Sympathy For The Devil (4 page)

“So...you want me to break in and steal some files?” she asked. “That’s not really covered, but—”

He shifted in his seat. “That’s not all. Her husband, Devin Archer, is back in town. I’ve heard he started showing up again on Monday. He never sold the old house, it’s been boarded up since they couldn’t pin the murder on him and he took off. Now he’s back. The very same time—”

“Another body shows up,” she finished for him thoughtfully. She glanced at her hand, realized she’d forgotten her ice cream. With a sigh, she wrapped it up in more tissues and excused herself to head to the washroom for a moment.

The tiny office bathroom was stifling. Tash dumped the rest of the ice cream in the toilet, tossed the cone, flushed and cleaned everything up. She rinsed her hands in fresh cool water, splashing some on her face.

Shit, this was big.
Huge
. If Adam was right—which she tried not to assume, despite the fact that this would be a ridiculously large coincidence otherwise—more than one murder meant a possible serial killer. Murder was rare enough around here—this scenario was damn near unheard of.

Refreshed but still nervous, Natasha returned to her office.

Adam paced the floor, head bowed. Although Dani didn’t talk about it a whole lot, Tash knew enough to be aware of how badly this was affecting Adam. Strong, silent cowboy most of the time, covering a lot of guilt and pain.

“Can I get you a glass of water or something?”

He caught her gaze with a sideways glance. “Got any bourbon?”

“Sadly, no. Iced tea?”

“Water’s fine.”

She went to the mini fridge behind her desk, retrieved two bottles of cold water, and passed him one. Once more, she sat. “So Archer’s back, someone else is dead. And I assume the police are looking at him again.”

“Probably, but they let him get away with it once.” He rounded the room again, the plastic of the bottle cracking in his big hands as he clutched it without opening it.

Natasha took a long drink of cool water and waited. She wouldn’t push him yet—this was likely difficult enough already.

“The baby’s almost here, we’re moving into the new house we built and I...” He walked back and forth, back and forth, then at last slumped back into the chair. The ceiling fan whirled shakily overhead, the beat of it punctuating the silence. “I want you to keep an eye on him.”

“Adam—”

“Not enough to put yourself in any danger,” he said swiftly. “That’s not what I’m asking.”

That wasn’t what she was worried about either. “I just mean the police will already be watching him. There’s no sense paying me to do what they’re already on top of.”

“He can’t get away this time, Tash. They’ll look at him, they’ll try, I’m sure, but I’d feel better if someone I trust was helping. Look,” he leaned forward in the chair, meeting her eyes, “we got to Dani in time
because of
you. You saved her.”

“I don’t know about—”

“You did and you know it. You also get the job done no matter what, and if anyone is going to find evidence that Archer did this, it’s you. Again, I don’t want you in harm’s way. Just keep an eye on him from a distance. I want to know where he goes and what he does. Especially if it’s anywhere near my home.”

Her lips parted to argue she doubted Archer would go anywhere
near
Adam, but then she doubted that would make him feel any better.

“I’ll pay whatever your daily rate is to make this priority.”

“Adam, I’ll do this as a favor—”

“No, I’m paying you for your time. On the books. All official.”

Well, after Mrs. Martin was done trashing her reputation all over town, this would help ease things a little. “Okay. I’ll report in once a week unless something unusual comes up?”

Adam nodded. “Bill me once a week. And...don’t mention it to Dani. Yet. I don’t want her worrying.”

That would probably end up being more challenging than keeping track of her target and solving a serial killing from a distance, but Natasha nodded.

Chapter Four

Nails squeaked against wood as Devin Archer jerked a crowbar back, popping the first board off the window. The hot July sun beat down on him and he dragged his forearm over his brow. The ladder beneath him creaked but remained steady.

