Sympathy For The Devil Page 4

  Paint thinner in hand, he started down the aisle in her direction. She stepped out of the way but he paused just behind her, glancing over her shoulder. Fresh heat spread through her, goose bumps rising on her arms. He stood just over a head taller than her and male musk enveloped her, the scent of the outdoors clinging to him. His eyes were on the paint chips in her hand—a dark blue, like the night sky. Guarded and unreadable, but nice eyes nonetheless.

  “Gotta say, I like the red, darlin’,” he said with a nod toward the paint chips, then he tipped his head again in acknowledgement and continued down the aisle.

  She shamelessly gazed at his ass as he left because admittedly she didn’t get out much and there weren’t a whole lot of guys to ogle around town. The dark, worn denim hugged him nicely, sitting low on his hips

  Natasha sighed when he turned the corner, then she looked back at the paint. Red was nice but didn’t exactly put clients at ease.

  The bell jangled a few minutes later as she settled on a pale blue for the waiting room, the front door opening.

  “Have a good day, Mr. Archer!” Johnny called.

  Tash stood straight, feeling like a bucket of ice water had just been dumped over her head. She scrambled down the aisle, around the corner, and straight for the cash register where Johnny Bianchi now stood. He brightened at the sight of her, mouth opening to give a cheerful greeting.

  She rushed to the counter and skidded to a halt. “Did you say his name was Archer?”

  “Um...yep.” Johnny frowned and peered at the spiral-bound notebook next to the register. “Yep, says right here. He’s been ordering a bunch of supplies. Devin Archer. Why?”

  But Tash didn’t respond—she was already flying out the front door.

  Chapter Five

  Natasha slipped her shades on and glanced right then left—Devin Archer was retreating toward the parking lot to her left. She turned and followed, heart hammering.

  Great. She’d been feeling flirty with a killer. And this is why I’m not allowed to date.

  In her defense, he wasn’t what she’d been expecting. Chelsea Cooper-Archer’s murder happened a few years ago, after all, and she’d been expecting Devin to be older. Someone shady and scary-looking.

  He definitely wasn’t that.

  She kept her pace just slower than Archer’s, to avoid being noticed. He arced toward the parking lot, the paint thinner in hand without a bag, and his head turned, as if he was about to glance over his shoulder.

  Shiiiitt... She fumbled with her purse, making a show of rifling through its contents until she found her cell phone. He didn’t seem to still be watching, but she didn’t want to take any chances, lifting the cell phone to her ear and pretending to make a call. She continued marching past the parking lot while Archer got into his truck.

  Four door Chevy, newer model. Dark red. She couldn’t make out the plates without staring but her thumb covered on the phone’s keypad, so she discreetly snapped a few photos.

  Heat lifted in waves from the pavement up ahead and a police cruiser cut through it, swerving into the parking lot. She didn’t immediately recognize who was behind the wheel but didn’t want to be obvious about looking, either. Instead she sped her steps, ducked around the bakery on the corner, and jogged down the alley to come out the other side.

  From the shadow of the bakery, she could see the hardware store parking lot clearly. The cop car pulled up next to Archer and he noticed, shaking his head and lips moving in what was no doubt a curse. He opened the door, whipped he paint thinner and phone in the front seat, then leaned against the truck with his arms crossed across his broad chest. His posture was defiant and she felt for the cop who was about to speak to him.

  Even when he climbed out of the cruiser, she didn’t immediately recognize the cop. But he was clearly looking for Archer, heading right up to the other man. She wished she could hear what they were saying but other than the sound of Archer raising his voice, the words themselves were inaudible.

  The cop got back in his cruiser; Archer stared at him a moment longer, then climbed into his truck, slamming the truck hard enough that the vehicle shook. When the police car pulled out of the parking lot, Archer followed, and both of them turned in the direction of the station.

  Someone definitely recognized that crime scene this morning, then. Maybe Adam was wrong and they’d pin this on Archer quickly after all.

  Still, even if that was the case, Adam wouldn’t receive details for a while yet—she could follow up at the station, at least. See if she could learn anything about an impending arrest that might make him feel better.

  Once more she jogged up the alley toward Main Street, and took off in the direction of the station.

  By the time she reached it, four blocks away, she was sweating from the heat and humidity and cursing the fact that she didn’t bring a bottle of water.

  Archer’s red truck was parked out front, no sign of him or the cop. She paused several yards from the driveway, chewing on the thought of heading straight in. He’d probably be in there awhile.

  Instead of going straight there, she backtracked half a block for The Falls Independent, the town’s only newspaper, which came out on Mondays. The sign out front said closed but she pushed on the door and found it unlocked. No bell jingled a warning of her arrival and no one waited at the front desk; rather than go looking for someone, she paused inside the door for a moment, just enjoying the cool air.

  We need to fix that damn air conditioner. She was starting think Malone and Associates was the only place in town still using fans.

  Once she’d acclimated to the drop in temperature, she cut right past the front desk and for the back offices. Country music played from a radio, drawing her into Harry Ingram’s office.

  Harry was a tall, sandy-haired man in his forties, far too smarmy for her tastes but she tolerated him as he was just as nosy as she was. He leaned over the large desk in the middle of the room, shifting around printouts and photos.

