Cold Midnight Page 22

  Wrapping a dish towel around his hand—luckily, the wound wasn’t deep—he snatched up the phone and flipped it open. “Manning.”

  “Chase, it’s Sylvia Jensen.” She sounded as if she’d called from inside a hurricane zone.

  He turned away from the sound of rain thrashing the window on his end and covered one ear to hear her better. “Where are you?”

  “At the tennis center site.”

  “In the rain?”

  “The rain’s caused some trouble over here.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “There’s been some major flooding that . . . well, it’s turned up a body.”

  “What? A body?”

  “Wrapped in a tarp,” she said, “so it’s been mostly protected from the elements, though everything has gotten pretty wet. I can’t do anything with it in this weather, so it’s being transported to the morgue.”

  His head was still spinning. “A body? Are you kidding me?”

  “I’m thinking it could be what our saboteur has been looking for.”

  “Holy shit.” He turned to stare into the living room at the rain washing down the bay window.

  “Hang on. I need to tell you something else.” A slamming sound on Sylvia’s end of the call was followed by a cessation of much of her background noise. She must have gotten into her car. “I ran that DNA from the shirt through the database right before I got summoned out here, so I didn’t have time to call you about that. I’m sorry, but I didn’t get any hits.”

  Chase’s brain was still stuck on the body found at the tennis center site. So all that had happened to Kylie might have been about a murder, not her attack . . . unless they were related. Shit, he thought. Shit.

  “So you’ll meet me at the morgue?” Sylvia asked.

  He shook his head to focus his attention. “Of course. I’ll give Sam a call and have him meet us there, too.”

  Sylvia sighed. “I have a feeling it’s going to be a long day.”

  AN HOUR LATER, AFTER GETTING FELLOW COP Steve Burnett to stay at the safe house with Kylie, Chase arrived at the morgue in the basement of Kendall Falls General. The tropical décor—colorful fish, sea horses and starfish painted on ocean-blue walls—always caught him off guard, as if whoever designed the hospital decided the morgue should be extra cheerful to counter the cold grimness of corpses. It didn’t help. The place was still cold as a freezer with an ambience that was just as stark.

  He spotted Sam talking in hushed tones to Sylvia in a glass-enclosed office. They were both dressed in jeans and T-shirts, as if they’d thrown on whatever was available when their respective summonses had come.

  As Chase approached, he glanced toward the room where he knew the body from the construction site would be laid out for examination. A tech was hunched over a mud-slathered pile of what looked like garbage on a metal table, meticulously scraping at something. Chase saw the young woman’s breath in the chilled air, and he shivered as he continued on into the adjacent office.

  “What have we got?” Chase asked as Sam and Sylvia greeted him.

  Sylvia, trademark hoop earrings swinging, said, “Lucky break. The body still had ID on it.”

  Sam, who looked as if he had slept less than Chase had in the past several days, indicated a deteriorating wallet and its damp contents spread over a metal tray on the desk. “Driver’s license and school ID.”

  Chase squinted his eyes, but the big type on the school ID struck him first and hardest: Kendall Falls High School.

  “Name’s Mark Hanson,” Sylvia said. “Date of birth on his driver’s license indicates he would have been twenty-seven this year.”

  Chase snapped a glance at Sam. “Ten years ago, he would have been in your high school class.”

  Sam nodded, his expression grave. “I didn’t know him, but Quinn McKay might have.”

  Chase rubbed at the back of his aching neck. Great, just what the case needed. Another connection to Kylie’s brother. “We’ll have to bring him in and ask him.”

  “There’s more,” Sylvia said, nodding at Sam.

  Chase looked at his partner, who consulted his notebook. “Missing-persons report was filed on Mark Hanson, age seventeen, about a week after Kylie’s attack. According to the case file, the police never found him. Apparently, he’d run away a few times before, so no one suspected foul play.”

  “Who reported him missing? Parents?”

  “Mother. Sheila Hanson.”

