She Can Tell (17 page)

Edna pulled her glasses off her nose and looked up at Rachel. “Can I help you?”

“Hi. I’m looking for some background information on my house. Phyllis Holloway said I should see you.”

The clerk beamed. Square white dentures flashed. “What kind of information are you looking for?”

“I’m not sure. I inherited the farm from my grandfather. He claimed it was a historical landmark.”

“Who was your grandfather, dear?”

“Samuel Bishop.”

“Oh. Your people have owned that farm forever. You know your ancestors were Quakers, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Hmmm. If my memory serves me right, the farm was built in the early 1800s.” The clerk tapped a gnarled finger on the top of her cane. Behind those rheumy eyes was a sharp mind. “It’s not the oldest landmark in Westbury. We have a few buildings that date back to the 1780s. Any township records that old will likely be archived downstairs. The historical society may be of more help—”

The shrill peel of a fire alarm cut her off.

Rachel hurried to the door and cautiously opened it.

Smoke!

Mike closed the folder on his desk. Rachel was right. Cristan Rojas wasn’t a drug lord, at least not officially, though his occupation was a little vague for Mike’s comfort. A native Argentinean who immigrated to the US ten years before, Cristan was the CEO of Rojas Corp., a privately owned conglomerate heavily invested in real estate and coffee. Other than a general disregard for speeding and parking regulations, Mike hadn’t been able to turn up anything suspicious in his background.

Blake Webb was fairly clean too, except for a few alcohol-fueled indiscretions from his fraternity years. Webb managed a whopper of a trust fund with an Ivy League degree in business. Richie Rich spent most of his time and money on Rising Star Farms.

Neither Webb nor Rojas had ever been convicted of a violent crime. That didn’t mean they weren’t capable of violence, though. Rich people often found ways of burying their dirty deeds.

The background check on Lawrence Harmon had yielded a few open investigations for illegal business practices, but nothing concrete or violent.

Mike needed more information than he could get through official channels. The situation was easy enough to remedy. One quick call to Sean would get Mike everything he needed. Discomfort pricked his conscience. His friend’s sources were legally questionable.

Mike had been a cop for twenty years, the last ten of them here as chief, and he’d never colored outside the legal lines before. Not once. What was different about this case? His frustration? His lack of resources and manpower? Or his feelings for Rachel?

And this was why cops didn’t get personally involved with cases.

His secretary, Nancy Whelan, came into his office with a handful of pink message slips. “Fred called while you were on the phone. He wanted to know where you were.”

Mike flipped through the pile. Nothing urgent.

“The lab called. That sample you sent in was deer blood.” Nancy set a form on his desk and pointed at the signature line. Mike dutifully signed.

“Deer blood?”

“That’s what he said.” She squinted at him, her crow’s-feet crinkling like half-open fans. “Have you eaten? Of course you haven’t. Why don’t you grab something before the meeting? I can stall Fred.”

After thirty years on the job, Nancy could certainly handle Fred. Under her pearls and cardigan disguise, she was Mike’s watchdog. But in this case, he had to call her off. There was too much at stake. “No. I’ll go over in a few minutes. Meeting’s going to get ugly. ”

Nancy shook her head as she turned. White feathery curls tapered to a point above her nape like the rear end of a goose. “He doesn’t deserve the courtesy.”

“He is the boss.” Technically, it took a vote of the mayor and town council to fire Mike.

“You can’t work this much forever.” Nancy wagged a finger at him and shot him an I-know-best look over her shoulder on her way out.

Mike scanned the files on his desk. On the left, Rachel’s various complaints were spread out next to the Lost Lake reports. What could the two possibly have in common? Nothing. Other than the distinct lack of evidence at either scene, he could find no connection between Rachel and the project or Harmon. The vandalism link must be a coincidence. A protestor was likely the culprit behind the damage to the Lost Lake project.

But who was out to hurt Rachel? Thinking of Rachel getting hurt made him turn back to his computer, this time searching
Rachel Parker, equestrian
. He scrolled through numerous articles from local papers and horse magazines. At the bottom of the first page he clicked on a YouTube link tagged with her name and
Tampa Cup crash
. The clip rolled.

Mike clicked on the link. The clip showed a big chestnut with a small woman aboard. He couldn’t see Rachel’s face from the distance and angle of the camera, but the stubborn set of the chin under the black velvet helmet was all her. A commentator confirmed her identity, remarking on the exceptional promise of the young horse and rider team. The pair popped over a jump as big as a minivan with ease. Bits of mud flew from the animal’s hooves as Rachel steered him through a turn. Mike held his breath as they soared over a shallow pool of water in one huge leap. The horse
galloped toward a huge, he hoped fake, brick wall. One slip of a foreleg in the mud and the pair went into a nauseating somersault, crashing through the faux brick blocks and coming to rest in a tangle of debris and inverted, thrashing equine limbs. With Rachel buried somewhere underneath. The commentator and the crowd gasped in unison.

The horse squirmed, twisted, and righted itself, limping off with reins trailing across the deathly still human form sprawled in the dirt like a broken doll. The screen went blank just as officials rushed in. The video ended, frozen on Rachel lying in the mud, motionless.

The horse’s injuries proved career-ending as well. Did Webb bear a grudge against Rachel? A horse like Fleet O’ Feet had to be worth serious coin. Yet Webb had employed Rachel for more than two years after the accident. Why?

Queasiness had Mike reaching for the antacid he’d stashed in his drawer. He gave it a shake and swigged directly from the bottle.

