Ties That Bind (11 page)

“Sammy,” her father said, his voice gentle. “That will cost money, and that’s something we don’t have a lot of. Medicare only pays so much. There is always something left over for me. And I don’t have it.” Her mother’s condition had forced Sam’s father’s early retirement from his civilian job at Hill Air Force Base, and she knew that finances were a constant concern. The Church had stepped in to help many times, especially when she was growing up and still dependent on her parents for her basic needs. Hand-me-downs. Church welfare. The bishop’s storehouse. A large lump formed in Sam’s throat and she wanted to scream, to yell, to fight, to do anything to remove it. She didn’t want anyone’s pity, but she saw it clearly on the faces of the two patrolmen.

She shook her head angrily and glared at the one she knew as Traydar. So called because he had a sense for when someone would be speeding up Kanesville’s main east–west road and he made a lot of revenue for the town. His name was Trey Olsen.

He looked away hastily, unsure why he was the victim of this particular glare, not knowing Sam was just protecting herself, her family, her reputation.

She steeled herself for her father’s reaction, and the resulting pity and sympathy she would feel from the two patrolmen who had been forced into this highly personal drama.

“Dad, I’ll pay for it. Whatever is left, send the bill to me, but please. Please let’s get her checked out.”

“Sam…”

“Dad. This has gone on long enough. Please, do this for me. If they say there is nothing they can do, then I will never ask again. Just do this one thing. Please. For me.”

This time the tears welled up in her father’s eyes, and she saw the years of frustration, fear, and, even worse, desperation painted across his face. But she knew that now was the time to stand firm. She was an adult now, a police officer, trained to deal with crisis and conflict. No more little Sam, the one who lost her way when Callie died.

“Dad, it’s time to get help. It’s time to admit you can’t do this anymore. It’s time. It’s just … It’s just time.”

Sam knew she was repeating herself, but she couldn’t think of any other way to phrase it.

“Fine,” her father said, reaching up quickly to wipe away a stray tear that had begun to course down his weathered cheek. “Fine, just call the paramedics. And when you get the bill, you just remember that I said no, this was not necessary. And it’s not going to help. It’s time you grew to love your mother for what she is, instead of trying to fix her.”

He turned and walked away, his shoulders hunched, his back curved, his pace shuffling and almost bearlike. He had become old in the past few years, older than his seventy-five years even.

Grief aged people. Sam should know. Today, she felt like she was 102.

“Call the bus,” she said to Olsen. Then she knelt down and stroked her mother’s arm, even though there was no response from the prone woman. “It’s going to be okay, Momma. I know it doesn’t feel like it, but I promise, it’s going to be fine.”

There was no response. No reaction. Just like it had been for so many years, except now Sam felt a quickening of her heart. Something was different here. The phone call. And her mother had moved her head, abruptly and roughly. Ruthie Montgomery had reacted. Sam had seen it.

Could they find Ruthie again, lost as she was in the maelstrom of grief and loss? Sam was damn sure going to try.

FIFTEEN

Late August, nearly every day dawned hot and dry in northern Utah. Usually, the sunshine picked up Sam’s mood, but not after the events of the evening before.

It was lunchtime, and as usual, D-Ray was holding court.

“Gage is a pansy-ass name,” D-Ray said to Sam, speaking around the McDonald’s fries he was shoveling into his mouth.

The “pansy ass” D-Ray referred to had been sitting outside Sam’s house this morning, leaning against her department car. Again. Holding two coffee cups from the local Starbucks.

“Don’t you ever give up?” she’d asked tersely.

“No. It’s why I am so good at what I do.”

“Fine. I’ll take the coffee.” Sam reached out and accepted the cup, then asked him to move out of her way.

“Sam, when are you going to talk to me?”

“How about at two? In the conference room at the station. We’ll have a powwow. Sound good?” She didn’t wait for an answer. She got into her car, he stepped away from it, and she drove off.

And now she was ready to beat someone to death.

