Crime Scene Cover-Up Read online

  “Unless I’m out on a call, I’ll be here to pick you up. And if I’m still out with my crew, I’ll send one of my brothers. You’re not doing any more of this on your own.”

  Mark’s hands tightened on her hips, pulled her closer. “Do you know how much I need you to be safe? How much it kills me to know that you don’t feel safe in your own home? On your own land?”

  Amy reached up to stroke her fingertips across the taut angles of his cheek and jaw. She brushed her fingers across his stubbled skin, once, twice, again, until she felt the tension in his expression ease. “Nine in the morning?”

  “I’ll be here.”

  CRIME SCENE COVER-UP

  USA TODAY Bestselling Author

  Julie Miller

  Julie Miller is an award-winning USA TODAY bestselling author of breathtaking romantic suspense—with a National Readers’ Choice Award and a Daphne du Maurier Award, among other prizes. She has also earned an RT Book Reviews Career Achievement Award. For a complete list of her books, monthly newsletter and more, go to juliemiller.org.

  Books by Julie Miller

  Harlequin Intrigue

  The Taylor Clan: Firehouse 13

  Crime Scene Cover-Up

  The Precinct

  Beauty and the Badge

  Takedown

  KCPD Protector

  Crossfire Christmas

  Military Grade Mistletoe

  Kansas City Cop

  The Precinct: Bachelors in Blue

  APB: Baby

  Kansas City Countdown

  Necessary Action

  Protection Detail

  Rescued by the Marine

  Do-or-Die Bridesmaid

  Personal Protection

  Target on Her Back

  K-9 Protector

  Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com.

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Mark Taylor—This next-generation Taylor Clan hero has followed in his adoptive parents’ footsteps and become a KCFD firefighter. But after failing to save the family member he was closest to, he questions whether he can stop the arson fires threatening Kansas City and protect the quirky beauty who is caught up in the middle of the devastation.

  Amy Hall—With a shed full of welding equipment and found treasures from ditches and dumpsters, this artist is seen by most people as a free spirit who marches to the beat of her own muse. But when a friend goes missing and her gran’s historic home is threatened by the fires, she’ll do whatever is necessary—even team up with a confoundedly sexy, bossy rule lover like Mark Taylor—to save them.

  Comfort Hall—Amy’s widowed grandmother, who raised her.

  Jocelyn Brunt—A grad student conducting environmental research on Amy’s property.

  Dale O’Brien—The contractor owns the Copper Lake subdivision and has made no secret of the fact he wants the Hall women to sell him their adjoining land.

  Brad & Richie—Two handymen Amy hires to help renovate her grandmother’s historic farm home.

  Gerald Sanders—Amy’s tenant.

  Derek Roland—Jocelyn’s fellow researcher.

  For Lissanne Jones, a fellow author, reader and friend. She sent me the generous gift of a tea sampler from Australia. I had so much fun trying the different selection of teas that I’d never seen before, much less tasted. I appreciate your kindness. Thank you!

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Excerpt from The Last Resort by Janice Kay Johnson

  Chapter One

  Mark Taylor loved the scents of fish, grill smoke and the outdoors that clung to his clothes and filled up the cab of his truck. He and the silver-haired man sitting in the passenger seat across from him were chasing the sunset along Highway 7, speeding home to Kansas City after their annual camping-and-fishing weekend at Truman Lake.

  The scenery on either side of the twisting highway was especially picturesque in the summer. The rolling hills were carpeted with endless green trees giving way to tiny towns, the steel-gray water of wind-whipped lakes and the grittier browns of creeks and rivers filled with the rain that had flooded parts of the state earlier that year. Although some of the highway had been straightened and expanded into dual lanes, Mark preferred the narrower cuts of the two-lane sections because it still felt like he was out in the country. As much as he loved Kansas City, where he’d grown up and now worked as a firefighter/EMT, there was something inherently relaxing about the slower pace of the countryside.

  And something good for his soul in sharing another memorable one-on-one weekend with his grandfather, Sid Taylor.

  The two men had been doing this for twenty-three years, since Mark’s fifth birthday. Grandpa Sid had done more than teach him how to pitch a tent or fish. As the youngest of four adopted brothers, with five uncles, an aunt and their families, it had been easy to get lost in the boisterous shuffle of holiday gatherings and Sunday dinners when the entire Taylor clan got together. But Sid had singled him out as his baby boy—his little buddy who shared his love of the outdoors. If Sid hadn’t closed his butcher shop a few years back, Mark might have considered learning the trade so that he could take over his grandfather’s business. Instead, he’d followed in his adoptive parents’ and birth brother Matt’s footsteps, and joined the KCFD.

  As a little boy, Sid had made Mark feel like his favorite kid on the whole planet. Mark now knew that Sid had singled out each of his grandchildren to develop a special bond with, but he wouldn’t trade these twenty-three years with his grandfather for another Chiefs Super Bowl victory. Their conversations over the years had been about nothing and everything. Sid had been there through the insecurities of getting to know his new family and measuring up to his overachieving brothers’ standards; his concerns for his extremely withdrawn brother, Matt; some messy teenage angst; and the ignominy and heartache of his girlfriend saying no to his proposal and moving away to pursue a dream he wasn’t invited to be a part of.

