Dying to Kill (Angel Delaney Mysteries Book #2) Read online

  “Have they found her?”

  “Not yet.”

  Angel ran a hand through her damp curls. “There’s still hope.”

  “I know. My heart aches for those poor parents. I don’t suppose you’d want to call Callen. Maybe you could find out more.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea right now. He most likely has his hands full. We’ll see him tonight, and he can fill us in then.”

  After agreeing to come over for lunch, Angel hung up and finished getting dressed. She couldn’t help thinking about the fate of the high school cheerleader who should have known better than to get into a stranger’s car. If he was a stranger. He could well have been a classmate or relative or friend. Though she’d told her mother there was still hope, Angel couldn’t quite convince herself.

  If she were still working as a police officer, she’d have all the facts by now. She might even be part of the team trying to piece clues together. But you are not working, Angel Delaney, she reminded herself. You are not part of the team. You are a civilian and you are about to learn how to make soup.

  Whoopee.

  THREE

  Callen pushed a tree limb aside and ducked under it. He wished he were home with Angel and Mutt, watching the waves roll in and sitting by the fire, instead of tromping through the soggy woods. He was bone tired and cold.

  They’d been searching for Christine Grant for five days and were about ready to give up when they found the abandoned vehicle, a burgundy ’87 Buick LeSabre with Oregon plates and a fish symbol on the bumper. The vehicle, registered to a Mitchell Bailey from Sunset Cove, had been reported stolen the day after Christy disappeared; Bailey had said he’d noticed it missing the day before. Callen had asked the Sunset Cove Police Department to check the guy out. Later, he would interview the car’s owner himself, but for now at least, the guys at the PD could do a preliminary interview. Bailey might be telling the truth—or he may have been setting himself up with an alibi.

  Though Callen hated to admit it, he didn’t hold out much hope for the girl’s survival, not with the large amount of blood evidence they’d found in the trunk. Nonetheless, he offered up another prayer for her safe return.

  While the CSI technicians processed the vehicle, he and other members of the search-and-rescue team scoured the wooded area near where the car had been found. Callen continued to operate under the premise that Christy had been in the trunk and that her abductor had either taken off with her or dumped her body.

  A shout from one of the search-and-rescue members brought him up short. His pulse shot up as he crashed through brush and skirted around trees.

  “Over here.” One of the Lane County sheriff’s deputies waved at him as he came to a clearing.

  Callen’s heart dropped to his feet when he saw the cadaver dog sniffing at a large mound of leaves and branches. The sheriff’s deputy, a young guy named Dan Riggs, had already begun to remove the brush. Riggs stopped suddenly, his face pale as he backed away. He tossed Callen a guilty look. “Sorry, I . . .” The young man ducked behind a bush and heaved.

  The smell of carrion emanating from the mound stopped Callen too, turning his stomach inside out. He took a stick of Mentholatum from his pocket and spread the stuff on his nostrils to hide some of the smell. Breathing through his mouth, he carefully moved forward to get a closer look. Though the body had begun to decompose, he knew all too well who she was.

  Callen closed his eyes for a moment. He’d seen a lot of death in his years as a detective, but no amount of experience could lessen the impact. He stepped back physically and emotionally. When he found his voice, he spoke into his radio. “We’ve found her.”

  He gave his coordinates, then called the medical examiner and the CSI team. Callen reassured Deputy Riggs that his reaction was to be expected, then sent him back to the main road to kennel the dog and get the camera. Once the others arrived he began delegating the tasks that went along with securing and processing the body dump. Considering the large amount of blood in the car, he surmised that Christy had been alive when the killer put her into the trunk and was probably dead when he took her out. Dead bodies didn’t bleed much, and they found little blood evidence around the body dump site. She could have been killed in the trunk, or he might need to look for a primary crime scene.

  One certainty remained. The search for Christy Grant was over.

