DEAD CERTAIN Read online

  He'd barely exited the waiting room when the exterior door whooshed open and Glen Cleberg entered. Lines of stress surrounded his mouth, and his hair stood on end, as if it had felt a frustrated hand rake through it more than once. He motioned them to chairs in a corner and joined them there.

  "I know you're all anxious to learn what we've uncovered so far." He frowned, as if dreading what information he had to impart. Every nerve ending in Savannah's body screamed with tension.

  "It looks like a domestic dispute scene that got out of control," the chief told them.

  "That's crazy," Clay said, voicing Savannah's initial response.

  "Chief, surely you don't think our mother could be responsible for Dad's condition?" Savannah looked at him incredulously.

  His frown deepened. "I'm just telling you what the initial investigation points to. There's no sign of forced entry, no indication that anything has been stolen."

  "How would you know if anything has been stolen?" Breanna asked, tears shimmering in her eyes.

  "Tomorrow, after the crime-scene investigators get finished, we'll do a walk-through," Glen said. "I need you all to tell me if you see something out of place. But, I can tell you right now the only things that appear to be missing are a suitcase from a set in your parents' closet and some of your mother's personal items."

  Stunned. His words stunned them all. Savannah could see the shock she felt on her siblings' faces. The implication was obvious. They believed that Rita had smashed her husband over the head, then packed her bags and run.

  "Glen, you know my parents, you know what you're thinking is impossible," she said.

  He hesitated a moment. "I know what the evidence looks like at the moment," he replied softly.

  "Then let me inside. Let me find the evidence that points to the truth," Clay exclaimed, his hands balled into fists at his sides.

  "That's exactly what I'm not going to let happen," Glen said, his tone sharp. "Even though the three of you are officers of the law, you will have nothing to do with this investigation." He held up a hand to still the protests that came at him from three different directions.

  "Think about it. I can't let the family members of a crime do the investigating of the case. A defense attorney would be able to rip a case to shreds under those circumstances."

  Savannah knew he was right, but that didn't make the situation any easier to swallow. "But what about Mother's car?" she asked suddenly. "It was there in the driveway … so how did she leave?"

  "I don't have the answers," he said with obvious frustration. "Look, we're only a couple of hours into this investigation. We have a lot of work ahead of us. It would help if your father could enlighten us about what happened."

  "Dad's in a coma," Clay said, and his voice radiated with the hollowness of a person still in shock. "According to Doc Watkins he isn't going to be explaining anything anytime soon."

  For the first time since she'd driven up to her parents' house a stark grief swept over Savannah. She felt almost sick to her stomach as she tried to digest what they knew so far.

  The man who had held her when she'd been sick, the man who had taught her how to dance, how to shoot a gun and given her a love for law enforcement was clinging to life by a thread.

  Her mother, a proud, beautiful woman who had taught her to honor her Cherokee heritage, the woman whose hands had soothed, whose laughter could light up the night, was missing.

  Hold on, Daddy, she cried in her heart. Please hold on, we still need you. Where are you, Mom? What has happened to you?

  "Savannah, why don't you meet me at your folks' place tomorrow at noon. We'll do a walk-through then," Glen said. "I'm putting an all points bulletin out on your mother. We need to find her. We need to talk to her. Take the next couple of days off. Your father is going to need you when he comes out of his coma, and I don't want any of you mucking around in this investigation."

  "If he thinks I'm staying out of this; he's crazy," Clay said the minute Glen had left to go in search of Dr. Watkins.

  "Just because we can't investigate officially doesn't mean we can't investigate unofficially," Breanna said.

  "I can't stand around here and do nothing," Clay replied. "I'm going to make some phone calls, drive around and see if I can find Mom. Maybe she got hit in the head, too … has wandered off in a daze and doesn't know who or where she is."

  "You know she didn't have anything to do with Dad's injuries," Savannah said.

  "That goes without saying," her brother replied. He looked toward the windows. "She's out there somewhere, and she's in trouble. We've got to find her."

