Early Grave: Grant Wolves Book 1 Page 6

  Joey’s middle brother had one superpower: He could suit up faster than the Man of Steel and appear wherever needed in record time. Okay, and he could also turn into a wolf, but in a family where everyone could do that you had to cultivate other gifts to stand out.

  The siblings met up at a parking lot a couple of blocks from the police station. Jon pulled his Mercedes into the space beside Sam’s pickup and climbed out, re-buttoning his suit coat as he straightened. It was an expensive suit, cut from the finest cloth, custom tailored to hang just right on his frame. Appearances mattered in the legal arena, but Jon was always well put together—a far cry from his brother’s scruffy two-day beard, faded Levi’s and half untucked Padres jersey.

  Joey hauled her small suitcase and garment bag between the vehicles, stowing them in the trunk of Jon’s sedan.

  “Am I underdressed?” She said, glancing at Jon. She’d changed out of her borrowed clothes before leaving the apartment, but hadn’t put any thought into what she’d thrown on.

  “You’re fine. It’s an interview, not a deposition,” Jon assured her, flashing even, white teeth as he closed the trunk.

  “I’ll walk with you. Safety in numbers,” Sam said.

  “Won’t you be walking back by yourself?” Joey frowned, but turned toward the street. Her brothers flanked her like mismatched bookends as they walked.

  Sam just grunted and shrugged in response.

  If Jon hadn’t been with them, the double standard would have completely rankled Joey. As it was, she just rolled her eyes and kept walking.

  “We should probably go over some preliminaries,” Jon said, before they’d gone far.

  “Preliminaries?” Joey asked.

  “So you know what to expect,” her brother explained.

  “Ah. What’s there to expect? It’s an interview. He’s going to ask me questions.”

  Jon chuckled. “Yes. But he’s going to be asking questions that might be difficult. Questions about Chris.”

  Joey glanced over at him, lips twisted in a smirk. “No shit, really? I thought he might want to swap recipes.”

  “Be serious,” Sam chided, from her other side. “That smart mouth of yours is going to get you in trouble.”

  “Don’t patronize me.” She snapped and elbowed him sharply. “I’m not an idiot.”

  “Of course you’re not,” Jon said, putting an arm around her shoulders. “But you’re grieving, and it’s making your fuse a little short. We get that, but this detective doesn’t know you like we do.”

  Joey sighed and leaned her shoulder into the one-armed embrace. “Okay, what else do I need to know?”

  Jon gave her a squeeze before letting his arm fall away. “He’s going to ask you questions. My job is to make sure he plays fair and that you don’t say anything to incriminate yourself. Don’t answer any questions unless I give you a nod, and try to just answer the question he asks. Don’t give him more than he asks for.”

  Joey nodded, chewing on her lower lip as she walked. The police station loomed ahead. Dread twisted her stomach into knots.

  “Are you sure you’re okay to walk back by yourself?” Joey asked Sam again, once they stood on the sidewalk outside the station.

  Sam was frowning at a squad car illegally parked in front of a nearby hydrant.

  “I’ll be fine,” he said, absently. “I’m armed.”

  “That’s not very comforting,” she mumbled. Folding her arms beneath her breasts, she wondered if being armed would have saved Chris. Was it hubris that made them walk the world so casually, so certain they could handle whatever came their way with brawn, tooth and claw? She chewed her lower lip, forehead wrinkled in an intense frown.

  “We don’t want to keep the detective waiting,” Jon said, interrupting her thoughts. “And if you’ll forgive me for channeling Mother: If you keep making that face it’ll stick like that.”

  Joey growled at him—a literal, actual growl. Her well-manicured brother just arched one dark brow and motioned for her to join him as he turned toward the building’s entrance.

  With a lingering look at Sam and a final cautionary word about being careful, she turned to enter the building but glanced over her shoulder as she did, watching Sam walk off down the street.

