Take the Key and Lock Her Up Page 3

  “Where are the hinge pins?” She hurried into the hallway.

  Tuck followed. “What are you talking about?”

  “The pins that held the door on its hinges. They’re gone.” It didn’t take long to find them. They were lying right where they must have fallen, along with a discarded tire iron next to the propped-up door.

  “So that’s how he did it,” she said.

  “What are you talking about?” Tuck asked. “Share.”

  She waved her hands toward the door and the pins. “It all makes sense now, the noises I heard inside the cell. Buchanan rapped on the window. He must’ve gone to his truck, got the tire iron, and used it to pull out the pins and pop the door off the hinges.”

  Tuck’s mouth pursed, as if considering what she’d said. “He wouldn’t have gone to all that trouble if he had a key.”

  “Exactly. He didn’t have a key. I think he was telling the truth. He isn’t a part of all this. He was trying to help me.”

  “But he had his hands wrapped around your wrists and was holding you down when we got here.”

  “Only because of me almost shooting him. He was about to help me up. He acted in self-defense. Buchanan . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “What is it?” Tuck asked. “You’ve pieced something together?”

  The hope in his voice wasn’t surprising. They’d worked together since the academy. He was used to how she’d sift through the details of a crime scene and find clues where others failed. It wasn’t uncommon for her to have a sudden epiphany, a theory seemingly based on nothing that later proved to be true. She wasn’t exactly getting an epiphany right now. Instead, she had a niggling belief that she’d missed something important.

  “Devlin Buchanan, Devlin Buchanan,” she murmured. “Why does that name sound so familiar?”

  “Alex Buchanan was a pretty famous defense attorney back in town for years,” Tuck said. “I think he still takes on a few cases here and there as a favor to friends. Maybe that’s what you’re thinking of?”

  “Maybe.” She closed her eyes, trying to bring the illusive thought or memory into focus. “No. It’s something else.” A memory, a very recent memory, slammed into her. She sucked in a sharp breath and her eyes flew open. She ran back into the cell and dropped to her knees beside the cot.

  “What are you doing?” Tuck squatted down next to her. “Don’t touch the body until the coroner gets here.”

  “Don’t you mean skeleton? It hardly qualifies as a body anymore.” She pulled her cell phone out. “Here, look at this.” She shined her phone’s LED light onto the bracelet that lay on top of the woman’s wrist bone. “See the engraved charm, the largest one on the chain?”

  His eyes widened as he read the words.

  “And these.” She shined the light on the five smaller charms attached to the bracelet’s chain. She used the edge of her fingernail to flip the third charm over so Tuck could see the name on the back.

  “Holy shit,” he whispered.

  “Ditto.” She lowered her phone. “Who gets to tell Devlin Buchanan that this skeleton is what’s left of his mother?”

  Chapter Three

  * * *

  EMERGENCY VEHICLES CONTINUED to arrive at the little house of horrors every few minutes, parking in the overgrown field that served as the front lawn. Devlin leaned back against his truck at the top of the long gravel driveway, arms crossed as he observed the chaos erupting around him. Police officers stood in clusters or shuffled back and forth between the basement and the yard. But with all the activity, nothing of value seemed to be getting done.

  The inefficiency swirling around him was enough to make him want to start barking orders. But this wasn’t one of his operations, and offering advice would only raise questions he wasn’t prepared to answer. He’d raised enough questions already by playing the damn hero when he’d heard Detective O’Malley’s call for help on his police scanner.

  Usually the scanner was a way to keep tabs on the police so he could avoid them—a necessity in his line of work. But when he’d heard that feminine voice shaking with adrenaline and fear, he’d known she was in trouble. He’d foolishly turned his truck around and headed to the location she’d given. Since she was a cop, he’d left his unregistered gun hidden in the door panel of his truck before going into the basement. He’d gone back to his truck to grab the tire iron only once he’d realized she must have been locked behind one of those doors.

  Turns out, the little vixen hadn’t needed his help since her backup had arrived right after him. And now he was caught up in this mess, wasting what precious little family time he had before his next assignment.

