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MORGAN THANKED DETECTIVE Detweiler for his help, and accepted his invitation to dinner. “Please let me bring something,” she said. “Dessert?”
“That would be fine,” he said. “Sarah’s partial to chocolate. See you tonight.”
Austin came down with his schoolbooks, and she asked him what assignment was giving him the most trouble, hoping it wasn’t a subject she’d have trouble with, too.
He set his books on the couch between them and sat. “Science, mostly. We’re studying geology and fossils and all the different eras. It all happened a bazillion years ago. It doesn’t make sense that we have to learn it all now.”
“Did you like dinosaurs when you were a kid?”
He scrunched his face. “Yeah. Why?”
“It’s all connected. Go read the last chapter you were assigned, and then ask me your questions. I’m not a geology genius, but I know how to look things up.”
“Like rocks? No rocks where I live—at least not the fancy kinds in the books. It’s chunks of bricks or concrete, and people don’t study them. They throw them.”
Austin had opened the door for Morgan to follow up on the questions he’d had for Cole last night. She would’ve preferred moving on, but she needed to know what Austin’s life had been like. If his neighborhood had degenerated—and if so, why hadn’t she known?—it might help her prove he was better off here.
Why was she assuming he’d continue to live in the same neighborhood? If the system found a relative living somewhere else, then Austin would be moving anyway. Same went for foster parents.
“Did anyone throw rocks at you?” she asked. “Did you throw them at someone?”
“Not me. DeShaun threatened to, but a teacher caught him first and he got detention.”
“What about what you told Cole—Mr. Patton—last night? About the police shooting somebody, and beating people up. When did that happen?”
“A while back. I was ten. I didn’t know much, but everyone was mad that the cops got off. They been giving the cops a tough time ever since.” He ducked his head. “Some kids, they keep chunks of bricks and stuff in their pockets. Say they’ll throw them if any cop gives them trouble. But they’s—they’re—bluffing.” He chuckled. “Their mommas would give them what for if they got nasty.”
“You kept away from those kids, didn’t you?” Morgan’s relationship with Austin centered around his music. She hadn’t asked for many details about the rest of his life.
She thought about him walking the three blocks to and from Mrs. Reardon’s house after school. The woman had taught elementary school music before she’d retired and had been kind enough to allow Austin to use her piano to practice. If the streets weren’t safe, she’d have mentioned it, wouldn’t she?
“Yes, ma’am.” Austin tapped the worn cover of his science book. “The troublemakers are on the other side of Clinton Street, and they ain’t—haven’t—crossed yet.”
Morgan visualized the area. Clinton Street was a major thoroughfare in that section of town and made a good demarcation line. If there were kids—dare she think of them as a gang?—who wanted to expand their territory, they’d move in the direction of Austin’s neighborhood. Going the other way would mean hitting the interstate, and beyond that lay middle and upper-middle class homes.
Austin was here now, she reminded herself, and part of her New Life on Elm Street.
While Austin studied, Morgan went upstairs where she’d be out of earshot and called his school.
The principal was sympathetic and understanding. “He’s such a gifted child. We’ll do everything we can to help while he deals with this tragedy. I’ll have his teachers email you lessons until he’s ready to return.”
Morgan asked about transferring Austin to the Pine Hills middle school.
“You don’t plan on Austin returning?”
“There’s less than a month left of the semester. I’d hoped he could finish the school year here. Fewer reminders of what happened.”
After a long pause, the principal said, “Get me the information about the school he’d be attending, and I’ll ask his teachers here to communicate and coordinate with their Pine Hills counterparts. One way or another, we’ll see to it that Austin moves forward.”
Was it really that easy? Morgan thanked her and hung up before the woman changed her mind.
She moved on, calling Mrs. Slauson to update her on Austin’s status and to see whether Children Services had come by.
“Not yet,” Mrs. Slauson said.
Morgan asked whether Austin’s mom had ever mentioned wanting to be rid of Austin.
“Not really,” Mrs. Slauson said. “She’d complain about the hassle of getting him to and from his lessons, but I never got the impression that she wished he was out of her life.”
Morgan thanked her and called Mrs. Reardon, who had the same basic response. Since Austin got to and from her home under his own power, there was less reason for his mom to consider it a problem best solved by being rid of her son.
Was Austin happy here? Or putting on a brave front? Or acting the way he thought Morgan wanted him to?
~~~
AS THE SOUND OF THE gunshot registered, Cole froze for a split-second, then dashed toward his cruiser, keying the mic at his shoulder. “Shots fired. Officer requests backup.”
He gave the address.
“Backup en route. ETA three minutes. Maintain your position.” The calm, emotionless voice of the dispatcher did little to slow Cole’s galloping heart.
Neither did a second gunshot.
The underlying fear that accompanied him every time he put on his uniform crashed over him full force. Would he have the guts to do the job if his life was in danger?
This is why you became a cop. To help people. Make up for what happened to Jazz and those five other people.
Single shots. Not an automatic weapon, then. As bad scenarios went, this one could be worse. Cole went to his trunk for his shotgun. When a suspect has a gun, go in with a bigger gun.
He scanned the yard for cover, dashed toward the curb, and knelt behind a maple tree where he could keep an eye on the house. Impatiently waiting for backup, he ran through his training scenarios.
