Traceless (7 page)

That was the part that burned him the worst. Going into trial he'd been guilty of just one thing: lusting after Emily Wallace. That was it! And look what it had cost him.

Evidently she'd experienced a delayed flight reaction to his aggressive move. He'd seen neither hide nor hair of her this morning. He climbed out of his car and headed toward where Ray and Higgins stood talking. The conversation no doubt had to do with Clint, since both men looked less than happy. Welcome to his life.

Clint hadn't worked on a car in a hell of a long time, not since he'd tinkered with his first heap back in high school. But he didn't mind getting his hands greasy. He had to support himself; this was as good a way to do it as any.

As he neared the front of the shop he heard the tension in the two men's voices before the clipped conversation came to an abrupt stop.

Then Clint saw the reason why. Big letters spray painted on one of the garage doors read:
Hiring killers is a sin
.

"Clint." Ray acknowledged his arrival with a nod.

Higgins glanced nervously at him and muttered, "Morning."

"What's going on?" Asking was a mere technicality, a way to enter the conversation. It didn't take a detective's shield to figure it out.

"A little vandalism. Nothing we can't handle, right, Higgins?"

The shop owner shot a look at his defaced door and then at Ray. "Sure, no problem," he said to Clint. The empathetic expression Higgins pasted on his face was not a good fit.

Life was a bitch sometimes. Even when a man tried to do the right thing.

"You know," Clint suggested in retrospect, "maybe we should forget this whole thing." He didn't need the old man's reluctant charity any more than he did Ray's. "I appreciate your offer, Mr. Higgins, but let's leave it at that."

The relief that claimed the older man's face confirmed that he desperately wanted off the hook. Ray must have had something on Higgins to prod him into going for this.

"Don't be too hasty, Clint," Ray contended. "The job is yours. Mr. Higgins has offered it to you. You can't let this nonsense put you off." He gestured to the defaced door. "If you walk away, then they've won. Besides, your parole stipulates you have to hold down a job. Might as well be this one."

Clint looked past Higgins and the chief to the others congregated inside the shop beyond one of the open overhead doors. They wouldn't welcome Clint any more than the vandals had. When he would have shifted his attention back to Ray, he recognized one of the other employees. Marvin Cook. He'd run with Troy Baker and his crew. Maybe working here would provide an opportunity for Clint to use this guy. Any connection to the friends of the woman he supposedly murdered was better than none at all.

"Maybe you're right," he said to Ray. "If Higgins is still willing."

The shop owner looked none too happy, but he stuck by his word.

"I'll get this vandalism report turned in," Ray assured him. "Let me know if you have any more trouble."

When Clint would have followed Higgins into the shop. Ray waylaid him. "Everything quiet around your place last night?"

Clint considered telling him about the truck that had run him off the road. He'd gotten a pretty good look at both the truck and the car involved, but not the drivers. Both vehicles had been older models. But what was the point in mentioning it? The people who didn't want him back here and who had the balls to take steps to show it would just have to do what they would. Having the chief of police knock on their doors wouldn't put them off. No need to mention the confrontation with Emily Wallace, either. The less said the better.

"Everything's just dandy, Chief." Clint crooked his lips into a mock smile, then turned his back on Ray and headed inside.

A few minutes later Higgins introduced Clint to the other employees. Four mechanics, all with years of experience, and one receptionist, cute in a Barbie doll sort of way.

And shop manager Marvin Cook, a hotshot back in high school, gone to seed, with his beer belly hanging over his jeans. Cook didn't let on that he remembered Clint. Knowing Clint Austin carried a stigma in this town, then and now.

Some things never changed.

5:30 p.m.

As the day had progressed Clint had learned that Marvin Cook was the same jerk he'd been in high school. Star quarterback for the Pine Bluff Panthers. Teacher's pet. Old Marv had been voted the guy mostly likely to succeed senior year. He'd laid claim to the all-important most valuable player trophy, much to the dismay of Granville Turner, who had expected his son, Keith, to win that treasured prize for his role as the team's tight end. Scouts from numerous universities had come to watch those two carry the team through a winning season.

Apparently Marvin's fifteen minutes of fame had come and gone in high school. Otherwise, just over a decade later he wouldn't be bossing around a handful of grease monkeys in a small-town auto repair shop.

Clint waited until the others had washed up before he headed to the big utility sink next to the parts room. He rotated first one shoulder and then the other. He hadn't worked this hard in a while. It beat the hell out of solitary confinement. The fact that none of the other employees spoke to him didn't bother him one way or the other. He'd gotten used to the silent treatment in prison. If these jokers thought they were giving him a hard time, they should think again.

"Hey, Austin."

Clint pulled off a paper towel to dry his hands and turned to face Cook. "Yeah."

"Since you're low man on the totem pole, you can clean up the shop." Cook angled his head and eyed Clint as if he expected an argument. "We like starting the day with a clean workplace."

Clint was reasonably sure they hadn't started off the day with a clean workplace since the garage had been built, but he didn't argue. He was used to taking orders. He gave a halfhearted shrug. "Whatever."

"Use the side exit when you're finished." Two steps from the door Cook hesitated and swiveled his head to send one last injustice in Clint's direction. "Oh yeah, don't forget the toilet." Cook puckered his face into one of those expressions that said he was trying hard to remember something before he added, "It's been a while since the bathroom got a cleaning, but I'm sure you can handle it considering the years of practice you probably got in prison."

Clint dropped the paper towel he'd wadded into the trash can, didn't bother responding. He'd learned the hard way that clever comebacks could cost a hell of a lot more than he wanted to pay. If negative behavior was reported to his parole officer, it would be for something more important than whether or not Clint was willing to clean a toilet.

