Anything but Mine (8 page)

“Damn it.” He would have to take back that “no”. Even if Caitlin Falconetti grated on his absolute last nerve, she remained one of the best profilers he’d ever seen. If her insight could help them locate whoever was threatening Autry, he’d get over it. “Let her have a look, see what her take is.”

“Will do.”

The radio crackled. “Chandler, C-2.”

Tick reached for the handset. “Go ahead, Chandler.”

“Are you available?”

“10-4.”

“Be advised, reported 10-15 at 3850 Long Lonely Road.”

Tick’s eyebrows went skyward and he glanced at Stanton. “10-9, Chandler.”

“Reported 10-15 at 3850 Long Lonely Road. Are you available?”

“10-4, Chandler. ETA, five minutes.” He returned the mike to the clip and pressed harder on the gas. “I heard that right, didn’t I? A burglary call. At Ash’s.”

“Yeah.” Scenery flickered by, trees blurring as Tick took the curves on the back road with the ease of a hometown boy. Stanton pinched the bridge of his nose. Another burglary—the fourth in the last two months. Five, if they counted Autry’s attempted break-in. He frowned. Once she’d shown him those notes, he’d jumped to the conclusion the prowler had to be the writer.

What if the two were unrelated?

“Tick, did we get prints from the other burglaries? Or footprints?”

“A partial thumb from the Smithwick place.” Tick braked for Ash’s driveway. The metal roofs of the chicken houses gleamed under the midafternoon sun. “Couldn’t get a cast from the footprints. And, yeah, I told Williams to run the prints from Autry’s against the one we had.”

The patrol car bounced over a couple of ruts in the red-clay drive. Next to the plain farmhouse, Ash’s pea-green Ford sat dejectedly. Tick drew to a stop behind it. As they climbed out, Ash stepped onto the porch, his expression tense and harried.

“What’s going on?” Stanton pulled his sunglasses from his pocket and slid them on.

Ash settled a battered cap on his hair, the sandy tone made brighter by long hours in the sun. “Somebody busted the lock on the shed while I was in town. Came home to find the door wide open and everything cleaned out.”

Tick clipped his keys on his belt. “What all did they take?”

“My toolbox, all the lawn stuff, even the leftover bags of fertilizer I had stored.”

Stanton slanted a glance at the shed, halfway between the house and the chicken houses and standing beneath a spreading oak tree. The door remained open. “You touch anything?”

With a terse chuckle, Ash lifted his eyebrows. “I’ve been hanging out with you two forever. What do you think?”

Tick laughed and walked to the car. He pulled the evidence kit from the trunk. “Let’s take a look. What time did you leave home?”

Ash shrugged, a tight, tense roll of his shoulders. “Around eleven. Had to wait at Lawson’s because Keith hadn’t gotten back from Thomasville with my tractor part. Made it home about ten, fifteen minutes ago.”

The grassy area around the shed yielded no footprints and Tick wasn’t able to lift any usable prints from the door or building.

Stanton shot Ash an apologetic glance. “We’ll do what we can, but I can’t make you any promises.”

“Yeah, thanks.” Ash grimaced and tilted back his cap. “My insurance company will be glad to hear it.”

“You know, it would be one thing if there was some pattern to what they took.” Frowning, Tick flipped through his notebook. “Television and a laptop at the Faircloth place, jewelry and household items from the Smithwicks’. Why garden stuff here?”

Ash gave a frustrated laugh. “Probably knew I didn’t have anything worth taking in the house. What are they going to do, steal my first edition copy of
The Great Gatsby
? They can pawn the lawnmower or run the weed trimmer at the flea market.”

“Dougherty County PD will check the pawnshops in Albany for us, but I gotta tell you, Ash, you probably won’t see any of it again.” Stanton ran a hand over the tense muscles at his nape. “That kind of stuff moves fast.”

“Great.”

“Listen, we have to go. We’ve got another interview to do this afternoon, but I’ll run you over a report once I’ve written it up.” Tick snapped his notebook closed. “I’m sorry about this, Ash. Hey, if you need to borrow anything—weed whacker, lawnmower—just drop by the house.”