  Tash leaned in the doorway. “You realize, Harry, that all desktop programs are what-you-see-is-what-you-get? You don’t need to plan the layout on a desk still.”

  “I do my best thinking on my feet, Miss Whitaker.”

  Then you must be in a vegetative state when you’re sitting.

  “Is there something I can help you with?”

  She scanned the headlines for Monday’s paper he was playing around with—all upside down from her point of view—and saw the murder featuring heavily. “You know I was at the crime scene this morning.”

  He glanced up, eyes behind wire-framed glasses narrowing on her. “Right before Perry kicked you out, I imagine.”

  “I was out for a jog and innocently stumbled across it. Heard a few things.”

  “Okay, Whitaker.” He stood straight and put his hands on his hips. “What do you want?”

  “Information. Did you cover a cold case from a few years ago, the Chelsea Cooper-Archer murder?”

  He snorted. “Of course I did. Who the hell else would’ve?”

  She let that comment go and kept up her grin. “Anything you can share?”

  “The husband did it.”

  “So I heard. He’s being questioned right this moment.”

  Harry started forward, rushing to the door, but Tash planted herself firmly in his path. Sure, he could push her out of the way, but then she knew he couldn’t predict how she’d react. Assault charges would not do him any favors.

  “What do you want?” he asked with a sigh.

  “To look at everything you have on the previous murder as well as the details on the current one.”

  “You’re lucky I dug all this out today.” He reached back and pulled a folder from the desk, then handed it to her. A stack of papers waited inside along with a disc. “But these don’t leave my office.”

  Goddamn. But then, if he was leaving to go hound Archer at the station, she could photocopy. “And regarding the body found this morning?”

  “For that
, I have basically nothing. The scene was like trying to break into a vault and everyone’s been schooled not to talk to me.”

  She glanced down at the folder. Well, this was a start. Without a word, she stepped back and to the right so Harry could move through the doorway.

  He rushed, had his keys out to lock the office door before she even got the folder open. “I’ll be right back—remember, that doesn’t leave this room, Whitaker.”

  “Of course not, Harry,” she said innocently and barely glanced at him as he exited out the front door.

  Tash headed straight for the photocopying room and got to work.

  ****

  Devin Archer sat in an interrogation room, for a moment feeling like he never left.

  It had been at least thirty minutes since he’d been escorted in. They left him a cup of coffee, which he hadn’t touched. And that was it—no formal arrest and no one letting him know what he was here for.

  Probably a warning. “Get out of town or else.”

  He drummed his callous-tipped fingers on the scratched tabletop in front of him. Way ahead of the cops on that one. Maybe if he worked nonstop without sleep, he’d cut his time here in half and be gone sooner.

  At last the interrogation room door opened. Devin turned his gaze to the man entering.

  Joel Perry.

  He’d been the lead investigator on Chelsea’s case. Her body was barely in the morgue when Joel himself had hauled Devin into the station in cuffs. Of course, there was no proof. None at all. He’d let him go with a warning—a promise that eventually he’d see his ass put away for the murder.

  That five years had passed without such a thing happening had to be eating Perry up. Devin tipped his head up and gave the cop a relaxed, cocky smile.

  Perry’s dark eyes lit with hate, his salt-and-pepper mustache twitching. He hung in the doorway for a moment, silent and seething, then stepped the rest of the way into the room and closed the door behind him.

  Devin leaned back casually in his seat, steadily drumming the fingers of his left hand on the tabletop. “Quite a welcoming for me.”

  “Where were you last night, Archer?”

  Shit. “Home.”

  “Where’s that?”

  Surely they had both his old address and new one on file. “I’m renting a place in Willow’s Peak.” It was a neighboring county, and his place was right on the border with Stirling Falls.

  “Anyone confirm that?”

  He didn’t slow the thump thump thump of his fingertips on the table but nearly did, his breathing hitching and dread crawling down his spine. “Why would I need someone to?”

  Perry let the silence stretch. Yep, nothing had changed. He liked dramatic tension.

  The cop flopped a folder on the table; it slid toward Devin, spilling fanned photos out. He didn’t open the folder, did nothing but continue to tap the tabletop, but his gaze scanned the pictures peeking out.

  An outstretched arm. Water snaking down plastic. Dead, glazed over eyes staring at nothing. Bruises crisscrossing flesh.

  Chelsea.

  Sickness swirled in his stomach, but still Devin said nothing, waiting for Perry to make his grand point.

  The older man crossed the room but didn’t take the other chair, instead thumping his palms down on either side of the folder. “Open it.”

  “There somethin’ in there I haven’t seen before?” Devin said coldly.

  Perry’s eyes narrowed. He flipped open the manila folder and Devin got a better look at the contents.

  Not Chelsea.

  He frowned. This girl had red hair and she was older than his wife had been—in her thirties, maybe.

  “You know her?” Perry asked.

  Devin stared a minute longer. Blinked. “No.”

  “You sure? You’ve been here a week. Haven’t...” Perry shrugged. “...met anyone?”

