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Dr. Ethan Melrose stood over the slab in the hospital morgue and waited while the attendant pulled a sheet from the dead man’s face. They needed to do a postmortem. And since he was both River’s doctor and his best friend, he wanted to oversee it personally.
But as soon as he looked at the body, he knew something was wrong.
“How did he do that much damage to his face with a simple fall?”
The attendant flipped open a metal folder, reading from a chart. “Hit the toilet, facefirst.”
“No way in hell,” Ethan said. “Get this cleaned up. I can’t even see him, much less examine him.”
He paced the room while the attendant worked, but when he turned again and saw more of the corpse’s face, he thought his heart flipped over in his chest. It was pummeled, yes. The nose broken, maybe a cheekbone, too. But he was certain of one thing.
“That man is not Michael Corbett,” he said.
“What?”
Lunging forward, Ethan grabbed the dead man’s wrist, lifting it. “Jesus, where’s his wrist band? Didn’t anyone even bother to check his wrist band?”
“Oh, God,” the attendant muttered. “He…the patient’s room was locked. He was the only one inside. No one even thought to question—Doctor, if this isn’t Michael Corbett, then who the hell is it?”
“I don’t know. But I think we have a more pressing question to answer right now. If this isn’t Michael Corbett, then where the hell is he?”
“Jesus, he escaped.”
Ethan nodded. “Better call the state police. And find out the name of every male staff member who was on duty last night. See who’s not accounted for.”
He walked out of the room, but had to stop halfway down the hall, because his knees were shaking so badly he thought he might fall. He braced his arms against a wall, lowered his head between them. “Dammit, River. Where are you?”
“Welcome to the Blackberry Police Department,” Frankie said, beaming a smile at her as Jax walked through the door. The police department took up fully half of a neat brick building with a huge parking lot that rolled out in back of it. The other half held the town post office.
The first room was a reception area, more or less. It held a desk, where a pretty brunette with a nameplate that read Rosie Monroe jumped to her feet as soon as Jax entered the room.
“Hi, Lieutenant Jackson,” she said. “I don’t think we really met last time you were in town.”
“Well, there was a lot going on last time I was in town,” Jax said, extending a hand. “Chief Parker tells me you practically run this department.”
Rosie shrugged, shaking, her grip entirely too gentle, her hand cool. “I’ve been here ten years. It’s kind of second nature.”
Jax released her hand and looked around the room. Besides Rosie’s desk, this end held a small sofa and love seat in fake green leather. Between them was a stand with a coffeepot, creamer and sugar containers, and a large white box that she guessed, from the aroma, contained fresh doughnuts. It had Susy-Q’s Bakery stamped on the lid.
The other side of the room opened out wider, held three desks and was lined with file cabinets. Every desk had a typewriter, and there was one computer in the room, which the men apparently had to share.
The officers were coming over now, two of them smiling and vaguely familiar—she’d worked with both of them during the Mordecai Young incident last year. Good men. She held out a hand. “Campanelli, Matthews, good to see you again.”
Bill Campanelli shook her hand warmly, his smile genuine. All of five-six, and nearly as big around, Bill had a thin layer of carrot-red hair remaining on his rapidly balding head, and when he smiled, his whole face lit up. “Same here,” he said.
Mike “Icabod” Matthews took his turn, adding a pat to her shoulder. “If anyone can fill Frankie’s shoes, we figure it’ll be you.”
Cassie shook her head. “Either one of you could handle the job,” she said.
They exchanged looks and winked. “Neither one of us wants it,” Campanelli said. “Hell, I retire in five years. And Matthews, he’s got so many side projects going he wants to have himself cloned.”
“Town couldn’t take two of me,” the other man joked.
The third man stood off to one side, waiting his turn. His pale blue eyes were cold, his smile forced in his square-jawed face. He was built like a boxer—stocky and solid. Jax knew the type. Big chip on his shoulder and probably had issues working under a woman. It might have been different with Frankie, since she was the man’s aunt. But Jax was not only female, but a younger female at that. And stepping into the job he had coveted for himself. She read all of that with her first look at the guy, pegged him as an asshole, and didn’t doubt she’d be proved right, given time.
She extended a hand. “You must be Officer Parker,” she said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” It was a lie, but what the hell.
“Lieutenant,” he said with a nod.
She almost told him to call her Jax, but decided against it. She’d need every edge she could get with this fellow, and establishing a pattern of respect would be a good start.
“I hear you stayed out at that old empty house last night. How do you like it?”
“Love it,” she said.
