receipts at his office in a day or so, when I can get back to town. And then we should be square.”

  “Hal figured that business card of yours was good testimony on who you are. Would that be true?”

  He laughed, though there was a tone of bitterness in his voice. “Oh yeah, a badge guarantees I’m an upstanding citizen, all right.”

  “It sure didn’t here, a decade back.”

  “Not anywhere.” He slid behind the wheel and slammed the door shut, resting an elbow in the open window as he turned the key. The engine roared to life. “Cops go bad, too. They see more temptation than most. Kickbacks. Drugs and cash go missing between an arrest and the evidence room. A chance to send the kids to a private school can hinge on turning a blind eye. Who’s to know? I’ve seen all that and more, and I’ve had enough.”

  There were shadows in his eyes that she couldn’t quite read. Had he been personally involved, caught up in a chain of events he couldn’t control? “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “About whatever situation you left behind.”

  “It was nothing. Absolutely nothing.” He looked in the rearview mirror, then threw the shift in reverse. “See you around.”

  He drove off without a backward glance.

  FOUR

  Scott leaned his arms on the top of the split rail corral and eyed the donkey’s placid expression.

  The single, long stemmed rose dangling from its mouth added a debonair flair completely contradicted by the animal’s cockeyed left ear and ragged, 1970s shag carpet of a coat.

  The corral fence was intact—all three rails solid. The two gates were still chained shut. The poor guy was dead lame and couldn’t possibly jump, so how on earth had he managed to trample the roses up by the cabin and reappear in his corral with one clenched in his teeth?

  Shaking his head, Scott laughed when the animal began methodically chewing, apparently oblivious to the sharp thorns on the stem. “Well, Attila, if you want it that bad, you deserve it, buddy. I’m just glad ole Mrs. Swanson isn’t here to see you stealing her roses.”

  The absurdity of the situation hit him like a sucker punch to the gut as he turned for the cabin.

  Six months ago he’d been working sixteen-hour days as a seasoned homicide detective. And now he was in the middle of nowhere. Living alone. He hadn’t seen another human being for five days, and he was talking to a donkey. Not that being alone was all that bad. Some of the alternatives were worse.

  Like running into that cute little deputy, time after time—when the last thing he wanted was to feel that level of attraction ever again for a woman wearing a badge.

  Or the situation with his ex-fiancée, who had pretty much cured him of any desire for commitment at any rate.

  Just the fact that Olivia had broken their engagement would’ve stunned him, but her announcement that she’d eloped with her partner had been like acid on an open wound.

  He’d immersed himself in his work
after that. Avoided the two of them whenever possible, maintained an air of cool detachment when he couldn’t. As a beat cop, she didn’t work out of the same part of the building, but there were chance encounters in stairwells and the parking lot…and then three months ago things had taken a far deadlier turn.

  As he turned for the house, his cell phone vibrated at his belt.

  Calls were rare these days, between the poor reception in the area and his efforts at complete isolation from his past, and he preferred it that way. He ignored the caller for a moment before unclipping the phone with a sigh of resignation. Whoever it was, it probably wasn’t about anything good.

  A glance at the screen confirmed his assumption. Bob. A retirement-age detective, he’d been one of the many in the department who had faded into the background when the accusations against Scott started surfacing. Apparently still uncomfortable with his spineless defection and trying to make amends, this was the second time he’d called.

  “Yeah?”

  “Hey.” After an awkward pause, Bob cleared his throat. “How’s medical leave going? You doing okay?”

  Rubbing the still-tender surgical scars on his shoulder, Scott forced himself to relax his grip on the phone. “Great.”

  “I…well, I thought you should know how things are going here.” Another pause. “And again, I wanted to tell you that I’m real sorry. It shouldn’t have happened. Not to a guy like you…”

  Scott tuned him out.

  One day he’d been trying to forget Olivia’s romantic departure for a cocky young rookie cop whose ego was only exceeded by his bodybuilder brawn. The next—thanks to an anonymous tip—Scott had faced accusations about evidence that disappeared during a murder investigation.

  Ten grand in unmarked bills and five kilos of prime White Widow, to be exact. Evidence that Scott had logged in himself, following procedure to the letter.