Impulse (5 page)

9

“
I
f it is a hoax, it’s certainly drawn
a crowd,” Faith said as Mike pulled off the road into the parking lot, which appeared to have recently been plowed.

The lot was across the lake from her house, but close enough that if it hadn’t been snowing, she could probably have seen the glow of the lights she always left on so she wouldn’t have to return to a dark house.

“Looks like the real thing.” Mike cut the engine. “And I think we’ve got the scoop all to ourselves.”

He didn’t exactly rub his gloved hands together with glee, but Faith could tell he was pleased about that. He may not have wanted to come out into the middle of a freezing night, but the prospect of a bonus seemed to have changed his mind.

Faith noticed the green SUV parked at the other end of the lot. “We may not be the first.” The cold invaded the van the moment the heat stopped blasting through the dashboard vents. “Isn’t that Erin’s Legacy?”

Erin Gallagher had been giddy as a schoolgirl on
laughing gas when the station manager had hired her on as an intern. She thought she might go into sports broadcasting, and Dan Morgan, producer of a Saturday-morning show highlighting Friday-night high school games, had promised to give her a shot interviewing local athletes.

“Looks like hers,” Mike agreed. “Christ, the little gal may be no bigger than a peanut, but she sure does hustle.”

“I wonder how she found out about this.”

“Probably heard it on the radio.”

The cold hit like a slap in the face as Faith left the van. She sucked in a breath that actually burned, pulled up the hood of her white parka, and tightened the cord around her neck in a futile attempt to hold out the night air that felt like icy fingers at her throat.

As the sheriff approached on a long-legged, predatory stride, his grim gaze held not an inkling of the sensual memory that continued to haunt her dreams at least once a week. His mouth was a tight, compressed line, and the stubble of unshaven beard gave him a rough and dangerous look.

He was wearing a black, fur-lined trooper’s hat instead of the Stetson he usually wore, but the man had cowboy written all over him. He was tall and rangy, with broad shoulders, a rugged face that could have been chiseled out of the granite mountain behind them, and a jaw wide enough to park his big, black, macho Jeep Cherokee on.

Last time she’d gotten a trim down at The
Wild Hair
salon, she’d heard a woman mention that his maternal grandmother had been an Arapaho, which, Faith imagined, explained the reason his deeply set eyes were so dark it was hard to distinguish between iris and pupil, and the straight, jet-black hair he didn't wear as closely cropped as most cops.

Despite the icy nighttime temperatures, he was wearing a pair of jeans, but in deference to the deep snow had exchanged the pointy-toed, hand-tooled Tony Lamas he’d
worn in Savannah for black pac-
boots.

"The scene’s closed off,” he announced, as if she were too blind or stupid
to notice all that yellow-and-
black plastic tape.

His brusque, authoritative tone was worlds away from how he’d once talked to her.

“That means no civilians.” His scowl darkened as he flicked a glance over her shoulder toward the KWIND van. “Especially no press.”

Faith had never been a real big fan of authority. And after all the lies he’d told her, she was even less a fan of Will Bridger’s.

“In case you haven’t noticed, Sheriff, this isn’t Dodge. And you’re definitely no Matt Dillon.”

His eyes were hard as jet beneath the ledge of his brow. “Thank you for pointing that out to me, Ms. Prescott.”

Although they were now standing toe-to-toe, they were on opposite sides of a deep divide, two equally stubborn combatants engaged in a turf war.

“I’m here in a news reporting capacity, Sheriff. You
calling for the coroner in the middle of the night just happens to be news.”

A line, stretched taut across his forehead like barbed wire, deepened when he narrowed his eyes.

“And you know I called for the coroner how? Maybe you heard it from one of those whacked-out listeners who called in to warn people that Martians had landed on White Owl Mountain?”

“A listener called it in,” she admitted. “But Mike also heard it on the scanner.”

“Sure as hell did,” Mike said, finally diving into the dueling conversation.

From Will’s muttered curse, Faith had the feeling he’d love to confiscate every police scanner in the valley.

“What are we talking, Sheriff?” she pressed on. “An accident? Or murder?”

