Chapter Twelve

Brooks .

Hayes had been worried about someone else getting killed, but he sure as hell hadn’t expected it to be Jemma’s stepbrother. Apparently, neither had Jemma because she was sporting a semi-shellshocked expression as they drove to the new crime scene—at a side entrance to the park. In fact, it apparently wasn’t that far from where Hailey’s body had been excavated overnight.

Going with their usual travel routine, Aiden was following behind them, and all three of them already had on their Kevlar vests and would be donning helmets before they got out to examine the brand-new crime scene. That would leave Owen and Reed to finish up with the interviews.

“Since Cordelia and Duane didn’t have an alibi for the shooting at Royce’s cabin, they likely aren’t going to have an alibi for this,” Jemma muttered.

“True. And Royce probably won’t have one either,” Hayes pointed out. “In fact, he could have shot Brooks and driven straight to the inn to report the so-called attack at his cabin.”

She made a sound of agreement and then voiced the question that was weighing on Hayes’ mind. “But why would Royce kill Brooks?”

Hayes didn’t have a good answer. Only a couple of possibilities. “Brooks maybe discovered something he shouldn’t.” That was one theory. “Or Brooks was working with Royce to kill all the cops who could uncover the secrets about the bodies buried in the park.”

“Or Royce is a psychopath serial killer,” she tacked onto that and then huffed. “The same could be said for Duane.”

That was true, but there was a different angle with Royce. “If Royce is obsessed with you, he might have wanted to kill everyone who slighted you. The cops and Brooks. If so, Cordelia would be on his hit list, too.”

And the woman might already be dead.

Which led Hayes to another round of theories.

“Cordelia might have killed her own son if he was threatening to expose her for the cop killings,” Hayes said aloud.

But he immediately shook his head. Yes, that was possible, but if so, Cordelia was a lot more of a cold-blooded person than he’d assumed. After all, murdering a dying woman so you could marry her husband was one thing, but murdering her own son was on a whole different level.

And that left him with Duane.

“Duane could have murdered Brooks,” Hayes threw out there.

“His possible motive?” Jemma asked.

“Maybe Brooks has been working with Duane. Or Duane and he could have had some kind of falling out, perhaps linked to Cordelia and Duane’s affair, if that’s true. Or…” Now, he paused a long time.

“You think my father could have been the one to kill Brooks,” she stated.

“Yeah. What would the Rattler do if he found out that Brooks was the one who gave his dying wife that lethal dose of morphine?” he pressed.

Jemma drew in a long breath. “My father might kill him. He especially could do that if he’d thought I might take the law into my own hands and murder Brooks for it.”

Bingo. Hayes was going with door number two on this. By eliminating Brooks, Stefano would protect his child and get justice for his late wife. Added to that, Brooks’ death could get lumped in with all the others, and no one might take a closer look at Stefano for this.

“I’ll deal with my father later,” Jemma told him. “I need to ask him about Cordelia’s affair with Duane anyway.” She paused. “And I’ll need to find out if he’s done something to Cordelia. Because if my father discovered that Cordelia had murdered my mom, then…you’re right—Cordelia might be dead now, too.”

He could hear the dread in her voice at the thought of having to arrest her father. Hayes was dreading it as well. He wasn’t a fan of vigilante justice, but as someone who’d lost a mother and a woman who would have soon been his wife, he could totally understand the need to punish whoever had harmed them.

Yeah, he got that.

His mom’s killer had died in a shootout with her, and his fiancée’s murderer had been shanked in a prison fight. Still, that didn’t seem enough since Hayes hadn’t had a part in doling out that final punishment.

He had to force himself to quit dredging up those old memories as Jemma pulled into the park. Since it wasn’t the main entrance, it wasn’t very big, just enough room for about six vehicles, and there were already four. A red Porche that he was betting belonged to Brooks. There was also two Strike Force vans, and judging from the stark white head-to-toe outfits that two of the people were wearing, they were the private CSIs that Owen had hired. The other vehicle was one for the private medical examiner.

And she was someone that Hayes recognized.

Dr. Viv Logan.

Jemma’s attention had already gone to the fifty-something-year-old woman who was leaning against one of the vans while eating an apple. She, too, was wearing one of the disposable crime scene suits, but strands of her frizzy red hair poked out from the heading covering.

“You know her?” Jemma asked.

“I’ve worked with her a couple of times. She’s good but a little eccentric. Oh, and if she offers a guess, it’s as good as gospel.”

Maybe Dr. Logan would be able to give them some quick answers so they could find this asshole killer.

Pulling on the helmet, Hayes stepped from the cruiser. “Dr. Logan, you and the CSIs should be wearing the bullet-resistant gear,” he told them as Jemma and Aiden got out as well.

Aiden took out three vests and three helmets from his vehicle, and the two CSIs took them and immediately started putting them on. The ME didn’t. She continued to eat her apple.

“Deputy Jemma Salvetti, this is Dr. Viv Logan,” Hayes said, making the introductions.

“Pleased to meet you,” Jemma replied.

Dr. Logan grumbled something that was indecipherable because of the mouthful of apple she had, and she tossed the apple core into the van.

“This isn’t pretty,” the ME warned them, and she settled her attention on Jemma. “I’ve IDed him from his license plate and DMV photo so I know he’s your stepbrother, Brooks Winslow. Are you going to puke when you see his head blown off and bits of his brains in various parts of that car?” she asked Jemma.

