Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
B rock exited the conference room and met his brother near the door. “Thanks for coming.”
Christian brushed snow off his black jacket, taking up all the available space in the reception area. “Didn’t see as you gave me much choice.”
True. Threatening Christian with the arrival of the entire federal government definitely worked. More people in town made the area too busy for the guy. “She’s just doing her job. One interview and you’ll be done.” He looked down at the wild animal sitting patiently by Christian’s feet and hid his surprise that Christian had actually shown up.
Flossy fluttered her hands. “Christian, it’s so nice to see you in town. There’s coffee in the back room, and if the sheriff didn’t eat all the scones, there should be a couple left for you.” She fluttered her eyelashes. “They’re strawberry. Your favorite.”
Christian gifted her with a very rare smile, and swear to God, the woman twittered.
Brock shook his head. Why did women, aged twenty to eighty, find his brother sexy? The guy lived as a cranky recluse, wilder than the land surrounding them. “I didn’t eat all the scones, Flossy.” He didn’t bother to correct her about his title because the woman wouldn’t listen.
Flossy looked his way. “I’m glad you’re finished with your interview. Glennis McGillicuddy just called, and she needs help.”
Brock straightened. “What kind of help?”
Flossy shrugged. “Dunno, but she was crying. The old bag is in her nineties, you know.”
Christian coughed to cover an obvious laugh.
Brock reached for his jacket hanging on a peg by the door. “That isn’t nice, Floss.”
Flossy straightened her bony shoulders. “She called my tomatoes store-bought last year during the fair, and she’s a cranky old bag. Period. To think I’d buy tomatoes. My greenhouse is twice the size of hers. I mean, really.” Muttering to herself, she started stacking papers again before turning and inserting different case files into the metal filing cabinets.
Brock pulled on his jacket. Too bad he couldn’t do the same with his patience.
Christian looked at him, his eye level exactly at Brock’s. “You aren’t staying for my interview with the Fed?”
“No,” Brock said shortly, readjusting the gun at the back of his waist. “You’re on your own.” He didn’t want to watch his brother answer questions, so he focused on Flossy. “I’ll be back after seeing what Glennis needs.” He brushed by his brother and opened the door.
“You sure seem like the sheriff to me,” Christian said, turning and stalking down to the conference room with the pup at his heels.
Brock slammed the door a little harder than necessary. He stomped down the icy steps, ignoring the constant ache in his left leg. The river road should be plowed by this time in the morning, so he took his truck, driving down the main drag, checking both sides to ensure the stores stayed open and everything looked all right. Just like a sheriff would.
He shook his head, driving around the river and up to a subdivision of sorts set into the forest and surrounded by a cement-block fence that looked pretty covered in ice but remained useless for keeping out deer. He parked in the third driveway, noticing it hadn’t been shoveled.
A thrumming started in his temples as he slipped on the icy sidewalk, regained his balance, and then walked up to the small, one-story home with smoke curling from the chimney. He knocked once.
The door almost immediately opened to reveal Glennis, her mascara-caked eyes leaking but her red lipstick firmly in place. “Oh, Sheriff. Thank goodness.” She grasped his arm with bony fingers and pulled him into a small living room where the fire blasted heat in every direction.
He entered the house and shut the door, wanting to keep it open with every fiber of his being. It had to be a thousand degrees in there. A white cat with a huge belly sprawled across the top of the floral sofa, its blue eyes watching him lazily. “What can I do for you, Mrs. McGillicuddy?” he asked, his brow starting to sweat.
“It’s Ranger.” She wore a blue velour tracksuit with bleached white tennis shoes that matched her hair perfectly. Her shoulders stooped a little, but she was still a tall woman of at least five-ten, and she showed some strength as she pulled him through the living room and into the ultra-clean kitchen, where the older appliances sparkled. “He’s in danger.”
“Danger?” Sweat rolled down Brock’s back.
“Yes.” She tugged him to the sliding glass door and opened it.