“Gee. Glad to see you’re feeling better.” Sean stood in the doorway.

Mike sighed and recapped the bottle. “Give me a break. It’s been a long, crappy day, and it isn’t over yet.”

Sean dropped into a chair and nodded at the computer monitor. “What’re you watching?”

Mike replayed the video.

Sean whistled. “She’s lucky to be alive.”

Mike swallowed. The sight of her on the ground, still and lifeless, made his gut churn harder. Still and lifeless was an unnatural state for Rachel.

“You are in big trouble with her.”

“Nothing is going to happen between us.”

Sean snorted. “Dude, the pressure building between you two is like the eye of a category one hurricane.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Vince already suspects something is going on between us. He must be following me because he knew I parked in her driveway the last two nights.”

Sean held up a hand. “You did what?”

“I had to make sure they were safe.”

“Mike, you can’t personally guard every resident of Westbury who is the victim of a crime, even if you do have personal feelings for her, which I can totally understand.”

Mike ignored his friend’s interruption. “She is not my type. I need someone simple, normal
. Sane.
”

“Admit it. You have it bad for her.”

“I do not.”

“Mike, you slept in her driveway.” Sean grinned.

Despite his irritation, Mike laughed. “I don’t have time to argue with you. I have to go to the town council meeting.”

“Municipal building’s packed already.”

Mike tossed the bottle of antacid back in his desk. “I’m headed over there in case somebody decides to be stupid.”

“Don’t you mean when?” Sean crossed his arms over his chest. “This used to be such a quiet town.”

“Didn’t it? Meeting’s going to get nasty. What do you know about Lawrence Harmon?”

Sean raised an eyebrow. “CEO of Harmon Properties?”

“Yeah.”

“Not much, why?”

“His official records are clean enough, but he’s too rich for those to be accurate. Same with Cristan Rojas and Blake Webb.”

“Want me to see if I can dig up any skeletons?” Sean wiggled an eyebrow.

“Would you?”

Sean stared, openmouthed.

“What?”

“You’re serious? You’re tossing the Scout handbook out?” Sean asked. “Aren’t you afraid they’ll take away a merit badge or something?”

Mike rubbed his temple, where his heartbeat throbbed. “Please, Sean.”

“Hey. No problem. Unlike you, I love playing in the dirt.” Sean pulled out his cell and tapped out a quick text. “I’ll put one of my tech guys on it. Have info to you in a day or two.”

“I appreciate it.”

“Always glad to help.”

Outside, horns honked. Someone yelled. Mike stood. Nancy burst through his office door, eyes wide. “Town hall’s on fire.”

“Call everyone in,” Mike yelled over his shoulder as he and Sean raced out the door. The police station was only half a block from the municipal building. Sirens howled. People shouted. They reached the scene just as the volunteer fire department turned its rig into the lot. Smoke and people poured out the front doors. Mike ran through the parking lot. He slowed as he passed a beat-up black pickup. He glanced in the window. It looked like a box of Pop-Tarts had exploded on the passenger seat.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

It figured. Wherever trouble brewed, Rachel was in the thick of it.

Mike held his breath as he scanned the coughing, hacking crowd, milling in shock around the parking lot. No familiar brunette.

Heart pounding, Mike pushed past the last few stragglers exiting the building. A white-haired man burst through the glass doors and fell to his knees on the concrete apron. Mike grabbed him and shoved him at Sean. Another set of sirens filled the air. “EMTs are here.” He nodded toward the approaching vehicle.

Sean took the old guy and reached for Mike’s shoulder with his free hand. “Hey, the firemen are here too. Let them handle the search.”

“Can’t. I think Rachel’s inside.” Mike shrugged off his friend’s grip and plunged into the smoke-filled lobby.

At the top of the steps, Rachel adjusted her grip on Edna’s arm. Smoke funneled up the stairwell, but so far, no visible flames or heat. Rachel strained her ears for crackling or, please God, sirens, but she heard only the muffled sounds of commotion outside. The building was eerily quiet.

Thunk, scrape. Thunk, scrape.

“Can we go a little faster, Edna?”

The clerk’s frame trembled as Rachel tried to move faster than a crawl.

Sirens sounded outside. Edna tapped her cane on the floor. “You just go on and leave me here.”
Wheeze. Thunk, scrape
. “The firemen will be along in a few minutes.”

“Not gonna happen, Edna.” Rachel coughed. The smoke was thickening. Edna might not last a few more minutes. Her pallor was rapidly fading, and she moved slower with each labored breath. “But how about you lean on me a little more? We’ll get out of here in no time.”

Edna bobbed her head in agreement.

Rachel ducked under Edna’s arm and draped it over her shoulders. She wrapped her other arm around the old woman’s waist. Her shoulder screamed as she half-carried the clerk down the stairs. The position was awkward, and Edna seriously needed to lay off the dumplings and gravy.

Sagging, her body got heavier as they hit the lobby. Rachel tried to pick up the pace. She’d drag the old woman the last few yards if necessary. A huge shadow appeared in the smoke. Fireman? No. it was Mike.

Relief flooded Rachel. It didn’t matter who was there to help her, but she was glad to see him.

He lifted the clerk out from under Rachel’s arm. “Did you see anyone else still inside?”

Rachel shook her head and choked. Mostly carrying Edna, Mike herded Rachel out into the parking lot. “EMTs are to your right.”

The fresh air hit her lungs and set off a round of hacking. Nasty things vaulted into her mouth. Edna, on the other hand, was way too quiet as Mike carried her toward the waiting rescue personnel.