Savior in the Saddle Page 10

  “Recognize him?” Brandon asked, sliding the paper across the table toward her. It was a picture of a brown-haired man with a thin face.

  Willa shook her head. “No. Who is he?”

  “That’s Dean Quinlan.”

  She took a harder look at the man who seemed to be at the center of everything. Was he the person who’d hired Shore to kill her? He didn’t look like a killer, but Dean Quinlan could want her dead because she might be able to prove his involvement in the maternity hostage situation.

  “He wants to talk to you?” she asked.

  “Yeah. But don’t expect Quinlan to confess to any thing. Cash questioned him over the phone—Quinlan refused to meet with him—but the man claims he’s innocent.”

  And he might be. But someone was guilty. “What about the actual lab samples at the maternity hospital? Did I tamper with them?” She shook her head, huffed. “Because I only remember hacking into them.”

  “Cash claims the test results were fine. They did a duplicate set of tests at another site and came up with the same results.” He sat down across from her and met her gaze. “Of course, if you managed to tamper with the actual samples, then the duplicate test would give the same results.”

  Willa put her sandwich back on the plate and tried to recall any other details. But her mind just wouldn’t let her go there.

  “If I somehow contaminated or corrupted the samples, then how would I prove that?” she wanted to know.

  “You can’t. But it’s possible they could exhume Jessie Beecham’s body to get what they need. There were two DNA samples in the files you accessed,” Brandon explained. “They were taken from tissue found beneath Beecham’s fingernails.”

  “Jessie Beecham,” she repeated. “The club owner with ties to the mob who was found murdered.”

  Another nod. “But this wasn’t a mob hit. Too messy for that. It appears Beecham had been in some kind of physical altercation with his killer before he was struck on the head with a blunt object. His wallet, gun and phone were all missing, so SAPD suspected the motive might be robbery.”

  Willa gave that some thought. “Or maybe it was meant to look like a robbery?”

  “Yeah.” And he paused again. “So, SAPD wanted a fast turnaround on the DNA they collected from his fingernails because they wanted a quick arrest. Beecham’s allies were making a lot of noise and blaming Beecham’s rival. SAPD thought they might have a mob war on their hands. Since the lab in Austin was out of commission thanks to the fire, they sent it to the secure area of the San Antonio Maternity Hospital.”

  Which had turned out not to be so secure thanks to the gunman, and her. “Who would have known the samples were there?” she immediately asked.

  “Anyone in SAPD.” Brandon mumbled some frustrated profanity. “Or someone who worked in the hospital lab itself.”

  In other words, there were too many people involved to narrow it down to one specific suspect. She already didn’t trust Dr. Farris, Cash and this Dean Quinlan, but she would possibly have to add many more to her list.

  Brandon took the photo from her and stared at it. “According to Cash, the DNA samples were held in a secure vault, and the handful of hospital staff who had access to that area all had the proper security clearances. They’ve all checked out and are no longer suspects.”

  “Well, someone gave the gunman the code to get into the vault area because it was written on the paper he took from his pocket.”

  “Cash believes the gunman could have gotten the info after the hostage situation started. A lab tech was killed within minutes after the gunmen stormed the hospital. It’s possible the gunman threatened to kill the tech, and he coughed up the code.”

  “And the gunman killed him anyway,” Willa supplied. Then she thought of something else. “The gunman tried to call Dean Quinlan.”

  “Quinlan denies that,” Brandon grumbled. “But I don’t buy it. Quinlan could have been bought off.”

  “By whom?”

  “By Wes Dunbar, the rival club owner. Jessie Beecham and he were long-time enemies. They could have gotten into an altercation that resulted in Beecham’s death.” He dropped the picture onto the table. “But the DNA samples didn’t prove that. The DNA belonged to a homeless man with a criminal record a mile long.”

  “So, this homeless man was arrested?” Willa asked.

  “He was. And his court-appointed lawyer did a plea bargain. The guy’s already in jail for manslaughter.”

  But he could be innocent. All of this, including the hostage situation itself, could have been orchestrated to put the blame for murder on a homeless man when the real killer was still out there.

