Authors: Kathy Ivan
She nodded. “I'll see you later.” His tall frame slid into the car with his grandmother, and the door closed, obscuring him from view.
They'd see each other again at the end of the day, when the hubbub died down. A knot low in her stomach clenched at the thought. Yes, she'd see him again tonight. So much left unsaid, too many words unspoken. Before this trip ended, things would change. The only question was would the change be for the better—or for worse?
Chapter Three
Wednesday
T
he bastard had left town. He'd gone on medical leave. At least that's what the fire station claimed. Of course nobody would say where he went or how long he'd be gone.
Damn him to hell. The son of a bitch deserved to rot
.
Connor Scott had no right to be walking around free, hailed as the big hero of New Orleans for catching a serial arsonist. He didn't deserve to still be breathing. He should be buried six feet under. Just like . . . No don't go there. Not yet.
Instrumental in the arrest of the man who'd been snatching vagrants off the streets, torturing them, then burning them alive, Connor Scott was lauded as a savior of the homeless. A paragon elevated to glory. Damn him!
Fingers flew across the keyboard. Screen after screen popped up on the laptop's monitor. Several newspaper articles detailed how off-duty firefighter Connor Scott helped authorities capture and arrest Michael “Mickey” Trejo in the act of torturing and incinerating his latest victim. Said victim lost his battle against smoke inhalation and the horrendous burns he'd sustained as a result of the blaze, but Trejo hadn't escaped justice this time. Apprehended at the scene, he'd been arrested and incarcerated. Currently awaiting trial, he was being held without bail under suicide watch at the New Orleans jail.
Another article flashed up, this one showcasing a photo of Connor Scott with the Mayor of New Orleans, shaking hands in front of a gleaming red fire truck.
Hero.
Saint.
Savior.
All words bandied about by the press to describe Connor.
I'll show them all. They're gonna see Connor Scott for who he really is
.
Coward.
Fraud.
Murderer.
Chapter Four
Thursday
A
pool of matted dark red blood spread out in a macabre halo beneath the gray hair of Mrs. Abigail Spencer. For one brief moment, Connor gave thanks he hadn't eaten breakfast yet. It wouldn't do to spew chunks all over the poor old woman.
He whirled around at Alyssa's sharp intake of breath right behind him. Damn it, he'd told her to wait outside. Then again, why was he surprised she hadn't listened? The whole time they'd been married, she'd never listened to anything he'd said then, either.
“Connor? Is she . . .?”
“Dead?” Connor knelt beside the old lady, careful not to touch anything. Reaching forward, he pressed his fingertips against the side of her neck, checking for any indication of life. He felt nothing. No pulse. No rise and fall of her chest. “Looks that way.”
“Oh dear,” she whispered. “There's so much blood.”
“Yeah.”
Standing, he took a couple of steps back, reached into his pocket for his cell phone and dialed nine-one-one.
“I need the police at the Wayward Wanderer Inn on I-10. There's been a death . . . That's right . . . No, there are two of us in the room . . . Yes, ma'am, we'll wait right outside the door for the officers to get here. Thank you.”
Within minutes the familiar wail of sirens drew closer, accompanied by flashing lights. Killing the siren, one uniformed and one plainclothes officer alighted from the patrol car and walked toward him. Since all the rooms were located on the ground floor, spectators filled the parking lot and milled about in the now crowded hallways.
Connor spotted several folks from the tour group standing a few doors away, anxiety and concern clear in their expressions. Mrs. Spencer was one of their own. He knew Alyssa would deal with the aftermath of this tragedy, offering compassion and sympathy to each Whispering Pines resident. Who'd share a little sympathy with her, he wondered?
“Lyssa, why don't you talk with your group while I explain to the officers what’s happened.” The only thing that would keep her from dwelling on finding a dead body, especially someone she knew, was to keep her busy. He knew Alyssa well enough that giving her something to focus on, a task to perform, made the most sense. Pale, in obvious shock, she went into immediate helper mode. He wished he could hold her, comfort her through the trauma of what she'd witnessed, but he had to deal with the cops.
