Down the Broken Road

  DOWN THE BROKEN ROAD

  A Rachel Carver Novel

  J. R. Backlund

  For my mother, my hero, the strongest person I've ever known.

  Acknowledgments

  To the following, my sincere gratitude:

  The entire team at Crooked Lane Books. Especially Matt Martz, for his guidance and encouragement; Jenny Chen, for her insights and attention to detail; and Sarah Poppe, for her expertise in marketing and publicity.

  My agent, Rachel Ekstrom Courage of Folio Literary Management. There are never enough good things to say about the person who keeps me sane, hopeful, and focused in a business I still struggle to understand.

  Eric Weaver, for his counsel. Sean Wiggins, for his expertise in all things prosecutorial. And Officer Katie Anderson, for teaching me about law enforcement in North Carolina.

  ONE

  The pink light of daybreak. The rattling of an ancient air conditioner, struggling against the summer heat. The smell of freshly cut grass and fertilizer and pesticides.

  And urine.

  Officer Ashley Ramirez wrinkled her nose as she approached the body. It lay faceup on the slope of a drainage ditch, just west of the chain-link fence that bordered the old man’s property.

  Right where he said it would be.

  “I seen the commotion just before dawn,” the old man had said. Standing on the front porch of his farmhouse, pointing a shaky finger in the distance, pausing every few words to lick at toothless gums. “Out yonder. There was a big fella. Looked like he was draggin’ somethin’ heavy. Too dark for me to see just what it was. But I figured he couldn’t have been up to no good. So I waited till he left. Then I got my flashlight and my twenty-two and went out to see for myself. That man, whoever he was, went and dumped a body over there.”

  Ramirez had asked him to wait inside while she went to have a look. It didn’t take her long to find it.

  There was a street lamp attached to the top of a telephone pole by the road. It gave her just enough light to see the form but no details. She clicked on her flashlight.

  White male.

  Early thirties.

  Unresponsive.

  She slid on a pair of blue gloves as she looked him over. He was thin and clean-cut, wore a purple polo half-tucked into his soiled jeans. There was a brown leather shoe on his right foot. Only a sock on the other.

  “Not from around here, are you?” she muttered, glancing around for the missing shoe. It had probably fallen off while he was being dragged across the grass. Not that it mattered. It wasn’t her job to figure out what had happened here.

  He had blue lips and cool gray skin, but his shoulder gave a little when she pushed on it. Rigor mortis had yet to set in. She checked his wrist for a pulse, just to be sure, then called it in and knelt down beside him to start CPR. Whoever he was, he hadn’t been dead for long. There was always a chance the EMTs could revive him, if she could only keep oxygen moving to his brain while she waited for them to arrive. A slim chance, but it was worth a try.

  She put her hands together on his chest and started compressions. “Stayin’ Alive” played in her head, which helped her keep a steady rhythm. An instructor had once told her it was the perfect song for CPR; it had just the right tempo for circulating the blood until someone with advanced medical training and equipment could take over. He had also said compressions needed to be two inches deep to be effective. The slope of the ditch made that difficult. Made it hard for her to get her weight behind the effort.

  She moved to his other side to try for a better angle. Got her hands in position and rose up on her knees to start again. Then she heard something that made her freeze.

  The air conditioner had stopped. There was the Doppler effect of a car passing by on the highway—the change in pitch as it shot across the landscape to the east. Then it was quiet again. She leaned forward, put her ear just above his mouth, and heard it clearly.

  Gurgling.

  Faint wet breaths that told her he was still alive.

  “Shit!” She rubbed her knuckles on his sternum. “Sir? Sir, can you hear me?”

  The air conditioner came back on. Another car passed on the highway. It masked the sound of his breathing, which made her question if she had heard it at all. She reached for his wrist again to check for a pulse, wondering how she had missed it the first time. As she lifted it, the man’s sleeve fell slack, and she spotted something wrapped loosely around his upper arm. A closer look and she knew exactly what it was.

  A tourniquet.

  Ramirez jumped up and started running, yelling at the radio mic on her shoulder to update the dispatcher. Her voice shook with each stride over the uneven terrain. When she got to her patrol car, she popped the trunk, grabbed the orange kit, and ran back. She hit the ditch without slowing down, slipped on the wet grass, and fell to her back. Cursing, she rose to her knees and shuffled the last few feet to the man as she tore the kit open and shook out the contents.

  There was a syringe, three capsules filled with naloxone, and an atomizer that was supposed to turn the lifesaving liquid into a mist.

  “Hang on, sir. Stay with me.”

  She fumbled with the capsule and the syringe, trying to remember exactly how they went together. Then she remembered that the rubber cap on the capsule had to be removed first.

  “Dammit!”

  She slid it into place, put the atomizer on the other end, and stuck it into the man’s nostril.

  “Here goes nothing.” She squeezed until half the capsule was drained, then put it in the other nostril and delivered the rest. “Come on. Wake up for me.”

  She waited a few seconds, wiping sweat from her brow as she watched for any sign that he might be coming around.

  Nothing.

  She grabbed a second capsule and tried again.

  “Sir? Can you hear me?”

