Armed and Dangerous (8 page)

Shane nodded. “I'll make contact with him later. Maybe he'll remember something important.”

“I'll get a description of our dead guy out, check missing persons and see if we can make a quick ID on him,” Taylor said.

They all knew the chances of that were less than fifty percent—nothing was ever that easy. Dental work, DNA, and fingerprints were useless without missing persons to compare them to, and something told him this guy hadn't exactly been flying above the radar.

“He looks like a rough character,” Shane mused, studying the body.

The cop tucked the notepad back into his pocket. “So?”

“Not all of that dirt is from his trip down into the gulley.” Shane crouched, peering at the dead man. “He's filthy, he stinks, and those jeans and that T-shirt have seen better days. Holes in the toes of his sneakers. This wasn't a man who sat behind a desk and shuffled papers.”

Taylor crouched beside him. “So, we've got a guy who was down on his luck and kept ruthless acquaintances. Backwoods killing.”

“Yeah. But the bullet in the back of the head tells a story of a brutal conclusion to business, rather than a crime of passion.”

“That stench isn't just from his lack of a bath, either.”

Shane thought about that. “I agree. Chemical?”

“That's my thought. Can't place it, though.” His friend wrinkled his nose. “It's kind of sickly sweet. Sort of like marijuana, but not quite. It's heavier.”

“Hopefully, Eden will be able to tell us more in a couple of days.” Shane glanced up to see the woman in question picking her way carefully down the steep slope. “Speaking of the devil, here comes his bride.”

“I heard that, Ford, you asshole.”

Snickering, Taylor and the two uniformed cops gave Eden their undivided attention. The tall, raven-haired Medical Examiner wasn't what Shane would call beautiful, but he had to admit she was striking. Her frame was willowy and appeared as though a strong wind would blow her away, but he knew she was extremely strong both in mind and body. Her mannerisms were a bit tomboyish, her jokes as dirty as the most seasoned cop's, yet she was also brilliant. No-nonsense. Most all the guys liked her, including Shane. She was one of the most genuine people he'd ever met.

“Hey now, you know I was just teasing.” Giving her a wink, he stood.

“
I
wasn't,” she said dryly. Bracing a hand on her hip, she squinted at the body. “Bullet to the occipital lobe? That'll ruin a guy's day.”

Pulling a pair of latex gloves from her coat pocket, she snapped them on. Then she made a slow, careful circuit around the body, stopping to crouch now and then, observing in silence for several long moments. “Young white male, five-ten, approximately one hundred twenty pounds, between twenty-five and thirty years old. Possibly transient, given his appearance.”

“Right up until he crossed the wrong person,” Taylor muttered.

The ME nodded in agreement, then pointed without touching. “Abraded palms. Tears, dirt and grass stains on the knees of his jeans. Those injuries
could
be from his tumble down the slope, but it's not likely.”

“How so?” Taylor asked curiously.

“Because a person would have to hit the ground like this,” she said, moving into a position on her hands and knees. “You'd instantly put your hands out to protect yourself as you fell—which would be impossible to do if you're dead.”

“Meaning our victim was kneeling at some point,” Shane speculated. “Pushed to his hands and knees, maybe, before he was shot?”

The ME nodded. “That would be my guess. See the entry and exit wounds, the scorching of the flesh at the back of his skull?” Standing, she walked over to Shane. “The angle and the wounds themselves suggest his head was pushed down, and the killer popped him like this.”

Moving quickly, she assumed the role of the killer, grabbing Shane's arm and spinning him to face away from her. Giving him a gentle, mock shove, she ordered, “On your knees.”

Shane went along in the role of the victim, dropping down and bracing himself with his hands before pushing to sit up on his heels. His “murderer” placed a finger at the back of his head to simulate the gun's muzzle.

“Boom, you're dead.”

Shane sighed. “Quick and easy.”

“But not clean,” Taylor put in. “We've got one hell of a murder scene out there somewhere.”

Shane stood, brushing off his pants. “ID this poor bastard and we might locate it.”

“I'll do my best.” Eden turned her attention to the slope, where the forensic team was making their way down carrying their boxes of supplies.

