When Shadows Fall Read online

  “What?” she asked.

  “You’re staring,” Xander said.

  “The way you do when you’re about to make a pronouncement,” Fletcher added.

  She shook her head. “No pronouncements. Just wondering what this is all about. It’s like you both want me involved in this case.”

  Fletcher shot Xander a glance, then cleared his throat. “It’s an intriguing case, and you’re damn good at what you do. And the man did ask for you personally.”

  “But?”

  “No but. That’s all.”

  Xander set down his fork and said, “That’s not fair. But, when you’re occupied, you’re happier.”

  Ah. There it was. The truth, at last. She didn’t know whether to laugh or smack him on the hand with her fork.

  “And I’ve been malingering too long? A few days left before school starts, and I’ll drive the two of you crazy in the meantime if I don’t have my hands into something?”

  Neither responded. For the first time, she noticed Xander wasn’t drenched in sweat, though he was dressed in his running clothes.

  Sam lost her appetite, pushed her plate away. “You didn’t go for a run, did you?”

  He watched her, eyes suddenly serious. He looked over at Fletcher, who shrugged slightly. The air in the kitchen grew tense. Xander sighed a little. “No. I didn’t go for a run.”

  Her heart sped up. “And Fletcher just happened to be on his way over when I called. What’s wrong? What are you keeping from me?”

  It was Fletcher who said the words that made her stomach turn.

  “Rolph Benedict was found dead in his hotel room early this morning.”

  Chapter

  10

  SAM’S FIRST REACTION was shock. The second was fury. “What the hell? I can’t believe you didn’t tell me right away. How did Benedict die?”

  “We don’t know yet. Dr. Nocek will do the post this morning, see what’s up,” Fletcher said.

  “I should stay. I should be there. I can help Amado—”

  Xander touched her lightly on the arm. “No, you shouldn’t. Let Fletcher take you to Lynchburg. You’ve been drawn into this against your will, but now it’s time to take care of business. Do what Timothy Savage asked of you. Find out what’s happening.”

  She crossed her arms, let the anger course through her. “And what exactly are you planning to do?”

  “Keep an eye on things.”

  She knew what he meant. He’d be covering her back, as he’d done before. Out of sight, and, hopefully, out of harm’s way.

  As if he’d read her mind, he smiled at her. It took him from dangerous to innocent, and she couldn’t help smiling back. He nodded. “They won’t know I’m there. Promise.”

  She searched his eyes, but saw only determination. She squared her shoulders. “You do anything stupid, and I’ll be very upset with you.”

  “I can take care of myself, hon. It’s you I’m worried about. Savage warned you this was going to be dangerous, and two people involved in this case are already dead. Watch your step, okay?”

  “You need to stop. There’s no reason to worry about me. I’m a big girl. I can handle this.” She turned to Fletcher. “Finish your breakfast, and let’s go.”

  Fletcher stood, rolling his eyes. “Finally. Thought you’d never ask.” He turned to Xander. “I’ve got her back. You, keep in touch, all right? Regular check-ins, every four hours. Read me?”

  Xander snapped a precise salute. “Loud and clear, sir.”

  * * *

  The drive to Lynchburg was a beautiful three hours through rolling green hills and black-fenced horse country, and Fletcher had been silent since they left Georgetown. That was fine with Sam. The morning’s subterfuge worried her. She should have been told about the murder immediately, and instead the men she loved wanted to coddle and protect her.

  Maybe they don’t know you’ve changed, Sam. Maybe you haven’t given them a reason to think you’re strong enough to handle this.

  She was the first to admit she’d been a basket case when she came to D.C. Crippled by grief and an obsessive compulsive need to wash her hands, she’d been a weak caricature of her true self. She’d lost two years giving in to the psychological horrors of losing her family.

  But in the months since she moved, she’d gotten strong again. Determined, as Timothy Savage pointed out. She’d finally forgiven herself for the hardest realization of all—she was still the same person she was before they’d died.

