Borrowing Trouble (29 page)

“Let's take this one step at a time. I'm going to try to rush these tests to make a positive ID and then I'll be in touch. In the meantime, if you have any questions at all, you call me.” She gave Mrs. Fagan her cell phone number. Her heart went out to the woman. Even if this wasn't Kevin, it had to be unbearable to not hear from your son in four years.

When Sloane got off the phone, she found Rhys, Jake, and Connie hovering around her desk. No doubt Wyatt would've been there too, if he wasn't riding patrol.

“You get something?” Rhys asked.

Sloane let out a long sigh. “I think so.” She told them what she'd learned, starting with Kevin's disappearance four years ago.

Rhys let out a whistle when he saw the photograph. “Pretty damn close. The cheeks are a little sharper and the nose slightly wider on our dummy, but good enough for government work.”

“You think he died four years ago and we just found him now?” she asked.

“Not likely,” Jake said. “The forensic anthropologist could tell from the lack of soft tissue left on the skeleton and cracks on the bones from weather. There is certainly room for error. But four years? I don't think so.”

“He could've become a drifter, falling off the grid for the last four years . . . especially if he was mentally ill and off his meds . . . and died recently,” Rhys said. “The question is, did he die of natural causes or was it a homicide? Since there's no physical evidence of a homicide, I'm leaning toward natural causes. But if you're able to confirm his ID, you'll have a little more to go on. Maybe someone will remember a Kevin Fagan, if he continued to use that name.”

Rhys slung his jacket over his shoulder and headed for the door. “Good work, McBride. Go home.”

It was too late to contact the Missing and Unidentified Persons Unit at the state DOJ. She'd get on it first thing in the morning.

“You going home too?” she asked Jake.

“Pretty soon. Just have to finish a report.” He'd gone back to his desk and was on the computer. “You hear anything new about Buck?”

“No. I was gonna ask you the same.”

“He'll be out on his ass. The question is, will they let him keep his pension? I hope not.”

Sloane didn't care. She just wanted to be left alone. “I seem to attract trouble, don't I?”

He looked up from what he was doing. “You're one of the good guys, Sloane. Trouble's over and we've got your back.”

They did indeed. Rhys, Jake, Connie, and Wyatt were colleagues she could depend on. Especially Rhys, who'd taken a chance on her and had remained her stalwart supporter, even going up against a department a thousand times the size of Nugget PD on her behalf.

She went home, hoping to drag Brady to the Ponderosa. At least go for a run. It didn't get dark until seven now, and the evenings had gotten warmer. It took a few minutes for him to answer the door. Usually he waited on the porch for her. Sloane caught a glimpse of his laptop on the coffee table and asked what he was up to.

“Research,” he said.

“Research about what?”

“Restaurants.”

One word answers weren't really her thing, so she didn't press. Clearly he was looking for jobs. With Sandra in the wind for so long, maybe he felt safer about resuming his old life. Without her. She couldn't think about it right now. The prospect of him leaving made her chest squeeze to the point that she couldn't breathe. So she changed the subject entirely.

“I may have found the identity of John Doe.”

“Seriously?” He ushered her in and she grabbed the spot on the sofa where he'd been sitting so she could snoop at what he'd been looking at on the computer. But the screen was on Google. “What happened?”

She told him the story like she had Rhys, Jake, and Connie. “Sad, huh?”

“Really sad. You think it's for sure him?”

“I do. Everything fits. It's just weird that he goes missing four years ago and dies in November. Doesn't it seem odd to you?”

“Not necessarily.” Brady's theory was similar to Rhys's. “Strange that he would come to Nugget, though. And how did he get here? No one ever found an abandoned car, right?”

“Nope. That was one of the first things I checked. A bus perhaps. As soon as the DNA test is done and I know for sure it's him, I'll look at bus records.” Although it was a railroad town, the trains only carried cargo. Presumably, he could've been a freight hopper. But there would be no way to tell unless railroad personnel busted him and kept records. Doubtful.

“You hungry?” he asked.

“I thought we'd go to the Ponderosa. Give you a little break from cooking.”

“Okay. Let me just put on a different shirt.” He had on a sweatshirt that had seen better days but looked comfy.

She followed him into his bedroom, sat on the edge of the bed, and watched as he tugged the ratty hoody over his head. He stretched, grabbing the top of the door frame, and his arms and chest rippled with muscle. She could never get enough of looking at him. His broad shoulders. The smattering of hair that sprinkled his chest and disappeared under the waistband of his jeans. Washboard abs to die for.

