Against the Wild (25 page)

Maggie nodded. “From Beverly Hills. I remember. Nice to see you.” But the look in her eyes said she couldn't wait for Lane to leave.

Dylan turned over his white china mug and shoved it toward her. Maggie grabbed the coffeepot off the burner and filled his cup.

“Coffee?” Maggie asked Lane.

“Please.” She turned over her mug. “Is there any chance Holly was seeing someone else?”

Maggie poured the dark brew into the cup. “I don't think so. I never saw her with anyone else.”

“Did she ever mention a man named Dusty Withers?”

“Not that I recall.”

“Maybe you saw him in here,” Dylan said. “Flew in from Fort Bragg. Tall, good-looking. Ex-military.”

“Sounds like Holly's type, all right, but I don't recall seeing him.” She set the coffeepot back down on the burner. “You think he killed her?”

“At this point we just want to talk to him.”

“I'll keep an eye out.” Maggie shook her head. “What happened to Holly . . . that just wasn't right. This guy comes in, I'll call you.”

“That'd be great.”

She looked over at Lane. “So when will the lodge be ready to open?” Translation:
So when will your job be finished and you'll be out of Dylan's life for good?

“We should have the interior finished by the middle of August,” Lane said, wishing August weren't so near.

“I'm hoping to have guests in by the end of the month,” Dylan added. “Tourist season'll pretty well be over, but we should get some fishermen, maybe a few hunters.”

“I'd like to see it after it's finished,” Maggie said. She sliced Lane a glance that said,
As soon as you're out of the picture.

Dylan finished the last of his coffee, set the mug back down on the counter. “Once we're done, I'll be happy to show you around. Maybe you can send me some customers.”

Maggie smiled. “You bet I will.” With a wave over her shoulder, her hips swaying in the tight jeans stretched over her voluptuous behind, she headed off to take care of another customer.

Lane slid down from the stool as Dylan tossed money on the counter for the bill, and they left the café. Back in the Toyota, she pulled the seat belt across her lap and shoved the buckle into the slot. “So how are we going to find him?”

“I think it's about time we got some help. Let's head over to the police department. I've met the chief a couple of times. We've got a name now. Maybe he'll be willing to help us run this guy down.”

It sounded like a good idea. They could certainly use some help. Proving Caleb's innocence came first, but Lane still had a lot of work to finish if Dylan wanted the lodge to open the end of August. As soon as it was ready, she would be heading back home.

It was a depressing thought.

The police department was on Monrovia Street near the south end of town. Dylan's cell rang as he drove the Toyota into the parking lot and turned off the engine. Pulling the phone out of his pocket, he checked the caller ID, recognized his brother Nick's number.

“I'm here,” he said. “What have you got?”

“I haven't got jack shit. The license is a fake. No Dusty Withers. No Fort Bragg address.”

“Son of a bitch.”

“Calm down, there's some good news in this.”

“Yeah, what is it?”

“I think you've got yourself a viable suspect. This guy's off the grid. There has to be a reason. Maybe he's got a record. Maybe he's wanted for something. Whatever it is, he doesn't want his real identity known.”

“You're right. Maybe that'll be enough to get the cops to take a look at someone other than Caleb.”

“And there's something else. That fake license was good enough to get him on a plane, get him a rental car. Odds are he had it made—which means he had to know who to pay in order to get it done. I'm definitely thinking military, and I'd say Special Ops. Rangers, D-boys, SEALs. Those guys know how to get whatever it is they need.”

Dylan thought of the man who had murdered Holly. The way he had handled the body, the way he had managed to just disappear.

“That makes sense. My next stop's the chief of police. We'll see what he has to say.”

“Keep me posted.”

“Will do.” Dylan ended the call and stuck the phone back in his pocket. “The ID was fake. No help there. But Nick thinks this could be our guy. He also thinks he could have been Special Ops.”

Lane's eyes widened. “Like a Navy SEAL?”

“Or Delta Force, maybe a Ranger. Unfortunately, if that's the case, it's going to make catching him a whole lot harder.”

“God, Dylan.”

They got out of the car in front of the police department and headed for the door. There were only sixteen officers on the Waterside force. As they walked inside, a female officer in a dark blue uniform came out from behind her desk and walked up to the counter.

“May I help you?” She was black-haired with Asian features, in her early thirties, and a little overweight.

“I'm Dylan Brodie. This is Lane Bishop. We'd like to see Chief Wills.” He'd met Frank Wills a couple of times, once at the Chamber of Commerce when he was working on plans to promote business for the lodge. “It's in regard to the Holly Kaplan murder.”

“If you'll wait here, I'll let him know you want to see him.”

A few minutes later, they were ushered into his office. A big man with salt-and-pepper hair, Wills rose from behind his desk.

