and rose from the chair he’d been offered facing the sheriff’s desk. “Sir,” he said politely, bending his head and walking out of the office.
He knew he was in deep shit, made worse because he was the new guy. A couple other deputies had quietly expressed their support, but a number had urged him to retreat from his “story.” Andy Hayes was a fine officer, a good guy. He wouldn’t have just beaten a man to death for the hell of it. No, sir. Accidents happened. If the fellow’s head hadn’t happened to hit that concrete step... Damnedest thing, him stumbling back and falling in just the wrong place. But when a man went for a police officer’s gun? Well, he was asking for anything.
Zach was ninety-nine-percent sure Antonio Alvarez had not gone for Andy Hayes’s gun. Even if he had, Hayes had dominated the encounter from that moment on. He could have had Alvarez on the ground, cuffed and arrested without breaking a sweat. Zach couldn’t think of an excuse in the world for Hayes to have beaten the shit out of the guy. What’s more, he had a suspicion Alvarez had been dead before he’d hit the concrete. Maybe he’d only lost consciousness, but he’d looked like a dead man from the instant his head snapped back and his body collapsed like a puppet’s with the strings cut.
Nobody wanted to talk about why Hayes had been there in the first place—well out of his patrol sector. They weren’t talking about the results of the autopsy, either—if it had even been done yet. As was common in rural counties, the coroner wasn’t a physician. Zach wanted to believe he wouldn’t cooperate with a cover-up.
No matter at what point Alvarez had died, going for a police officer’s gun was not a crime deserving of the death penalty, not if the officer had the ability to control the situation. Which Hayes unquestionably had.
Zach had no doubt he’d already have been fired if the sheriff hadn’t been afraid of the repercussions. Whatever Stokes thought personally, publicly the undersheriff would have to bow to his boss. Right now, they controlled the contacts Zach could talk to. If they cut him loose, they had to know he’d go straight to the press, the county commissioners, activists representing the Latino community.
The killing of an unarmed Hispanic man by a red-neck white deputy had the potential to explode into a scandal of nationwide proportions. The sheriff and undersheriff had to be seeing Ferguson and Pasco in their nightmares.
Too bad no one had had a camera phone, Zach thought grimly.
The good news was that he hadn’t been the only witness. It was pretty clear the woman hadn’t backed down yet, at least. She hadn’t gone to the press, either, but if they pushed too hard, they couldn’t stop her.
Zach knew her name now. Teresa Granath. Ms. Granath, the detective had said with sarcastic emphasis.
Zach had just come in from patrol. The sheriff’s department couldn’t afford to lose two of them at the same time and, as was standard practice, Hayes had been placed on administrative leave since a man had died during an altercation.
The incident.
Having finally clocked out, Zach had decided to contact Ms. Granath. He’d been careful yesterday once Stokes had arrived at the scene not to make eye contact with her or to try to speak to her. He didn’t want anyone thinking he’d influenced what she had to say. He’d be in trouble if he was seen with her now, but he’d passed the point of caring. He wanted to know how much shit they’d been giving her and whether she could stand up to it. Whether he could depend on her.
He assumed she’d have left her workplace, which he’d learned was a home improvement store. He’d planned to pay it a visit one of these days, anyway, because he was only days from closing on a house that needed work. He’d be out significant money if he lost his job.
But forget the house. If he didn’t last on this job, he’d lose the chance to investigate his sister’s murder. His jaw was tight as he jumped into his pickup. Damned if he’d give up this easily.
No Teresa Granath appeared in the local phone directory, so, despite the rules against it, he’d accessed DMV records to find her. She lived within the city limits of Clear Creek, which would reduce the likelihood of anyone from the sheriff’s department happening to drive by and see his Silverado parked out front.
Just to be on the safe side, he left it a block away. The neighborhood consisted of nice family homes, ramblers and some split-levels. Most probably dated to the 1980s. Hers was a rambler, not a big place but in good shape, with a white picket fence and flowerbeds. She or someone she lived with was a gardener. The concrete walkway passed under an arch covered by rose canes unfurling green leaves.
If she was home, her car was in the garage. He rang the doorbell and waited...
He frowned and glanced toward the front window. Unfortunately the wood blinds were drawn.
At the sound of the door opening he turned back sharply. The sight of her disturbed him, renewing the strange bond they’d formed yesterday when they’d looked at each other over the dead body.
This time he was able to assess her, although no physical evaluation would tell him how strong an ally she’d be. As a man, he did like what he saw.
She was pretty, with beautiful hazel eyes and a cute bump on the bridge of her nose. A few freckles gave her a girl-next-door look—except that she had a sexy mouth. The hair he’d vaguely thought of as brown was actually glossy and caramel-colored.
Otherwise...she was tall for a woman. Five ten or even eleven, and slim. He’d have said skinny except she did have curves. They were subtle but plenty female. And long legs. Damn, it was no wonder she’d crossed that lawn so fast.
“Deputy,” she said, her voice just a little husky.
“Ms. Granath.”
Her mouth curved. “Your detective really wanted me to be a miss or a missus. ‘Ms.’ seemed to disturb his sense of order.”
Zach chuckled, although her smile along with those really fine legs stirred his body in uncomfortable ways. He reined it in. “This area seems to be lagging a little behind the times.”
She made a face. “I’ve noticed. Please, come in.”
He followed her in and waited while she closed the door.
“Why don’t you come on back to the kitchen?” she suggested. “I was working on dinner.”
“I’ll try to make it brief, then. I, uh, just wanted to make sure you’re being treated decently.”
He was distracted as they went by the glimpses he had into her living room, what looked like a library and home office and a dining room. He was impressed. She must have had some serious work done.
He doubted floors in a house of this era had originally been hardwood, for example. The molding could have been from a 1920’s cottage, the effect enhanced by wood blinds either white-painted or warm-maple-stained throughout and a French door that led from an eating area out to the back garden. Kitchen cabinets had a cottage look, too.
The stained maple was the same color as her hair, he couldn’t help noticing.
Countertops had been tiled in a bold red picked up by the display of antique stoneware on a shelf above the upper cabinets.
And, damn, something smelled good.
“You’re a gardener,” he said, gazing out at a backyard that, like the front, wasn’t very big but was bound to be a profusion of cottage-garden bloom in another couple months. There was color even now, mostly from daffodils and crocuses and a shrub with vivid yellow blooms. She seemed to have a lot of rosebushes.
“I am,” she agreed. “It’s my hobby. I especially love antique roses. There are moments I wish I had a way bigger yard so I could grow more of them, but I remind myself how much maintenance what I have takes. I don’t want gardening to quit being fun and start being work.”
“I know what you mean,” he agreed. “I just bought a fixer-upper to flip.”
She raised