Burn on the Western Slope (Crimson Romance) (26 page)

She opened it again. “You don’t want to join me?”

He flicked the drops of water from his cheek. “Not this time.”

Dread followed him from room to room. Ray was dead, and Reagan hadn’t yet made this condo her home. There wasn’t any lace or frills or anything to indicate a woman might live here. His mom used to display doilies on every table, but the only personal items Garret saw were Reagan’s sketch book, a stuffed moose piled on the bed, and the clothes she’d been wearing earlier now on the floor.

He rested his palm on the cover of her sketchbook but didn’t open it. He tried to absorb the heat of her presence, her secrets. Moving aside, he continued on his quest through the living room and onto the bedroom.

He stopped at the socks. He’d send them off with the box to the lab. They could trace where they were mailed from, they could find out what the sparkles were, but it’d be near impossible to know who sent them.

Shaking the socks, a white card fell and skittered across the floor, stopping at the tip of his boot, face down.

The shower stopped, silence following the faint whistle of the water.

“Garret?”

He heard fumbling in the bathroom but continued to stare at the card, its mystery taunting him. His heart pounded through his bloodstream like a thick ground-up powder at the fear of what that card could reveal.

“Garret?” Reagan called again, her soft voice emitting concern.

It was shaped like a business card, but it could be a tag. It could be a note. It could be anything.

He reached down, grabbed the card. Flipped it over. Quick glance told him what he needed to know.

Gil Grant.

• • •

“What was Ray involved in? I have to know.” Garret sat at the end of the bar, trying to talk to Chayton in between customers. Reagan sat at a table and chatted with a couple, thank God. He didn’t want her to hear any of this.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Chayton asked without looking up as he continued making a drink and tending to his customers.

Garret gritted his fingers against the bar. “Dammit, Chayton, get some help around here and take a fucking break. I need to talk to you.” Desperation clawed its way through his temples, making his voice sound harsh.

Chayton eyed him like he’d lost his mind, and maybe he had. Grant’s business card had fallen from those socks. Those socks had been addressed to Ray. But Reagan’s mother knew she was coming here. Kyle probably knew. There was no return address. It didn’t mean Gil Grant sent that card to Ray, then came here and got killed.

All kinds of things had been tunneling through Garret’s mind. Reagan, Ray, Kyle, the socks, the necklace, Ray’s mother also being Reagan’s mother. It was hard to take in, especially when he had to put Reagan at the top of his suspect list.

Those socks could have been addressed to Ray but meant for Reagan, but she acted shocked to have had them. Maybe they were using her as a middleman, and had intended on sending Kyle or anyone else — Gil Grant — to come for them and the necklace. If someone was coming for the necklace, someone could have sent the socks to the mailbox because they knew Reagan would check it and she wouldn’t do anything with the socks. They could grab them when they grabbed the necklace.

He’d known Ray too long to suspect him, but he had to consider all angles. Reagan said there was no way that necklace could have been in her suitcase.

“What’s going on?” Chayton asked.

“It’s not something I want to discuss here.”

“Fine.” Chayton wiped his hands on a dishtowel and whispered something to Simone. After glancing at the table where Reagan sat to make sure her attention was diverted, Garret followed Chayton to the back.

“Okay, spill,” Chayton said when they reached his office in the back.

“I found this in Ray’s condo.”

Garret shoved the business card in Chayton’s face. Chayton stepped back and grabbed the card. His face paled as he glanced at Garret.

“What is this?”

“It’s a business card — ”

“I know what it is,” Chayton said. “I just don’t understand.”

“Yeah? Well, that makes two of us. Grant is the — ”

“I know who he is,” Chayton interrupted again.

“How do you know who he is?”

“I mean, I know he was the guy I found the other night. The dead guy. With the jewels.”

Garret forced out the air trapped in his lungs. “Remember when Buchanan called me the night before Reagan’s arrival?”

Chayton shrugged. “I don’t know. Sure. Maybe.”

“He called to inform me of Reagan’s arrival and assign me to investigate her.”

“What?”

Garret shouldn’t be telling Chayton any of this, but Chayton knew Ray better than anyone, and he trusted Chayton with his life. He had to do something, and telling Chayton seemed the next logical step.