“Looks like we've done all we can here,” Shane said, clapping Taylor on the shoulder. Then he addressed Eden again. “Call us—”

“When the toxicology and all the other results come back, I know. Don't I always?”

He winked. “You're the bomb, darlin'.”

She arched a brow. “I thought I was the devil's bride?”

“Nah, just his mistress.”

She rolled her eyes, remaining unfazed. “Well, you're still an asshole.” She winked back and gave him a half-grin. “Just for the record.”

Laughing, Shane turned to go. As they trudged upward, Taylor whistled through his teeth.

“Damn, that's a fine woman. I love a lady with a brain who's not afraid to use it.”

“Isn't that what you usually say about their tongues?”

“Ha-ha.” He shot a glare at Shane, which went ignored.

“Seriously, you say that every time we see her. Why don't you just grow a pair and ask her out?”

“What makes you think I haven't?”

They reached the top and Shane studied his friend as they walked to the car. “So, did you?”

“Yeah,” the other man replied with a grimace. “Seems she's got a thing for someone else. Not that she said that in so many words, but it's a vibe I got. Found out I might've been right.”

“Shit, that sucks,” he said in sympathy as they climbed in. “Any idea who?”

“Heard a rumor she's got it bad for Rainy.”

Shane blinked at him. “Austin? Since when?”

“Hell if I know. Just passin' along what I heard.”

He thought about that as the car started with a roar and his friend pulled onto the road. “Wonder if the captain has any idea?”

“Beats me, but I'm not sure it would make a difference if he did,” Taylor said. “That bitchy wife of his has him by the balls. What guy in his right mind would want to complicate his life that way?”

“He's miserable, and that's a divorce just waiting to happen,” Shane pointed out. “This is Eden we're talking about, and the guy deserves to be happy.”

Shane's cell phone buzzed in his pocket, and he fished it out, glancing at the display.
Brad.
A prickle of apprehension followed when he saw his best friend's name, and he hated that feeling. The shadow of doubt where there used to be nothing but happiness at hearing from the man he'd admired for most of his life. Lately, Brad Cooper had gone from being unpredictable to . . . what, exactly? Posing a danger to himself and others?

No. Just because Shane had a cop's suspicious mind didn't mean his best friend was traveling down the same path as so many other sports celebrities.

Feeling like a disloyal piece of crap for hesitating with his finger over the button, debating whether or not to let it go to voice mail, Shane answered. “Hey, what's up?”

“Shane, my man! You about ready to knock off for the day?”

He huffed. “I wish. Just caught a new case, and I have a feeling this one is going to be sticky.”

“Damn. I was hoping you could drive out to the house, kick back with a few cold ones. It is Friday, you know. All work, no play . . .” His friend let the statement dangle as a temptation.

“I'd love to, but it's not going to be tonight,” he said with real regret.

“No problem. Just thought I'd put it out there.”

But it
was
a problem, Shane could tell. His guilt doubled at Brad's voice, the man's tone edged with a hint of something that ran even deeper than disappointment—though that was probably his imagination. He shoved down the mounting disquiet and tried to sound cheerful. “Tomorrow instead?”

“Maybe.” Brad paused. “Yeah, that'll work.” His mood seemed uplifted, just a little.

Relieved, Shane smiled. “Great. I'll bring some pretzels and stuff. Will Drew be there?”

“Yeah, most likely. All he does lately is complain that he doesn't get to see you because you're always working.”

Or his dad either, because you're always out partying. Playing the big NFL star while the kid rambles around alone in a mansion that's more like a prison than a real home.

He squashed the uncharitable thought and focused on how much he was looking forward to seeing his sixteen-year-old godson. “Great. Tell him I'll bring some of Shae's homemade snickerdoodles to make up for it.” Shane's twin sister loved to spoil her husband, Tommy, her brother, and most especially Drew, nearly as much as the teenaged bottomless pit loved eating her cookies.

Brad laughed, sounding more like his old self than he had in some time. “You'll be instantly forgiven. So, tomorrow, around two?”

