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Or had he?
He remembered the click earlier, the tiny little noise he’d dismissed.
Now, the muscles in his shoulders tight, he walked down the hallway to the kitchen and the back door.
Shut tight.
Huh.
This wasn’t right.
The hairs on his nape lifted as he thought that someone might have come inside. But who? And hadn’t he locked the door? No—possibly not. He remembered going outside to his truck for the drop cloth and didn’t recall locking the door behind him.
So someone could be inside.
Stealthily, he made his way back to the bathroom to grab his pistol, stepped inside, and stared at the toilet tank.
No Glock on the lid of the tank.
He swept his gaze to the floor and the closed lid of the bowl, thinking it had dropped, but no and . . .
He heard a floorboard creak behind him and froze.
“Don’t move,” a deep voice said, directly behind him. The barrel of a gun—his, no doubt—was pressed between his shoulder blades. “Don’t fuckin’ breathe.”
In the reflection of the mirror, he saw a shadow of a man behind his shoulder but his features were hidden.
Some freak show had walked in and gotten the drop on him!
Ned’s pulse was pounding in his ears and he tried to think of what to do. If he jabbed back hard with his elbow, maybe he could knock the guy off his feet and the shot might not hit a vital organ and . . .
“Time to pay, dirty cop,” the voice whispered so close that Ned could feel his assailant’s hot breath against his ear.
Ned started to turn, but it was too late.
He felt the gun move, shifting from his back to be pressed to his temple. In the mirror, he caught a clearer glimpse of his assailant and his heart nearly stopped.
“Don’t!” he yelled, suddenly desperately wanting to live. “Son, don’t!”
His plea fell on deaf ears.
The killer pulled the trigger.
CHAPTER 36
At nine in the evening, Cade stretched in his desk chair. He was tired, the night before being short. He had a call in to Ned Gaston, but so far hadn’t connected with his ex-father-in-law.
Ever since talking to Richard Moretti, Cade wanted to track down the ex-cop. There was something missing to the story about Luke Hollander’s death, a piece Cade didn’t understand. That mystery, the feeling that there was something just out of his reach, nagged at Cade and had, even during the interview with Denise Aimes.
He and Voss had brought the beagle down to the station. After brushing Freddy, aka Monty, and collecting some of his fur, Voss had reunited the dog with his grateful owner, who was overjoyed at having her “naughty boy” back. At least that’s the way Voss had explained it with a roll of her eyes. “Like he’s a real kid,” she’d said. “Oh, well, to each his own. At least now the lab has something to compare to the hair found on the tape at the crime scene.”
“Along with the samples from the Sperrys’ dogs.”
“Okay, so now the lab has more to compare,” she’d said sourly.
He was about ready to pack it in for the night—go home and get a few hours of much-needed shut-eye or cruise back to Rachel’s place and check on his family—when the phone on his desk rang. Yawning, he picked up and Donna Jean said she was routing a call from the Seaside police department.
“This is Ryder,” he said as the call came through.
