Hour of Need (Scarlet Falls) (3 page)

Chapter Three

Monday night

Grant wiped a layer of mist from his face. The temperature in his hometown of Scarlet Falls, New York, was similar to the aching cold he’d left behind, but he appreciated both the moisture in the air and the absence of moon dust, the dirt powder that coated everything, including lungs, in Afghanistan.

Taking a deep, pine-scented breath, he followed Detective Brody McNamara up the concrete steps and into the side door of the municipal building. From the outside, the Colonial-style structure blended into the quaint small-town image, with blue clapboards and barn-red shutters. Inside, it was all tired office building. But since the detective had agreed to meet Grant at twenty-two hundred hours, he wasn’t complaining about the lack of interior design.

The police station shared the two-story structure with township administration. Just inside the doorway, a freestanding sign directed visitors upstairs to the tax collector, zoning office, and township clerk on the second floor. The cops had the ground level all to themselves.

He followed the cop through a gray tiled lobby. They passed the elevator and a reception counter, then walked down a short hall into a dark, open room. Detective McNamara flipped a switch on the wall. Overhead fluorescents illuminated a cluster of cubicles and a row of metal filing cabinets. A few closed doors banked the far wall.

“Sorry, we’re a small force. Night staff is skeletal, just patrol and dispatch.” The detective skirted the cubicles and unlocked the center door. McNamara was a year or two older than Grant’s thirty-five, with the ruddy, windburned complexion of a skier. Jeans and a navy-blue jacket with an SFPD patch on the sleeve hung on a rangy body. He led the way into a cramped but neat office. Two plastic guest chairs fronted an old metal desk. McNamara rounded the desk and dropped into his chair.

Restless, Grant stood. “I appreciate you meeting me here this late.” He’d called the cop from I-87 an hour before he hit town.

“Glad to help, Major. I’m sorry for your loss.”

Grant’s throat constricted. He’d been shot once and nearly blown up twice by IEDs. He had enough shrapnel buried under the skin of his leg to set off a metal detector. Keeping people like Lee and Kate safe was the reason he fought. How could his little brother, secure back here in the States, be dead?

Suddenly exhausted, Grant eased into a hard-backed chair. “Where are the children?”

The cop reached behind him. A mini fridge sat on top of a credenza. He pulled out a bottle of water and offered it to Grant. “As I said on the phone, we were unable to reach any family members the night your brother and his wife were killed. Child services placed them in a foster home.”

Grant’s sister, Hannah, was in Jakarta on business, but the youngest of the four Barrett siblings, Mac, was local. Given Mac’s troubled past, the lack of response to Grant’s messages was concerning.

Grant accepted the bottle. His eyes burned. He squeezed them shut and rubbed his forehead. “Can I get you some coffee, Major?” the cop asked.

“No, thanks.” Grant twisted off the cap and drank, forcing icy water down his tight throat. He’d spent the last seventy-two hours in transport from Afghanistan to New York State. Layovers in Kabul, Kuwait City, and Germany had dragged out his return trip. His life had been normal, at least as normal as life on a forward operating base in Afghanistan could be. Now everything was different. His priorities—his entire life—had exploded like a roadside bomb. “I just want to find my niece and nephew.”

“I understand, but I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do until morning.” The cop brushed a hand over his buzzed head. “Look, I know you want to see them, but the kids are probably asleep by now. You don’t want to drag them out of bed in the dark. They’d be frightened.”

Which is exactly what had happened on Friday night when their parents had been murdered. The cop was right. Replaying that scenario wasn’t in their best interest, but Grant didn’t want to think of Carson or Faith spending another night in a strange house, with strange people, after losing their entire world. Of course, since he’d been deployed before Faith was born, Grant was a stranger to her too, and he hadn’t seen Carson in ten months. Would the boy even recognize him? “Are you sure?”

“I’m sorry.” The cop laid a pair of reading glasses on the desk. “There are a lot of rules and red tape involved. Middle-of-the-night calls are for crises only. Where can I reach you?”