As she sat with D-Ray in the unmarked cruiser in the McDonald’s parking lot, he seemed a likely target. Sam sipped at a Diet Coke while D-Ray polished off more food than a human being should ever consume in one meal. She was tired and cranky. The previous night’s events had set her mind to racing, especially after she and her father had left the hospital. Her mother had been admitted into the psych ward of McKay-Dee Hospital for testing.

Sam’s father had spoken little as they drove together to the hospital behind the ambulance. He gave only yes or no answers when the medical staff asked him questions, and the look on his face was one of resentment and anger.

Then Sam had driven him back home. He sat silent and brooding in the seat next to her, staring out the window into the darkness. His own form of a catatonic stupor. He wouldn’t let her come in, and slammed the door as he exited her car, shuffling toward his dark house, which only hours earlier had been filled with people and light as they searched for Sam’s mother.

Sam had removed the only reason her father had for living. Whether or not it should be that way was not the point. As she watched him, she wondered if she had made a big mistake. A single light came on as he entered the house, then went out just as quickly. Was this really about her? Did she really need to force this issue?

D-Ray’s repetitive chewing brought her back to the present and began to eat at her last solid nerve. She turned to glare at him. “You are going to die before you hit fifty,” she told him crossly. “Your arteries will be so clogged with fat that your blood cells won’t be able to get through. You probably have fat running through your body instead of blood.”

“You on the rag?” D-Ray asked, a look of complete innocence on his face, even though he knew how offensive the comment was.

She gave him a look that could stop a perp cold. It didn’t even faze D-Ray. He knew her too well.

“Does your momma know you eat with that mouth?” she said.

D-Ray’s face darkened, and he chewed away with more gusto, turning away from her. It was a low blow, but he deserved it. The “rag” comment was too far.

“Sorry about making fun of Gage’s pansy-ass name,” he said, without looking at her.

“Sorry about bringing up your momma,” she shot back. She’d immediately regretted telling D-Ray that Gage had shown up at her house on Sunday and then again this morning. The words hadn’t been out of her mouth more than two seconds when she realized what she had said—and wished she could take them back. This was a man’s world, and she needed to remember the rules. Sharing information like the fact that an old love had shown up uninvited, on the day she was tired, vulnerable, overwhelmed, and nervous about solving this difficult case, could only lead to chaos, derision, and sexist remarks. Even from D-Ray.

“Don’t talk about my momma, Sam.” He glowered at her, waiting for the fight to move into the ring.

They could go on like this all day. Sam had got up with a dark cloud over her head. Might as well have D-Ray join her. Only thing that would shake off this particular crankfest would be a murder or something equally adrenaline filled.

“I’ve become the person I never wanted to be,” she admitted aloud. “Wishing something awful would happen so I can just work the case and not worry about anything else.”

“Sam?”

“Yeah, D-Ray?”

“If you don’t talk about my momma, I won’t talk about yours.”

Sam felt the anger stirring in the pit of her stomach. They hadn’t discussed it, but she knew he was aware of the events of the night before. Everyone in the office knew. But D-Ray wouldn’t push. He would wait for her to open up. To say something first. And she wasn’t talking. She turned to him to give him an angry retort, just as the car radio squawked to life.

“Thank God. I was going to have to shoot you,” she murmured as she took the call.

They rode in silence to the scene of a family dispute. Nothing like a good domestic to clear the air, make you forget that your mother was a mental vegetable and your partner’s mother a closet alcoholic.

*   *   *

“So, what do you have for me?” Chief Roberson asked as he lounged in the door of her cubicle, his solid shoulder butted up against the flimsy wall, making Sam worry that any minute the divider would fall.

He wore a cheap suit coat, a too-tight white shirt, and a necktie that looked like a bad Father’s Day present. Probably the same brand she had given her own father, year after year. Roberson’s slacks were neatly pressed but ill fitting, and his hair was about sixteen strands shy of a bad comb-over. They could expect that in the next few months, she knew. Maybe sooner, if they didn’t solve this case.

“I’ve arranged for the conference room at two p.m.,” Sam told him. “We’ll go over everything then, if that’s okay. I just have a few phone calls to make.”

“Two it is. Did you tell Flint?”

“Yes, Chief, I did,” she said, working hard to keep her voice pleasant. “We have to have the whole
team
there.”

