Return of the Lawman. Lisa Childs
suicide. He’d wanted to know if the lawyer had really believed Steve had killed Jimmy. Why hadn’t the old man given him whatever Steve Mars had left for him then? Why keep it ten years?
Dylan slipped his phone into his pocket with the letter and picked up his keys. Would he finally get some answers tonight or only more questions?
WHILE HER FATHER WORKED on his editorial, Lindsey loomed over his shoulder, reading as he wrote. “You’re brilliant, Dad. The things you notice…well, let’s just say you’re a much better reporter than many I’ve known.”
Her father squeezed the hand she’d braced on his shoulder. “Brat.”
Behind her on the scarred credenza, her father’s police scanner sputtered out a call. Despite the static and the poor reception of the ancient model, she recognized the voice. Dylan Matthews. Deputy Dylan Matthews calling for the coroner.
“Chet?” her father gasped when the address sputtered out of the box.
“Chet Oliver. The lawyer? If he died of natural causes, why wouldn’t they have called his family doctor?” Lindsey narrowed her eyes. Then she grabbed her backpack-style leather bag and slung it over her shoulder.
“Lindsey.” Her father reached for her arm. “You’re not going—”
“Do you want the story, Dad?”
Her father leaned back in his chair and stared at her over the rims of his reading glasses. “I want the story. Are you working for me?”
She’d come home to see her father. She hadn’t thought beyond that. “I guess I am.”
“Then remember I’m the boss. Go easy on Dylan, okay, brat?” He softened the warning with a smile.
“You want the story, Dad. To get it, I have to go to the story.” And the man. Not that she wanted the man. She hadn’t wanted him in a long time. She was over her ado les cent crush.
In Chicago she’d learned it was better when wishes didn’t come true. Idols were safer admired from afar. Up close they were human and flawed. When she saw Dylan Matthews again, she believed she’d see just the man, not a heart-stopping hero.
Chapter Two
DYLAN SNAPPED on his plastic gloves and touched the desk where Chet Oliver was slumped. A bullet in his temple. Dylan had already called the coroner, taken crime-scene photos and dusted for prints.
This was his inspection. The one that gave him a “feel” for what had happened that night. He hoped the crime scene would speak to him, not that he had much experience with murder investigations.
“It doesn’t make any sense,” Sheriff Buck muttered from the chair Dylan had pressed him into earlier. The tiny Queen Anne dubiously sup ported the sheriff’s weight.
Oliver’s Victorian farm house show cased several antiques. Dylan admired the gleaming mahogany surface of the desk as his fingertips skimmed over it.
He raised a white residue to eye level. Then he glanced up. Plaster from the ornate ceiling above Chet’s desk. He spied a bullet hole near some cove molding.
“Did you find it?” Sheriff Buck asked, his breathing ragged.
Dylan glanced at him and wondered if he should call the rookie deputy to look after the sheriff instead of having him wait outside for the coroner.
But the kid had turned green when he’d seen the victim, and Dylan had wanted him to get some air. Perhaps the sheriff needed some, too.
“What? A suicide note?” Dylan gestured at the retired lawyer’s slumped body. “This was no suicide.”
The sheriff sighed. “It wouldn’t make sense for him to kill himself. He just retired. We went fishing a couple weeks ago. He was looking forward to retirement, to his fight with the developers….”
“Fight?”
“Over the proposed mall project. Chet is—was a trustee.”
“You told me about the developer this afternoon.” Dylan retraced his steps across the room. He dropped his hand on the sheriff’s shoulder. “Oliver didn’t do this.”
“I saw the gun in his hand.”
Dylan shook his head. “It was put there. A round was squeezed off. Red marks indicate there will be bruising on his hand. This is murder.”
“It doesn’t make sense….”
“How did you happen to find him, Sheriff? It’s getting late for a visit.”
The sheriff’s shoulder trembled beneath Dylan’s hand. “You didn’t find it?”
“What? I already said there was no note—”
“Not from Oliver. It would have been from Steve Mars.”
Dylan fought a shudder. A ghost hadn’t killed Chet Oliver. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about whatever Chet had for you. He came into the diner after you left today. He said he had something for you, something Steve Mars had wanted you to have.”
Dylan nodded. “He sent a letter to me in Detroit. Told me the same thing.”
“A letter’s one thing. But the fool was talking about it in the middle of Marge’s Diner. William Warner was there, getting something to go. It’ll probably be all over tomorrow’s paper. And for what? It’s old news.” The sheriff’s face reddened, and his breathing grew more labored.
From an antique bureau, Dylan grabbed the glass of water he’d given him earlier and pressed it back into his hand. “Take a sip. Don’t worry. It’s all right.”
“No, it’s not. I came here to tell him to keep whatever it was. You didn’t need to go through any of that pain again. You just came home. I didn’t want him driving you away.” The sheriff laid his hand over Dylan’s.
Dylan glanced over his shoulder at the lifeless body of Chet Oliver. “He won’t be doing that now. I looked through his desk and his filing cabinet. There wasn’t anything addressed to me.”
“That’s just as well.” The sheriff took a swallow of water.
Dylan shook his head. “But I wanted to know what Steve Mars had left for me. I need some answers. It’s been ten years.”
“Answers to what?” With a shaky hand, Sheriff Buck set his glass back on the bureau, sloshing water onto the gleaming wood. “Some times things just happen. There’s no reason, no explanation. You just have to move on.”
Dylan nodded as if he under stood. But he didn’t. He’d been gone ten years, but he’d never moved on. And for his part, neither had Sheriff Buck Adams.
After Dylan’s mother had dumped him for Dylan’s father, the sheriff had never married. He’d stayed in love with a married woman and then with a dead woman. No, the sheriff didn’t know any more about moving on than Dylan did.
The young officer scram bled inside. His face flushed and eyes wide, he whispered, “She’s out there.”
Dylan narrowed his eyes. “Who?”
“A big-city reporter. She wants to talk to the officer in charge. She has questions, lots of them.”
Lindsey Warner. “I didn’t realize she was working for her father. I thought she was home—what had Marge said?”
The sheriff offered no information. The older man rested his head in his trembling hands.
“Yeah,” Dylan continued as if he’d been given an answer, “with a broken heart. Subdued.”
“Subdued!” The kid’s voice cracked.
“She’s not subdued?”
“Hell,