Authors: Lynda Bailey
Lynch studied the passing scenery. “Thanks. Think there
might be a deal for Rolo in exchange for his cooperation?”
“That’ll be Jarvis’s call, but if Pruett has good intell,
maybe.”
“She still in DC?”
Newman nodded. “Taking a redeye back tonight. Once I get you
squared away, I’ll send her a confidential email with all the new information.
She’ll probably have a fucking coronary.”
“What’s gonna happen next?” Lynch asked after a long pause.
Newman sighed. “Honestly…I don’t know. But remember how I
said shit was about to hit the fan here? You’d better duck and cover because it
appears a serious storm is brewing.”
Lynch stared out the window.
Tell me something I don’t know…
~*~
T
hough Shasta didn’t know the
man who accompanied Lynch from the station, the fact Lynch hadn’t been
handcuffed had to be a good sign. Tears welled in her eyes, but the reality of
Todd’s death severely tarnished her relief.
For the first time since hearing the news, grief bubbled up.
While Todd hadn’t been one of her favorite people, she never wished him dead.
An oppressive gloom hovered over the squad room as everyone
worked quietly and efficiently. And intently. Little wonder since the case
involved the death of a fellow officer.
Shasta was assigned coffee-making duty, which was fine with
her. Since Lynch wasn’t in custody any longer, she didn’t feel panicked to
relay the events from Sunday to her brother. Telling Dell could wait until
later—as could the repercussions of telling him. So when his shadow fell over
her desk, she was more than a little surprised.
“We need to talk,” he snapped.
“Um…okay. I was about to make some more coffee—”
“It can wait.” He gripped her arm and pulled her from her
chair.
She yanked away. “Let go of me.”
He scowled, but complied. “In my office. Now.”
Her gaze darted to Adam who stood next to Dell’s desk,
watching the exchange, his expression unreadable. She brushed a hand down the
front of her shirt. “Fine.” She marched into the office and crossed her arms.
Dell shut the door then limped to his chair, but didn’t sit.
He punched several keys on his laptop. “Come here. I want you to see
something.”
She moved to stand beside her brother. The screen displayed
a grainy picture of the Grab-in-Go entrance. A few seconds later, the hood of a
red Camaro came into view. Then Shasta watched herself exit the store and climb
into Todd’s car.
Rolling her lips together, she glanced at Dell. He looked
furious…no surprise there. “I can explain.”
“I sincerely hope so,” Adam said, perching a hip on Dell’s
desk, his hands laced together in his lap. “The time stamp on that surveillance
video says 3:10 yesterday afternoon. What were you doing at the Grab-in-Go by
yourself? Where were the officers assigned to you?”
“Graham got called to Vegas for a meeting this morning so
one drove him to the airport yesterday while the other went with Wyatt to a
birthday party.” She hitched her shoulder. “I went for a run, and got caught in
the downpour.”
Dell drew a hand down his face. “Jesus…”
“This is what I wanted to talk to you about earlier,” she
said in a rush. “But with everything that’s going on, I thought it should
wait.”
“It can’t wait now,” Adam declared as he straightened. “The
FBI will want to interview you.”
Her mouth dropped open. “Why?”
“Because you’re one of the last people to see Weedly alive.”
Adam closed the laptop. “They’ll need your statement to help establish a
timeline for yesterday.”
“Oh…all right.” She placed her hand on Dell’s arm. “Please
don’t be upset.”
“Too late for that.” Her brother’s mouth formed a thin line.
“I can’t believe you took such a risk. You have no idea what the Streeters are
capable of.”
“Actually, I kinda do.” She moved to the front of the desk
and sat in a chair. “There’s something else I need to tell you.” She looked at
Adam. “Both of you.”
Surprise on their faces, Adam leaned against the wall, his
hands in his pants pockets while Dell eased into his chair.
She clasped her hands together in her lap. “On my run, I’d
just gotten to this side of the picnic area on Miner Trail when…” She inhaled a
breath. “…Lynch grabbed me.”
Dell shot to his feet. “
What?
”
“But it’s not what you think—” she began.
“
Goddamn it
.” Dell jabbed his finger at Adam. “And
you let the bastard walk outta here.”
Adam glared back, his mouth pulled down in a nasty frown.
