Chapter 18

Ch. 18: Julian

"Freya says she'll come," Dane tells me the following morning when I emerge from the shower and join him in the kitchen.

I've quickly learned to do most things with one hand, but I see he's made me breakfast and take a seat as he serves me biscuits, scrambled eggs, sausages, and fruit.

"Great. She can help me with the mountains of food you keep dropping in front of me," I say, lifting my brows at the Dane-sized portion on my plate.

"You need good nutrition to heal. Not grab-and-go breakfast bars."

"Those bars have 13 grams of protein," I counter, shoveling fluffy eggs into my mouth. "It's like a complete meal."

"No, it's not. Good food doesn't come in rectangles."

"What about chocolate?"

"Chocolate's an ingredient."

I roll my eyes and give up. He has strangely strong opinions about food, and he can keep them. Besides, he's a much better cook than I am, and I'm not complaining.

"Ingrid's out already?"

He nods. "She took your car. I think it's love."

I laugh. "Wait till it breaks down on her. What else is on the menu today?"

He joins me at the table, handing me a cup of coffee prepared the way I like — with what he considers far too much cream.

"I figured we'll start with the other shop owners. See if anyone noticed a change in Lagrange's behavior recently — and if they've noticed the same in anyone else. Something that might help tip us off. Halloran texted me earlier. He and Vasquez will visit the funeral home."

"He's taking Vasquez along?" I frown. "Won't that make it hard to ask the right questions?"

Dane lifts a shoulder and drains his coffee in a few gulps.

"Nah. Not any harder than asking without really asking, if you know what I mean. Get a reputation pretty fast if you keep bringing up things like 'skin-changers' in every interrogation."

I frown, still not entirely satisfied.

"What's wrong?" Dane asks. "Whiskers in your gravy?"

"What?"

He shakes his head and smiles. "Nothing. Just something my mom used to say when someone looked preoccupied."

"Oh. It's just... I guess I thought you'd want a crack at the funeral home. It seems like the most promising lead."

Dane shrugs. "Might be. But more than likely they were just following directions. Anyway, Wolf or not, I still gotta follow the rules, and Halloran and Vasquez are the leads on this. I don't get a say."

"Does that bother you?"

He tilts his head to the side. "You think it should?"

I chew a bite of biscuit before answering. "Sometimes it seems like you miss it, is all. Being a cop — badge and gun, power and authority. All that."

He looks away. "Sometimes I do."

"Would you go back?"

After a moment, he shakes his head. "No. Being a cop had a meaning it doesn't have for me anymore. It's not where I belong. Now..." He looks at me again. "Now this is where I belong."

I turn my attention back to my plate, but I'm already full. Dane reads my thoughts and pulls the remains of my breakfast towards himself.

"Will you tell me?" I ask, the question rising like a bubble, unconscious and unstoppable, to my lips.

Dane looks up from the biscuit and eggs. "Tell you what?"

"About being a cop, and what it meant for you. And before that — about your time in the Marines. You must have..." I wave a hand. "...stories, right?"

He huffs a laugh. "Yeah, I got stories. I didn't think you were interested."

"Why not?" I ask, a tiny bit hurt by the question.

He lifts a shoulder in his characteristic shrug.

"You never asked."

"I thought you didn't want to talk about it."

He smiles and reaches across the table, his fingers gently grasping mine where they protrude from my cast.

"I guess I've been too busy with the present to care about the past, but I'll talk about it all you want, if you want me to. What's brought this up now, though?"

"The case, I guess," I admit, and shiver. "It just seems horrible — that something could replace someone you love, and you wouldn't even know."

Dane frowns, and I wonder if the same thought hadn't occurred to him yet.

"I can't imagine it," he says. "I feel like I'd know you no matter what."

"Another reason to complete the land-bond, maybe," I say, and smile.

His amber eyes warm a little, and it feels good to be fuel for that fire.

"So," I say. "How about we start with the person most likely to notice something amiss?"

"I like the way you think, Hart," he says, lips curving in a smile. "Let's talk to Vicky Lagrange."

***

The Lagrange's live just outside Spring Lakes, in a neighborhood with a log-cabin, vacation-home feel, nestled beneath tall pines and among outcrops of basalt and granite boulders.

It's home to a mix of year-round residents and seasonal visitors. The Lagrange's are the former, and their home is one of the larger, but older, on their street, with steeply slanted roofs, tall, almost church-like windows, and a large wrap-around porch.

Vicky greets us at the door. I recognize her from the funeral, though today she wears comfortable athletic clothes with her sleek black hair gathered in a messy ponytail. Her makeup-free face bears little mark of her age, which I'd gathered was considerably less than that of her late husband.

"Mrs. Lagrange. Thank you for seeing us." Dane inclines his head in greeting, but doesn't extend his hand.

"Call me Vicky, please," she says, stepping aside and gesturing for us to enter her home.

As is his habit, Dane removes his shoes at the door, and I follow suit.

Vicky lifts her brows, but says nothing as she waits, and then leads us on into her living room.

The first thing I notice is now nice it is. An enormous fireplace built of smooth river stones stands free at the center of a generous space, a high ceiling with bare beams of light, natural wood gives it a lofty feel, and the furnishings — though comfortable and well-used — are luxurious. The second thing I notice is all the bicycle-related decor: a huge photo printed on canvas depicts a group of cyclists racing along a scenic coastal landscape, a brass bicycle sculpture occupies a side table, and a single front wheel hangs like a strange, spiky wreath on the wall.

