Ghosted

Chapter Fifteen

The silver sedan seemed to materialize, without warning, out of the gloom.

Partly because the car’s headlights weren’t on.

Pads screeched and tires squealed as the driver slammed on the brakes, swerving left. Archie jumped backwards, gasping, “ Shit …”

The intruder dove right, managing to land half on the hood with a loud bang , before springing away. The driver accelerated, grazing Archie’s hands, before speeding off down the street. Impact sent Archie stumbling; he tripped over the curb and tumbled back onto the strip of grass between the street and sidewalk.

Fuck.

Instinctively, he managed to curl his arms protectively around his head to cushion his skull, but he still saw stars. For a winded second or two he didn’t move, listening to the outraged pound of his heart in his ears. He took a quick, alarmed assessment and then rolled over, pushed dizzily upright on rubbery arms. He took a cautious, experimental breath, sat back down on the grass.

Not good but it could have been a lot worse.

“Crane? Archie ?”

Archie looked around for the source of that shout and spotted the red and blue swirl of police “cherries and berries”.

“Crane!” Beau stared at Archie from over the top of the SUV. “Are. You. Injured? Are you okay ?”

Archie did not have the breath to answer. He jabbed his finger in the direction the intruder had gone, and Beau ducked back in his vehicle, hit the siren, and took off in pursuit. Seven seconds later, his red taillights vanished around a corner.

Archie swore again, drew in a couple of experimental breaths, again gathered himself to stand, and again sank back into the prickly wet grass. Nope. Not going to happen.

His muscles were trembling in a kind of palsy; every nerve in his body throbbed and pulsed in affront.

He swore with quiet ferocity.

But the truth was both Beau and the intruder were already out of sight. He was not going to be of any use in the pursuit.

He took a couple more cautious breaths, gazing up at the stars twinkling high overhead.

“On the bright side…”

But yes, on the bright side, he had not been hit full-on by the asshole in the sedan.

He had not been ambushed in John’s study, he had not been killed in a hit and run. Things were definitely looking up.

In fact, aside from the fact that his lungs still burned, his muscles continued to shake in the wake of sudden, fierce exertion, and he was definitely going to have a new collection of scrapes and bruises, he actually felt…all right.

Better than he had in a long time.

Well, let’s not get carried away. But, yeah, there was definitely something energizing about surviving a close call.

Granted, he was going to feel less energized in a couple of hours when this new set of aches and pains made themselves felt.

But right now…

Right now, the evening was alive with the smell of cool, damp earth and mown grass, of distant spicy evergreens. The soothing sounds of crickets surrounded him, the rustle of leaves overhead, chimes from a nearby porch, and distantly the engine of a passing car several streets over.

He stared up at the glittering stars and was grateful, even glad, to be alive.

It had been a while since he’d been conscious of that fact.

Abruptly, it occurred to him that what he did not hear—had not heard for some minutes—was a siren.

No sirens.

Was that good news or bad?

At a guess, their offender was in the wind. Whoever he was, though, he was going to be limping. He, too, was going to be wearing some bumps and bruises.

That could be useful.

Archie did not have to wait long for an answer.

Beau’s SUV—no flashers, no siren—pulled into the driveway and Beau got out. His boots scraped on cement as he walked over to where Archie was now sitting on the curb.

“How are you doing?” Beau gazed down, his own face a pale glimmer in the gloom.

Archie offered a thumbs up.

“Yeah? You sure? Because you just got hit by a car.”

“Not really.”

“Yeah, really. I heard the thump.”

“That was my guy.”

“Your guy was the first thump. You were the second thump. What in the hell were you thinking chasing him?”

Archie stared up. Even in the gloom, Beau’s eyes were very blue. “I was thinking I didn’t want him to get away.”

“Y—” Beau spluttered. “Did you think about what would happen if you caught him?”

Archie grimaced.

Beau shook his head. “Well, I hate to disappoint you, but I lost him. He cut across someone’s back yard, and when I climbed the fence, the homeowner let their German shepherd out.” Beau grimaced. “I barely made it back over the fence in time.”

