If You See Her (6 page)

“We need to talk to Reilly more. Figure out how he’s connected to this. I want to know everything you already have on him and everything you can find out on him. What he does for a living, where he went to college, how he knows Hop … Ms. Carson, all of it.” He pulled out his phone and went to make a few notes and realized that Dwight was staring at him.

Lifting a brow, he said, “Yes?”

The sheriff puffed out his cheeks. “I already know some of that.”

Remy leaned back in the chair. “Well, that makes sense. It stands to reason you did some background work on him, although I thought he had a pretty solid alibi.”

Dwight jerked a shoulder in a shrug. “Actually, this is stuff I knew before that and yes, he had a damn solid
alibi. He had nothing to do with that girl dying, Remy. I’d almost lay my badge on it.”

He bent over, rummaging inside his desk. When he straightened, he had a battered paperback in hand and he tossed it at Remy.

Catching it, Remy studied the cover. Then he looked back at the sheriff. “What’s this?”

“Law’s handiwork. You wanted to know what he did for a living. There you go. Goes by the pen name Ed O’Reilly.”

Remy blinked. He looked at the cover of the book and then back up at the sheriff. Then back at the book. “You’re shitting me.”

“No. I’ve known for a few years—was curious. Seeing as how he never seems to leave the house for any kind of job, but he damn sure has a regular income.” He grimaced. “I’ve got a nice, quiet town here and I like it that way. I like knowing what’s going on in my town and I decided to figure out just who he was. The day that girl died, he was out of town attending the funeral of a colleague.”

Still studying the cover of the book, Remy scowled. He was pretty sure he’d read one or two of these books. At least. Absently, he tapped it against his thigh. “Maybe this is where we need to focus. Could be an overzealous fan—”

“Not likely.” Dwight shook his head. “Guy’s too private. Hardly anybody other than some colleagues even knows who he is. Yeah, it can be found out if somebody really wants to look, but I suspect somebody who’s
this
far gone would have stirred up the waters some and Reilly … well, he’s a sharp guy. He would have noticed something, seen something. And he hasn’t.”

“Okay. Still, it’s an avenue we’ll keep open.” He tossed the book back to Dwight and went back to his
phone, made his note. “Shit. Reilly’s a writer. Trying to decide if that surprises me or not.”

Dwight snorted. “Doesn’t surprise me a bit.”

Remy eyed Dwight’s face. “I don’t think much of anything surprises you. Okay, so we need to figure out where Reilly plays into this—but he has to play into it. It all comes back to him.”

“No. Not all.” The sheriff plucked a file off his desk, handing it to Remy. “The fire at Ezra King’s place. Some weird occurrences at Lena Riddle’s. Something’s going on out in that part of the county for certain, but I don’t think it’s just Reilly involved. Shit, maybe he’s just a bystander.”

“A bystander.” Remy shook his head as he flipped through the file. “No, he’s a little too involved to just be a bystander.”

He studied the brief report about the fire. No doubt that it was arson, there. “When did you get this?”

“Just today.” Dwight’s face showed little expression, but there was a look in his eyes, one that Remy recognized.

Frustration. Fury.

Remy could sympathize with both. Somebody was fucking with their nice, quiet little town and it was pissing him off.

Handing the report back to Dwight, he said, “There may not be much of a connection, though. Arson? For all we know, it could be connected to something in King’s past. He was a state cop—he’s bound to have some enemies.”

“True. Not something we can discount there.” Dwight laid the file down, continued to stare at Remy.

“Shit. What is it?”

Dwight just smiled. “I just don’t see his past waiting this long to catch up with him. Besides, if that’s what it
was, I think he would have suspected something … and he would have already been here to talk to us.”

Then he handed Remy another file. “There’s something else you should be aware of. I received this today. It’s … this is Jolene Hollister—or was.”

The name hit Remy like a sucker punch. He knew that name—he’d carry it to his grave. He’d never met her, and he never would meet her—but he owed her. All of them did. She’d been found dead in their town. Dead, brutalized.

No. He wouldn’t forget her name.

Dread dragged at him and if he had had the option, he would have tossed the file back down, never looked at it. But he didn’t have that option, so he flipped it open. The sight of the woman there … it was a brutal, breath-stealing shock.

“What the fuck …?” he muttered.

Jerking his gaze up, he stared at the sheriff. “Is this some kind of sick joke?”

