Gone to Her Grave (Rogue River Novella Book 2) (4 page)

“One of my charges is involved in a drug-dealing case.”

“Which one?” Seth leaned forward, senses prickling. “Tell me you’re not involved in that possible OD.”

Her silence was his answer.

“Damn it, Carly. You can’t take some drug-dealing kid’s side. This is dangerous.” His gaze narrowed on her bruise. “I heard about last night.”

Her eyes brightened. She opened her Jeep door, the movement forcing him to step back in a hurry or get whacked. Wrinkles marred her white short-sleeved shirt and knee-length linen skirt. The dampness made those conservative clothes cling to her long-limbed body. She wore no makeup, and she’d gathered her hair in her no-time-to-fuss ponytail. God help him. She was still the prettiest thing he’d ever laid eyes on. She was wholesome and fresh and everything he’d ever wanted in a woman since the day they met on the campus of Oregon State. A bead of sweat ran down her chest and disappeared between her breasts. No matter how much Carly Taylor drove him crazy, he wanted to drop to his knees and follow that drop of moisture with his tongue.

Shit.

“Last night was an accident.” She propped her hands on her hips. “And did it ever occur to you that
kid
might be innocent?”

“No.” His size-twelve wing tip fit in his mouth with no problem. This was what happened when he lost focus. Thinking about sex with Carly compromised every cell in his primitive brain.

“Everything all right out here?”

They both turned to see Stevie standing in the open doorway of the station.

Saved.

“Fine. I was just leaving,” Carly called over, without taking her attention off Seth. “I’ll stop at your place and look for Brianna’s hat on my way home. You’re still taking her out to dinner tomorrow night?”

It’s your home too
, Seth thought, but he kept his mouth shut. Opening it would just make room for his other foot, and he was already choking.

He nodded. “I’ll pick her up at six.” Praying he didn’t have to cancel because of work, Seth pivoted and headed toward the station.

Stevie was waiting for him inside.

“Where’s Zane?” he asked.

She gave him a look. “I’m not good enough for you?”

God save him from the Taylor women. He. Could. Not. Win.

“You’ll do just fine. I was hoping to talk to both of you.” He nodded toward the “conference” room. Stevie followed him in. A fan whirred, stirring the heat like stew on the stove. As much as he hated to cut off any movement of air, he closed the door.

Stevie grabbed water from the mini-fridge. She tossed him a bottle. “What can I do for you?”

He caught it. “Thanks. I’ve been assigned to the Interagency Drug Task Force. I heard about your overdose case.”

Her brows lifted. “Really?”

“I stopped at the hospital on the way over here. It doesn’t look good.”

“Damn.”

“There’s a new designer drug circulating, C-22, also known under the street names ‘bacon’ or ‘strips.’ We’ve had six deaths likely attributable to the new drug in this area.”

“We heard about it.” Stevie twisted the cap off her bottle. “The kids really call it bacon?”

“Because it makes everything better, and because it’s sold on little strips of red paper that the kids put in their mouths to allow the liquid chemical to be absorbed.”

“Damned kids.” She drank.

Seth summed up the medical examiner’s findings. “Since it’s chemically based rather than plant based, we’re looking for a lab of sorts. We think there’s a manufacturer in Rogue County. I wanted to put you all on alert.”

“Well, shoot.” Stevie put the bottle down and scrubbed a hand across her eyes.

“That about sums it up,” he said. “How deep is Carly mixed up in this?”

Stevie squinted at him. “You’re not doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Putting me in the middle.” Stevie clucked. “No way. You want to know what my sister is up to, you talk to her.”

“Because that goes so well.” Bitterness coated the back of his throat. He poured more water down to wash it away. Didn’t work. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to drag you into our mess.”

“I know you didn’t.” Stevie sighed. “If it means anything to you, Carly isn’t happy either.”

That should not have cheered him up, but it did give him a little hope. “I just don’t understand why she left.”

“You’ll have to ask her,” Stevie said. “But maybe that’s part of the problem.”

