On Her Father's Grave (Rogue River #1)(20)

She slammed on her brakes and gasped as a shiny black truck laid on its horn, flying past her a split second before she backed into the street.

If I hadn’t been paying attention . . .

The truck hadn’t even slowed. She’d caught a glimpse of a familiar face as he swore at her out his open window.

It was the guy Kenny had brought in yesterday morning . . . Ted Warner. The one Kenny was afraid had been about to hit his kid. After Ted’s arrest, he probably didn’t have much patience with the Solitude police force.

She took a deep breath, checked both directions, and backed out. She could see the truck far ahead. Perversely she stepped on the gas, wanting to scare him a bit. Nothing hit the pit of your stomach like the sight of a cop car in your rearview mirror. He wasn’t speeding much. Perhaps five miles an hour over the forty-five speed limit. Not enough for her to pull him over. Sunlight bounced off his bumper and momentarily blinded her. She got close enough to see his plate and backed off.

Nice truck.

Small Town Rule #3: New car? Things must be going well.

She followed for another minute, hanging back until he pulled into a long dirt driveway. Stevie slowed down, eyed the mailbox number, and studied the tiny home set back from the road. It was a double-wide trailer. It’d probably been new and fresh at one point, but now it screamed neglect. In one long glance she saw it needed paint, new steps, new roof, and many hours of a gardener’s attention.

She continued another half mile down the road and pulled off to the side, punching his plate into her computer. The truck was the current model year and registered to Ted Warner at the address she’d just passed.

A lot of people bought new cars. But something had been said yesterday morning when they were all at the police station that had given Stevie the impression that Ted didn’t work. Perhaps Loretta brought home the bacon? Still, the sight of the new truck bothered her. She made a U-turn and drove past the home again. This time she spotted the big barn set back from the home, and the familiarity of the shape of the building kicked her in the chest like sharp heartburn.

It looks like . . .

She blocked it out of her mind and focused on the road. Sweat bloomed in her armpits. Coincidence. A lot of homes had outbuildings just like that. Especially here where most of the homes sat on isolated five-acre lots. There were probably fifty homes in a ten-mile radius that had the exact same setup as Ted Warner’s.

But there hadn’t been many in LA. Real estate was hard to come by. And the rich had snapped up the spacious lots, leaving few run-down, pathetic-looking homes sitting on smaller acreage in her patrol area.

She’d been the first to arrive at the LA address at the request of dispatch. According to dispatch, Officer Paul Verde wasn’t responding to radio calls since he’d called in his arrival at the address. Paul’s patrol car was parked to one side of the long driveway. Paul had been responding to a strange-odor complaint from a delivery service. Stevie had arrived, notified dispatch of her arrival, and waited for backup, but she hadn’t seen Paul.

It’d been a squat-looking house, desperately in need of some TLC, with a large barn set back and to one side, just visible from Stevie’s position.

Exactly like the setup of Ted Warner’s place.

She’d stepped out of her vehicle and hollered for Paul. The lot had been silent. No one came to the front of the home. She went up and knocked on the door, peeked in a few windows. She didn’t see any signs of life. She went back to her car and radioed dispatch.

“It’s quiet. The car is here but I don’t see the officer. I called for him and no answer. I’m going to check the outbuildings.”

Dispatch paused. “He’s not answering his radio. Stay with your vehicle until backup arrives.”

Stevie sat in the hot sun, her door open, wondering how long it’d take the next car to arrive. Paul’s empty vehicle was disturbing her.

Then the screams started.

Her heart in her throat, Stevie leaped out of her vehicle, her hand on her weapon. She took two steps in the direction of the barn behind the small home and then stopped. She grabbed her radio and reported the screams. Male screams.

“Oh my God.” She wanted to slam her hands over her ears.

“Wait for your backup,” came the dispatcher’s voice.

“No! They’re killing him,” she shouted at her radio, her feet glued to the ground. Every nerve in her brain shouted for her to find Paul, but her training made her stay put. “I’m waiting,” she whispered, feeling like she was about to physically split in half. She shuddered. The screams stopped, then started up again.

A second car pulled in beside her and Luis Madero stepped out, his eyes widening as he heard the screams. He spoke into his radio and gestured with his head for Stevie to follow him.

Stevie’s training kicked in and she moved automatically, working in unison with Luis as if they were in a training exercise. Her brain shifted into autopilot, tuning out the screams. At the door to the barn, Luis gestured for her to enter and the scene burned itself on Stevie’s brain.

Paul was being held down on the floor of the barn by three men while a fourth poured a liquid over his face. The men wore heavy-duty protective gear, gas masks, and gloves; Paul had nothing. An odor assaulted Stevie’s nose and her eyes started to water. Luis shouted and the men looked up. All four made the decision to run. Stevie holstered her gun and grabbed the hose from outside the barn, dragging it toward Paul and holding her breath. She stood back and sprayed the cop, rinsing the clear substance from his skin.