Hot Pursuit (2 page)

“A change of suits, a couple of pairs of jeans, and three polo shirts.” He peered into the bathroom. “A shaving kit in there. That's all.”

“Got a small leather carryall on the table, containing underwear and socks. A plane ticket, too, round-trip from LAX to Nashville International and back. Looks like he arrived yesterday, was supposed to fly back in three days. Car keys and his wallet beside the bag.” Shane left the leather trifold sitting on the dresser and flipped it open with the edge of one latex-covered finger. “Max Griffin, born December twelfth, 1946. San Diego address.”

California. Taylor's heart gave a lurch. He stared at Shane, his friend unaware of his sudden chill.
It means nothing. San Diego is not Los Angeles. They're two different cities 121 miles apart, almost a two-hour drive.

“Interesting,” he managed. “So, the car outside is his rental. He was here for a specific reason, but there's no evidence of what that might've been.”

“Not yet.” Turning, Shane yelled out the open door to the officer who'd arrived first after the call of a gunshot had come in. “Jenk!”

Aaron Jenkins, their new hire at the department, stuck his head in the door. “Yes, sir?”

“Take these and open that rental. See if you can find anything inside to give us a clue why our dead guy was in town.” Shane tossed him the car keys, and the kid caught them one-handed. “Be careful about touching stuff.”

“On it!” His boy-next-door face lit up at the prospect of helping with the investigation.

As he ducked out again, Taylor chuckled. “Damn, were we ever that young and green?”

“Probably, once upon a time.” His partner quirked his mouth in a half smile. “Don't you ever wish you could go back to your early twenties?”

“For the wild social life and the hot young bod? Sure. For being the low cop on the totem pole again? Not so much.”

“True.”

“Though my bod is
still
hot.”

“If that's what you want to tell yourself, old man.”

“Says he who turns the big three-oh next week,” Taylor shot back. “I'm only two years older than you.”

“Just fucking with you.”

“When are you not?”

In truth, Taylor gave as good as he got when it came to his partner. He and Shane had worked in Homicide together for more than four years, since Taylor had moved to Sugarland, Tennessee, from Los Angeles. His mind shied away from the disaster that had prompted his move, and he focused on how content he was here, among people he liked and respected.

He and Shane might trade barbs, but it was all in good fun. His partner had become one of his best friends, and he'd do just about anything for the man. He had no doubt the feeling was mutual.

“Nothing much in the car, sir,” Jenk said, stepping into the room. “Just some fast-food wrappers and a map. Isn't that odd?”

“What's that?” Shane asked.

“Well, who uses a paper road map anymore, right? Most people use their smartphone or a GPS, especially if they're traveling alone. Hard to read an old-fashioned map when you're driving.”

That gave his partner pause. “You're right, though sometimes people prefer the old way of doing things. Reading a smartphone while driving alone would be just as tough.” He sighed. “Come to think of it, we didn't find a phone at all. Good work.”

The kid beamed at the praise. Taylor suppressed a grin and was about to play Razz the Rookie when Medical Examiner Laura Eden arrived, along with the police department's forensics unit. The cops jokingly referred to them as Eden and the FU, like a rock group, because they tended to arrive en masse, the head honcho and her entourage. And
FU
for obvious reasons—not that the forensics guys were all assholes. The term had just stuck.

The room got crowded, so Jenk, Taylor, and Shane moved outside to let them process the scene. There wasn't much to find, and in less than an hour, Eden was giving them the short version.

“No surprises. Well, not counting the man with the bullet in his brain,” she said dryly. “Based on the blood splatter, this is indeed the murder scene. Mr. Griffin was shot in the forehead at point-blank range with a smaller-caliber handgun. Nothing much to bag except a couple of hairs and some other fibers.”

“They finding any prints?” Taylor asked.

The striking brunette arched a brow. “In a motel room? Seriously, Detective?”

His face heated. “Right.” How stupid of him. Not to mention it sucked to sound like an idiot in front of a gorgeous woman who'd turned him down flat for a dinner date. Twice.