The last thing he wanted to do was be alone in his brother’s house, surrounded by happy memories that would be no more, the house where he’d spent two weeks with Lee, a pregnant Kate, and Carson the previous May. He wanted to get a hotel room, with impersonal surroundings that wouldn’t remind him his brother was dead, but the children would no doubt feel more comfortable in their own home. Grant had better make sure the house was ready for them.

“I’ll be staying at my brother’s house.” Grant gave the cop the phone number for the house. “You have my cell number.”

The cop picked up a pen and wrote the information down.

“My father doesn’t know?” Grant asked.

“No.” McNamara shook his head. “As you requested, I’ll leave that to you.”

Grant’s breath hitched, the thought of telling the Colonel about Lee’s death driving the finality of the situation home. “Thank you. My father’s health is shaky. I’ll go out to the nursing home tomorrow.”

Lee had been just two years younger than Grant. Growing up, they’d been as close as two kids with polar opposite personalities could be. Grant saw everything in black and white, while his brother noticed every shade of gray. Had their dad known how different the brothers would be when he’d named them after opposing Civil War generals? The plastic water bottle crunched under his too-tight grip. Grant loosened his fingers.

“I’ll contact child services first thing tomorrow,” McNamara said. “I’ll call you as soon as I hear from them.”

Grant didn’t like the situation, but after thirteen years in the army, he knew all about rules and procedures and when to pick his battles. The next question hurt to ask. “Do the bodies need to be identified?”

“No. That won’t be necessary. The medical examiner used dental records.” The cop shook his head, his eyes going flat. “I know you want to see them, but ask yourself if you want that image in your head forever or if you want to remember your brother and sister-in-law as you saw them last.”

The statement was a solid kick to the chest. Were Lee and Kate even identifiable? Grant pictured the insurgent he’d shot in the ambush, layering the traitor’s ruined face over his brother’s. His fingertips trembled. He’d had no time to decompress after the ambush before being slammed with Lee’s death. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw his M-4 fire and that insurgent’s face blow apart. He
knew
he hadn’t had a choice. Either he pulled that trigger or the lieutenant died. This wasn’t his first combat kill. Taking a life, even in war, left an imprint, but he could hardly compare this situation to anything he’d ever experienced before. Everything was backward. If one of the Barretts were to die, it was supposed to be Grant.

Anger flared in his belly, and he welcomed its steadying heat. Better pissed off than pissed on, as his first sergeant used to say. “What can you tell me about their murders?”

McNamara leaned back in his chair and studied Grant’s face for a minute. “Are you sure you want to do this now?”

“Yes. I only have thirty days.” Time was ticking away. His leave had started the moment he’d stepped off the military transport in Texas that morning. Besides, he was never going to
want
to do it anyway. “When we spoke on the phone, you said they’d been robbed.”

“Robbery is one of our working theories.” McNamara shifted forward and planted his forearms on the edge of his desk. “A resident called the police to report a woman screaming. A patrol unit was dispatched. Lee and Kate were found on a side street around the corner from an Italian restaurant in town. The restaurant staff said your brother and his wife had finished dinner roughly ten minutes before the call came in. It appears they were walking from the restaurant to their car when someone intercepted them. The cause of death for both was a single shot to the head. Your brother’s wallet and keys were missing, and so was Kate’s purse. Their car was stolen.” The cop hesitated.

“But that’s not all?” Grant asked. McNamara’s body language projected dissatisfaction. “What else?”

McNamara tossed the pen onto the blotter. His mouth thinned. “Your sister-in-law was still wearing her engagement ring.”

Grant followed the cop’s logic. “An experienced robber would have looked for obvious jewelry.”

“Maybe. Kate was wearing gloves, so I’m not going to make any assumptions at this time. We’re still investigating.” The cop rubbed his chin. “Who benefits from their deaths? I didn’t see a will in the house. Do you know if they had one?”

“I would imagine he did. He was a lawyer. Dotting
i
’s and crossing
t
’s was his profession.” Grant should have expected the police to search the house for clues. His brother had been murdered. Dead people didn’t have expectations of privacy, but the thought of McNamara or anyone else rifling through Lee and Kate’s personal belongings, discovering intimate secrets about the couple, sparked Grant’s fury. This should not have happened.