  She gave his sternum another rub with her knuckles and felt movement in his chest. Then his breathing grew louder. He moaned, and his head slowly turned toward her.

  “It’s okay, sir,” she said. “I’ve got EMS coming. They should be here any minute. Just stay with me, all right?”

  The flashing lights of the approaching ambulance caught Ramirez’s attention as she updated the dispatcher. It turned off the highway and came to a stop next to her patrol car. The EMTs jumped out and ran toward the house. She grabbed the flashlight from her belt, clicked it on, and waved it at them, but they didn’t seem to notice her.

  “Damn.” She patted the man on the shoulder. “Hang tight, sir. EMS is here. I’m gonna go get them for you. I’ll be right back.”

  She started to stand, but he reached up and seized her hand.

  “Jesus,” she said with a start.

  His grip was impossibly strong. His eyes were still closed, but his mouth was moving. Raspy breaths tried to form words with each exhalation. She leaned in to listen.

  “Ra … Rachel…”

  “Rachel? Who’s Rachel? Is she someone you want me to call?”

  A mumbled response and a weak nod.

  “Sir?”

  “Rachel,” he yelled suddenly. He opened his eyes, fixed his gaze on Ramirez’s face, and said, “Please, call her … Rachel Carver.”

  TWO

  Rachel Carver was being dissected. Sitting in a conference room in the twelfth-floor offices of the Robertson Burke & Porter law firm in downtown Raleigh, she watched the attorney pull her life apart, page by page. The file was thicker than it should have been, Rachel thought. Far more than just her résumé, the copy of her private investigator license, and the letters of recommendation she had provided.

  There were newspaper clippings and printouts of stories from Internet news sites. Excerpts from case files that could
only have been obtained through public-records requests. Other documents that Rachel didn’t recognize. The attorney appeared to be moving backward in time, quietly absorbing her career in reverse.

  “I apologize for the delay,” he said, keeping his eyes down. “But we, of course, like to do our research.”

  “Of course,” Rachel said. “It looks pretty thorough.”

  He looked at her, pushed his wire-framed glasses further up onto the bridge of his nose, and smiled. “I’ll just be a few more moments.” Then he went back to reading as if she were no longer in the room.

  Rachel had already forgotten his name. She stole a look at the business card he had handed her while introducing himself. Calvin Grant. She judged him to be in his midthirties. He wore a navy suit with a silver tie that had one of those perfect dimples just below the knot. He sat straight and rested his forearms on the edge of the table, taking care to keep the band of his Rolex from scratching its shiny surface as he flipped through the pages.

  “UNC,” he said with an approving nod. His eyes ran quickly through her college transcripts, tracing her coursework in vertical columns.

  “Fellow Tar Heel?” she asked.

  “Cornell,” he said, looking up. He sat back in his chair, took his glasses off, and laid them on the table. “So, help me understand something. Why would a special agent with the SBI, with a stellar reputation and nowhere to go but up, quit after only seven years to become a legal investigator?”

  His eyes were small without the lenses in front of them. Almost piercing.

  “Several reasons, I guess…” Rachel had anticipated the question. She had prepared a response, but her answer suddenly seemed inadequate. The accusation in Grant’s words, the way he peered at her from across the table, told her he wouldn’t accept anything less than the unvarnished truth. “Better hours. More free time. I liked the idea of—”

  “Miss Carver, you have an impressive résumé,” he said, glancing at his watch, “but we have no shortage of ex-cops turned PI applying for this job. If you want to be considered, you’re going to have to be straight with me.”

  Rachel flushed with irritation. “I didn’t ask for this interview, Mr. Grant. Your office called me.”

  “And here you are. Was it a mistake to assume you might want a position with this firm?”

  It was no mistake. After abandoning her career with the North Carolina State Bureau of Investigation, Rachel had decided she was done with law enforcement. But, at thirty-nine, she was too young for retirement, so she had settled on her next best option—working as a private investigator for criminal defense attorneys.

  At first, she had wanted the independence of being a freelancer. Working by contract, choosing only the cases that interested her. Unfortunately, those typically went to firms that could afford full-time investigators. The smaller firms, as it turned out, didn’t have enough good cases to keep her busy. For Rachel to make a living, she would have to take any work that came her way. That made a permanent position with Robertson Burke & Porter much more enticing. Better work with steady pay, a retirement plan, health benefits …

  So Rachel put on a smile and said, “It’s true. Working here would certainly be a step up.”

  “Well then,” Grant said, “let’s try this a different way. Why don’t you tell me about Lauren Bailey?”

  The name hit Rachel like a gunshot to the chest, leaving a familiar black hole that swallowed her heart. “What would you like to know?”

  “How about we start with what happened?”

  “It isn’t written up somewhere in that giant file?”

  “It’s a lot to read. I’d rather hear it from you, if that’s all right?”

  She cleared her throat. “Miss Bailey was a suspect in a homicide investigation.”

  “Your last case with the SBI?”

  “Yes.” She straightened in her seat and tugged on the lapels of her blazer to flatten a wrinkle on her back. “That’s correct. Her boyfriend, Tyler Larson, was found dead in her car with a single gunshot wound to the head. The car was found about two miles from where she was living at the time.”