Archie gave a short laugh.

Beau also made a sound of amusement, though it was more of a snort than a laugh.

“Did you get a good look at him?” he asked.

Archie admitted, “Probably the same look you got. Tall, lean, dressed in black. Ski mask, gloves, watch cap. Definitely male. Definitely Caucasian. I caught a glimpse of his wrist when he threw a chair at me. Light, maybe blue, eyes. I never saw his hair color. Never saw any distinguishing…anything.”

“Yeah. More than I saw. But not much.” Beau reached his hand out to Archie. “Come on. I’ve got to get your statement and call this in.”

Archie gripped Beau’s hand, conscious of the warmth of Beau’s skin, the hard strength of his grip. He rose, wincing, and accepted Beau’s help regaining his feet.

“And here I always thought you were the smart one,” Beau remarked.

“Everything’s relative.”

With a briskness he did not feel, Archie led the way down the drive back to the kitchen entrance. He was limping a little, his muscles were already stiffening in protest, but the fact that he was not flat on his back was a huge improvement over the past week.

“I’ll tell you what,” Archie said over his shoulder as they walked up the backdoor steps. “It wasn’t Arlo. It wasn’t Azizi. It wasn’t Leo.”

“ Leo ?” Beau sounded surprised. “Leo Baker? What made you think of Leo?”

“Nothing. I’m just running through everyone—every male—in John’s case file. I think this was someone familiar with the layout of the house, with John’s study.” Archie pushed open the screen door and they walked into the kitchen.

Beau’s dark brows shot up as he studied the poker a few steps from the doorway, the overturned chair and trash-strewn table. What he said was, “John left Baker a vintage carved wood panel of ducks and that winter landscape painting that used to hang over the fireplace in his study. Not exactly a compelling motive for murder.”

“No. Agreed.” Archie handed over the plastic bag with the envelope addressed to John.

“I wonder what our mystery guy made of this.” Beau meant the pile of trash on the table, not the plastic baggie. He barely glanced at the envelope in the bag.

“He wasn’t looking for the envelope because the baggie holding it was lying here in plain sight.”

Beau grunted.

Archie unobtrusively braced himself with a hand on the table. “I think the most likely candidate for tonight’s intruder is Jon Monig.”

Beau did not look surprised. Or convinced. “Do you? Because I think there’s a high probability that this was an attempted burglary perpetrated by someone otherwise unconnected to the case. Everybody in this town knows there’s no one staying at this house right now. And that the place is full of a lot of expensive items that would be easy to liquidate.”

“Yes. That’s possible.”

“It’s probable. Hell, it could even have been a teenager wanting to get an inside peek at the murder house.”

Archie shrugged. “I don’t think it was a kid. The offender’s height and build is right for Monig. This was someone in decent shape, but not as fast or agile as an adolescent male.”

“I don’t know about that. He was making damn good time sprinting down streets and scaling fences.”

“A possible five years for second degree burglary is pretty motivating. Monig’s familiar enough with the house and garden.”

Beau frowned. “You’re saying you’d feel confident in making a positive ID?”

“No. Of course not. Although, if the offender is Monig, I bet he’s going to have one hell of a bruise on his back within a few hours.”

“Him and someone else I know. If I were you, I’d sit down.”

Archie ignored that. “What if it wasn’t attempted burglary, per se? If Monig really does believe that John was his father, maybe he came looking for some kind of proof or validation?”

Beau tipped his head, considering. He said unwillingly, “Like what?”

“A confession? An alternate birth certificate? A Dear Jon letter? I don’t know. But his insistence that John was his father wasn’t rational, so maybe his idea of evidence isn’t grounded in reality, either.”

“Maybe.”

“I’m sure Mila knows about the safe in John’s study, which means her son would likely know as well.”

Beau said, “Then he was in for a disappointment. We went through John’s safe. There was nothing in there relating to Mila or Jon Monig.”

Archie stilled as that registered.

“You went through John’s safe?”

