Hour of Need (Scarlet Falls) (5 page)

The water warmed, smoothing her goose bumps. Ellie climbed to her feet and washed her face. Lee and Kate’s children weren’t Ellie’s responsibility. Neither was the dog she missed already. The woman from social services had made that clear. Like Ellie had told Nan, she intended to mind her own business unless Grant asked her for help. He had his own family. He didn’t need nosy neighbors butting into an already difficult situation. But with the hot major and two children she cared about living just next door, keeping her distance wasn’t going to be easy.

Grant unlocked the front door of his brother’s house. He whistled for the dog, who was sniffing a circle on the snow-covered lawn. “Here, girl.”

Three females and their tears were more than he could handle. Their collective sympathy threatened to challenge his tenuous hold on control. But Ellie Ross’s long dark hair, scattering of freckles, and big brown eyes could tempt a man to accept some comfort.

He jerked his attention away from the pretty neighbor. In less than a month he’d be back in Afghanistan. Ellie, with her baseball-and-apple-pie wholesomeness, wasn’t a casual fling type of girl.

Grant was too focused on his military career to squeeze a relationship into his life. Making general required 100 percent dedication. He’d seen too many of his comrades miss their families, and he’d shipped too many parents home in flag-draped coffins. In his own youth, he’d witnessed firsthand the sacrifices made by an army family. Grant only dated female army officers who weren’t interested in the whole domestic deal. But somehow Ellie had already encroached on his imagination on more than a few cold, lonely desert nights.

AnnaBelle sniffed a shrub in the flower bed that fronted the porch, then trotted through the open door. In the entryway, Grant tossed the keys on the hall table and sat in the adjacent chair to remove his wet boots. More than a hundred years old, the Victorian had a classic center stairway design, with an abundance of small rooms and narrow halls. Everything was dark, from the scarred pine floors to the heavy case molding around the windows and doors. The house wasn’t appealing. Why had Lee wanted it so badly? He’d talked of renovations, knocking down walls and adding windows to bring some light into the gloomy house, but it didn’t appear as if any improvements had been made since Grant had visited last year except for boarding up the nonfunctioning dumbwaiter in the butler’s pantry. Grant smiled, remembering Lee’s rare childish excitement when they’d first moved into the house. He’d wanted to fix the old pulley and lever system. But Kate had been terrified Carson would fall down the hole. As usual, the practical Kate had won.

The dog followed him into the kitchen. Grant filled a bowl of water and set it on the floor. A bay window behind the table looked out onto the snowy woods behind the house. Last spring, Lee and Kate had hosted numerous barbecues, all not-so-subtly designed to bring Grant and Ellie together, in that backyard. He could picture her now, standing on the grass, her sundress showing off smooth shoulders and a length of bare, tan leg, a wide smile tempting him to get to know her better. Much better. It had taken all of Grant’s determination to keep his distance. Just a few weeks away from deployment hadn’t been the best time to start a relationship. As if he had ever had time for a personal life.

He dropped onto the sofa in the adjoining small family room. Picking up the remote, he turned on the TV. He flipped through channels until he came to a hockey game but barely saw the screen. Lee and Kate’s deaths seemed so senseless and surreal. Tomorrow the kids would be home. How was he going to manage a baby he’d never met and a grieving six-year-old he hadn’t seen in ten months?

Chapter Five

Donnie crouched behind the driver’s seat of his van and watched the big man and dog go into the Barrett house down the street. He lowered his binoculars. Who was that?

Fuck.

He did not need this shit. Yanking off his knit cap, he rubbed the stubble on his scalp with a brisk scrubbing motion. He couldn’t get lucky with this job. Three nights he’d attempted to get into the house, and all three times he’d been spotted. That bitch next door kept calling the cops. She seriously needed to be taught a lesson. With some hard-core punishment, he could teach her how to be submissive. There were so many different ways he could violate her body.

A memory intruded in his fantasy as he remembered his own lessons. He could still feel the concrete under his palms and knees and the blows to his face and body as he was beaten until he’d begged for it to be over. The humiliation of not only being forced to submit to the ultimate physical violation, but to have pleaded for it just to end the torture, had crushed his soul. Blood had dripped into his eyes and mouth. He was so fucked up now that the metallic taste or smell of it still gave him an instant hard-on.

When this job was over, he’d release his frustrations. He turned his attention back to the house he was watching. This whole job was backward. The killing was supposed to be the hard part, and the recovery easy. Instead, the murder had been almost effortless—beyond effortless—euphoric.

There had been so much blood spreading out across the icy street he’d needed to exorcise a few demons with his new girlfriend. Good thing she dug pain as much as he enjoyed inflicting it.