  After Detective Jones had escorted Devlin out of the basement, he’d led Devlin to a patrol car to take him to the police station for an interview. Devlin had told Jones exactly what he thought of the offer and promptly turned around and headed to his truck. It was at that moment that Jones’s boss, Lieutenant Drier, had arrived. He’d quickly assessed the situation and asked Devlin to wait to answer a few questions after Drier spoke to Jones and the officers at the house to get an update.

  Sticking around had been the last thing Devlin wanted to do. But he’d reluctantly agreed. With his father and four brothers living here in Savannah, he didn’t want to give the local cops an excuse to involve his family, or to start digging into his carefully constructed and mostly fake past. Instead, what he needed to do was placate the cops, without giving them any useful information. Then he could go on his way and spend some time with his family before he had to leave again. He didn’t plan on saying much. The less the police knew about him, the safer it was—for all of them.

  So now, here he waited, while Detective Jones leaned against a patrol car on the other side of the driveway, pretending to watch the activity at the house even though he was obviously keeping an eye on Devlin.

  A group of three men and a short woman with shoulder-length brown hair separated from a larger group at the back corner of the house and headed Devlin’s way. He straightened. The woman, O’Malley, was too far away for him to see her face clearly. But the tantalizing details were burned into his memory.

  A full lower lip that fairly begged to be kissed. Dark, expressive eyes that were far too serious for someone who couldn’t be more than twenty-five or -six. Her pert, slightly upturned nose, a smattering of freckles across the bridge, and slightly fuller curves might have been flaws in some men’s eyes. But Devlin thought her perky nose and freckles made her more interesting. And even though he’d enjoyed plenty of women who fit the traditional definition of beauty, he’d always been a sucker for a woman with curves. A real woman, who didn’t starve herself to live up to some false society standard of the perfect body.

  He didn’t have to work hard to fill in the rest of the details. The feel of her full, soft breasts pressed against his chest was a memory he wasn’t likely to forget anytime soon. But even though she was one hell of an attractive package, it wasn’t her looks that had struck him so intensely back in that basement. It was the way she looked at him, as if she wanted to see past the façade he presented to society and was staring right into his soul. For the space of a few breaths, he’d felt laid bare, as if she had peeled back the layers and seen him for who he really was. Since every single thing he did was with the intention of hiding those layers, he should have felt uncomfortable beneath her scrutiny. Instead, he’d felt a connection unlike anything he’d felt in a long, long time. Thirteen years to be exact.

  Too bad she was a police officer.

  Walking beside her was the detective who’d handcuffed Devlin back in the cell—Eddie Tucker, “Tuck” to his co-workers. Devlin had gleaned that particular detail as he’d eavesdropped on Jones briefing Lieutenant Drier when he’d arrived. On Tuck’s immediate right was the lieutenant, and beside him was the coroner—Kennerly. Devlin had seen the name on the man’s white lab coat when he drove up earlier in the coroner’s van.

  That wasn’t all Devlin had noticed. He knew exact
ly how many police were on the scene, how many were in the basement right now, and how many vehicles were either in the yard or parked on the shoulder of the highway. In addition, he had three different escape routes mapped out in his mind for how he could drive his truck out of here in a hurry without getting stuck behind a patrol car or ending up in a ditch. He didn’t expect to need any of that information, but logging it and marking the exits was as natural to him as breathing. Especially when there were cops around.

  “Mr. Buchanan, thanks for waiting.” Drier offered him a falsely bright smile.

  Devlin reluctantly shook his hand.

  “I apologize on behalf of Savannah-Chatham Metro PD for the unfortunate incident,” Drier said. “We appreciate that you were trying to assist an officer in need and we hope you understand that sometimes less-than-ideal decisions are made during the rush of excitement.”

