Shatter the Night Page 10

  The couple was Maggie Armstrong and Milo Griffith, and from what I saw, they were a lot more than costars.

  Great.

  I got in my own car and turned the key. I was positive that my colleague Lucas Armstrong was not aware of the relationship; I’d have heard by now if his twenty-two-year-old daughter was dating someone at least ten years her senior.

  It’s none of your business, Gemma. Leave it alone.

  Yeah, right. Easier said than done, in my experience.

  Chapter Eight

  I woke on Wednesday morning to the sound of Grace crying in her crib. It had been a long night; she’d struggled to fall asleep, then had woken every couple of hours. By the fourth time I’d traipsed from my room to hers and back again, I was nearly delirious.

  At least in the morning, I could resuscitate myself with a couple cups of coffee. We spent a few minutes snuggling and reading together in the rocking chair in her room, turning the pages of a book about baby animals, over and over. It was cool in her room, and holding her warm body close to mine reminded me once again why I do what I do; why I spend precious time away from her.

  It’s because at the end of the day, I would do anything to keep her safe, including putting bad guys away and solving ugly crimes. I could only hope that as she got older, she understood my choices, the call I felt to serve the greater good and to keep my community safe. It was a constant push and pull that I struggled with, between the desire to be with her and the need to work my cases.

  Grace grew restless, so we headed downstairs and had breakfast with Brody; waffles and bacon for the adults, cereal and a banana for Grace. Brody cooked while I washed and changed the bandages on my hands. He’d been upset to hear how I’d sustained the injuries, but I also caught the tiniest bit of pride in his admonishments.

  As we ate, I watched with a full yet heavy heart as Grace fed herself, confident with the baby spoon, an expert already at her sippy cup. It was growing difficult to remember the early days, when she was an infant, as she’d changed so much, especially in the last few months. She was growing opinionated, stubborn, with a hilarious sense of humor and a wide smile that broke my heart with its innocence and joy.

  Since having my daughter, time seemed to speed up at incredible rates.

  Thinking about time, and the pace at which it was barreling past me, made me realize it had been nearly a week since I’d last visited my grandmother. Since Bull and I had moved Julia into her tiny new apartment at Carver Estates, we’d made a pact that one of us would see her every couple of days, if not more. In fact, Bull had lunch there three times a week. I decided I had time for a quick visit before work. If this case was like most, it could be another couple of weeks before I’d find time to see my grandmother.

  At the estates, a manager buzzed me in through the main entrance. I signed into the log book, then made my way up two flights of stairs and down a long, beige hallway to a room at the end. To my surprise, the door was ajar, and then to my delight, I saw Laura, my grandmother’s former caretaker, sitting beside her.

  “Gemma!” Laura squealed just as I exclaimed, “Laura!”

  We hugged, the petite Peruvian woman nearly a foot shorter than me. Laura and Julia had become good friends and I was thrilled to see them together.

  From the couch, Julia watched us with amusement. “I don’t see what the fuss is all about, it’s not like anybody brought margaritas.”

  “Do you want one, Julia? I’ll make it for you.” I was teasing but her eyes lit up like it was Christmas.

  “Oh boy! Really?”

  “Of course not. It’s eight o’clock in the morning. Anyway, that stuff will kill you,” I said, adding, “Though I’d be happy to take you out for a drink in the evening sometime.”

  Julia scowled and turned back to Laura, who’d taken a seat next to her. “Everyone sucks around here. They call this help? More like terrorism. I’m not going to tip her.”

  Laura took Julia’s hand in her own and patted it. “Gemma is your granddaughter, sweetheart. She’s a very important detective.”

  Julia gave me a cold once-over. “I don’t have any children, or grandchildren, for that matter. Never wanted them. Can’t stand the smell of kids.”

  So it was one of those days, then. I didn’t take it personally, not anymore. Mostly what I felt was regret, that Julia and my daughter, Grace, had so little time to get to know each other. My child would never know the woman who’d raised me, and my grandmother would never know her great-grandchild.

