Tempting Evil (16 page)

She saw something out of the corner of her eye and it took every ounce of willpower not to look to her left. Jo put her body between Jason and the gun. “Now Jason.”

Doherty nodded. “I don’t want to hurt anyone else, Joanna.” His eyes were clouded with emotion. Jo didn’t look to see if Jason obeyed, but she heard him slide down the slope. Relief washed over her.

Jason’s safe.

“I believe you,” she whispered.

She opened her arms to show him she wasn’t scared, though every cell in her body screamed in terror. She opened her arms to show him she trusted him, when all she wanted was to turn and run.

He said, “That’s why I need to kill you and restore balance.”

Leah ran into the tent and Tyler instantly knew something was wrong.

“Where’s Jason?”

“That man has him! And Jo.”

“Where?” Thinking like a father, or a lover, could get the two people Sheriff Tyler McBride loved most in the world killed. He had to think like a cop.

“They’re behind the boulders,” Leah said.

Wyatt was at his side. “I know a way to get up there without anyone seeing.”

Tyler informed his deputies of the situation and followed Wyatt past the new grave. He glimpsed the name
Timothy Kenneth Sutton
and his entire body shook in violent protest.

A flash of an image of
Jason Andrew McBride
on a similar headstone spurred Tyler forward.

I’m coming, son.

Wyatt was taking him in the opposite direction. Tyler gave him a confused look and Wyatt mouthed “Trust me.”

Tyler followed his brother.

The slope was easier from the opposite side, and they ended up above the boulders where Doherty had Jo and Jason. Tyler could see Jason on his knees in the clearing below. Jo had her hands outstretched, talking to Doherty who had a gun aimed at his son.

Tyler wanted to put a bullet in that bastard’s head. His hands clenched and he waited. Wyatt motioned that he was going about ten yards over, on the other side. Wyatt was injured himself, his arm in a sling, but he had no problem crossing the cliff, slowly to avoid detection.

Jo walked toward Doherty.
No, Jo, don’t.

She put her hand on Jason’s shoulder.

“Get up, Jason, and go,” Tyler heard Jo say. She put her body between Jason and Doherty. “Now Jason.”

Doherty was letting him go. Less than a minute later, Jason was behind a boulder, safe.

Tyler missed Doherty’s words, then Jo said, “I believe you.”

“That’s why I need to kill you and restore balance.” Doherty raised the gun. Jo was only five feet in front of him. She stepped back.

“Aaron, don’t—you don’t want—”

“It’s the only way we’ll find peace.”

Tyler was halfway down the slope. He didn’t know if Wyatt was in place, but Doherty was going to kill her.

Doherty saw the movement, but didn’t seem to care. Jo opened her mouth and screamed.

That surprised Doherty enough that he glanced over at Tyler.

Tyler took a running leap off the boulder at the same time Doherty turned the gun toward him. Tyler tackled him before he could get a shot off. Doherty grunted when he hit the ground, but didn’t release the gun. Tyler tried to grab his gun hand and slam it to the ground, but Doherty was moving frantically, and it was all Tyler could do to keep the gun from getting between them.

Wyatt was in the clearing and had pushed Jo aside.

Tyler wrestled with the killer. Doherty had a rock in hand and hit him on the side of the head. Stunned, Tyler held tight to his suspect. Doherty hit him again. Wyatt tried to get the gun from Doherty’s grasp. The gun went off, Doherty’s finger tight around the trigger.

They struggled in the wet snow, the cold air piercing Tyler’s lungs as he fought for breath. He punched Doherty in the stomach, but the ski jacket softened the blow.

Doherty kneed Tyler and moved his gun hand between them.

Jo watched a replay of what happened four years ago. She might as well have been in her warm Placerville kitchen.

The gun went off between the men.

“Tyler!” she screamed. “No!”

Doherty pushed Tyler off him and stood. He stared at Tyler’s face.

Tyler pulled a gun out of his holster and fired three shots into Doherty’s chest.

He dropped the gun, took a step backward, his mouth moving soundlessly, then collapsed.

Wyatt went over to get Doherty’s gun and Jo rushed to Tyler, who lay in the snow.

“No, Tyler, please, please, you can’t die.”

He shook his head back and forth. “I’m. Not.”

He was struggling for breath and Jo saw the burned hole in his jacket where the bullet had entered. She tore open the jacket. “Wyatt, go get help. Get Nash, call Life Flight, get someone!”

“Shh,” Tyler said. “I’m okay.”

