Atonement (9 page)

Eating something that was as far from chocolate-chip pancakes as she could get took the sting out of what Cassy had done and said this morning. Nic didn't want to know what her little sister had up her sleeve for tonight. Damn it, Nic wanted to be in her home, alone. It was her safe haven from her job and these people. She had to figure out a way to get Cassy out of there.

Nic parked the Jeep in the department lot. O'Hanlon was here. And so was Walker—his squad car was parked in his “rightful” spot in front of the building. Her attitude soured. Two more people she had no patience to deal with today. Would she ever cut a break?

She pulled off her sunglasses as she strode through the building's entry. Walker glanced at her, scowled, and then returned to whatever he was doing. The sheriff's door was shut, and the newbie, Jennings, was nowhere to be seen. Nic removed her hat and headed for her desk, depositing the sunglasses and cap next to her computer.

She was about to sit when the sheriff's door opened and both Hamilton and O'Hanlon exited. The expressions on their faces made her pause and straighten. Had O'Hanlon told her boss about what happened last night, or the night before? Her gaze flicked to Walker, and she noted the bruise on the side of his face. She pinched the bridge of her nose and resisted the urge to groan.

O'Hanlon made a beeline for her, bypassed her desk, and beckoned for her to follow with a crook of his finger. Frowning, she checked with Hamilton—he waved her forward—and then took off after the detective to the file room in the back of the department. For the first time, Nic saw the folder in his hand.

When they were both tucked inside the room, he closed the door and motioned for her to sit at the table, where he joined her. O'Hanlon opened the folder and spread the reports across the tabletop.

“What's going on?” she asked when he pulled out a file drawer.

“Your boss suspects the Walker and Moore cases might be connected.”

Floored, Nic pressed into the backrest. “What?”

He withdrew an audio file and set it on the table with the reports. “The sheriff recorded his conversations with Dusty Walker. We need to listen to them and go over Seth Moore's suicide note carefully.”

“Looking for what?”

“Why two men who apparently have nothing in common would state the same things right before they died.”

“Wait. What brought this on? I thought both situations were cut and dried. Walker killed his wife, and I had to stop him. Moore committed suicide.”

O'Hanlon placed the audio disk in the CD drive of the lone laptop in the entire department. “Not so cut and dried. Did you find out what that corner piece of a label was for?”

“Doc Drummond said Moore never took out a prescription with him or any doctor in recent years. According to Doc, Moore had a strict no-medication policy. He wouldn't even take the over-the-counter stuff after he got stitches. And the corner piece wasn't from the housekeeper—she's not taking meds for any reason.”

“Maybe it was left there by someone who helped Moore remodel the place.”

Nic shrugged. It was a possibility, but it didn't settle with her. Perhaps the sheriff's suspicions needed checking into. She pulled a report closer, saw that it was hers on the shooting, and shoved it back into the line. No sense rereading what she still had replaying in her mind.

As the CD began to whirl inside the laptop, Nic's muscles tensed. The sane, healthy side of her brain told her to get out of the room and protect her fragile mind from the onslaught of what led to her shooting Dusty Walker. Then the side demanding satisfaction countered with the argument that she deserved to hear what led the sheriff to give her the go-ahead to take the shot, if for nothing more than to find justification in her actions and help her sleep better at night. She settled deeper into the chair.

Nic had all the signs of an impending panic attack. Listening to Dusty's stark-raving-mad ramblings about atoning for the sins of his family and being sanctified before God pulled her back to the rhetoric she heard in Afghanistan and Iraq. She swore she could taste the dust and smell the stench of unwashed bodies. Hear the wails of the grieving after the Taliban claimed more lives.

The recordings faded, replaced by the rapid, often angry, patois of Pashtu. Dirt roads littered with any number of dangers. God, how she hated walking through those villages. The condemning glares she received from the men for being an improperly dressed woman, the looks of sheer terror that filled the faces of every woman and child she passed. Her partner and spotter, Aiden North, did his best to shield her from the few who had the courage to try to assault her. But the hatred still got to Nic.