  His mind whirred with possibilities. They were at least fifty miles north of Christy’s home and only about fifty feet from where they’d found the deserted vehicle. Who and where was the driver? They’d have to continue to comb the woods. Would they find him dead? Alive? Or would they find him at all?

  Too many unanswered questions at this point and too soon to speculate. They’d have to sift through the evidence one painstaking step at a time.

  Callen shivered as water from an overhanging fir branch dripped down the back of his neck. Looked like he wouldn’t be going home anytime soon.

  FOUR

  Tuesday, May 6

  Dear Dr. Campbell,

  I’m back, but then you wouldn’t know that since I decided not to send my letters—at least not yet. I don’t want you to get them and feel obligated to call the police or try to stop me. For now it is enough to write them and store them in my own files.

  It took an entire day of planning, and I almost backed out, but everything went off perfectly. When I picked up Phillip’s gun and it fit my hand like it belonged there, I knew I was doing the right thing.

  The handle felt smooth and cool against my damp palms. I was frightened at first. Sweat beaded up on my forehead. My mouth went bone dry. What if he realized why I was really there? I didn’t think he would. He was so caught up in his ball game.

  Just before I pulled the trigger, I remembered something I’d memorized in Sunday school, Thou shalt not kill. Okay, maybe God thinks killing someone is wrong, but when nothing else works, you have to do something. You have to stop the madness.

  Dragonslayer

  FIVE

  Angel set the wide-bladed knife down and lifted her hand to her eyes to wipe away her tears.

  “You’re almost done.” Anna handed her a tissue.

  Angel sniffed and blew her nose. “Remind me again why I’m doing this?”

  Anna chuckled. “Because it won’t be minestra di cavolfiore without the onions. And because you’re in love.”

  “Humph.” A half smile tugged at the corners of Angel’s mouth.

  “Well, you are, and there’s no use denying it.”

  “Don’t start, Ma. It’s too soon to be in love. And we’re not getting married, at least not anytime soon.” She slid the onions into a dish and moved six stalks of celery onto the cutting board. “Neither one of us is ready for that kind of commitment.”

  Her mother didn’t comment. If she had, Angel knew exactly what she’d say. “I know love when I see it.” Maybe she did. Anna had been the one to bluntly tell her she hadn’t been in love with her longtime boyfriend, Brandon. Of course, Angel had known that all along. She just hadn’t wanted to admit it. What she hadn’t considered and what Anna had called her on was that she’d been using her relationship with Brandon. His proposal forced her to take a good look at their relationship, which in the end proved to be a friendship, a safe haven for both of them. Brandon had since fallen in love with Michelle Kelsey, widow and suspect in her husband’s murder. Poor Brandon.

  Angel caught the contented look on her mother’s face. Anna was thrilled about her daughter’s new love, and not a day went by that she didn’t say so. Even so, Angel suspected the delight in her eyes went deeper than that.

  Anna slipped an arm around Angel’s waist. “It’s a miracle, that’s what it is.”

  “What’s a miracle?” Angel sliced the celery, two stalks at a time.

  “You are. Imagine, my baby girl standing right here beside me, learning how to cook.”

  Angel cleared her throat. The tears were no longer coming from the onions. She used her wrist
to brush them away. Growing up, Angel had avoided anything feminine or domestic, preferring blue jeans and trucks to dresses and dolls. She and her mother had nothing in common, or so she’d thought. For years, Angel had worked hard to fit in with her four brothers, vying with them for her father’s attention and approval.

  She doubted her father ever realized how important his acceptance was to her. Angel adored him and constantly tried to please him, even to the point of becoming a police officer herself. Her efforts were finally rewarded. When he’d seen her in uniform, no one could miss the pride and delight in his eyes.

  Angel saw no pleasure in those eyes now—only sorrow and disappointment. Disappointment in her and, of course, in himself.

  The stroke had affected his right side, leaving him without the use of his right leg and arm. When he tried to talk, only odd, garbled sounds came out. Now he had stopped talking completely. After his release from the hospital, his doctor suggested placement in a combination rehabilitation unit and nursing home. Anna wouldn’t hear of it. “He’s my husband. I can’t leave him in a place like that. I want him home where he belongs.”