The people from Whispering Pines Senior Living Center needed to be handled gently.
Damn. First a bus crash and now one of them is dead. How much more can these old folks take?
The clearing of a throat brought things rushing back to the here and now.
“Officers, I'm Connor Scott. I called in the death.”
Without a word, the uniformed police officer, a tall, rail-thin Hispanic man walked through the door into Abigail Spencer's room. The other stayed next to Connor. Pulling out a notebook and pen, he got right down to business. That's good, Connor thought.
“Mr. Scott, I’m Detective Taglier. How did you know the deceased?” The southern drawl followed by an 'I'm your good buddy' grin immediately grated on Connor's nerves. Hell, he didn't even know this guy and already the hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention and he wanted to growl a warning to back the hell off.
“Mrs. Spencer was a passenger on our tour bus. We had an accident yesterday afternoon. Slid on an icy patch on the interstate. Veered off the road.”
“Yeah, I heard about it down at the station. Was she injured in the accident?”
“Nothing serious that I'm aware of.” Connor stood with arms akimbo, looking at the policeman. Something didn't sit right about him even though he was just doing his job.
“She had a bump on her forehead, I think. It bled a bit but she was checked out at the emergency clinic by a physician and cleared. Everybody was, except for the driver.” At the officer's raised brow, Connor continued. “Broken leg, fractured pelvis and a concussion.”
“Ouch.” Jotting down notes, the detective glanced through the open doorway behind Connor.
“The young lady with you, where does she fit into all this? Was she with you when you found Ms. Spencer?”
Connor bristled at his tone but answered. “Her name's Alyssa Scott. She's the Activities Director for the tour group. Works at the senior living center where they're from.” The officer nodded again. He gave an exasperated sigh before continuing. “A few of the other passengers were worried when Abigail, Mrs. Spencer, didn't come to the restaurant for breakfast. They sent Alyssa to check on her. I came with her.”
“Was the door locked when you arrived?” The officer's question was directed at Connor, but his eyes kept straying to Alyssa, and it pissed Connor off.
“No. I knocked several times. When there was no answer, I turned the knob and it opened.”
“Uh, huh.”
The second officer came out of the room, pulling the door closed behind him. After a quick whispered conversation with his partner he strode over to the patrol car, his wide steps quickly eating up the distance.
“So, Mr. Scott, you opened the door and . . .”
Connor turned back to the cop. “I told Alyssa to wait outside and I went in to check on Mrs. Spencer. Immediately upon entering the room I saw feet sticking out from beside the bed. When I got closer, that's how I found her.”
“And Ms. Scott stayed outside the whole time?”
He would like to say yes but knew forensic evidence would show she'd been in the room. “No, she came into the room and saw the body as well.”
“Did you notice anything else, Mr. Scott?”
“Yeah, I noticed blood on the edge of the night stand by the body.”
The officer jotted down a few more notes in his bent, crumpled notebook before continuing.
“Anything else? See anybody hanging around the parking lot?”
“No. I called nine-one-one and waited here for you.”
“Okay. Thanks. I'll need to speak with Ms. Scott, take her statement. Same last name. Any relation to you?”
“Ex-wife.”
“Huh. Amicable I take it.”
Connor quirked a brow, refusing to rise to the subtle baiting question.
Connor knew most of the questions were standard procedure, he'd been around enough cops in his job with the fire department to know it, but he didn't want this guy talking to his wife.
Ex-wife, dammit.
The detective swaggered the few feet down the corridor toward Alyssa. Connor watched the calm and efficient manner in which she directed the senior residents back toward their rooms. Her arm encircled the shoulders of his grandmother. She was so caring, so giving, he thought. She had been since the first day he'd met her. It was one of the things he'd loved about her.
He followed behind the officer, watched him watching Alyssa like a bloodhound on a scent. A low growl emerged from his throat. Fire rescue trucks and an ambulance pulled into the parking lot with their lights flashing, but without the eerie siren's wail. He'd definitely had enough of hearing sirens in the last two days.
“Heck of a thing, ain't it?”