“Anyhow, I'd say he's been dead for about an hour and a half. That's all I know, but I'll send you what I've got when I know more.”

Taylor cleared his throat. “We about done here, then?”

Shane nodded, running a hand through his longish brown hair. “Yep. Thanks, Laura.”

“No problem. See you guys.”

It kind of smarted how she just went inside again without a backward glance, all cool professionalism. His partner must've noticed something in his expression as they walked to Taylor's car, because he couldn't resist making a comment.

“It's not you, buddy.
You're
the one who told me she had a thing for the captain.”

“Yeah, I know,” he grumped as he slid behind the wheel. “Why do women always want the guy who's not available?”

“They're twisted like that, my friend. Well, not all of them.” Shane buckled his seat belt. “Just find a different horse to bet on than Laura.”

“Easy for you to say. You snagged a fine woman, and you've got a great kid.”

A dopey smile split his friend's face. “I did, didn't I? I'm a lucky SOB.”

I will not be jealous. I'm happy for him.

He was, truly. Shane and his new wife, Daisy, had been through hell and so had Shane's seventeen-year-old godson, Drew Cooper. Being colleagues at the police department had been a minor obstacle for the couple compared to their other troubles, especially helping Drew deal with the trauma of his father's death. Then there were the awful secrets Drew had been keeping and the danger those secrets had brought into their lives.

But it was over now, and the three of them were forging a new life together.

“Hey, you're a great guy,” Shane said, sensing the dip in his mood. “You're going to find a fantastic lady who loves everything about you. You're funny, easygoing, and you're a good friend to everyone who knows you.”

“Is this the part where we hug?”

“Shut up, asswipe.”

But he laughed, and Taylor couldn't help but be a little cheered as he pulled out of the parking lot.

Maybe this day would take a turn for the better after all.

•   •   •

Max is dead! Oh, God.

Cara Evans pulled the baseball cap low on her head and watched the activity from her hiding place in the park across the street from the Sugarland Motel. Angrily, she swiped away the tears that refused to quit falling. Just as she'd done for the past four goddamned years.

Max had come to town, looking for Cara. Then he'd phoned, urging her in a hushed voice to meet him at the motel. Why had he come to her? Especially now, after all this time? Who killed him and why? His visit could be related to her sister's murder. Or their father's estate. Any number of things. But the answers to those questions had died with Max in that awful room.

One thing was for sure: the murdering asshole would pay for snuffing out the life of a good man. The only person she had still counted as a friend in the entire, sorry world. Leaning her head against the rough bark of the tree, she gave up and let the tears flow. For several long moments she allowed herself to grieve, barely aware of the sounds of activity across the street. Gradually, however, she gained a measure of control. Her fingers tightened around a solid object she'd forgotten about.

Max's iPhone.

She'd be in a fuckton of trouble if and when the cops thought to track its whereabouts. It would be hard to explain her presence in Max's room and why she'd used the device to make the anonymous call to the police about a gunshot, then lifted it before fleeing the scene. Harder still to convince them she hadn't killed him, that he was dead when she arrived. But she planned to get rid of the phone. As soon as she took a peek to try to determine why he had wanted to see her so badly. Why he had possibly died for it.

Voices across the motel's parking lot snared her attention. Peering around the tree, she saw two men in plainclothes emerge from the room. Detectives, from the glint of the shields hooked to their belts at the waist. She'd been too stricken with panic and raw grief to pay attention when they had arrived, so she studied them now.

Both were tall, but the brown-haired one was taller and leaner than the other. The man who was presumably his partner was maybe an inch or two shorter and more muscular. Golden blond hair just covered his ears, layered in a loose, casual style with some wisps of bangs falling into what looked from here to be quite a handsome face—

Recognition hit her like a baseball bat to the head, and though she'd half-expected him to show up, she felt sick. If not for the tree, she would have tumbled to the ground.

Taylor Kayne. Untouchable. Man's man. Lauded hero.

“Fucking lying murderer,” she whispered, rage welling in her chest. Despair, rotten and black, clogged her throat.

