Nancy Bush's Nowhere Bundle: Nowhere to Run, Nowhere to Hide & Nowhere Safe. Nancy Bush

you are,” she greeted him. “I was beginning to think you were a figment of my imagination, Wes.”

      “Everyone calls me Weasel,” he reminded her.

      “There’s nothing ‘weasel’ about you,” she said.

      Wes smiled. He leaned toward a cowboy style with leather boots, low-slung jeans and black shirts that made his six-three seem even taller. Today he was in “uniform” and his smile moved slowly across his lips. He’d been undercover like her brother for most of the time September had been with the force.

      “If I looked like a weasel, then I would be gettin’ upset,” he said. “But I don’t.”

      His grin widened and there was the trace of a dimple. He’d been looking at some photos of Emmy Decatur and September saw the picture of Sheila Dempsey had been moved to his desktop and placed alongside the crime scene photos of Emmy.

      “What do you think this is about?” she asked him, gesturing to the line of pictures.

      “Some sick white boy carvin’ up his women.”

      “White boy?” September lifted her brows. “No chance he’s black?”

      Pelligree snorted. “This is your people kinda crazy shit. No offense.”

      “None taken. Are you serious?”

      He nodded once. “I know a lot of brothers who do a lot of bad, bad things. Drugs, killin’, rape . . . as bad as it gets. But this carvin’ writin’ thing. That’s a different kind of sick. Gotta be a white boy, for sure.”

      “You sound kinda racist, Wes.”

      “I’m just sayin’ . . . we got our shit, you got yours.”

      “I’m not going to actually agree with you, but I’ll take your point.”

      “And it’s Weasel, not Wes.” After a moment, he added, “Nine.”

      She laughed.

      “Why’re you called that?” he asked. “What kinda nickname is that? I’m Weasel ’cause my brother named me and it stuck.”

      “I heard that. You sure it’s not because you weasel out of things?” she asked.

      “Ah, ah, ah.”

      He wagged a finger at her and she smiled and said, “I’m surprised you don’t know about the Nine thing, since you’ve worked with Auggie.”

      “Your brother doesn’t tell me nothin’. And he’s been outta here for months bustin’ Cordova’s ass.”

      “Okay, well, I was born on September 1. Right after midnight. The ninth month, so I’m Nine.”

      He looked disappointed. “Must be somethin’ more to it. Nobody calls Auggie Nine, and he’s your twin. Born the same day.”

      “We were born within minutes of each other,” September agreed. “Auggie’s real name is August, as you undoubtedly know.”

      “Nobody calls him that.”

      “My family does.” She made a face. “Don’t get me started on them. But here it is: my brother—August—was born at eleven-fifty-seven on August 31. I was born six minutes later. We’re twins, but we were born different days and different months.”

      He gazed at her in mild horror as her words sank in.

      “I know,” she agreed. “It’s—flukey. To make matters worse, my father insisted we each be named after the month we were born.”

      He shook his head in disbelief. “Wha’d I say about white people havin’ their own weird shit?”

      “I won’t condemn my whole race,” she said, “but my family? They definitely have their own weird shit.”

      “How many of you Raffertys are there?” he asked.

      “Five. Oldest brother, March. Then my sisters May and July. Then Auggie and me. My mother died in an automobile accident when I was in fifth grade and my sister May was killed in a botched robbery. My father’s still alive.”

      She stopped suddenly and he eyed her cautiously. “The way you say that doesn’t bode well for daddy-daughter relations,” he observed.

      September let that one go by. She’d said about all she wanted about her father. “I suppose Auggie’s nickname could have been Eight.”

      “Knew a guy named Crazy Eight once.”

      “Drug dealer?” September guessed.

      Weasel’s smile was faint. “Close enough.” He pressed a finger to one of the photos and moved it to the side. September glanced past the array to the folder on the right side of his desk. It looked like an older homicide report; the print on the corner of one page that was peeking out was from a typewriter, not a printer.

      Wes caught her look. “D’Annibal asked me to research the killer who strangled women around Rock Springs and Malone in the eighties and early nineties.”

      “What for?”

      “Don’t know. Got the impression someone asked him for it.”

      “Who?”

      “Maybe Crazy Eight?”

      “If you mean Auggie, I wouldn’t be calling him that. What would he want with that information?” September mused, thinking hard. Then, “Please don’t tell me it has something to do with Olivia Dugan. I’ve got this wild idea that he’s falling for her, losing perspective.”

      “Nah,” Weasel said, but something in his careful expression made her realize he was just placating her. She sensed he might have already had these thoughts himself.

      Peachy.

      She picked up the picture of Sheila Dempsey. “You knew her? Or, met her, somewhere?”

      “She was a semi-regular at The Barn Door on Highway 26, on the outskirts of Laurelton, headin’ toward Quarry.”

      “I know it,” September said, recalling the red barn-shaped building with the white trim and the sliding door that entered into a shit-kicker bar complete with mechanical bull and wood shavings on the floor.

      “They have that seventy-two-ounce steak. You eat it all, it’s free. Course you have to eat the potatoes and green beans that come with it, too.”

      “Don’t tell me you tried that.”

      “Sure did. Ate it all, too. Threw up right afterwards in the alley behind the place and woowee, did it ever piss off my old lady. I was apologizin’ for a month. But Sheila was right there, cheerin’ me on with some of the other regulars. Afterwards, she clapped me on the back and said I was a man, regardless of the spewin’. I got an earful about her from Kayleen all the way home that night. Two weeks later, Sheila’s body turns up in that field.”

      September glanced at the crime photos from this morning and suppressed a shudder. “Are you going to take over this case, then?”

      “I don’t want to step on any toes, but I’d like to. I want to find the bastard who killed her and this new one.” He glanced at the crime photos and pressed his lips tight. “I talked to Sheila’s husband after they found her. It’s county’s case, but I felt connected.”

      “I get it.”

      “He was . . . they were estranged and he wasn’t all that helpful. I kinda wanted it to be him, but maybe that was because he was such a bastard. Fuckin’ narcissist. Once they narrow down the time of death on this new vic, I’m sure as hell gonna check his whereabouts for the time of the killin’.”

      “They were both strangled. . . .” September slid a glance toward his file. “You think there’s some kind of connection with the Rock Springs strangler?”

      “Mebbe. But I was