“Thanks.” Traces of disgust lingered in the single syllable.

Stanton and Tick strode to the unmarked unit. Stanton caught his eye across the roof and sighed. “Guess now Ray will have something else to print in the paper.”

Tick laughed, a harsh, humorless sound. “Wait until he finds out about Autry’s attempted break-in. She’ll get the front page for sure.”

“Ah, hell. That’s all she needs right now.” Stanton jerked the passenger door open. “Come on and let’s go have a talk with Mr. McLeod.”

Head rested on her hand, Autry stared at Tick’s report on Amy Gillabeaux’s death. The words swam together and she straightened, rubbing her eyes. An ache gripped her lower back, so she twisted, stretching her spine. In her stomach, a slow flutter greeted her and she curved a hand over the movement and smiled. Her own personal bright spot.

The autopsy report lay below Tick’s and she picked it up. Time of death estimated to within twenty-four hours of Amy’s disappearance. Sometime in the hours before her death, she’d had sexual intercourse. She’d been twelve weeks pregnant when she died.

Autry tunneled a hand through her hair. Tom McMillian would try to use that pregnancy as part of Schaefer’s motive for killing Amy. The DA would argue Schaefer had killed her because her pregnancy threatened his persona as the perfect cop. He’d back that up with Amy’s possession of another victim’s credit card, claim that Schaefer had used her to help cover up that murder.

And Schaefer expected her to find a way to make a jury doubt that.

Even better, doubt the testimony of the local investigator and hometown golden boy, along with that of a veteran FBI profiler.

Why
didn’t he just take the deal?

Her cell phone buzzed and she dug it out of her briefcase, glad for the distraction. Frowning at the unfamiliar number on the display, she flipped the phone open. “Autry Holton.”

“Ms. Holton, this is Jason Harding.” The Haynes County sheriff, calling her? Her sense of misgiving deepened. Harding cleared his throat. “I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time.”

“No, it’s fine. What can I do for you, Sheriff?”

“I’m at Chandler County General Hospital. There’s been an incident involving Jeffrey Schaefer.”

“An incident?”

What sounded like a sigh traveled over the connection. “Our jailers stopped an attack. Schaefer suffered some injuries, including a blow to the head. Protocol requires he be checked out in the ER. He’s asking for you.”

She closed her eyes. When would she extricate her life from this guy? “Tell him I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Ending the call, she closed the phone and rubbed her temples. She had to find a way to get to the hospital. It was only a few blocks away and before she wouldn’t have thought twice about walking. But now…the memory of that note under her windshield, flapping in the slight breeze, squeezed her throat. Now everything had changed.

Walking was out of the question.

She couldn’t very well call Stanton and ask him to stop what he was doing to chauffeur her around. However, he’d left her the keys to his Explorer. She gathered her phone and dug his extra keys from the depths of her purse.

Nerves contracted her stomach. She could understand why some people lived in fear of going outside. Too many unseen threats lurking around every corner. Hers were unseen, but all too real.

She scribbled a note to Stanton and left it with Lydia at the front desk. The skin at her nape prickled as she crossed the narrow parking lot and climbed into his SUV. The daily bustle of the small county seat carried on around her—people trickling in and out of the courthouse adjacent to the sheriff’s department, two women laughing together outside the bank across the street. Normal, everyday activities, but her life felt anything but normal right now.

And the last thing she wanted to do was spend more one-on-one time with Jeffrey Schaefer.

A breeze holding a hint of fall chill tickled Stanton’s ears and nose as he climbed from the unmarked patrol car. Their quest to interview Hunter McLeod had proved unsuccessful—he wasn’t home and his girlfriend had been less than forthcoming. She claimed he was somewhere on the Flint River, fishing on his day off.

Stanton rolled stiff shoulders, rotated his lower back to relieve the tension sitting there and stopped, staring at his designated parking space. His Explorer was gone.

Foreboding trickled over him, followed by a wave of anger. She wouldn’t. Not after that note, not after Beau Ingler had scared her so badly.