  From the way Jones and Tuck were staring at Devlin, their jaws locked tight, he imagined the “we” didn’t include them. O’Malley didn’t look any more pleased than her fellow detectives. Her face was flushed and she wouldn’t meet his gaze. Amusement flashed inside Devlin. The “unfortunate incident” Drier referred to must have been the fact that O’Malley had shot at him even though he didn’t have a weapon. That explained the simpering smile. The lieutenant was worried about a lawsuit.

  Devlin was mildly surprised Drier hadn’t insisted that O’Malley do the apologizing. Maybe she had more gumption than he’d given her credit for and she’d refused her boss’s order. Good for her. She didn’t owe him an apology. He’d have done the same thing in her position. To hell with a fair fight. If someone came at him, he wasn’t going to wait and see if they had a weapon. He’d neutralize the threat, whatever it took. Because he admired O’Malley’s spirit, he decided to take Drier down a peg.

  “I assume you’re referring to Detective O’Malley drawing her gun on me. My understanding of the situation is that she felt her life was in danger and did exactly what any officer would have and should have done. That is what you’re trying to say, isn’t it, Lieutenant? That I shouldn’t be . . . concerned . . . because you’d have done the same thing if you’d been in that basement. Correct?”

  The look on the lieutenant’s face was comical. He obviously didn’t want to say that O’Malley had been right. But if he didn’t, he was probably worried Devlin might sue the police department. He finally cleared his throat and adjusted his tie, as if it had grown too tight.

  “Of course, of course. Detective O’Malley acted appropriately.”

  O’Malley’s eyes widened and the ghost of a smile curved her lips.

  Mission accomplished.

  “Good. I don’t have much time,” Devlin said. “And I’ve already been waiting out here too long. I’ll allow you five minutes for questions.”

  Drier blinked and his face turned red. He looked like he was about to choke, probably on whatever biting retort he wanted to throw at Devlin. His mouth thinned and it seemed to take some effort before he could make it curve into the practiced, false smile of a politician again.

  “I know you prefer not to go to the police station,” Drier said. “But it would be much easier for everyone, including you, if you did. I can have an officer follow behind us in your truck and you can leave right after the interview. Won’t take long at all.”

  “No thanks.”

  Drier’s smile dimmed. He obviously wasn’t used to being told no.

  “Will you at least sit in a patrol car where we’ll be more comfortable in the air conditioning while we talk? This blasted heat is horrendous.” He wiped a bead of sweat off his forehead as if to emphasize his point.

  Devlin wasn’t unaffected by the heat himself. His black T-shirt was damp between his shoulder blades. But no way was he going to agree to sit in a patrol car, especially if Drier wanted to put him in the backseat, where he’d be locked inside. He’d rather endure the muggy July heat.

  “I’m fine right where I am.”

  The lieutenant frowned, giving up all pretense of smiling. “My apologies for being blunt then, but you leave me no choice. We have some bad news for you. We’ll run some tests of course, to be sure, but our fact-checking over the phone makes us confident that you know one of the victims we found inside the basement.”

  Since Devlin had spoken to his father on the phone a couple of hours ago, he knew his family was up at his dad’s house for their traditional Friday night gathering and cookout. Which was where Devlin would be right now if he hadn’t allowed himself to get sidetracked by the wobble of fear in O’Malley’s voice. Devlin was already anticipating the mouth-watering steaks he’d throw on the grill on his father’s back deck.

  If Drier believed Devlin knew one of the victims, then Devlin wasn’t going to shed a tear for them. Most of the people he knew, besides his family, were just as likely to put a bullet in him as to speak to him.

  One of the many hazards of his occupation.

  And if the victim was one of the few people Devlin called a friend, the only way Drier would know that was if he’d discovered Devlin’s true occupation. In which case, he’d be having this conversation from inside a jail cell.

  “Who’s this person you think I know?”

  Drier waved the coroner forward. “Dr. Kennerly removed some items from the victim.”

  The coroner didn’t say anything. He just handed Devlin a large, clear plastic evidence bag.

  Devlin held it up, saw the rings and bracelet inside, and froze.

