Dying to Kill (Angel Delaney Mysteries Book #2) (4 page)

“From the women’s shelter.”

Angel nodded. “That’s what she said. She asked me not to call the police. She wanted me to come out.”

“You? What for?”

Angel bit her lip. “Maybe she feels comfortable with me. I went out to the Jenkins’s farm on a domestic violence call several months ago.”

“That’s when you brought her to the shelter.” Anna gripped the back of a chair and shook her head in disgust. “That poor woman. She had a swollen eye and a huge bruise on her face. She tried to cover it up, but . . .” Anna pinched her lips together, anger sparking in her eyes. “It infuriates me no end, Angel. The abuse cycle goes on and on. We tell them they don’t have to stay in an abusive relationship. We offer a way out, and they go back. I tried to talk her out of going back to her husband, but she was so sure things would improve.” Anna sighed. “Sometimes they listen. Most of the time they don’t. I haven’t seen Candace in a while. I was hoping things had actually worked out between them.”

“I hope she’s okay. I guess I can understand why she’d want me since I’m familiar with the situation.”

“I’m not sure it’s a good idea for you to go out there alone. Why don’t you call Nick?”

Angel considered it. Nick Caldwell was a longtime friend and a police officer. “Not yet,” Angel decided. “She specifically asked for me. I’d like to see what’s going on. I have my cell phone so I can call in if there’s any trouble.”

Anna went back to the stove and picked up the wooden spatula. “Go then. I’ll take care of the soup.” She stirred the mixture and settled a lid on the pot. “But just for the record, I don’t have a good feeling about this.”

“Neither do I,” Angel muttered as she headed for the door.

SIX

A
ngel ran for her car, dodging bullet-sized raindrops. May on the Oregon coast could be cold—especially when the wind blew in from the north, which was what it had been doing for much of the morning. She was glad she’d taken the opportunity to run during the brief sun break. The persistent wind and rain almost made her miss Florida, but not quite.

She ducked into the car and snapped on the seat belt. Turning the key brought the engine to life and a rush of emotion. Angel’s 1972 cherry red Corvette had belonged to her older brother, Luke. The Corvette had been his pride and joy. He was the oldest of the five Delaney kids. Dad’s favorite. At least he had been until he disappeared. Luke was a lawyer and had been involved in some sort of criminal case when he went missing. On occasion, Angel thought about trying to find him. She certainly had the time now and determined to think more about that possibility later. At the moment, however, she needed to pay a visit to a very distraught woman.

While she maneuvered the Corvette out of the driveway, Angel forced her thoughts to more pleasant matters. Like the warm and wonderful-smelling kitchen she’d just left and how Callen would react when she served him her homemade soup. The silly grin she’d been wearing earlier came back.

Her stomach did a little flip as she thought about Callen again. The intensity of her feelings both surprised and frightened her. She didn’t like someone having so much power over her. On the other hand, Angel hadn’t felt so alive in years. Part of her wanted to cut her losses and run. The other part wanted to stick around and see where the relationship would lead. She’d promised herself and Callen that much, but with the hours he had to work, developing a relationship could take a while.

Callen had come to a dead end on the Kelsey murder investigation. Jim Kelsey had been killed nearly three months ago. Since drugs had been found in his garage, they originally thought he’d been one of several people murdered by a drug dealer, but the evidence didn’t support their theory. His wife, Michelle, had been a suspect as well, but again they had no substantial evidence linking her to the crime other than the fact that Jim Kelsey had abused her. Michelle was first on their list, however, and falling in love with her lawyer hadn’t helped her situation any.

The Kelsey case had become a sore spot for the Sunset Cove Police Department as well as the Oregon State Police. The police chief, Joe Brady, didn’t like loose ends, but he didn’t have enough officers to spare. Her leave had left them short staffed, and with budget cuts they really couldn’t afford to hire replacement officers. So they coped, dealing with the priority cases first.

As an Oregon State Police detective, Callen had been assigned to lead up the investigation, but he’d come to a standstill as well. Whoever had killed Kelsey had done a great job of eliminating any evidence linking him or her to the murder. Before leaving, Callen had confided in Angel, saying they’d had to put the investigation on the back burner while he worked on finding the missing girl in Florence.

Angel wished there was something she could do to help him—to help the department.

Maybe there would be if you went back to work
. Soon after starting with the Sunset Cove PD, Angel had considered taking the tests to qualify as a detective, but that was before the shooting incident.

Taking additional leave is the right thing to do
, Angel reminded herself.
You have to take some time to heal and to figure out who you are and what you want to do.
At the moment her excuses seemed lame. She’d been a police officer for four years, but did she really want to be one? Sometimes she thought she did. Like now, on her way out to the Jenkins’s place.

She again reinforced her decision to extend her leave. She was backing up and taking a new direction, determined to achieve some balance in her life. Learning to cook was one of her new goals. Not just for Callen or her mother but for herself. She’d never be the domestic diva her mother was, but she wanted to be able to hold her own if and when Callen asked her to marry him.

Marriage. She and Callen had talked about it once or twice, but Callen needed as much time to adjust to their relationship as she did. Both had been surprised by the depth of their feelings for each other.
No,
Angel thought,
marriage is a long way off. A very long way off.

At Highway 101 Angel headed south, then turned east along the road that bordered Sunset Cove. Phillip and Candace lived with their three children in a renovated two-story farmhouse on twenty acres. They weren’t into big-time farming but did have a few head of cattle, horses, and other animals along with a super-sized garden. Phillip Jenkins had a construction business while Candace kept up the farm.

