Cop by Her Side (The Mysteries of Angel Butte) (12 page)

“Yeah.” He bent his head and kissed her cheek, cushiony, soft and fragrant. “Get some sleep.” He had to turn and go. This wasn’t the moment for anything more.

She was still standing there in the open doorway when he got in his Jeep, and even when he backed out into the street, but the house was dark the last time he looked back.

* * *

“W
HY
WOULD
YOU
be interested in my financial relationship to one of my employees?” Stillwell asked in what appeared to be genuine surprise. That, or he was a hell of an actor, which was Clay’s guess. “If any crime was committed, Mrs. Wilson was the victim.”

He hadn’t looked real happy to see Clay waiting outside his building when he arrived at eight-thirty. Clay had given some serious thought to going straight to his house last night, or knocking on the door at 7:00 a.m. or so, but had held on to his patience by a thread. He knew damn well that if he went to a judge right now asking for a warrant, he’d be met with bewilderment. Sure, something irregular was going on—but was it a crime? Did it have anything to do with the crime that
had
been committed? He couldn’t prove a thing yet, and in all honesty didn’t know.

“When I’m investigating, I look for any anomaly,” he explained. “The financial situation of the Wilsons raised a red flag for me right away.”

Stillwell leaned back in his desk chair, appearing comfortable and only mildly concerned. Avuncular, Clay thought. The guy had it down to an art form.

“Of course,” Clay continued, testing the waters, “we’re hoping that Mrs. Wilson will soon be able to tell us herself what happened. Had you heard she’s showing distinct signs of improvement?”

The blue eyes remained guileless. “Yes, I stopped by again yesterday. Spoke to Drew, in fact. He sounded quite encouraged.”

“So is Lieutenant Vahalik, Mrs. Wilson’s sister.”

“Melissa has mentioned that her sister is a policewoman.” This time there was something different in his eyes—some secret amusement? “For sisters, they don’t seem to have much in common.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Clay murmured, hiding his deep antipathy. “They both love those two girls. The lieutenant is dreading having to tell her sister that Brianna is missing.”

There was a flicker of something, but it came and went too fast to be read with any accuracy. “Indeed,” Stillwell said, shaking his head. “That will be distressing.” He raised his eyebrows. “Unless you have reason to believe you might be able to find young Brianna before her mother regains consciousness?”

“That’s my hope. Perhaps you can help me now by explaining these extra payments to Mrs. Wilson.”

He looked surprised. “It’s certainly no secret. She’s a valued employee. When I learned her husband was having difficulty finding a new job and they might lose their home, I offered a personal loan. My hope is that, by carrying them for now, it will give Mr. Wilson time to wait for the right job locally.”

“You care that much about a bookkeeper.”

Stillwell shook his head. “Sergeant Renner, I can tell you’re not a businessman. What’s made Stillwell Trucking a success is the employees. I have very little turnover. When someone good comes to work for me, I try to keep him—or, in this case, her. In my experience, retaining the best employees is critical. I can readily afford the help I’ve given the Wilsons. He’s an engineer. Once he’s working again, he’ll make good money. We can work out a payment schedule.”

“And if he takes a job out of the area?”

“Then I’ll still expect to be repaid,” Stillwell said, some steel in his voice. “At some point, if his unemployment continues, I’ll set a deadline. For now, I think of it as making an investment in the future.”

Clay still didn’t like the guy, but, damn it, his explanation sounded almost reasonable. Generous as all get-out, of course, but there might actually be something to his theory that the company’s success depended on retaining solid employees. And yeah, he probably could afford the amount he’d given Lissa without missing it.

Clay asked a few more questions, and found that Stillwell had asked Melissa to keep the loan private for obvious reasons; he wouldn’t be willing to do the same for every employee, and didn’t want to create hard feelings. He at least pretended to be dismayed to learn that she hadn’t told her husband where the money was coming from.

He looked straight at Clay when he said, “Please tell Mr. Wilson the loan is personal, but my relationship with his wife is not.”

“I’ll do that,” Clay agreed. “Thank you for your candor.”

“You’re very welcome.” He stood and held out his hand, which Clay felt compelled to shake. “If there was anything at all I could do to bring Brianna Wilson home, you may be sure I’d do it.”

Clay didn’t have a lot of choice but to leave. Walking out to his Cherokee, he turned his head to watch a semi carefully maneuvering to back up to one of the loading docks. A man on the ground was using hand signals to guide the driver. A couple of others waited inside the bay to load or unload. Other trucks were already in place. Most, he supposed, picked up their loads elsewhere.

