Allison Brennan - Cutting Edge

But through it all, if Duke needed anything, Kane was there. Home base was always … home. And having the foundation that his parents gave him was irreplaceable.

He stared at Nora. She was now aware he was looking at her; he could tell by the way she drove, keeping her eyes on the road, her focus on the other drivers. Everywhere but on him. He made her nervous, and he didn’t know why. He was the one in awe of what she’d accomplished in her life. To have grown up in that situation and to turn out not only smart and sharp, but to be a cop. A fed. It couldn’t have been easy, but at the same time she was well-suited for the job. She believed in what she was doing, understood the people she fought against, and had incredible compassion for all concerned. A rare, rare trait, and perhaps that, more than her own conflicts about her childhood, was what made her so tense. To be able to see all sides of an issue, to understand the predators as well as the victims, was not easy. Duke had known a lot of cops, local and federal, who burned out far too fast because they couldn’t tame their emotions. Nora’s grim steadfastness was an act, and Duke saw right through it. She had a shield that kept her sane, but that’s all it was-a shield to protect her.

He wanted to get under that shield and see Nora English for the woman she was. The Nora English that kissed him last night, the Nora English who was inside.

And he would. Duke got everything he set his mind on.

When the car started down the mountain on the California side of the Sierra Nevadas, Duke’s phone vibrated. He had a voice mail.

He listened, his face falling.

“That was Sean,” he said. “He left a message.”

“Your brother?”

Confession time. “I’ve had him snooping around Rose College the last couple days.”

She didn’t say anything, but he could tell she wasn’t happy about being kept in the dark.

“Three students were found this morning, dead, apparent suicides. And they left a note claiming they killed Jonah Payne.”

Rose College was in mourning.

Nora walked through the campus amid a sea of shocked faces. The media had been held at bay by the sheriff’s department, and Sheriff Sanger was speaking to the dean of students in the lobby of the dormitory where three students had apparently killed themselves.

Nora herself was stunned. For the forty minutes it took from when Duke got his brother’s call until they arrived she tried to reconcile political activism with serial murder. It didn’t make sense.

“Sheriff,” she said as she approached.

“Agent English,” Sanger said formally. “That was fast.”

She raised her eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“I just talked to your office ten minutes ago.”

“Funny. I heard about the suicides forty-five minutes ago, and even then the information was old. I should have been contacted as soon as the suicide note was found.”

Sanger’s jaw tightened. He introduced the dean. “Greg Holbrook, Special Agent Nora English. And Duke Rogan.”

“We’re all in shock,” Holbrook said. “All three of them exemplary students. All seniors with promising futures. Suicide-”

“I need to see the letter,” Nora said.

“Excuse us, Dean Holbrook,” Sanger said, moving away. Nora and Duke followed.

Once they were out of earshot, Nora said, “Why did you wait so long to contact me?”

“First, the letter isn’t a full-out confession, and it took responding officers time to put it together. By the time they did and I came on scene, I called your office.”

Nora released her pent-up anger. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to jump down your throat, Lance, but we just came from the scene of another homicide; Russell Larkin, the head of Butcher-Payne’s I.T. department, had his throat slit.”

“I didn’t hear about that,” Sanger said.

“It happened in Reno, and he’s been dead a couple days. Probably since late Sunday morning.”

“Sorry to hear it,” Sanger said to Duke.

Duke acknowledged his condolences and asked, “What happened here?”

“Three seniors dead. The dorm room is a mess-they all vomited violently. The medics came in and tried to resuscitate the female, who still had a pulse, but she was declared DOA at the hospital. She never regained consciousness. We found the letter on the desk. The M.E. took the bodies about twenty minutes ago, and my deputies are upstairs collecting evidence.” In Placer County, the sheriff’s deputies doubled as crime-scene investigators, which was common in many of California’s smaller counties.

“Pills?” she asked.

“Seems so, but until the autopsy we don’t know what they took.”

“How were they discovered?”

“The girl across the hall smelled something foul and knocked on the door early this morning. She didn’t get an answer, went to class, and then when she came back she tried again, and found the door unlocked. It was a pretty ugly scene. The poor girl is a wreck.”

“And the three just stayed in the room vomiting and didn’t try to get help? Did the female have a roommate?”

“No, she didn’t. And apparently, they wanted to die,” Sanger said.

Or maybe the ingested drugs had a paralyzing effect, Nora thought. Still, it didn’t seem right to Nora. She’d seen pill-related suicides. They weren’t pretty, but she wouldn’t call them violent. Generally if vomiting began, the individual would purge enough from their system to survive or regret their decision and seek help. “Such a violent reaction seems unnecessary,” Nora said.

“Excuse me?”

“If they planned it, they would know how many pills to take to do the job, and what type of pills would minimize pain and suffering. Most suicides try for the most painless, easiest out they can find. They also talk about it to someone-even if that person doesn’t know the suicidal person is talking about killing themselves. They show signs of despair and depression-”

“But they faced prosecution for arson and murder,” Sanger pointed out.

“Did they? I don’t have a suspect right now, do you?”

Sanger hesitated. “I see what you mean.”

“Do you have an ID on the three?”

Sanger checked his notes. “Anya Ballard, twenty-two, originally from Portland, Oregon. She’s been here for four years. Chris Pierson, twenty-three, from Richmond, California, also here for four years. Scott Edwards, twenty-two, from Los Angeles, California. He transferred two years ago from UCLA. He was a computer engineering major until he came here, then switched to environmental studies, like the other two.”

Sanger looked at her. “I pulled their schedules. I wasn’t surprised that all three of them are in Leif Cole’s Social Justice class.”

Nora raised her eyebrows. “Did the letter incriminate him or anyone else?”

“No. It’s bagged and in the van, but I’ll have someone fetch it.” He spoke into his walkie-talkie.

Duke asked, “Do we know about what time this happened?”

“Just sometime last night. They weren’t at a meeting people expected them at, but no one thought twice about it. My deputies are interviewing everyone in the dorm, their political groups, and their classes. Holbrook has given us the student union for the duration of the interviews and investigation. As soon as we clear the dorm room, we’ll release the third floor.”

“Duke!”

Nora turned and saw a kid who could have been Duke’s younger twin on the opposite side of the crime-scene tape.

“It’s my brother,” Duke said.

Nora said to Sanger, “Can you let him through?”

Sanger frowned, but motioned for the deputy at the door to let the younger Rogan in.

Nora glanced at Duke. “I’m still not happy about this,” she said quietly.