Where Angels Rest (10 page)

“But you slept with her, didn’t you?”

He cursed. Sara was nothing. A one-night stand he hadn’t even tried to keep going.

“A little discretion would go a long way, John.”

He closed his eyes. Not really much to say to that.
Maggie was gifted at keeping up impressions; she’d had a lifetime of practice. She expected that same scrupulous secrecy of him.

He started to leave but as he reached the door, a thought popped in the back of his mind like a kernel of hot corn.

“Wait.” He turned back to her, almost afraid to ask. “So, you knew about me and Sara Daniels? Even back then?”

Maggie looked up from her vases, and the look in her eyes seeped into Jack’s veins like poison. A glint of steel there. Not just sadness. “Of course,” she said. “I’ve known about every one of them.”

Erin stood in judge’s chambers beside a big Hawaiian-looking deputy named Vaega, fighting to keep her eyes open. Judge Watkins read some papers. He was an old, bearded man who wasn’t happy about cutting his hunting trip short. Dorian Reinhardt, on the other hand—Huggins’s attorney—fairly beamed. Erin had worked with lawyers like him before. Smug, greedy, and more interested in publicity than justice. Here he stood arguing for a restraining order against her. For God’s sake,
she
wasn’t the one who’d wielded a shotgun.

Erin wanted to scream. Justin’s life was ticking away, and she was stuck here—

The door opened and a security guard gestured in the sheriff. Erin did a double take. He looked different than he had in the exhausted, wee hours of this morning or on his weekend bender. The shadowy beard was gone, the dark hair combed. He wore jeans with a sports coat and dark shirt, and his big hand smoothed down a tie speckled with a design Erin couldn’t make out. He moved behind her and the scents of soap and aftershave touched the air.

She shifted, aware of her own tired clothing and straggles of hair. For a second, her mind wandered to a hot shower and a warm bed, maybe a cool pillow against her cheek—

“Dr. Sims.” Judge Watkins’s voice. Erin snapped back to attention. “By court of law, you are hereby forbidden to have contact with Mr. Calloway, directly within fifty feet or indirectly, via any means including letters, e-mail, phone calls, Facebook and other social media, or through the use of a third party…”

It was over. She turned and Mann was right there. Roadrunner on his tie, aftershave lingering.

“Come on,” he said, picking up her computer bag from the floor where she’d let it drop. He slipped a hand beneath her elbow and hurried her out a side door, down a hall.

“Personal escort, Sheriff?”

“I’m taking you out the back. You might need help getting by the reporters.”

“You mean I might need help making sure I don’t stop and talk to any of them.”

He turned on her so quickly she nearly lost her balance. “Don’t even think it,” he warned, catching her by the shoulders. For a second he looked as if he wanted to wring her neck but an instant later his gaze trekked down her body. Erin flushed, her head gone light.

“When was the last time you ate?” he asked.

She looked up at him. He’d been so drunk or angry or harried that concern for her basic needs was the last thing she expected. “I had a Snickers bar yesterday on my way here. And a jelly donut before I left Miami.”

“Jesus,” he said. “What are you, some kind of health nut?”

He pushed the door open and a melee of media
exploded: shouting and shoving, boom mikes prodding and bulbs flashing. Mann hunched over her and barreled through, saying, “No comment, no comment,” as they worked their way through the parking lot and to her car.

When she got in, he said, “Wait here until I pull my car around. Follow me to your motel and I’ll point you to a place you can eat.”

She did, and when they got to the Red Roof Inn, she wheeled around to the back corner of the motel. They got out and the sheriff walked her to #231. Erin slid the key card in and pressed open the door.

She froze. “Oh, my God.”

S
ON OF A BITCH
,” Mann said. He drew her back with one hand and pulled out his gun with the other, then entered the room. Erin staggered against the railing outside, her heart thrashing against her breastbone. She waited a minute and heard him pick up the phone and bark some orders into it, then she took a deep breath and stepped into the doorway.

“Don’t come in,” he said, hanging up. But she did, and reached out to the wall to touch the sticky red substance splattered all around the room. She rubbed it between her thumb and forefinger and sniffed. Paint.

Thank God.

But the impression someone had meant to convey wasn’t erased by that knowledge. The room looked as if a murder had taken place there, the walls and bed and floor all splashed with red, like a crime scene in one of those creepy reality shows on TV.

