Protect (23 page)

“Okay,” she relented, finally circling around
to her side. “But remember what I said. Don’t fuck up her
life.”

Fritter settled behind the wheel and the door
squeaked as he pulled it shut in time with his mother doing the
same on the passenger side. “I don’t intend on fucking up her life,
Ma.”

“Good,” she replied, sniffing as a sign of
judgment. “I like that woman. More than I like you some days.”

He grinned as he turned the key and the
Chev’s motor coughed and turned over. “You love me, more than life
itself.”

She cackled at that, which was broken off
with more coughing. “I said some days I don’t like you. I’ll always
love you, son.”

“Jesus,
fuck
, Sharon.”

She opened her eyes with a slow smile,
catching her breath as a hundred and ninety pounds of man climbed
off of her, allowing the cold air from the hotel’s air conditioning
unit to hit her damp skin.

She sat up, pulling the cotton sheet over
herself, watching Terrance Hogan walk to the washroom buck naked to
get rid of the condom.

It had been
good.
If not for Fritter
fucking Horton it might have been the best sex she’d had in years.
She settled into the down pillows, closing her eyes and rubbing her
temples. She shouldn’t have been thinking of him at that moment but
there she was; an example of extreme stupidity.

What it was that brought her here, to Hogan’s
hotel room in the best part of Markham, she wasn’t entirely sure.
She hated to think it had been Fritter running her down on Main
Street, accusing her of sleeping with a sixteen year old.

Okay, so she knew that had been it. His
reaction to that whole situation confused the fuck out of her, and
she was pissed that it pleased her to see him jealous. So here she
now was, fulfilling the very thing that would legitimately make him
jealous.

An hour ago she’d literally walked up to this
hotel room’s door, knocked on it, and smiled at Agent Hogan as he’d
answered, completely shocked to see her but obviously glad. And
then she’d jumped him.

No impulse control. At least, not when it
came to sex.

Hogan returned, sliding between the sheets
next to her with a grunt and settling on his back, mirroring her
position. After a deep sigh he said, “Well, that was unexpected.
But appreciated.”

She turned her head to him, smiling. “Sorry.
I attacked you.”

His laugh was instant and authentic.
“Anytime. Really.”

“Things have been ... heavy lately.”

He nodded. “I heard about the radio ads.”

Archie Turnbull’s friends had bought him a
radio ad campaign calling her out on the way she let “known
criminals” skate by, turning Markham into a “one-percenter
playground.” She was waiting to get the call that Turnbull had been
found with his throat cut, and she wouldn’t even bother opening an
investigation.

“Yeah, those were a shock.”

“They’re bordering on slanderous. You should
get yourself a lawyer.”

In her mind she’d already lost the campaign,
but she didn’t see herself losing her job. It was as though she was
waiting for some miracle to come along, like Archie Turnbull
getting hit by a speeding semi, which would result in her keeping
her position. Denial, maybe.

“Can’t afford a lawyer. I’m just a country
sheriff,” she mused up at the ceiling, feeling how funny that
was.

“He has no idea what job he’s applying for,
does he?”

She shook her head. “Nope.”

“
If
you lose, and I’m hoping you
don’t, I promise to ride his ass on every drug charge that crops up
in Markham.”

She turned to her side, smiling. “Thank you.
I appreciate that.”

“It kinda pisses me off to see you already
defeated, though.” He rolled up to one arm, too.

“We had that public debate and ... it wasn’t
like everyone was booing and hissing every time I spoke. But when
he did, they were all nodding along, like they agreed with all his
bullshit, even when he was calling me out on the club.” She
frowned. “Is it bad that I let them handle so much shit on their
own?”

She never discussed this with anyone, but
something about Hogan assured her he wasn’t a by-the-book
stickler.

“Not at all. We all know the funding that a
sheriff’s office in a county this size receives. If they take care
of their own bad guys you’re free to deal with the stuff you can
actually deal with.” Hogan sighed, running his hand up and down her
arm. That was nice. “You should be working on a police force. You’d
be chief before you were fifty-five.”

