Tribute

  them back here. I’ll be back and forth a lot today. Let me ask you something. If I made a bargain with myself—or with God, fate. Whatever. And it was that I’d paint the barn red, red with white trim if Steve comes out of this okay, would I be jinxing it if I bought the paint before . . . before he comes out of it?”

  “No. In fact, it shows faith.”

  She shook her head. “I knew you’d say that. I’m just the opposite. Too scared to buy the damn paint.” She pushed to her feet. “I’ll see you later.”

  “I’ll be by the hospital.”

  She stopped at the door, hesitated, then turned back to look at him. “I can pick up dinner for tonight, if you want.”

  “That’d be great.”

  “I really want to sleep with you.” She smiled when he nearly bobbled the coffee and when Spock’s tiny ears perked. What a pair they were. “I really want to know what it’s like, to just let go. But I guess it’s like buying the paint, for now.”

  He kept his gaze on hers, and smiled. Slowly. “I’ve got time. For later.”

  Ford sat where he was, drinking coffee and making a mental note to write down that stuff about Kroblat. It could come in useful sometime, somewhere.

  He felt pretty damn good for a man who’d slept on the floor, he decided. And one who’d had some trouble not thinking about the woman sleeping on the floor in the next room.

  Now, since he was up at this ungodly hour, he’d drag his ass across the road, get in a workout, check on Steve, get a couple solid hours in on the novel, then drop by the hospital.

  “You get your lazy ass up, too,” he said to Spock, and juggled the dog fully awake with his foot. He heard the first truck pull up as he pulled on his pants. By the time he was dressed and pouring a second cup of coffee, with Spock doing what Spock had to do in the backyard, the noise and activity level hit the red zone. Deciding he’d just borrow the mug and bring it back later, Ford headed outside with the coffee.

  He saw Brian directing one of his men toward the back of the house with what looked like a load of sand. Ford shot up a wave. “Hey, Bri.”

  “Well, hey.” With his thumbs in his front pockets, Brian strolled over and shot a meaningful look toward the house. “And hey.”

  “Nah. Separate rooms. I didn’t want her to be alone.”

  “How’s she doing?”

  “Seems steadier this morning. She’s already on her way to see Steve.”

  “Shanna called the hospital. No change yet. It’s the damnedest thing. Hell of a nice guy.”

  “Yeah.” Ford looked over at the barn. “How much paint do you figure it’d take to do that barn?”

  “Hell if I know. Ask a painter.”

  “Right.” He glanced over as another car pulled up. “This place is a madhouse half the time. I’m going home.”

  “Cops.” Brian jerked his chin. “Cops’re back. I hope to hell they don’t want to talk to Shanna again. It gets her going.”

  “I’ll see if I can take it.”

  Neither of the men who stepped out of the Crown Vic were the cop—Taney, Ford remembered—they’d talked to the day before. Neither of them wore a uniform, and instead sported suits and ties. Detectives, he assumed.

  “Hey, how’s it going?”

  The taller of the two, with snow-salted gray hair and prominent jowls, gave Ford a curt nod. The second, small, lean and black, eyed him coolly.

  And both, he noted, stared down at the dog that stared up at them.

  “Cilla—Miss McGowan’s—not home,” Ford began. “She left for the hospital about fifteen, twenty minutes ago.”

  Tall White Guy studied him. “And you’d be?”

  “Sawyer. Ford Sawyer. I live across the road. I spoke with Officer Taney yesterday.”

  “You live across the road, but you stayed here last night. With Miss McGowan.”

  Ford sipped his coffee, met Short Black Guy’s eyes while Spock grumbled. “Is that a statement or a question?”

  “Your hair’s still wet from the shower.”

  “So it is.” Ford offered an easy smile, then sipped his coffee.

  Tall White Guy took out a notebook, flipped pages. “Can you tell us where you were night before last, between two and five A.M.?”

  “Sure. Would you mind doing the ID thing? It’s not just for TV.”

  “Detective Urick, and my partner, Detective Wilson,” Tall White Guy said as they both produced their badges.

  “Okay. I was in bed—over there—from about one A.M. until I heard the sirens yesterday morning.”

  “Have company?”

  “Yeah, Spock.” He gestured at the dog. “You could take a statement from him, but I’d have to translate so it probably wouldn’t work. Look, I get you have to check out everything and everyone, but the fact is somebody was out here a few nights before. I saw somebody skulking around with a flashlight.”

  “We got that.” Urick nodded. “You’re the only one who claims to have seen anything. What’s your relationship with Miss McGowan?”

  Ford beamed an exaggerated country-rube grin. “Friends and neighbors.”

