Holding Out For A Hero

“No, just yesterday morning when I was looking in. I got away from there as fast as I could. I took care of my son, kept him safe, and I eventually notified the police.”

“It’s the eventually that concerns us,” Oscar said.

Riley added, “Want to tell me why you packed up and left?”

Shelley rolled her eyes. “I’m not staying in the neighborhood. Not only has someone been murdered, but also I’m the one who found her. I’ve got enough on my plate and plenty of reasons not to trust the police. Another reason I called you and didn’t leave my name. I wanted to let you know what I discovered and stay anonymous. Shouldn’t I be given the courtesy of reporting a crime while remaining anonymous?”

“There are ways,” Riley agreed, “to stay anonymous. You didn’t choose that route.”

“I was flustered,” Shelley said.

“What I can’t explain,” Riley mused slowly, “is why you came back.”

“Again, as I told Officer Guzman earlier, I came back because of my dad.”

“Your dad is safe.”

She glanced down the hallway. Nope, Oscar thought, this woman did not truly believe her dad was safe. That meant she didn’t feel that she or Ryan was safe. Oscar needed to find out why. If it wasn’t for the fact that nothing had been taken from Candace’s house—not money, jewelry or electronics—Oscar might think Larry Wagner had something to do with the crime.

Oscar had to act. He was losing this argument. “Ms. Brubaker, Candace was a friend of mine. I’ve known her since she was in kindergarten. She was a good person who never hurt anyone. Anything you can tell us would be appreciated.”

“I can’t tell you any more than I already have,” Shelley whispered.

“Can’t or won’t?” Oscar demanded, ignoring the look of reprimand Riley shot him.

“I didn’t know her,” Shelley protested. “I followed Ryan to the window. He said, ‘She’s asleep.’ I took one look and knew that wasn’t the case. I was terrified. It hasn’t even been six months since my ex-husband took off. You called me Shelley Wagner. You’ve been in town, what, a month? And you already know who I am, so you must know the destruction he left and what I went through, what I’m still going through. I get calls every week from people wanting my story or wanting me to reimburse them for what my husband stole from them. If I had waltzed into the station and reported seeing a dead body, I’d have been on the five o’clock news yesterday. Ryan doesn’t need the circus to begin again. He’s just now sleeping through the night.”

“What if your hesitation, your unwillingness to tell us everything you saw, gives the murderer an opportunity to kill again?” Riley queried.

Not the direction Oscar would have taken, but it didn’t seem to faze Shelley Brubaker.

“Maybe it’s the husband,” Shelley responded. This time she didn’t whisper, and Oscar got the idea she’d given the conclusion some thought. “I don’t have much faith in husbands. Have you asked him?”

“I thought you didn’t know the family,” Riley countered.

“I know that the young man managed the store my dad used to manage. My window looks right down on their house. I did see enough of them to realize who they were.”

“Funny thing,” Riley said. “Her husband is out of town and you left town. Were you meeting up with him?”

Oscar almost slid off the chair. For a small-town cop, Riley knew how to unnerve a witness. He was unnerving Oscar. The cop in him should have been prepared. The human in him wasn’t. He’d been watching Shelley for weeks. He knew she wasn’t seeing Cody Livingston. The woman took care of her son and took care of her father. That was about it.

“I don’t even know his name,” Shelley said indignantly.

“You sure packed quickly.”

“Did you see the size of my garage apartment? Everything I own will fit in a laundry basket. Oh, and take a look at what’s in my car,” Shelley offered. “You’ll find what amounts to fifteen minutes of packing up clothes, games and food. I had no intention of putting myself, or my son, in front of the media again. Fat lot of good it did me.”

“You could have done a fat lot of good yesterday,” Riley stated. “We’d have found the body sooner. The first twenty-four hours are the most important. You cost us a few of those hours when you didn’t report what you saw immediately.”

Shelley huffed. It was the wrong reaction. It bothered Riley enough that he tossed out words like subpoena and civic duty and even mentioned that leaving the scene of an accident was a class two misdemeanor.

The last one, Oscar knew, was overkill. There’d been no accident. Candace had been murdered. Then Riley pulled out his cell phone. Oscar watched as his fingers danced over the screen, and suddenly he was swiping through photos.

He was probably going to show Shelley a close-up of Candace Livingston—go for the shock and guilt tactic. Oscar closed his eyes for a moment, steeling himself against the sudden pain in his heart.

Senseless death.

He’d seen way too much of it in Afghanistan. As a cop, he wanted to help people. Yet cops and murderers were uneasy dance partners with one always trying to lead the other.

He wished the case was all his, that he could take over the questioning, demand answers, but he was pretending to be the new kid on the block.

“Here, maybe you need to see this.” Riley turned his cell phone toward Shelley, showing her a photo.

Shelley looked away. Oscar started to protest. This wasn’t the time or place, but her rescue came from a different source.

“Hello, Mr. Vaniper,” Shelley said. The piano player had returned. For a moment, Oscar thought Riley would continue to talk right through “Amazing Grace.” Oscar’d had to “ahem” twice to get Riley’s attention. Riley passed the cell phone to Shelley. She glanced at it, gave it back to Riley and announced that she’d be calling her lawyer.

Oscar saw the tears in her eyes. They barely shimmered, but they were there, and just as an hour earlier, when he’d seen the proof of her grief, he almost interfered. Oscar almost told Riley what he could do with the photo.

“Good,” Riley said. “Have your lawyer meet us at the station. I’m sure you know where that is.”

If looks could kill, Riley would have been a chalk line on the floor, because Shelley was now one very annoyed pregnant woman.

Shelley stood and started to leave, but her cell phone pinged. He watched as she pulled it from her pocket, checked a text or message and then turned pale.

“Everything all right?” he queried, wishing he could get a look at her phone.

“Just a typical day.” The words were typical; the tone was not. An edge that hadn’t been there earlier was present, a terseness.

Whatever she’d read on her phone had changed things. She’d been both angry and wary during the questioning; now she was visibly shaken.

She retrieved Ryan from the front desk, hefting him into her arms and holding him tight. She made it look easy, but the kid had to be heavy.

Oscar took one step toward her. “You need some help?”

She gave him a look that put him in his place. Alongside Riley, he was pond scum. Usually it didn’t bother him. Rarely could a cop arrest a perp without being called worse than pond scum. Shelley’s look, however, bothered him.

Bothered him a lot.

CHAPTER SIX (#ua098f4e0-e42f-54eb-9214-a86f3408103c)

“SHE’S NOT TELLING us everything.” Riley strode toward his vehicle, Oscar at his heels.

“You’re absolutely right,” Oscar agreed. “She just got a message on her phone and it spooked her.”

“What kind of message?”

Oscar knew Riley was hoping for details. Instead all Oscar could provide was “It was an email or a text, and she didn’t share.”