As he strode down the driveway, scanning the snow for footprints, his boots crunched in the dusting that had fallen over night. It made it easier to track an intruder or a peeping creeper, but all he saw were deer tracks on the edge of the woods and rabbit prints leaping from a den sheltered under the pine trees. The driveway, slate path, and porch were all neatly cleared of snow, making it difficult to tell if anyone had poked around.
He shoved his hands in his pockets and set off around the side of the house, testing doors and windows, scanning the ground, the bare trees sloping up the hill at the edge of Cady’s property, the house itself. Someone was in her house, in her goddamn house, without her consent. By all rights she should have collapsed in hysterics, weeping and freaking out and calling in the National Guard or the SEALs or whoever it was famous people had on speed dial. Instead she womaned up and went on. He could tell she was freaked out by the way she bit at her lower lip, and by the fact that she looked worried when she went into the studio. The first day or two she was home, her studio was her retreat, a safe place where she could explore the stories she wanted to tell through songs. But the bastard who’d come into her home took away that security.
Conn wanted to wring his neck with his bare hands. A more useful tactic would be to convince Cady to install security cameras. He kicked at the woodpile, expecting the mama possum to skitter out and head for the hills again, but all he did was draw his attention to a gigantic wolf spider’s web, strung among the logs at the far end of the pile. “Jesus,” he muttered. The spider was the size of his fist, a hairy malevolent-looking fucker, to quote Hawthorn after a gang sweep briefing.
Only the LT would use a word like “malevolent.” Conn knew he needed to call him and report what Cesar said. But if Cesar was right and someone in the Block was behind Jordy Bettis’s assault, who could Conn trust? No one.
He needed to think. He needed to burn off some energy so he could think.
An axe next to the pile of logs, left there by the former owner, who’d dealt with the trees felled to clear the property by slowly turning them into firewood. Shane’s dad had taken them camping off and on as kids, so Conn knew how to use the axe, and knew he needed the release. He set a log on the stump scarred with indentations from the axe head, hoisted the axe over his head, and swung it at the log.
Thwack-crack.
The impact of the axe up his arm and the crack the log made as it split into two nicely sized pieces of firewood gave him something to do while he thought through the current situation. He had two problems. He was starting to think they were connected.
Cesar said he needed to look inside the Block to find Jordy Bettis’s attacker. Conn wished he could say that made no sense, but everyone knew it happened. But framing another officer for it was a completely different situation, explained only by the fact that no one in the gang community was taking credit for the assault. Someone had to roll. Hawthorn would have that information when he arrived in an hour or so.
But his brain followed the logic. If someone inside the Block had attacked Jordy in order to grease up Conn, then that meant anyone connected to Conn was also fair game. He wasn’t worried about Shane. Shane could take care of himself, and his family. But Cady was another story entirely. Cady was already under incredible pressure. The website attacks and the missing heirloom bracelet weren’t helping.
Thwack-crack. Conn set the split logs at the end of the pile and lifted another log onto the stump. He hefted the axe and paused.
Sneaky. Very sneaky. A psychological attack could tarnish Conn, make him even more vulnerable. Gang members wouldn’t have the resources to track down Cady, but someone at the Block would. They’d know how to work through the records, or, failing that, have a network of people to call on who would know contractors, electricians, plumbers, kitchen and bathroom guys.
The whole thing was starting to make more sense. The drunk guy aside, the attacks all started after Conn signed on as her body man. What if, rather than getting him out of the way, he’d inadvertently brought the woman he was falling for into harm’s way?
Thwack-crack.
His body was warm and loose despite the mid-December air, but the thought sent a cold shiver down his spine. His money was still on Chris. He wore his suits like Conn wore his uniform, so Conn had no doubt in his mind that despite the flippant attitude, if Chris had to land on someone like a ton of fucking bricks, he would. Chris had the most to lose if Cady decided to go her own way, which put him at the top of Conn’s list, by a mile. But having a top of the list meant he had to consider everyone else on that list too. Getting a solve meant nothing if it wasn’t the right solve.
Who else wanted to hurt Cady? The internet crazies came in second. She was ruining music, she was dating Harry Linton, she’d broken up with Harry Linton. What it boiled down to was this: She existed. She existed and she did her own thing.