  This afternoon’s conversation was no different as they segued from the Royals trading away good players and relying too much on their farm system, to probing questions about whether Mark had started seeing anyone again, and on to a friendly debate about the success of their time at the lake.

  “That bass was over twenty inches,” Mark insisted, adjusting his wraparound sunglasses on the bridge of his nose. “Maybe even two feet.”

  “The one that broke your fishing line or the one in your imagination?”

  Mark grinned, refusing to take that gibe without giving back one of his own. “My largemouth was twice as big as that shrimp of a striper you caught.”

  “Why don’t you just make him a mile long now, so he doesn’t have to keep getting bigger every time you tell that story,” Sid teased, pulling his ball cap lower on his forehead to shield his eyes from the bright June sun.

  When Mark had been a boy, his grandfather had planned the weekend to his lake of choice, packed the food and driven him—filling the time with jokes and deeper conversations about life, answering questions and challenging him to make good, thoughtful decisions about any problems he might have confided in the older man.

  Now that Sid had survived two heart events, th
e knuckles of his workingman’s hands had knotted with arthritis and his broad shoulders had stooped with age, their roles had reversed. Mark planned, packed, drove. Although he still let Sid, a retired butcher and former marine, clean the fish and grill them because there were some talents the old man had that he’d never be able to surpass. He could only emulate. Like his adoptive father had before him, like his uncles and brothers had. Every man in the Taylor family had learned about hard work, honor and integrity from this guy who was still teasing Mark about his lousy lack of fish this weekend.

  “I’m just sayin’ my cooler has six crappie and that eighteen-inch bass on ice to show your grandma.” Sid pointed his thumb to the camper on the back of Mark’s truck. “Yours is, what? Holding dirty laundry?”

  “Fine. I surrender. You get the Taylor Prize for Best Fisherman this year.” Mark rested his elbow on the door beside him as they crested a hill and drove down into the valley where the next creek flowed. “It’s a good thing I love you, old man. I wouldn’t put up with this kind of trash talk from anyone else.”

  “Right back at ya, son.” With a drawn-out sigh, Sid sank back against his seat, looking out the side window at the pin oaks and pines, and occasional glimpses of a colorful redbud or white dogwood peeking out from the dense woods as they sped past. He shifted again, as if he couldn’t quite get comfortable in his seat.

  “You okay?” Mark asked, feeling a twinge of concern. “Did we overdo it?” The long pause only worried him more. “Grandpa?”

  “This has always been a pretty drive. No matter what time of year it is.”

  “Yes, sir.” But Mark had a feeling his grandfather wasn’t thinking about the scenery.

  “I’m a lucky old dog. I’ve spent a lot of years with the woman I love, and I’m so proud of all my children and grandchildren. And the great-grands.” Without taking his gaze from the scenery, he nodded. “Damn lucky.”

  Mark reached across the console to squeeze Sid’s shoulder. “Are you feeling all right?”

  “Too maudlin for you?” He patted Mark’s hand, his familiar smile returning. “Don’t worry about me. I just get tired sooner than I used to. My eighties haven’t been too kind to me.”

  “You know I love our time together, but if these trips are getting to be too much for you, we could stay closer to home. Or do something else.” Mark returned his hand to the wheel. “It’s the time we spend together that matters. Not the activity. I’d be just as happy to come over and watch a game with you.”

  “I know.” Another worrisome pause. “I just wanted to see all this one more time.” Mark was about to press him on what had brought on this sudden melancholy mood when Sid sat up straight and pointed through the windshield at the wisp of a gray-and-black cloud just above the horizon. “Is that smoke?”

  They crested the hill and Mark spotted a scene that no firefighter wanted to see. Two mangled cars, compressed together, lying at an angle down in the steep slope of the ditch. “There’s been an accident.”

  “Looks like it’s a head-on collision. Mark?”

  Mark had already punched in 9-1-1 on his phone on the dashboard as he slowed his truck and pulled onto the shoulder of the highway above the wreck. He set his blinkers on and identified himself to the local dispatcher. “This is Mark Taylor. I’m a Kansas City firefighter. I’m on Highway 7 heading northwest out of Truman Lake.” He reported the last mile marker he’d seen to give a better location. “I’ve got a two-vehicle accident. They’ve rolled into the ditch. I need fire and a bus to roll ASAP. I’m off duty and don’t have all my gear with me, but I’ll do what I can to help.”

  With the promise to notify the local sheriff’s office and volunteer firefighters, the dispatcher ended the call. Mark slipped on his black KCFD ball cap, grabbed his phone off its mount and slid out of the truck. “Stay put.” But Sid was already climbing out of the other side. “Grandpa.”

  His grandfather waved him closer. “Hand me your phone. I’ll stay out of your way, but the least I can do is watch for traffic and call Dispatch while you work with the victims down there.”

  Yeah. Even at eighty-seven, this man was a Taylor, born and raised to serve and protect.

  Mark winked and handed over the phone. “You know how the fancy new tech works, Grandpa?”