“No. Relax. It’s not who you think it is. Look closer.” He nodded toward the picture and said softly, “That’s Jolene Hollister. I know it’s almost spooky, but look again. The shape of her chin is just a little softer. Her eyes are a different color. The hair, too. The color is similar, but the cut, the style is all wrong.”

He was right, Remy realized.

But still … the similarity, it was eerie.

“Has King seen this yet?” Remy asked, forcing the words out. His throat was tight, tight and dry and raw.

“No. But I suspect we need to tell him.” Then Nielson paused. “Shouldn’t we?”

Remy nodded. Then he frowned, as the odd note in the sheriff’s voice penetrated the fog of shock. “Yes, we should. Why wouldn’t we?”

“You have to admit, the similarity is eerie. And none of this trouble started until he showed up. Now … well,
we have a dead woman on our hands, and the dead woman looks an awful lot like the woman he’s now living with. A lot like your former lover.”

Remy closed his eyes and reached up, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Shit, shit, and double fuck. “It’s not King, and you know it. Your gut’s already telling you that.”

“Can we afford to be wrong?” Nielson murmured.

“No. We can’t.” Remy slid the picture back in the file and tossed it on the sheriff’s desk and then looked at him. “That’s why we need to tell him, because if we
don’t
 … what if this guy is out trolling for women who fit the profile? If we don’t tell him, how can he protect her?”

Nielson nodded.

“It’s not him.” Remy shook his head, remembering with no small amount of envy the way King had looked at Lena. The way Lena’s face had softened when she heard the other guy’s voice.

She hadn’t ever once looked at him that way.

He hadn’t ever once managed to put that soft glow on her face.

He wasn’t jealous of King being with Lena, exactly. He had liked her a lot, had wanted her like hell, but he hadn’t been in love with her. Still, he was jealous of the way he saw them looking at each other—envious of what it looked like they had going.

King was a decent guy—Lena, her instincts about people were solid. And that dog of hers, hell, even if Lena’s instincts about people weren’t dead-on, that dog could tell a bastard from a mile off.

“It’s not him,” he murmured again.

“Okay. So we tell him.” Then Nielson grimaced. “That was my gut instinct, too. I just want somebody else who can help me shoulder the guilt if I’m wrong.”

Remy smirked. “Thanks.”

The phone chose that particular moment to ring.

Dwight reached down and pushed a button. “Yes?”

The brisk, efficient voice of his assistant, Ms. Tuttle, came through the speakerphone. “Ezra King is here to speak with you. He doesn’t have an appointment.”

Speak of the devil
, Remy thought as he listened to Ms. Tuttle. The disapproval in her voice came through loud and clear and he grinned, watched as Dwight fought not to do the same. If he so much as twitched an amused eyelash, the woman would know and he wouldn’t have any peace. The sheriff’s schedule was her domain, and she ruled it with an iron fist—hell and damnation would rain down on any who interfered.

Including the sheriff.

“It’s okay, Ms. Tuttle. He’s probably here to see if there’s any news about the fire at his place.”

Remy could almost hear her teeth clenching, gritting together. “He could have called. It’s common courtesy.”

“Yes …”

Remy grabbed a pad of paper and scrawled something down, held it up.

Dwight saw it and grinned, winked.

Then, without missing a beat, he continued. “But he’s had a rough week, a rough year, really. It’s our Christian duty to be understanding, especially in this trying time.”

“Humph.” Ms. Tuttle didn’t sound terribly impressed. “You’re right, of course.”

“Send him on back. I’ll speak with him, and afterward, I’ll do my best to make sure he understands the importance of calling. We can’t have him messing up the schedule.” At that, Dwight rolled his eyes. As he put the phone down, he muttered, “You’d think she was handling the president’s daily affairs, sometimes.”

In under a minute, there was a brisk knock at the door and Ms. Tuttle stood there, a petite woman with steel-gray hair and snapping green eyes. She stepped
aside to let Ezra enter and then, with a dismissive sniff, she closed the door behind her.

They waited until the familiar plodding tread of her thick-soled shoes had faded before Ezra looked at Dwight, a golden-brown brow cocked.

“Our Christian duty?” Ezra asked.

Dwight grinned. “Did she have her speakerphone on?”