  Angel had tried to talk her mother out of bringing him home, but Anna insisted that she could care for him. “At least hire someone to help you part time,” Angel had suggested. “We can get an aide to come to the house.”

  Relief had flooded Anna’s face. “How did you get so smart? Of course. Why didn’t I think of that?”

  So Tom Carpenter came in every day, bathing and dressing Frank and putting him through his paces in a rehabilitation program that would hopefully allow him to regain at least partial use of his limbs. If Tom did his job half as well as his daily journal indicated, he was an angel sent directly from God—at least that was Anna’s opinion. Frank had seemed belligerent and uncooperative at first. Now he seemed to look forward to Tom’s daily visits.

  Frank Delaney had lost far too much—Angel felt the loss as well and wished there was something she could do to help him. She hated seeing her father struggle with every daily task. He’d been so strong and capable. Even though her hero worship had diminished as she grew older, a part of her clung to the man her father had been and refused to acknowledge what he had become.

  Angel didn’t like to think about her father or even spend time with him these days. In fact, she often went out of her way to avoid him. In time, maybe she’d get used to seeing him this way. You’re a coward, she told herself. Maybe she was, but it hurt too much to be around him.

  She brushed thoughts of her father aside and focused on her mother, who seemed willing to accept Angel regardless of what she did or didn’t do. Anna had always wanted her daughter to learn to cook; now, thanks to Callen, she was getting her wish.

  Anna flashed her daughter a wide grin as she took a large pot out of the cupboard and set it on the stove.

  Angel smiled back. “You think Callen will like this?” After placing the cut celery on a plate, she picked up the knife and resumed chopping.

  “Of course he will. Everyone likes my soup.” Anna rinsed off more celery stalks and set them in front of Angel on the cutting board. “He’ll be surprised and pleased. Not just because it’s delicious, but because you made it.”

  “I hope so. I hate to admit it, but I’m feeling intimidated. He’s like a real chef.”

  “Yes, but still not as good as your mama.” Anna wasn’t boasting, just stating a fact. She’d learned to cook as a young girl from her Italian mother and grandmother.

  They were making up one of the family’s favorite recipes, with, of course, some minor changes. Angel doubted her mother had ever followed a recipe to the letter. “What makes this soup so good,” Anna said, “is that you can use it as a base, then add meatballs, sausage, chicken, or whatever you have handy. I even use it as a base for my bouillabaisse.”

  “Yum. That’s my favorite. Could we do that?”

  “Of course. While this is simmering we’ll make a list and you can go to the market.”

  “What now?” Angel placed the rest of the celery into the dish with chopped onion and cauliflower, then dumped the leavings into a bucket that would eventually become compost for the garden.

  “Pour some olive oil into the pot, let it heat up a little, then put your vegetables into it. Then you’re going to sauté them for a few minutes.”

  “How much oil?”

  “Just a smidgeon.”

  Angel rolled her eyes and dumped oil in until it barely covered the bottom of the pan. “It’s easier to do this if you give me exact amounts.”

  “Nonsense. Cooking isn’t a science. It’s an art. A dab of this, a dollop of that. You’ll get the hang of it.”

  “I hope so.” Angel slid the cut-up veggies into the hot olive oil, then leaned back as the steam rose into their faces. She stirred the mixture around, coating all the pieces evenly with oil, drawing in a deep breath of the mouth-watering scent as it filled her nostrils with gastronomical promise.

  After a few minutes, Anna peered into the mixture. “Perfect. Now turn down the heat, season with salt and pepper and your spices, and keep stirring.” She had told Angel earlier to have all of the ingredients ready to go before starting the cooking process. Angel had dutifully measured out minced garlic, cilantro, basil, and some red pepper flakes along with two bay leaves. She sprinkled those spices in and stirred.

