The Hitman's Mistake (Love Thrives in Emma Springs Book 1) Page 7

  Grant tapped a square icon on his tiny screen and his gut tightened. The woman he’d nearly stomped on photographed well, except for her lifeless green eyes.

  ‘Miranda Whitley’ was printed on her badge. To think he’d admired her soft hair and long legs. “Well, hell,” he muttered.

  Sam cleared his throat. “Cares for plants, doesn’t she?”

  Heat rose from under his collar. “Correct. I literally bumped into her working in the lobby around eighteen hundred hours Friday night.”

  “You spoke to her? A couple more minutes and you’d have been in the action.”

  Muscles tensed in his neck. “Yes, the Whitley woman and I spoke. What happened to the night watchmen? There’s always one stationed out front.”

  “Called to false break-ins on several floors. Ice cubes propped open the security doors until they melted and set off alarms. They’d all left their posts on the first floor. Security cameras were painted over. We need you here. Now.”

  Judas Priest. He hadn’t noticed their absence. He’d been looking at her. “I’m locked into staying in Montana until an old mountain hermit gets his yearly supplies. Delivery’s tomorrow.”

  “Hire someone. We’ll cover expenses. Maybe you can extract information on Ms. Whitley out of the judge’s wife.”

  “I can’t fly out until after the supply drop. I made a commitment, and the guy doesn’t trust most people. These are the only supplies he gets to survive a Montana winter.”

  “Solving a high-profile case would fast-track your promotion.”

  “My dad’s laid up, Sam, and the guy will shoot if he sees a stranger. It’s a day and a half horseback ride on a forested mountain, not UPS territory.” He straightened. “I’ll check for a milk route flight to get back Monday night.”

  “I understand the power of family commitments.”

  “Exactly why I avoid them. I’ll find the earliest flight.”

  “Okay, opinion time. The Whitley woman entered the espresso shop after the ambulance left. Employees said she acted atypical before she dashed out and left in a Firebird. She doesn’t fit a killer profile, but the way she took off doesn’t match a witness, either. How’d your interaction with her play out?”

  He closed his eyes. “She was sitting on the lobby floor trimming plants when I exited the stairwell. I’m texting my ride and smashed her coffee cup. At first, she approved of me replacing her drink and acted friendly by asking a lot of questions.”

  “Such as?”

  “Wanted to know where I was going. She became more intolerant of my attitude than nervous.”

  “Clarify.”

  “I wanted to grab her a replacement in the Coffee Klatch, not sit and chat in some espresso shop. She believed I’d judged her on her clothes. Before I left, she warned me to cherish family time.”

  “Interesting. Keep watch for her at airports on that milk run to get back here. We found Mexico travel brochures in her locker. We’re going over the passenger manifests to see if she left the country. No car’s registered to her.”

  “Maybe Maneski pegged her being familiar with the building and threatened to kill her family.”

  “Still searching for any relatives. After the ambulance left, she ordered a coffee from the shop next door, and paid for it using a fifty. She’s a noontime regular who never flashes big bills. Rushed out without her order.”

  “Not wise if you’ve iced a judge one building over. I’ve previously seen her at lunchtime.”

  “There’s more. Shortly following her departure from the shop, a guy fitting Karpenito’s description came in and paid for his drink using a fifty. Only two fifties in the till and the serial numbers are three off of consecutive.”

  A sour tang rose in Grant’s throat. “What else did they do in the coffee shop?”

  “Ms. Whitley spent a lot of time in the bathroom and used a café owned laptop. They’re pulling prints. Friday’s website history was deleted. Karpenito sat at the same computer. The barista said he whistled when he left. That’s all she recalled.”

  And he’d recalled Miranda Whitley’s full mouth, her blush, her perfect butt. He hadn’t dated in months, and then a pretty thug with killer lips had misled him. “She could’ve left the cop a message. Twice she suggested we move to the espresso shop to replace her drink. I didn’t have time.”

  “Her role might’ve been to clear the building before the hit.”