Though there was one thing he'd waited to say until Cook was ready to call it a day. Until it was just the two of them. "Hold up, Cook."

The other man paused, one hand on the door. He looked back at Clint with a blatant mixture of disdain and impatience, maybe even a hint of apprehension. "What?"

"Wonder why the police didn't consider you a suspect during the Baker investigation? You and Heather Baker dated a few times, didn't you? What were you doing the night she was murdered?"

Cook's face went gauzy white before going bloodred. "Go fuck yourself, Austin." He slammed the door on his way out.

Clint hadn't planned to start with Marvin Cook. Hell, Clint hadn't even known he would run into Cook at his new job, but he'd certainly seized the opportunity fate had tossed his way. Too much of his life had been squandered already. He wasn't about to take for granted another minute, much less a day.

He walked to the door through which Cook had exited and watched beyond the grimy window as the pissed-off guy climbed into his truck. Within the hour word would get around that Clint Austin was asking questions. The natives would grow restless in a hurry, especially those who had something to hide.

Burning rubber, Cook spun out onto the street. Clint had to smile. It was about time someone else felt the pressure of the past. The entire investigation into Heather Baker's murder had centered around the idea that Emily Wallace was the intended victim. What if the killer had been after Heather instead? No one had even considered that scenario. Not once. It was past time someone did. And rattling Marvin Cook's cage was only the beginning.

When Clint would have turned back to the menial tasks Cook had dumped on him just because he could, his gaze snagged on another vehicle in the parking lot. Dark blue. Malibu.

Though he couldn't see the occupant, he knew it was
her
.

What do you know?
She'd shown up after all. Emily Wallace had come to see him home. He hoped she was a fan of the waiting game.

This, he thought as he surveyed the shop that looked as if it hadn't been swept, much less mopped, in years, was going to take a while.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Den

7:59 p.m.

"It just ain't right."

Troy Baker reached for his beer. It was his sixth or seventh and he hadn't even been home for supper yet. His wife would just have to bear with him. He was in the middle of a major crisis here. He hooked his heels on the footrest of his bar stool and chugged the cold brew knowing it wouldn't cool the fire in his gut. Marvin had called him, all fired up about some stupid remark Austin had made; then the fat bastard had refused to meet Troy for a beer. Asshole. Marvin wanted to stay out of this, he'd claimed. What the hell was his problem? What kind of friend backed off like that?

Fucking coward.

"Damn straight it ain't right," Larry Medford agreed as he plopped his empty bottle on the bar. "Austin should have gotten the hint when we run his ass off the road." Larry leaned on the counter, rested his head in his hand, and looked Troy in the eye. "What you think it's gonna take to send him packing?"

Troy wagged his head in frustration. "I don't know, but whatever it is, I'm gonna make sure it gets done. God knows we can't count on the law to do this right."

The sound of pool balls breaking had Troy twisting around on his stool. "Perry, come over here, man."

Perry took his shot, sending a stripe into a corner pocket. He dropped two more before he knocked one spinning across the green only to fall short of its intended destination. He straightened away from the table and strode over to his pals, the cue stick in his hand. "You know I'm gonna have to drive you home, don't you, buddy?"

Troy didn't give a damn how he got home. He had bigger fish to fry right now. Austin was waltzing around town like he owned the place.

"We should burn Higgins out," Troy growled under his breath. "How the hell could he give that sonofabitch a job? His own daughter went to school with my sister!"

Perry shrugged. "Ray probably put the pressure on him." He gestured for his challenger not to wait before taking his turn. "You know how Ray can be. Higgins probably had a slew of parking tickets he hadn't paid." Perry slapped Troy on the back. "You're drunk, buddy; you're talking crazy."

Crazy. Yeah, right. Troy was making more sense than any damned body else in this town. As far as Ray Hale went, Troy no longer had any use for him whatsoever. It was bad enough he'd gone to see Austin in prison, but to hold his hand now that he was out... hell, that was just going too far. Maybe the good old chief of police was going Brokeback Mountain on him.

"I'll make him pay," Troy promised. "You know I will."

Perry nodded. "I know you will, buddy. Just not tonight, okay? I think we should lay low a while."

Perry was scared shitless that Ray would find out he'd run Austin off the road while Troy distracted Emily Wallace. Even if Austin filed charges and managed to convey a description that led the cops to Troy's pals, it would just be his

word against theirs. No one was going to believe Austin over Troy. Well, maybe no one but Chief Ray Dickhead Hale.

Ray would get his if he got in the way.

"Where's Keith?" Larry asked as if he'd just noticed that another of their gang hadn't shown up.

Troy grunted. "I don't know. He's acting all weird. He gave me hell last night when he found out why I told him to park that car on the road and wait. You'd think he was on Austin's side or something."

"I don't think you have to worry about that, Troy," Perry argued. "Keith feels the same way we do; he just has a bitchier wife than the rest of us."

That got a laugh out of Troy. That damned Violet had to have been a marine drill sergeant in another life. She stayed on Keith's ass like a bad rash.

"Hell yeah," Larry endorsed. "All I can say is that woman must be part Hoover, the turbo model. Otherwise I sure as hell wouldn't put up with her bullshit."

Troy hated to burst his buddy's bubble, but he'd dated Violet Manning a couple of times before she'd gotten engaged to Keith and she'd been a major disappointment on her back and on her knees. Whatever power she held over her husband, it wasn't sex, oral or otherwise. Troy finished off his beer and gestured for the bartender to bring him another.

"Gotta take my shot." Perry sauntered back over to the pool table to drop the last of the stripes.

"I'm cuttin' you off, Baker."