“What?” Reed said, his eyebrows knitting. “How did . . . What did . . . How do you know about Bronco?”
“So it is true. How’s he connected?” she asked, unable to stop the questions that had been plaguing her to keep from rolling off her tongue. “And what’s with the empty grave? Two bodies, but three burial sites? Was one moved?”
“Oh, my God! Nikki—stop! Just . . . Stop!” He held up a hand, palm out, his expression one of utter disbelief that she would still be investigating. “You’re in the damned hospital for crying out loud, so just—”
At that second there was a soft tap on the already half-open door and a uniformed cop, a woman Nikki didn’t recognize, peeked in. “Detective?”
“I’ll be right back,” Reed said, then quickly stepped into the hallway, disappearing and leaving the door ajar before Nikki could ask the next question already forming on her lips. But he’d practically confirmed that Bronco had made the call. She strained her neck to peer through the crack in the door but couldn’t see Reed or the cop, only the view of a curved desk of blond wood, where three nurses—two women and a man, all in blue scrubs—were huddled over monitors, the man speaking into a phone as he stared at a computer screen.
Nikki shifted on the bed to get a better view, or to find out if Reed was anywhere within sight, but a sharp pain in her left shoulder caused her to suck in her breath and reminded her that she was far from a hundred percent. Damn. For the next several weeks she would have to keep her arm immobile, which would slow her down. She’d also have to ice her shoulder and eventually start physical therapy. The only reason she hadn’t been discharged yet was because of her pregnancy, considered high risk because of her previous miscarriages, and the ER doc wanted to talk with Nikki’s OB/GYN.
The last thing she needed was to be laid up, but, she reminded herself, she was lucky. Yeah, she had to wear a sling to keep her arm immobile for a while, but other than that she was okay.
Unlike Morrisette.
* * *
“Hey, Detective!” a voice boomed down the corridor. Reed looked down a hallway and spied a tall, muscular man in khakis and a black tight-fitting T-shirt striding toward him. His blond hair was clipped so close to his skull that the beginning of male pattern baldness was visible and two days’ worth of beard covered a tight, angry jaw. His eyes, laser blue, were focused on Reed as he skirted past an aide pushing an empty gurney toward a bank of elevators.
Tyson Beaumont, Reed guessed. And he looked as if he were fit to be tied.
A few steps behind him was a trim man in his late sixties or early seventies who looked as if he’d just stepped off the golf course in his Izod shirt and crisp plaid shorts. Reed supposed it was Baxter Beaumont, Tyson’s father.
He braced himself.
“You!” Tyson charged, heading in Reed’s direction, the older man following. “I’ve been looking for you!” He closed the gap between them. “I heard you’re in charge!”
The elevator call button dinged, the doors parted, and the aide and gurney disappeared inside.
“What the hell is going on?” Tyson demanded as the elevator’s doors closed. “I heard there was a body found on my property, maybe more than one. Is that right? Who are they, what happened?” His face was flushed, his eyes worried as another elevator opened and two nurses in scrubs hurried into the hallway as Baxter caught up.
“Baxter Beaumont,” the older man said, jutting out his hand. He was tanned and fit, only his shock of silver hair and the crow’s-feet at the corners of laser-blue eyes giving away his age. His handshake was firm, his teeth a brilliant flash of white. “You’re Detective Reed?”
“Yes.” Releasing the man’s hand, Reed offered up his ID.
“Yeah, yeah, we know,” Tyson said dismissively. “We’ve been looking for you. Or whoever is in charge. Went to the old house and were stopped by cops. Got the runaround, let me tell you.” He was agitated, his lips twisting down. “Finally found out from a deputy that you were here. I—we”—he motioned with his hand to include his father—“we need to know what’s going on.” His blue eyes, so like his father’s, narrowed on Reed. “Dead bodies? Really? In the old house?”
“Impossible,” Baxter said. “That’s unimaginable!” He shook his head. “Two, right?” He scowled at Reed. “That’s what they said on the news. Two bodies and you’re looking for more.”
“That’s crazy!” Tyson ran a hand through the stubble over his skull.
The elevator dinged again and an orderly pushing a thirtyish woman in a wheelchair appeared. Her casted leg was propped in front of her and she was holding two vases of flowers. A man who appeared about the patient’s age lagged behind and was struggling with a plastic bag, another vase and a bouquet of metallic Mylar balloons in a rainbow of colors that caught inside the elevator car before floating loftily behind.
“Let’s find a spot where we can talk,” Reed said, watching the trio make their way to the main doors. He figured he had a few minutes. Nikki was stable and Morrisette was still in surgery; there was nothing he could do for her. “There’s a spot just around the corner.” He led them around a corner, past the Information Desk and down a short distance to a windowed alcove with a view of the parking area near the main doors. A couple of chairs and a small love seat were arranged around a coffee table, where someone had left a half-empty paper coffee cup and an out-of-date People magazine.
“Sit,” Reed suggested. Father and son took the chairs while Reed dropped into the small couch across from them.
“Who are they?” Baxter asked. “The bodies. Who the hell are they?”
“Unknown at this time. We’re working on that.”
“How many?” Tyson asked. “As Dad said, the news reported that you found two, but that you were still looking.”
“That’s right. Two in the basement.”
“Of the old house?” Baxter clarified. “Jesus God . . . I . . . I can’t believe it. How long were they there?”
“Looks like years.”
“Men?” Baxter asked, rubbing one hand over his bare knee as he sat. “Or . . . women?”
“Still figuring that out.”
“You couldn’t tell?” Tyson’s mouth dropped open. “But—”
“He’s saying they were decomposed beyond recognition,” his father pointed out.
Tyson shot to his feet, stood back to the windows, his reflection watery behind him. “But they must’ve had something, their clothes or something to ID them, let you know if they were men or . . .”
“Unless they were naked.” Baxter glared up at his son. “Just let the detective tell us.”
“Fine.” Tyson crossed his arms over his chest, stretching the fabric of his shirt. “What did you find, and what’re we supposed to do about it?”
Reed was reticent to give out too much information until the police had decided which details they would keep to themselves, at least for now, information that only the killer would know. “Other than that there were two bodies located in the house and it looks as if they’ve been there years, there’s not a lot I can tell you. We received an anonymous tip that they were there and we went to investigate, cordoned off the place, searched and confirmed, then kept searching.”