  “Get out of here.”

  Matching the old man’s grin, Mark turned down the steep slope, half sliding on the wet grass and half sinking into the water-soaked ditch as he followed the swath of muddy tire tracks down to the two cars.

  A quick assessment showed him three potential victims—the teenage boy driving the rusting farm pickup truck, the woman slumped over the steering wheel and deflated airbag of her SUV, and the crying infant strapped into the back seat. With no skid marks on the road above them, he’d wager that one of the drivers had fallen asleep and drifted over the center line. Or one or both drivers had been distracted with a text or phone call. It wasn’t his business to determine the cause of the accident or who was responsible—Mark’s job was to get everybody out of the wreck alive, treat any injuries and get them safely onto an ambulance or to a hospital for any further care they might need.

  Ignoring the mud and water at the bottom of the ditch that oozed up over his hiking boots and soaked into his jeans, Mark reached the SUV first. It was tipped partially onto its side, and he had to climb up onto the running board to see inside. The woman was out cold. Judging by the lump on her forehead and blood dripping from the wound, she’d hit her head on the side window when the vehicles had rolled. With the doors locked, he couldn’t check her pulse, but her chest rose and fell, indicating she was still breathing. The car seat in the back was strapped in correctly, and the baby was wailing up a storm, probably good indications that the infant might be scared but hadn’t been harmed in the accident.

  Mark jumped down and circled around to the driver’s side of the pickup. It was partially wedged beneath the SUV and sunk into the mud, and this time he had to squat down to get a look at the driver. The truck was old enough that, without air-conditioning, the kid had been driving with his windows down. Thank God the driver was wearing his seat belt. But he was bleeding from a head wound, too, and holding his chest as he squirmed in his seat, shouting for his phone.

  “Where’s my phone? I can’t find my phone.”

  “Hey.” The startled teen spun toward Mark, wincing with pain. “My name’s Mark. I’m here to help you. What’s your name?”

  “Wyatt,” he answered in a breathy gasp. “I can’t find my phone. I think it flew out of the truck. I just got it with my last paycheck.”

  “Okay, Wyatt.” Mark kept his tone calm and friendly as he reached inside and turned off the ignition. “I’ll look for your phone in a minute. Are you hurt? Do you feel pain anywhere?”

  The young man clutched at his chest. “I’m having a hard time catching my breath.” That could mean a dozen things, from having the wind knocked out of him to internal injuries. The kid’s unfocused gaze might mean a head injury, or he could be going into shock. Mark placed his fingers at the side of his neck. His pulse was fast, but even. That was a good sign, at least. “I’m not sure what happened. Can I get out now? I want to look for my phone. My mom’s gonna kill me if I lose another one.”

  When he opened his dented door, Mark pushed back. Typically, he didn’t want the patient moving until he’d done a thorough assessment and had a backboard to put him on. But Mark’s eyes and sinuses stung with a whole new set of priorities, as smoke filtered from under the dashboard and through the vents. The same smoke Sid had pointed out earlier. Engine fire.

  Mark pulled the door open himself and stood, keeping his voice calm, despite conveying a deep sense of urgency. “Yeah, Wyatt. That sounds like a good idea.” The young man unfastened his seat belt and swung his legs out the side of the truck. Mark hooked his arm beneath the young man’s shoulders. “Can you stand okay?”

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p; The young man swayed for a moment before smiling from ear to ear. “There it is!”

  He reached down and pulled his cell phone from beneath the driver’s seat. Mark shook his head and pulled the kid into step beside him, leading him back up the side of the ditch to the shoulder of the road. Another car with an older couple had stopped on the far side of the road. While the woman talked on her phone, hopefully to emergency services, the man had been chatting with Sid. “My wife is talking to the highway patrol. I have a blanket in my car,” he offered.

  “Get it,” Mark ordered. “Grandpa, we need the sleeping bags out of the camper.” While the two older men left to fetch those items, Mark did a preliminary exam of Wyatt’s head wound. Wyatt’s relief might just be fueling him with adrenaline for the moment. He wasn’t going to take a chance with the kid going into shock. He sat the young man down and told him to call his parents while the other man wrapped the blanket around his shoulders.

  His grandfather dropped the sleeping bags beside Mark. Mark stood, turning over Wyatt’s care to the other couple. Sid rubbed his shoulder, as if the joint was stiff from the exertion, and nodded toward the wreckage. “The fire’s spreading.”

  Flames were visible now, shooting through the gaps in the warped hood of the truck and traveling up to the SUV’s engine.

  “Can you make it down the hill?” Mark asked, jogging to the back of his truck and climbing into the camper. On the fire engine, he’d have a Slim Jim to slide into the SUV’s door panel to unlock it. He jumped back down to the pavement. Today, the crowbar from his toolbox would have to do.

  “Of course I can. What do you need?” Shaking off Mark’s guiding hand, Sid followed him down the slope to the upended SUV.

  Mark climbed onto the running board again to peer inside. The woman was conscious now—disoriented, but aware that she and her child were in danger. “Courtney?” She flopped her right arm over the back of the seat. “Are you okay, sweetie? Mommy’s here.”