He dropped the final board on top of the pile below. He’d have to fill in the holes from the nails, repaint the trim, but little by little the farmhouse would get cleaned up. He’d finished removing the boards from the lower level windows late last week, this weekend he’d finish the upper level, and then he could get to repainting. Maybe do a bit of landscaping, get the property in order.

It was the interior that was going to require a hell of a lot of work. Looters had kept out of the house during the past few years, at least, but there was some water damage in one of the bedrooms, the floors could use some refinishing.

And there was still the question of whether or not anyone would even
want
the damn house—it would have to be someone out of town, someone who didn’t know the place. But still, there seemed a good chance that after putting in the work this summer, he could get it sold.

He tossed the crowbar on top of the boards and climbed down. It was early afternoon and he could use a drink after a few hours of work.

Devin rounded the old farmhouse, past the open shed and weedy gardens in need of tilling. Bugs buzzed in the trees around the property, their songs making the rising temperatures seem even hotter. The rear porch was enclosed with screens and he stopped a few steps from the closed door.

KILLER.

Spray painted bright red, lettering quick and choppy. He hadn’t been out back since yesterday afternoon—someone must’ve put it there in the evening or night. Probably while he was...out.

His lips set in a grim line the longer he stared, rage burning through his veins. Fucking lot of good it would do to call the cops—hell, someone from the local police force probably did it.

Another trip to the hardware store was in the cards this afternoon, he supposed—a pain in the ass, but nothing he could do about it. If he had the money, he had half a mind to install cameras and catch the little punks next time.

And there’d be a next time. He knew it.

Devin stomped up the steps, avoiding looking at the bright red paint in his peripheral vision. He jerked open the screen door and the hinges squealed; he winced, knew he’d have to be more careful because if he damaged anything, he’d just create more work for himself. Still, anger rushed through him and he
needed
to get out some aggression at some point. At least breaking a door wouldn’t hurt anything but his checkbook.

Inside was no cooler than outside but at least he was out of the sun. He stripped off his sleeveless T-shirt, dragged it over his neck and torso to collect the sweat from his body, and tossed it at the bottom of the stairs. In the kitchen, he pulled a cold beer from the fridge, held it to his forehead for a moment, then took a long drink.

Devin leaned against the fridge with a heavy sigh.
I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing here.

Sure, clean out the house
seemed
like a good idea at the time. He’d only been planning on doing it for years now—when he first boarded it up and left town, he intended to be back in six months to get rid of it then. But the time had never seemed right and soon years had gone by.

There was no sense holding on to something dead and buried, though. The house had to go. He glanced around the open concept lower level; already he had boxes everywhere, loading up everything he hadn’t taken with him the first time he left. The few antiques could be sold and the rest would go to the Salvation Army, probably. Then cleaning, painting. He couldn’t get any realtors in town to give him the damn time of day, let alone consider showing the house, so he’d have to seek someone in another county to sell it. Hand off the keys and be done with it.

Devin polished off his beer. He just could not get out of this goddamn place fast enough.

The phone rang from across the kitchen—an old corded one he found in a drawer for emergencies, necessary since he hadn’t thought to bring one with him when he returned to town on Monday. He left the bottle in the kitchen, trekked across the creaky hardwood floor, and answered the call on the fourth ring.

“Hello?” he said gruffly. His naturally deep voice had an edge to it now, one he’d cultivated over the years that seemed to warn most people off.

“Hi there,” a young guy said. “We were just wondering if you’re happy with your current telephone service.”

A telemarketer was
not
what he’d been expecting. Devin blinked. “Um...yeah.”

“Really? Maybe there’s someone else we can ask. Is your
wife
home?”

The snickering on the other end of the line had rage rearing again, his white-knuckled grip on the phone threatening to crack the plastic receiver. “Listen, you little shit, I will tear your fucking head off if you
ever
call here again.”

But they didn’t hear him, their laughter screeching in his ear.

He grasped the base of the phone and jerked it, the cord snapping from the wall. It left his grip before he could even think about it, the whole unit smashing into the wall. It dented the plaster, leaving fine dust across the floor, and fell in a broken heap on the hardwood.