  Once the uniformed officer in the reception confirmed that yes, Detective Harding was indeed expecting them, he got them signed in and assigned temporary visitor badges. As if the whole affair were flawlessly choreographed, Harding himself turned up in the lobby to walk them back as they were finishing up. If he was surprised to see a man in an expensive suit with Joey, he didn’t let on.

  “Miss Grant, thank you for coming by,” Harding said, extending a hand. Joey shook it, firmly. Maybe too firmly. The detective’s brows lifted, but he only went on to say, “Again, my condolences for your loss.”

  Joey nodded, stuffing both hands in her pockets while Jon stepped up to offer the detective a handshake as well. “Pleased to meet you, Detective. I’m Jonathan P. Grant, Miss Grant’s attorney.”

  Harding’s attention shifted toward Jon. He shook the other man’s hand. “Alright, then,” he said, looking between them speculatively, no doubt wondering why Joey felt she had to bring a lawyer to the meeting. A guilty conscience? Paranoia? Common sense? “This shouldn’t take long. Right this way, please.”

  Turning, he walked back to the door marked “Authorized Personnel Only”.

  Joey let Jon go first, because he liked to hold doors open for women and she didn’t want him to go into histrionics if she got to it first. Once through the door, she had a view of not much more than Harding’s broad back as he led them down a hallway and through the cubicle-maze of a squad room to another hallway where the interview rooms could be found. The fact that the sign on the door he opened for her said “Interview Room 4” and not “Interrogation Room 4” wasn’t a big comfort. Potato, potahto.

  Inside, Joey and Jon settled on one side of the table while Harding sat on the other. He set down a manilla folder and took out a digital recorder.

  “Do you mind?” The detective asked, as he set the recorder down in the center of the table. “My handwriting’s so bad, sometimes I can’t even read my own notes.”

  The statement had the ring of a joke to it, but only Jon chuckled. Joey was simply too nervous. She didn’t like enclosed spaces, and this room felt small. It was probably the lack of windows, aside from the square foot one high up in the door. At least there was no one-way mirror, so it didn’t immediately give off an interrogation room vibe.

  “Sure, fine,” she said, eager to get started.

  Jon nudged her ankle under the table and gave her a significant look when she glanced over at him. She hadn’t waited for him. Swallowing a sigh, she shot him an apologetic look before turning her attention back to the detective, who fiddled with the recorder like he wasn’t sure how to turn it on. She pressed her lips together and waited for him to finish.

  Once the little red light came on, Harding set the device on the table and went back to the folder, opening it. Joey couldn’t help but glance inside. Clipped to the inside front was a photograph of Chris as he’d been found at the crime scene. Swallowing bile, she looked quickly away again. Curiosity only killed cats; wolves were smarter.

  Harding shuffled some papers, thankfully covering up the crime scene photo in the process. “Okay, I know some of these questions may be difficult to answer, but all I ask is that you do the best you can,” he said, looking across the table at her. Jon was mostly ignored. “When was the last time you saw Christopher?”

  Joey glanced at Jon, and once he gave a subtle nod she answered. “Tuesday evening, around 4 p.m.,” she said, with Jon’s instructions in mind. Answer the question. Don’t give him more than he asks for.

  “Where was this?” Harding removed a pen from an inside jacket pocket and started to make notes. She glanced down, wondering just how bad his handwriting was.

  “The dance studio. Shay’s Dance Studio,” Joey answered, after a
nother glance at Jon.

  “Did he say where he was going after that?”

  “No, but…” She glanced at Jon, uncertain if she should mention Chris being at Santiago’s. He couldn’t read her mind, but clearly sensed she wanted to ask something. He leaned closer, offering an ear. Joey whispered to him while the detective waited, softly enough that she was reasonably certain the recorder wouldn’t pick it up. After all, Jon’s ears were as good as hers.

  Once Jon gave a nod of approval, Joey turned her attention back to Harding. “When Chris didn’t come home, I made some calls and a friend told me he saw Chris at Santiago’s that night.”

  Harding’s brows lifted. “Santiago’s?”

  “It’s a salsa club, downtown.” Her eyes were drawn once more to Harding’s scribbling pen. His chicken scratch didn’t look that bad, even upside down. He underlined the club’s name in his notes. Twice.