“It’s not what you think,” she said again. “Lynch wasn’t
there to hurt me, but to help.”
“Come again?” Dell asked, leaning both hands on his desktop.
She nodded. “It’s true. He tossed me behind a large clump of
sagebrush.” She tightened the grip on her hands. “That’s when I heard these
other guys talking.”
Adam cocked his head, his eyebrows drawing together. “What
other guys?”
“I’m pretty sure they were Streeters, though Lynch didn’t
recognize their voices.”
“What were they talking about?”
She swallowed. “Me. It sounded like they’d been watching the
house because they knew I’d left and where I’d gone. They mentioned a guy named
Junkyard and stuff about a shipment.”
“Shipment of what?” Dell asked.
“I don’t know. But they also said this Junkyard guy wanted
me…on the next shipment.”
Deafening silence met her last statement. Dell looked ready
to either throw up or spit nails. In contrast, Adam seemed angry with his jaw
clenched tight.
“What happened after that?” the DA inquired in a curt voice.
Relieved to have the burden of secrecy off her shoulders,
she sat forward. “The men left and Lynch took me to the Bentley place where we
waited out the storm.” Her cheeks heated at the memory of being in the barn and
she stared at her lap. “Then he insisted on taking me to the Grab-n-Go so I
could call someone for a ride.”
“And you called Todd instead of me,” Dell uttered in a low
voice.
“Because I knew you’d be upset.”
“Damn straight I’m upset. Do you have any idea just how
dangerous—and dumb—your actions were? Jesus…you could’ve been seriously hurt.”
“I understand, believe me. But the more important point is
Lynch didn’t murder Todd.”
Dell snorted. “That’s quite the stretch.”
“No it’s not,” she insisted. “He protected me from those
other men and refused to leave me alone during the storm. He took me to the
store and even waited until Todd picked me up. It doesn’t make sense for him to
kill someone else who helped me.”
“Criminals aren’t known for making sense,” her brother
responded drily. “But this is all a moot point as Callan’s no longer in
custody.” He shot another glower at Adam.
The DA checked his watch then picked up his briefcase. “I
have another meeting, but it’s like I told you and your fed buddies, until
there’s concrete evidence directly linking Callan to your deputy’s death—like
ballistics—we don’t have enough to hold him.”
“Bullshit,” Dell argued. “Todd’s body was found next to his
trailer for crissake.”
“True. But there was also a distinct lack of blood.”
“We’ve held other suspects on a lot less,” her brother
grumbled.
“Also true, but those other suspects never got hauled in
for
no good reason
like you did before with Callan. I won’t risk a lawsuit.”
With that, Adam opened the door and left.
Once alone with her brother, Shasta looked at Dell. He
stared into space, the ever-present trough between his eyebrows even more
prominent. “Can I get you anything?”
He jolted slightly. “No…um, yes.” He nudged his coffee mug
across the desk. “A cup from a fresh pot, if you don’t mind. By the time I get
to the break room, all that’s left is grounds.”
She stood and took the mug. “I know. It’s a wonder that poor
coffee pot hasn’t given out completely. It’s never seen this much use. I was
thinking we should maybe replace it with an industrial-sized maker, but then
figured we’d wouldn’t see another case like this again.”
The words were out of her mouth before she thought them
through.
Of course
they’d never see another case like this because this
one involved the murder of a deputy. Of Todd.
Shasta covered her lips with her hand. “Oh God…I’m sorry…”
He waved her off with a sympathetic look. “It’s okay.”
She gave a weak smile. “I’ll get your coffee.” Turning to
the door, she paused. “What did Adam mean when he said there was a distinct
lack of blood?”
Dell blew out a breath. “It’s possible Todd was killed
somewhere else and his body left at Callan’s trailer. But,” he added quickly
when she opened her mouth, “that’s not proof he didn’t murder Todd.”
Her eyes widened. “Are you serious? Why on earth would
Lynch—”
The phone rang, cutting off her argument.
“Albright,” Dell said into the receiver. “About damn time we
got the report. What did you find?” He grabbed a pen and pad. As he listened,
his expression grew more thunderous. He struggled to his feet, his hand on the
desk for support. “Are you kidding me? And why the hell did this take so long?
Delayed because of what? Oh, Christ…never mind.” He banged his phone down,
grabbed his cane and hobbled out from behind his desk.