Sam picked up the phone, gritting her teeth as the chief walked away. The team. She punched in the number of the crime lab, only to learn there was no new evidence. No prints or foreign materials. Next, she called the medical examiner, who had not yet started on Jeremiah Malone’s autopsy. Sam requested copies of the other two victims’ autopsies and was promised they would be e-mailed to her by late afternoon. She pressed him to get to Jeremiah’s quickly.

“Two other suicides, an accidental shooting, and a murder-suicide this week, Sam. Sorry, I’m backlogged,” said the ME, weariness lacing his voice. “I took this job because Smithland County was such a nice community. Can’t figure out why there’s so much death.”

The next call was to Paul Carson’s cell, checking on the list of cleaning people she had asked him to provide. It went to voice mail, and she left a brief message.

After Sam hung up, she looked at her watch and saw it was 1:55 p.m. Just enough time to get set up in the conference room and be composed and ready for action when the rest arrived.

She walked down the hallway to the conference room, only to find that Gage was already waiting, two cups of coffee in front of him.

“This appealing to my caffeine addiction has got to stop,” she said.

“How do you know this is for you?” he asked her, a half grin emphasizing the large dimple on his right cheek.

“Oh, sorry. I just assumed, because every time you show up you’re trying to ply me with—”

“I was kidding. It is for you.” Gage pushed the coffee cup toward her.

She took it, then purposely walked to the far side of the square table and sat down. “Coffee isn’t my only vice, you know,” she said, then regretted it.

“I was hoping.”

She prayed she wasn’t blushing, and was grateful to see the chief and D-Ray saunter in together, discussing the latest results of some sporting event. When everyone was seated, the chief spoke.

“Okay, first of all, Sam, is there anything new on the case?”

“No, unfortunately. I called the ME, and he hasn’t gotten to the autopsy of Jeremiah Malone. Something about a few other deaths in the county.”

The chief sighed loudly.

“There is no new information from the crime lab, and the computer from the seminary building is proving useless. Whoever made the slide show did it at the seminary building, or is one hell of a computer hacker. I’m still waiting for the list of people who had access to the computer. I’ll stay on top of Carson to get that. And I have some appointments set up with Jeremiah’s friends.”

“That’s it?” Roberson said, a scowl on his ruddy face. His furry eyebrows—which seemed to have more hair than his head—knitted together as he spoke.

“Yes, unfortunately, that’s all.”

“The media is all over this, Sam, and you know how they are. Everything is getting twisted, and it looks like we aren’t doing our job.”

“They are still officially suicides,” she reminded him.

“Officially. But somebody is rumbling. Three suicides? That’s a lot.”

“Three too many,” Sam said wryly.

“Yeah, yeah, you know what I mean. Three suicides, in three months. That reporter from Channel Five, you know, the … er, aggressive one? She’s been calling for me since eight a.m. Wants an on-camera interview. Has a few questions.”

Sam knew the reporter he was referring to, and she flinched a bit as she considered his words. Pamela Nixon
was
a bitch, really. Aggressive, loudmouthed, pushy, underhanded. She would do whatever it took to get the story. Just like thousands of other female reporters across the United States. Of course, here in Utah, Pamela’s job was made that much harder by the male domination of police forces and public offices and, of course, the belief in Mormon male priesthood authority.

It just made Pamela Nixon bitchier. She’d told Sam, once, that it didn’t matter what she said or did, if she asked the wrong question or pushed the wrong male suit, she was going to get labeled as a bitch. Might as well live up to it and own the title.

That was back when Sam was still working for the Salt Lake City Police Department—before she decided to take her upbringing head-on and move back to her childhood town.
Dumb idea, Sam. You’re smarter than that. If you are going to be a coward, you just should have stayed where you were. Because I told you, something is rotten here. Rotten.

Callie’s voice rang through her head, and Sam frowned, trying to shake it off. It was rarely this strong, not during the day.

“You really aren’t clinging to the theory that these are suicides, are you?” Gage asked Sam pointedly.

“Do we have proof that they aren’t?” she countered.

“A lot of damn coincidences if they are,” he answered.