  He closed his eyes. “I didn’t notice anxiety while we spoke.”

  Papers rustled on the other end of the line. “She called 911 and kept pressure on the judge’s wound until the ambulance arrived. She ran out crying and begged the medics to come inside before SPD arrived. Said she couldn’t lose Ike.”

  “First name basis with the judge. There’s got to be a link.”

  “She doesn’t appear in stake-out photos of Maneski.”

  Women’s appearances or opinions changed with the ease of chameleons. He’d seen it, and Poppy had lost a female’s key testimony on an important case. “Being the lookout and seeing the mark bleed out are two different scenarios. Her ID photo doesn’t show it, but I noticed she’d had a broken nose.”

  “I’ll add that to the notes. Karpenito said his ID got stolen on Thursday.”

  Grant rubbed his chin. “Karpenito’s role is off. Hey, I couldn’t rouse the Coffee Klatch owner. He routinely does books on Friday nights.”

  “At a ball game. He found two box seats in the tip jar. Here’s another twist—someone torched the alley dumpster, still smoldering when SPD arrived. Contents are at the lab.”

  “Very professional job. After you get updated, try calling, then text me. There’s a couple of spots in cell range on the mountain.”

  Grant pocketed his phone. He sat back and rubbed his neck while scanning the countryside.

  Mom and Dad’s house hadn’t changed, and Mt. Hanlen hadn’t changed, but things inside him had. He’d been attracted to a woman who’d caused him to miss critical elements in the moments before a crime. So much for his sixth sense predicting danger.

  Each step felt leaden as he entered the kitchen where his mom stood, her pancake turner raised for action. Strong coffee scented the air. “Good morning, Grant. Sleep well?”

  “Not really. All hell broke loose at work.”

  “Oh, dear.” Her mouth tightened. “I can do the trip to Stan if you need to leave.” She slid a plate of pancakes onto the table next to a jug of maple syrup. “Still prefer orange juice?”

  “Yes on juice, negative on your riding to Stan. I’ll make the delivery and head home.”

  “You’ve always liked to help people in need, and Stan needs you.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Dad’s been worried sick about not going.”

  He pulled off a hotcake and doused it with syrup. “I can handle it.” Each bite took an effort to swallow. He put his fork down. “Thanks for breakfast Mom, hits the spot.”

  “Kind of a small spot. You’ve hardly touched my flapjacks. They’re chock full of wheat germ and protein powder. I hope you’re not sick.”

  “I feel great. I stopped being the underweight teen like fifty pounds ago.”

  Grant’s dad shuffled to the table. “We noticed. Your biceps are bigger than our Christmas ham.”

  “Tom, I can ride for six or seven hours,” she said.

  “No, Mom. Busted ribs aren’t fun.” Grant pushed out of his chair. “I could do this trip in my sleep. Can I borrow your Stetson, Dad?”

  “You bet. If Poppy offers to go, turn him down. He needed two nitro pills after my fall. Your mother got him an appointment at the cardiologist on Wednesday.”

  “Is it serious heart trouble?”

  “We hope not.” His mom handed him the hat.

  “There’s still cell phone recept
ion by the jagged rock.” Dad caught his eye. “Call and I’ll send a rider pronto.”

  A good cop never lost his shit-was-happening sensors. Too bad his own had been compromised by a lanky redhead. “You two are compulsive worry warts.” Grant plucked his coat from the stand. “I’ll give your regards to Stan.”

  Mom hugged him as if he was going off to war. “Oh, a young lady called for you earlier.”

  No woman knew his weekend plans, or any others. He stopped. “Did she leave a name or number?”

  “Nope. She knew you from college and promised to call right back.” His mother collected their plates and took them to the sink.

  The phone hadn’t rung. “Maybe she recognized me at the airport. Give her my cell number next time. I’d better head out, kinda getting a late start.”

  “Don’t rush. Stan’s not going anywhere,” his dad joked.

  He put on the coat, running through what he’d told the Whitley woman. Damn. He’d mentioned Emma Springs. “Dad, do you still keep your sidearm handy?”