  “And where was that?”

  “Her mother’s house, just outside Wendell. Before that, she was living with Larson in Fayetteville.”

  “He was a soldier, right?” Grant asked. “Stationed at Fort Bragg?”

  She nodded. “A platoon sergeant assigned to the five hundred eighth infantry regiment.”

  “I see. And why did Miss Bailey decide to move back in with her mother?”

  “Bailey and Larson had a volatile relationship. One night, about three months before Larson was killed, Bailey found out he was cheating on her. They had a nasty fight. Lots of yelling and screaming. Things breaking in the house. The neighbors called the police. The responding officers didn’t see any signs of domestic abuse, so they just calmed things down and issued them a warning for the noise complaint. Bailey took her son and left that same night.”

  “But that didn’t end their relationship?”

  “No. They seemed to patch things up pretty quickly. They were even talking about moving back in together.”

  Grant leaned his head against the seat back and looked up at the ceiling, thought for a second, and said, “So Sergeant Larson turns up dead in Miss Bailey’s car. The Wake County Sheriff’s Office works the case for four months before getting frustrated and calling the SBI for help. The SBI sends you in to save the day.”

  “Something like that,” Rachel said.

  “And I take it you had a breakthrough?”

  She nodded. “I discovered that Larson was still cheating on Miss Bailey. With a different woman this time. One the sheriff’s office didn’t know about. That gave Bailey motive, which was the missing piece of the puzzle.”

  “So where did it all go wrong?”

  She hesitated, unsure of how to answer.

  “Forgive me for being blunt,” he said, “but you shot and killed Miss Bailey while attempting to arrest her—”

  “She had a gun,” Rachel said quickly. “She was pointing it at a deputy.”

  “Of course.” He gave her a conciliatory wave of his hand. “By all accounts, your actions were entirely justifiable. Even worthy of praise, according to your superiors. I didn’t mean to insinuate otherwise. But now there’s this.” He dug through the file and withdrew a newspaper clipping, laid it on the table, and pushed it a few inches in her direction. “I assume you recognize this article?”

  She needed only a glance. “I do.”

  “It says you think Lauren Bailey was innocent.”

  “Yes, it does.”

  He stared at her quietly for a moment. Then he said, “That’s a stunning admission, Miss Carver. Especially considering that you’re—”

  “The one who killed her?”

  “I was going to say, named in a wrongful-death lawsuit.”

  “Right. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to help me out with that?”

  “One thing at a time,” he said. “Tell me about Ross Penter.”

  Another name that made Rachel feel like her heart had seized. She fought to keep her composure as she said, “He was the special agent in charge of the Capital District. After I left, he was promoted to assistant director for field operations.”

  “He was your superior?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he disagrees with you about Bailey? He believes she was guilty?”

  “You could say that.”

  Grant put his glasses back on, reached into the file, and pulled out another clipping. “In this interview, he questions your motivation for speaking out. He intimates that you were riddled with guilt after the shooting.”

  “Intimates?” She couldn’t help but laugh. “He seemed pretty clear about it to me.”

  “He goes on to say that, in addition to feeling guilty, you tend to be obsessive about your work. That once you get started on something you can never let it go.”

  “Are you asking me if I think h
e’s right?”

  “No, Miss Carver.” He gathered the articles and slid them back into place. “Everything in here tells me he’s right.”

  Rachel tugged at her blazer again.

  Grant said, “My question is, if that’s the case, why aren’t you out there right now trying to solve Tyler Larson’s murder?”

  “You mean, aside from the fact that I’m no longer an agent?”

  He nodded at the file. “You weren’t an agent when you solved the Lowry County murders a few months ago.”

  “That’s different,” she said.

  “How so?”

  “I was working as a consultant for the sheriff’s office.”

  “So, since you have no official involvement with the case that ended your career, you’re willing to just let it go?”

  She took a deep breath and said, “I guess so.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Rachel felt herself tensing, her body preparing to spring out of her chair. She didn’t know whether she wanted to stand up and yell at Grant or walk straight out of the room without saying a word. In that moment of indecision, he pressed on.

  “I think you’re conflicted,” he said. “I think you want to be out there searching for the real killer, but you’re afraid of what might happen if you actually solved the case. What harm it might do to the SBI’s new assistant director. The man who actually made the decision to arrest Lauren Bailey. He was, after all, your mentor, wasn’t he? Taught you everything you knew about being an agent?”

  “He was.” A little sadness crept into her voice. “Where are you going with this?”

  He leaned forward, put his forearms on the table, and laced his fingers together. “Miss Carver, this firm defends a number of clients who’ve been investigated by the SBI. If we decided to bring you on board, we would need to know that your past loyalty to AD Penter wouldn’t interfere with your ability to perform your duties.”

  “That won’t be a problem for me,” she said. “I can promise you.”

  “You’re certain of that?”

  “I am. The truth is, you’re right. I did feel a sense of loyalty to him. But that’s over now.” She looked at the file, felt anger and resentment rising within her. “I’m done caring about Ross Penter. You won’t have to worry about him getting in my way.”