  “We have the impression, from other sources, that your relationship is more than friendly.”

  “Not yet.”

  “But you’d like it to be.”

  As Ford blew out a breath, Spock began to circle the cops. He wouldn’t bite, but Ford knew if irritated enough, Spock would sure as hell lift his leg and express his opinion.

  Bad idea—probably.

  “Spock, say hello. Sorry, he’s feeling a little irritated and ignored. If you’d take a minute and shake, he’ll settle.”

  Wilson crouched, took the paw. “How’s it going? Damnedest-looking dog I ever saw.”

  “Got some bull terrier in there,” Urick commented, and leaned down to shake.

  “Yeah, at least that’s what I’ve been told. Okay, back to would I like it to be more than friends and neighbors. Have you seen Cilla? Met her? If so, you’d know I’d have to be stupid not to like it to be. What does that have to do with Steve?”

  Urick gave Spock an absent scratch before straightening. “Miss McGowan’s ex-husband, staying with her. Three’s a crowd.”

  “Again, only if you’re stupid. But you’ve made it clear that none of what happened was an accident.” Ford turned, studied the barn. “Somebody was in there, and whoever it was fractured Steve’s skull and left him there. Just left him there.”

  The thought of that, just the thought of that stirred the rage he’d managed to hold still and quiet. “Son of a bitch. What the hell were they looking for?”

  “Why do you think someone was looking for anything?” Urick demanded.

  Ford’s eyes were cold green ice when he turned back. “Give me a fucking break. Not some scavenger, either, not some asshole poking around trying to score a pair of Janet Hardy’s shoes to sell on eBay. That doesn’t follow.”

  “You’ve given this some thought.”

  “I think a lot. Listen, look at me as long as you want, as hard as you want. If you’ve got more questions, I’ll be around.”

  “We’ll find you, if and when,” Wilson called out.

  No doubt about it, Ford thought as he headed for home with his dog.

  TWELVE

  He wanted to get into the barn, and Ford figured if he tried it, it would add a few more layers to the suspect cake the cops were baking for him.

  He was a suspect. It was actually kind of cool.

  God, once a nerd always a nerd, he thought as he went through a series of lats and flys.

  Once he’d worked up a sweat and an appetite, he checked in with the hospital, downed some cereal. Showered, shaved, dressed, he stepped into his office, up to his workstation.

  He closed his eyes, held up his hands and said, “Draco braz minto.”

  The childhood ritual put everything outside the work, and Ford into it. He sat, picked up his tools and began to draw the first panel for Brid.

  CILLA HAD her chair angled towa
rd the bed so she could look directly into Steve’s face as she spoke. And she spoke, keeping up a constant one-sided conversation, as if any appreciable stretch of silence could be deadly.

  “So it’s moving. Clicking along better than I anticipated, even with the changes and additions I made to the original plans. The attic space shows real promise. Later on, I’m going to go pick out the flooring for up there, and the fixtures and tiles for that bath, and the master. We’ll be able to have a beer out on the patio, soon as you’re ready. What I need is pots. A couple of big-ass pots. Monsters. Oh, and I’m going to plant tomatoes. I think it’s about the right time to do that. And, like, peppers, maybe carrots and beans. I should wait until next year when the house is done, but I think I could scratch out a square for a little garden now. Then—”

  “Miss McGowan.”

  Cilla took a breath. When it hurt her chest to draw it in, it told her she’d been pushing too hard. “Yes.” What was the nurse’s name, the nurse with the curly blond hair and warm brown eyes? “Dee. It’s Cilla.”

  “Cilla. The police are out there. A couple of detectives. They asked to speak to you.”

  “Oh. Sure. Just a sec. I’ve got to do this thing,” she told Steve. “I’ll be back.”

  Spotting the cops was the easiest thing she’d done all day, Cilla thought. She stepped up to them. “I’m Cilla McGowan.”

  “Detective Wilson. My partner, Detective Urick. Is there somewhere we could talk?”

  “There’s a little waiting room down here. They’ve got something they call coffee. You’re looking into what happened to Steve now,” she said as she led the way.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Then you know he didn’t trip over his own feet, bash himself in the head and fall under his own bike.” She hit the coffeepot, added powdered creamer. “Do you know what did happen?”

  “We’re looking into it,” Urick said. “Do you know anyone who’d wish Mr. Chensky harm?”

  “No. He’s only been here a few days. Steve makes friends, not enemies.”

  “You were married.”

  “That’s right.”

  “No hard feelings?” Wilson prompted.

  “None. We were friends before we got married. We’ve stayed friends.”

  “He’s living with you.”