Well, crap. How was he supposed to find out, if he and Carly couldn’t exchange three sentences without fighting?

Time to get back to business. “Tell me about your overdose.”

“In a nutshell: Kid A says Kid B sold him drugs. Kid B says he didn’t do it. Unfortunately, Kid B’s dead father was dealing said drugs. Carly thinks Kid B is innocent, but frankly, we have no idea which kid is telling the truth and which one is lying.”

Seth tossed his bottle in the recycling bin. “Carly does a lot of wishful thinking. They’re kids. They’re probably both lying.”

Carly cranked up the air conditioner. The vehicle interior cooled, but the heat in her blood continued to burn. All she’d ever wanted from Seth was his respect, to be treated as his equal. Too bad it was the one thing he couldn’t give. She brushed an angry tear off her cheek. If anything, he’d gotten worse over their eight years of marriage. They’d fought every time she was called out on a case. Yes, sometimes her job could be dangerous, but she’d been trained to take precautions. If she questioned her safety, she called a cop for backup.

She glanced at the time on her phone. If she worked through lunch, she could still get through her appointments and be home for dinner with her mom and Brianna. Parking in front of the two-bedroom Craftsman-style house she’d shared with Seth, she got out of the Jeep and walked around to the backyard. A neatly edged gravel path led to the detached garage. Carly used her key to open the door. They’d never been able to clear the junk out of the garage long enough to park a vehicle in it. Storage containers and cardboard boxes cluttered the rear half of the space. Along the near wall, a workbench and tools took up the remaining space. The mess had annoyed her when she’d lived here, but now she viewed Seth’s junk with affection—and loneliness. How could she miss the man’s clutter?

She lifted the lid of the first container. Random athletic equipment. Seth had played football and lacrosse in college. She snapped the lid shut before any memories of his broad shoulders or chiseled abs could resurface. Brianna had been born just six months after their impromptu wedding, because of a hot summer night, the cool water of O’Rourke’s Lake, and that body.

Carly shook her head and focused on her task. Brianna’s Fourth of July top hat sat on top of a baseball mitt in the third box. Carly snatched it and made her escape, grateful she didn’t have to go inside the house. She hadn’t set foot across that threshold since the day she’d left. There were too many memories, a breathtaking mix of bitter and sweet, inside those walls.

Without looking back she backed the Jeep out of the driveway and headed out of town. Her phone rang. The number on the display was her boss’s. She answered on speakerphone.

“I have a new case for you. Peter Rollins,” he said.

“I’m not sure I’m comfortable handling his case.” She explained about the conflict of interest with Russ’s case.

“Okay. I’ll reassign the case to Sondra, but she’s out today. For now, could you go over the initial paperwork with the father and explain that Sondra will get in contact with him in a day or two?”

“I can do that,” Carly said. Among other things, CPS caseworkers would help coordinate any services available or ordered for Peter, such as treatment for alcohol or drug abuse. “E-mail me the details.”

She kept copies of forms and information packets in her Jeep. Rogue County was expansive, and Carly often worked out of her vehicle rather than making the forty-five-minute trek into her office in the county seat of Hannon every day. Her phone beeped with an incoming e-mail. Peter Rollins’s personal information. She pulled up his address and his father’s phone number. The house was only a few miles away, so Carly headed in that direction.

The Rollins family lived a dozen blocks off Main Street in the residential section of town. She pulled up in front of a one-story house on a small lot. The lawn was trimmed, the landscaping ordinary but neat. She parked at the curb. Opening the back of her Jeep, she unzipped her cargo organizer, selected the appropriate paperwork, and shoved it all in a manila folder. A mature tree uprooted the sidewalk. Carly stepped over the tilted concrete slab on her way to the walk. She knocked. The door opened, and a bleary-eyed man stood in the doorway.

“Mr. Rollins?”

He nodded.

“I’m Carly Taylor from social services. May I come in?”

