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COMBS SAT IN HIS CAR in front of the brick ranch house. He’d put it off as long as he could. It was time to talk with Uncle Stanley and Aunt Ethel. He plugged his cell phone into the charger since he’d be in and out within ten minutes, just long enough to make an appearance and support the family. Doty and Gonzales didn’t want him at the press conference anyway. He sighed heavily and left the car.
Before he could ring the bell the door opened. Light spilled into the morning gloom and haloed the tiny woman in the doorway. Combs gingerly embraced Aunt Ethel, careful her tears didn’t breach the wall he’d erected around his own emotions. She offered a sad smile as she stepped back and motioned him into the hallway. He stifled a hiccupped breath despite his best intentions, so he turned away to latch the door and regain his composure.
“Aw, honey, I’m so sorry.” Aunt Ethel again hugged him tight. Her close cropped dark head barely reached his shoulder. She wore a favorite green Baylor sweatshirt, jeans, and moccasins, and her high cheekbones and dark eyes needed no makeup. She smelled like sunshine, safety, family. Like Mom.
His first sob surprised him.
“Let it out, sweetie.” Her arms tightened. “I’ve got you, you’re safe. Let it out.”
Oh God, it hurt. He couldn’t catch his breath. Cops don’t cry. But sons do. The dam broke, and he shook in her arms for endless moments.
He broke the embrace. Without a word, Ethel handed him a hand towel. He mopped his face and cleared his throat. “I can’t stay.” He handed back the towel, and straightened his shoulders. Didn’t look at her. He had to be a cop again.
“I know. You’re on the job. So go see your uncle. He’s in the kitchen.” Her hands fluttered a tattered tissue. “He’s biting nails to be involved. You know Stan. They made him take retirement, or he’d still run things.”
True. Uncle Stan always knew what should be done and he’d tell you in no uncertain terms. Other folks often fell short of what was expected. He’d failed in his uncle’s eyes. Again.
“I appreciate you coming, I know you’re busy. But tell Stan something, calm him down.” She hesitated. “The rest of the family left hours ago. I sent them away. They just got each other more and more riled.” She wadded the tissue and stuffed it in her jeans pocket. “All but Naomi. She’s upstairs, asleep I hope. I gave her one of my magic pills.”
Thank God Naomi was asleep. He hadn’t the courage to meet his sister and uncle together. “Don’t think I’m the best person to calm Uncle Stanley.” His smile softened the understatement.
She raised her brows. “You mean all that business with your job? Never mind that. Stan’s a hard man, a proud man. The stuff they said about you hurt him because he knew they were lies.” She smiled but her lips trembled. “Your mom was so proud of you, and Stan worshipped her.”
The scandal not only killed his career and marriage, it drove a wedge through his family, and by default tainted Stan’s reputation in the police force. Combs didn’t even know the informant’s real name. He’d never seen “Spider” without the black-on-white makeup or spiked black hair, until that day in the morgue when he’d learned she was a lawyer’s kid, a lawyer with juice. Hell, Combs didn’t blame the parents, he’d have stroked out if he lost one of his kids. But after Spider’s diary surfaced, Doty used it to point fault at Combs and away from her own culpability, and Uncle Stanley stayed silent when Combs lost his detective’s badge.
“He could have done more to defend me.” The old hurt was hard to ignore, but he shrugged an apology. Aunt Ethel always defended and believed in him, even after Cassie lost faith and left with their kids. And of course, Mom’s support never wavered. “Old news doesn’t matter. Today it’s all about Mom.”
“Yes, it’s about Wilma.”
“Somebody has to take her cat.” He forced a smile. “She’d kick my butt if I didn’t mention that.”
“Never mind the cat, your sister has that covered. Simba is upstairs sleeping with Naomi. They’ll be good for each other. No more foot dragging. You go to Stan before he has another coronary.” She grabbed his arm, a grip surprisingly firm for such a birdlike woman. “It’s okay to show you’re hurt, too. You are more like Stan than either of you wants to admit.” When he would have argued, she interrupted. “Honey, help your uncle by helping your mom. She’s what held us together, and with her gone . . .” Her chin rose, and her blue eyes glinted with more than tears. “There’s been enough hurt in this family, don’t you think?”