Her heart began to race as her memories neared the sniper's nest she and Aiden had made overlooking the crumbling village. A cold sweat coated her skin.

“Nic?”

She jerked at the soft lilt. Where did that come from? She couldn't be distracted. Not during a mission. She had a job to do.

“Nic, look at me.”

She blinked rapidly, and the village distorted into a table and papers. Gradually, the dirt and grime of Afghanistan cleared from her senses.

“Nic, lass, look at me.”

Her gaze darted to the man next to her, and she jolted at his nearness. The chair clattered to the floor when she bolted for a corner. “What the hell are you doing, O'Hanlon?”

Rising to his full height, he crossed his arms and studied her with narrowed eyes. “I was trying to bring you back from wherever it was you went in there.” He punctuated his last words by tapping his head.

The erratic heartbeat and the shakes controlling her finally registered. She'd flashed. Damn it! Hugging her body, Nic leaned against the wall and took calming breaths. For months she'd kept it under control—only the nightmares plagued her—and she'd never flashed in front of someone. Someone who could ruin her.

O'Hanlon shook his head. “I'm recommending you be removed from these cases.” He turned to leave.

Nic quickly closed the gap between them, grabbing his arm and hauling him to stop. “Don't.”

“You can't handle this. Whatever you're going through is affecting your ability to do this job. Do you have post-traumatic stress?”

Panic flared through her at the mention of post-traumatic stress. She had to fix this. “No. It's fatigue. I haven't slept well, and with my sister—” She clamped her mouth shut.

A weighted silence filled the room, unnerving Nic further. She had to get out of here, but she willed her feet to stay rooted.

“Look, O'Hanlon, I'm not myself because there's just been a lot going on. Give me a few days to calm down and get some sleep, and I'll be good as new. If I'm not, then … ” She fidgeted with her fingers, clenched them in a fist, and sighed. “Then you can tell the sheriff.”

“Tell the sheriff what, exactly?”

“I don't know, you figure it out.”

Another weighted silence returned; this time it attempted to suffocate Nic. Maybe she should concede and let O'Hanlon remove her from the cases. It's not like he needed her help.

Before either of them could continue the conversation, the door banged open and Walker barged inside.

“There's another one. Sheriff wants you two now.” His words came out sounding like he'd growled. Walker gave her a parting flip of the bird as he left the room.

Nic's gaze flitted to O'Hanlon. Another one?

“A few days,” he muttered and headed for the door.

As she watched him leave, relief made her head swim. She'd fully expected him to refuse her offer. The man scared the hell out of her. He had some uncanny ability to look past her barriers and see the truth. She had no business working these cases when they were making her relive Aiden's death.

If she lost control … God help them all.

Nic found O'Hanlon huddled with Hamilton near the exit. She chanced a glance at Walker, who was perched on the corner of his desk glaring at them, and then hurried to join the two men by the doors.

Hamilton took a step back, and his piercing gaze landed on Nic. “I need to make a few calls, but I'll join the both of you as soon as I can. Don't touch a thing; I'm bringing DCI in for this.”

“Sheriff, I think we can handle evidence collection,” she protested.

“Deputy Rivers, something's going horribly wrong in my town,” Hamilton snapped, “and I'm not about to leave anything to chance. Am I clear?”

Swallowing her normal smart-ass retort, she nodded.

With a curt dismissal, Hamilton returned to his office.

Nic felt O'Hanlon's stare but refused to engage him. Instead, she pushed her way past him and out the doors. Working with that man was going to be one more mistake in her screwed-up life.

• • •

“How do you drown yourself in a bathtub?”

The sheriff had sent out newly minted Deputy Jennings for the learning experience and as an extra set of eyes to keep watch on Rivers. 'Course with each new question lobbed at him, Con was beginning to think Shane had a sudden lapse in judgment when it came to hiring the deputy, because he wasn't known for tolerating naivety. Then again, the kid had some weird pull on the people around him, like he charmed them. Rivers didn't seem to mind Jennings.