Two houses down, a door opened. A woman in a floral bathrobe stepped onto her porch, looked toward Alma’s house, then popped back inside. The overly-conscientious neighbor who’d called in, was Cole’s bet.
Flashing lights behind him said backup was here. Brody stepped out of his cruiser and pulled his shotgun from the trunk.
Cole straightened, nodded to Brody, brought him up to speed.
“The resident here is one Alma Evans, and I’ve encountered her before.” Cole explained Alma’s ... interest ... in her neighbor. “Didn’t strike me as the sort to have a gun, much less use one.”
“Never know what will provoke someone, though. You’re thinking there are at least two people inside. Alma Evans and whoever came in the Subaru.”
“Correct.”
“You’re first on scene,” Brody said. “There are two of Pine Hills Police’s finest out here. I’d say odds are stacked in our favor. Call it.”
As if Cole had been thinking of anything else during the longest three minutes in recent memory.
“You cover the back. I’ll take the front.”
“Ever done this before?” Brody whispered.
“Entered a house where shots have been fired? No. Only in training.”
“Bet you’re puckered up good. A six, at least.” Brody flashed a quick grin before his face shifted into pure cop mode and he headed for the back of the house.
An ambulance parked in front of Cole’s cruiser, and Cole jogged over to tell them to stand by until he’d assessed the situation.
Standing to one side of the door, Cole rapped on the wooden panel. He kept the pitch of his voice low, the volume high. “Ms. Evans. Pine Hills Police. Open the door.”
Nothing.
“Are you in need of assistance?” Cole asked.
“You might say that. Come in.”
Cole recognized the voice. Alma Evans. He called to Brody, who was already jogging toward the porch.
“I heard her invite us in,” Brody said.
Cole twisted the knob. Unlocked. Confirming that Cole would enter first, going right, he kicked the door open.
Inside, shotgun at the ready, Cole stood in amazement. Alma sat on the couch, a .22 pistol pointed at another woman perched on the edge of an easy chair on the other side of a large, square coffee table. On the floor were remnants of a large vase which appeared to be a gunshot victim. An oil painting of Mount Hood sported a neat, round hole near the mountain’s summit. Victim number two.
The second woman, a brunette, mid-fifties, with a thick neck, sagging jowls, and pointed nose, kept her vitriol-laden stare on Alma. Cole’s gaze shot to her hands, gripping the arms of the chair. Chunky rings in gold and silver tones adorned most of her plump fingers.
Brody divested Alma of her weapon, then cuffed her.
Alma glared.
“For both of our protection, ma’am.”
Cole did the same for the second woman as he asked her name.
“Christine Grossjean,” she said.
Bruce Grossjean’s daughter. She lived in Michigan. What was she doing here? Was her father hiding out in the bedroom?
“Is there anyone else in the house?” Cole asked.
Despite both women insisting they were alone, Cole set off to clear the rest of the residence. Swapping his shotgun for his pistol, he moved from room to room, senses on alert, channeling his training exercises. No reason to panic. He reminded himself—again—this was why he became a cop. To protect people.
The bed in the master bedroom was neatly made, so no apparent recent hanky-panky. Cole checked the other bedrooms, bathrooms, closets. No signs of anyone hiding, unless you counted the dust bunnies under the beds.
“Clear,” he reported when he came back to the living room. He holstered his pistol, took out his notebook and pen. “All right ladies. What happened here? Let’s start with you, Ms. Evans. Why the gunfire?”
“She barged into my house,” Alma said. “Of course I grabbed my gun. A woman’s got a right to protect herself. I didn’t shoot her, just wanted to let her know I could.”
So much for Cole’s impression that Alma Evans wasn’t the gun bearing sort. Making assumptions could get you killed. He’d heard that one often enough, both at the academy and at daily briefings.
“Why did you barge in, Miss Grossjean?” he asked.
The woman’s gaze never left Alma. “That ... that ... gold digger is after my father. He’s seventy-six years old, for God’s sake. Starting to lose his marbles. He has to be twenty years older than she is. She wants his money, nothing more. Money that should be coming to me.”
“Ha!” Alma spat the word. “Have you seen his will, bitch? You’re hardly getting anything, and that goes whether or not we get married.”
“Married?” Cole choked back his surprise. “You and Mr. Grossjean were getting married?”
She lifted her chin. “Are getting married. With or without Miss Greedypants’ approval. Bruce told her, invited her to the wedding, asked for her blessing, and she comes down and barges in here, telling me I’ll marry her father over her dead body. Which, as you’ll notice, is not the case, but I admit to being tempted.”
Brody shook his head. “Miss Evans. Did Miss Grossjean threaten you in any way when she came into your home? Other than voicing her ... displeasure ... with your upcoming nuptials?”
Nuptials? Who used that word in conversation?
“Of course she did,” Alma said. “She came in, picked up that vase and held it up like she was going to hit me over the head with it. That’s when I shot it.”
“Miss Grossjean, did you intend to strike Miss Evans with that vase?” Brody asked.
She shrugged. “I wanted to let her know I was serious about stopping her from marrying Daddy.” She shifted her gaze from Alma to Brody. “I didn’t hit her. She’s the one who fired a gun.”
“The two of you will need to come to the station,” Cole said.
The front door burst open. Bruce Grossjean rushed into the room, his gaze moving from his daughter to his apparent fiancée, both wearing handcuffs.
He clutched at his chest and dropped to the carpet.