  It didn’t take Willa long to come up with a possible identity for the real killer. “Wes Dunbar, the rival club owner, could have murdered Beecham and then paid off the CSI, Dean Quinlan, to tamper with the evidence.”

  Brandon nodded and pulled in a hard breath.

  So, why was there the threat of another hostage situation? Had someone else decided to do the same thing as Wes Dunbar? If so, Willa’s memory wasn’t going to be of any help. That caused her to groan. As long as the danger was there, she was anchored to Brandon. Part of her—okay, her body—was all right with that. She wanted to sleep with him, and she was certain that was driving a lot of her other desires.

  But it was clear that Brandon wasn’t in this for a one-night stand or a happily ever after. She didn’t need her memory to feel that he wanted to be out of her life. And that meant solving this case. The sooner that was done, the sooner they could both go back to the way things were before. That’s what she wanted.

  Willa repeated that.

  It still didn’t ring true.

  She forced herself to focus just on the case. “Any suggestions as to what I should do next?”

  Brandon’s jaw muscles stirred, but before he could answer, his phone rang. Even though the cell didn’t have caller ID, she figured it was Cash. Hopefully, the cop would have information that would help them.

  Brandon didn’t say a word when he took the call. He merely put the phone to his ear. A moment later, she saw the surprise, and then the concern, go through his eyes.

  “Dean Quinlan,” he said.

  Though the sound of the man’s name caused her heart to race, this was good news. Well, potentially good. Dean was the next step in getting information because even if he was simply trying to cover his guilt, he could still slip up and tell them if Wes Dunbar or someone else hired him to have those DNA samples tampered with.

  “A meeting?” Brandon questioned.

  Willa waited with her breath held. She didn’t relish the idea of seeing this man, but again, it might be the beginning of the end to the danger.

  “All right,” Brandon said a moment later. “I’ll meet you at my office in Crockett Creek.” He paused again. “No, I can’t be there that soon. I’m at least two hours out.”

  That was a lie, of course, to try to conceal their real location.

  Brandon checked his watch. “I’ll meet you there at three o’clock. And Quinlan, my suggestion is you’d better have answers. The right answers. Or I’ll find a reason to arrest you.”

  It seemed as if Brandon was about to hang up, but he stopped. “What do you mean?” he demanded from Dean. “Who’s trying to kill you?”

  Whatever Dean said, it caused Brandon’s jaw muscles to go to work again. He cursed when he slapped the phone shut.

  “Someone’s trying to kill Dean Quinlan?” Willa asked.

  “Yeah.” And that’s all Brandon said for several moments. “He claims Cash wants him dead. And Quinlan says he has something to prove it.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Deputy Pete Sanchez parked in front of the back entrance to the Crockett Creek sheriff’s office. It was Brandon’s usual parking space, but before today, he’d never felt like checking his too-familiar surroundings before he exited. Of course, that had plenty to do with Willa being with him.

  Brandon tried to give her a
reassuring glance before he got her out of the vehicle and hurried her inside. He’d already apologized a couple of times for having to bring her for what would likely be a high-stress meeting with Dean Quinlan. However, the alternative was leaving her alone at his place, and that wasn’t going to happen. Brandon had no intention of letting her out of his sight.

  Martin Shore was still out there somewhere. And even though it was Christmas Eve, the holiday season wouldn’t stop the hired gun from striking again.

  Brandon heard the voices the moment he stepped inside. He was already on full alert, but those voice supped his anxiety. One of the voices belonged to his other deputy, Sheila Gafford, a thirty-year law-enforcement veteran who didn’t normally raise her voice. But that’s exactly what she was doing now.

  “I told you to sit down and wait,” Sheila ordered.

  “And I told you that I will see the sheriff now,” the man responded.

  Brandon didn’t recognize the voice, but he sure as heck recognized anger when he heard it. This guy was outraged about something.

  “Wait here with Willa,” Brandon told Pete, and he left them in his office while he went to the front of the building. Sheila was there, staring down a tall man wearing a business suit.