  Changed, certainly. But it was still her inside her skin, and that realization drove her away from forgiving herself and moving forward with her life. Until now.

  Baldwin had recognized this, and reached out with an opportunity to let her get her world back on track. She wished Xander and Fletcher had realized it, too.

  Fletcher turned on the stereo. “Will a little bit of tuneage bother you?”

  “Of course not.”

  He hit Play and a song started, one she recognized.

  “Hey, that’s Jason and the Scorchers,” she said. “They’re a Nashville band. How’d you find them?”

  “They played the 9:30 Club a while back. I bought a couple CDs off them. It’s good stuff.”

  “I didn’t know this was your bag. I always pegged you for a hard rock guy. Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd.”

  “I’m alternative all the way. And rockabilly cowpunk is hard rock. Listen to those guitars.”

  Jason belted out a John Denver ballad, “Take Me Home, Country Roads.” Sam hummed along, but Fletcher sang the words, and she was shocked to realize he had a fabulous voice. When the song was over, she applauded. “I never knew you could sing.”

  “We’ve never been on a road trip together where it seemed appropriate. I did my stint as front man during college. Chicks dug the guitar.”

  “Aren’t you full of surprises today. You play guitar, too?”

  “Used to. I gave it up when Felicia and I got married. She wasn’t thrilled with the cop hours to start with—to add the band’s touring on top, even if it was only weekends, was too much for her. I still noodle around when I get time.”

  “You’re really good. Why’d you choose being a cop over taking the show on the road?”

  “Tad. He was sick a lot when he was a baby, and I needed the steady paycheck.”

  She heard a small, unuttered sigh in that sentence, and it made her sad for him. Fletcher sacrificed a lot for the people he loved; she’d seen it firsthand. Though maybe she was more sensitive to it. Coming from Nashville, a town where everyone had a dream, she knew how hard it was to accept reality, buckle down and work for the man instead of following your heart.

  She’d lost herself in thoughts of home, was tapping her fingers on the laptop balanced on her knees in time to the music, when Fletcher startled her with “Nice ring.”

  Sam glanced over at him. He had his sunglasses on, gold aviator frames, and his hand dangled over the top of the steering wheel. He looked so much like a cop she nearly laughed. But he wasn’t smiling.

  She took a deep breath. “Xander gave it to me. Last night, actually.”

  “It’s pretty.”

  “Yes, it is.” She was quiet for a moment. “It doesn’t mean anything. Not really. It’s not like we’re engaged or anything.”

  “You should be.”

  Her head rocked back. He saw her surprise, and this time, he did smile.

  “I have to admit I was a bit surprised when he texted, said to take you to Lynchburg or else this would drive you nuts,” he said.

  “I don’t know why he thought that. I was perfectly fine letting things lie.”

  Fletcher scoffed. “This is me you’re talking to, sunshine. You don’t have to lie. I don’t think you do with him, either. I’m just saying, he’s a g
ood man. He loves you. He doesn’t want to change you, and trust me, that’s rare.”

  She thought about his words. Having this conversation with Fletcher was utterly bizarre, but she sensed he wanted to have it. They’d been dancing around it for months. She knew Fletcher had feelings for her. She simply never acknowledged them. It was too much to deal with—she’d had two years of grief and numbness, and suddenly, three months ago, in the course of a single week, she’d lost another man she used to love and, while investigating his death, found Fletcher and Xander. Two wonderful men who were both good for her, in their own ways.

  Two loves lost. And two found. But only one made her heart sing.

  By his words, she realized something had subtly changed between her and Fletcher. Everything she’d hoped for—namely, his friendship—was matter-of-factly being offered on a plate. But there were things that couldn’t be left unspoken. Not anymore.

  She said quietly, “Would you want to change me, Fletch?”

  He glanced at her briefly, smiled. “Naw. I like you the way you are. Though you’d drive me mad with all your nagging. ‘Don’t you ever grocery shop, Fletch?’” He did a credible impression of her, and she punched him in the shoulder, laughing.