And the thing about Brady was that he was as nice and kind as he was good-looking. Finding both in a man was a rarity in Sloane's opinion. Most of the handsome men she'd known had been conceited and self-entitled.

“Brady?”

“Hmm?”

“What's going on? You seem different lately . . . quiet.”

He pulled a long-sleeved thermal over his head, followed by a T-shirt, and sat next to her on the bed. “If it hadn't been for Skeeter, I would've missed Roger Buck breaking into your apartment. More than likely he would've been there waiting for you when you got home.”

“But you didn't miss it. You clocked him, knocked him out cold.”

“Yeah, what if I hadn't?”

“Then I would've clocked him and knocked him out cold.”

“With all due respect, Sloane, you're what? Five seven? A hundred and forty pounds? I don't care if you're trained in self-defense or carry a gun. So is Buck, and he could've crushed you.”

“Brady, why are you doing this? Everything turned out all right. You saved the day and it's over.”

“That's the thing, Sloane. Who knows if it's over?” She knew he was talking about Sandra. “Next time it might not turn out so lucky.”

“Brady, it's honesty time. What are you really trying to tell me? I feel like the past few days . . . the Buck drama . . . should have brought us closer together. Instead, it's driven a wedge between us. You've hardly talked to me and you seem a million miles away—like you're done with this, with us. So, I'll just lay it on the line for you because I don't want to wind up like Aidan and Sue. And after everything that's happened, it's become crystal clear to me that I'm in love with you. I want the house and the kids. Maybe not right now, but someday.” She looked at him, hard. “I'm not asking for an instant proposal. But we go to Sierra Heights to look at those houses, and even playing around you made sure to let me know that the idea of us living together was out of the question. You once said that couples should be on the same page. Brady, are we on different pages?”

He just sat there, stiffly. Minutes went by and he said nothing. Sloane could hear him breathing—or perhaps that was her taking in nervous gulps of air—and the low hum of the heater. More time ticked by and still nothing. It seemed like an eternity. Finally, Sloane realized that the silence spoke louder than words.

She got to her feet and left.

S
loane drove off. Brady could hear her studded tires churning the gravel on the driveway. He should've said something. But when she'd thrown out the confession that she loved him, he froze like the proverbial animal caught in the headlights. The words had paralyzed him. Not because he'd never heard them before, but because he wasn't ready to return them.

Love was too complicated, came with strings attached, and in his experience usually involved loss. Case in point his parents. Rationally, he knew he was emotionally stunted. People died, they got divorced, they went away. That was life. So when someone perfect came along, like Sloane, you embraced and cherished every moment together.

Except he wasn't made that way. For him, feelings were messy, constricting, and petrifying. As soon as they got too intense, he packed a duffle and said sayonara
.

After Buck, he'd put off telling Sloane about his job offer. He was starting to think that working for Breyer Hotels was all wrong for him. Initially, he'd been seduced by the money and the opportunity to make his mark. But Brady liked the restaurant scene, liked partying, liked being his own man. And it was getting time for him to move on anyway. Nugget was starting to feel too permanent—like roots. And leaving now might put psycho Sandra off his scent.

He'd tell Nate tomorrow. Breyer had waited long enough, probably figuring that Brady was still recovering from the Roger Buck ordeal. The only thing he regretted was not hitting that bastard harder. Every time Brady thought about Sloane walking into her apartment with Buck lying in wait, it made his stomach knot.

He got off the bed, went into the kitchen, and got a few ingredients out of the refrigerator. Breaking a couple of eggs into a bowl, he started an omelet. He wasn't the least bit hungry but he needed something to do. Something to keep busy.

The night dragged on, with him jumping up every hour or so to look for Sloane's SUV. Around nine he saw her headlights come down the driveway and felt a combination of relief and anxiety. He needed to tell her he was leaving. Not tonight, but soon. He at least owed her a face-to-face goodbye. The hardest part was that he loved her—he wasn't so emotionally stunted that he didn't know what that felt like—and if he were a settling-down kind of guy she'd be the one. But he wasn't.

He slept badly and was happy to finally see daylight filter through his blinds so he could stop tossing and turning and get up. This morning he planned to make bacon-and-egg soufflés for the inn's guests. It took a little longer than most of his breakfast dishes, but he had the time.