Relief brushed across Brock along with a healthy, cold gust of wind, and he lifted his face in pure gratitude. “All right. Who’s Ranger?” The gun still lay reassuringly at his waist.
She pushed him out the back door and pointed to a tall paper birch tree in her backyard. “He’s my other cat, and he’s up in the tree. You have to get him down. Please, Sheriff.”
Brock froze. “You want me to get a cat out of a tree?” This had to be a joke. It just had to be.
“Yes.” Even very thin, the woman had power as she shoved him out the door. “You’re the sheriff. You have to get Ranger down before he freezes to death. The little monster ran outside when I opened the door to toss out old water from flowers that’d died, and he shouldn’t even be outside. Please, help.”
For God’s sake. If one of his brothers could see him, he’d never live it down. “I’ll be right back.” He paused. “If I do this for you, you have to back me with your neighbors that I’m not the sheriff.”
“Of course, you’re the sheriff.” She pushed him again, and he let her. “Now get Ranger. Be careful—his claws are pretty sharp.”
Of course, they were.
Ophelia studied the man across the table. Christian’s green eye appeared the same color as Brock’s eyes, while his jawline looked just like Ace’s. He’d hung his black jacket over his chair, revealing a clean, long-sleeved, blue T-shirt that covered impressive muscles. “Thank you for coming to speak with me today,” she said.
Christian tilted his head.
She swallowed and glanced at the sleeping wolf by his side before focusing on Brock’s brother. “Who killed Hank?”
If she hoped to surprise him, she’d failed. At least by looking at him, anyway. “Dunno,” Christian said, sitting eerily still.
She tapped her pen on the paper, once again having nothing to write down. “Did you kill him?”
“No.” He didn’t so much as twitch.
“All right. You’re a smart guy, Christian. I can tell that much about you. Who do you think killed Hank?”
Christian still didn’t move. “I don’t.”
She paused. “You don’t…what?”
“I don’t think about who shot Hank,” he said, his voice smoother but just as deep as Brock’s. “I remember the good times.”
She let her instincts take over with the interview. “Do you believe in justice?”
“Yes.”
“Vengeance?”
“Definitely.” Christian studied her right back, his gaze intense.
She kept her composure, acutely aware of the animal at his feet looking tamer than him. “Don’t you want either justice or vengeance for Hank?”
“No.”
She waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t say another word. As an interviewer, she recognized somebody with training. He wouldn’t fall for any of her usual tactics, so she needed to head in another direction. “Do you think Brock killed Hank?”
“Do you?” Christian asked, surprising her.
She forced a smile. “I’m asking the questions. Would you please answer mine?”
“Brock didn’t kill Hank. It’s okay for you to date him during this long and no doubt very cold winter,” Christian said. “Are we done?”
Heat climbed up her face, but she didn’t look away. “Do you think Ace killed Hank?”
“Nope.” Christian reached down to pet the animal’s head.
All right. “How about Amka?” Ophelia leaned forward. “She’s a woman keeping secrets.” Yeah, it was a shot in the dark, but she went with it.
Christian smiled, looking suddenly a lot more like Brock. “Amka wouldn’t hurt a spider. True story. I’ve seen her put a moth on a piece of paper to take outside the bar and let free.”
Interesting. “Do you spend a lot of time watching Amka?”
“No.” The smile diminished, but no anxiety showed on Christian’s angled face. It was impossible to read him.
“Does she know you have feelings for her?” Ophelia went with her gut.
Christian stopped petting the wolf-dog. “Agent Spilazi, I stopped having feelings a while ago. Any feelings.”
She leaned toward him. “Now, Christian, that’s a bald-faced lie. Are you just lying to me, or are you lying to yourself?”
No reaction. Then, a slow tilt of his head. “Interesting question. I wouldn’t have thought I was lying to either of us, but if I were, then how would I know?” The man actually sounded curious and thoughtful.
Was he just nuts?
“Okay, let’s start with this. Is there any reason somebody would want Hank dead?” she asked, trying for a different angle.