  “Damn, woman. Don’t hit so hard, I might drive off the road and take out some cows.” He gestured toward the field to his left. “Friggin’ nature. Who’d want to live out here in the boonies like this? Not enough concrete for my taste.”

  “You’re prevaricating.”

  “Your big words, too. Annoys the crap out of me. You’re a walking thesaurus.” He shot her another smile. “I’m not gonna lie, Sam. You’re something special. When you came along, things started looking up. But I’d drive you nuts.”

  “You already do.” She grinned at him.

  “Ditto.” He went quiet for a moment. “You’d be crazy to let things go south with Xander, is all.”

  He was absolutely right. “I know. I know he’s a good man, and I love him. I never thought it would happen again for me.”

  “So marry him already.”

  “Good grief, Fletch, I’ve only known him for three months.”

  “You’re a grown-up. You know what you need. He seems to fit the bill. You’ve been happy lately. Happier than I’ve ever seen you.”

  “You don’t know me that well, Fletch. But yes, he makes me happy.”

  “So why not marry the dude?”

  She blurted out the words. “To be honest, I’m afraid he wants kids. And that’s not something I’m ever willing to do.”

  “Ah. That’s what this is all about.” He paused a moment. “Just the thought of it makes you panic, huh?”

  “What?” she asked, then realized she was opening and closing the lid of her laptop unconsciously. She slammed it closed. “Yeah. You could say that.”

  “Have you told him? That you don’t want to have kids?”

  “No.”

  “Do it, Sam. Have a conversation, like we’re doing. Tell the man, and get on with your life. He’ll accept you no matter what. I suspect he already knows the cost of loving you, and is more than willing to pay it.”

  The cost. My God, is that how people see me? There’s a cost to being with me?

  “Hey. Did I say something wrong?”

  She shook her head, fiddled with the edge of the laptop. “No. Not at all. You’re fine. It’s me. So what’s with this new attitude? You’ve never been Xander’s biggest fan before.”

  “I’m feeling like a change is in the air. Something good’s coming, for all of us.” He smiled again, and Sam realized she’d never seen him quite this content before.

  “Darren Fletcher, what is up with you today? Are you in love?”

  “What? Me? Hell, no. Definitely not. Lust, maybe. Andi’s fun, for an uptight bureaucrat. It’s a good setup—when she has time, she calls me. When I have time, I call her. It’s casual.”

  “You’re practically friends with benefits.”

  He grinned. “She ain’t asking for a drawer, so that’s good. Naw, I just like playing hooky. I haven’t in a while. Even with all the green in the fields and blue in the sky, it’s nice to get away from my desk.”

  “I’m touched you’ve taken the time to come play with me.”

  “Someone has to keep you on the straight and narrow.”

  Sam touched his arm. “I’m glad. And thank you for the advice.”

  He looked as though he wanted to say more, but settled for “Welcome.”

  Her cell rang. Saved by the bell. “Oh, good, there’s Amado. Let’s see how Benedict died.”

  Chapter

  11

  DR. AMADO NOCEK had the quiet intonation of a grave man, coupled with a slightly Italianate European accent. Some found him strange; he was serenely brilliant, very tall and much too thin, slightly stooped over, the physique of a praying mantis. The unkind called him Lurch, or the Fly, but Sam had liked him from the moment they met, recognizing a fellow scientific soul. He was a widower, too, and once, when he’d noticed she was having a panic attack during one of their meetings, he’d put his bony hand on her shoulder and said, “It doesn’t get better, but it will hurt less, in time.”

  At that moment, she hadn’t believed him. Now she realized he was right.

  She put him on the speaker.

  “Good morning, my friend. How are things in the OCME?”

  “Insanity. But Samantha, my dear, your voice always cheers me. Detective Fletcher told you about our guest, Mr. Benedict?”