Once again, Kayne was smack in the middle of the hell that was her life. That suited her fine, though. Because the bastard probably didn't know Cara had come to Sugarland or even have a clue who she was in the first place. He sure as hell didn't know he was the reason she was here. Or that she knew where he worked, lived, ate, shopped, jogged.

But he would find out soon. She was biding her time, waiting for the perfect moment. Then she'd spring her trap. Force him to spill every last filthy secret that should have corroded his guts by now.

Detective Taylor Kayne was going to confess to murdering her sister.

And then Cara would exact her long-awaited revenge.

His phone call was late. And Snyder knew he hated to be kept waiting.

Rolling his shoulders against the knots of tension, Dmitri Constantine picked up his glass of Scotch and swirled it over the ice. Then he took a generous swallow and walked to the window to stare out at the traffic crawling like ants far below his high-rise condo.

And as always, he thought of
her
.

His fingers tightened on the glass as he battled back the helpless rage. His life had ended four years ago, three times over, and he was the one who ended up paying the price. That, however, was a situation that would finally be rectified.

A vibration in his pocket cut into his stark musings and he pulled his smartphone from his pants. “Give me good news,” he said curtly.

“The first target is shaken, not stirred.” A chuckle followed Snyder's attempt at humor.

Dmitri didn't laugh. “Alive?”

The man sobered. “Of course. I know my job.”

His gut tightened in anticipation. Making Kayne suffer was going to be a glorious thing. “Good. And the second target?”

“On ice, as requested. He didn't have time to pass along what he knew,” Snyder said. “I made certain of that.”

Now Dmitri sensed a hesitation in his man's voice. “But?”

“I lost the woman after she left the scene.”

“Not what I wanted to hear,” he said with barely restrained anger. “You'll find her again.”

“She's as wily as a fucking fox, but she can't evade me forever. I'll find her.”

“Call me when you have more news. And don't make me wait too long.”

The news intrigued Dmitri. Jennifer's sister was no doubt spooked by Griffin's murder. But before that, she couldn't possibly have known anyone with ties to her past was closing in. Which meant she had her own agenda in Tennessee—an agenda Griffin had been paid well to inflame.

If he'd done a better job of that, he'd still be breathing.

“Yes, sir. I—”

Hanging up on Snyder, he crossed the room and lowered himself to his leather sofa. Then he placed his highball glass on the coffee table and continued to stare out the window. Anyone observing him now would be fooled by his outward calm. His cool collectedness.

They wouldn't guess that he'd learned his patience in prison. Some lessons in that hellhole had been worth the price.

And the reward would be more than worth the wait.

•   •   •

Cara's brain was rudely snatched from sleep as she registered Steven Tyler screeching about a dude looking like a lady. Rolling over, she blinked at the cheap digital alarm clock near her head. Then she reached out and slapped it multiple times until the annoying thing fell silent.

“Jeez.”

Waking up gracefully, not to mention at the butt crack of dawn, was not her strong suit. By far. Her double gig as a bartender and lead singer in her rock band at the Waterin' Hole kept her busy most nights, until closing at two a.m. more often than not. Her band played there only twice a week—a popular local country band ruled the roost the rest of the time—so she filled the remainder of her nights by slinging drinks. She didn't really need the money, but she loved both jobs, even if the place was a little rough around the edges.

Max, however, had been extremely unhappy about her move from Los Angeles
and
her new place of employment. He continually tried to persuade her to come “home,” saying L.A. was where she needed to be if she wanted to make it big as a rocker. He didn't understand that just didn't matter anymore. As much as she loved music, she no longer lived for it.

Making Jenny's killer pay had taken top billing.

Groaning at the shaft of pain at the memory of losing Jenny, and now Max, she pushed out of bed. She didn't have time for more tears. Her agenda was packed for the day, and she had to get moving if she wanted to make rehearsal on time.

Reluctantly, she dragged her ass into the shower and let the hot water stream over her protesting body, loosening her muscles and lifting the fog. By the time she'd finished and stepped out to dry off, she was feeling much more human again. Something she was grateful for when her cell phone buzzed and she glanced at the caller ID.