He folded his arms across the front of his brown sheriff’s department parka. His ruthless mouth twisted in what appeared more sneer than smile.

“Perhaps you’ve gotten a bit rusty on newscasting, Ms.
Prescott.
Otherwise you’d remember that the cause of death isn’t my call to make.”

The sarcasm stung. As did the scorn he’d heaped on the new last name she’d taken when she’d gone into hiding.

“I understand the coroner determines the cause of death,” she said between set teeth, hating the way he was making her feel defensive. When, after what had happened, he should be the one uncomfortable. “But still, you must have an opinion.”

“None I’m willin’ to go on the record with. So, you two may as well just get back in that van and go back to the station.”

“Come on, Will,” Mike said. “When did you, of all people, get to be so damn rigid?”

“When I swore an oath to protect and to serve the people of this county. I’ll probably be calling a press conference in the morning. You’re both welcome to attend.”

And wasn’t that big of him? “Thank you for the invitation.” Faith’s smile was bright and utterly false. “I’ll definitely be there.”

Along with a gazillion other reporters from Jackson. Faith didn’t know what Will was sitting on, but she doubted he’d be calling a press conference if some snowmobiler had died in an accident preparing for this week’s race.

“Meanwhile, since we’re already on the scene, why don’t you share what you can with us? In case it’s slipped your mind, you happen to be a public servant. KWIND listeners are the public. Therefore you work for them.”

“Is that a fact?”

He rubbed a thumb against his forehead in a way that suggested if he’d been wearing the Stetson, he would have tipped it back.

“Absolutely. Besides, you’ve already let one reporter past your precious yellow tape, so—”

“What are you talking about?” His sudden harsh
glare could’ve blistered paint off the side of the KWIND van.

“Obviously I’m talking about Erin Gallagher.”

He went as eerily still as the night air. “What do you know about the Gallagher girl?”

“That’s her Subaru.” Faith gestured toward the compact SUV.

The
abandoned
SUV.

No! Please, God. Don’t let
it be…

“I didn’t let the girl past anything.”

His words were a nearly incomprehensible buzz in Faith’s ears. Her lungs seized; her heart beat faster.
Please, please, please.

Faith squeezed her eyes shut tight, as if somehow it would prevent her from hearing the worst. It didn’t.

“Erin Gallagher’s dead.”

10

T
he color drained from a complexion
the hue of freshly whipped cream, and her brandy-hued eyes widened with shock. Watching her struggle with her emotions, Will felt an unbidden twinge of guilt for not couching the news more gently.

“Christ,” Mike muttered.

“That’s impossible.” Her hood slipped back as she dragged a trembling hand through the slide of dark hair. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” Denial was a typical response to any death. And murder was something most civilians had trouble grasping. “I’m sure.”

“But I just saw her this evening.” Faith looked across the snow at the circle of blinding lights, as if expecting to see the dead girl suddenly appear and start doing triple lutzes across the frozen lake. “Talked with her.”

“About what?”

She was picturing it. Trying to imagine the scene. Struggling to envision the vital young woman with the
life force drained out of her. Will thought it was just as well she couldn’t.

Death by murder wasn’t anything like it was portrayed on CS
I
or
Law & Order.

It was real.

Real ugly.

“You said you’d seen her.” He struggled for patience, despite his concern that the killer might be somewhere nearby. “When? What did you talk about?”

“She dropped by the station about six.”

“Your show doesn’t start until midnight.”

“Maybe that’s why we decided to call it
Talking After Midnight.”
Faith dragged her hand through her hair again, then pulled the hood back up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be sarcastic. It’s just that
…
”

Her gaze drifted back to where Erin Gallagher’s body lay waiting for the ambulance to take her to the Jackson morgue.

“It’s hard,” she murmured.

“Yeah.” When she finally looked up at him, seeming surprised by the empathy in his tone, Will suppressed the urge to assure her he wasn’t the bastard he’d behaved like three years ago down in Savannah. This wasn’t about him. Or her. “It is.”

“Was she raped?”

“That’s not—”

“Your call. I know.” She briefly shut her eyes. Took a deep breath, then tried again.