  “Did your friend tell you what time he saw Chris at the club?”

  “No, sorry.”

  “I’d like to follow up with your friend and ask a few questions of my own. You’ll give me his contact info?”

  “Sure.”

  The interview paused as Harding tore a blank sheet of paper out of his notebook and slid it across the table with his pen. The pen was still warm when Joey picked it up a few seconds later to scribble down Rico’s phone number. Once paper and pen were passed back, Harding’s questions resumed.

  “Did Chris have a girlfriend? Boyfriend?”

  “He said he had a date that night, but he doesn’t—he didn’t have an S.O.”

  Harding glanced up, looking at her in poor old guy confusion.

  “Significant other,” she supplied. “Girlfriend. He was straight. For the record.”

  “Ah. Thanks,” Harding answered, making a note of it. “Did he mention who he had a date with?”

  “No.”

  “Did you hear from him at all after he left the dance studio? A call, a text, anything?”

  “No,” Joey said. “But that’s not—” she stopped when Jon kicked her under the table. More sharply, this time. How he could do it while sitting there looking entirely placid was a mystery to her. She frowned, but sealed her lips.

  Harding glanced between the two of them and wrote something else down before continuing. “And he didn’t come home that night. Was that normal?”

  “It was uncommon,” she said, glancing toward the door again. The air in the room felt stale, but she could see a thin strip of paper taped beside the air conditioning vent wafting in its faint breeze. Something else caught her eye when she looked up, something she hadn’t noticed before: a small camera, secured to the wall in one corner of the room. Its little red light was on.

  Yup. Interrogation Room. Joey shifted uncomfortably in her seat, and Jon put a hand on her leg. She stilled, but annoyance flared.

  “Did that bother you?” Harding asked next, and Joey was irked enough with her brother that she didn’t wait for his permission to speak.

  “No, why would it?” Joey tossed back, eyeing the detective.

  Jon cleared his throat. “Miss Grant agreed to this interview to provide you with any facts that may be relevant to your investigation. Her feelings are not relevant.”

  The look Harding gave Jon in response was thoughtful but skeptical.

  Impatient, Joey asked, “What else do you want to know?” The walls seemed closer than they had a moment go. It put her on edge. She rubbed her suddenly cold hands together in her lap.

  “Was it common for him to not come home the next day either? On those uncommon occasions when he was out all night.” Harding said.

  “No,” Joey replied, keeping it simple. Her inner wolf howled, wanting out of this box. Out of this situation.

  “Why didn’t you report him missing?”

  “Wouldn’t you have just told me I had to wait 24 hours to file a report?” she challenged, with a frown. She might have gone on, but Jon interjected.

  “Miss Grant’s motives are not in question,” he said, cool as a cucumber. “Unless you have a reason to believe she was involved in this tragic incident—which to my understanding seems to be a textbook random act of violence. She has lost her brother, partner and friend. Have some respect.”

  The detective set down his pen and leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers together behind his head. “With respect,” he said, “Miss Grant doesn’t seem aggrieved.”

  Joey sat up a little straighter, shooting the detective a glare. “How dare you. You don’t have any right—”

  Jon pushed back his chair and stood up, buttoning his suit coat. “This interview is over. My client has and will continue to cooperate fully with law enforcement. If you have any other relevant questions, you can contact my office.” He extended a hand across the table, a crisp white business card with black and gold lettering caught between two fingers.

  Joey stood too, more than ready for this whole ordeal to be over.

  “Just one, really,” Harding said, not seeming bothered in the slightest that Joey and Jon were about to walk out on him. He took the business card, but set it beside his notepad without giving it more than a cursory glance. “Did Christopher have any enemies? Rivals perhaps, socially or professionally?”

  Joey opened her mouth to answer, but stopped when she felt her brother’s hand on her arm.

  “You don’t have to answer that,” Jon advised her.

