Chapter 27
After a fairly sleepless night, Walter Smudgeon listened as the rain hit his wooden roof with dull pings. He stood at his kitchen sink with a chipped coffee mug in one hand, watching steam curl off the surface. Dark roast. No cream. Not now that he was healthy.
He hadn’t slept well after the sniper had dared shoot into their office the night before. This guy didn’t care who he killed.
Behind Walter, the bedroom was quiet. He didn’t need to turn to know Ena was still sprawled across his bed, long legs tangled in the sheet, one arm draped over the pillow.
Her dark hair fanned across the white cotton like spilled ink.
Who would’ve thought he’d fall for a younger Fish and Wildlife Officer who somehow liked him back?
It was way too early to get serious since they hadn’t been dating long. But he was serious.
She always looked peaceful in the morning. Peaceful and, honestly, a little dangerous.
He’d seen her take down a guy twice her size with a collapsible trout net once. Flipped him like she was landing a steelhead.
Walter took another sip, then checked the time. Almost eight in the morning. He needed to be at work by nine to head out and execute a warrant with Laurel and keep her from getting shot. Somehow.
He’d lived out about twenty minutes from Genesis Valley for six months now.
One of his favorite things? The damn mail.
Every morning, like clockwork, his rural route carrier came rumbling up the gravel road and dropped that day’s envelope-shaped pile of junk, bills, or bad news into the black metal box nailed to the post at the end of his drive.
By eight in the morning, he had mail. Rain or shine.
He grabbed his coat, shrugged it on, and spared one last glance at the bedroom. Ena shifted in her sleep, the blanket sliding off one shoulder, baring smooth skin and the thin strap of her cami. He paused.
Damn, she was beautiful. Way prettier, kinder, and smarter than he deserved.
She was part Japanese, and he was trying to learn the language.
Just so he could someday propose to her in it.
When was a good time? Was it too early? His best friend, besides Ena, was Laurel Snow, and she didn’t understand relationships any better than he did. But it had to be way too early.
He thought, for the third time that week, about looking for an engagement ring, just in case. Ena didn’t exactly scream “diamond solitaire,” but he wasn’t going to propose with a fishing lure. Even if she might appreciate that kind of practicality.
Let her sleep. It was her day off, and he had a quiet moment before everything inevitably turned to—
He opened the front door and froze. A man stood at his mailbox. The figure hunched low, hoodie up, one hand inside the black box, his box, like it didn’t belong to a federal agent with a .40-caliber Glock and a mean hook.
“Hey!” Walter barked.
The guy spun and bolted.
Walter leaped down the porch steps in two strides, boots pounding wet earth, mud splashing up his jeans. The rain picked up. The guy slipped, scrambled, and ran like hell toward the tree line.
Walter gave chase.
His legs were longer. His boots were better. He’d chased men through strip clubs, cornfields, and once through a Mardi Gras parade in full riot gear. This? This was just cardio, and he was finally in the best shape of his life.
Until his mailbox exploded.
A sharp crack behind him split the air like a hammer to concrete. Walter ducked instinctively, pivoting in the mud as shrapnel hissed by like angry bees. His ears rang. Bits of charred paper drifted like snow.
He kept running.
The guy slipped at the creek line, fell hard, scrambled again.
Walter tackled him from behind, both of them slamming into wet ground.
Fists flew. Elbows. The guy had a knife—cheap, dull—but Walter yanked it away and flung it into the mud.
Took a hit to the cheek, gave two to the ribs. Flippped the guy onto his gut.
“You idiot,” Walter snarled, planting a knee on the guy’s back. “You blew up a federal officer’s mailbox. That’s a felony in every zip code.”
The guy thrashed. Young, maybe twenty. Skinny but wiry. Brown buzzed hair, jittery eyes, twitchy hands. Probably juiced up on something besides caffeine.
“Walt!” Ena’s voice came from the porch—sharp, alert.
He looked up in time to see her sprint barefoot across the gravel in a camisole and sleep shorts, rain plastering her black hair to her shoulders. One of his handcuffs flew through the air. He caught it, still pinning the guy.
God, she looked good. Soaked, pissed, and hotter than hell. No makeup. Just raw beauty and a sharp mind that could cut through all the crap the world flung at a guy like a buzz saw.
He snapped the cuff onto one wrist, then the other, yanking the guy upright. “You picked the wrong address today, jackass.”