“Where’s your truck?” Tick paused at the unit’s hood.

Stanton clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached, then forced himself to relax the muscles. She was an adult. One of the most intelligent, capable women he’d ever known. If she’d taken his truck and gone, she’d had a damn good reason and used every precaution.

“I’m assuming Autry took it. The question is where.” He tugged his phone from his belt and punched the speed dial for her cell. After four rings, her voice mail picked up. The fear wrapped icy tentacles around the base of his spine. “Autry, it’s Stanton. Call me when you get this please.”

Smothering a curse, he slapped the phone closed and returned it to his belt. Tick’s amused expression irritated him, and he glared. “What?”

“You’ve got it bad. Can’t stand to have her out of sight, can you?”

His scowl deepened, his jaw tightening once more. “She’s carrying my baby, and some nut’s threatening her. Yeah, I like knowing where she is. That doesn’t mean I’ve ‘got it bad’.”

Arms folded over his chest and his expression terse, Tick leaned against the hood. “This is me, Stan, remember? Why don’t you just admit you love her and that it scares you shitless?”

“I’m not—” Stanton snapped his mouth closed. He didn’t love her. Hell, he wasn’t capable of loving anyone, not the way a man was supposed to love a woman—deep, abiding, above all else. He wanted her, he cared about her, yeah. But love? He didn’t know what that was, not really. He pointed at Tick. “This isn’t open for discussion.”

“Damn, you’re defensive.”

“I’m not defensive. We have a job to do, or have you forgotten? Get those notes over to your wife so she can do whatever it is she does and help us get a handle on this guy.”

“Sure thing.” The cold set of Tick’s features eased, a cheerful grin curving his mouth. Stanton sighed. God, surely he didn’t get that kind of look when he talked about Autry. Of course he didn’t.

A silver Mercedes whipped into the parking lot, gleaming under the weak afternoon sun. Tick straightened, his gaze sharp and alert. “That’s McMillian.”

The district attorney stepped from the luxury car, a well-cut navy suit highlighting his tall, fit frame. His grim appearance made Stanton’s gut go taut.

“We have a problem,” McMillian said.

“Nice to see you too, Tom.” Tick’s wry tone belied his tense expression. “What’s up?”

McMillian ran a hand over his receding hairline, his blue eyes intelligent and glacial. “The Moultrie crime lab called a little while ago. They finally have the results back on Schaefer’s DNA test.”

“And?” Stanton leaned a hand against the roof of the car. He didn’t have a good feeling about this, at all.

“Schaefer didn’t father Amy Gillabeaux’s baby.”

“Oh, holy hell.” Tick rubbed a hand over his mouth. He glanced at Stanton.

Stanton narrowed his gaze at McMillian. “How badly does that affect your case? I mean, it just means Amy was sleeping with more than one guy and that’s not going to come as a surprise to anyone. It doesn’t mean Schaefer didn’t kill her.”

McMillian rested his hands on his hips. “It screws my motive argument all to hell—that he killed her because she was pressuring him about the pregnancy, threatening to expose him. I can still argue she was doing that, but it weakens the theory.”

Tick dragged a hand through his hair. “That baby was the only thing we had that really put them together sexually. She never named him in her diary and the clerk at the hotel in Tallahassee, where we thought they’d been together, never could pick Schaefer out of a photo array.”

Disdain constricted McMillian’s features. “Oh, you can bet Autry Holton’s going to take this and run with it when she finds out.”

“Then we need to find another way to link them,” Stanton said. “Somebody’s bound to know something and we just missed it the first time around.”

“Find it and do it quick.” McMillian shook his head. “This case has always been too circumstantial for my liking. Juries want to see physical evidence—DNA, fibers, fingerprints. And we just don’t have it. We’ve got Schaefer’s print on Sharon Ingler’s car, but Autry can raise doubt there. Hell, she got his journals and the victim souvenirs excluded because that dumbass deputy of yours opened the front door before the warrant was signed. She’s too damn good sometimes. I need more and I need it fast.”

“I’m on it.” Tick straightened. “We’re not letting this son of a bitch get off.”