  “We strongly believe,” Drier continued, “that the victim is Carolyn Buchanan, your mother. A clerk at the courthouse pulled some records and confirmed Carolyn was the name of your father’s wife before they divorced years ago. That name is on the bracelet. The clerk was also familiar with the Buchanan family due to your father’s occupation as a lawyer and confirmed the names of Carolyn’s sons, which match the names on the charms. The Division of Motor Vehicles provided the hair color and height from your mother’s driver’s license. The victim’s, ah, estimated height and hair color match the . . .”

  Devlin tuned everything out around him. He didn’t have any clear memories of the jewelry. Not something he would have paid attention to as a kid. But he’d seen that bracelet in so many family photos there could be no doubt. It had been a gift from his father. It was definitely Carolyn’s. Which meant she was dead. And even though she’d divorced his father over two decades ago, when Devlin was thirteen, he knew with absolute certainty that Alex was going to be devastated when he found out she’d been murdered.

  Alex had loved Carolyn to distraction, had never remarried, and to this day could be found—when he didn’t think anyone was watching—staring wistfully at one of her many photographs still hanging on the walls of the house where they’d spent their eight-year marriage.

  The silence around Devlin intruded on his thoughts. He looked up, directly into O’Malley’s expressive brown eyes. There was a deep sadness there, for him—sympathy that was entirely misplaced. Devlin’s father was the one who deserved sympathy. Carolyn was barely a blip on the radar of Devlin’s life. She wasn’t his biological parent and had never pretended to want him as her son. She’d worn that bracelet only to please her husband, not because of any motherly affection. And after the divorce, she’d never made any attempts to contact his dad, his brothers, or Devlin. She’d abandoned all of them.

  “I’m sorry for your loss.” Unlike her boss, she sounded like she genuinely meant it.

  Devlin nodded his thanks and returned the bag to the coroner. “How did she die?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” Kennerly said. “There are no obvious signs of trauma. But the body—that is, Mrs. Buchanan—has been in that basement for some time. It’s difficult to pinpoint the cause of death. I won’t know more until after the autopsy and some tests.”

  Dozens of questions swirled through Devlin’s mind, but the answers would have to wait. Right now, the most important thing he could do was to try to soften the blow for his fath
er. He didn’t want the falsely solicitous Drier or the abrupt coroner to break the news. As much as he hated the necessity, this was his responsibility. He was the one who needed to tell Alex that the woman he loved had been murdered.

  He yanked his truck door open.

  “Wait.” Drier sounded panicked. “Mr. Buchanan, what are you doing? We still need to ask you some questions.”

  O’Malley stood on her tiptoes and whispered something to her boss.

  Devlin didn’t wait to see what they were discussing. He climbed into the truck and started it up. When he rolled the window down, he didn’t see O’Malley anywhere. He directed his comment to the lieutenant. “Your questions can wait. I have to tell my father the love of his life is dead.”

  He put the truck in gear just as the passenger door popped open. He slammed on his brakes and O’Malley hopped inside. She calmly shut the door and put the seat belt on as if she and Devlin were old friends about to head up to the corner store together.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded.

  “Going with you.”

  “No. You’re not. Get out.”

  Her fingers curled against the tan leather seat. “Mr. Buchanan, I royally screwed up my career today by defying orders, going into that house without backup, allowing myself to be trapped like a rookie while the suspect got away with the victim, and then shooting at an unarmed civilian.” She gave him a hesitant smile. “Thank you for that, by the way. For pretending you thought it was justified, even though we both know I shouldn’t have fired my weapon.” She waved her hand in the air. “Regardless, I just lied to my boss and told him I’d established a rapport with you earlier and that I was certain I could get you to answer his questions. So that is exactly what I’m going to do—ask you questions.”

  Devlin tightened his hand on the steering wheel. Apparently he’d given her the impression that he was a nice guy and that he wanted to keep helping her. Well, he’d left nice in the dust years ago. The best way to help O’Malley was for him to get as far away from her as possible, as quickly as possible. Which meant it was time to reveal just how un-nice he could be.