Run Wild (21 page)

Today he wasn’t any more thrilled about heading to the bank than he had been as a child. But since Natasha obviously felt strong enough about the man outside the cabin being her father, he might as well follow up on some leads from the cabin. The money they’d found was still in evidence bags, and he’d slid the three bags into a larger bag, to ensure the old currency was protected. He had questions about the bills, too, once he learned what he could about the key.

Trent smiled as he leaned back and relaxed his arms on the chair’s armrest. “You know I’ll jump through hoops to make sure paperwork is in order. I’ve never been one to try and dodge around the rules.”

“Your papa raised you right,” Porter said solemnly as he nodded in agreement.

“Yes, he did.” And his dad wouldn’t want to hustle through a bunch of bureaucratic paperwork, either, unless he had to. “I’ll go to a judge. But first I’d like to find out what bank that key is for.”

Porter raised his white, bushy eyebrows. “Really?” He flipped the key over between his fingers a few more times. “I must have misunderstood. This is a key to a First National safe-deposit box.”

“It is?” Trent leaned forward, anxious to have made a step forward for the first time today.

“I do apologize.” Porter had always been the epitome of protocol and manners, which had more than once caused him to be the object of lighthearted teasing. He came across as a throwback to another time in his mannerisms, how he dressed, always wearing a bowtie, even how his office had nothing but black-and-white snapshots on the wall. “We obviously had some miscommunication. This is most definitely one of our keys.”

“How do you know?”

Porter looked offended.

Trent amended quickly, “What is different about one of your keys, say, compared to another bank’s safe-deposit box keys?”

Porter held the key up at eye level between them. “This key has been grossly neglected,” he said, eyeballing it with his large pale blue eyes as his glasses slid down his oversized pointed nose. “But if you knew they were there in the first place, you’d see the initials
F, N,
and
B.
Underneath it there is a group of numbers. Those are numbers the customer has on their contract, and we have a copy of the contract on file here, too.”

“May I look at that contract?”

Porter eyed Trent, not saying anything for a moment. Then Trent held up his hand, waving off the answer.

“I’ll get a court order.”

“Good boy.” Then handing the key back to Trent, Porter looked around his desk absently. “I feel as if I should give you a sucker,” he admitted sheepishly. “We did away with such practices, you know. The candy isn’t good for the children’s teeth.”

Trent stood, anxious to get down to the courthouse. “My teeth survived,” he informed him.

*   *   *

It was just before five when Trent hurried back into the bank, court order signed and stamped. More than once he’d fought back the urge to call KFA down in L.A. to make sure Natasha made it home safely. He’d been a fool to open up to her the way he had. But then Trent had always sucked at relationships. Casual ones seemed to go over okay, for a while. He’d had more sexual relationships in his early and mid-twenties than he cared to count. But if he even sensed a woman wanting more than a really good orgasm, Trent moved on to the next lady.

The moment he’d laid eyes on Natasha there had been chemistry strong enough to suggest incredible orgasms might not be enough with her. Yet the urge to run, or keep her at a safe, work-related distance, had never once crossed his mind. More than likely it was because Trent had always known she wasn’t going to stay in Weaverville. Natasha was a big-city girl. A town like Weaverville would have eventually made her nuts. He had allowed himself to consider something more than sex with Natasha because he had always known it would never work. Trent had no idea why a long-term relationship was about the only thing on the planet that truly terrified him, but there it was. The reasons he’d wanted Natasha were obvious. Because he had always known she would leave.

Natasha might be gone but there was still a murder to solve, and a hell of a lot of unanswered questions to figure out. She had been a distraction, and the kiss they’d shared before she’d driven out of town got him so hard every ounce of blood in his body drained into his dick whenever he thought about it. But no amount of thinking about her would bring her back, or put his murderer behind bars.

“You have your court order.” Porter stood outside his office just behind the tall, long counter where the tellers worked all day.

Trent walked across the small lobby, aware of Tamara Shelby standing at her teller cage and watching him. When she knew she had his attention she smiled and gave him a noticeable once-over. He returned the smile but then focused on Porter as he handed him the paperwork he’d just received from the judge. It was probably Trent’s least favorite part of being a sheriff, ridiculous pieces of paper that gave him permission to ask certain questions.

Porter looked over the order, taking his time, then hummed as he nodded. “Everything is in order. I’ll start checking on that key in the morning.”

Trent really didn’t want to end his day without having accomplished something other than burning gas in his Suburban as he ran around town without learning a damn thing.

“I’d hoped you could give me some kind of information on it before you went home today.” Trent turned his back on the tellers and faced Porter, keeping his voice low so as to prevent a world of gossip flowing once all the bank employees were home for the night. “This key is part of a murder investigation.”

“A murder investigation?” Porter repeated.

Trent grabbed the older man by the arm and escorted him back into Porter’s office, then stood in the doorway, his back to the lobby, and faced a rather disgruntled Porter.

“If word gets out that I brought a key into your bank to open a safe-deposit box, and it’s connected to the murder, we’ll be giving him a running start to escape.” Trent crossed his arms, watching Porter puff out his narrow chest, then make a show of running his hands down his outdated suit as he put himself back together. “The only way I can bring Carl Williams’ murderer to justice is if I have the full cooperation of the pillar of this community.”

No one would ever accuse Trent of kissing ass, but his last words grabbed Porter’s attention.

“Of course. Of course,” he babbled, turning around in his office and looking disoriented for a moment.

Trent held up the key when Porter once again faced him.

“Oh yes.” The older man took the key, nodding and mumbling to himself as he walked around his desk and sat in front of his computer. Somehow the picture didn’t match and Trent imagined Porter preferred doing business the old way, the way Trent had found him when he’d walked back into the bank, pillaging through filing cabinets made out of metal instead of files that were Word documents.