“The house is big and old. We could have missed something. If you find a safe deposit box key or a will, we’d like to know.” McNamara interlaced his fingers. “Both of their phones were stolen, but we recovered their call, contact, and calendar data from the cell phone company. We’re still reviewing the information, but we might have some questions regarding abbreviations and notations. Your brother’s firm has been less than cooperative about giving us access to his work computer and office. I’ve asked for a warrant, but they’re fighting it, citing client confidentiality.”

“Of course.” Grant drank more water, the cold liquid settling in his belly and chilling him from the inside out. “I’ll call you if I find anything.”

“Can you think of another motive for the attack?” McNamara asked. “Did your brother have any enemies?”

Grant shook his head. “My brother was a suburban lawyer and a family man. I can’t think of anyone who would want to hurt him.”

“But you’ve been overseas for ten months.” McNamara met his gaze.

“Right.” Grant shoved his guilt away. Combat had taught him to compartmentalize, to put grief in the backseat until the mission was complete, but that was easier said than done when it was his brother who was dead. “I can’t believe someone killed Lee and Kate for their car or wallet. It doesn’t make sense. Why kill them? Why risk a murder charge?”

McNamara sighed. “I have no idea. Maybe he resisted.” But the cop’s eyes weren’t satisfied with his own argument. Grant could feel discontent rolling off the detective in waves.

“That doesn’t sound like Lee. He wouldn’t have taken any chances with Kate’s life.” Grant screwed the bottle cap on too tightly, cracking it.

“Criminals are scumbags. Some of them get their rocks off killing people. Drugs make people do crazy things, and addicts will do anything to get money to buy more drugs.”

Grant leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs and holding the water bottle between his hands. He met McNamara’s level brown gaze head-on. “Drug addicts are sloppy. Lee’s murder sounds . . . efficient.”

“Maybe.”

“Do you have any evidence at all?” Grant asked. It had been three days since Lee and Kate were killed. “Murder weapon? Fingerprints? Surveillance video? Anything? Did anyone hear the shots?”

“Unfortunately, there aren’t any surveillance cameras in that area. It’s a quiet side street.” McNamara shook his head. “Their credit cards haven’t been used, and we can’t pick up a signal on their cell phones, which means the batteries were removed or destroyed. The car’s GPS isn’t transmitting, so it was likely disabled. I’ll try to keep you as informed as possible.” The cop stood, signaling their conversation was at an end. “When you decide on a funeral home, you can call the medical examiner’s office. They’ll call you when your brother and sister-in-law are ready to be released.”

Which meant the medical examiner wasn’t finished with the autopsies, something else Grant didn’t want to think about right now. He was going to have to plan his brother’s funeral, and that was bad enough without constantly visualizing the insult to Lee’s and Kate’s bodies. But how many mental pictures could he suppress? His brain was under a barrage of violent images. He pressed his sweating palms against his jeans. His lungs felt inelastic, each breath painful to draw.

McNamara squinted at him, obviously concerned. “Is there anyone else to help you with all this, Major?”

“My sister should be in town in the next day or so.” But until then, Grant was on his own. Kate never spoke about her family, and Lee had mentioned more than once that she and her parents were estranged. How could Grant contact them? Should he even try?

“You should also be aware that the perpetrators likely have a key to your brother’s house and the address.”

“Right. Changing the locks goes on the top of my list.” Grant shook the cop’s hand. He needed to get out of there. His body’s thermostat was off, and feverish heat was building under his jacket.

McNamara ushered him out to the parking lot. The damp night air coated his skin with moisture.

Grant slid into the driver’s seat of the rental car. He started the engine and checked his phone. No return calls from Hannah or Mac. Grant had been playing phone tag with his sister, who was en route to New York from Jakarta. But where the hell was Mac?

He drove down the main street and headed toward Lee’s house. His hometown of Scarlet Falls was a small suburban community in upstate New York, about an hour north of the state capitol in Albany. With the Appalachian Mountains to the west and Hudson Valley to the east, the town was picturesque, but the economy had been limping along since Grant was a kid. The region wasn’t thriving but it wasn’t going bankrupt either.