“No,” Jemma assured her. “I’m not a puker.” But she did look as if her stomach might be unsettled.

Dr. Logan had no reaction to that. She simply walked closer to the Porche, motioning for them to follow, and Hayes got a glimpse of what was inside. Brooks, slumped over his steering wheel, did indeed have a large bullet hole in the left side of his head. Blood and other bodily stuff—brain matter included—had been spewed over the car’s interior and the windshield.

“Everything right now is a guess until I get him on the slab for an autopsy,” the ME spelled out, “but I figure death was instantaneous. Hard to live long with that much missing from your head. I estimate TOD was about two hours ago. Rigor mortis has already set in on his face, but it hasn’t yet progressed to his limbs.”

“Two hours,” Hayes repeated. So, any of their suspects, or Jemma’s father, could have done this.

“More of that guessing,” the ME went on, “but it appears the rich dead guy was parked in his Look at me, I’m rich sports car, and someone walked up to the window. The window was down so he might have lowered it when his visitor approached.”

“Which meant it was probably someone he knew,” Jemma concluded.

Again, that could be said of all of their suspects.

“Rich dead guy wasn’t reaching for anything when he was killed,” the ME went on. “His hands were on the steering wheel, and the engine was running. The A/C was blasting so he didn’t lower his window for air.”

If Brooks had sensed a threat, he could have just driven off. Or drawn a gun. Hayes figured there was one somewhere in the vehicle. So, that brought him back to the likelihood that it was someone he knew or at least someone that Brooks hadn’t seen as a threat.

His mother or stepfather.

Or an accomplice.

“That’s about all I can tell you now, but Kaitlyn and Charlie might be able to give you more,” Dr. Logan added, no doubt referring to the CSIs. “Once they’ve finished doing their thing, I’ll have them help me load the body, and I’ll get it back to the makeshift morgue that Owen’s set up.” She gave a quick wave to the CSIs and made her way back to the van.

One of the CSIs was in the process of gathering a sample of blood from the interior of the Porche while the other was photographing the scene. Hayes shifted his attention toward them, ready to see if they had something useful.

He didn’t get the chance.

The gunshot came as a loud blast.

In the same instant, he heard Jemma’s sharp sound of pain. Hayes’ heart dropped to the ground, and he whirled around, already reaching for her. She was gasping and fighting to get off the vest. And he knew then that the bullet had hit the Kevlar.

Not her.

But the vest.

She was alive, and Hayes’ priority was to keep her that way.

“Get down, take cover,” he shouted to the CSIs and the ME, though it was obvious they weren’t the targets.

Jemma was.

Another shot slammed into her, this time on her helmet.

Hayes had taken shots to both a vest and the headgear, and he knew Jemma was in horrible pain right now. The hot bullet was burning her chest, and she’d have a hell of a bruise. The blast to the helmet meant she couldn’t hear. And with no breath, she wasn’t moving well either.

He hooked his arm around her, dragging her to the ground behind the Porche. The car wasn’t bulletproof, but the cruiser was too far away to try to get her there.

“Aiden, return fire at this asshole,” Hayes shouted while he fought to get the vest off Jemma.

She was still gasping, and the color had drained from her face, but she was managing to communicate with him. The pleading look in her eyes was begging him for help.

More shots came, not just from their attacker but also from Aiden. As expected, his brother wasn’t pulling any punches. He had no doubt gotten a good estimate of the shooter’s location, and he was firing right at the SOB.

Hayes had a solid idea of the gunman’s location, too. Just off the trail, probably behind one of the oaks that canopied the area. But unlike the sniper at the inn, this one seemed to be firing not from a perch in the tree but with his or her feet on the ground. Probably so he could kill and then run.

Somehow, he had to stop both of those things from happening.

He finally got the vest off Jemma, and he bashed the Kevlar on the ground to dislodge the hot bullet before he draped the vest back over her chest. That would hopefully protect her. The helmet could, too, and that’s why he kept it in place.

“Stay put,” Hayes told her, exaggerating the words with his mouth so she could lip-read. No way would she be able to hear much right now.

“I’m returning fire,” Hayes let Aiden know so his brother wouldn’t accidentally shoot him when he leaned out.

Hayes rolled to the side, landing on his stomach and with his gun already aimed. He fired and fired and fired. More than anything he wanted to blast this sonofabitch to shreds. He wanted to make him pay for hurting Jemma.

He heard the sharp sound of pain. Thank God not from Jemma this time. This had no doubt come from the shooter because the gunfire instantly stopped, and there was the thud of someone landing on the ground.

“Don’t move,” he reminded Jemma. “Aiden, come here to cover Jemma and call for an ambulance.”

Hayes got to his feet and sprinted toward their attacker. He was hoping it was one of their suspects. Hoping it was the killer. If not that, then it could be someone the killer had hired. Maybe the asshole would have just enough breath left in his body to say who’d put him up to this.

He only had to run a few yards on the trail before he spotted the man sprawled out on the ground. He was wearing all black and had on a ski mask. There was a rifle still gripped in his right hand.

And there were no signs of life.

Hayes kicked the rifle out of the shooter’s reach and bent down to touch his fingers to the man’s neck and cursed when there was no pulse. That meant they’d be getting no answers from this piece of shit.

Well, no verbal ones anyway.

But he lifted the ski mask to see if it was someone he recognized. And it was.

Damn it all to hell, Hayes knew exactly who this was.