  “Sure do. Need it?”

  “I brought my Glock.”

  “Next year, it’ll be the two of us.” His dad held out a packet, taped across each end. “Here’s the envelope for Stan.”

  Agitation crept into Grant’s gut. “Sealed and secret. Always wondered what they trade.”

  “Not our business. Stan will give you a crate for Roy Werner. Needs to be handled carefully, you know the drill.”

  “Right.” He leaned over his dad’s chair. “Load your gun,” he whispered.

  Dad nodded. “Figured as much. Safe trip, son.”

  “See you.” Grant strode out the door. His muscles felt stake-out tense.

  Two mules were tied to the pasture fence.

  Poppy looked up from loading them. “Didn’t know who you’d ride or I’d have gotten a horse saddled.”

  “I’ll ride Brasso after I lunge him first to remind him of his manners.”

  “Good idea. Tom doesn’t lunge much anymore.”

  He studied the grazing horses. “Hadn’t noticed that Brasso’s a hand taller than the other geldings. Dad must’ve hedged his bet that his shrimp of a kid would acquire the famed Morley height someday.”

  “He wanted a good horse for his son when he bought him,” Poppy shot back.

  “I know.” Grant grinned and put a halter on Brasso. The horse danced while they entered the corral.

  He let out the twenty-five-foot rope he’d attached to the gelding. He pointed for Brasso to circle to the left—first at a walk, then a trot, and finally a canter. After he’d made several smooth rounds, Grant reversed the direction and repeated the drill.

  His focus wasn’t on Brasso. The encounter with the woman kept surfacing. He couldn’t forget her initial reaction of scrunching to hide next to the potted plant. Was she in danger? He clenched the cotton rope. Or involved?

  After he praised Brasso, he led him out of the corral.

  Poppy leaned against a rail. “Fall weather’s unpredictable. You need to skedaddle.” He pointed to a reining saddle on the fence. “Old and comfortable.”

  “Good.” Grant tacked up Brasso while Poppy buckled panniers onto the mules’ packsaddles. A crate of apples sat atop one, cushioned by pouches of dried apple slices.

  “My joints ache a snow warning.” Poppy rubbed his back.

  “Thanks for helping gather Stan’s supplies.” Grant tightened Brasso’s cinch, and slid a rifle into the saddle scabbard.

  “I’ll never forget how Stan saved your dad. Hunting this trip?”

  “I share your opinion that shooting wild animals isn’t sporting.”

  “Glad you do. I can ride alongside you, and Buttercup needs exercise.” Poppy nodded to his swaybacked buckskin mare.

  “Not this trip.” Very few strands of hair remained on his grandpa’s head. “Mom may need your help with Dad.”

  “Good point.” Poppy adjusted one of the mule’s halters. “I’ll be expecting a full account Monday night at supper.”

  “I may need a rain check.” He grabbed Brasso’s mane and mounted. “There’s an assault case in Seattle I’m needed on.”

  “Sure. Ride easy.” Poppy handed him a woven lead line, then placed his weathered hand on the stirrup. “I’m mighty proud you followed my example by joining the bureau. Just don’t let the quest for the title of SAC eat you from the inside out.”

  Grant settled into his old saddle. “I thought you loved your work from the stories you told.”

  Poppy stepped back. “It satisfied me until I realized my gift for helping people wasn’t utilized. You have the same gift. I remember you defending the underdogs at five or six years old. A shame they started picking on you because your Pa was a cop.”

  “It toughened me up, made me want to clear the streets of bullies.”

  “Still wasn’t right. Tom meant well, being hard on you. It killed him to see you coming home beat-up. Keep in mind, the people you love mean more than a rank.”

  He flinched. “In order to focus on my career, I needed to disengage from our family. I always thought you believed in me.”

  “You’ll never know how much.” Poppy’s eyes became misty, and he pulled one of his neatly folded, faded bandanas from his chest pocket. “Bet you don’t carry a handkerchief.” He handed it to Grant. “Every cowboy worth his salt carries one. Smooth riding, boy.”