  His eyes sharply moved the cop’s way. “Why don’t you just go ahead and say whatever the fuck it is you want to say?”

  Perry leaned deeper, his voice pitching low. “She’s got the same marks on her body your wife did. Tied up in all the same ways before she was put in the water. Know anything about that?”

  “I go to the hardware store, the garden center, the old house, and then home. And that’s it.”

  “Really? ’Cause I heard you assaulted a man downtown last night.”

  And this is what you get for trying to help a pretty girl out. He didn’t recognize her, not last night when she stepped out of the bar nor today when he saw her in the hardware store. Curly black hair, light brown skin that looked like velvet to touch, bright and inquisitive eyes...

  It had been a while. A long while since he looked at someone like that. And of course, she’d likely gone and reported him for tackling the guy yelling at her. Nothing in her demeanor a half hour ago suggested anything off, but he couldn’t read women anymore. All it took was getting recognized, a few swirling rumors, and of course he’d be handed over on a platter.

  “He was threatening a woman,” Devin said calmly. “I encouraged him to go on his way.”

  “Prince Charming, is that how you’re playing it?”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “The truth that you lied to me two minutes ago when you said you were home all night?”

  “I didn’t say ‘all night’,” Devin snapped. “I went downtown for a drink. The bar was busy. I went home.”

  “Didn’t stop anywhere on the way?”

  “No.”

  “Straight home, then?”

  “That’s what I said.” He took a calming breath before his temper could get the better of him.

  Perry’s eyes hadn’t left his, narrowed and searching for any kind of slip-up. “Take another look. You sure you don’t know that girl?”

  Devin’d had it. “It just eats you up, doesn’t it? Haunts you? Can’t prove it was me then, can’t prove it’s me now. And if you had shit on me, I’d be in cuffs. So, if you’ll excuse me.” He stood abruptly, rounded the table, and braced for Perry to stop him. But the cop said nothing, just watched him storm out the door.

  Stupid goddamn small town. Everyone in the station stared at him as he stormed back down the hall, winding around the tiny building without direction as he recalled it all so well. They’d hauled him in a dozen times for questioning, he could navigate it with his eyes closed.

  He thrust open the front door when he got there, stepping out into the summer heat. The sun above seemed to set his black T-shirt on fire. He’d left his hat and shades in the truck, and he squinted against the bright light as he jogged down the steps.

  A man stepped in front of him, camera raised.

  Son of a— Devin clenched his hands into fists but didn’t strike, instead stepping sharply around the guy. Punching some idiot outside of the police station was the last thing he needed to do.

  “In town less than a week and another body shows up—care to comment, Mr. Archer?”

  The reporter followed and Devin knew that voice—the same guy who hounded him when Chelsea died. He’d made dozens of promises, all about ‘Telling His Story’ and it turned into a tabloid tale.

  Still, he practiced restraint, avoided Ingram, and strode straight for his truck. The reporter trailed him, berating him with questions, but Devin tuned him out, focused on getting the hell away from the station and the downtown.

  But still, images of the dead woman plagued him and he knew he wouldn’t be shaking the pictures from his mind any time soon.

  Chapter Six

  Natasha sat in her car, a penlight pinched between her teeth and casting a thin beam of light over the pages she’d photocopied from Harry Ingram. Dusk had fallen an hour ago—it was now after ten at night and she’d seen no movement from Archer.

  She’d missed him leaving the police station but had the address of the old house and caught up with him there. The red truck sat in the dirt driveway for hours; when dusk crept up, the lights came on inside, but she wasn’t willing to go up to t
he house to see in detail. Instead, she saw him passing back and forth, just a shadow in the light. Periodically he came out, carting boxes and packing up the bed of his truck.

  She actually stopped reading at those points when she caught sight of him, pausing to watch. Nowhere could she find precisely what restaurant he’d worked for in the city, but if he was still paying the mortgage on this place—and had for five years without renting it out—as well as rented wherever else he was staying, he had to be well paid. A nice restaurant. But despite being a professional cook for a living, he was built like he was used to physical labor.

  And each time that entered her head, she looked sharply away. True, there was no law that said murderers—or even serial killers—couldn’t be attractive, but it made her feel like a horrible person each time that thought entered her head.

  While he was inside, her time had been spent reading—and Harry had a hell of a lot of information there about Chelsea’s murder. To fill in the blanks, she’d need to see police evidence, of course, but in the meantime she had the start of a picture painted.

  Chelsea Cooper-Archer had left her husband a month before her murder—kicked him out, actually, of the house they shared which was the very same one she sat down the road from now. He moved into a hotel in town, drank frequently, and rumors swirled around him constantly. That he’d been controlling, supposedly violent. What was true and what wasn’t, she couldn’t say—Harry had a knack for embellishing. There were bits and pieces from an interview with Archer but not the whole thing—that might’ve been on the disc or somewhere else.

  As for the crime itself, all the gruesome details were there except for actual autopsy photos. She’d been in the water roughly two days and a lot of evidence was lost, but the physical trauma was apparent. There were still rope marks on her body, contusions and lacerations indicating she’d been beaten badly. It was difficult to tell if there’d been a sexual assault but she was found mostly nude so it seemed likely.