  “She still live in Kendall Falls?”

  “According to her Department of Motor Vehicles’ file, she’s residing at the same address.”

  Chase nodded and closed his eyes. “We’ll have to tell her we’ve found her son.”

  “That’s not all,” Sylvia said, her voice low and tense.

  Chase swung his attention back to her.

  “The medical examiner did a cursory examination of the body,” she said. “The side of the skull has been crushed by blunt force trauma. We’ll have to do more tests, but it looks like the weapon could have been a baseball bat.”

  41

  KYLIE RAISED HER HEAD AND BLINKED AGAINST the light coming through the window, surprised to discover that she’d been sleeping on the floor with her back against the wall and her head on her knees. She felt disoriented and fuzzy, unsure at first where she was or what had awakened her. Then she remembered. Safe house. With Chase.

  His angry words—weak people run away from love—rang in her ears, and she scrubbed her hands over her face with a long groan.

  He was right, of course. She was weak. He made her weak. Weak and scared and pathetic. Everything she vowed she didn’t want to be when she fled Kendall Falls ten years ago.

  But what was she supposed to do about Quinn? He was her brother. She couldn’t possibly betray him by allowing herself to love the man who would help put him on trial. She might not know anything about love, how to love, how to be loved, but she knew all about loyalty. Quinn was going to need hers, especially when the glare of the spotlight turned relentless.

  She should have stayed in LA. If she’d known what awaited her at home, she wouldn’t have done it. She’d have stayed where she was, head firmly buried in Venice Beach sand. But, no, she’d followed her heart. She’d thought she could fill up the emptiness inside her by reconnecting with her family, by reclaiming the life she lost when she left Kendall Falls. She’d known she would run into Chase, but she’d figured she could deal with it, especially if it were only an occasional thing.

  Tired of her circling, no-win thoughts, she pushed herself to her feet, determined to rise above it all and carry on, and headed for the bathroom. A shower would clear her head, wash away the distracting, mesmerizing scent of Chase on her body and perhaps soothe the ache between her thighs that reminded her of what they’d done, what they did so well. What they could never do again.

  He loved her.

  She closed her eyes, pausing in the bathroom doorway and putting her hand out to steady herself. She was so tired, weary to the bone. Too much fighting, too much emotion. She needed her defenses, needed the strength that enabled her to shove it all away and ignore it. She was good at that. Not love. She’d never been good at love. She was good at tennis, competing. She was built for the game, for chasing down a ball and slamming it over a net, for strategizing how to defeat any opponent, for landing shots exactly where they needed to land. Love had nothing to do with it, other than a losing score. Neither did emotion. Just strategy and winning. She was, after all, what her father, her coach, made her.

  In the bathroom, she stripped and stepped into the shower. As the water sluiced over her, anger, disappointment in herself, frustration with the ironies of life—all of it expanded in her chest, welled into her throat, spilling fresh tears down her cheeks. And that just annoyed her even more. Now that she’d started crying, she couldn’t seem to stop.

  Just as she’d feared. She’d let the dam break and now she couldn’t focus. Couldn’t keep her eye on the ball. Couldn’t b
reathe through the pain.

  Thanks to Chase.

  Who loved her.

  She buried her face in her hands.

  He loved her, and she’d hurt him. The memory of his face when she’d said she had to choose Quinn over him . . .

  Seeing it again caused the ache in her chest to sharpen.

  “I thought you were strong. But you’re not. You’re a fool.”

  A fool to think they could go back. A fool to think they could ever get it right. A fool to think she could handle the intensity of his love and passion.

  He wanted too much, expected too much. She’d made a lifetime career out of suppressing and dodging and pretending. Changing those habits would be like winning a Grand Slam tennis tournament barefoot and with a broken racket.

  Yet . . . he made it sound so easy.

  “Trust me.”

  “Let me help you.”

  “I love you.”

  How could she just walk away from that? From him?

  Was she really that big of a fool?