It was an interesting business, he reflected. Keeping track of what truck was where at every moment must present a challenge. Stillwell probably wished he had a radar screen like on a naval destroyer, so that he could watch the moving blips.

The attempt to distract himself only worked so long.

Sitting behind the wheel, Clay didn’t start the engine immediately. Frustration weighed on him. He wasn’t looking forward to telling Jane she’d violated her principles for information that had provided no help at all.

He wasn’t 100 percent sure he believed James Stillwell was really that far thinking or altruistic. He’d told Jane he expected to be fed a lie, and he couldn’t be sure that wasn’t what had happened. But he was left with no reason to pursue this line of inquiry, no excuse for a warrant. Nothing but a niggle that insisted Melissa Wilson must have had a reason
not
to tell her husband about the loan so kindly extended by her employer. Think of how awkward it would be to spring it on him later—
Dear, did I mention how much money I borrowed while telling you I was “handling” everything?

But if she’d embezzled from the company, why wouldn’t Stillwell have called the cops, or, at the very least, fired her ass? No businessman liked looking stupid. Too often, they didn’t prosecute. But if that was the case, why would he lie now? Why was he stopping so devotedly by the hospital to check on his bookkeeper’s recovery? More employee relations? Hard to believe.

Away from James Stillwell’s ultrasincere persona, Clay’s dissatisfaction was growing. Too bad he was utterly devoid of ideas for what to do next.

Crap, he thought. What was he supposed to do? Hope some tip panned out? Hope Melissa Wilson opened her eyes and cried, “I saw John Doe grab my daughter!”

If there was one thing Clay hated, it was waiting. Taking a passive role.

His fingers tightened on the steering wheel and he swore aloud, viciously and at length.

* * *

F
EELING
DAZED
, J
ANE
set her phone down on the dresser. A loan? Lissa had done nothing worse than borrow money from her boss without telling Drew?

And, oh, God, think what I did to find that out.

She wanted to be mad at Clay. She
really
wanted to be mad at him, but couldn’t. He’d been right—of course he had—to find out where the money had come from. The unexplained income was the one oddity in Lissa’s recent life, a logical possible explanation for her equally odd behavior Saturday leading up to the accident.

Talking to Clay, Jane had wanted to know why Stillwell hadn’t told Clay about the loan the first time they talked.

“He claims it didn’t occur to him. At the time, he had no reason to think her accident was anything but an accident.” The reluctance in his voice came through. “It makes sense.”

“Why would he loan her so much money?” she asked.

Clay relayed an explanation about retaining quality employees, etc. etc. “And I kind of got the feeling the money is a drop in the bucket for him,” he added.

“I told you I saw his house,” Jane admitted. “He’s got to be loaded.”

“You going to the hospital today?”

“Yes.”

She waited for him to tell her he’d stop by, or ask if they could have lunch together, but he only, rather curtly, said he’d be in touch and ended the call. When she thought about it, she realized how distant he’d sounded from the beginning.

He wouldn’t have lied, would he? Found something out he didn’t want to tell her? Did he assume she’d share anything he said with Drew?

Or... Suddenly she felt sick. Today, he didn’t need anything from her. Had lunch and coffee and the phone calls and, dear God, the kiss been a little more manipulation on his part? If so—she’d totally fallen for the whole “you can trust me” shtick.

Shuddering, she told herself she was jumping to conclusions. Clay might just have had something on his mind. Known he wouldn’t have time to see her today. She’d think a lot less of him if he
didn’t
focus on finding Bree.

But the queasiness lingered, especially when it occurred to her she was going to have to tell Drew what Clay had learned.
Oh, Lissa, why didn’t you tell him what you were doing?
But Jane could guess. Her sister really had enjoyed being the competent one, being in charge. She’d probably reveled in being able to make decisions without any input at all from Drew. Had she actually been
happy
that he had been humbled by being jobless?

Jane was a little staggered to discover how readily she could attribute awful motives to her sister. How much...she didn’t like her?

But I do love her. Don’t I?

Right this minute, she wasn’t entirely sure.

* * *

A
COUPLE
OF
hours later, despite everything, Jane felt a thrill when she squeezed Lissa’s hand and Lissa squeezed back.

“Oh, my God,” she whispered. “Lissa? Can you hear me? Squeeze my hand again if you can.”

Nothing happened. Still, she had a huge lump in her throat. Part of her that she hadn’t wanted to acknowledge had begun to believe Lissa was gone, that she wouldn’t be back in any way her family would recognize. But this was so...tangible.

