“Since when do you care about procedure?” Gabe yanked open the fridge, grimaced at ancient takeout containers and a carton of milk gone solid.
“Since I got my PI license.” Harley moved to the laptop. “We’re not snatching the computer. But let me see what I can find.”
Gabe looked over at her, waggled his eyebrows, like this might be a game.
Yeah, weird.
She opened the computer. The cursor blinked. What would Pete use as a password? She tried his address. Nope.
Her gaze fell on a picture on the fridge. She retrieved it.
“What’s that?”
“Pete and his hunting dog. Nice-looking black lab.” She flashed it at him. “Look at the name.”
“Charlie?”
She typed it in and the screen unlocked. “Got it.” On the main screen, folders. “Bank statements, fuel receipts—”
“Found something.” Gabe had moved to another bedroom. “There’s an office back here.”
She sent the folders to her online storage via the internet. Then she headed down the hallway. Some office—a row machine, a file cabinet, and a gaming chair with a flat-screen.
Gabe held up a leatherbound logbook, its edges worn smooth. “Dates, tail numbers, gallons delivered.”
A siren wailed in the distance, the sound bouncing off the mountain face behind Pete’s cabin.
“Perfect,” Gabe said. “Now we get to explain why we’re here.”
“We’re here because we got a tip about a witness in Dad and Mom’s deaths.” She reached for the logbook and set it on the desk. Opened it and pulled out her phone. “These have flights from over seven years ago.” She found the dates around the timeof the crash. Took pictures, then shoved the logbook back into the filing cabinet, the metal shrieking in protest.
Only then did she see the missed calls from Jericho. She’d forgotten to take her phone off Do Not Disturb after church.Oops.
She nearly pressed dial to call him back when red and blue lights strobed through the kitchen windows. Car doors slammed. Heavy boots crunched across the frozen yard and up the weathered porch steps that groaned under the weight.
Deke came through the open door.
She caught the exact moment the smell hit him—that copper-penny tang that had already coated the back of her throat.
“Harley.” Deke’s gaze swept from her to Gabe, then landed on Pete. “Want to tell me what brings you to Pete Barrow’s house on a Sunday afternoon?”
She explained about church, about Barry Kingston’s revelation, about coming to question Pete about the fuel shipments.
“And you found him like this?” Deke crouched beside the body.
“Yes. Door was unlocked. We called out, no answer. Found him dead.”
“You see anyone?”
“No. He’s been dead for a while. Maybe since yesterday.”
“I see that.”
Crew had come in, carrying a forensic kit. He walked over and handed it to Deke. “I called Liora, and she said to get started with pictures. She’ll be over as soon as she can.”
“Has Pete been in any trouble?” Harley asked. “Why would someone want to kill him?”
“I don’t know,” Deke said, getting out of the way of Crew, who started to take photos. “He did an overnight with us a few months ago—got drunk at the Midnight Sun, started to tear up the place. Vic subdued him, but he was crying about something. Someone.”