  She pictured life after Quinn’s innocence was proved. She’d have a new tennis center, assuming the bank didn’t get cold feet with her credit line. She’d have her family to continue reconnecting with: Lara, Quinn and Jane. She’d hopefully have a long coaching career with T.J. Ritchie, if he’d have her.

  And who would she share it all with?

  And what would happen when she saw Chase with another woman? A woman capable of letting down her guard and loving him and giving him what he wanted. A woman who bore his babies and adored him as much as he deserved to be adored. A woman who wasn’t her.

  Reaching for the faucet, she yanked the water off and stood there, dripping and shivering, her arms wrapped around her middle.

  No, that wouldn’t work. That . . . that . . . wouldn’t work at all. Not in a million years.

  And she realized how completely she’d been kidding herself.

  No way could she stay in Kendall Falls.

  42

  CHASE STRODE UP THE WALK TO THE MODEST peach stucco house, Sam trailing silently in his wake. Chase figured his partner dreaded telling this woman her missing son had been found dead as much as he did. Not that he could blame him. He hated this part of the job. Hated it almost as much as he hated that he’d left Kylie in the care of another cop when he could have let Sam handle this. But he hadn’t felt like he could stay in that small house with her and not try to corner her all over again. That would just lead to more disaster, and he’d had about all he could take when it came to his bruised heart. For now, he needed to buck up and be a cop.

  “Jesus, it’s humid,” Sam muttered behind him.

  Chase nodded without glancing back. The tropical-like rainstorm had left stickier-than-usual moisture behind, making it feel as though they moved through thick steam.

  On the porch, with Sam hanging out a few feet back, Chase pulled open the screen door to rap on the door with his knuckles. As he waited for an answer, he glanced around. The older neighborhood was one of the more popular areas in Kendall Falls to live. It had no sidewalks, and the un-curbed streets were narrow and overhung with banyan trees. But each house had its own, distinct character. Stately two-stories with two-car garages and fancy landscaping resided right next to low-to-the-ground one-levels with carports.

  It was a stark contrast to the opposite side of town, where a dozen houses shaped by the same cookie cutter popped up in a week, all arranged neatly around the perimeter of a brand-new golf course.

  A woman who looked about fifty opened the door and peered at him through the screen. The extra pounds she carried didn’t detract from her pretty face, though her skin looked blotchy without makeup. Her short, light brown hair was parted on the side and had been recently highlighted. She wore blue stretch pants and an untucked, loose-fitting lavender blouse.

  Chase held up his badge. “Detectives Chase Manning and Sam Hawkins, Kendall Falls Police Department. Are you Sheila Hanson?”

  Her wary eyes settled on the badge for a moment before they tracked behind him to Sam and then back to meet Chase’s gaze. “What can I do for you, detectives?”

  “May we come in and talk to you?”

  She opened the screen door and stepped back.

  The inside of the house was cool and orderly, quiet except for the distant sound of a television tuned to a talk show, perhaps Oprah.

  Chase didn’t stall with small talk. “Ten years ago, you filed a missing-persons report on your son, Mark.”

  She nodded, her expression grave. “Yes. I . . . Have you found him?”

  “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, ma’am, but Mark is dead.”

  She jolted as if he’d pinched her, and the color washed out of her cheeks. “Oh.”

  Chase reached out to give her shoulder a comforting squeeze. “I’m so sorry.”

  “How did he . . . I mean, how—”

  “I’m afraid that it appears he was the victim of homicide.” Her hand flew up to cover her mouth, and her eyes immediately brimmed with horrified tears. “Oh my Lord.”

  Chase took her arm and gently steered her down a short hallway toward the living room. “I know it’s a shock, Mrs. Hanson. Let’s sit down, okay?”

  As she perched on the edge of the sofa facing the TV, she picked up the remote control with a badly shaking hand and muted Oprah.