Christian shook his head, and a little snow fell from his black hair to his shoulder. “The world was a much better place with Hank in it. Nobody wanted him dead.”
Man, he looked honest. He had quite the skill set.
“Who killed Hank?” she said, more forcefully than before.
“I don’t know.” His tone of voice remained the same.
Was he messing with her? “Do you want to know?” she asked.
“Not really,” he admitted. “A lot of folks hunt in December around here, legal or not, and somebody probably shot him accidentally.” For the first time, his gaze flickered, and he covered the action by looking at the pup at his feet.
But she caught it. The flicker. All right. “You know, Christian,” she murmured, “you seem like a guy who has no problem meting out justice if necessary. This isn’t a case where you’re looking for vengeance and want me out of it. This is a situation where you want to bury your head and pretend Hank’s death didn’t happen.” Sometimes, her instincts with people came in handy, even if she didn’t understand where the insight came from. Probably growing up in harsh circumstances and learning to protect herself. “There’s only one reason I can think of that would keep you from seeking answers for Hank.”
“Is that a fact? Just one?” Christian asked.
“No.” She placed the pen down next to the pad of paper. “Four, actually—if you didn’t kill him. I think you know that Hank was killed by Brock, Ace, Damian, or…Amka. If you thought anybody else shot him, if you had an inkling that a screwed-up tourist somehow murdered Hank in December, when visitors actually don’t come here, you’d be all over this case, figuring it out so you could avenge a man you supposedly loved. One who saved you and raised you with love afterward.”
The animal at his feet sneezed. “That’s an interesting hypothesis, and you’re wrong,” Christian said evenly. “Nobody would’ve murdered Hank. We loved him.”
“So, you’ll take a polygraph test?” she pressed.
Christian looked around the small conference room. “You have one of those handy?”
She smiled. “No, but I know a guy in Anchorage.” She didn’t, but she’d find one. “How about we fly out the next nice day and hook you up to a machine? If you pass, I promise I’ll leave you alone.”
His smile lacked the charm of earlier. “I can beat any polygraph, Agent. So, it would be a complete waste of time, even if I were hiding the truth, which I’m not.” He stood.
The wolf stood with him, yawning and shaking the fur down his strong back.
“We’re not finished,” Ophelia said, remaining in place.
“That’s where you’re wrong.” Christian lifted his jacket, partially turning and revealing a pistol at the back of his waist. With the knife strapped to his thigh, he looked every bit as dangerous as she’d suspected. “I’ve told you all I know, and I’m done being inside for the week.”
Was he being facetious? She couldn’t tell. “Wyatt Yankovich said he saw you near the dead body the day before yesterday. You know the guy with the EVE jacket who had his eyes gouged out?”
Christian zipped up his coat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do.” She stood, facing him down. “Did you kill that man?”
Christian turned for the door. “If I had killed him, you never would’ve found him.” He strode down the hallway toward the exit.
“That’s just it, Christian,” she called after him. “I can’t find him. He’s gone.”
Christian turned to face her, his eyes burning—both colors of them.
She paused. “Does it bother you? Having two different-colored eyes?” Was there a significance to the eye-gouging of the victim the other day?
Flossy gasped. “Now, Ophelia. That’s just not nice.”
Christian chuckled. “Many things bother me in this world, but my eyes never have. Sorry, Olly. That isn’t a motive for me.” He studied her for a heartbeat. “I give you my word, on the souls of my ancestors tied to this land, that Brock did not kill Hank and has no clue who did. He looks at you in a way I’ve never seen, and I want that for him. Peace and something more. You. Give him a chance.” Truth rang in his tone.
She couldn’t breathe…and she believed him. “So Brock doesn’t know who killed Hank. Do you?”
“Take a chance with my brother. You won’t regret it.” Christian opened the door, stepped outside with his canine companion, and closed it quietly. Then Christian Osprey disappeared as fast as the body had the other day.
Damn it.