  “He did. Fletch is on the phone with us now. What are your findings?”

  “Oh, they have not told you already? Manual strangulation. He was garroted. The implement was still wrapped around his throat. It took very little time to subdue him. He was not a large man, and terribly ill. His brain presented with clear alpha-synuclein lesions, idiopathic to advanced Parkinson’s.”

  “That’s right. He had several physical characteristics of the disease, as well.”

  “Whoever killed him was much taller. The angle on the garrote went upward at nearly forty-five degrees. It was a small wire attached to two wooden dowels, like a miniature jump rope. Nothing remarkable about the device outside of the reality of it. We do not see professional garroting very often here.”

  “Professional?”

  “Yes. There were no hesitation marks, no adjustments. This was an experienced killer.”

  “Could Benedict have been sitting when he was attacked?”

  “Based on the crime scene reconstruction, he was attacked while in the shower. Mr. Benedict measured only sixty-eight inches, so it is safe to assume the killer is at least over seventy-four inches tall, if not more.”

  “Let me get a feel for this. How tall are you, Amado?”

  “I believe I was seventy-seven inches at my last physical.”

  “So you’re six-four, and Benedict is five-eight. Yes, it makes sense. It would have to be someone quite big to cause that up-angle. There was no indication the killer stood on something? The edge of the tub, perhaps?”

  “Not from the current facts of the investigation, no. The man was in a handicap-friendly room, with a roll-in shower, no bathing tub. I suppose it was too difficult for him to step up over the ledge. The commode is too far away from the shower to make that scenario feasible.”

  “All right. When you’re all finished, would you mind emailing me your final report?”

  “Not at all, my dear. I know I do not have to remind you to be very careful.”

  “I have Fletcher. I’ll be fine. I’ll see you when I get back. We’re overdue for dinner.”

  “It would be my great pleasure. Until then.”

  He hung up, and Sam turned to Fletcher. “Garroting? More you’re keeping from me?”

  “I didn’t know. Pro hi
t, sounds like.”

  “Agreed. This is trouble, Fletch. We need to be on alert.”

  “Here’s what I don’t get. Why you? Why did Timothy Savage ask for you specifically?”

  “I don’t know, and it freaks me out. I’m worried we’re walking into a trap, and without more information, I have no idea what it might be.”

  “We’re only an hour from Lynchburg. We’re going to find out soon enough.”

  Sam opened her laptop, started pulling every ounce of information she could find about Timothy Savage and Rolph Benedict. After twenty minutes of searching, Savage was still a mystery, a complete blank. But there was plenty of material about Benedict.

  “Fletch, listen to this. Benedict’s story is bizarre. He won a big case a decade ago, defending the daughter of a family friend accused of murdering her boyfriend. Remember this one? Her name was Gillian Martin.”

  “Gillian Martin? Oh, wait, yeah. All the evidence said she was guilty as hell, but her lawyer managed to convince the jury the girl was simply on the wrong end of a massive frame-up.”

  “Her lawyer was Rolph Benedict. The real killer was never caught, and Benedict retired from criminal defense work and joined the firm he mentioned last night as a partner, doing estate and contract law.”

  “Big change.”

  “It is,” Sam said. “What would drive a successful criminal attorney to make such a drastic about-face right after winning the biggest case of his career? Granted, he’d been sick. Perhaps the rigors of trial law became too much. Parkinson’s isn’t an easy disease to manage. He could have decided a more sedate lifestyle was in order, and contract law fit the bill.”

  “Could have. I remember the case, though. The boyfriend was stabbed, shot and his throat slit, but it was all circumstantial evidence—they didn’t have her prints on the weapons, DNA, nothing. During the trial, Gillian Martin did all sorts of strange things, laughing at inappropriate times, crying, claiming she didn’t remember anything. She was on the stand for days. If the prosecutors had gone for a simple second-degree murder charge, the jury would have bought it, but this was a death penalty case. They overreached, and she walked.”