“My last mission involved a huge jewel heist. One of those jewels involved a multi-million dollar necklace. Part of that necklace was found on Gil Grant. Reagan was involved with a dirty cop who was involved with a large crime family involved in jewelry heists, that sort of thing. I happened to be talking about this necklace to Reagan and she told me she’d found a necklace in the dresser in Ray’s condo. She was adamant her ex didn’t stick it in her luggage. And when I showed her the picture of the necklace, she was adamant that it was the same one she’d found. Now it’s missing, and was found on Gil Grant. She came running to my condo one day thinking someone had broken in. And now, this business card.”

Chayton sank to a chair. His face fell, but he kept his gaze on Garret, who refused to sit or move or do anything to indicate this was the hardest thing he’d ever had to tell his brother.

“Are you kidding me right now?”

“I wish I was.”

“So the damn feds you work for asked you to investigate Reagan. I told you not to hurt her, that she’s family, blah blah blah. Yet this is what you do. Investigate her? Then you wanna blame Ray? A man we’ve known damn near our entire life?”

“Yeah. Her brother, Ray.”

“What?” His voice came out as a screech.

“Ray was her brother, not her uncle. He knew and never said. Their mother was raped by Javier Mass, the man in charge of this organized crime family.” Yeah, that was the news he’d found out today. News he hadn’t yet told Reagan, if she didn’t already know. News that spurred him to further act on his instincts, which was that Reagan knew nothing about any of this and that her uncle — her brother, Ray, a man he’d known damn near his whole life — might not be the person he thought. “Why would he lie about that?” Garret asked.

“God, I don’t know. Maybe because this woman you’re investigating says so and we’re supposed to believe her just because she has a vagina.”

“Calm down, little brother.”

Chayton shot out of his chair, his face screwing into all sorts of knots. “Are you listening to yourself right now?”

“Of course I’m listening to myself,” Garret replied, his voice harsh and forced. “This is all I’ve thought about since I found out. This is Reagan we’re talking about. You’ve spent time with her. Do you think she’s capable of that kind of shit? Murder? Jewel theft? God knows what else.”

“I know I don’t know her as well as I knew Ray, and I can vouch for Ray. And you know she’s involved with a dirty cop.”

“Was involved. She’s not anymore and she didn’t know he was dirty. Still doesn’t have a clue.”

“That’s what she says.”

“She says something else, too,” Garret said.

“What’s that?”

“She said her mom said Ray was involved with a crime family.”

“Well, if her mom says so, that’s probably the gospel truth.”

“Think about it, Chay. Ray is dead. He was killed in an ice climbing accident. He never goes alone. Chris is dead. One of Ray’s best friends, dead only weeks later. Then this guy, Gil Grant, who has a necklace Reagan found in Ray’s condo.”

“You saying Ray and Chris were murdered?”

“It’s possible.”

“You saying Ray and Chris were both involved in some fucking jewel heist, and we’ve known them for years, but Reagan is completely innocent?”

He damn sure hoped so. Ray was dead, God bless his soul, but Reagan was alive and breathing and he didn’t want her to be a criminal. He didn’t want to believe the worst about Ray, but if he had to choose, well, what would Ray have to lose now? “It’s all fucked up.”

“Okay, well, have Chris’s friends been questioned?”

“Not by me.”

• • •

What does an FBI agent do in his down time?

Break his brother’s previous ski records, almost kill himself by ice climbing, freeze his balls off. Question his motives for bedding only one woman in the past while and worse, falling for said woman.

Investigate a murder.

Garret trolled through the snow-covered hills, phone attached to his belt loop, ear bud planted in his ear, and reported everything he knew to Buchanan thus far. Buchanan trusted Garret to finish the investigation, so he hadn’t called in other agents. He thought it best to keep a low profile.

Garret sat on a knoll and spread his backpack out on the snow, placing his notes on the backpack. A normal person would be indoors, at a desk, his notes scattered everywhere, but Garret couldn’t function inside a normal environment. He had to get out, away from the artificial lights and sounds, and in with nature.

He read over his notes and made more. Mr. Grant had obviously been murdered, but his murder opened up questions in Garret’s mind that he couldn’t let go. Not until he discovered the truth.