“Who’s there, Ethel? Any news?” Stan called out.
“Keep your voice down, you’ll wake Naomi.” She searched Combs’s expression for something, and smiled as if she’d found it. “Jeff’s home.” She squeezed his arm and whispered. “Give him what he needs, what you both need.” She pushed him down the dark hallway toward the bright kitchen. “It’s what Wilma would want.”
He braced himself and strode into the light. Uncle Stan towered above the sink, coffee pot in one hand and empty cup in the other. His barrel chest, covered by the trademark leather vest, belied the heart condition that forced him into early retirement. Iron gray hair held a permanent wave from years of wearing a cowboy hat. His trimmed and waxed mustache hid humorless lips. Uncle Stan was a taller, broader version of Yosemite Sam.
“About damn time. Sit. You’ll be here a while.” Uncle Stan always spoke in foregone conclusions, and had no patience with what he called weenie hedges. He poured thick, black liquid into his mug before a sip and grimace. “It bites. Want some? This is the fourth pot, I think. Not bad with enough sugar.”
Combs sat at the pine table in silent assent. He accepted the cup, warming his hands with it, and braced himself.
“Tell me.” Stan returned the pot to the coffee warmer. He remained by the sink, braced against the counter as his knuckles turned white on the handle of his mug.
Combs had practiced before he arrived. “Single shot to the forehead.” He coughed to cover the quaver in his voice on the last word.
Stan’s mustache twitched. “So it was quick.” He breathed in and out, his jaw working. “What else?”
“We’re looking for April Childress and her son. Been in touch with the sister, September Day, who’s considered a person of interest.” Combs stared at the mug in his hand. An oily film floated atop the liquid. He tasted the coffee. Vile. Just what he needed. He took another slug.
“You attended school with them.” Again, not a question. Stan pulled out a chair, flipped it around, and straddled it. The posture strained the seams of his pressed and starched jeans. “Miz January already called to offer condolences. Their whole family is tore up something fierce, waiting for word.”
Combs unzipped his heavy coat. Ethel kept the furnace cranked to shirtsleeve temperatures. After Dad died, he and Naomi spent lots of time at Uncle Stan’s house with their friends, including some of the January kids. He wasn’t surprised they’d been in touch.
Stan peered toward the kitchen doorway, checking for his wife before he spoke so she couldn’t hear. “Who chatted up the ex-husband? Miz January ain’t a fan, some disagreement about the grandson’s medication or something.” He cleared his throat. “Divorce can be a messy beast, so I’d take it with a grain of salt, but wanted to pass it on.”
“Gonzales visited the parents. I was there for the initial talk with April’s ex.” Combs rose and carried his mug to the counter. Messy, indeed. He didn’t get to see his kids like he should. It made a man do and say things, changed a man into less than his best.
“I remember Gonzales. Dapper little guy, straight shooter from what I hear. He’s like a rat terrier but you don’t want to mess with them either, especially not if you’re a rat. Partnered with Doty after you . . .” He stopped. Reached for his hat, and smoothed his hair when it wasn’t there. Stared into his coffee.
Combs stiffened but didn’t rise to the bait. He found the sugar bowl—the fake sweetener stuff Aunt Ethel preferred—and stirred a spoonful into his coffee. He tasted the coffee, added more sweetener, and stirred.
“Hey, bring the pot over, will you?”
Combs returned to the table, his mug in one hand and the carafe in the other, and reheated Uncle Stanley’s cup. “Naomi make this?” He smacked his lips. Sweetener didn’t help.
“Yep. Nasty, ain’t it?”
Combs sat down again. It’d been ten months since he’d had a decent conversation with his uncle. He’d missed this. Hell of a situation when Mom’s murder brought them back to the table—literally.
“Argument between the divorced parents over the little boy makes for interesting dynamics, and motives.”
“Tell me about it.” Combs slugged down half his mug, and set it aside. Now it was too sweet. “Steven’s autistic. He’s got a dog that September trained that’s supposed to help.”