His chest heaved, hands clenching into fists and heart pounding so hard he could hear his pulse in his ears.

Stupid goddamn kids. Stupid goddamn
town
. He wanted to get the hell out again but a fat lot of good it would do him—
someone
had to get the house ready to be sold and no one in town was willing to work for him. He’d tried already.

But he deserved it—deserved the vandalism, deserved the pranks, deserved their scorn. Deserved whatever they heaped on him and more for what happened to Chelsea.

I killed her, after all.

****

Natasha trekked along Main Street late in the afternoon. Her heavy purse was slung over her shoulder, bumping against her side as she walked. Tomorrow, she’d head over to Stirling Falls Memorial Hospital with a slice of pie from Liliah Jean and sweet talk her way into some medical reports—Sundays were good because the people working tended to be part time and
really
didn’t want to be there, so were happy for company and easier to finagle information from. Depending on how long that took, she might also be able to head to the police station and read up on the Chelsea Cooper-Archer cold case.

For now, she needed a line on Devin Archer. Adam had nothing useful for her besides the address of his old house—which Adam had heard Archer
wasn’t
currently sleeping at. So she’d need a current address and to get a handle on his routines. Easier to watch him if she had an idea of where he’d be—less obvious if she just showed up various places rather than tailed him.

Unfortunately, Adam hadn’t been able to offer her a photo, either, since he’d burned them all years ago, and Archer wasn’t the sort to have social networking profiles. The library had newspaper archives, at least, and if that didn’t pan out, the police station would have something.

There were just two realtor offices in town and both indicated Archer had called about two weeks back about getting his house and farm sold. Neither had taken him on as a client and everyone had spoken to her in hushed tones, asking whether or not she
knew
what he had done. Though she’d grown up in Stirling Falls, her family had moved when she was a teen and it was years before she moved back—the benefit of that was that people were eager to share with her, like she was one of them even if she wasn’t in the know yet.

No one seemed to know where Devin Archer was currently living, though they offered her possibilities—all with the idea to warn her away from those places. She made a note of each of them, smiled politely, and decided she’d go poking around tonight.

In the meantime, she strolled for the hardware store. In a small town, there weren’t many places to pick up supplies if you were working on your house, which Archer definitely would be doing if he intended to sell the place. Of course, he might’ve headed a few counties over, but Johnny Bianchi, who took over the hardware store last fall, was new in town and wouldn’t necessarily know Archer, therefore he could be anonymous. If her target figured that out, he could stay in town while he worked. Fewer places for her to look for him.

She stepped into the air conditioned hardware store, coolness drying the sweat on her forehead. She slipped her shades off, hung them from the low neckline of her tank top, and glanced around. It was mostly empty, some quiet, shuffling footsteps around the back; the parking lot had half a dozen cars waiting, but everyone from downtown parked out there on the weekend.

No one was at the counter, so she headed down the nearest aisle, toward the paint. The PI office could use some updating, after all. Buying paint was a good cover, might get Johnny to chat with her.

She browsed the paint chips, scanning the colors, when someone moved in the corner of her eye. Her gaze flickered that way briefly, taking in a tall man in a black T-shirt with a cowboy hat shadowing his face. He was vaguely familiar but she didn’t recognize him immediately—and wouldn’t without staring, which she was trying to avoid.

Tash plucked a few paint chips from the rack, comparing them and listening to the sound of his boots on tile as he drew nearer. He carried a box with a cheap landline phone, and stopped by the paint thinners. She picked up a pamphlet on color-coordinating rooms.

“Not getting assaulted by angry husbands today?”

She glanced sharply at him. He still focused on the paint thinners. The voice was familiar, rich and deep, and she remembered their brief encounter the night before outside the Bar & Grill.

“No, today was angry wives,” she said.

“I guess it’s good to alternate.”