After a quick shower he got dressed and arrived at the inn before the day shift. Andy sat slumped over with his head cradled on the front desk, sleeping.

“Hey, wake up.” Brady gave him a little shove. “Not too professional there, buddy.” Why the hell hadn't Nate fired the guy?

He continued to the kitchen and gathered up his ingredients, starting on the soufflés. While he was at it, he might as well make the coffee cake Nate liked so much, and got started on that too. Lina popped her head in.

“What are you doing here so early?”

He looked up from the flour canister. “It's not that early. Want coffee?”

“Yes!”

Brady poured in the beans, filled the water reservoir in the grind-and-brew, and flipped the switch. “You send Andy home?”

“Not yet.” She looked at her watch and smiled evilly. “He's got fifteen more minutes on the clock.”

Brady chuckled, then took a few seconds to look at her. She glowed like a woman who was in love. “You and Griffin working out?”

She lit up like the Las Vegas strip. “We're good.”

He tilted his head sideways and grinned. “What, did you run off and elope?”

“No. We're being very mature. I've got school and he's got his businesses, so we're staying super chill. When I'm in Nugget I'll stay with him at the Heights, and he'll stay with me some of the time in Reno.”

“The Heights?” Brady lifted his brows.

“That's what Nate calls it.”

Yeah, that would be Nate
. “Sounds . . . mature.” The coffee was finished brewing and he poured them each a cup.

Sam came in a few minutes later and Brady poured her one too.

“You're early,” she said to Brady, and turned to Lina. “Look how cute you look.”

“Thanks, you too.” Lina looked at her watch again. “I guess it's time to let Andy go home.” She hopped off the stool and took her coffee with her.

As soon as Lina was out of earshot, Sam said, “She and Griffin are officially an item.”

“So I heard.”

“Rhys doesn't like her sleeping over at his house.”

“Nope, I suspect he doesn't. But my guess is he partook in plenty of sleepovers when he was her age.”

“I bet you're right.” Sam let out a laugh. “So how are you doing, Brady? I understand that the cop you clobbered is losing his job. Thank God. Rhys is trying to get a bunch of them fired.”

“Yep,” was all he said.

She watched him for a little while as he spread out a number of ramekins for his soufflés. “Please tell me you're taking the job.”

Brady exhaled. “I'm sorry, Sam, but it's not for me.”

Her face fell. “If it's the money, Nate will give you more. He'd kill me if he knew I told you that. But I want you to take the position so badly. You're so great to work with—and fun. Richard is as far from fun as a nuclear holocaust. Come on, why don't you want to do it?”

“I'm leaving, Sam.”

“What?” Her expression turned shocked. “The Lumber Baron? Nugget? What about Sloane? You two are so great together. Everyone thinks so.”

Brady's phone rang and for once he was happy for the interruption. “I've got to take this,” he said and looked at the caller ID. He really did have to take it. “Hello, Detective.”

“You sitting down? Sandra Lockhart is dead. Yuma PD just called. She's been in the morgue this whole time. They just got around to linking her to our missing person.”

Brady staggered to the stool Lina had left empty and sat down. “Are you absolutely sure?”

“Without a doubt, unless the DNA tests lied.”

“This is gonna sound horrible, but can I see a picture?” Brady was having trouble grasping that she was really dead.

“Won't do you any good. She was burnt beyond recognition.”

“Burnt?”

“Investigators believe she was trying to set a house on fire and got caught in the flames. An arson team is still looking at it, though.”

Brady remembered Aidan's off-the-cuff remark on the gas stations. “Whose house?”

“A former boyfriend. Apparently she thought he was home when she climbed up on his roof, poured a five-gallon mixture of gasoline and diesel down the chimney, and tossed in a propane lighter rigged with a zip tie to keep it lit. She was scrambling down the ladder when pressure from the fire blew the roof off. Luckily, her intended target was working late. But the guy had a friend staying in the house . . . she probably mistook him for the ex. The friend smelled smoke and got out before the explosion. The owner came home to find what was left of his house teeming with firefighters. Turns out her car was parked only a few blocks away. They found something like nine gas cans in her trunk.”

Brady got a sick feeling. “Was she coming for me next?”

“That's the working theory. But who knows? The broad was crazy. The good news: You have your life back, amigo. Go ahead and live it.”

Brady hung up and put his phone away, stunned.

