Liz Shoaf - Identity - Classified

“Don’t even think about it, Sam.”

Chloe schooled her face into a mask of calm as she spun to face Ethan. And when had she started thinking of him as Ethan instead of Sheriff Hoyt? “Excuse me? You told us to stay back.”

His green eyes pierced her pretense. “You were getting ready to run, and I have several questions before you’ll be allowed to leave town.”

The shock of seeing the two dead men quickly receded and self-preservation took over. Something she had become very good at since the death of her parents when she was a child. “You have no right to hold me without just cause.”

His rigid jaw tightened even more. “I have cause since I witnessed you standing in front of room 126. Fortunately for you, I followed you from the B and B. Otherwise, I’d be arresting you on murder charges. Give me your weapon.” He held his hand out.

Panic constricted her throat. She didn’t like feeling boxed in, not after her short stint in juvenile hall before Stan rescued and took custody of her, but she quickly regained her equilibrium. No way was she giving up her gun. She’d been shot at and these two New Yorkers were now dead. She had a burning desire to get out of town, and she’d need protection when she left.

Forcing herself to relax, she took a step back. “You’re way off course, Sheriff Hoyt. As you said, you followed me from the B and B. I didn’t have anything to do with this.”

His hand stayed extended and his jaw looked hard as granite. She got the sinking feeling that she was now seeing the real Sheriff Hoyt, the hotshot Chicago detective Mrs. Denton had described.

“We won’t have a time of death until the coroner arrives. You could have been revisiting the scene. Give me your weapon.”

She had no choice, so, feeling as if she were giving away a part of herself, she pulled the gun out of her jacket pocket and handed it over, butt first. It was an insult when he shook out a handkerchief and took her weapon, but then another thought sent a second panic wave roaring through her. Her prints were on the gun, and she had no doubt he’d run them through the system. Her prints were on file with the FBI because anyone who worked there was fingerprinted as part of their policy.

Chloe quickly reassured herself that he wouldn’t find anything from her past, only her real name. He shouldn’t be able to get into her juvenile record unless he had a valid reason to present to a judge. But even knowing her real name would be problematic. He’d want to know why she’d given him an alias. That would lead to questions she didn’t want to answer. She had to get out of there and away from Jackson Hole as soon as possible.

Her handkerchief-bound Bersa disappeared into his jacket pocket, and she was already thinking of a way to retrieve it when his voice caught her attention.

“Don’t even think about it, Sam. I’ll return your weapon after we get some answers.”

She shrugged, trying for nonchalance, but inside she shivered. “Whatever. I’m in the clear because I had nothing to do with this—” she lifted her chin in false bravado “—and you can tell yourself you know what I’m thinking, but you’re wrong.”

Ethan stared at her hard, but a squad car pulled into the parking lot and gained his attention. She was vastly relieved by the interruption. He must have been an ace detective, because he stood there looking all righteous and dignified, silently urging her to spill her secrets, daring her to do the right thing. The man had probably never even had a parking ticket.

A young, clean-cut guy dressed in a starched police uniform hurriedly got out of the patrol car and rushed toward Ethan.

“Sir, I got here as quick as I could.”

And when, exactly, had Sheriff Hoyt called his deputy? Almost as if he could hear her thoughts, he turned his head toward her. “I texted my deputy to come as soon as I saw the bodies.” It shocked her that he could read her so well, but she covered her surprise by holding up her hands. “Did I say anything?” It came out sounding waspish, but she was in a waspish mood. Things were going downhill fast. Ethan motioned his deputy into the motel room, but not before he gave her instructions. The kind of instructions she didn’t like.

“Stay put. Don’t make me come after you.”

Her gut was screaming at her to run as fast as she could, but the good sheriff had her picklocks, her gun and, worst of all, her prints.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Fine.”

He gave her one last hard look and disappeared into the room. Thirty minutes later several vehicles pulled up. One man got out of a car carrying a medical bag. She assumed it was the medical examiner. Two men exited the second car carrying an array of cases. They looked like crime scene techs. A few minutes later, Sheriff Hoyt stepped out of the room with a hard jaw and a purposeful stride. He took her by the arm and she jerked it back. She’d give it one last shot.

“I want my picklocks and firearm returned. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

He just stood there, looking all grim and tough. Well, she wasn’t in a good mood, either, and jerked the tiger’s tail. She shouldn’t have, given the situation, but couldn’t seem to stop herself. She gave him a saucy grin. “I had to try.”

He didn’t look amused, and the grin slid off her face as the gravity of the situation hit her. She ran a hand through her short hair.

“It’s late and I’ll give you two options. We can go back to the bed-and-breakfast and make a nice big pot of coffee for our little informative chat, or we can have bad coffee at the station and spend our time in the interrogation room. Your choice.”

Another shiver racked her body at the thought of being in a police station, so she chose wisely, but didn’t give in easily. “Fine, we’ll go to the bed-and-breakfast, but you’re going to have to apologize when you catch whoever—” she waved a hand toward room 126 “—did this.”

* * *

Silence shrouded the patrol car as Ethan drove them to the B and B. He hadn’t taken the time to run the plate numbers he’d collected earlier, but that was fast becoming a priority. He had a bad feeling that Sam was in this thing up to her eyeballs.

Sam stared out the window during the short drive. The coroner had offered to give his deputy a ride home. He and Sam could have walked, but after getting shot at and finding two men dead in the motel room, he didn’t feel it was safe, and that angered him. They had their minor incidents, but Jackson Hole had always been a safe town. Now he had a double homicide to solve.

He parked the car on the side of the street in front of the B and B and cut the engine. He didn’t acknowledge Sam as he dug his cell phone out of his pocket. He hit speed dial, and the babysitter answered on the third ring.

“Margaret, this is Ethan. I’m sorry to call so late, but I’m going to be tied up awhile.”

“Is it true? Did you find two dead bodies in the motel?”

He sighed. Jackson Hole was a small town, and he should’ve known the happenings at the motel would spread like wildfire. “Yes, you heard right. There were two murders at the motel. Listen, can you take care of Penny the rest of the night? And could you swing by my house and pack her enough clothes for several days and bring her to the B and B in the morning? I’ll see that she gets to school. Oh, and pack me a few changes of clothes, if you have time. I sure would appreciate it.”

“Sure thing, Sheriff.”

“Thanks, and make sure everything is locked up tight before you turn in. Don’t worry, I’ll be careful. Bye.”

He hung up the phone, lowered his head against the headrest and closed his eyes. The close call with Sam getting shot in her earlobe, then seeing the two dead men, brought death to the forefront of his mind and stirred memories of his deceased wife. He and Penny had finally found a measure of peace after the long, cruel terminal disease had taken Sherri’s life. He’d hoped his small family would thrive and be happy in Jackson Hole, but Sherri, being a city girl, had never quite fit in with the small-town folks. It wasn’t that she thought she was better than the town’s people—she just didn’t fit in, no matter how hard she tried.