Tears burned in her eyes. She was crowded with memories—walking her little sister to class, holding her hand in the packed hallway. Lissa getting into bed with her the night after their parents’ last, explosive fight, after Mom shouted, “I’m gone!” and went, not even stopping to say goodbye to either girl. Lissa’s hand had slipped into Jane’s that night, too, and she’d whispered, “I’m scared.” Jane was scared, too, scared spitless. Literally. She remembered having to work up enough saliva to allow herself to whisper reassurance to the skinny little girl who didn’t have anyone but her now.

Other times, too, when they’d thrown themselves into each other’s arms after they had fought, or after Dad had hurt one of them. The times Jane had let him hurt her so that Lissa could slip away. Lissa hardly ever said, “I love you,” but sometimes, when she watched Jane put ice on bruises or welts, she would.

Of course I love her,
she thought, and bent to kiss her sister’s forehead and feel the stir of an exhalation.

“Please wake up,” she murmured. “Bree needs you, Lissa. I hope you can hear me. Please wake up.”

She could have sworn her sister’s eyelids fluttered, as if she was trying, but then...nothing.

CHAPTER TEN

C
LAY
WAS
JUST
coming out of the john at sheriff’s headquarters when his phone rang. His father, he saw with a jolt of alarm, who never called during the day.

Remembering what he’d told Jane about his mother, how the ever-present fear her cancer would recur had faded without him noticing, he thought,
Shit, not Mom.

“Dad?”

“Rumor has it the missing Wilson kid is your case.”

The way his heart had skipped a few beats, Clay battled momentary lightheadedness. He leaned a shoulder against the wall in the broad hallway. “That’s why you called?”

“Why else would I?”

“Because you’d been injured. Because Mom—” He couldn’t bring himself to say it.

“Didn’t you just talk to your mother?”

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “But that was a week ago.”

“Why would you think anything like that?” Strangely, Chuck Renner sounded angry.

“The other day I was telling someone about Mom’s cancer. Brought it to mind, that’s all.”

“Who would you talk to about your mother?”

A conclave of a couple of punks, one of Clay’s detectives and a woman in a suit who was probably a defense attorney was taking place twenty feet or so away. Clay turned his back. “I’m...seeing someone,” he said, keeping his voice down even as he wondered what in hell he was doing. “Women ask about things like that.”

“Yeah, she a looker?” His father laughed. “Must be, you always liked big tits.”

Tits?
Oh, crap, it was Jane’s voice he was hearing, burning with fury.
No, it’s a rack, isn’t it?

“I like her.” He cleared some roughness from his voice. “She’s smart, she—”

“Got you by the short hairs, boy,” his father sneered. “What’s this big-titted gal do? Don’t tell me you got lucky and she’s a masseuse.” He drew the word out, elongated it to make it obscene.

My father, the asshole.
Clay shook his head in disbelief. Why had he thought for a minute he could talk to him?

“She’s a cop, Dad. A good one. She was in on that operation I was involved in a few weeks ago.”

“The raid?”

“She went in first. She’s...” He bent his head and kneaded the back of his neck. “Brianna Wilson is her niece.”

“What would you want with a woman like that?” His father sounded like he really wanted to know. “You gonna ask her to frisk you when you’re in bed? Cuff you? You like a woman pretending to be a man?”

“Jane doesn’t pretend anything,” he heard himself say. “She doesn’t have to. She’s a lieutenant for Angel Butte P.D. Outranks us both, Dad.”

“That’s what you want to go home and snuggle with at night?” His father snorted derisively. “You sure she doesn’t have a dick to go with the tits?”

Clay stood frozen, thinking,
How many times have I talked like this?

Suddenly impatient, he pushed away from the wall. “There a point to this call? If not, I’ve got a little girl to find.”

“Maybe you should ask your lady cop to help,” his father jeered, “since you don’t seem to be getting anywhere on your own.”

“Tell Mom I’ll be calling,” Clay said curtly, and ended the call.

Sometimes he couldn’t believe he’d been fool enough to emulate this man.

Yeah, he thought, but this conversation had been his father at his worst. If that was him, through and through, Clay probably wouldn’t be speaking to him at all. But it wasn’t. He and Dad had had a lot of good times together, too. Despite the long hours every cop worked, Dad had spent hours patiently pitching or catching the ball as Clay and his brother had each played baseball, first Little League, then high school. Throwing a football. Clay remembered his father installing a couple of floodlights out in the backyard so they could keep playing ball after dark. His grin would flash as night fell and he declared, “Time to turn on the stadium lights.”