Dane and I settle on a cream leather sofa while Vicky sits opposite on a matching settee.

"Can I get you anything? Coffee, or tea?" she offers.

"No, thank you. We won't take much of your time," Dane says, speaking for both of us.

"I've already spoken to the police," she says, sniffing and wiping her eyes. "But they wouldn't tell me what was going on. Just that there'd been some sort of mix-up at the morgue and that Jeff's body was..." She stops and sniffs again, reaching for a ceramic tissue dispenser and blowing her nose. "I mean, how many times am I going to have to bury him?"

"Hopefully just the once more, ma'am," Dane says. There's something a little dry in his tone, and I shoot him a questioning glance.

"We're sorry for your loss," I say, leaning forward a little. "And we're sorry for the distress this has caused. We're hoping to get to the bottom of it — put it to rest once and for all."

She nods. "I just want to understand. I mean, how do you lose a body? And now they're saying he was murdered? I don't even know who to sue."

Dane's amber gaze flicks my way, and wonder if Vicky is more upset by the loss of her husband, or by the inconvenience of his death.

"Did you notice any changes in your husband's behavior in the last month?" Dane asks. "Anything different or unusual?"

Vicky shakes her head. "No. But we're both busy people. He was always at the shop, or out riding, or doing some bicycle-related thing or other. He was obsessed with the things."

"Even recently?" I ask.

She frowns at me. "Yes. I mean... I think so. I, um... wasn't that interested, honestly."

"Did he race?" I point at the pictures on the wall.

"A long time ago," Vicky says. "He wasn't competitive any more, except with himself. He had this diary of every ride he ever did." She laughs and rolls her eyes. "He used to make fun of my bullet journal, but my God, you should see this thing."

"Can we?" Dane asks.

Surprised, Vicky blinks at him. "Oh – um, sure."

Rising, she retreats to another part of the house, returning a moment later with a large, leather-bound journal. She hands it over, and Dane opens it to reveal pages and pages of what looks like very neat, hand-drawn spreadsheets. There are columns for dates, times, distances, locations, and notes.

Dane studies the pages, running his finger down the column of dates. Flipping to the most recent page, he consults the final entry. "Your husband rode every day, at least once a day," he remarks. "But the last entry is over two weeks before his death."

"What?" Vicky leans over to look. "That's impossible. He recorded everything, and he'd miss a flight before he missed his stupid ride."

"When was the last time you saw him take out his bike?" I ask.

Vicky frowns. "I don't know. Like I said, we were both busy. I guess... A few weekends ago. A Sunday." She sniffs again and reaches for another tissue.

"Do you mind if we borrow this?" Dane asks, shutting the book.

Vicky shakes her head. "You think it has something to do with... What happened to him?"

"Maybe," Dane says. "If you think of anything else — even if it seems insignificant — let us know. It might be important."

He hands over a business card and we both rise, when a furious barking sounds from further within the house.

"Shit," Vicky swears as a huge German shepherd comes racing around a corner, teeth bared. "Max! No!"

The dog ignores her, but Dane steps in front of me and a soft, low growl rumbles in his chest.

The dog stops barking and stares at him, ears forward and head tilted to the side. Dane holds out his hand, and the dog sniffs it, wags his tail, and gives his fingers a lick.

"Good boy," Dane says. "Listen to your mom."

Obediently, the dog turns around, goes to Vicky, and sits at her side.

"Wow," she laughs. "You're like that dog-whisperer guy on TV. I can never get him to listen. Jeff could, but—"

She cuts herself off and her eyes widen.

"But what?" Dane asks.

"Max hasn't been himself, recently," she says. "He started barking at Jeffrey, going crazy at him, like he didn't know him or something. Jeff said it was just hormones — Max is a stud — but we had to keep him locked in the garage. He keeps getting out."

"He's a smart boy," Dane says, reaching to pet the dog.

Vicky laughs. "I don't know about that. He's supposed to protect the house, but he barks at his owner and makes friends with strangers, apparently."

"I don't know. I think he's done a pretty good job," Dane says, "considering."

***

"So Max knew Jeffrey wasn't himself," I say as we walk down the street toward Dane's car. "Wonder who else's pets have been acting strange?"

"Or, if dogs can detect the skin-changer by scent, then Wolves can, too," he says. "Either way, we know Vicky's in the clear; Max was protecting her."

"I don't know. He made friends with you pretty fast. What if he preferred the skin-changer and switched teams?"

"Nah." Dane shakes his head. "That was just an instinctive reaction to an alpha. Dogs and wolves are technically the same species, and German shepherds are fiercely loyal. More importantly, we have a pretty good idea of when Lagrange was taken."

"We do?"

"The last entry in the logbook is for three Saturdays ago. Provided Vicky's memory is good, and she really saw her husband take his bike out on Sunday, then that's the day he was taken. It had to have happened while he was out on his ride. Otherwise, he'd have recorded it."

"Okay, how does that help?"

He holds up the book. "If there's a pattern to his rides, maybe we can figure out where he went. Who knows, it might lead to something."

"Huh. Good work, Detective," I say, and nudge him with my cast.

His phone rings and he stops to look at the ID. "It's Laura," he tells me, frowning, and answers it. "Chief, what's up?"

He listens for a moment, and his expression shifts from mild interest to anger so quickly my heartbeat quickens with alarm.

"I'll be there in fifteen," he says sharply, and hangs up.

"What happened?" I ask. "What's wrong?"

"It's Ingrid," he growls, striding across the street to his car. "She's been arrested."