He chewed on a ragged cuticle that tasted like hamburger grease. The longer he sat here, the greater his chances of getting caught. Although, according to the news, the cops had nothing. Sure, they pretended they were embroiled in an “ongoing investigation,” but he knew that meant they didn’t have squat. His fingerprints and DNA were in the system. If he’d left any personal trace evidence at the crime scene, his mug shot would have been on the news. He didn’t shave from head to foot as a fashion statement.

He was clean on the murders, but his client was holding back the balance of payment until the whole job was complete. He couldn’t sit out here forever. The neighbor was bound to notice him. He copied the license plate number of the sedan in the driveway. Probably a rental, but he’d check. Then he could try to hack into the rental company’s website and get a name on the big bastard that was holding up his job.

He should have stuck with cyber crime. It didn’t require him sitting out in a cold van, freezing his nuts off. But after eighteen months in prison, violence called to him. Rage built up inside him, the internal pressure growing until his very skin grew itchy and tight. Killing the Barretts had released the tension. Hurting people was a need. He might as well get paid to do it.

Tugging the hat back on his head, he blew into his cupped fists. His breath fogged in front of him. Fucking March was still ball-shrinking cold. But running the van’s engine wasn’t an option. Nothing sucked worse than surveillance in the winter. But he didn’t have many options. He
had
to get into that house. And soon. He’d already blown through his retainer, and the client was freaking out.

At some point the Barrett place had to be empty.

If not, he was going to have to come up with another way to get what he needed. His gaze drifted to the bitch’s house next door, and he wondered how much she knew.

What would it take to make her tell him everything?

Chapter Six

Ellie’s second cup of coffee cooled on her desk as Detective McNamara exited her boss’s office. The detective had been at Lee and Kate’s house on Friday night. After the children had left, he’d asked her questions about
Lee and Kate. The cop gave her a polite nod as he went out the frosted glass front door. Ellie swallowed the grief rising in her throat. On her lunch hour, she’d call Nan to find out if the children were home. She wondered how Grant was holding up. Even grief-stricken, the major seemed . . . solid, and she wasn’t referring to his impressive physique.

The cop hadn’t been out the door for more than two minutes when shouts blasted through her boss’s closed door.

“What the hell are you doing? You’re running my firm into the ground,” Roger Peyton Sr. yelled. “None of this ever happened when I sat at that desk. Do I need to take over?”

Murmurs followed as Roger Peyton Jr. tried to placate his father, who held on to the bulk of the partnership equity with greedy, Scrooge-like fists. Five more minutes of alternating yelling and mumbling followed before the door opened again and a remarkably spry eighty-year-old bustled out. The cane in his grip looked more like a potential weapon than a necessity. Ellie fixed her gaze firmly on her computer screen. Peyton associated her with his son. When he was angry at Roger, his irritation bubbled over to include her.

He turned a bony, hawkish face toward Ellie. “Good morning, Miss Ross.”

The deep gray of his eyes always surprised her. She half expected them to glow red.

“Good morning, Mr. Peyton.” Ellie returned to her typing. Looking busy was the best way to avoid any further discussion with the old crank. Nothing on this earth except hustling employees and tidy profits pleased the man. When he exited, the building exhaled in relief.

Her intercom buzzed. “I need to see you in my office, Ellie.”

Ellie picked up her steno pad and walked across the dark blue carpet into her boss’s expansive suite.

Roger was at the wet bar, pouring himself a generous shot of Glenfiddich.

Smoothing her skirt under her, she perched on a red leather wing chair facing his antique mahogany desk. She poised her pen over the notebook and waited. To her right, a bay window looked out onto First Street. Blue velvet curtains framed the view and puddled luxuriously on the floor. “If you keep drinking at nine a.m., he’s going to outlive you.”

Roger snorted. “He’s going to outlive me no matter what I do. I suspect he negotiated an airtight contract at the crossroads.”

At fifty-seven, Roger Peyton Jr., one of the three partners of Peyton, Peyton, and Griffin, was waiting for his father to die. Until Peyton Senior passed on, Roger had to run all major decisions past the old man, who mired the business in the traditions of the 1950s. There were no female attorneys and no male paralegals. The firm was small enough to slide eel-like under equal opportunity legislation. Men dressed in suits and ties. Women wore skirts, pantyhose, and pumps. Casual day was for the riffraff not lucky enough to be employed by this prestigious firm. Peyton Senior liked to drop by for surprise visits. Now that arthritis kept him from playing golf, fault-finding and yelling seemed to be his hobbies.

Half the office employees would pop a bottle of champagne when the old guy finally kicked.