“Just great.” She was tempted to ignore the call, but avoidance would only backfire, resulting in a barrage of messages and texts, each one more unhinged than the last. Steeling herself, she picked up.

“What do you want, Mel?” she asked, proud of keeping her tone cool. Unaffected, when she was anything but.

Melinda Evans was like a hungry shark—any scent of blood in the water and she'd attack.

“
Mom
, not Mel,” she said tightly. She'd lost that distinction long ago, but continued to mistakenly insist that biology made it so. “And what makes you think I want anything? Can't I call my baby just to talk, see how you're doing?”

Her grip tightened on the phone. “You could, but you don't. Ever.”

“I only asked a simple question. You don't have to sound so hostile.”

Cara barely stifled a bitter laugh. “I'm surprised you're sober enough to notice.”

“Honey—”

“I'm not sending you any money, so you can save us both the pretense.”
Stay calm. Deep breath.
“You have a roof over your head, and I have groceries delivered every two weeks. That's all you're getting.”
And more than you deserve.

Most children wanted to believe the best of their parents. Her late father had loved Melinda once, proving that love is truly blind. Especially when it came to his wife's addictions. She had plenty of them, and he had the money to support a better class of loser. But when their father had died, she and Jenny learned that while love was blind, Dad wasn't stupid.

Whatever relationship they'd managed to maintain with the selfish bitch vanished with the reading of Dad's will—when Melinda had been left a minimal allowance to pay for modest niceties, and the bulk of the estate had been left to Jenny and Cara. Of course, Melinda didn't use the money as Dad intended and frequently found herself broke. Any extra cash Jenny had granted Melinda went straight up the woman's nose.

Then Jenny had been murdered. Cara realized that her so-called mother never had any intention of getting clean, and she'd put a stop to doling out the extra cash. Had tossed her in rehab for the first of four visits to date.

Cara wasn't completely heartless—a cruel twist of fate had made this woman her mother, and she wouldn't put her on the street.

Melinda's soft laugh cut through her musings. “You're wrong this time. I really am calling to check on you.”

“I'll mark the date on the calendar.”

“So cynical.” The woman sighed. “Anyway, I also wanted to let you know that Max came by the house and was really upset. Said something about flying out there to see you.”

Cara lowered herself to sit on the bed, pulse pounding in her throat. “When was this?”

“I don't know. Yesterday morning or the day before? I can't really remember.”

“Think,” she ordered, staring at her bare toes digging into the carpet. “What was Max upset about? What did he say?”

“He yelled at me,” Melinda said in a small voice. “I don't know why.”

Yelling at her now wouldn't do any good, either. The woman's brain was fried from too many years of using. Max had known that, too, which meant his visit to her mother, however futile, was important.

“You must have some idea. Did you try to contact your dealer? Maybe Max found out about it.”

“What? No! I haven't in ages!”

That was up for debate. “Did you try to withdraw extra money again?”

“No.” Frustration colored her voice. “Nothing like that. Not
really
. I . . .”

“What do you mean, not really?”

“Nothing. I just wanted you to know Max came by, and he was madder than I've ever seen him.”

“Okay, listen to me carefully.” Cara paused, hoping she had Melinda's attention. “Max
did
come here to see me, but he never told me why. He's dead.”

“Dead?”

“Somebody shot him in the head before he could talk to me,” she said hoarsely.

“Oh, my God!”

The other woman's shock brought it all rushing back. Tears filled her eyes and her lungs hurt. “I need for you to remember what he said when he came to see you.”

“I—I just don't, but I'll keep trying.”

“All right. And stick around the house for a while, okay?”

“How come?” she asked, clearly puzzled.

Cara shook her head. Her mother no longer possessed any ability to pursue the thoughts that flitted through her brain. “Max went to see you and he was upset. He came here intending to see me and somebody killed him. Don't leave the fucking house, Mel.”

“You don't have to curse at me.”

Jesus Christ
. “Are you listening? What did I just say?”

“Don't leave the house, and I won't. I'm not a child.”