Shasta seized his sleeve. “What happened?”
Dell shrugged off her hand and flung open his office door.
“Granger!”
An agent, looking every bit enraged as her brother, stomped
across the squad room. “We just got the news. There’s an APB out on Callan.”
“Get units to his mom’s house and the bowling alley.
Sonofabitch!” Dell pounded his fist on the door jamb.
She gripped his arm and pivoted him to face her. She’d
never, ever seen her brother this livid. “Tell me what happened.”
“Callan’s gun matched the one that killed Todd. And the one
that shot me seven years ago.”
Chapter Seventeen
MY
DOCTOR HAS
lectured me about my blood pressure. He says I need to
exercise, meditate and cut down on the red meat and cigars. What a crock. What
I
need
is to have employees who aren’t unqualified fuckups.
I take a deep breath then hit speed dial number eight.
Junkyard answers before the second ring.
“Mr. Blackwell. I wasn’t expecting to hear from you.”
He sounds nervous…as well he should.
“Junkyard, my boy,” I force cheeriness into my voice.
Cheeriness I don’t feel because I want to strangle this asshole through the phone
line. “I have a question. Do I pay you well?”
“Why yes, Mr. Blackwell, you do. Very well.”
“Good. Good. And what do I ask in exchange for paying you
well?”
“Um…to do what you need done, sir.”
“Excellent. So tell me, Junkyard…” I pick invisible lint off
my jacket. “…have I ever said to do anything with the Albright woman?”
“The…Albright woman?”
“Yes. The sheriff’s sister. Have I ever even mentioned her
to you?”
“Um…no sir.”
“Then tell me
why the fuck
you went after her on
Sunday.”
“Well…I…ah…”
“Spit it out man.” Blood pounds at my temples. “You did have
a reason, didn’t you?”
“Yessir, Mr. Blackwell…I had a reason.”
“Can’t wait to hear it.”
“Well, you see, sir…the sheriff—her brother—arrested a
Streeter. Going after his sister was…uh…payback.”
“Payback? Because Albright arrested a Streeter? Lynch Callan
to be specific. Since when are you paid to give a flying fuck about Lynch
Callan?”
“Um…it was the principle, sir. Something like that needed
retribution.”
“So you willingly sacrificed everything because of some
petty vendetta?”
“I apologize, Mr. Blackwell. I didn’t think it’d—”
“That’s your problem, Junkyard. Thinking. You’re not paid to
think, but to do as I say.”
“Understood, sir. Won’t happen again.”
“See that it doesn’t because if it does…if anything happens
to Shasta Albright…” I lower my voice to a harsh whisper. “…you will answer to
me
.
Am I making myself perfectly clear?”
“Y…y…yessir. Perfectly clear.”
“Good.” Calmer, I reached from my cigar box and snip off the
end of a fat Cuban. “Now I do have a job for you,” I say around the stogie as I
light it.
“What’s that, Mr. Blackwell?”
I puff for a few moments then blow out a billow of smoke.
“Kill Callan.”
“But…he’s in police custody.”
“Not any longer. He’s out and I want him dead.”
“How’d he get released? We set him up just like you said
to.”
“Yes, but you fucked that up too, didn’t you?”
“I did? How…sir?”
“Because you didn’t kill the deputy at Callan’s place.”
“Yeah…so?”
I’m surrounded by idiots.
“
So,
there wasn’t a blood pool at the trailer. It’s
obvious Weedly was killed somewhere else and his body dumped.”
“But the gun—”
“Yes, yes. You planted the gun. Bully for you. I was willing
to let the justice system play out for my amusement, but not anymore.”
Especially
since he’d been with Shasta during the storm.
“Now I want Callan
eliminated—immediately. Think you can handle that?”
“Of course, Mr. Blackwell. Of course.”
Now the moron reminds me of an over-eager Labrador…so
willing to please.
I thumb through the papers on my desk. “Good. Callan’s at
the Flamingo Star Hotel in Reno under the name Garret Wilson.”
“Flamingo Star…Garret Wilson…got it. I’ll take care of it,
Mr. Blackwell.”
“See that you do.” I perch my cigar in the ashtray. “Fuck
this up, and I will end you. Got that?” I hang up before he can respond.