“I was working on tonight’s song list. I’ve never
worked a talk/music format before coming here, so when I first started, I just went along with what the guy before me had played. I decided when I got up this morning that it was time to start making the show more mine. To reflect my own tastes, without losing the listeners, who’ve become accustomed to a certain sound
…

“But that’s not what you asked.”

She drew in another deep breath. Let it out to hover like a ghost in the frosty air between them.

“Erin and I only exchanged a couple words. I asked how school was, she said fine. I said good.” Faith shrugged. “She said she was thinking of going skating if the wind ever stopped.”

“Which it did.”

“Yes. Talk about a case of bad timing. If she hadn’t come out here tonight, she’d still be alive.”

Possibly. Possibly not. It all depended on whether she was the intended victim, or just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“Why was she at the station in the first place?”

“She’s an intern. She answers the phone, files logs, that sort of thing. She usually comes in about three evenings a week to work with Drew. That’s Drew Hayworth. He has a call-in show.”

“The shrink.”

The first time Will had heard the program, he’d thought the guy sounded like a Frasier wannabe. Of course he was admittedly prejudiced, given his experience with shrinks.

“Psychological anthropologist,” she corrected mildly.

“So she worked for this shrink—this Dr. Hayworth tonight?”

“I suppose. Though she didn’t stay very long, so she might have just wanted to talk with him.”

“About what?”

Faith shot him a level look. “You’d have to ask him.”

“I plan to do that. Is that normal?”

“What?”

“Her coming in to talk to the doctor?”

“I’m not privy to their conversations, Sheriff. But I do know Drew’s very popular at the college. It’s tough being a teenager these days,” she said, telling him nothing he hadn’t already figured out for himself. “A lot of kids seem to enjoy having someone impartial to talk to about school, the opposite sex, family problems.”

“Did Erin Gallagher have problems? With school? The opposite sex? Family?”

“I really wouldn’t know. You’d have to ask—”

“The shrink.”

“Psychologist,” she corrected again.

“Yeah.”
Will turned to Mike. “You ever talk with her?”

“Sure.”

“What about?”

“Jesus, Will, I don’t remember. Stuff. Weather, the Broncos—she was a fan, which makes sense since she spent all those years at the Olympic Center in Colorado Springs. Whether men or women tipped better.”

“How did that come up?”

“She waits—waited—
tables at the lodge part-time.
Last Monday she cam
e in complaining about a bunch
of women who’d had their office Christmas party there,
took up three tables for tw
o hours, and only left behind
two bucks. I agreed that sucked. End of conversation.”

“She ever mention getting into hassles with anyone
there?”

“No. But you gotta u
nderstand, we didn’t have that
kind of relationship. Teenage girls don’t tend to spill their guts to middle-aged men just because they happen to work in the same place.
Maybe you’ve spent so many years interrogating suspects, you’ve forgotten what it is to have a casual conversation. To simply talk with a person without giving them the third degree.”
Mike shook his head, which was covered down to his bushy blond brows in a black woolen watch cap. “Of all the people in this town, you’re the last one I ever would’ve expected to become such a hard-ass.”

This was the bitch about becoming the law in a town where you’d grown up. Last time Will had seen Mike Reed, the two of them had been drinking beer and shooting rats down at the reservoir. By the time they’d polished off the second six-pack, they were drunk enough that rats were pretty much guaranteed a stay of execution.

“I'm just trying to do my job, Mike. Best I can.”

“There was something,” Faith volunteered hesitantly.

W
ill
didn’t ask. Just waited.

“It may not mean anything.”

He continued to wait.

“She had scars.”

“What kind? Where?”

“Thin slash marks. On her wrists.”

“Self-inflicted?”

“She never said. So, I never brought them up.”

“Think she talked to Hayworth about them?”

“You’ll have to ask him.”

“I plan to.”

Will knew that after joining the school radio club, which Faith coincidentally mentored, Josh had started hanging out at the station. He wondered if his son had found the shrink easy to talk to.

He was thinking maybe Josh had shared stuff that might give Will a handle on how the hell to reach his messed-up, angry-as-hell kid when a pickup came roaring into the lot and an already lousy situation looked as if it was about to get a helluva lot worse.