“Wouldn't miss it.” He'd allowed work to rule his life enough of late. The case could wait for a few hours while he reconnected with two of the most important people in his life.

Somehow, he'd make the time.

•   •   •

Shane wanted to be friends?
Friends?
After what he'd put her through?

“Have coffee with you?” Tossing her keys onto the coffee table, Daisy stalked through her living room to the master bedroom. With jerky movements, she unholstered her sidearm and unclipped the badge from her belt, then laid them on the dresser. Then she began to strip off the unflattering navy pants and boring white shirt, fuming.

“Coffee? A beer? Like I'm just another one of the guys after we were . . .” What
were
they, exactly, besides stupid? “No,
I'm
the stupid one. Damn you! Bastard!”

Unable to come up with anything else bad enough to call him, she yanked a pair of sweat pants and a T-shirt from a dresser drawer and dragged them on. Next, she freed her hair from the tight confines of the ponytail she'd sported all day and scratched vigorously at her scalp, sighing with relief.

“I'll have a beer, but I'll very much enjoy drinking it alone, you jerk!”

She
would
. She had a good job, great friends, and her crazy best friend Mary Anne who always had her back, so she certainly didn't need a man. Especially one with commitment issues.

In the kitchen, she tossed a frozen pasta dinner in the microwave and grabbed a brown bottle from the fridge. Twisting off the cap, she took a long draw, savoring the bubbly, honeyed flavor of the microbrew. A pricey brand, but worth every penny at the end of a long, frustrating day.

Padding into the living room, she rolled her shoulders, trying to work out the kinks. To relax some. But unwinding always took a while. Shane was far from being the sole source of stress in her life—working with juveniles was rewarding, but terribly exhausting. As much as she loved kids, never had she dreamed that seeing them in trouble, some of them desperately lost, their futures at risk of complete ruin when their lives should just be beginning, would be so heartbreaking.

It was her job to protect them, and she didn't always succeed.

With a sigh, she grabbed the remote and turned on the television. The drone of the six o'clock news already underway assaulted her ears, and she wondered why she bothered to watch when the stories covered had a short range of bad to worse.

When did I become so cynical?

She knew the answer to that question—she just preferred not to face it.

Disgusted with herself as much as the depressing newscast, she picked up the remote fully intending to silence the TV when the camera switched to a live picture of one of the seasoned reporters standing in front of a residential home. A really large one.

“Chad, I'm sorry to interrupt, we have some breaking news here,” the reporter said in a grim tone. He quickly consulted a sheaf of paper in his gloved hand before continuing, the cold air causing his breath to puff with frost.

“I'm standing in front of the home of the Tennessee Titans' longtime star running back, Brad Cooper. Moments ago, the Nashville police confirmed that earlier today Cooper was found dead inside the house by his sixteen-year-old son, Drew. No further details have been released at this time, including the possible cause of death, but I'll be back with more information as it becomes available. All we know so far is that tragically, NFL star Brad Cooper, much-loved sports hero and native son, is confirmed dead at the age of thirty-seven. Back to you, Chad.”

“Shocking and sad news indeed,” the anchorman replied as the camera returned to him. His solemn face filled the screen. “We'll give you more on that story as soon as we can. In other news . . .”

Flicking off the television, Daisy sat frozen, eyes wide. “Oh, my God. That poor kid. And . . . Shane!”

Scrambling off the sofa, she hurried to retrieve her purse and keys, and dashed out the door. She was down the street before she remembered that she hadn't grabbed her gun or shield, which she never went anywhere without. But that didn't matter right now. All that did was getting to Shane, comforting him while he dealt with the blow of losing his mentor. His best friend.

God, what if he hadn't yet heard the report? She had to reach him before he saw it on television, as she'd done, or worse, some reporter showed up at his house to get his reaction as fodder for their ratings.

The drive seemed to take forever, but was in reality just a few minutes. Pulling her car into the drive, she stopped next to the front porch and shut off the ignition. The sun was about to disappear over the horizon, and she could see lights on in the house. She could picture him inside, sipping a cold one as she'd been doing.