  He didn't wait for any reply but strode out the door and disappeared into the night.

  Savannah felt the darkness of the night closing in around her, filling her heart, filling her soul with fear. She turned back to look at her sister. Breanna reached out and grabbed her into a hug that kept the darkness from consuming her.

  "Go," Breanna said as she released her. "Go find Mom. Adam and I will stay here."

  "You'll call me if there's any change?" she asked. "Of course we will," Adam said as he wrapped an arm around his wife's shoulder.

  Although she was reluctant to leave, Savannah knew there was nothing she could do here. Her father was getting the care he needed.

  She left the hospital through the emergency room doors and stopped in her tracks. Parked in a car in the closest parking space to the door was the handsome stranger she'd seen out at her parents' place.

  Who was he? What was he doing here? It had been odd enough to see his strange face among those of the neighbors at the house. Had he been involved in whatever had happened there? Had he come here in a compulsive, sick need to see the grief he'd caused? Was he here to see if her father had come awake and was talking?

  A burst of adrenaline chased away grief as she pulled her handgun from her shoulder holster and approached the car. "Show me your hands," she demanded to the man in the driver seat.

  Startled blue eyes widened as he lifted his hands off the steering wheel. "I think there's been some sort of mistake." His voice was a deep baritone.

  "The only mistake anyone has made around here is yours." She pulled open the driver door. "Now, get out of the car, put your hands on the roof and spread 'em."

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  «^»

  Riley Frazier hadn't reached the age of thirty-four without learning when to balk and when to comply. When a woman who'd just suffered an emotional trauma pointed a gun and began to bark orders, it was definitely a good idea to comply.

  He got out of his car, placed his hands on the roof and spread his legs. "There's a wallet in my back pocket with my identification in it," he offered.

  She frisked him with a professional, light touch, beginning at his ankles. She patted up his legs, then around his waist. Only then did she pluck his wallet from his back pocket.

  He remained in place, although there were a million things he wanted to say to her, things he wanted to ask her.

  "What are you doing here, Mr. Frazier?" she asked.

  He dropped his arms to his sides and turned to face her. In the bright illumination of the parking lot light overhead he got his first good look at her. A rivulet of pleasure swept through him.

  Earlier at her parents' house he'd been too far away to see just how beautiful she was. Long black lashes framed dark eyes. Her hair was jet-black, and the short cut emphasized high cheekbones and sensual lips.

  She stared at him expectantly and he frowned, unable to remember her question to him. "I'm sorry… What do you want to know?"

  "Your identification says you're from Sycamore Ridge. What are you doing here in Cherokee Corners and what were you doing out at my parents' ranch?"

  Riley suddenly realized what it looked like.., why his presence had prompted her to pull a gun and check him out. "It's not what you think."

  "And how do you know what I think?" she returned in a cool tone as she handed him back his wallet.


  "I know what I'd be thinking if I was in your place," he replied.

  "Riley!"

  They both turned at the sound of the young male voice. Scott Moberly hurried toward them, and Riley thought he heard a faint groan come from Savannah.

  Scott reached them, half-breathless from his run across the parking lot. "You bothering the local law enforcement, Riley?" Scott asked, a wide grin stretching across his freckled face.

  Riley shrugged, and Scott turned his attention to the woman officer as he withdrew a notepad and pen from his pocket. "So, what's the scoop, Savannah? Is your father dead?"

  "Scott!" Riley exclaimed as Savannah's features twisted with a combination of pain and anger.

  "Oh … was that insensitive? Sorry." Scott sighed miserably. "How about an exclusive, Savannah?"

  "I'll give you an exclusive. All reporters are pond scum." She turned on her heels and started toward her car.

  She'd written him off as a reporter, Riley thought. He fumbled in his wallet and withdrew his business card and a copy of a newspaper clipping.

  "Savannah," he shouted, and ran after her. She didn't stop walking, didn't indicate in any way that she had heard him.