  Fabric softened by time warmed in Grant’s grip. “I’m lucky to have you in my life, Poppy.” He tucked the bandana in his vest. “Go put your feet up. I’ll be back in record time.”

  Grant clicked his tongue, and Brasso began the trek up Mt. Hanlen by crossing their meadow. Solid horse muscles under his thighs relaxed him. At the edge of the grassy land, a barren patch led straight to the tree line.

  He reined Brasso onto the packed earth. Two steps in, he spotted a prairie dog hole. Other mounds rose in the distance, with no clear route through them. “Whoa, back to the path.” Rule number one: never put horses in danger.

  In a similar way, Judge Gilson held to a strict rule in his court—evidence. Underneath his placid demeanor, he’d been fearless enough to add years to Maneski’s sentence. One of the toughest judges on crime, he now lay in a hospital bed, fighting for life.

  Grant clenched the reins. He’d get the evidence to convict whoever shot the judge.

  If the Whitley woman had socialized with the Gilsons to gain their confidence, he’d be certain she got her replacement coffee in jail.

  The sun strained to get through a cloudy sky.

  Brasso lowered his head and snorted. His rear hooves slid on a steep part of the trail, sending a rock bouncing downhill.

  One of the pack mules brayed.

  “Easy, now.” He turned to the jennies, then froze. What the hell?

  A dark form moved in the woods below.

  Or was it shadows from a branch?

  All of his senses energized, including the sixth one that alerted him to shitstorms.

  Chapter 5

  No more rifles. She needed the infamous Sunday morning trail ride to begin. Miranda stepped off the lodge’s front porch.

  An unmistakable equine scent drifted to her on the breeze, pushing away horrors of snake tattoos and shotguns. She inhaled an aroma pleasant to true pony girls—the ones who never grew out of loving horses. A beloved memory of her dad showing her how to flatten her palm to feed a horse filled her with comfort.

  Her gaze drifted to the path winding up the steep mountain. “Please ride a slow horse, Agent Morley,” she whispered.

  Next to the barn, saddled mounts tested the ropes, tying them to split-rail posts.

  Each step deepened the soothing smells of horses and well-oiled leather.

  At the far end of the mares and
geldings stood a garnet-colored mule with a light golden mane and tail.

  Miranda fingered her bolo tie. A mesmerizing sensation permeated the hollows in her soul.

  The mule turned his head and stared at her.

  Her intense longing for peace stretched out like filament strands to the towering animal.

  She nodded, he blinked, and their deal was set.

  This trip didn’t require a spirited horse, but an armchair on four legs who knew each rock and bush well enough to allow her to concentrate on finding Grant.

  Trey ambled over and reached to untie a strawberry roan. “Miss Whitley, I’ve put you on Brandywine. I read everyone’s riding history, and it appears you’re our most experienced guest. Do you and your boyfriend ride often?”

  Every muscle tensed. “No boyfriend. What gave you such an idea?”

  He patted the mare’s rump. “Kathleen mentioned a phone call. Um, I must be mistaken, sorry.” His grin flashed before he turned toward the saddle. “So, let’s get the stirrups adjusted.”

  She stuck her shaking hands in her pockets. “Haven’t ridden a mule yet. May I try your fine specimen on the end?”

  “The mule?”

  Appearing jovial took every shard of remaining courage. “If it’s not too much trouble?”

  “Customer’s always right.” He shrugged his shoulders and unhitched the mule.

  Up close, the red giant stood close to sixteen hands. Ears at attention, he bowed his head in front of her.

  “Big Red’s lazy, I only saddled him for a spare.” Trey tipped his hat back. “He’s a strange animal, doesn’t care how far he lags behind.”

  “I’m not herd bound, either.”

  “You’ll need to prod him to keep up.” He checked out her boots. “Want spurs?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve succeeded using calm words of encouragement without belly pokes.”

  “I’m glad you declined. We believe in kindness,” he said.