“Nah, just turned up loud. Guess she’s hard of hearing—I heard every damn word.” Then he glanced at Remy, gave him a short nod. “Jennings.”

If Remy wasn’t trained to notice things about people, he wouldn’t have seen it. Ezra was good. Damn good. There wasn’t really that much that gave him away. Just a faint tightening around his eyes. No change in his voice, nothing in the way he moved. Just that thing around the eyes.

Knowing what he knew about cops, Remy suspected King had been in touch with Nielson about the fire … and other things, like the weird stuff that had happened at Lena’s place.

Had the guy suspected something was off?

Was that why he was here?

Regardless, Nielson would probably tell him about the Hollister woman, and it was going to be one hell of a shock when he saw that picture, when he realized who the woman was.

And it was something Remy didn’t need to be here for, he decided.

Although he still needed to discuss things with the sheriff, he reached for his briefcase and went to stand up. “Dwight, I’ll catch up with you later.”

“No.” Ezra stopped, hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his worn-out jeans. “Actually, I’d planned to look you up later … you might as well hear it now.”

Remy paused, then slowly settled back into the chair,
hooking one ankle over his knee. “Exactly what do I need to hear?”

Instead of saying anything, Ezra slid a hand inside his pocket. Tugged something out. Whatever it was, it was small, small enough to hide inside the palm of his hand, and he kept it tucked there, where Remy couldn’t see it, where the sheriff couldn’t see it.

“I can’t give any good reason why I picked this up,” Ezra said, his voice distracted. “I was staring at the house, watching it go up in flames, thinking about how proud Grandma always was of that house, how much she loved it. I was so fucking pissed. Still am. I looked down, and there it was.”

“There what was, Ezra?” Dwight asked.

Remy’s gut went hot, tight.

Clenching his jaw, he stood up.

Ezra’s green eyes cut to him.

They should have been hard, cold as ice, or hot with fury.

But what Remy saw was pity.

And he knew. Somehow, he just knew.

Even before Ezra uncurled his hand and let that gold cross swing from his hand. Remy closed his eyes, looked away. But he could still see that cross, swinging there.

Brody’s cross.

Dwight stood up, leaning across his desk.

“What is that?” he murmured, more to himself than anybody else.

It’s Brody’s
. The words sprang to his lips, but Remy bit them back. He couldn’t say it—shit. Couldn’t say it out loud. Wasn’t going to admit what that was, not in front of two fucking cops—

Shit.
Shit
. He hurled his briefcase down and started to pace the small office, scrubbing his hands over his face. He couldn’t breathe. Damn it, he couldn’t breathe.

Reaching down, he tugged at the knot of his tie, but it didn’t help.

What if that stupid kid had gotten hurt?

What if somebody had been in the house?

“Remy?”

Turning around, he met Dwight’s gaze, clenching his jaw to keep from saying anything. He wanted to yell, curse—wanted to hit something. Wanted to go track down his brother and pound him senseless, make him wake up and see just how screwed up the kid had gotten.

Something had to be done, damn it.

“What’s going on, Remy?” Dwight asked.

Remy shook his head. He couldn’t say anything.

“It’s Brody’s necklace,” Ezra said, his voice quiet. “I remember seeing him wear it in town, maybe two weeks ago.”

He caught the charm in his hand, studied it. “It just didn’t seem like the kind of thing a teenaged boy would wear, you know? Unless a girlfriend gave it to him.” Ezra looked at Remy as he added, “Or maybe a mother who passed away.”

Silence fell.

Dwight settled back in his chair, the wood creaking under him. He blew out a long, heavy sigh and leaned his head against the padded headrest. “Well, shit.”

“Nothing puts him there,” Remy said, his voice rough and harsh. “That necklace doesn’t mean jack shit.”

“No.” Ezra laid it on the edge of Dwight’s desk and pushed his hands into the back of his pockets. “And the necklace, officially, wasn’t found there. I picked it up, and for all you know, I found it on the side of the road and I’m standing here lying through my teeth.”

“Shit.” Remy reached up and rubbed the back of his neck.

Abruptly, he hauled off, slamming his fist into the solid oak of a filing cabinet. Pain flared, his skin split,
and dumbly, he stared at his knuckles, watching as blood started to flow. Then he reached inside his pocket, drew out a handkerchief, wrapped it around his hand. Looking at Dwight, he said, “What are you going to do?”