He’d taught them to ride their bikes, to rebuild automotive engines, to cast a fishing line and handle a gun. Yeah, eventually he’d also taught them some majorly screwed-up attitudes about women—but mostly that had come later.

Clay fumbled toward remembering the first times his father had shocked him. He thought now that some of it was a kind of swaggering, like he’d been doing himself that day in the squad room when Jane overheard. As he’d grown into manhood—and probably his brother after him—Dad had done a lot more swaggering. It was as if he perceived a threat of some kind coming from a younger male in his own home. Maybe some of the shit he talked was his way of asserting he was a real man and his kids didn’t yet measure up.

Looked at that way—his posturing was pathetic, Clay thought with faint shock. For the first time, he had to wonder how much of that crap his father actually believed. He suspected he’d never know for sure.

I will not be like that.

The vow was grimly taken.

And, damn, he wished the whole conversation hadn’t started with a lie on his part, one implying he and Jane had something going.

His phone rang again and he gritted his teeth, but the number that appeared wasn’t his father’s. Instead it was FBI agent Ed Solomon’s.

Clay’s pulse quickened. “Ed?”

“We might have something.”

Instead of continuing into the detectives’ room, he turned to pace back down the hall. “Tell me.”

* * *

I
T
WAS
EVENING
before he had a minute to do more than think about Jane. Discovering at close to eight that he was starved, he had the fleeting impulse to call her and— What? Invite her out to dinner? Someplace with white tablecloths and lit by candlelight, maybe? Sure. She’s sick with fear because the little girl she loves is missing, and he’s thinking about a romantic evening concluding with sex?

Except...he wasn’t. The realization came as a shock. What he’d been thinking was that he wanted to talk to her. Hold her hand. Watch the play of emotions on her face. Let her draw whatever she needed from him, the way he had when he’d left the Wilson house last night.

He swore under his breath. He was such a goner, and over a woman who, at the very least, had terribly mixed feelings where he was concerned.

He couldn’t help himself, though. He fumbled for his phone in the dark interior of his Jeep, scrolling for her number once the screen lit up.

“Clay?” she answered after the second ring.

He hated hearing her eagerness and hadn’t let himself remember that every time he dialed her number, he raised her hopes and then crushed them.

“Nothing new,” he hastened to say. Same way he had to begin every conversation with her these days. “Maybe I shouldn’t have called.”

Her breath hitched. At least, he thought that was what the sound was. “No.” All the strain she felt was in her voice. “I mean, I’m glad you called.” She gave an odd sounding laugh. “Did you know I was at the Raynors’ for something like twenty-four hours before we figured out where Matt was being held?”

Wondering where she was going with this, he’d have given a lot to be able to see her face. “No.”

“Alec and Julia both were...distraught. I felt really sorry for her. He could
do
something, at least. You know? She was stuck waiting. I thought, I don’t ever want that to be me. I even felt a little smug, because I’m a bad-ass cop. Of course that meant I’d never be the little woman, pacing the house praying for good news.”

Her utter misery, wrapped in wry understanding of her own nature, did painful things to his heart.

“You know,” he said, “you’re still a cop. No, Bree wasn’t snatched in your jurisdiction. But I’m open to ideas if you have any. I’m not trying to shut you out, Jane.”

This silence, he wasn’t sure how to interpret. Not until she said, “Thank you for saying that.” The next rasping breath might have been a sob. “I would give anything to have a useful idea.” Her voice shook. “Right now, I’m...paralyzed with fear. I don’t know how Alec made decisions the way he did.”

Clay hadn’t been so sure Alec Raynor
should
have been making decisions involving the rescue of his own nephew, a boy he seemed to love more like a son. He’d seen that the man was on the ragged edge of control, barely keeping himself together. The impressive thing was, he’d done it. Clay had gained a great deal of admiration for Angel Butte police chief Alec Raynor, formerly of the LAPD.

“Being the one stuck waiting wouldn’t sit well with me, either,” he admitted. “You’re doing better than I would.”

“I’m about to fall apart,” she said so quietly he barely heard her. “If it weren’t for Alexis needing me...”

He pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, squeezing until it hurt. “God, Jane.”

“I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

“I called because I wanted to hear your voice. To listen to you.”

“Did you—” She hesitated. “Was there anything you wanted to tell me?”