Gladys stood next to him in the hallway.
Where the hell had she come from?
“You okay? I looked for you after the crash, couldn't find you.”
She chuckled. “Ain't no stupid old bus crash enough to keep me down.” Shaking her head, she continued. “Sure sorry about Abigail, though.” Pausing, she asked, “Was there lots of blood, Connor?”
He looked at her, standing silent.
“I'm not being morbid, honey. I just hope she—didn't suffer.”
Connor's gaze traversed the nearly empty hall in front of him, tuning out Gladys while concentrating on the policeman questioning Alyssa. His interest was palpably obvious to Connor, from his posture, his quick smiles at her answers. Understandable. His ex-wife was a beautiful, sensuous woman, but this jerk didn’t need to make his interest so obvious. Her dark chestnut hair with hints of red was pulled back from her face; tendrils of curls worked loose to frame her high cheekbones. Whiskey-brown eyes held a hint of sadness. She addressed the detective, her arms crossed beneath her breasts, as she stood next to the open doorway of what he knew was his grandmother's room.
Every instinct demanded he go to her, hold her, force the other male away from her in a clear show of dominance and possession. Only he didn't possess her. Never had, never would. Instead they'd been a team, equal partners in everything until one stupid night he couldn't even remember.
“Connor?” Gladys remained by his side, peering down the hall. He'd been so absorbed in the detective talking to Alyssa he'd forgotten she was there.
“Sorry, Gladys. Can I help with you anything?”
“No, son, not me.” She jerked her head toward Alyssa.
“She's gonna need you when this spectacle is over. You gonna be there for her?”
Connor glanced down at Gladys's fiery curls, her head barely reaching the middle of his chest. He fought the urge to pat her on top of her head, instead settling for a nod.
“Yes, ma'am. I'll always be there for her, whether she needs me or not.”
“Good to know, son. Good to know.”
Gladys walked away, past the detective and Alyssa without a sideways glance, disappearing through an open doorway at the end of the hall. Connor kept his eyes glued to the two. Watched as Alyssa threaded a weary hand through her curls. Her gestures spoke volumes.
Connor's breaking point reached, he stomped down the concrete pathway, reaching the pair easily with just a few strides of his long legs. Standing behind his ex-wife, he placed both hands on her shoulders, pulling her back to rest against his chest. Wonder of wonders, not only did she not fight him, she leaned into him, absorbing some of the strength he willingly offered.
“Detective, these folks have had a traumatic morning. Some of them are still rattled from the bus accident yesterday afternoon. Can we leave the questioning until later, when everybody's had a chance to settle down and rest? Nobody's going anywhere; we're waiting on the replacement bus anyway.”
The cop closed his notebook with a snap, shoving it back into his pocket. He gave that I'm-your-best-pal grin again, phony and insincere, and Connor really wanted to swipe it off his face.
“Okay, I think we've got enough information for now.” Turning to Alyssa, he offered his hand, clasping hers in both of his when she reached forward.
“Ms. Scott, if you think of anything else or need anything, anything at all, you call me.” He pulled a business card out and handed it to Alyssa. With a nod to Connor, he strolled toward his car, where his partner stood waiting.
“You okay, hon?” Connor spun her around, staring down into her face, attempting to read her. Her eyes closed, she nodded her head once, firmed her shoulders, and inhaled a deep breath. Before his eyes, she changed from a tired, frightened woman to her taking-care-of-business-let's-get-this-handled persona she did so well.
“Okay, everybody, back to your rooms. Everything is being handled. There's really nothing we can do now, so try to get some rest. You’ve got the rest of the day, since we’re waiting for a new bus. I'll be by to check on you later, and you all have my cell phone number if you need me.”
Connor helped her usher some of the older folks back to their rooms, assisting some who were a bit unsteady on their feet. It was definitely going to be a long and stressful day. Another full day's delay on this road trip from hell. These were retired folks, not old fogies and while they might be a little slower, most of them were mentally sharp and physically fit. Trying to keep them corralled for another twenty-four hours with nothing to do—he didn't envy Alyssa her job one bit.