“I can’t lose you, too. I love you, Tyler. You’ve got to hold on.”

She pulled open his shirt, felt for where the bullet had entered. Tyler’s stomach was hard as a rock.

“I’m wearing a vest.” He pulled her down to him. “A bulletproof vest.” He swallowed heavily. “Just got the wind knocked out of me.”

She started to cry. “I thought—I thought—”

“I know.” He kissed her hair. “I know.”

“Dad?”

Jo called, “Over here, Jason.”

Jason walked over, hesitated, then knelt down and hugged his father and Jo. “You’re okay?”

“We’re all okay.”

Jo touched Jason’s face. “I love you, Jason.”

Tyler stood and put one arm around his son, the other around Jo, and they walked down the gentle slope on the opposite side of the clearing. Tyler’s deputies trudged up the slope and Tyler whispered to Grossman as they passed, “He’s dead.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

Leah was standing with Deputy Duncan. She cried out when she saw Jo. They reunited and hugged tightly. “I was so scared, Aunt Jo.”

“Me, too.” Jo looked at Tyler, saw the love and fear and relief on his face. It mirrored her own. “We’re okay,” she said, swallowing thickly.

“It’s over,” Tyler said, pulling Wyatt into their circle. “He’s not going to hurt this family again.”

Family.
Jo looked from Tyler, to his brother, his son, and her niece. She’d lost so much, but she’d also gained much more.

“I’m so lucky to have all of you,” she said, her voice catching. She turned to Tyler and took a deep breath. “I—I answered a question wrong that you asked me over Thanksgiving. I hope I can change my mind.”

“Nothing would make me prouder, Jo.” Tyler kissed her.

ALSO BY ALLISON BRENNAN

The Prey

The Hunt

The Kill

Speak No Evil

See No Evil

Fear No Evil

Killing Fear

Read on for a sneak peek at

PLAYING DEAD

ALLISON BRENNAN

Coming soon from Ballantine Books

The fact was, people lied. Claire was an expert bullshit detector and that’s what made her so good at her job investigating insurance fraud.

This morning she’d been called to a warehouse fire in West Sacramento, across the river from California’s capital in the adjoining county of Yolo, home of the University of California at Davis of which Claire was a proud college dropout.

College hadn’t been one of Claire’s wisest choices. Not because she couldn’t make the grade—she’d dropped out with a 3.7 GPA after three semesters—but because she hated college almost as much as she’d hated high school. “Playing nice with others” had never been high on her to-do list.

The warehouse was at the Port of Sacramento near the docks where the Deep Water Ship Channel connected the Sacramento River to the San Francisco Bay. It predominantly handled agricultural products, but container goods from China and beyond were not uncommon. They didn’t have customs or any serious inspections. That was taken care of at the port of entry. As far as docks went, they were relatively clean and quiet, even at seven in the morning. Most of the activity was at the dock’s far end where right now a ship was being loaded with produce Claire couldn’t identify from this distance.

Claire was supposed to meet the arson investigator here at eight, but she liked getting on scene early to do her own walk-through. She’d already done a lot of the paperwork and legwork—the on-site inspection was for the final report to the insurance company. She could have slacked and just used the arson report, but she preferred including her own insight and photos. Additional documentation would be useful when she confronted the jerk who burned down his own building for money.

Five-shot Starbucks latte in hand—as much to combat the mild hangover from her late night as to wake her up—Claire grabbed her backpack from the backseat of her Explorer, absently brushing golden retriever dog hair off her jeans. May first and it was already getting warm. While the rest of the country enjoyed spring, Sacramento had an early taste of summer. Yesterday it had peaked at ninety-five. Today would be even hotter.

There was crime scene tape across the front of the warehouse—but since it was a mere shell and incapable of being locked up, she slid under the tape. She already knew it was an arson without the formal report. She smelled it.

Warehouses sometimes burned down by accident. A careless employee left a lit or smoldering cigarette butt, lightning, homeless people trying to get warm in the frigid Sacramento winters.

But accidents were rare.

The building owner hadn’t even been smart about it, Claire thought as she walked around the aluminum building’s burned-out shell. What struck Claire was the lack of debris. Had the warehouse actually been filled with the boxes of medical supplies the owner claimed had been delivered two days ago, there would have been far more ash and burned remains. She supposed the claimant might counter that the arsonist had stolen the merchandise before torching the place.