That was irony for you—the child became the parent. “Right. I've got to run, but I'll call you later.”

“Okay. Love you, baby.”

Thankfully, she hung up before Cara was forced to answer. And for that, she felt miserably guilty. She sat for a moment, collecting herself. The call was even more disturbing than usual where her mother was concerned. Why had Max gone to see her before flying to Tennessee? What the hell was going on? She wanted to head to the police station and demand to know what they were doing to find his killer. But that would mean questions about how she knew of the murder, and the possibility of revealing she'd been in his motel room.

It was clear she wasn't going to get any more answers from Melinda than she'd gotten from Max's phone the night before. The device hadn't been password protected and revealed nothing but a few names she already knew and a few numbers she didn't recognize.

“Shit.”

The phone. Pushing from the bed, she hurried into the living room and retrieved the device from the coffee table. She'd completely forgotten about it! Quickly, she disabled the tracking app and then shut the phone off. She didn't know a ton about technology, but with any luck, that would keep anyone from knowing she had it in her possession.

Something told her the police were the least of her worries. She should go to them, tell them what she knew. Which wasn't much. But fear held her back because she'd already screwed up, and, much more than that, she didn't trust cops. Not one iota. Nobody could blame her for that.

After stashing the phone in her closet, she pulled on a pair of old, soft jeans and a T-shirt. Once her hair was dry and tamed, she applied just enough makeup to avoid looking too pale. No sense in wearing the heavy stuff before showtime.

Next she gathered her guitar, amp, and the backpack containing her cords and other equipment, and hauled them out the back door to her truck. Lowering the tailgate, she muscled everything into the back, then retrieved her purse and locked up the house.

As she stepped outside again, the sun's reflection on the front of the truck caught her eye. Or, rather, it was the dent in the right front side that snared her attention. “What the hell?”

Incredulous, she jogged over and squatted, letting her purse drop to the driveway beside her. On close inspection, she could see the damage was slight. If the sun hadn't been hitting the vehicle just right, she might not have noticed for days. As it was, she racked her brain trying to think when this could've happened.

Earlier in the week, she'd gone to the self-service car wash down the road and washed the truck. Was that Wednesday? She thought so. Distinctly, she recalled crouching, drying off the bumper with a towel, and it hadn't been damaged then. She was certain. And she hadn't done it herself.

Peering at the dent, she noted that the area wasn't large, perhaps the size of a football and mostly on the surface. The chrome had taken a hit, as had some of the black paint. There was a slight scratch on the chrome, but that was all, thank goodness. She could probably pop out the dent herself. It wasn't enough damage to alert her insurance company and risk the rate going up because some jerk had obviously backed into her truck sometime since Wednesday and hadn't left a note.

With an irritated huff, she grabbed her purse, palmed the keys, and went around the driver's side to climb in. People sucked. Even moving across the country hadn't changed that fact.

Minutes later, she pulled into the parking lot behind the Waterin' Hole. Shutting off the ignition, she glanced toward the back door and spotted a slight figure huddled against the wall, sitting on the asphalt.
Blake Roberts
. Her heart clenched in sympathy as she got out of the truck, trying not to stare at the young man's ragged appearance.

“Hey, Blake,” she called. “Wanna give me a hand?”

As expected, he jumped up from his spot and shuffled over, eager to help. Or most likely hungry and desperately needing the twenty she always slipped him when he was around. He insisted on earning his money, though. No handouts for him.

As she turned to reach for the amp, he nudged her aside. “That's too heavy. Let me get it.”

This despite the fact that she outweighed the nineteen-year-old by at least twenty pounds. But she let him, marveling, as usual, that he was stronger than he looked. The boy was too thin, his waiflike frame and adorable face making him appear younger than his age. Tangled brown hair fell to his shoulders, matching doe eyes that set off his delicate features.

And he was as sweet as he was pretty, which caused her to worry about his survival. How the fuck had a nice kid like Blake ended up homeless? She hadn't known him long enough to get the story, but earning his trust was important to her for some reason. She didn't want this boy's life to go to waste if she could help it.