Cold River - Carla Neggers [92]
“Nope. Going involves a suit. I’ll send a check.”
Sean headed through the gate and down a stone walk to the garage. He climbed into his car and sank against the cool leather seats. It’d only been a few days since he’d left Hannah in Vermont, but at least it was a new year. No one on the task force investigating the murders-for-hire had slacked off for the holidays and they wouldn’t now, but they needed a break—a new lead. It would be easy for everyone—including Hannah—to let Bowie and old stonework and whatever had gone on at the cemetery become distractions.
Sean remembered his father railing about Hannah after her mother had died. “That girl has no business trying to raise those two boys. A foster home would be better. She’s just a kid herself. Hell, though. No one’s ever been able to tell Hannah—or any Shay—what to do.”
In March, he’d admitted he’d been wrong. It was just after Bowie’s arrest, before Sean had returned to California. “Hannah would do anything for her brothers, and they’d do anything for her,” his father had told him. “Devin and Toby wouldn’t have been better off in a foster home. I’d just like to see her smile more. Cut loose a little, you know? She’s a good soul. You should have her and her friends out to Beverly Hills for a visit.”
Sean smiled at the memory. His father had hated Southern California. The weather’s nice, he’d say, but that was it. Sean had never taken his father’s comments as a condemnation of his choice to move west. Drew Cameron had just always been a man to state his opinions. Agree, disagree, argue, don’t argue—he didn’t care.
Sean started his car. He envisioned Hannah in an evening gown next to him, smiling as they headed out together for a night on the town. Her pale blue eyes would be gleaming with excitement, and all her troubles would be behind her.
No question, he thought. The woman definitely had him tied up in knots.
When he reached the hotel lobby, Sean dug out his cell phone and dialed A.J. Enough, already. He had to stay focused on his real mission, and it wasn’t having Hannah on his arm for a fancy Beverly Hills event. “You and Elijah keeping an eye on Bowie?” he asked his older brother.
“As best we can,” A.J. said. “Elijah’s in a bad mood with Jo in Washington. He’s not talking, or can’t talk, about what she’s up to.”
“Bowie’s been stopping at the café at night to work on the cellar.”
A.J. was silent a moment. “I know. I haven’t said anything to Hannah. It wouldn’t do any good. Elijah and I hiked up to the cabin and took a look at the foundation ourselves. We have a fair idea of Pop’s capabilities, but who the hell knows if he had help, didn’t have help, needed any. No wonder Hannah didn’t want to say anything.”
“It does sound nuts,” Sean said, “but if Bowie advised him on rebuilding an old dry-wall foundation, then he could have put the pieces together and figured out what Pop was up to. Bowie would have had more of an idea than most people about where the old cellar hole could be.”
“He could have hiked up the mountain one day and found it.”
“Then told the wrong person. He ends up in jail, and Pop’s killed—”
“And here we are.” A.J. sighed heavily.
“I’m not out to get Bowie,” Sean said, “but I’m not assuming he’s just misunderstood, either.”
“Same here. I’m keeping an open mind.” He paused, then added, “Hannah’s not.”
Sean gripped his phone, watching well-dressed men and women pass him in the hotel lobby. What was he doing here? “I shouldn’t have come back here, A.J. I should be there.”
A.J. grunted. “Yeah, well, you’re not. I should warn you—Elijah will be calling.”
Two minutes later, he did. “Tell me about an arson investigator named Jasper Vanderhorn. And tell me about Nick Martini. We’ve never met.”
Sean stepped out of the path of two actors he recognized and their entourage. “Elijah, what’s this about?”
“Hell if I know.”
“I didn’t know Vanderhorn. He was killed in June.”
“Rose was out there then.”
“Yes, she was,” Sean said, feeling a strange coolness run down his spine.
“Jo and Grit are onto something,