Claire assumed the merchandise had never arrived, or it had been sold before the arson. She’d already pulled the financials of Ben Holman and Holman Medical Supply Company, Inc. Operating on the wrong side of a razor-thin profit margin, he was three months late on his personal home mortgage, and had recently pulled his two kids from private school and enrolled them in public school. His creditors all had 90 to 120 day lates on him.

Convenient timing for an insurance claim that would give him half a mil for supplies and damage.

The prelim report indicated the fire started in the small office in the northwest corner of the warehouse. The claimant would probably argue that it was an electrical fire, perhaps caused by faulty wiring or a defective power strip. The building
was
old. Could be the wiring was out of code. Claire had already ordered the last county inspection report. That would give her the answers she needed, but just because the wiring was old didn’t mean it would spontaneously combust at the ideal time for the financially strapped owner.

The office no longer existed, but melted metal file cabinets were in evidence, as were a twisted hulk of a desk and a melted computer. Claire didn’t even bother trying to pull out the motherboard—the heat from the fire would have melted the circuits, and the water from the hoses had certainly destroyed anything remaining.

Faulty wiring…possible, of course. These dockside warehouses were old and rarely did the owners upgrade the interiors. They were used for the temporary storage of goods that came down the Sacramento River shipping lane. Product came, product left—cogs in the wheels of the economy.

Holman Medical Supply Company would soon be one less cog.

Claire took pictures of the office and the empty warehouse. She left the building. The soot made her cough, and she happily breathed in the fresh air as soon as she cleared the worst of the debris. She leaned against a cement wall to write down some questions for Holman. She already knew what the arson investigator would rule: arson fire. She also knew what Holman’s answers—his lies—would be.

When was the last time you were at the warehouse?

Where is the manifest from the April 29 shipment from Hong Kong?

Where are the missing goods?

Holman didn’t know Claire had security tape from the warehouse three down that showed him driving up the day before the fire started. He didn’t know she had a copy of the manifest filed with customs in San Francisco. And he would certainly deny knowing where the missing goods were, though she had a contact who said an unusually large supply of syringes had shown up underground yesterday.

Ben Holman was just one more pathetic human being who proved that no one could be trusted.

She drained the rest of her lukewarm latte, stuffed her notebook and camera back into her pack, and stood, hoping the investigator wouldn’t be late. She wanted to interview Holman and file her report with Rogan Caruso as soon as possible so she could meet her veterinarian when he arrived at noon. Dr. Jim made house calls, at least for her.

“Claire.”

She dropped her cup and pack, reaching for the gun she carried in a belt holster in the small of her back.

From behind, someone grabbed her arm, bending it up and back. She aimed a perfect kick to her attacker’s balls, but he anticipated the move and sidestepped it, spinning her around and slamming her against the cement wall she’d been leaning against, knocking the wind out of her.

“Claire, don’t. I need five minutes. Please.”

Daddy.

Tears welled up in her eyes. To force them back she pictured the dead, bloody body of her mother. Fifteen years might have seemed like a lifetime, but the sight and smell of blood was as fresh as if Claire had walked in on the murder this morning.

It had been three months since her father had escaped from prison during the San Quentin earthquake. Three months and no word. She’d talked to local and federal cops, endured weeks of stakeouts outside her house, sacrificing her privacy. And when she finally believed he was gone for good, he showed up here. While she worked. Like a ghost.

He looked so much older. Of course he did. She’d never visited him in prison. She hadn’t seen him in fifteen years, since the trial, since she testified for the prosecution against her own father.

Daddy.

She pushed against him, but he had her pinned tightly to the wall. Her gun dug into her back, and the pepper spray that was on her key chain was in her pocket, out of reach.

“Claire, I don’t have a lot of time. The Feds are watching you.”

“Were,” she said.

“Are,” he contradicted. “I didn’t kill your mother. I told you before and you didn’t believe me. I need you to believe me now.”

“I don’t.”

His face hardened, but his blue eyes watered. Looking at her father was like looking at an older, masculine version of herself.

She had once loved him so much. They’d done so much together. Biking. Skiing. Camping. She wanted to believe him because they’d been two peas in a pod, as her mother used to say.

Her dead mother. The mother
he
had killed.

Claire knew the truth. It was as much her fault as his, but he still pulled the trigger and killed two people.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” she said, surprising herself. “I should never have told you about Mom’s affair. It was childish of me. I just didn’t know then that everyone lies, cheats, and steals for personal gain.”

He looked as if she’d hit him. “None of that was your fault, Claire. Your mother had affairs before.”

“That’s what you said at trial, but—”

“It’s true.”

“It was convenient. And no one came forward, did they?”