  The living room was comfortable and free of clutter, the air scented with lemon furniture polish. As Sam hovered in the hall, studying a montage of framed family photos on the wall, Chase sat on a solid blue recliner adjacent to the matching sofa.

  Pressing her lips into an emotion-stifling line, Sheila asked, “Would you boys like something to drink?”

  “No, ma’am, thank you.” Chase’s heart went out to her. She’d just found out her son was murdered, and she still offered them drinks. Denial, maybe. Or just an ingrained urge to always be polite no matter what. Sort of like Kylie’s need to always be in control.

  She craned her head to see Sam as he joined them in the living room. “Detective?”

  “No, thanks,” Sam said.

  Her sorrowful gaze lingered on him. “Are you—”

  “I’m very sorry for your loss, ma’am,” Sam cut in, and ducked his head, clearly uncomfortable.

  Chase cleared his throat to save his partner from her continued sad perusal. “Mrs. Hanson, what can you tell us about Mark’s behavior before he disappeared?”

  She looked at Chase, shell-shocked and confused. “Why would someone kill my boy?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out, but we do need to get some questions answered.”

  Sniffling, she blotted the outer corner of her right eye with one knuckle. “He wasn’t a good boy, Detective. I hate to say that, but he wasn’t.”

  “I understand.”

  “He had troubles,” she said. “Drugs. He never told me, of course, but a mother knows these things.”

  “What kind of drugs?”

  “I don’t know. All I know is that they made him mean.”

  Chase remembered Kylie’s account of the attack. She’d said that one of the attackers had seemed over the top calling the other one names: “Giddy one minute and mean the next, like he was high.”

  “Before he graduated,” she went on, “he was getting into a lot of fights at school. He was so angry all the time.” She plucked a Kleenex from a box on the coffee table. “I blame his father. He left us when Mark was ten.” She delicately blew her nose before going on. “When Mark went missing, I thought he ran away again. He’d done that several times already, so I didn’t report it right away. After about a week . . . he always came back by then, you see, and I was afraid the police would think I cried wolf too many times . . . but this time, after he was gone for six days . . . the most ever . . . I contacted the police.” Her chin trembled, and she pressed the Kleenex to her lips. “And now he’s dead.”

  Chase patted her shoulder in sympathy. The awkward gesture was inadequate, but he didn’t kn
ow what else to do.

  As she dabbed at her eyes, Chase gave her a few moments before he resumed his questions. “Do you have any idea who might have had something against Mark?”

  “I don’t know. Like I said, he got into fights, but I don’t know anything about the boys he fought with.”

  “You don’t remember any names?”

  “I don’t. I . . . I . . .” She teared up again and struggled for words. “I always assumed he started the fight, because of his attitude, so I didn’t pay much attention to that. I should have, though. I mean, now that he’s . . .” She trailed off and bit her bottom lip.

  Chase tugged a fresh tissue from the box and handed it to her. “I have just a few more questions, if that’s okay.”

  She nodded.

  “Do you remember Mark ever mentioning anything about Kylie McKay?”

  Her grief took on an edge of bafflement. “The tennis player? Like what?”

  “Anything at all.”

  “They went to school together. I believe she was a year ahead of him.”

  “Did he have classes with her? Maybe talk to her sometimes?”

  “I highly doubt it. She ran with the popular crowd. He didn’t like those kids at all. Though, I do remember he had a little bit of a crush on her younger sister. What was her name? Judy? Jennifer?”

  “Jane.”

  “Right, Jane. She wasn’t like her sister. That’s what Mark said anyway.”

  A new knot of tension began to form in Chase’s gut. “Jane wasn’t like Kylie how?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Popular? He really despised that crowd. The ‘in’ crowd.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “Specific how?”

  “What, for instance, did he not like about the ‘in’ crowd?”

  “Just, you know, the way a boy of normal means resents classmates that seem to have everything. Money. Designer clothes. Fancy cars. Friends who are cheerleaders and football players.”

  “Did he talk about resenting Kylie McKay specifically?”