Then he heard shouting from outside. He ordered Flash to stay in the no-nonsense voice the dog always obeyed unless he was on a scent so strongly that his nose shut down his ears.
He made his way into the living room, keeping out of the line of sight of the front windows. Still more shouting, but no shooting. He edged his way over to the window, still in the shelter of the solid wall. Pulled his Glock 22 from the holster, just in case. Risked a quick, darting glance. Behind the relative safety of the wall, he played the scene back in his head.
It was ugly. A big heavy white van had T-boned a small, expensive—and in this case too easily destructible—sports coupe. Crushed it up against a power pole. Signals at the corner were dark, and he’d bet the power was out for blocks around.
The white vehicle was the shooter. Had to be—only one on the street heading the right direction. So the guy he’d glimpsed running from it had to be him. And whoever was in that little coupe had never had a chance, they—
It hit him then. The coupe. The little bright yellow coupe.
He knew that car. There might be more than one in town, but in this neighborhood?
“Dominic,” he breathed.
Gun still in his hand, he bolted out the door.
“He got away,” Collins was saying.
Dante registered the words but couldn’t speak. He was only barely aware of Flash sniffing around the shooter’s car, and he ignored the dog’s questioning look as the animal wondered why he wasn’t getting the order to track.
“He’s hurt, though. He left a little blood on the steering wheel.”
Again, Dante didn’t react. He was staring at the second gurney being loaded into the coroner’s van. When the doors of the van were slammed closed, the coroner’s assistant glanced back at him. He supposed someone had told the guy who he was. His connection to the fatalities.
As the van pulled away, he shifted his gaze to his hands. At the blood already dried, staining his shirt cuffs.
“You tried, man,” Duke said softly from behind him. “There was nothing you could have done. They were gone the moment that shooter plowed into them.”
“They should have stolen a sturdier car,” Dante mumbled to himself. Although he’d never been able to prove it, he’d known his brother had stolen the coupe, probably with his wife’s help. If for no other reason than Dominic never bought what he could steal, and Agostina had expensive taste.
She had had expensive taste.
“Run the VIN, if it’s not ground off,” Dante said.
“Already did,” Duke said. “Matches the logo, comes back to Red Ridge Delivery Service.”
Dante registered the name; he’d been so focused on his brother he hadn’t even glanced at the side of the van. One of the Larsons’ front companies. And suddenly the shooting made sense. Sending a message: don’t talk to the cops. They must not know we already have the guy.
“I meant that one,” he said, nodding toward the bright yellow wreckage, which would now just about fit in the back of the van that had hit it.
“Your brother’s?” Duke asked hesitantly.
“Odds are it’s stolen,” Dante said flatly. Not from here in Red Ridge—the car was too distinctive, he thought. They’d likely done their version of car shopping in a bigger, easier-to-be-ignored-in place.
Duke just looked at him for a long, silent moment. Dante stared him down, silently daring him to say something. Anything that would burst the gates on the dam that was holding back the tangled, messy emotions churning inside him. He and Dominic had never seen eye to eye on much of anything, had had only strained contact for years, but he was still his brother. And they’d had some good years together as kids.
Kids.
Dante’s breath jammed up in his throat.
The twins. God, the twins.
“Mancuso? You need the medics? You just went pale.”
“I just thought of something,” he muttered, all he could manage.
“About the crash, or the shooting, or the investigation?”
They hadn’t been in the car. Thank all the gods there be, they hadn’t been in the car. “No,” he finally got out. “Personal... Family.”
Duke eyed him. “Look, get out of here. I’ll handle this.” Dante blinked. His friend shrugged. “You shouldn’t be here anyway, with your brother and all. So whatever it is, go deal with it.”
He didn’t often let his heart take the lead over his gut-level cop instincts, but this...this was huge. Too huge to be denied. No matter what or who his brother had become, no matter the problems that had caused Dante in his life, this was bigger than any of it.
“Thanks, Duke,” he said, called for Flash and ran for his car. He hit the button on the fob for the liftgate and got the dog in the back of the big black SUV. Seconds later he was behind the wheel.
It only took a few minutes to cover the distance to Dominic’s. He spent every second of it thinking about the tiny, helpless babies his brother and sister-in-law had brought into the world, perhaps unwisely, just six months ago. For a short while, the arrival of the tiny girls had smoothed things out between them all, but it sadly hadn’t lasted, for even that small pair of miracles apparently couldn’t change Dominic’s chosen path. He continued with his crooked ways, and Dante had had to back away once more.
The place stood out on the quiet street; Agostina’s taste for flashy things didn’t stop at vehicles. Amid the wood-sided houses with big trees, lawns and carefully tended flower beds in the neighborhood, the tiled roof, stone walls and concrete yard stood out glaringly. And even if they hadn’t, the statuary would have done it. He’d thought Agostina was going for the feel of a palazzo in Florence, although he knew she’d never set foot in Italy. Problem was she’d missed it by a very long shot; the statues were cheap copies lacking the life and vitality of the originals. He was all for respecting his Italian heritage, but this didn’t look impressive or grand, just completely out of place.
The house was locked, which he’d expected. But the fact that no one answered the door made him wonder where the girls actually were. Agostina might not be the nicest person around, but surely she wouldn’t have left those two tiny children home alone.
He walked around the side of the house. Most of the windows were shuttered, or masked with the showy ceiling-to-pooling-on-the-floor draperies his sister-in-law had chosen. Every possible point of entry was secured with high-quality locks, which he also expected.
He took the flat stone path around to the back of the house, where the kitchen looked out on yet another courtyard full of statuary he thought would make a meal rather unappetizing. This was where Agostina had chosen to put the more brutal art—gods fighting with each other, warriors running through their enemies or beheading them. He’d expected—maybe hoped—she would lighten