She was on a roll. She stared at him, remembered that he had been convicted in a court of law by twelve jurors. He’d been convicted of murder, and few innocent people went to prison.

“You would have said anything to get out of prison. The D.A. offered you a plea. You didn’t have to get the death penalty! You could have pled guilty. Maybe if you’d just admitted the truth I could have lived with it, but you just lied and lied and—”

“I wasn’t lying,” he insisted, his jaw tight. “Everything I told you then was the truth. Everything.”

“The evidence showed—”

“All the evidence was circumstantial. Someone framed me. I need to talk to Oliver Maddox. I know he spoke to you in January before”—he paused—“the earthquake.”

“Before you escaped from prison? Let’s call a spade a spade, Daddy, okay? No bullshit. You’re an escaped killer and they’ll shoot first, and frankly, no one gives a shit about your answers.”

Claire’s insides were twisted and burning. She’d never talked to her father like that, had never raised her voice or swore at him.

Don’t think of him as your father. He’s an escaped prisoner. A convict. A murderer.

He pushed her harder against the wall, his face twisted in pain and anger and confusion. “Oliver Maddox has information I need to prove my innocence. The Western Innocence Project was helping me. They were planning to go to the governor with information to get me a stay of execution. Then Maddox disappeared.”

She blinked back tears. “After I talked to him, I did a little research. I’m good at that. The Western Innocence Project was never going to take up your case.”

“That’s not true! Oliver was going to meet with me a week before the earthquake, but he never showed, and then I couldn’t reach him. After that, I got word that my appeal was denied and I was transferred into the general prison population.”

“They don’t put cops with the general population.”

“Something happened. Someone got to him—”

“I haven’t spoken to Oliver since I kicked him out of my house three months ago when I found out he lied to me. He was just a kid jerking your chain. He didn’t have the Project behind him. You were a cop once. You should know how many killers claim they’re innocent.”

“I am.”

“Then who did it? In the twenty minutes between when I left the house and called you and you came in and shot—
found
—Mom and that man, who came in and killed them? And why? You know, Dad, usually the most obvious answer is the correct one.”

“I’m so sorry, Claire, but you have to believe me. The only reason I care about proving my innocence is to prove it to you. I don’t want you looking at me the way you are. I want my little girl back.”

“I’m not a little girl.” She found it hard to catch her breath.
Not now. Not now.

“I know.” His voice quivered. “Please, Claire, I’m risking everything coming to you. I need your help. I can’t do this on my own. I went to Oliver’s apartment. He no longer lives there. I went to the campus, and he’s no longer a student. But I couldn’t dig any deeper without drawing attention. I need to find out where he went and what he knew, to get him to tell the truth no matter who threatened him. I know you work for Rogan Caruso. You have access to far more information than I do.”

“Why would I help you?” She wheezed, trying to catch her breath. The dust from the ground wasn’t making it any easier. Walking around the burned remains of the warehouse had been foolhardy. She should have taken a precautionary puff of her inhaler. And then the stress…

“I could lose everything I’ve built since you went to prison,” she said, coughing. “My career, my license, my home. I don’t want to go to jail.”

“Where’s your inhaler? Are you okay?”

“Go away. Leave me alone.”

“I don’t have anyone else.”

“Well, then you don’t have anyone, Dad.”

A truck turned onto the road heading for the warehouse.

“Think about this, Claire. You know something, something in the back of your mind about that day. Think about it, Claire. Think about
me
. I’m no killer.”

He pushed her down, running in the opposite direction of the approaching truck.

Claire slowly pulled herself up. She willed herself to get her breathing under control. The wheezing came harder and faster, she couldn’t catch her breath. She reached into her backpack, fumbling for her inhaler. Found it! Two puffs and she instantly breathed easier.

The truck belonged to arson investigator Pete Jackson. He got out, looked at Claire with a frown. “You okay, Ms. O’Brien?”

She faked a half smile as she tried to catch her breath. “Fine. The air just got to me.” She showed him her inhaler and then put it back into her bag.

“My son has asthma. I told you not to go in until I got here.”

“Sorry. Why don’t you walk me through it?”

“Why if you already have your conclusion?”

“Because I need you to prove it.”

“Lucky for you that I already have the proof your company needs. Found the hot spot and the accelerant. The burn pattern indicates not only arson, but an amateur.”

“Too cheap to fork over for a professional,” Claire muttered.

As she followed Pete Jackson into the warehouse she glanced over her shoulder, looking for her father. Tom O’Brien was nowhere to be seen.