“That was about your stalker, wasn't it?”

He'd forgotten that Sam was still there. “Yeah. She's dead, burned to death in a fire.”

The soufflés. He got up and went back to his batter.

“Brady, I think you should sit down.” She hovered over him. “I can do that.”

“I've got it.” He poured the mixture into the individual ramekins and finished buttering the pans for the coffee cake.

“Wouldn't you like to go over to the police station and tell Sloane?”

“After breakfast.” He was having enough trouble digesting the information. Sandra was dead. He hadn't wanted her to die, but knowing that his nightmare was over, that he was free . . .

When the last guest finished breakfast, Brady went home. He needed some time alone to think his life through and get used to the idea that he no longer had to hide. Or compulsively watch his back. Flipping open his laptop, he went on Facebook. Never again would he have to see himself with Sandra in Photoshopped pictures or read posts about their fabricated vacations—or worry about her coming to Nugget to burn his house down.

He still couldn't wrap his head around the fact that she died while trying to kill an ex-lover. On a whim, he picked up his phone and called Frank Klein. The last time he'd talked to him was to give notice at Pig and Tangelo.

“Frank, it's Brady Benson.”

“Jesus Christ, I've been looking for you for months. What, you go to Nepal to find yourself or something?”

“Nope. I've been living in this small town in the Sierra Nevada, cooking for a beautiful bed and breakfast.” Brady could actually divulge that information now. Damn, it felt good.

“You changed your number. I didn't recognize the area code. Any chance you can come back? My chef, a prima donna who couldn't cook his way out of a hospital commissary, left. I have Paulie running the place.”

“Seriously?” Brady laughed. Paulie used to be his sous chef. Nice kid, but nowhere ready for prime time. “I'll have to think about it.” He was actually considering heading for Portland. Good restaurant scene there.

“Brady, I'll make you a partner in Pig and Tangelo. Fifty-fifty split.” The restaurant must be in real trouble.

“I'll think about it, Frank. Hey, it was good talking to you.”

He'd just pocketed the phone when Sloane's police rig came down the driveway. Through the window he saw her get out of the driver's seat. He walked out on the porch.

“I heard the news,” she said, and climbed the stairs.

“Yeah. Wild, huh?”

“Could we sit for a second?”

He sat on the swing and patted the space next to him. She took the rocker instead.

“Sam said you were pretty shaken up after getting the call. She got the impression from your side of the conversation that Sandra may have been coming for you too.”

“It seems clear that it was like what Aidan said. She was looking for gas stations to buy her accelerant. Beatty, Tonopah, Carson City. Next stop Nugget. I keep thinking, what if you'd been sleeping with me when she set the place on fire?”

“But she didn't, Brady. She never even made it to the Nevada border.”

He put his face in his hands. From the minute Rinek had called and he'd realized Sandra's grand scheme, the horrific thought of Sloane being in the duplex while Sandra set it ablaze looped through his head.

“I'm leaving in two weeks,” he blurted, planning to give notice as soon as he got back to the inn for the afternoon service.

Sloane tensed. “For good?”

“Who's to say? But I thought I'd check out Portland. The van's been packed since I got here, so I guess I never meant to stay.”

“I thought you liked it here, that it reminded you of home?”

“I do and it does. But it's time to go. Look at my history, Sloane. I never stay in one place too long.”

She got up and crouched down in front of him. Her eyes were wet and she quickly tried to wipe them with the back of her hand. “You've been through a lot these past few days. Buck. Sandra. Take a few days off and go away. Give yourself time to think.”

He stood, holding his hand out to help her up. When they were facing each other he said, “I'm sorry, Sloane. I never said it, but I do love you. I just can't give you what you want. The house, the kids . . . just not in my DNA.”

“I understand,” she said, but it came out like a croak. “No hard feelings.”

He wiped her tears with his hand. “Ah, Sloane, I can't stand to see you cry.”

“I'm gonna go now.” She backed up. “Take care of yourself, Brady.”

She practically ran to her truck, started the engine and took off. He continued to stand on the porch while a couple of blackbirds, perched on a sugar pine branch, chuckled at each other. Or maybe they were chuckling at him for being a fool.

Sloane went back to the station, parked, and sat long enough to compose herself. One look in her rearview mirror and she knew there was no way to get rid of the puffy eyes. The bell over the door in the station rang as she walked in, and Connie looked up from her computer.