  Shrugging off his hand as well as his advice, Joey looked across the table at Harding. He hadn’t even stood up. “Friendly rivalries, sure. Enemies? Hardly. Chris was a good man. A caring, friendly, wonderful man.” Tears welled in her eyes but she swallowed them as best she could.

  Joey let Jon escort her to the door with a hand at her elbow, gently propelling her into the hall once they got there. They saw themselves out, retracing their footsteps. As far as she knew, Harding was still sitting at that table. Still scribbling with his pen, or maybe just trying to figure out how to turn the recorder back off again.

  “What was that about? Am I a suspect or something?” She hissed at Jon as they went.

  “Not now,” he said, firmly. It wasn’t until they had signed out, turned in their badges, and were a block away from the police station that he spoke again. “It was pretty smart, calling me.”

  “Thanks. You know I live for your approval,” Joey replied, sarcasm dripping from the words. She had begun to feel better once they were out of that room, but she was still full of lingering piss and vinegar. “So, am I a suspect?”

  “He seems like a good cop. Everyone’s a suspect. He could have been a little more circumspect, though.” Jon didn’t seem worried, at any rate. That made her feel a little better. His next words didn’t. “You were acting kind of suspiciously, though,” he said, giving her a sideways look.

  Joey grimaced. “Sorry, I just… something about that little room with no windows really put me on edge. And I wasn’t very far from the edge to start with.” She rubbed her face.

  Jon wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her against him; she went willingly into the one-armed hug, wrapping both arms around him in turn. They walked a few steps like that, awkwardly embracing.

  “I wish Sam had stayed,” she said. “Maybe we could’ve gotten some information about the case. I should’ve asked some questions when I had the chance. What are we going to do?” She tipped her head back to look up at him. “The hunter was in my apartment. Or, at least someone was. Sam thinks maybe they took Chris’s keys. That means they’d have the keys to Mom and Dad’s place too.” She couldn’t keep the worry from her voice.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll keep you safe,” he said, misinterpreting that worry.

  “It’s not me I’m worried about. I don’t want to lose another brother,” she confessed.

  “Me either, Joey. Me either.”

  8

  He had no idea how long he’d been adrift in that sea of agony. Minutes, hours, there was no point of reference in this place. He’
d come to think of his time with her as a nightmare from which he awoke briefly, only to slide right back into it again and again.

  He lay on his back. Overhead, there was nothing but fog. Outdoors, then. He patted the ground. The grass at his sides felt different. Odd. The blades prickled lightly against his palms, but nothing more. Usually grass felt cool, warm, damp… something.

  Sitting up, he looked around warily. The fog was still heavy, but not as dense as the last time he was out in the open. Still, it clung to the ground in grey wisps, rolling over his insubstantial legs until he got to his feet. Then, it swirled around his ankles instead.

  A glimpse of movement in his peripheral vision gave him a start. He froze, eyes flicking this way and that. Blurry, washed-out shapes slowly resolved into human figures moving through the fog.

  “Hey!” He called out, running toward the closest one, jubilant with relief over finally seeing another person in this place. It was a shirtless man wearing athletic shorts, jogging. The man didn’t stop, or react at all.

  “Hey!” Chris exclaimed, trying again. He halted nearby, waving his arms in case the man couldn’t hear over the music playing in his earbuds.

  There was no reaction. The man jogged right past, the soles of his running shoes crunching quietly on the coarse sand of the jogging path.

  Frowning, Chris watched him go but another jogger came his way. It was a woman this time, her ponytail bouncing with every step.

  Chris called out again, to no avail. He stepped into the path in front of her, waving his arms. She jogged right through him, which was a strange sensation indeed, tingly and disorienting. Gasping in surprise and alarm, he whirled to watch her go.

  “What the fuck is going on?”

  He heard more footsteps on the path behind him and quickly moved aside, not eager to experience that sensation again so soon.

  A sudden, intense longing for home swelled within him and the world shifted. A familiar room materialized around him. The fog retreated, the same way it had at the apartment, as if it couldn’t penetrate the walls. Also as before, the shapes and colors in this room were blurry, washed out, their edges indistinct.