  He caught up with her at her car. "Savannah … wait."

  She whirled around to face him, her eyes flashing dark fires of anger. "No interview, no scoop … I have nothing to say."

  "Please … I'm not a reporter," he said quickly. She jumped in surprise as he grabbed her hand and pressed his card and the copy of the clipping into her palm. "Call me when you're ready to talk."

  He backed away and watched as she got into her car and drove out of the hospital parking lot. He hoped she'd call. He hoped she'd read the old news clipping, but there were no guarantees. For all he knew she might toss what he'd given her into the trash without even looking at it.

  "Did she say anything to you?" Scott asked eagerly as Riley returned to where he stood.

  "No, nothing." He turned and looked at the young man he'd befriended two years earlier. "Thanks for calling me."

  Scott nodded. "As soon as I heard the initial report, I knew you'd want to know." Scott glanced longingly at the emergency room door.

  "Go on, Scott," Riley said. "Go see if you can get a story, but try to be a bit more sensitive. Anyone you find to talk to about any of this will be in shock … in pain."

  Scott flashed him another quick grin. "Got it." As he disappeared into the hospital, Riley sat on a nearby bench, not yet ready to make the hour-long drive back to his home in Sycamore Ridge.

  The late-June night air was unusually warm, more in keeping with August than June. It had been on a hot August night that his world had been ripped asunder, and for the past two years he'd felt as if his life had been in limbo.

  He'd awakened each morning with unanswered questions plaguing his mind and had gone to bed each night with those same questions still begging for answers.

  He'd met Scott in the dark days following the event that had shattered his life. The brash young reporter had journalistic dreams of becoming the next Ann Rule and writing bestselling books about compelling crimes.

  Initially Riley had found the young man relentless and his questions an irritating breach of good manners and an invasion of Riley's privacy.

  But when the cops had gone away, when the crime-scene investigators had packed up and gone home, Scott had remained. When the neighbors had stopped sending cards of condolence and the flowers on his father's grave had withered and blown away, Scott was still around, sometimes asking insensitive questions but also offering friendship and support that Riley desperately needed at the time.

  The friendship had lasted, although there were times when Scott's eagerness overwhelmed his tact. And tonight with Savannah had been one of those times.

  He turned his head as he heard the hospital door open and Scott walked through. He spied Riley and walked over and sat next to him on the bench.

  "What did you find out?" Riley asked.

  "Not much," Scott replied glumly. "Thomas James is still alive, but he's in a coma. I tried to get some information out of Glen Cleberg, the police chief, but he wouldn't tell me anything. It's going to be hell trying to get any information from law enforcement … you know, the brotherhood of cops, the blue wall and all that."

  "I think that's only a myth when a cop is supposed to be bad or corrupt," Riley replied.

  "Who knows what was going on with Thomas. You know he was chief of police before Glen Cleberg. Maybe somebody had a score to settle with him."

  "And so they banged him over the head and did what with his wife?" Riley asked.

  "I don't know," Scott admitted. "I'm just speculating here."

  "I thought good reporters weren't allowed to speculate. I thought they were just supposed to report the facts."

  Scott grinned widely, exposing a chipped front tooth. "Who ever told you I was a good reporter?"

  "So, tell me about Savannah James," Riley asked, changing the subject.

  "Her name is actually Savannah Tallfeather. She's a homicide dick and a widow. About a year ago her husband, Jimmy, crashed into the old bridge over the Cherokee River. The wood was old and rotten and his car went over the edge."

  Riley frowned. There should be a law—only one tragedy in a single lifetime. The fact that she was so young and already had suffered two seemed vastly unfair.

  "It's eerily similar to what happened to your parents, isn't it?" Scott asked. He wasn't talking about Jimmy Tallfeather's untimely death. He was talking about whatever had happened at the James ranch.