“Autistic. So they disagree about the dog as part of the treatment?”
Combs paused. “I don’t know. Good question.”
“At least he’s with his mom.” Gonzales looked surprised at Combs’s expression. “No? The boy’s on his own?”
“Gone lost in the snowstorm with his dog. We think he took off before Mom was killed.” Combs recited the facts dispassionately. “That’s why April called September. We don’t know if they were present for the shoot, only that both are on the run, probably from the killer.”
“Or on the run with the killer?”
He considered, and then shook his head. “Not September. Maybe April, though, and that would put the sisters in conflict instead of cahoots. We’re flying blind until we figure out what they’re running from—or with—and why.” Combs rubbed his eyes. “Mom was just at the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“I cain’t see either sister putting the boy at risk.” Stan reached to adjust his missing hat again, and scowled. “It’s April’s house, so she’s the bull’s eye, and everything else revolves around her.”
Combs agreed. “Or her son. She’s a mom, so anything that affects Steven motivates April.”
Stan fingered his handlebar mustache the way Ethel played with her rosary. “Something she has, something she knows, that’s what this is about. April won’t give it up, so he shoots Wilma to raise the stakes, and takes April hostage to arm-twist September to deliver the goods. The bastard.”
Combs cracked his knuckles. That made an awful, chilling sense. He stared at his coffee as if the black reflection held answers. “Even if April partnered with the bad guys, the timing and body count doesn’t compute with a single shooter.”
“Body count? Wilma’s not the only one?” Stan’s hand slapped the table, and the cup sloshed. “Ethel? Turn the damned police scanner back on,” he yelled. “I’m missing too much. Dang woman thinks she’s protecting me.”
“You should monitor the radio show, too. I’m sure that Fish character milked all the gory details to hell and gone.” He carried the empty carafe back to the sink. “We found some doctor’s body, and another shooting happened at Gentry Park, a friend of September’s. And I just came from Star Mall after September directed us to a dead bus driver. Bloody paw prints and a kid’s sneaker tracks all over the floor. But no dog, no kid, no witnesses. Except for the coffee shop guy that Pike interviewed, but he didn’t really know anything. I think the killer kidnapped Steven.”
“September called that in? Shit, I didn’t buy her as the shooter.”
“Nope, she came late to that party. We think Steven got on the bus with his dog, and got off at the mall. But he didn’t drive himself away. Somebody took him. The bus driver objected and got herself shot.”
“I’ll buy that.” Stan slurped his coffee.
Combs rinsed out the pot and left it in the sink. “That extra leverage—the kid—keeps September on task. She can’t come in to the police, or her sister and Steven get hurt.”
“So pressure’s on September to produce—whatever it is.” He wiped coffee from his mustache. “She didn’t give you any hint?”
Combs’s shrug sent a sharp twinge down his spine. Tension always settled in his back. “You’d think she’d know better. Her husband was a cop.” He flexed and twisted but it didn’t help. Only finding Mom’s killer would relieve the unrelenting ache.
“A cop?” Stan frowned. “Not around here. What’s her story, anyway?”
“You don’t remember?” Combs leaned against the counter. “Lot of gossip at the time. She was a musical prodigy, ended up on a concert tour sponsored by her school. Must have jumped the tracks when she fell in love, ditched school to marry, and gave up her scholarship.” Yep, love could derail even the best laid plans. “Childress was pissed that September had some little sister crises over a supposed stalker late in April’s pregnancy. She flew to the rescue, and Steven was born in Chicago during the trip.”
“He didn’t get to see his kid being born? I’d be pissed, too.”
“More than that. Steven was a premie, hospitalized for a month before he came home, and Childress says that caused the autism. Blames September.” Combs shrugged. “Anyway, September married the cop, threw away her music career and ended up with dogs.”
“Makes no sense. Music to cop hubby to dogs? That’s screwy. How’d they meet? Was he security for a concert?”
“Nope. SVU in Chicago.”