He hadn’t even known, but yeah. He’d wanted to tell her about the conversation with his father. Which was a stupid idea.
My father wanted to know how big your tits are.
Right. That was what he needed to say to her. The whole topic was made worse by the fact she undeniably
had
big breasts.

Am I that predictable?
he asked himself. His jaw muscles spasmed.

No, damn it! He’d been powerfully drawn to her long before she’d faced him and he’d seen her figure.

“Drew home?” he asked on impulse.

“No, he’s at the hospital. Why?”

“I’m going to grab a bite to eat somewhere. I thought maybe if you wouldn’t be leaving your niece alone, you’d come along and keep me company.”

There was a small silence. “Alexis has gone to bed,” Jane said. “I made spaghetti for dinner and have tons of leftovers. If you want to come by, I could heat some up for you.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“That sounds way better than a burger and fries.” He reached for the key in the ignition. “I’m on my way, just leaving headquarters.”

She must have heard the roar of the engine, because she laughed. “See you.”

Ten minutes later, he rapped lightly on the Wilsons’ front door, not wanting to ring the bell and wake the kid. Jane opened it almost immediately.

God, she looked good, he thought, with the hunger that seemed to be with him all the time lately. Tonight she wore a snug T-shirt and an airy, midcalf-length skirt. Her hair cascaded from an elastic capturing it on the crown of her head, and her feet were bare. He could hardly tear his gaze from those small, bare feet with unpainted toenails and high arches. They looked...innocent. He tried to imagine her painting her toenails and using one of those foam gizmos his last girlfriend had to separate the toes while she worked, and felt pretty confident Jane always had better things to do.

When he shook his head slightly and looked at her face again, her cheeks were a little pink. His gaping must have been really obvious.

“Come in,” she said, stepping back.

One inhalation and he had to swallow saliva. “Man, it smells good.”

She chuckled. “I don’t do a lot of cooking, but spaghetti is one of my specialties. It was my mother’s—” Her grimace echoed some of what he’d been feeling lately. “I really hate saying that.”

He kissed her cheek, resisting the desire to nuzzle. Even so, her hair tickled his face. “If your mother’s recipe tastes as good as it smells, you should take pride in the one legacy from her.”

“Speaks your stomach,” she said lightly, leading the way to the kitchen.

“Your brother-in-law won’t mind me being here?” Clay said to her back.

She glanced over her shoulder. “Why would he?”

Because he wants you and guesses I’m a threat?
“It’s his house,” he settled for saying.

“I told him we’d known each other before. Even worked together once.”

In the kitchen, she shooed him to a chair at the table and smiled when he asked for milk instead of a beer or wine. He relaxed, watching her bustle. Doing what a woman should, his father would say.

His father could go to hell.

She’d not only heated up a generous serving of spaghetti, she’d cooked some green beans and warmed a couple of slabs of garlic bread, all of which she set in front of him.

“You’re not hungry?”

“I ate.”

“Enough?”

Their eyes met. She made a face. “I don’t seem to have much appetite. I would have said I ate more when I was stressed, but this time—” One shoulder lifted. “It’s not like I can’t afford to lose weight.”

“You don’t need to,” Clay blurted.

Her gaze turned shy. “Thank you. If, um, that was a compliment.”

“It was.” He sounded hoarse. He wanted to say more. Like, “your body is perfect.” But this wasn’t the time, any more than it had been the time to invite her out for that candlelit dinner.

This was better anyway, it occurred to him. She’d never offered to cook for him back when they were going out.

He picked up the fork and started eating, trying not to gobble or dribble sauce down his shirtfront or otherwise embarrass himself. It felt a little strange, eating while she watched.

“You sounded funny when you called,” she said suddenly. “Like...I don’t know. Something had gone sour?”

He used the napkin. “No. Nothing like that. The day was frustrating, that’s all. Once I thought we might have caught a break—” Seeing her expression, he shook his head. “It was in one way. A witness came forward, a guy who passed your sister’s SUV after it had gone off the road. He’s been away on a business trip, just got back and saw the headlines. He says when he went by the accident, he was going to stop, then saw that someone else already had so he kept going.”

Jane stared at him, her lips parted and her eyes big and hopeful despite what he’d already said about frustration.

“All he remembers is that it was a sedan, silver, he thinks. A guy—probably a man although he won’t swear to it, was bending over the trunk of the car, like he’d put something in. The way he stood blocked the make of the car and the license plate. He mostly kept his back turned, but waved our witness on. The witness admits he was mostly gaping at the sight of someone slumped over the wheel of the Venza that had gone off the road. You know what people are like, passing car accidents.”