He stood back to let her in. She automatically assessed the house as she went inside. Relatively tidy, but not in an obsessive way. He led her back to the kitchen and dropped heavily into a chair. A coffee machine gurgled on the counter.

“I won’t be Peter’s case manager, but I was local, so I was asked to bring you the initial paperwork.” Carly sat opposite him. She opened the folder and went through the sheets of information and the forms he needed to fill out. “Another case manager will be calling you in a day or two.” She slid a business card across the table. “Here’s my card in case you need assistance between now and then. Do you have any other children, Mr. Rollins?”

“No. Peter is an only child.” He fixed her with a bloodshot stare. “What’s going to happen to my son?”

“I don’t know,” Carly said. “He’ll be assessed. If they decide to charge him, there’ll be a hearing. But there are other options. This is the first time he’s been in trouble?”

“Yes, he’s a good kid. Or at least I thought he was a good kid. I thought we were vigilant. I still can’t believe . . .” His thought trailed off.

“How is your wife?”

His shrug was helpless rather than uninterested. “Still in a coma. I was there all night. I came home to grab a shower and clean clothes. Tried to sleep. Couldn’t. Beverly’s sister is there with her now. I can see Peter at two o’clock.”

“Do you have an attorney?”

He nodded. “I called one this morning. He’s going to the detention center today to talk to Peter. I’m not sure how I’m going to pay him. O’Rourke Properties canceled my job, and they’re trying to get out of paying me for work already completed. They claim my work was inferior, but that’s total horseshit, excuse my language. I had to hire a lawyer to deal with them too. That’s why I wasn’t here that night. I’d gone to bid on a job up near Portland.” Mr. Rollins had been working on the O’Rourke job, as were most of the local contractors.

“If you can’t afford a lawyer for Peter, one will be provided for him at no charge to you.”

Mr. Rollins shook his head. “No thanks. No overworked public defender with more cases than he can handle for Peter. I’ll manage it somehow.”

Carly couldn’t argue. The public defender’s office was as shorthanded as CPS, and the latest round of budget cuts had only made the situation more dire.

“Are any of Peter’s friends into drugs or alcohol?” she asked.

“Not that I know of. I really thought they were a good group of kids.” He broke down, covering his eyes as his shoulders shook.

“I’m sorry this happened to you. If you need me, please call.” Carly had seen enough sadness in her job to know Mr. Rollins needed privacy to grieve.

She let herself out. Guilt plagued her. Who would get Peter’s case? They’d lost several case managers in the last few months. Even good CPS agents burned out. The hours were long, the pay sucked, and the caseload approached ridiculous. But not taking Peter’s case had been the right decision. Considering the circumstances, how could she have managed
that
conflict of interest?

If Beverly Rollins died, one of the teens was guilty of manslaughter.

Carly stopped by the Fisher house on her way to the office, where she knew reams of paperwork waited.

The three little girls were playing with a Hula-Hoop on the front lawn when Carly drove up. Tammy was hanging clothes out on a line strung between two trees. Before Carly had the Jeep into park, Tammy was walking up to the vehicle.

“Hi, Tammy.” Carly opened the door and stepped out onto the dirt drive. “Can we go inside? I have some papers for you to read.”

Glancing over her shoulder at the house, Tammy shook her head. “That’s not a good idea. Darren’s inside. He’s sleeping.”

And probably nursing a nasty hangover.

“Okay, then. Here are the forms for the nutritional assistance program.” Carly handed over a manila file.

“Food stamps?” Tammy took the papers gingerly, as if touching them might leave her stained.

The state could change the name of the program a hundred times, but the stigma remained. “It’s just a small amount of money each month to put toward food. You get a debit card to use at the grocery store. Food stamps don’t exist anymore.”

Tammy frowned at the folder in her hand.

The screen door slapped against the house. Darren emerged, blinking at the sun. The heavy beard scruff and bags under his eyes screamed headache. Barefoot in knee-length cargos, he walked to the side of the Jeep. “Tammy, I told you we don’t need any damned food stamps.”