Chris’s death had been accidental. So had Ray’s, or at least everyone thought so. Now, Garret wasn’t so sure. If he traced things back to Chris, maybe he could track down his killer. Gil Grant’s killer.

Ray’s killer.

No. Ray died while ice climbing. An accident. He hadn’t been murdered. He hadn’t been involved in jewels. So he may have known Gil Grant, a man who obviously had a love for jewels. A man who had obviously been killed for the jewel found in Ray’s dresser. That didn’t mean Ray was involved. That didn’t mean Ray knew Jonathan.

Garret shoved his papers into his backpack and stood, stretching his back. That’s what this all boiled down to. He was still trying to solve Jonathan’s death, still trying to alleviate the pain at his inability to rein in the bad guys. And now he felt he had to prove Ray’s innocence, at least in his own mind.

He had to finish this. He’d never rest, he’d never forgive himself for Jonathan’s death, he’d never be able to start a new life if he didn’t solve this.

Shaking the numbness from his legs, Garret began his trek back to town. He’d talk to Chief Castro again, make him release every report he had on Chris’s death, Ray’s death, and Gil Grant’s death. If there was a tie, Garret wanted to know.

“I want to see everything that came out of Grant’s pockets.”

Garret hadn’t taken the time to stop at the reception desk to announce his arrival. He’d helped himself through the security doors when another cop came out, bursting into Chief Castro’s office without a knock.

“His wallet, his pockets, every piece of his belongings. And I want every report written on Chris’s and Ray’s investigation.”

“Under what authority?” The chief grumbled, easing back into his chair as if he didn’t plan on hurrying to appease Garret’s command.

“Under the United States’ Government’s authority,” Garret bluffed. He hadn’t run any of this by Buchanan yet, but he was willing to take a risk that Chief Castro wouldn’t be smart enough to know any better.

“You fucking feds,” Castro said as he whipped his chair around and stood, hands clenched in fists, neck veins bulging. Garret was afraid he may have given the poor guy a heart attack. “It was an accident.”

“Gil Grant’s murder wasn’t an accident.”

Garret wanted to wrap his hands around the chief’s neck. He wouldn’t squeeze too hard, not hard enough to kill, just hard enough to watch his eyes bulge and comprehension to dawn. Garret was serious about this investigation, not only because it involved or could involve a very good friend, but because it involved the necklace his partner was killed over. He was desperate for the truth.

He had to clear Ray’s name. He had to clear Reagan’s name.

“The deaths aren’t related,” Chief Castro said. “Don’t you feds have anything better to do with your time than ruin our town?”

“You were still obligated to write a report when Chris was reported missing,” Garret said. “When did he go missing? Who reported it? What were they doing?” Questions Garret should have asked when he first got here but didn’t, because like everyone else, he’d thought it was an accident.

“You know what they were doing, Garret. They were jumping out of a damn helicopter. Those men were tourists. They were here, now they’re gone, like most of our tourists.”

“None of those men were from around here?” Garret asked.

“No.”

“Then what was Chris doing with them?”

“I dunno. Chris knows a lot of people. He doesn’t stick around long after the snow melts. I think one of them said they were friends or something. Someone Chris knew back east.”

Garret finally sat on the chair he’d declined when he first came in, folded his hands on the table, and looked Chief Castro straight in the eye. “I want those names and I want them now.”

“Now Garret — ”

“Don’t make me get official on you. Give me the names and give me your reports on Chris’s death and Gil Grant’s death.” He glanced at his watch. “You have ten minutes.”

The chief left Garret alone in his office and Garret scanned the room, trying to decipher what he could from the surroundings. An old clock that must have hung for the fourteen years Castro had been chief. The time was right so the battery was probably regularly replaced. A few scattered papers in disassembly across his desk revealed Castro was what most officers of the law were — disorganized and too busy to worry. A few pens, most of them chewed, revealed Castro either liked to chew his writing implements or he was trying to stop smoking. Sunflower seed casings overflowed a coffee cup.

“Harrumph,” Chief Castro said as he stepped in the room, his chest puffed out, his nose notched higher than when Garret first entered. He carried a box, which he dropped on the desk in front of Garret. “This is everything we found on Mr. Grant.”