  The man looked past the deputy and glared when he spotted Brandon making his way toward them.

  “A problem?” Brandon asked Sheila.

  His deputy rolled her coffee-brown eyes and huffed. “This is Mr. Wes—”

  “Dunbar,” the visitor interrupted.

  Well, Brandon hadn’t had to go looking for the devil after all because here was his number one suspect, just a few feet away.

  “Are you Sheriff Ruiz?” Wes demanded.

  Even though he was rail thin, he had a booming voice, and everything about him screamed money. The suit was high-priced. Haircut, too. And judging from his perfect nails, the man had regular manicures. He didn’t look the sort to do his own dirty work, but then Jessie Beecham had likely been killed in the heat of an argument.

  “I’m Sheriff Ruiz,” Brandon confirmed. “What do you want?”

  “To talk to you. I heard about that former maternity hostage, Willa Marks. She’s connected to what happened in the hospital that day.”

  “Yeah? What makes you think that?” Brandon didn’t intend to volunteer anything.

  “Don’t play stupid with me. Protect her all you want. She’s not the reason I’m here. But I figure that sewer rat, Dean Quinlan, is dying to get to her, and since I’m dying to get to Quinlan, I figured the fastest way to do that would be through you.”

  Brandon glanced around to see if Dean was already there. He wasn’t. Though he should have been. He was nearly a half hour late. Of course, maybe Wes Dunbar’s impromptu visit had something to do with that. However, Brandon spotted an expensive black luxury sedan he didn’t recognize. It no doubt belonged to Wes, and the man behind the wheel was probably his driver.

  “Why do you want to get to Dean Quinlan?” Brandon asked.

  “Simple. He’s trying to pin Jessie Beecham’s murder on me by claiming I’m the one who hired those idiots to take the maternity hostages.”

  “Dean told you this?”

  “Didn’t have to. I hear things, and I don’t like what I’m hearing. Jessie’s killer is already behind bars, and Jessie’s in hell. Case closed.”

  Maybe closed but not necessarily resolved. “Did you try to kill Willa Marks?” Brandon didn’t expect a straight answer, but he figured it wouldn’t hurt to ask.

  “I have no reason to kill her. As far as I can tell she’s not blabbing to the cops that I’m Jessie’s killer. Plus, I heard her head’s all messed up. She doesn’t remember her own name, much less what happened at the hospital that day.”

  Brandon wanted to punch that smug look off Wes’s face. But while that might give him some temporary satisfaction, it wouldn’t help Willa.

  “You seem to know a lot about Ms. Marks,” Brandon commented. It was a fishing expedition. He wanted to know if Wes was getting his info from anyone in SAPD.

  But Wes didn’t bite. A dry smile bent his mouth for several short seconds, and he aimed his finger at Brandon. “If Dean Quinlan gets in touch with you, my advice is not to believe a word he says.”

  “Why would he lie to me?”

  “To cover his scrawny butt. I figure he screwed up something. He was a CSI after all. He screwed up something, and then tried to put the blame on anyone but himself.” His finger landed against his own chest. “Well, that blame better not come anywhere near me. Got that?”

  Wes didn’t wait for Brandon’s response. He turned and stormed out. Wes climbed into a sleek black limo waiting for him just outside and the driver took off.

  “Never known a Christmas Eve like this one,” Sheila grumbled. She pushed her dark, gray-threaded hair away from her face. “I swear, the phone’s been ringing off the hook. Four messages in the past two hours—all from Dr. Lenora Farris.”

  Brandon cursed. “What does she want?”

  “Same thing as the bozo who just left. She wants to talk to you. Says it’s important. Says you’re to return her calls ASAP.” She lifted her hands in the air. “Don’t these people have anything better to do over the holidays than pester us?”

  Apparently not. “Did Dean Quinlan show up?”

  “Not yet.” She checked the clock on the wall. “Guess you want me to wait here until he does?”

  “I do. Thanks, Sheila. But keep the door locked. I don’t want just anyone waltzing in here unannounced.”