“Brodie. Good to see you. Been awhile.”

“Couple of months. Trying to get the lodge up and running has been taking up most of my time. Frank, this is Lane Bishop. She's helping me get the place ready to open.”

“Nice to meet you.” He turned back to Dylan. “Officer Holder says you're here in regard to the Kaplan murder.”

“That's right.”

Wills indicated the pair of chairs in front of his desk. “Why don't you have a seat and tell me what's going on.”

Dylan flicked a glance at Lane, received an encouraging smile. “I realize Caleb Wolfe is your primary suspect and I understand your thinking. But ten days ago, a man with a fake driver's license flew into Waterside, a man we believe may have murdered Holly.”

“Go on.”

“The bartender at Mad Jack's mentioned seeing him there a couple of times before the murder. He's about my size, dark-haired, apparently served in the military. Maybe Special Operations.”

“He rented a car at the airport,” Lane added. “The young woman who works there said he was extremely good-looking. The kind of man Holly might have left the bar with the night she was killed.”

“Were they seen together?”

“Not that we've been able to confirm,” Dylan said. “Doesn't mean they didn't know each other.”

“What else have you got?”

“That's about it so far. But the fact he's using an alias ought to at least make him a person of interest to the police.”

“So you're basing your entire theory on the fact the man is traveling with a fake ID.” He frowned. “By the way, how did you come up with that information?”

Dylan wasn't about to cause his brother any problems. “A friend with connections.”

“But you aren't saying who.”

Dylan passed over the slip of paper with the name Dusty Withers, his fake address, and the driver's license number written on it. “You can check it out yourself.”

“I'm happy to look into this. But I've got to tell you, Dylan, in most of these cases, the killer is someone the victim knows. A husband or boyfriend. In this case, Caleb Wolfe was known to have been seeing the Kaplan girl. He fought with her the night she was murdered.”

“He wasn't seeing her. And when he left the bar, Holly was alive.”

“That's right. Then he waited for her outside and convinced her to have sex with him before he killed her.”

“That isn't what happened.”

“You don't think your friend Wolfe has anything to do with this?”

“Not a chance. Caleb Wolfe is no murderer. You need to find this guy, Chief. Before something happens to somebody else.”

Frank Wills studied the piece of paper, then rose from behind his desk, an imposing man though clearly he wasn't convinced. “We'll follow up on this. But odds are this guy has a warrant out somewhere he's trying to dodge or, like a thousand other people, just wants to disappear in Alaska for a while. Wolfe and Kaplan have a history. In the end, that's usually what this kind of crime is about.”

Dylan didn't say more. He could read a man well enough to know Frank Wills had made up his mind. Dylan also believed the police chief wouldn't ignore the lead he had been given. Maybe they'd get lucky and something would turn up.

In the meantime, he had every intention of finding the man who called himself Dusty Withers. Those hunches he got were warning him loud and clear this guy was a killer.

 

 

They stopped in at a couple more places before they were ready to head back to the lodge. The Pelican Pub, the Silver Salmon Bar and Grill, the mercantile, even the Sea View Motel. As they drove toward the float dock, they stopped in at the grocery store. If Withers wasn't staying in town, he'd need supplies. Surely someone in the store had seen him.

But no one recognized the name Dusty Withers, or had seen anyone who looked like him.

It was a solemn trip back to the lodge. Lane could read the tension in Dylan's shoulders, knew his worry had increased. Her own frustration had her nerves strung taut.

It was late afternoon by the time the plane descended and skimmed over the surface of the water. Then Dylan slowed the engines and the floatplane eased up to the Eagle Bay dock. Paddy O'Ryan came out to help Dylan secure the aircraft while Lane headed back to the house.

The day had been long and they still had no idea where to find their suspect. Lane was edgy and restless as she walked through the door. She needed something to do that would occupy her thoughts and ease some of the tension running through her.

Collecting her easel and paints, she started toward the front porch, then changed her mind. She had painted the mountains across the sea a dozen times. Instead, she headed in the opposite direction, carrying her painting gear along the trail to the old cemetery on the hillside.

She wanted to capture the view up the mountain, with the old totem pole and the tombstones as part of the scene.

She set up the easel and went to work mixing paint and applying it to canvas. In minutes, she found herself submerged in a world of vibrant colors, the challenge of capturing the essence of the landscape that went beyond what the eye saw into the realm of what the heart felt.

Her knowledge of the murders, and the innocent men who had been hanged and buried in the graveyard, made the painting take on the subtle blue and gray tones of grief. Time drifted past as each stroke slid onto the surface, the work absorbing her completely, the way it always did.