Seeing the farm just ahead turned Angel’s thoughts back to the woman who’d called. Like so many women, Candace had gone back to the abuse. Angel couldn’t help but speculate on what had happened. Had Phillip beaten her again and left her incapacitated? Why hadn’t she just called 911?

Her thoughts drifted again to Jim Kelsey and the unsolved murder. Kelsey could have been Phillip Jenkins’s twin. Both men were big, burly, and abusive.

Angel’s anxiety level rose as she drove into the Jenkins’s long driveway. After several minutes, she pulled up between a big black truck with the logo Coast Contracting and the family’s white van. The truck meant Jenkins was there, and that probably meant a confrontation. Not something Angel looked forward to.
You could call Nick
, she reminded herself.

Not yet. The PD had other things to do. If she could handle the situation herself as a civilian, she would. If not, she’d call.

The sliding door on the driver’s side of the van stood open. Groceries in plastic bags from Andy’s Market littered the floor and backseat.

Her gaze moved to the front porch, where Candace sat on one of the two white wicker chairs. She had on jeans and a pink knit top, mostly covered by a denim jacket. Her shoes were a popular style of hiking boot—a good choice for someone living on a farm or just living in Oregon.

Candace stood when Angel approached, and walked across the porch, then gripped the railing as if she needed the support. Angel looked around but saw no sign of Phillip Jenkins. She maneuvered around the mud holes and made her way to the sidewalk that led through a grape arbor. The rain had eased up, but wet branches dripped water on her head and down her neck as she walked under them. The air smelled fresh and clean. Rays of sun poked through the multiple layers of clouds. She bypassed the walk that led to the front of the house and headed toward the side porch and Candace.

“Thank you for coming.” Candace’s gaze flickered over Angel and darted to the open door of the house and back.

“Are you okay?” Angel looked the woman over for signs of injury. There were none—at least not on her face. “Did he hurt you?”

She shook her head. “No. He’s been good for the last few weeks. He . . .”

Candace crumpled, and Angel hurried to her side, intent on catching her before she fell. She helped the woman back into the chair. “What’s wrong? Has he hurt the children?” Angel looked around, her mind conjuring up images of a murder-suicide.

Candace shook her head and lifted her haunted gaze to Angel’s. “He’s in there.” She pointed to the door. “In the living room.”

Something about her expression and the way she moved set Angel’s stomach on edge. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. I went shopping and picked the kids up from school. When I got here, I found him right where I’d left him, in front of the television set. He’d stayed home today to watch a game. The Mariners were playing Oakland. That’s where he’s from, Oakland. Only when I came back, he . . .” She gasped and covered her mouth with a closed fist.

“He’s inside?”

She hauled in a deep breath and nodded. “There was a gun in his hand, one from his collection. He . . . he . . .” She stared at her hands. “He shot himself.”

Angel stopped breathing. She leaned against the porch railing to put her thoughts in order. The porch was one of those wide, wraparound types with plenty of room for sitting. The floors and walls were painted white, now muddied by her own footprints leading from the rain-soaked driveway.

A porch swing creaked back and forth as the wind swirled around them. Crisp, clean cushions in a tropical print adorned the pristine white wicker furniture. Pages of a
Woman’s Day
magazine flipped up and fluttered on the glass-covered coffee table. An assortment of plants finished off the scene. The place could have been featured in
Better Homes and Gardens
—certainly not the scene of a suicide.

Angel pocketed her hands and hauled in a deep breath, wishing she hadn’t agreed to come. The last thing she wanted to do was walk into that house, but she had to, and when she’d seen Jenkins for herself, she’d call dispatch. This was the part she’d hated most about being a police officer—looking at death. It reminded her how fleeting life could be. How a bullet to the head had stopped her partner in her tracks. How a twelve-year-old boy had died in her arms.

Stop thinking about it.
Angel ordered the images away and stepped closer to the door.

“I have to take a look,” Angel heard herself saying. Blood pounded in her ears. Her stomach knotted as she steeled herself and headed for the open doorway.

“Wait,” Candace ordered. “Take your shoes off. Please.” Her tone softened. “It’s a house rule. He hates it when the floor is dirty.”

The man is dead. I doubt he cares
. Angel kept her thoughts to herself. The woman was obviously in shock. A dirty floor was the
least of her worries, but Angel obliged, leaving the dazed woman on the porch alone. She slipped out of her loafers and set them just inside the door on a rug apparently placed there for that purpose. The rug held a pair of man-sized work boots, which she surmised belonged to Phillip, along with several pairs of children’s shoes.

Not certain as to why, she tiptoed across the highly polished white linoleum floor, noticing the immaculate kitchen and the gleaming counters. When she reached the center of the room, Phillip Jenkins came into view. She stopped, frozen in place.

Phillip Jenkins sat in his brown leather recliner with his stocking feet up and head back, looking as though he’d fallen asleep. A bowl half filled with popcorn and a can of beer sat on the end table to his right. A gun hung from his left hand. The bullet had entered his skull just above his left ear. Not much blood, Angel noted. Candace had said he’d killed himself, but in Angel’s mind, suicide didn’t jive with what she was seeing. Jenkins had settled in to watch a baseball game on television. The set was still blaring. The game over.

She felt more than heard Candace come up behind her. “I cleaned him up the best I could.”

“What did you say?”

But Angel had heard every word. She just couldn’t believe them.

SEVEN