Ellie had worked enough crappy jobs that she was willing to deal. If stodgy earned her a decent paycheck and medical benefits, then she could be as old-fashioned as the next girl, even if the job occasionally required sacrificing a tiny portion of her soul.

“Did you finish packing Lee’s personal items?” Easing back into his seat behind the desk, Roger adjusted his double-breasted suit and tugged his French cuffs into place. He took a long pull of scotch and stared at her for a minute, as if trying to make a decision.

“Yes,” she answered. “His things are ready for his family to pick up. I’ve started sorting his clients as well. This afternoon I’ll distribute his physical files to the other attorneys according to the list you supplied.”

“What would I do without you?” Roger studied the amber liquid in his tumbler. “We’re in big trouble, Ellie. Not just my dad ranting and raving at imaginary problems because he enjoys it kind of trouble.”

She straightened.

“Have you seen the case file?”

“No.”

Last month, the town had been rocked by a vicious case of bullying and the associated suicide of seventeen-year-old Lindsay Hamilton. The two alleged ringleaders of the campaign to torment Lindsay were members of the elite Valley Figure Skating Club, a competitive skating team Lindsay had joined upon her move from California to New York. The bullies were also in the top of the junior class, student council officers, and two of the brightest stars in the community. Their families had deep roots in Scarlet Falls. Lindsay’s parents claimed the bullying had driven their daughter to take her own life. The allegations were denied by the accused and their parents. No witnesses came forward. Threatening texts were sent from untraceable burner phones, and Lindsay’s phone had been wiped clean by a cell phone virus. The police had dropped the case due to lack of evidence, but Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton were determined to pursue their case in civil court. Last week, Lee had agreed to represent them.

The Hamilton case was the only case not reassigned. At some point, one of the senior partners would have to call Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, but so far, Roger was playing the out-of-sight-out-of-mind card. Ignoring things and hoping they’d go away was his favorite business tactic.

“I think Lee took that file home with him. I need it, Ellie. Really need it. I need you to get into his house and look for it.” Roger tossed back the rest of his drink. He got up and poured himself another, then brought the bottle back to his desk. “Did Lee tell you he’d agreed to take the Hamilton case?”

“Yes, I knew. Lee met with the Hamiltons the day he . . . died.” She couldn’t say the word
murdered
. The thought of Lee and Kate being killed was still foreign and unreal. Speaking the words aloud hurt. She looked up at her boss and decided not to mention Lee’s previous meeting with the Hamiltons a few days before his death.

“Did you mention the case to anyone?” Cold anger congealed in Roger’s gray eyes—and Ellie knew why her boss was so upset. Lee hadn’t gotten Roger’s approval before taking the case. Associates were encouraged to bring in clients, but there was an understanding that sensitive issues would be cleared with the partners first. Lee, clearly unsure of his chances, had opted for forgiveness instead of permission. He’d met the Hamiltons at their home instead of bringing them into the office—in hindsight, another sign he didn’t want Roger’s input on his decision. Now Roger was taking the heat for Lee’s decision. The Hamilton case was controversial. The buttoned-down senior Peyton didn’t approve of controversy.
Peyton, Peyton, and Griffin was built on a foundation of solid law practice, not media circuses.

“No,” she said. “You should know I would never be indiscreet.” Even though it had felt wrong, she’d kept her mouth closed when Roger had been cheating on his wife.

He scrubbed a hand down his face. “But someone here knew and leaked the information to the police.”

That
explained the detective’s visit.

He waved his glass, his mind still whirling behind his gray eyes. “Now that Lee’s gone, you’re probably the only person I trust around here.” With the senior Peyton still controlling the business, employee loyalties were divided.

“Perhaps the Hamiltons?” she suggested.

“It’s a possibility. They have been outspoken.” He pursed his lips. “We’ll have to go into damage control mode. I’ll draft a statement for the media. Let me know the instant the first reporter calls.”

“All right.” Ellie stood.

“Unfortunately, there’s more.”

She froze.

“We’re missing money.” Roger tipped the bottle over his glass.

“You have a client meeting at eleven.” Ellie reached across the desk and took the bottle from him. Crossing to the wet bar, she returned the scotch and poured him a cup of coffee from the carafe.

Accepting the coffee, he sighed. “Our accountant called my father. A series of fraudulent checks were cashed over the past few weeks.”

“How much?” Ellie dropped back into the chair.

“I don’t know yet. Not enough to ruin us. Don’t worry.”

But Ellie couldn’t help it.

“You’re with me on this, right, Ellie?” Roger toyed with the cup’s handle.