Sharon had to laugh. “I did the municipal PD.
I was traffic. They wouldn’t put me anywhere else.”

“They were stupid. Your department really
respects you.”

Now her eyes were starting to sting. “They’re
a really good group.”

“Shit, don’t get upset.”

She laughed and swiped at her eyes roughly.
“Sorry. But that’s my worry. The town and my officers under that
idiot.”

“They’ll manage, I’m sure. What will you do
see yourself doing if you’re not sheriff? I prefer to think of you
keeping that title, though.”

She shrugged. “I honestly have no idea.”

He moved closer, face serious. “Then you
gotta fight. I’m detecting a bit of giving up from you,
Sharon.”

That made her set her jaw and she pulled
away, sitting up and bending her knees. She wrapped her arms around
her legs.

“Not trying to piss you off. My point is that
it’s out of character.”

“I know,” she replied, trying not to be
pissed off.

“You’re good at this. That’s all.” There was
a loud flapping as he threw the covers back and got out of bed.

“I know. Shit, I’m sorry. I don’t respond
well to people calling me out on shit.”

He half-turned, face cracking into a smile.
“I know. I’m just taking a piss, Sharon.”

That made her bark out an unexpected laugh as
he shut himself in the bathroom.

Hogan was right, of course. The
poor
me
routine would get old fast, and as much as she appreciated
Brayden taking it on himself to set up social media campaigns for
her, she needed to do more. She still thought that her training was
her biggest asset, along with experience. She pushed that as much
as she could. Perhaps it was time to start paying for
advertising.

With what, though? The only one offering to
give her money was Jayce McClune and she didn’t think that was a
good idea. Brochures paid to be inserted into the flyer run
couldn’t really cost that much, could it? She had no idea.

She was brought out of her number-guessing by
her phone buzzing and bouncing across the nightstand. Leaning over
with a groan she scooped it up and answered, trying to sound
professional as she said, “Sheriff Downey.”

“Sheriff? You available to help with
something?”

Deputy Sheriff Kerry Troy rarely asked for
help. Something in his tone made her sit up, cold seeping into her
stomach.

“What? What is it?”
Please, not more
abused children.
She couldn’t take more of that.

“We got a call reporting gunshots. It was at
Grainger’s Garage.”

She took a moment to swallow, then got out of
bed and went searching for the remnants of her outfit. “And are you
there right now?”

“Yeah, I am.” Jesus, he sounded totally out
of it and confused. What the fuck could cause that?

“Talk to me, Troy. What’s going on?”
Success—she found underwear. Now her shorts.

“We got ...” he swallowed, she actually
heard
it over the phone. “We got a body.”

“Okay.” She wedged her phone between her
cheek and shoulder, buttoning up the fly of her shorts and grabbing
her bra next. “Just one? Who is it?” Her heart was racing. Fuck,
please don’t let it be—

“Mickey Grainger. He’s ... he’s fucking dead,
Sharon. I don’t know what to do.”

There was intense relief that it wasn’t
Fritter. Still, her stomach did a sharp drop and she sat on the
edge of the bed as her knees gave out. “You’re ... you’re
sure?”

“He’s beaten pretty bad. He was shot through
the temple. Fuck ... what do I do?”

“Start taping off the scene, process
everything.”

He didn’t reply.

“Troy?”

“He was a nice guy, Sharon. He fixed my
bike.”

She closed her eyes and breathed through her
nose for a second, fighting back the prickle in her eyes. “I know.
Shit.”

“And it’s him, it’s totally him. He’s got
that tattoo on the inside of his arm that says
Jolene
.”

Fuck,
Jolene
. “Is Jolene there?”

“No, someone will have to tell her.”

“First thing’s first; start processing that
scene. Did you call the coroner?”

“Yeah, he’s already en route.”

“Who called it in?”

“Missus Sharp, the school teacher that lives
next to the garage. She heard shots, then saw a pick up pull away,
squealing tires. Couldn’t make out a plate, though.”