  "Yes … at least from the snippets of information I've heard so far." Riley sighed and looked upward toward the night sky where the stars were obscured by the bright parking lot lighting. "But I hope it's not the same."

  He looked back at Scott, but his thoughts were filled with a vision of the lovely Savannah. He knew every agonizing emotion she was experiencing. He knew intimately the sensation of shock, the taste of uncertainty and the scent of your own fear.

  He knew the furtive glances of people willing to believe the worst. He knew the isolation of friends drifting away, uncomfortable and somehow afraid. He wouldn't wish what he'd been through in the past two years on anyone, especially a young woman who'd already been touched by tragedy.

  "I hope they find Rita James alive and well. I hope she left for a planned trip hours before her husband was attacked." Riley held his friend's gaze intently. "I hope this is nothing like what happened to my parents. But if it is like what happened to my family, then God help them all."

  * * *

  It was near dawn when sheer exhaustion drove Savannah to bed. She'd been up for over twenty-four hours, and although her head wanted to keep searching for her mother, her body rebelled, forcing her to rest.

  The night had been a fruitless search. She and Clay had contacted half the townspeople to see if they knew anything about Rita's whereabouts.

  They had contacted friends, relatives and acquaintances, all to no avail. Savannah had taken a photo of her mother to the bus station while Clay had checked all the rental car companies.

  Nothing. It was as if Rita had packed her suitcase, then disappeared off the face of the earth.

  Before crawling into bed for a couple hours of sleep, Savannah sat in her living room window and watched the sun peek up over the horizon as if shyly testing its welcome.

  Tears burned her eyes. Was her mother seeing the sunrise? Had she left on an unexpected trip and had no idea what had happened at the ranch? Or had whomever hurt Thomas also done something awful to Rita?

  Savannah had shed few tears all night, but as she watched the beauty of the sunrise, sobs choked in her throat, racked her body and ripped through her heart.

  She'd believed all her tears had been depleted on the day she'd buried her Jimmy, but she'd been wrong. A river of tears escaped from her until she fell into an exhausted sleep.

  Her alarm awakened her at nine. Gritty-eyed and half-asleep, she stumbled into
the bathroom for a quick shower.

  As the steamy hot water washed away the last of her grogginess, she mentally steeled herself for what lay ahead of her—the walk-through at the ranch house to see if anything was missing or out of place.

  Savannah had been to many crime scenes in the six years she'd been a cop, but she'd never been to a crime scene where her own family members were the victims. And there was no doubt in her mind that her mother was a victim as much as her father was. They just hadn't figured out yet what her mother was a victim of.

  Before leaving her apartment she called Breanna to check in on their father. There had been no change in his condition, and Breanna told her she and Adam were heading home for some much-needed sleep. Clay had no news, either.

  In the brilliant sunshine of day the crime-scene tape surrounding the house looked even more horrifying than it had the night before.

  Savannah got out of her car and was greeted by Officer Kyle O'Brien, a young man who'd apparently drawn the duty of guarding the house until it was released by the police department.

  "The chief is on his way. I'm sorry I can't let you inside until he gets here." He looked at her apologetically.

  "It's all right, Kyle." She forced a smile. "I'll just wait for him in my car." She slid back in behind her steering wheel, ignoring the look on Kyle's face that indicated he wouldn't have minded a little conversation.

  She didn't feel like talking. She leaned her head against her headrest and closed her eyes as the events of the night before replayed in her mind.

  He'd had the bluest eyes she'd ever seen. Her mind filled with an image of the man she'd frisked in the hospital parking lot. Yes, he'd had the bluest eyes she'd ever seen, but they hadn't sparkled; rather, they had been somber and filled with sympathy.

  She rummaged in her purse and pulled out the business card he'd handed her the night before. Riley Frazier, Master Builder of Frazier Homes.

  She'd heard of Frazier Homes. But why would a homebuilder think she'd want to speak with him? She wasn't in the market for a new home, and last night had definitely not been the time to approach her. It didn't make any sense.