  “No, he’s visiting me, and giving me a hand for a couple of weeks on the house. I’m rehabbing the house. He’s in the business.”

  “Rock the House,” Urick commented. “I’ve caught the show.”

  “Best there is. You want to know if we’re sleeping together. No. We have, but we’re not.”

  Wilson pursed his lips, nodded. “Your neighbor, Mr. Sawyer, states that he saw a prowler on your property a few nights ago.”

  “Yeah, the night Steve got in. Steve heard something outside.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “No, I sleep like a rock. But Steve woke me up, said he heard something. I brushed it off.” The guilt wormed its way back. “Then Ford mentioned the flashlight he’d seen. I was supposed to get a padlock for the barn, and I let it slip by.”

  “We noticed you seem to be using the barn to store things. Boxes, furniture . . .”

  “Junk,” Cilla finished, and nodded at Urick. “I brought it down from the attic. I’m having the attic finished off and needed to clear it out. I’ve been sorting, but it’s a big job. I thought I’d separated what struck me as potentially valuable, but it’s hard to tell on a couple of passes.”

  “You didn’t notice anything missing?”

  “Not at this point.”

  “Some of the boxes were crushed, the furniture knocked over.” Wilson gestured. “It looked, possibly, as if Mr. Chensky drove his bike into the barn, lost control, went down.”

  “That’s not what happened. You know he wasn’t drunk or stoned.”

  “His alcohol level was well under the legal limit,” Urick agreed. “There were no drugs in his system.”

  Inside her chest, her heart began a tripping beat. “A sober man, and one who’s straddled a Harley for about a dozen years, doesn’t get off the bike, open the door, get back on the bike and yee-haw drive in over a bunch of boxes and furniture.”

  “The X-rays indicate Mr. Chensky was struck at the base of the skull. Probably a crowbar or tire iron.”

  Cilla pressed her hand to her heart as it tightened to a fist. “Oh, God.”

  “The force of the blow pitched him forward, dropped him so that he hit the concrete floor, which caused the second fracture. Our reconstruction indicates the Harley was rolled to where Mr. Chensky lay, then pushed over on top of him, breaking two of his ribs and bruising his kidney.”

  Urick waited, watched as Cilla set her coffee down, as her hand trembled. Her color went from pale to ghostly. “Now, let me ask you again. Do you know anyone who’d wish Mr. Chensky harm?”

  “No. No, I don’t know anyone who’d want to hurt him. Who’d do something like that to him.”

  “How did Sawyer get along with him?”

  “Ford?” For a moment she went blank. “Fine. They hit it off. Big-time. Steve’s a fan. He’s even got . . . Oh, for God’s sake.”

  Understanding, Cilla pressed her fingers to her eyes, then dragged them back through her hair. “Okay, follow the dots, please. I am not and was not sleeping with Steve. I am not and was not sleeping with Ford, though that is on the table. Ford did not attack Steve in a jealous rage, as I don’t think he has a lot of rage in the first place and, more importantly, he knew there was nothing to be jealous about. I was up front with him regarding my relationship with Steve, and in fact was out with Ford the night Steve got hurt. The night both myself And Ford knew Steve had gone out to sniff around Shanna Stiles. There’s no romantic or sexual triangle here. This isn’t about sex.”

  “Miss McGowan, it looks as though someone was in your barn, and may have been lying in wait. You and Sawyer knew Mr. Chensky had gone out for the evening, and that he stored his motorcycle in the barn.”

  “That’s right, that’s absolutely right, Detective Wilson. Just like we both knew he’d gone out to try to score with a very attractive brunette. Neither of us could know if he’d get lucky or bomb out. So you’re suggesting that after spending the evening with me, Ford snuck back, hid out in my barn, just in case Steve came back. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  Shock, anger, guilt, annoyance all drained into sheer misery. “None of this makes any sense.”

  “We’d like you to go through the items you have stored in the barn, see if anything’s been disturbed or taken.”

  “All right.”

  “Your grandmother left a deep mark,” Wilson continued. “I’d guess most people figured anything of hers in that house was taken away a long time ago. Word gets out, as word will, there’s still some things around, someone might be interested enough to break into a barn.”

  “And fracture a man’s skull. Yeah. The thing is? Most of what’s in the barn is from the McGowans. The ordinary side of the family.”

  She went back to Steve, but this time sat in silence.

  When she left, walked to the elevator, she saw her father get off the car. “Dad.”

  “Cilla.” He strode quickly toward her, took her shoulders. “How is he?”

  “The same, I guess. He’s critical. He came through the surgery, and that’s a plus, but . . . A lot of buts and ifs and maybes.”