  “Now, mix that up a little more, then you can put in the tomatoes.”

  Angel grinned. “Hey, I’m actually making soup.” Who would have thought that such a simple task could make her feel so giddy?

  Anna peered over Angel’s shoulder.

  “Tomatoes now?” Angel picked up a jar of homemade canned tomatoes.

  Anna nodded. Another smile spread across her face. Angel hadn’t seen her mother so happy since her grandchildren’s births. The idea that she was making her mother happy pleased her. Angel dumped in the two jars of diced tomatoes and stirred the mixture with a wooden spoon.

  “Now add the chicken stock. Then all you have to do is cover the soup and let it simmer until the vegetables are tender.”

  “What about the pasta?”

  Anna smiled. “That comes just before we serve it or the noodles would turn to mush.”

  “Oh.” Angel added the last of the ingredients, stirred, then took a sip of the broth and raised her eyebrows. “Hmm. It’s missing something.”

  Anna laughed. “Well, of course it is. The ingredients need time to marry. Now, what have I been telling you all these years? Cooking isn’t so hard.”

  “I don’t know about that.” Angel’s lips parted in a teasing smile. “It had me in tears.”

  “Me too.” Anna’s eyes filled, but her gaze stayed on Angel.

  A psychiatrist might have called what passed between them a bonding moment. Angel saw it as so much more. A bridge was beginning to span their separate lives, bringing them together on a level neither had experienced before.

  The phone rang. “I’ll get it. Might be Callen.” Angel wiped her hands on her apron as she hurried into the living room. “Hello?”

  “Anna?” The voice sounded breathless, fearful. Angel couldn’t place it.

  “Um, no, this is Angel. Did you want to talk to my mother?”

  “No,” the voice said quickly. “Actually, I wanted to reach you. I . . . I need your help.” The woman’s breathing seemed labored.

  “Who is this? Is something wrong?”

  “Candace . . . Candace Jenkins. It’s my husband. I can’t explain it on the phone. I need . . .”

  “Do you want me to call the police?” Angel remembered meeting Candace on a domestic violence call after Phillip Jenkins had used her as a punching bag. She’d taken Candace and her three children to the women’s shelter.

  “N-no. Please don’t. I was hoping you could come out to the house.”

  “I’m not working for the police department right now.”

  “I know. Please. I need your help.”

  Suspicious now, Angel aske
d, “How did you get this number?”

  “Your mother volunteers at the shelter. She told me to call if I ever needed help. Please, come.”

  Angel struggled with the odd request. “All right,” she finally agreed.

  “Thank you.” The call ended with a breathless sob.

  Angel hung up and headed back to the kitchen.

  Anna looked up and frowned. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m not sure. That was Candace Jenkins. She sounded upset. I think she was crying.”

  “Oh, that poor woman. Don’t tell me that wretched husband of hers has beat her up again.”

  “I don’t know.” Angel removed the apron her mother had insisted she wear and draped it over a chair. “I didn’t realize you knew her.”

  “From the women’s shelter.”

  Angel nodded. “That’s what she said. She asked me not to call the police. She wanted me to come out.”

  “You? What for?”

  Angel bit her lip. “Maybe she feels comfortable with me. I went out to the Jenkins’s farm on a domestic violence call several months ago.”

  “That’s when you brought her to the shelter.” Anna gripped the back of a chair and shook her head in disgust. “That poor woman. She had a swollen eye and a huge bruise on her face. She tried to cover it up, but . . .” Anna pinched her lips together, anger sparking in her eyes. “It infuriates me no end, Angel. The abuse cycle goes on and on. We tell them they don’t have to stay in an abusive relationship. We offer a way out, and they go back. I tried to talk her out of going back to her husband, but she was so sure things would improve.” Anna sighed. “Sometimes they listen. Most of the time they don’t. I haven’t seen Candace in a while. I was hoping things had actually worked out between them.”

  “I hope she’s okay. I guess I can understand why she’d want me since I’m familiar with the situation.”