She had no idea how long she'd sat on the tree stump, her gaze fixed on the old wooden fence around the cemetery and the rugged mountains behind it. She only began to notice that her back was aching and her bottom felt numb.

Getting up from the stump, she stretched her stiff muscles and glanced around. She suddenly had the oddest feeling someone was watching her. She looked up the mountain into the woods, but saw no one there.

Turning, she glanced down the hill toward the lodge, spotted Emily sitting on a log a few feet away, Finn lying quietly at her feet. Lane wondered how long the child had been there watching her. Emily rose as Lane walked toward her.

“I'm not finished with the picture, yet,” Lane said with a smile. “It'll take me a while to get it exactly the way I want.”

Emily looked up at her, then walked over to the painting. She pointed to the grave markers in the cemetery, then back to the canvas. There was something infinitely sad in the little girl's face.

Lane suddenly knew what it was. “You're thinking of your mother,” she said as Emily walked back to her. “You must miss her very much.”

The little girl's eyes filled. When the tears spilled onto her cheeks, she quickly dashed them away.

“It's okay to miss her,” Lane said, going down on a knee beside her. “My mother died, too, and I miss her very much.” She reached out and hugged her. “Your mom's gone, but you've got a father who loves you very much.”

Emily's features crumpled. Looking stricken, she turned and raced back down the hill toward the lodge. Trembling, Finn stood watching her, his shaggy head turning from Emily to Lane and back again, uncertain whether to follow the child or stay with his mistress.

“Go ahead,” Lane said softly, her heart aching for the little girl. “Emily needs you.” She pointed toward the small retreating figure running down the path, and Finn bolted after her.

Not sure what had just happened, Lane sighed and walked back to her easel. But her focus was no longer on the painting but on the little girl. Gathering her easel, palette, and canvas, she followed Emily back to the lodge. Whatever was going on with the child, no one but Emily knew what it was.

If only she would talk. Only then would Emily and the father who loved her be able to work things out.

Lane thought of Dylan. She and Dylan couldn't really talk, either. Not about their emotions, their feelings for each other. She knew he cared for her. She didn't know how much.

And she was completely certain Dylan didn't know that she had fallen in love with him. Lane had only just lately managed to figure that out herself.

 

 

“So how did it go?” Wiping her hands on a dish towel, Winnie walked toward him across the kitchen.

“We made some progress,” Dylan said. “The guy we're looking for flew into town a couple of weeks ago. Unfortunately, he's using an alias. We asked around, but we weren't able to find him.”

“Did you talk to the police?”

He nodded. “Chief Wills.” He walked over and poured a cup of coffee, took a sip. “They still like Caleb for the murder, but I think Frank will follow up, at least try to find the guy we told him about.” He glanced around. “Where's Lane?”

Winnie frowned at the inquiry. “She took her easel and paints and went up the hill toward the cemetery. She's been gone a while. Emily took Finn and went to look for her.”

Unease trickled through him. He started to leave, go check on them. The cemetery wasn't that far away and men were outside working, but still . . .

Winnie's words stopped him in the doorway. “If you aren't careful, Dylan, that little girl of yours is going to get hurt all over again. She's falling in love with Lane—just like you are.”

His chest clamped down. “I'm not falling in love with Lane. We're just friends.”

Winnie cocked a silver eyebrow. “That's what you're telling yourself? You're just friends with benefits?”

“Something like that.” But deep down he knew it was more. And Emily wasn't the only one who was going to get hurt.

“Lane won't be here much longer,” he said. “Another few weeks at the most.”

“What about Emily?”

“Dammit, Winnie. What am I supposed to do? I brought Lane up here to do a job. She's planning to see it through. You want me to fire her, send her back to Beverly Hills? I've got money, but not an endless supply. I need to get this place up and running.” But the real truth was, he didn't want Lane to leave—at least not until their time together was over.

The older woman sighed. “I know you've got responsibilities, a business to get started. It isn't your fault. It's not Lane's fault, either. I don't suppose either of you planned to get in quite so deep.”

Hell no, he hadn't. He had no idea what he'd been planning when he got the idea of hiring her. He'd wanted her. She was good at her job and he needed the help. Bringing her to Alaska had seemed like a good idea at the time.

Unfortunately, the attraction between them was even more powerful than he had suspected. Now he was in over his head and barely treading water. He couldn't afford to let himself get in any deeper. As soon as the lodge was finished, Lane would be leaving, returning to the life she'd had before. A life that suited her as this one never would.

Whatever happened, he couldn't afford to make the same mistake he had made with Mariah.

And Winnie was right. If he wasn't extremely careful, Emily would be the one to suffer. Sweet Jesus, he wished he knew what to do.

At the moment, he just needed to find her, make sure she was safe. Dylan felt a sweep of relief when he saw her walking through the back door.