  If I was truthful with myself, the other emotion I felt heavily these days was anxiety, a sense of being on heightened alert, waiting for the phone call from Carver Estates or from Bull, the phone call that would close this chapter in Julia’s life, in all our lives, for good.

  Worry, regret, anxiety. How would it happen? Would she slip in the shower and fracture her skull? Pass peacefully in her sleep? Would there be fear and recognition finally at the end, or would her passing occur without much self-awareness, just one moment after another and then nothing?

  It wasn’t easy being sandwiched between declining grandparents in separate residences and a helpless baby at home.

  “Gemma? You look pale. Are you all right?” Laura stood, a concerned look in her eyes. “Sit down a spell, I’ll make you some hot tea.”

  “I’m fine. I can’t stay. Julia, I love you very much. I’ll be back in a few days.” I hurried from the room, embarrassed that my sudden spiral into such dark and personal thoughts had likely been written all over my face.

  As I reached my car, I got a text message from Finn. He asked me to meet him in the police station parking lot and to keep my engine running. I did as he requested and after a minute or two of waiting, Finn exited the station’s front doors, his hands full with a couple of maps and two coffee cups.

  I leaned across the console and opened the passenger side door of my car. Finn slid in.

  “The Cathedrals,” he said by way of greeting and handed me a to-go cup of coffee. Then he sat back and spread open a map in his lap.

  “What about them?” I asked. The Cathedrals were a stretch of the Rockies about fifty miles due north of Cedar Valley, consisting of four distinct peaks and a small town, Bishop. At one time, Bishop was home to one of the world’s largest molybdenum mines, though it had been closed since the seventies to allow for environmental cleanup. I’d first learned about the Bishop Mine in the police academy as a trainee, as it had been the site in the 1930s of a homicide that remained unsolved to this day. The nature of the crime—the ax murder and subsequent mutilation of a never-identified John Doe—was ripe with intrigue.

  “We’re taking a field trip today. That’s a cookies-and-cream latte, by the way. Cost me six bucks at the Crimson Café,” Finn said. He set his own coffee in one of the car’s two cup holders and shook out the map. “I just got off the phone with the general manager at the Bishop Mine. Did you know they’re reopening it? Some Japanese billionaire bought it. Anyway, get this: a week ago, someone ripped off a load of dynamite from the mine. We’d have never heard about it, except yours truly put out an APB to be on alert for stolen demolition materials. The sheriff in Cathedral County saw the bulletin and put two and two together. Gemma, there’s security footage from the mine. They’ve got the theft on tape.”

  I pulled onto the highway in the northbound lane and merged into traffic, excited. “Talk about a lucky break. That’s great news. We could have a suspect by the end of the day.”

  “That would be a miracle. In the Cathedrals.” Finn held the map up and peered at it. “Have you ever been to Bishop? There can’t be much in the town.”

  I shook my head. “Nope, I haven’t had the pleasure.”

  “Me neither.” Finn leaned back. “Let me know if you want me to drive.”

  I glanced at him; his eyes were closed. “You’re going to sleep?”

  “Yes … unless you have a different idea?” he asked. “You want to play I Spy?”

  “Er, no.”r />
  After a moment, he chuckled softly. “Bishop … My ex-wife was a bishop.”

  I nearly spit my coffee out. “Excuse me?”

  “Marianne Bishop.” Finn folded the map in his lap and stuck it in the door console. “That was her name.”

  “You were married? When? What happened?”

  Finn sipped from his coffee and glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. He smirked. “Aren’t we curious.”

  “Of course I’m curious. I’ve known you for years. How did I not know you were married? This is shocking. I can’t even imagine the woman who would agree to marry you. Are you still in touch with her?”

  “I get a Christmas card every year. Does that count?”

  I waited to see if he would add anything else. When he didn’t, I said, “Well, Finn, the suspense is killing me. Tell me about her.”

  He glanced at me again. “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything. What happened? Who is she? What does she do? Do you have kids that I’m not aware of?”