For the first time, Beau seemed to have trouble meeting his eyes. He said curtly, “Yep. When Ms. Madison refused to cooperate, we got a search warrant.”

“You— When was this?”

Beau did not seem to like whatever he saw in Archie’s face. He said in that same brusque tone, “Don’t worry. We took copies of what we needed. Everything’s back exactly as John left it. Which we did not need to do, by the way.”

Archie did not answer. Couldn’t. He wasn’t sure why he felt so…shocked by this revelation. Not just shocked. Sucker-punched. He wouldn’t have objected to Beau’s search of John’s safe, especially when there was the possibility of a financial motive in John’s death—and Beau surely knew that. Yet he had deliberately withheld this information from Archie. There could be a couple of reasons for that, but the obvious one was that Archie was still under suspicion.

“Look,” Beau was still watching him. “It’s called gathering and analyzing evidence. You know how it works.”

Yep. Archie knew how it worked. He knew how professional courtesy worked, too. Or just ordinary consideration—for old time’s sake.

“You said you wanted to get my statement?”

Beau’s eyes narrowed at Archie’s tone. “It’s not personal.”

Archie’s brows rose. “Are you memorizing this or did you want to get your phone out?”

Beau studied him, gave a short, disbelieving laugh and pulled out a small notepad. “Sorry. We’re OG around here, Special Agent Crane. Bear with me.”

Archie ignored the sarcasm. He went unemotionally, briskly through everything that had happened from the moment he arrived at McCabe House to when he’d landed flat on his back on the parkway, seeing stars.

Beau sternly jotted down essential points, and then said, “Do you understand now why I thought maybe staying here wasn’t a great idea after all?”

“Not really. Considering that nobody noticed when someone gained access to my room at Fraser House in order to plant incriminating evidence.”

“That would be a lot harder to do now that you’re in the corner room and the inn is closed for renovations.”

“I’m not hiding out at Fraser House. I guess you can dig up some reason to keep me from staying here—”

“Suit yourself.” Beau cut him off. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Archie regarded him steadily. He said nothing.

Beau gave another of those aggravated not-really-a-laugh laughs, and slapped shut his notepad. “Okay. Thank you. I guess that’s it. If you think of—”

“Was there anything for me in the safe?” Archie was terse.

Beau’s expression grew guarded. “What do you mean? There was a copy of John’s will, the deed to this house, a copy of his insurance policy—of which you are the sole beneficiary—” That definitely sounded pointed and did nothing to calm Archie. “—bank account information, stocks, bonds, and investment certificates—”

“Was there a letter addressed to me?”

Beau’s brows drew together. “A letter?”

“An envelope addressed to me? Did John leave me a letter?”

“No. What kind of letter?”

Archie burst out, “A letter explaining why . Why he left all this for me. Why not Judith or Desi? Why me ?”

He hadn’t meant to say it at all, let alone blab it like that. He hated that he couldn’t seem to control his feelings now. Did it have something to do with getting hit on the head? Traumatic brain injury? PTSD? It was exhausting feeling so much all the time, constantly evaluating and reevaluating the past, trying belatedly to understand things he had made a point of forgetting. Trying to forget, anyway.

Beau’s face changed. “No.” He spread his hands as though demonstrating he was not withholding information, not keeping secrets. Or maybe he was just confused. His expression was definitely confused. “There was nothing like that. There were no letters.”

Archie said nothing, mostly because he couldn’t trust that if he opened his mouth, he was not going to be further embarrassed. But Beau misread his struggle for control.

“There was no letter. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“Wouldn’t you?”

The old Beau wouldn’t have lied to him. This asshole? This Beau who still thought he was maybe capable of murdering John? This Beau would lie to him without thinking twice. This Beau had only pretended he wanted his help, pretended they had the same goal.

Beau seemed to lose color. “Go to hell,” he said quietly.

He turned and walked out of the kitchen, slamming the screen door behind him. It bounced twice before settling into its frame.

Archie walked over to the door, latched the screen, closed the door, and locked it.