Mosely pushed at his shoulder, making Donovan turn. “Hey, are you saying there was a crime here? That this was murder?”
Donovan considered how much to tell him. Someone had tried to get information from Wally. Telling Rasmussen and the sheriff wouldn’t help Wally, but there was more than one life at risk here. “Walter Shikovski was murdered. I can’t prove it, but I can tell you that his daughter is in danger from the same people who killed him.”
Sheriff Mosely straightened. “What people? What do you know about it?”
“I don’t know who they are.” Not yet. But he’d sure as hell find out.
Mosely followed him as Donovan went to the other room and snatched his helmet off the chair. “You know something. What did they want from Wally?”
He stopped, looking Mosely in the eyes. “That’s the million-dollar question, Sheriff. I don’t know the answer.”
He’d find out that, too. Or a whole lot of people were going to end up dead, starting with Walter’s beloved daughter, Jessie.
…
Jess turned her collar up against the frigid wind, shivering from head to toe. The funeral director had insisted on sticking with the outdoor service her father had arranged and paid for years before, even though Walter must have envisioned dying in the summer. Michigan’s November cold was playing hell with her Southern blood.
Not that there were many who suffered along with Jess. She eyed the small group of mourners standing around the mahogany casket for the graveside service. Had anyone liked her father? Only a handful of his coworkers from the university had shown up, anonymous figures in long coats and hats who murmured introductions she immediately forgot. And Tyler Donovan. He’d lurked in the background during the service, still in motorcycle leathers, as if he’d brought nothing else with him to Nipagonee Rapids. To her annoyance, he’d shown up at the funeral home, too, never speaking to anyone, just watching. Each time his gaze had met hers she’d found it hard to look away, his intent stare compelling and unnerving at the same time. It sent shivers across her shoulders; she hadn’t decided if they were good shivers or bad ones.
He hadn’t called her to go through the house yet.
She looked for him now as the small group dispersed, determined to ask exactly what work he’d done with her father and why his friendship had meant so much to Walter Shikovski that he’d left all his personal possessions to him. She scanned the surrounding tombstones and scattered pines as the service ended, but saw only two men in heavy coveralls leaning against a backhoe in the distance, waiting for everyone to leave so they could lower the casket and finish the burial. No Donovan. He was probably hanging back, waiting for the last mourners to leave so he could approach her again about going through his newly acquired possessions.
Cold raindrops mixed with the November wind, hurrying the last of the mourners toward their waiting cars. She ignored their footsteps crunching the dead leaves behind her, giving her father’s casket one last look. An official good-bye seemed called for, but she had no words to offer. No words that could express the hurt of losing the beloved father of her childhood, and nothing to say to the man who’d turned his back on his thirteen-year-old daughter when she’d needed him most.
Cold rain bit at her exposed legs below her trench coat, prompting her to hurry and be done. “Screw it,” she muttered aloud. “Good-bye, Dad—”
With a rush of movement behind her, her words were suddenly cut off. A hand snaked around her throat and clamped over her mouth, rough fingers mashing her lips against her teeth. Jess screamed, the muted sound vibrating against the hand.
Whose hand? Her mind flew to Donovan and the way she’d lost track of him, yet hadn’t seen him leave. Would he attack her? Who the hell knew? He was a mystery. She should have mentioned him to someone, asked who he was. Too late now.
Panic tore through her and she clawed at the arms pinning her against a tall, male body. Strong arms, hard and muscular beneath thick sleeves. Donovan’s? They could be. Against her ear, a rough cheek brushed hers, igniting new terror. She struggled wildly, then froze as the man’s harsh voice rumbled into her ear.
“Hand it over,” he growled. “Or end up in the ground with him.”
Not Donovan’s voice. The unfamiliar accent proved it, but provided no reassurance. He pushed her forward, still holding tightly, and her foot slipped into nothingness—the edge of the grave.
A green felt tarp covered the grave, a fake grassy border to hide the yawning hole beneath the casket. The tarp gave way beneath her shoe. Another scream tore from her throat, muffled against his hand as he forced her other foot to the edge of the grave. She shook her head, both a plea to stop and confusion over his demand. Hand what over? Her wallet? Her house keys? The rest of the threat was all too clear.