  Finn chuckled. “Not that I’m aware of, either, but it’s always a possibility, I suppose. I wasn’t exactly careful in my youth and I do wonder if I’ll get that knock on the door someday. Christ, I could have a twenty-year-old kid out there … Look, Marianne is a very nice woman. She’s an eye surgeon and works overseas with Doctors Without Borders. We were high school sweethearts who married young. Then, after college, we decided to go our separate ways.”

  “When did you last see her?”

  “At her father’s funeral. Ten or twelve years ago. I flew out for it and met Tad Chester, her current husband. He owns a chain of martial arts schools in Minnesota, a real Jean-Claude Van Damme type. He wears his hair in a bun and calls Marianne ‘Doctor.’ To her face, as in ‘Good morning, Doctor.’” Finn laughed again. “He called me ‘Bud’ the first time we met. He’d be a good guy if he wasn’t such a pretentious asshole.”

  I was fascinated by this glimpse into a life that Finn usually kept very private. “Was the breakup hard?”

  Finn was silent a moment. He scratched at his jaw, then stared out the window at the passing cars. “Devastating. Marianne was the love of my life.”

  I’d never seen Finn in such a state of vulnerability. It was strangely appealing on him, a stark contrast to his usual arrogance. Then he continued, “Yes, the split was a bitter pill to swallow, but I moved on. I slept with her best friend a week after the breakup. We did it on Marianne’s favorite Turkish rug. That helped heal my wounds quite a bit, actually. Come to think of it, I should look her up. She was a gymnast, if I remember correctly. I nearly threw my back out.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Do you think you’ll ever get married again?”

  “It will be a cold day in hell.” Finn coughed, shifted in his seat. “Enough about me. How about you? Are you going to go through with it?”

  “What, the wedding? Of course,” I said, glancing at him. “I wouldn’t have gotten engaged if I wasn’t planning on marrying Brody.”

  “Sure. Right.” Finn grinned. He tapped on my glove compartment box. “You should keep a pair of socks in there. Just in case.”

  “You think I won’t go through with it?”

  “Won’t … or shouldn’t.”

  “Ye of little faith,” I responded, getting angry. Finn was the last person who should be doling out advice on matters of the heart. “Just because it didn’t work for you doesn’t mean it won’t for us.”

  Finn lifted his hands. “Hey, I get it. I wish you two the best of luck. I hope it works out, I really do. You have a kid together, responsibilities.”

  We fell silent after that, me thinking about the reasons behind my delay in accepting Brody’s proposal, Finn thinking about who knew what. We reached Bishop in less than an hour. It was a tiny town, dusty and forgotten-looking. Though the narrow main street had a number of old houses and stores, they all had the same sad veneer of abandonment and disrepair. The only places open for business were the absolute necessities: a grocery store, a liquor mart, a couple of gas stations, and a church, its siding badly in need of a paint job. In an overgrown lot between the church and the liquor store, a scrawny dog took a break from licking its nether regions to watch us roll by.

  Aside from the dog, and a young blond boy standing motionless in the doorway of the grocery store, there were few signs of life. “Exciting place,” Finn muttered as he stared out the window. “What a dump. This town dried up years ago. Gives me the creeps.”

  “No kidding. Check out the houses.” I pointed at the twenty or so houses spaced far apart on the low hills all around us. Their windows looked down on the town, and us, as though they were watchful, sentient beings. “There’s no schools, no industry … Who sticks around a place like this?”

  “Folks that don’t have anywhere else to go.” Finn shrugged. “Don’t forget, the Bishop Mine is back up and running. The town will see a boom over the next few years, though it will be nothing compared to the mine’s heyday. Slow down, there’s the turnoff.”

  I took a right. After a mile or so, a small parking lot appeared, adjacent to a trailer that had a sign in the window that read FRONT OFFICE. As Finn and I exited the car, we stretched our legs, noting the county sheriff’s vehicle parked nearby. A dozen yards west of the trailer was a stop point, complete with a manned guard station and a lowered gate.

  An enormously tall man came out of the trailer. He had a black beard that grazed his belt and dusty boots with spurs the size of half-dollars. He spit a stream of brown tobacco juice on the ground, then raised a massive hand in greeting.