“Of course.” What else was she going to say? It wasn’t like she could refuse.
Damn it.
She didn’t want to be put in the middle of the Peyton family feud. Jobs weren’t that plentiful in Scarlet Falls. Between Nan’s pension and Ellie’s salary, the bills were covered. Rehabbing and selling a house every few years had netted them some savings. When she flipped her current home, there should be enough money to put her daughter through college provided Julia stayed in state. Life might not be exciting, but Ellie would take steady and solid over a thrill. The last time she’d been impulsive, she’d ended up pregnant—and alone.

“The accountant is trying to trace the money trail, but I need to find it first.” Roger turned desperate eyes on her. “I need to protect the firm.”

Ellie tried to summon some pity, but Roger made it difficult. He was nice enough, but weak, and he’d demonstrated his lack of loyalty by dumping his sweet wife of thirty years for a high-maintenance trophy edition. It was his lifestyle he wanted to protect, not his employees.

“I need you to help me, Ellie.”

Exactly what she didn’t want to do. But realistically, the old man had already put Ellie solidly on Roger’s team. If Roger was out, so was she.

“I’ll see what I can find out.”

His eyes brightened.

Ellie returned to her desk. Her eyes went to the expense report she’d been preparing, but her mind was stuck on the firm’s problems. Lee had taken the case even though he knew it wouldn’t be a popular decision with the senior lawyer in the firm. If the police wouldn’t prosecute, what made him think he could win? And did either the Hamilton case or the missing money have anything to do with his death?

A rough sound startled Grant awake, the vision still clear in his mind: Lee’s face exploding in a red mist. Panting, he swept his gaze around the room. A muffled bark made him look over the edge of the mattress. AnnaBelle wagged at him. The mattress shifted as the agile dog jumped up to stand over him in the queen-size bed. “I wish you’d have woken me a couple of minutes earlier.”

She stretched out and rested her head on his chest.

His hand swept through the silky, golden fur. “I suppose you need to go out.”

AnnaBelle wagged harder, jumped down, and danced on the hardwood. Grant swung his legs over the side. Six a.m. He had hours before the cop was supposed to call. Sleep had been elusive, his mind replaying his kill shot in the ambush over and over every time he dozed off. He had to get his act together before the kids got home.

He stepped into a pair of shorts and tugged a sweatshirt over his head, then dug his running shoes from his bag. A run would clear his mind and take the edge off the young dog’s energy. “Let’s go.”

He snapped AnnaBelle’s leash on her collar. Outside, the dog peed on the lawn before they set off down the street. Grant kept the pace slow, unsure of the dog’s fitness, but the retriever had no trouble keeping up. Forty minutes later, they returned to the house. Grant showered, dressed, and called a locksmith.

His phone vibrated and displayed a message from his sister.
Be home tomorrow afternoon
. The second buzz was Detective McNamara letting him know the kids would be home in two hours. Still nothing from Mac. Grant paced. Five miles wasn’t enough to burn off his tension.

He had two hours, more than enough time to go see his father. No excuses.

“Be good,” he said to the dog, flat out and sound asleep on the wood floor.

Five miles of rural highway took Grant to the nursing home parking lot. Walking through the sliding glass doors, he unzipped his jacket and stopped at the reception desk in the lobby.

A gray-haired woman in bright pink scrubs looked up from a laptop. “Can I help you?”

“I’m here to see Alexander Barrett,” he said.

“The Colonel is in room fifty-two.” Smiling, she wrote a number on a cardboard pass and handed it to him. She pointed over his shoulder. “Make a left at the end of the hallway.”

Grant followed her directions. He passed a small cafeteria where ambulatory residents were eating breakfast. Wheelchairs were tucked under tables, walkers parked next to chairs. The scents of syrup and bacon mingled with disinfectant. Despite the attempt to make the atmosphere cheerful, there was no disguising the nature of the institution. Considering the state of most of the residents, it had broken Grant’s heart when they’d moved Dad here two years ago.

He turned into his father’s room. His dad had deteriorated since spring. His arms had withered, and his skin had taken on a yellowish hue. The Colonel’s eyes were closed and his chest labored with heavy breaths. Oxygen tubes snaked from his nostrils around his ears. An IV line trailed from his wrist to a trio of bags hanging from a stand. In 1991, a convoy bombing during Operation Desert Storm had paralyzed the Colonel from the waist down, but the determined soldier hadn’t allowed his injury to hold him back. He’d done as many normal things as possible, including custom-rigging an ATV so he could take his boys out in the woods. He’d lived in his modified home until dementia robbed him of his remaining strength and dignity, the ultimate insult for a brave man who’d fought as hard as the Colonel.