Paper fluttered in the air. Something charred and curled landed at Walter’s feet, partially soggy but still legible. He bent and picked it up. A scrap of what used to be an envelope. Inside, a half-burned note, blackened around the edges but clear enough in the center to make his gut tighten.
They’ll kill everyone, I’m afraid.
—Tyler
Walter’s fingers clenched around it. “Damn it, Tyler,” he muttered.
Ena stepped closer, her focus on the note. “What is that?”
He held it up. “A dead man’s warning.”
The rest of the mail was toast. Ashes smeared across the driveway and into the grass.
Bits of carbon curled in puddles. He could make out part of a bank logo on one scrap and something that might’ve once been a jury duty summons.
The only thing intact was Tyler’s note—and only because it had been sealed inside a plastic baggie.
Walter yanked the hoodie off his suspect’s head. “Name.”
“Screw you.”
Walter grabbed a handful of wet sweatshirt and dragged him toward the FBI replacement vehicle he’d requisitioned—an older green SUV parked at the curb. “I can work with that.”
The guy kicked, slipped, cursed all the way to the back of the rig. Walter flung open the hatch, shoved him inside, and slammed it shut. It wasn’t regulation, but it was effective.
Rain poured down. Walter wiped a hand across his face, mud streaking his jaw. His left knuckle throbbed. Probably bruised. Maybe cracked.
Ena stepped up beside him, arms crossed over her chest, a dark strand of wet hair stuck to her cheek. “You okay?”
He looked at her. Really looked. Wet camisole. Flushed cheeks. Barefoot in the gravel. The woman had just sprinted outside and helped him subdue a suspect without flinching. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m good.”
She raised an eyebrow, sharp and amused. “You look like you wrestled a pig.”
He glanced down at himself covered in mud, bleeding from one knuckle, soaked through. “Better-looking than a pig.”
“That’s debatable.” She smirked.
He glanced back at the ruined mailbox, now a smoking crater with a bent post and scorched weeds. “That was a good mailbox.”
“I’ll get you another one.”
He looked at her again. “Kekkon shite kurenai?” The words just burst out of him. Not planned. Probably not the right time.
She blinked. Standing in the rain, soaking wet, her body solid and strong. Her dark eyes studied him, searching for something he wasn’t sure he had. Finally, she spoke. “Hai, yorokonde.”
His mind shut down. What did that mean? He learned only so many of the words. Probably. “Um, that means yes?”
Her smile lightened the entire day. “Yes, Walter. That means yes.”
After a morning of having Huck Rivers cover her body from the truck to her own conference room, Laurel was ready to seek out the sniper herself.
Sighing, she looked away from her backup laptop at the out-of-place tabletop.
In the overhead lights, with all blinds in the office closed, it gleamed an incongruent teal color.
The conference room had no windows and only one point of entry.
It allowed for uninterrupted focus and eliminated unnecessary risk.
She had no reason to believe the sniper would strike again soon, but she also had no reason to ignore the possibility.
She’d just ended a phone call with Agent Norrs.
He had asked about three of her prior cases: a corporate fraud investigation out of Boise, a cold case abduction in Reno, and an identity theft operation that had crossed into medical records territory in Portland.
None were connected, and none had led to active threats.
The man sounded as if he hadn’t slept in days.
Laurel had already reexamined those cases when the sniper had first appeared on her radar. She had found no common thread. Either Norrs was grasping at patterns that did not exist, or he had access to information he was not prepared to share.
She made a note in her encrypted case file, flagged the call, and opened the subfolder on Melissa Palmtree. Taking a sip of her latte from Staggers, she dialed Dr. Ortega.
“Ortega,” he answered.
She assumed he’d be in the office early. “Good morning. It’s Agent Snow. I’m sorry to bother you, but—”
“I finished the autopsy on Melissa Palmtree, and I found suspicious lesions in her brain matter. I’ve sent samples to the lab in Seattle.” He sneezed. “Excuse me. Allergies. I’m emailing you my findings right now.”
Her inbox dinged. “Thank you.” It was nice to find such a professional and one she trusted.
“You bet. I have to run. I’ll call when I hear from the lab.” He clicked off.
So, no surprises from Melissa’s death. A single slip on the stairs in a crowded bar was plausible, and there had been no reason to question the cause of death initially.
Yet those lesions had been found on her brain as well.
She’d used the detective as a go-between with Mark Bitterson.
Why? If she’d given him money, what had he given her?
Did this have anything to do with the yew stand he’d been found dead in, or was that just a bizarre coincidence?
Laurel didn’t believe in coincidences.