Only this wasn’t TV. It was Erin’s motel room.

She took one more step, just enough to see into the bathroom.
GO HOME.
The words spilled across the mirror, awkward black letters with an oval face outlined
below. A downturned line for the mouth and two dots of paint for eyes, the red of one dribbling down the glass like something on the cover of a horror novel.

A wave of cold fear washed down Erin’s spine. In the back of her mind, an engine roared to life, tires squealing and headlights bearing down—

“Hey.” Mann’s voice. He was standing inches away, and touched her chin. “Come back.”

The memory rippled away. Yes, come back. Don’t be stupid.

“John Huggins did this,” she said. “He’s trying to scare me away. He—” She stopped, realizing what she’d just said. “Where was he on Friday night?”

Mann shook his hand. “He isn’t the one who took a run at you at the prison.”

“It was a rental ca—”

“I checked it already. He was here, not in Florida.”

She stared. He’d checked it already. So he hadn’t blown her off. He didn’t believe Jack Calloway was a murderer, but he hadn’t blown her off.

“Come on,” he said, guiding her out. “Deputies are on their way.”

They went outside, and Erin was astounded at the emotion weakening her limbs. She was used to feeling anger and determination. Her job called for those things in spades. But this—this chilling sensation that turned her bones to jelly—she hadn’t felt this since she was sixteen years old.

She leaned back, letting the wall take her weight. The sheriff paced a couple of steps, rubbed a hand over his face, and paced some more. Belatedly, Erin realized he was as shaken as she.

“I take it you don’t see this sort of thing in Hopewell very often?” she asked.

“I think we can safely assume you brought it with you.”

“Oh, so it’s my fault—”

“I didn’t mean that,” he said, but that was all. A black sedan pulled up, lights flashing, and he went to meet his men. Erin followed.

Vaega rolled out of the driver’s side and an older man, leathered and bony, climbed from the passenger seat. Both went to the room and looked inside. When they came back out, the older deputy stopped in front of Erin. His badge said H
OGUE
and he scowled at her. “What’d you do,” he asked, “pay some teenager to do this, so ever’body’d think you weren’t full of shit?”

Erin sprang but Sheriff Mann grabbed her. He snarled at the deputy. “Do your job, Wart. Secure the scene. Canvass the area and take statements from anyone who has access to a key.”

“That would be about a hundred people,” Vaega said. “Jimmy Fowler works the front desk. He leaves it unattended most of the time, plays video games in the back.”

“Then get about a hundred statements.” Mann looked down at Erin, his hand still seizing her arm, then blew out a breath. He didn’t like whatever he was about to say. “If you need me, Dr. Sims and I will be at Engel’s.”

Engel’s Eatery was a Pennsylvania Dutch diner on Main Street, with the daily specials written in German on a chalkboard. It always smelled of yeast rolls and cinnamon, and in the winter it was famous for hot white chocolate with vanilla-bean whipped cream.

And at every time of year, it was a hangout for the locals. Nick frowned at the idea of courting the public but knew it was the right thing to do. Someone was
threatening Sims. No place like Engel’s to make sure folks knew the Miami visitor was under his watch.

He held the door for her and waved at Leni Engel, who was wiping off the pie counter. She was a big woman with wire glasses and a conservative bun at the back of her head. She might have been mistaken for Amish but for the fact that she always showed some cleavage.

“Hey there, Sheriff,” she called out. “Rebecca will be right out.”

He murmured to Sims, “That’s the owner, Leni Engel. You’ll like her food—not a fruit or vegetable in sight.”

Rebecca appeared, wearing a too-tight blouse and overdone makeup. Her fingers were tipped in black nail polish and a rhinestone stud winked in her nostril.

“Sheriff,” she said, giving Sims a once-over. “Back booth?”

“Maybe you and I should have a talk first.”

She shot a glance to the cash register. Her mom, Leni, was watching. “I haven’t seen him,” Rebecca said, without moving her lips.

“I wasn’t talking about Ace. I was talking about your friend, Carrie Sitton. Pretty scary stuff. You got anything you wanna tell me?”

“I told that other sheriff and the Cleveland cops. Everything I could think of.”