He lifted his brows, maybe a little surprised. “Really? I’d have thought being way out there like that might make a city girl a little uncomfortable.”
“I’m from Syracuse, Officer Parker, not Manhattan.”
He shrugged. “Still city, compared to here.”
“I like the country. It’s quiet.”
“Not a neighbor within a mile of you,” he said. “A lot of the locals claim to have seen things out there, since the fire.”
“What kinds of things?” she asked, looking him square in the eye.
“Just things. Things that spooked ’em.”
“Guess it’s a good thing I don’t spook easily. I didn’t have power or a phone last night. And even that didn’t spook me.”
“Those will be on by the time you get home,” Frankie told her, coming out of her office to join them. “Power company said by noon today, and the phone guy told me dinnertime at the latest.” She smiled. “So did you really like the place?”
“I’ve never spent a more interesting evening,” she said, and it was a perfectly honest answer.
“Well, now you’ve got me curious. Come on, you can tell me about it while I give you the grand tour.”
“Nothing to tell, Frankie. Honest, I love the house.”
Frankie led her through the station, showing her the files, the communal computer, the supply closet, which was packed full. Jax noted a holding cell in what looked like a new part of the station. “Just the one cell?” she asked.
“We didn’t have any until this past year,” Frankie told her. “It’s brand-new.”
“What did you do with the criminals before now?”
Overhearing her, Kurt Parker released a bark of laughter. “Hell, honey, this isn’t some city police department. We barely have any criminals.”
She shot him a look, but before she could say a thing, Frankie cut in. “I’m pretty sure I did introduce you, didn’t I, Kurt? The woman’s name is Lieutenant Jackson. Not ‘honey.’”
He looked as if he was about to say something belligerent, but by then the other two officers were chiming in. “You’d think some of us had been raised in a cave,” Matthews said.
“Hey, Parker, you want some more coffee? Honey?”
“Yeah, how about it, sweetie pie?”
Parker’s face reddened, and he turned to stomp off to his desk as if he had something pressing awaiting him there.
Rolling her eyes, Frankie led Jax into her office and closed the door. There was a smaller desk set up in the corner with a blotter, a cup full of pencils and pens, and a Blackberry Police Department coffee mug with a blue ribbon fastened to the handle.
“Aw, heck. Is that for me?”
“Sure is,” Frankie said. “That’s your desk. At least, until you move on over to this one.” She patted her own desk. “And to answer your earlier question, when we needed to make arrests, we’d call the county boys in. We’d get the paperwork, they’d get to hold the prisoners. It sounds complicated, but we had got it running like clockwork. Still, having a holding cell of our own is nice. And Kurt was right about one thing—we very rarely have to make any arrests.”
There was a tap on the door, then it opened and Rosie poked her head through. “Got a call, Chief.”
Frankie lifted her brows and waited, and Jax felt herself tense, just as she always did on the job when a call came her way.
“Purdy says someone just snatched some fruit from his produce section, and took off without paying.”
Jax blinked. Frankie nodded. “And what did this dangerous felon make off with?”
“An orange and a bunch of grapes, near as he could figure.”
Frankie nodded and smiled at Jax. “Welcome to high crime in Blackberry,” she said, her eyes twinkling. Then, to Rosie, “Description?”
“Male. Couldn’t see his face. He was wearing a blue hooded sweatshirt with some kind of bright orange logo on the front.”
Jax felt her own smile freeze in place and slowly die. Damn, she hoped the stranger went back by her place, so he would find the offerings she’d left and not feel compelled to steal. Apparently, he wasn’t very good at it. An orange and some grapes? Freaking pathetic.
“Suggestions, Lieutenant Jackson?” Frankie asked.
“Maybe the store’s security camera got him on tape?” she said.
“Nope. No security cams around here, except at the bank and post office.” She nodded to Rosie. “Why don’t you send Kurt over to take a report? He needs something to get his mind off his hurt feelings.”
“Sure thing, Chief.” Rosie backed out of the office.
Frankie sighed. “May as well get comfortable,” she told Jax. “We’ll take a look at the notices from the state police, and the county, and then we’ll head on over to the coffee shop.”
“But there’s coffee here,” Jax said.
“Ah, but we don’t go for coffee. We go for gossip. Best way to keep your finger on the pulse of this town. The good old grapevine—Blackberry’s lifeblood flows through it.”
“I can see I’ve got to get used to a whole new way of working, huh?”
“You’ll pick it up in no time, Jax.” The telephone on her desk rang, and Frankie reached for it. Her smile faded about three seconds into the phone call. Her face seemed to pale, as she scribbled notes. When she hung up she was already on her feet.
