Shattered Vows. Maggie Price

Tory studying him with cool, measuring eyes as she poured milk into a metal pitcher. “When I saw you out the window, I didn’t recognize the parka.”

      “Got it for Christmas.” He pulled out a chair and settled at the table. “From Grace.” Bran relaxed enough to smile. “Speaking of Grace, an FBI agent she once had a thing with is back in the picture. Name’s Mark Santini. He’s working out of the Bureau’s local office. It’s looking like they’re together for good this time.”

      “He was all Grace talked about when I met her and Carrie for the first fitting on our bridesmaid dresses.” Smiling, Tory carried the metal pitcher to the espresso maker. “Grace is crazy in love with Santini.”

      “Yeah,” Bran agreed, thinking how quickly Tory had bonded with his three sisters. That the youngest, Morgan, had asked Tory to be a bridesmaid after the split underlined just how deep that bond went.

      He pulled off his baseball cap, shoved his fingers through his hair. It suddenly hit him that his baby sister’s wedding to Sergeant Alex Blade was on Valentine’s Day. Dandy, Bran thought. He and his estranged wife would spend a portion of that made-for-lovers holiday together after all.

      The sound of beans grinding filled the kitchen. A few minutes later, the espresso machine began spewing steam, sounding like an angry, hissing snake.

      “Tell me about the corrections officer,” Tory said a minute later, carrying two oversize white ceramic mugs to the table. “And why whoever murdered him might show up here looking for you.”

      While she settled into the chair opposite his, Bran sipped his latte. A welcome zing of caffeine shot into his system.

      “Did one of my sisters mention the shootout I was involved in a little over a week ago? What happened today ties to that.”

      “Your mother called to let me know you were okay. Roma didn’t want me getting upset when I saw your name in the newspaper the next day.” Tory met his gaze over the rim of her mug. “Tell me about it.”

      “Dispatch put out a silent alarm at a credit union,” he began. “I arrived first, three other patrol cars pulled up behind me. We heard a shot inside the building, then the front doors flew open and two guys wearing ski masks rushed out. I ordered them to drop their weapons. Instead, they started firing. Five seconds later, they were dead.”

      “Sounds like they asked for it.”

      “They did.” He shrugged. “We figured they chose to go out in a blaze of glory because they’d murdered one of the credit union clerks. Tox tests showed both had been flying on meth, so that screwed their judgment.”

      “What do the dead robbers have to do with the corrections officer who got killed today?”

      “The cop died because of them.” Bran set his mug aside. “Andy and Kyle Heath were the do-wrongs who hijacked the credit union.”

      “Brothers?”

      “Cousins. Andy has an older brother named Vic. He’s spent the past three years in prison for conspiracy to distribute methamphetamine. Turns out I’m the cop who nailed Vic on those charges.”

      “Small world, that you wound up on the call at the credit union.”

      “I doubt Vic has missed the irony in that.” Bran frowned. “He’s been a model prisoner, a real poster boy for scumbag good behavior. Because of that, his request to attend his brother’s and cousin’s joint funeral was approved. This afternoon he was put in leg irons and cuffs and driven to a Tulsa funeral home by a corrections officer named Perry Paulson.”

      “Is he the cop who got killed?”

      “Yes. When Heath got there he asked to view the bodies. The funeral director showed him and Paulson into the room where the caskets were, then left. When he came back about fifteen minutes later, Paulson was dead. His wrists and ankles were duct taped together and his throat cut. Tulsa cops did a ground search and house-to-house check for Heath, but came up empty.”

      “Handcuffed and shackled, he would have had a tough time doing that on his own without someone hearing the struggle,” Tory pointed out. “Where’d the duct tape come from?”

      “It wasn’t the funeral home’s. Neither was the knife that killed Paulson.” Bran leaned in. “The theory is that Heath had at least one accomplice.”

      “Any idea who?”

      “Not yet. Our vice guys are talking to snitches to see if they can get names of Heath’s associates.”

      “You said he might show up here. I take it you think Heath wants revenge for you arresting him? And for your part in killing his brother and cousin at the credit union?”

      “Right.”

      “Is that cop instinct or did Heath make that threat?”

      “A threat was made, but not by Vic,” Bran answered. “His mother was at the funeral. She spouted off about how ‘her Vic’ was going to get back at the cops who killed their kin. One of the Tulsa cops overheard her and called OCPD. Since I was ranking officer at the credit union, the chief okayed our chopper to fly me to Tulsa this afternoon.”

      “Did you talk to the mother?”

      “You bet.” Bran shook his head at the memory of the hard-faced woman with skin the color of cold oatmeal. “Mamma Heath is a foulmouthed old crone with mean eyes. She took pleasure in telling me that Vic’s coming after all the cops who’d been at the credit union. That Vic’s going to eat our hearts out.”

      “Lovely family,” Tory murmured. “Do you believe her?”

      “I believe in not taking chances. The address and phone numbers for cops are unlisted, but if you’ve got a computer, some skill and enough time, you can find anybody. It’s been over a week since the shootout and we don’t know what information Heath has, if any. If the threat is real and he finds the addresses of the cops who were at the credit union, the logical place for him to start looking for us is at home. Which is why I’m here. And the reason I tried to call you for hours. And sent my brothers by here, too,” he added.

      “I’ve been out.” Bran almost missed the elusive shadow that flickered across her eyes. Almost. “I got home about fifteen minutes ago.”

      He waited a beat, watching her. “Where’s your car?”

      “In the shop, remember? Sheila Sanford picked me up,” Tory said, referring to a P.I. she often teamed with on jobs.

      Bran felt his frustration surface; he’d spent hours trying to contact her and getting no results. Worrying about her.

      “What about your cell? In addition to the machine here, I left messages on your voice mail. Said they were urgent.” He leaned in. “I realize we haven’t spoken to each other for three months. We’ve got issues to deal with. But when I call and say it’s important that you get back to me, I’m not playing games.”

      Her chin came up. “I left my phone in the car.” She shoved back her chair, walked to the V in the counter where the answering machine sat. “It doesn’t show any messages waiting,” she said, turning back to face him.

      “Well, darlin’,” he drawled, “I sure as hell left one. And I’ll make a wild stab at what happened. While you were gone, Danny dropped by and checked to see if any of his pals left him a message. Brother dear just couldn’t go to the trouble of leaving you a note to call me. Sound familiar?”

      Thinking of his reprobate brother-in-law put knots in Bran’s gut. He couldn’t blame the breakdown of his marriage on Danny. But the way Tory had dealt with the kid’s screw-ups had magnified the problems in their marriage and ignited the final blowup that prompted him to pack his bags.

      Tory’s chin went up another notch as she gripped her hands on the counter behind her. Her breast-skimming blond hair was still tousled from their rolling around on the ground and his comment about her brother had color rising over her