“It's not hard, boy,” Con said.

The young man's throat bobbed a few times before he turned his back on Giselle Tomberlin's naked body. “I'll just … you know.” Crimson-faced, Jennings hiked out of the bathroom.

With the corners of his mouth twitching, Con examined the scene around him. The only signs of forced entry were from the mother, who called in the death. All the indications of another suicide were here, and this ranked right up there next to Seth Moore's in the weirdness department. Rotating, Con sought out Rivers.

She stood in the bedroom with her back to him, looking down at a yellow legal pad. Her hand trembled at her side. Slowly, she curled her hand into a fist and beat it against the side of her thigh. His gaze shot to Rivers's face. Strained lines crisscrossed her features. She'd found the note.

“Whatcha got, Deputy?”

She jolted and quickly turned. Resting her hands on her hips, she rolled her shoulders and tilted her chin up a hair. “Suicide note.” The tremor in her voice betrayed the weakness she attempted to hide with her fortified body language.

Bloody hell, why did he agree to give her a few days to settle down? Had his need to be close to her taken an override on his common sense? Damn it, the last time they did a job together, he'd screwed it up by getting pushy. Now he was being lenient with her. Shane had put too much faith in Con's ability to work with this woman. There had to be a way to fix this before it fell apart.

Con beckoned her away from the nightstand where the legal pad lay and then exchanged places with her so he could read what the note said.

Giselle also mentioned that she'd committed adultery, and for that she must die.

This was the same crap Seth Moore and Dusty Walker had spewed. Three people in less than three days. Could someone be brainwashing them into killing themselves?

Looking over his shoulder at Giselle's naked, waterlogged body half-hanging out of the bathtub, Con shuddered. Not only had she drowned herself, she'd slit her writs, one arm exposing the deep line along the most tender part of her wrist.

“Con,” Rivers whispered.

He startled at her calling him Con. She'd been so rigid in following protocol while on the job. What had changed?

She hugged her body and jutted her chin at the doorway. When she left the bedroom, he followed. Halfway down the hall of the one-story home, she stopped and faced him. Her gaze darted to the ceiling and then to him.

“Rivers, if you need to take a breather, go outside.”

She shook her head; the loose tendrils of hair flared out then settled back against her cheek. “It's not that.” She squeezed her eyes shut and snapped them open. “I think these people are having help.”

Good, now he wasn't the only one who picked up on that, after what Shane had told him earlier.

She counted off on her fingers: “All three mentioned atoning. All three said they broke a commandment. And two said it was because of adultery.”

“That's not strong enough to prove someone helped. People commit adultery every day.”

The trembling in her hands she'd been trying to hide suddenly made her whole body quake. Con's hands shot out of their own accord to steady her. The feel of her slim arms through the fabric of her deputy's jacket dredged up the memory of those same arms draped seductively around his neck with her body pressed against him. Hot on the heels of those images came the desire to place a tender kiss on her forehead and tell her it would be okay. Swallowing hard, Con released her and put more distance between them. He was on the job; he had to stay focused on the scene in the room beyond, not on the broken woman before him he wanted to comfort.

“To hell with waiting on DCI. I want to examine her body closer,” Rivers snapped and tried to sidestep around him. “If she was convinced to kill herself, maybe her collaborator left some evidence behind.”

Con snagged her elbow and forced her to a stop. “I can't let you do that.”

Scowling, she freed her arm and put another foot of distance between them.

He closed the gap and leaned forward. “Disobeying the sheriff's orders is going to land you in more trouble. You asked me to give you a few more days; this isn't helping you any.”

Gradually her scowl faded. “You know I'm right.”

“I suspect the same thing you do, but we can't disturb that scene any more than it was. It's bad enough the victim's mother pulled her out of the tub and dropped her back in.”