She got the rest of her clothes on as the
toilet flushed in the next room and the door opened. “Okay, Troy,
listen to me. We’re going to confirm the identity, photograph the
body and let the coroner take him. Then you and I go talk to
Jolene. All right?”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Call in whoever’s on duty to come help.
Shit, what time is it?”

“Eight twenty-six.”

“I’ll be there in five minutes. I promise.”
She hung up without another word, turning to Hogan. He was pulling
on his shorts as well.

“What’s happened?”

“I got a homicide. Local. Mickey Grainger.”
Shit, it hurt to say that, like passing a lump through her throat
just to get the words out. “I ... I gotta go.”

He nodded, face serious, which she
appreciated. “You need any help on this one?”

Sharon shook her head, grabbing her small
purse and pulling the long strap across her body. “Nah. I got this
one. It’s Markham’s. It’s mine.”

Not even waiting to see if he accepted that,
she dashed out of the door and ran for her car, getting inside and
in gear in record time. The hotel was three blocks from Grainger’s,
and she didn’t think she let up on the gas for one second. A
cruiser sat outside, blocking the fenced parking lot on the side.
The garage itself was all lit up.

Troy met her as she approached the building.
“What’s going on?”

He swallowed, took off his cap and ran his
hand over his forehead. “He’s inside. I think he got jumped.”

She had the terrible feeling he was about to
start crying.

“Okay. Stay out here, watch the gate.
Okay?”

He nodded, sniffling, and she gave his arm a
squeeze as she circled around him. She didn’t want to go in, didn’t
want to see, but she had to at the same time. It was disrespectful
to be scared of this.

The front office light wasn’t on. A
florescent glow was coming from the room behind, which she knew was
a staff room of sorts. It was also the door that the employees came
through, closest to the few employee parking spots the garage had.
The front door was for paying customers.

At the doorway to the break room she paused,
then had to take a deep breath. This was where it had happened.
There was blood splatter on the walls, slip marks on the floor made
in blood. She could smell spent gunpowder.

And blood. So much blood.

One look at the face and she was done. A
handsome man with a charming gap between his teeth; Mickey Grainger
had a cocky charm that was at once gripping and endearing. At heart
he was even a bit of a goofball.

She could tell he’d taken a beating. His face
was puffy but he hadn’t lived long enough for it to really swell
up. Blood smeared his lower face, his nose busted. It looked as
though his teeth had been broken. His blue-grey eyes were staring
at the wall next to her.

He’d fallen on his side, legs bent. His arms
were splayed out in front of him. Sharon saw the
Jolene
tattoo and lost the fight against her tears.

Shit, not this. Please, Christ. Not
this.

If only she’d wake up. But it didn’t
happen.

He was wearing a button down over his
undershirt and jeans. The chain attached to his wallet was in
place, they hadn’t bothered trying to make this look like a
robbery. He wore no colors, so he’d been working, not stopping
in.

The shop would have closed at six. She had no
idea when the shots would have been heard, but she wanted to know
why he was here. Had they called him in to them, setting a trap
somehow? She doubted it. He was too smart for that. He wouldn’t
have been alone, either.

No, he was the last one here for some reason.
They waited until someone was here alone.

Crouching down she swallowed hard and wiped
at her eyes. His hands were beat to shit. She had to attempt a
smile. “You gave a few licks, didn’t you?”

The only sound was the ticking of the clock
on the wall. His eyes were pinned right on her in this position.
Just the two of them.

“I’ll let them handle this, get their
vengeance. I promise.”

No answer, of course. Just open, unseeing
eyes. Not even a hint of a twinkle anymore.

“Fuck, Mickey,” she whispered, lip quivering
again. “What happened here? Who got you?”

The muffled sound of a car door shutting
could be heard, and she assumed the coroner had arrived. It was
obvious what the cause of death had been. The back half of his head
was gone, his hair looking as though it was bed-headed but in
actuality it was from busted skull, the blood hidden by the
darkness of his hair.

“Sheriff?”

She looked up, wiping her eyes again now that
Chad McTavish was in the room. The Markham County coroner was
short, round, balding, wore round glasses, and looked as though he
hadn’t had a complete night’s sleep in three months. And that
wasn’t too far from the truth.