“What have we got?” Jax asked, getting to her feet, as well.
“Trouble. Come with me.” She went out of her office. “Rosie, there will be a fax coming through any minute. I’m gonna want a dozen copies, pronto.”
“On it,” Rosie said, and even as she spoke, the fax machine beside her desk was ringing and churning to life.
Matthews and Campanelli came over from their desks. Kurt Parker had apparently already gone to check out the great produce heist.
“Michael Corbett escaped from the state hospital last night,” Frankie said. “Killed an orderly in the process.”
“Holy shit,” Matthews muttered. “They think he’ll head here?”
“He’d be stupid to come here,” Frankie said. “But we need to be ready, just in case.”
“Wait, someone needs to bring me up to speed,” Jax said. “Who is this Corbett? Is he dangerous?”
With a heavy sigh, Frankie turned to her. “Hell, I didn’t want to dump all this on you your first night in town and maybe scare you off. But…well, I already told you the house—your house—has a history.”
“You said a whole wing was destroyed in a fire, and a woman was killed.” A little shiver ran up her spine, but Jax shook it off. She was a cop. Those kinds of shivers had no place in her life. And yet she kept thinking about the odd white shape she’d glimpsed outside, and Kurt Parker’s words about the place spooking people. And the cold spot on one side of the house that never seemed to get warm.
“The house belonged to the Corbetts, and the fire was arson,” Frankie said. “Corbett was found on the lawn with a gas can at his feet. His wife died in the fire—was pregnant at the time, too. Corbett claimed he couldn’t remember a thing, and he had some history of blackouts to back it up and a top-notch shrink on his side. The D.A. accepted an insanity plea and shipped him off to the state hospital, where everyone expected him to spend the rest of his life.”
Jax lifted her brows. “I thought you said nothing bad ever happened here?”
“I may have exaggerated just a tad. Hell, I’ve only given you the digest version. Rosie, dig out those old files so Jax can get caught up. Got that fax yet?”
“Got it.” Rosie handed the faxed sheet to Frankie, who looked at it and shook her head sadly. “That’s our man. Shame, crying shame. He was a cop once. A damn good one, as I understand it.” She passed the sheet to Jax. “We’ll get some posters up around town, keep a keen eye out for him.”
Jax barely heard her. Instead, she stared down at the face of the man who had spent the night in her house. The man who had saved her life at the risk of his own, who had wept in her arms and then slipped away before she woke. The man who, even now, might be finding the food and clothing she had provided for him.
Clothing—that belonged to her father, who was an ex-con and couldn’t afford to be tied to an escaped killer. God, what the hell had she done?
Her first day on the job, and already she was guilty of aiding and abetting an escaped criminal. That wasn’t going to earn her any points. She wouldn’t be surprised if Frankie withdrew the job offer when she found out. Jax knew that in her place, that’s what she would do.
She couldn’t believe she’d done it. She’d helped a murderer—one who’d got off on an insanity plea—much like the man accused of murdering her own sister had nearly done twelve years ago.
And maybe that was why. Not that she believed in fate, or karma or any of that hokey new age garbage. But damn, at the very least, the universe had one sick sense of humor.
He wasn’t doing well.
His feet scuffed through the dusting of snow along the winding road’s shoulder. He knew he was leaving a distinct trail, but doubted anyone was following it. The cold seemed to knife straight through to his bones. He ached with it.
He’d expected to feel better by now. To be starting to feel strong again after a good night’s sleep, in a warm, dry place. But he wasn’t feeling strong. He was shaky. His head felt heavy and cotton filled, and he was having trouble convincing his feet to pick up off the pavement. His chest hurt, too, ached and burned. And every now and then a full body shiver racked him from head to toe.
Taking the grapes from his pocket, he ate them as he walked. When there was nothing left but the spiny stem, he tossed it, and took out the orange. But he couldn’t manage to get a start on peeling it. His fingers were thick and stiff. No dexterity, very little hand-eye coordination.
He closed his eyes, giving up on the orange and dropping it into the pocket of his borrowed hoodie. Then he looked up to gauge how far he’d come, and found himself standing in front of his house—or her house. The place where he’d spent the night.
River lowered his head, shaking it slowly even as the specter of that fireplace rose up to tempt him to come inside. “No,” he muttered. “I’m not dragging some stranger into my messed-up life.”
He took another step, intending to walk right by the place. But then he saw the ice chest on the porch and hesitated. What the hell?