Trent forced himself to remain patient while Porter used his index fingers and hen pecked the keyboard. He glanced over his head at the clock on the wall and stifled a sigh. Porter was vice president of the bank but, if Trent were to guess right, in title only. Merv Conroy, an annoying twit Trent went to school with, was bank president. Merv was probably a stickler for the bank closing on time and all employees being out of the building so the alarm could be set.

“Now this might be a bit of a challenge,” Porter mumbled after remaining hunched over in front of his large computer for a few minutes. He continually glanced at the keyboard, then the screen, then mumbled under his breath before repeating the process.

It was almost five and closing time. Trent rubbed his hands together, wanting to grab Porter again and give him a hard shake until his faculties were in order in his brain and he’d do his job, instead of moaning and whining about how difficult it was to do.

“You do realize if a key is neglected it is the responsibility of the customer leasing the safe-deposit box to have the box rekeyed,” Porter pointed out, giving Trent a shrewd look as if Trent had something to do with the current condition of the key.

“Do you know which box it belongs to?” Trent had no problem bringing a locksmith out; that is, if he couldn’t break into the box himself.

“I am doing that now. Ah-h, yes.” He smiled triumphantly. “The numbers on the key were hard to read, but we have a match.” Porter jotted something down on a small notepad, ripped the piece of paper free, then stood. “Shall we?” he asked, gesturing to the door.

Trent stood to the side, suddenly feeling as anxious as if it were Christmas morning. He was a boy all over again, waiting at his bedroom door and fighting not to get grouchy. His father had always ordered him to stay in his bedroom while he made sure Santa had shown up. It had always taken forever.

“And for the record,” Porter said when they’d reached the bottom of the stairs and walked along the wide hallway underneath the bank. There were deposit boxes lining the wall on either side of the hall. “You’re turning into a pushy old fart, just like your father,” Porter told him, then stopped and bent over, running his finger over the numbers of each box. “Here we are.”

Trent stared at the skinny old man, rather surprised. Porter Vaskins was everything prim and proper. Yet he’d just called Trent a pushy old fart? He fought a smile and rocked up on his heels in spite of himself.

It didn’t bother him a bit being compared to his old man. There were days when Trent missed the hell out of his father. Most of the time, when the pain of his loss grew to be too much, Trent made himself remember how much pain his dad had been in before dying. His old ticker, as Trent’s father used to call his heart, had a lifetime warranty and his life was up. He was in a better place now.

Porter struggled with the key. Trent moved in around him and watched him try to get the key into the lock.

“Let me try.” Trent reached for the key, taking it from Porter, who backed up and exhaled, wiping his brow, acting as if that were more physical labor than he was used to doing.

Trent used a bit more force than Porter had used, got the key into the keyhole, then turned and watched it break in two.

“God damn it,” Trent cursed under his breath. He glared at the half of the key in his hand and the lock with the other half stuffed in it. “Whose safe-deposit box is this?” he demanded.

“That’s right. You’re going to have to pay to replace their lock.” Porter nodded his head viciously and handed Trent a piece of paper.

Trent was beginning to wonder if the old banker had all of his oars in the water. “No problem,” Trent grunted, the lock being the least of his worries. He stared at the piece of paper Porter had given him.

It was the note pad paper Porter had written the box number on, but as well, above it he’d written a name.
MaryAnn Piney.

“Piney?” he whispered, scowling.

He went to school with Ethel Piney before she was Ethel Pope and now Ethel Burrows. He might have to head out to Trinity Ranch again and pay the Burrowses a visit.

He wanted to take a closer look at that cabin, too, in the daylight. Suddenly Trent really wanted to call Natasha. The last he’d checked the tracking device Natasha was still in L.A.

Trent thanked Porter and got out of the bank, wishing there was more time in the day to research what he’d learned. Natasha was right about him not being that computer savvy. Tracking devices were pretty simple contraptions. He preferred using his gut when solving a crime, but he’d wanted to know where Natasha went while in Weaverville. It wasn’t his fault the little contraption was still transmitting.

As Trent neared his Suburban, ignoring the snow flurries dancing in the air around him, he wondered if Natasha had learned anything more about her father’s whereabouts now that she was home. He wouldn’t ask, he decided. He’d find George King without her help.

He almost pulled his phone out to call Natasha, though. All Trent wanted was to hear her voice, and as much as he hoped she would sound happy, it wouldn’t bother him too much if she was a bit remorseful for leaving him.

“Piney,” he mumbled when he reached his truck. It was time to find out where Ethel’s family was living today.

*   *   *

The forecast didn’t say it was going to snow. Natasha flipped on the windshield wipers and reached for the volume on the GPS. She’d better not get lost in some terrible blizzard. Scowling out the windshield, she forced her hands to relax on the steering wheel and listened to the directions as her GPS told her where to go in the town of Redding, California.

Just because Natasha had lived all her life in L.A. didn’t mean she was an idiot about snow. It was blowing all over the place but maybe there wouldn’t be a blizzard. This part of California would get nailed with snow, and plenty of it, before the holidays even got here. As long as it didn’t start while she was up here all would be fine.

It wasn’t bad right now. Natasha knew better than to drive once it got bad. She would look up the forecast as soon as she got where she was going. Then she would be sure and have a room if the weather were to get bad.

“It better not get bad,” she whispered, and looked up at the sky through her windshield.

Natasha slowed when the monotone female voice on her GPS started instructing one turn after another. She glanced at the houses on either side of the side street she was now on, then reached for the piece of paper where she had jotted down Sandra Burrows’ address.