  “Detective Nowlin?” the man called out around the mouthful of chewing tobacco. “I’m Frank Poe, we spoke on the phone. I’m the general manager for the mine.”

  “Yes. This is my partner, Detective Gemma Monroe,” Finn replied. We walked over to Poe and shook hands all around.

  Poe gestured to the trailer behind him. “Let’s talk in here.”

  We followed him inside to a dark and cool room. There was a desk, a few tables and chairs, a number of filing cabinets, and maps—underground surveys and mining maps, some of them quite old. In the far corner, an older woman sat reading a newspaper. She wore the county sheriff’s department uniform and when she lowered the paper, I saw first her face, then her badge, and recognized her immediately.

  Sheriff Rose Underhill.

  She’d run for sheriff of Cathedral County the year before, going up against an incumbent who had a reputation for being as dirty as they come. She’d won in a landslide and I’d been curious ever since to meet her. The county was large, and word on the street was that Underhill ran a tight ship, that she was taking names and cleaning house. A petite woman, she wore her curly gray hair cut short, pinned back from her pale green eyes with a number of bobby pins. Her nails were trimmed and neat, her hands free of jewelry.

  The sheriff set aside her newspaper and stood. “Rose Underhill. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure. Though I’d recognize the two of you any day. Your department has had some fine collars the last few years. How’s my old friend Angel Chavez doing?”

  “The chief is busy,” I replied. “We’re running on all four cylinders to try to catch Judge Caleb Montgomery’s killer.”

  “It’s a horrible thing,” Underhill said with a frown. “I knew Monty, as we used to call him, many years ago. He and I go way back. Got any leads yet?”

  I shook my head. “Nothing solid. I’m hoping the video you all have might point us in the right direction. I’m sure you can imagine, this is hitting everyone hard, myself included. My grandfather Bull and Caleb were best friends.”

  “Bull?” The sheriff started, then narrowed her pale eyes and stared at me appraisingly. “Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle. That must make you Buford Weston’s granddaughter. Talk about a small world. Old Bull and I shared many a whiskey together under a full moon. He was a gentleman and a cowboy, like someone in an old Western where it’s obvious who the bad guys are and who the goo
d guys are. Those were the easy days, in many ways.” She smiled tightly. “Yes, Bull and Caleb and I all go way back. Someday, ask Bull about Red Dalton.”

  “Red Dalton?”

  She nodded. “He’ll know what I mean. Though make damn sure he’s in a good mood when you ask him.”

  Frank Poe cleared his throat. “Please, have a seat,” he said as he went to the other side of the desk and sat down. Underhill remained standing as Finn and I pulled chairs up to the desk.

  “Bishop’s a grim little town,” Finn said. “Are you expecting things to pick up now that the mine is running again?”

  “That’s unlikely.” Poe stroked his long black beard and leaned back in his chair. “Most of the mine employees are living in Eagle’s Run. They commute in; the Kenzi Corporation—the mine’s new owner—pays for buses to shuttle them back and forth. You’d stay in Eagle’s Run, too, if you were in their shoes; Kenzi built a row of fancy new condominiums and invested in a couple of amenities like a grocery store and a state-of-the-art gym. Plus, the county seat is in Eagle’s Run; the town hall and Sheriff’s Department share a building. Ironic, isn’t it? The head honchos could have sunk all that money into Bishop, where the goddamn mine is actually located.”

  “That must be frustrating,” I said. “You mentioned most of the mine employees are in Eagle’s Run, but not all of them?”

  The mine manager nodded. “Correct. There’s a handful of us who are partial to Bishop. My wife and I bought a house on the hill just above the church. And most of the security staff are hunkered down here, on site, in a couple of rentals. My wife, she’s in charge of local accounts for the mine. Kenzi lets her work out of the house. We got it for a steal. It’s a gorgeous property, turn of the century, with original—”

  “Frank, these folks aren’t interested in architecture. They’re here about the theft. Tell them what you told me this morning.” Underhill adjusted her badge, a six-point star, on her right breast. “Didn’t I tell you that reopening the mine would bring trouble? I sure as hell told the city council … and the voters. No one listened to me, though, did they? And now who’s going to pay?”