  The woman complained under her breath, as Brandon had known she would. She obviously didn’t like being called into work on her off day, but she would stay. And she would do everything within her power to help him protect Willa. That was all he could ask for at the moment. But once this meeting with Dean was over, Brandon had to figure out his next move. It probably wasn’t wise to stay around Crockett Creek now that both Wes and Dean knew he was there.

  He walked back to his office where Pete was standing guard in the doorway. Willa was there, too, peeking out, and judging from her expression, she’d heard everything Wes had said.

  “He’s gone?” she asked.

  Brandon nodded and tipped his head to Pete to get him moving as well. Pete went in the direction of the deputies’ office on the other side of the reception desk.

  Since Willa looked ready to collapse, Brandon pulled her into his arms. “Wes was just blowing smoke,” he assured her. But the fact that he felt the need to blow smoke said a lot.

  Wes was acting like a guilty man.

  Of course, he had the strongest motive of all their suspects. If that had been his DNA underneath Jessie Beecham’s fingernails, then Wes could have been convicted of murder. Now, the question was had he killed Beecham and then orchestrated the hostage situation to cover it up?

  If so, then Wes would almost certainly want Willa dead.

  Brandon was about to offer Willa more reassurances, but movement stopped him. It hadn’t come from the hall but from Willa’s middle.

  The baby was kicking.

  He pulled back slightly and looked down.

  “Soccer practice,” Willa joked.

  There was certainly a lot of movement, much more than he’d expected for an unborn child. And some of the kicks were hard, too. He could actually see the thumps against Willa’s top.

  Without thinking, Brandon slid his palm over her belly. And he froze. He shouldn’t be doing this. This was something a real father should do, and it was far too intimate. More intimate than the hot kissing session they’d shared in his kitchen.

  “Amazing, isn’t it?” Willa asked.

  Brandon made a sound that could have meant anything, and he jerked back his hand. “It must hurt.”

  “No,” she insisted. She stared at him. “It’s okay, Brandon. A touch doesn’t commit you to anything. Kisses don’t, either.”

  “But sex would,” he mumbled before he could stop himself. Hell. What was wrong with him? Fi
rst he couldn’t control his hand, and now he couldn’t control his mouth.

  “Depends on the sex.”

  His gaze fired to hers, and he expected to see another of those teasing half smiles. But no smile. She looked dead serious. Then, she huffed.

  “Sorry,” she whispered. “I guess there’s no such thing as no-strings-attached sex when it comes to us.”

  “No,” he agreed.

  He wanted to explain that he wasn’t the father his baby deserved, but Willa had already heard it. It obviously hadn’t sunk in because he still saw the welcoming look in her eyes. For a woman who distrusted nearly everyone, it was a powerful, and touching, burden to place on him.

  Brandon heard someone knock. The sound came from the back where Willa and he had entered. He drew his gun, motioned for her to stay put and went to look out the sliver of a reinforced side window.

  Thankfully, the man looked exactly like his photograph so Brandon had no trouble recognizing their visitor.

  It was Dean Quinlan.

  Dean’s gaze was slashing all around the parking lot as if he expected someone to jump out and attack. Which might be close to the truth. Brandon didn’t see any sign of a weapon, so he opened the door.

  “What was Wes Dunbar doing here?” Dean demanded.

  Brandon didn’t even try to relieve the man’s nerves. “Looking for you, I think.”

  Dean tried to bolt inside, but Brandon stopped and frisked him. He wasn’t carrying concealed, but he did have an envelope gripped in his left hand.

  Brandon stepped aside so the man could enter, but he kept himself between Dean and his office where he’d left Willa. Even though he was a good six inches shorter than Brandon, Dean tried to look over his shoulder.

  “Did you tell Wes that I was coming here?” Dean asked. He continued to glance around, and there were beads of sweat on his forehead despite the chilly winter temperature outside.

  “No. Did you?”

  Dean looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “Why would I tell a scumbag like him where I was? He could be the one who wants me dead.” He paused. “Well, maybe it’s him.”