“Special victims? Huh.” Stan’s tone suggested you had to be nuts to prefer the big city. “What’s she do here? Heartland’s a sleepy ‘burb compared to Chicago.”
“You do avoid the gossip, don’t you?” Combs smiled at his uncle. If it didn’t happen in church or on the scanner, it didn’t matter. “She and her husband moved from Chicago to South Bend.”
“Fighting Irish?”
“Yeah, Notre Dame land. They won the lottery, and then he got himself killed. Scuttlebutt says the stalker followed September from Chicago and nailed her husband. But nobody got arrested for the crime. Anyway, between the winnings and his insurance, September’s financially set for life so she moved back home and bought the old Ulrich place. She’s got it tricked out with more security than Fort Knox. Locks, bars, you name it. Her folks think she’s still antsy over the stalker, but they don’t seem to take it seriously. I’m just surprised she doesn’t have a guard dog.”
She looked younger than twenty-eight, and he’d been charmed by her quick wit. She didn’t remember turning him down for a date all those years ago, and he hadn’t reminded her. “She’s smart. She worked SAR with the police, but both her husband and the dog died in some hinky convenience store shooting.”
“That explains the security overkill, I suppose.” He paused. “Married to a cop. Worked tracking duty with cops. Why didn’t she go to the cops?” Stan’s ferocious look still had the power to castrate.
“If these bastards have her sister, and now Steven, she’s not taking chances. She’s a victim, too. They pull the strings and she dances.”
“It’s all these damn cop shows. Has the whole world believing they can solve crimes all by their lonesome.” His brow wrinkled. “Wait a minute. Did you mention a doctor? One of the victims is a doctor? What sort of doc?”
“Yeah, we found Dr. Pottinger’s body outside of Childress’s place.” He tugged at his collar. The fabric, wet from the snow, had begun to chafe. “Pottinger’s a researcher. Probably studies cockroach races or how many nose hairs the average teenager grows. Not really any connection other than proximity to Childress. But we found an antique bullet in the ceiling at April’s house that the in-house ballistics guru says may be a match to the bullet that killed Pottinger.”
Stan slapped the table again. “That’s it!” He dismounted the chair, crossed to Combs, and gave him a bear hug. “Pottinger’s the connection. That’s the name Miz January mentioned, the doc who helped with the kid.” His mustache quivered like a hyperventilating squirrel. “Pottinger—sounds like that Peter Rabbit storybook writer I used to read to you kids. Beatrix Pottinger, that’s how I remembered.”
“That’s Beatrix Potter. Shit.” Combs reached for his cell phone and then remembered he’d left it to charge in the car. He checked his watch. “Doty’s holding a press conference in about two minutes. I need to get over there.”
“Take me.” Stan drew himself up to his full 6’2” height. “Don’t shut me out.”
Zippering his coat, Combs headed for the door. “You know what the brass would say. And since when did you become a rule bender?” The cold words sounded more abrupt than he intended. Stan didn’t deserve that.
“Please.”
Combs stopped at the door, his hand on the knob, and turned back. He knew Stan’s request took enormous effort. The man granted favors, not the reverse. And from his own experience, Combs knew a view from the outside, stripped of power, took an enormous toll. Might as well lie down in a coffin and wait for the first shovel of dirt.
“I can’t. You wouldn’t in my position.” The words cut Combs to the core. They’d finally reconnected, found each other again, only to have this happen.
“Don’t suppose you can make exceptions.” Stan hitched up his jeans. “You always did follow the rules, more or less. You were always a good cop, and a great detective. I think I knew that all along.” His mustache twitched. “Wouldn’t Wilma just blow a raspberry if this got you back into the fold again?”
Yep, Mom would be tickled but that didn’t change reality. “I can’t take you with me, but I can by-damn keep you informed.” Combs held out his hand. “I don’t want either of us to ever get lost in the shuffle again.”
Stan grabbed his hand, squeezed hard. Blinked back tears that Combs knew were reflected in his own eyes. Aunt Ethel was right, they were very much alike. No need for further words.
Combs opened the door and hurried back into the cold before he embarrassed them both.
