And Sari chortled in glee.
Weston didn’t really have plans, but just so much was going on that he needed to stir up some more information before this slipped away and became a cold case. He knew he was really pushing it, and he trusted the detective to do what he could, but obviously they were short-staffed. He headed back to the lawyer’s office, surprised to see forensics there already. He went to the other businesses and introduced himself, then explained why he was there and asked if they had known the lawyer.
One woman at the front desk of an insurance company nodded. “He was a great guy,” she said warmly. “We were really devastated to learn of his death.”
“You didn’t hear anything I presume?”
She shook her head. “Nothing. I don’t remember seeing him this week at all. Some days we don’t. He’s busy, arriving early and nearly always leaving well after I do,” she said.
He nodded and smiled, then asked a few more questions, but there didn’t seem to be anything to add. He went up and down all the businesses in the block and got largely the same report: that the lawyer was a good guy and that nobody had any idea why someone would have shot him.
Now to come back to this whole Grant and Ginger thing. He realized he may need to have another talk with Grant—or whoever he was. It was possible he was Gregory, but Weston really had no idea. He was a little on the fence about it. He headed back into the vehicle with Shambhala, letting her up first, noting again how well she jumped, at least for now.
He checked the time and found it was only two-thirty, so he headed down the road out to the homestead. He pulled off the side of the road at the site of the accident, and, with Shambhala on a leash, he hiked down to where the crash site was. The wrecked vehicle was still there, and he suspected that budgetary limitations may have prevented it from being hauled out. They had taken the two bodies from the vehicle, but that was it.
Shambhala barked and jumped around at the bottom, but she didn’t seem to exhibit any signs that this was where she’d been tossed or where her owners had died. It was in complete contrast to their first visit. Maybe the dog had figured out that her beloved owner was gone now, and she was okay to move on. Animals did adjust faster than humans …
He walked around the crushed-in truck. It had flipped and rolled several times and had landed on its wheels, at an angle, so it was tilted upward, not quite sideways, but lodged in between a couple rocks at a forty-five-degree angle. The hood was crushed flat, and the bed was pretty damaged with the sides caved in.
He couldn’t tell from the damage on the vehicle if there’d been any foul play. And, of course, on a stretch of road like this, it was pretty easy for accidents to happen, so it was totally within reason that it had been an accident, just as it appeared. But who was to say for sure? It was just one more in a pile of unknowns he had no answers for.
He got a door open and peered inside. Almost nothing was left, since a fire had scorched the interior as well. He stared at the cliff up above. Looking at Shambhala, he muttered, “Be pretty hard to survive that. Plus with the fire afterward.”
He shook his head and started the slow climb back up. Just as he neared the steepest part of the climb, a single gunshot rang out. He ducked, reacting by instinct and pulling Shambhala with him back behind the brush. He swore softly as the dog curled up close to his side, whimpering. He hugged her close. “I know. We never wanted to hear that again, did we?”
Her tail thumped in response, but she kept her trembling body against him.
“But here we are, girl, so we’ll have to deal with it. Let’s hope they don’t get a chance for a second shot.”
He waited for a long moment to see if anybody would come looking for them. When he heard no movement, he picked up a rock and threw it down closer to the vehicle, causing a few other rocks to move down. Instantly a second shot was fired. Swearing, he pulled out his phone and sent Badger a message, then sent Detective Kruger a message as well. When the detective texted back, Weston was told to stay undercover, and the detective was on the way.
Weston snorted at that. “I could be dead before you get here,” he snapped as he peered through the brush, trying to see who the shooter was. The shots came from the other side of the road, toward Grant’s homestead, but that didn’t mean it was him. Or Gregory. Weston hadn’t seen a vehicle when he drove up, and they were still a good many miles away from the cabin, so there was no logical reason to assume it was one of the twins. Neither would have known Weston was even driving out this way. Unless, of course, one of them had been tracking him.
He frowned at that. It was one thing for his military buddies to have access to tracking equipment, but it was not common for someone like Grant. Then again, Weston didn’t know what his history was, and maybe he needed to check that. He sent another text to Badger, asking if anybody in Grant’s family had a military or law enforcement background. He couldn’t be sure it was him shooting, but the only way the shooter would know Weston was here was if his vehicle had been tracked. Badger said he’d look into it but also told Weston to check