“Okay. But I don’t mind hearing it, too. Whenever you wanna talk.” Then he wagged his finger at her. “And stay away from Ace Holmes.”

“I told you, I haven’t seen him.”

“But you’re lying.”

He let it go—nothing he could do about her hanging out with Holmes—and they followed her to a booth in the back. Nick tipped greetings to wide-eyed patrons on the way, but didn’t stop to chat.

Let ’em look.

But when he saw the man seated at the back corner booth, he cursed. He hadn’t counted on
that
.

He waited for Dr. Sims to slide into her seat then said, “I’ll be back,” and went to the corner, where Rodney Devilas sat drinking coffee. Rodney was Margaret Calloway’s nephew. She and Jack had raised him after his mother committed suicide. He was legally blind, and though thirty, had a shock of white hair that was rumored to have lost its pigment when he was a child, in the months after he found his mother dead. Nick had heard stories of trauma doing that to people, but until meeting Rodney, never knew it was real.

“Sheriff?” Rodney said, and Nick shook his outstretched hand.

“How did you know it was me?”

“The silence when you walked in was deafening. I take it you aren’t alone?”

Nick heard the accusation in his voice. “Erin Sims and I are having a talk. That’s what I came to tell you. I didn’t want you to hear it from somebody else.” He paused, searching for the right words. There was no good way to tell a man that you were about to investigate his uncle for murder. “Look, Rodney. About Jack. I’m going to try to do this right. I want you to know I’m not going to let this turn into a circus.”

“So noted,” Rodney said, but Nick wasn’t feeling the love. Rodney had a protective streak, particularly for Margaret. Nick had always wondered if it was because Margaret and Rodney’s mom had been identical twins. That had to be strange for a kid, even a blind one.

Nick went back to where Erin Sims waited.

“Rodney Devilas,” she said.

“Yes. He can make out shadows and shapes, but wouldn’t have been able to identify you. That didn’t seem… right.”

“Always protecting your citizens. Even the ones who don’t deserve it.”

“Rodney’s been through enough in his life. The least we can do is try to keep him out of it while you tear apart the only family he has.”

Sims flushed. “My brother is about to die, Sheriff. Forgive me if my top priority isn’t the emotional welfare of Huggins’s nephew.”

“Okay, easy,” he said, but understood.

Rebecca came back and Nick said, “Two coffees, two orange juices, and
brötchen
.” He looked at Sims. ”A standard breakfast okay?”

Sims nodded and Rebecca left with the order. The same breakfast nine out of ten patrons ordered every morning. Nick leaned onto his forearms and got down to business. “I want the truth: Did you vandalize your own motel room?”

Sims looked at him like he was out of his mind. “How would I have done that? I’ve been with you since last night.”

“Deputy Hogue was right. You could’ve hired it done when you got to town.”

“Oh, for the love of God. I barely had time to check in to the motel and get over to Hilltop House, let alone scout out a hired thug. Check my flight time if you don’t believe me.”

“I will,” he promised, but he did believe her. Wished he didn’t. It would be easier if she were the bad guy. He leaned back. “Okay, I’ve read all the paper we could get over a weekend. Now I want to know what’s
not
there. Start with your brother.”

Her eyes widened—emerald green in this light—and he realized she hadn’t expected him to ask. She’d assumed he wouldn’t bother. “Justin was a senior in high school,” she began. “He lived with my husband and me.”

“Why? Were there problems at home?”

“Of course not. Everything was fine,” she said, but it came out a little too rushed to sound sincere. “Our mother moved and Justin wanted to stay in the same school, that’s all. David and I had room.”

“Okay.” Could be.

“Justin had a part-time job at a community center, setting up for conferences and banquets and things. Lauren McAllister was part of an event there. She had some artwork on display for a show and Justin got this crazy crush. He was seventeen and she was nineteen.”

“He admitted to sleeping with her.”

“They dated a little. And before you point it out, he also admitted to having an argument with her the day she was killed.”

“Over another man.”

“Over John Huggins.”

“Over an
unidentified
man,” Nick insisted. “From what I read, there was no proof it was Huggins. Hell, he would have been almost twenty years older than Lauren. And married.”

“Right,” Sims said, with an edge that could have cut diamonds. “Married, middle-aged men never have affairs with younger women.”