by TA Moore
“Same thing as you,” he said. “I got your message last night, flew in this morning. Detective Bennett told me you were here. Did you call Shay?”
Every hour on the hour. On the half hour once the insomnia had really settled in for the night. It had cut to the voicemail’s bland, singsong instructions every time, and Boyd did what he was told and left a message. It didn’t seem to have done any good.
“You know Shay. He could have lost his phone or still be at the bar with whatever collector he had to go to Florida to see.”
Mac raised his eyebrows.
“You really believe there’s a collector?”
Boyd shrugged. It didn’t matter if he did or not. Shay still hadn’t answered his phone. If this was just another wild goose chase, it wouldn’t have mattered, but they needed to talk about it. Before it got back to Donna.
“He’ll call when he can” was all he said. As a firefighter, he liked Mac well enough. He was a good cop and a straight arrow, but he was also the cop who badgered Boyd to tears for some snippet of info he hadn’t kept back, the man who’d cuffed sixteen-year-old Shay and threw him in jail on suspicion of killing his brother. It wasn’t all Mac’s idea. Back then he was a patrol officer who just did his job, but knowing that didn’t make the old caution go away. “Have you seen Morgan yet?”
Mac shook his head. “I just landed, but Morgan’s lawyer said he’ll talk to me. You’ve met him, this guy who claims to be Sammy. What do you think of him?”
It wasn’t funny, but Boyd couldn’t choke back the snort of laughter. He’d lain awake all night in his hastily booked hotel room and hadn’t been able to make his mind up about that.
“He’s not claiming anything,” Boyd said. “Just the opposite. He says it’s a mistake.”
“It has to be,” Mac agreed. “Fifteen years, Boyd. Maybe Donna can convince herself there’s hope, but we both know better.”
For most of the night, maybe 80 percent of it, that’s what Boyd told himself too. He wasn’t a cop, but he’d been called out to enough scenes to know the statistics. It was just that 20 percent he couldn’t quite let slip away.
“It happens,” he said. “Sometimes people are found. Others.”
Sympathy flashed over Mac’s face. “It happens,” he allowed. It was obvious he didn’t think it had this time, but he didn’t press the point. Maybe he could tell that Boyd couldn’t even convince himself. “I’m going in now to meet with Morgan’s lawyer and look over Bennett’s work. Do you want a lift?”
Boyd took a deep breath and shoved his hands back through his hair until he could lace his fingers together behind his head. He didn’t look at Mac. His attention was on the various cameras pointed their way.
“Did you know about Mr. Hill?” he asked. “Did he really work near here?”
Mac grimaced. “Nearby,” he said. “Thirty miles, for two months.”
Far enough to be an alibi? Or close enough to rouse suspicion? Boyd didn’t know anymore. He exhaled and dropped his hands to his side.
“I’d appreciate the lift.”
The cameraman jogged onto the road behind them and filmed the back of the car as they drove away.
BENNETT USED a chilled bottle of water as a makeshift eye mask. She looked tired, and there was a blotted-out stain that could have been blood or coffee on the collar of her blouse.
“Sergeant Lo won’t budge,” she said as she lowered the bottle. Despite the cold she’d applied, they still looked bloodshot and tired. “As is his right. He wants Morgan charged for resisting arrest and assaulting an officer. With Morgan’s record, that’s not going to go well, but it is possible that you might be able to talk to the judge, Captain Macintosh.”
“Mac, please. You don’t work for me,” Mac said.
Bennett smiled with a pleased curve of her lips and nodded. “Mac,” she said as she twisted the cap off her water and took a sip. “Heather.”
She was on the wrong track, but it wasn’t Boyd’s job to adjust her gaydar for her. He stuck his hands in his pockets and bounced on the balls of his feet with nervous energy.
“Did you get a chance to double-check the results the computer pulled out of CODIS?” he asked. “Is there any chance the match was a mistake?”
Bennett licked her lips and briefly looked Boyd up and down. “You a cop too, Mr. Maccabee?” she asked sardonically.
“Firefighter,” he said. The creak of a door made him glance around, but the man who marched into the courthouse between two guards was a sweaty, red-haired man with meth-chapped lips visible from a distance. Not Morgan. Not yet. “And I’m still trying to get in touch with the Calloways. If there was any possibility of a mistake, I want to know before I tell them there’s a chance Sammy is alive. Because that isn’t something that Donna Calloway will be able to come back from.”
“Sorry,” Bennett said after a beat. “I reran the results, and I double-checked them. The sample that Morgan gave us matches the sample the Cutter’s Gap PD logged fifteen years ago. It doesn’t mean it’s the truth, but the result wasn’t a computer error.”
The door creaked again. Boyd twisted around, and this time it was Morgan, his hands cuffed in front of him and a cop with a taped-up nose at his side. The pit of Boyd’s stomach twisted into the same weird knot of lust, guilt, and confusion as it had yesterday.
What sort of sick bastard looked at a man who was either a kidnapped child or a liar and felt their balls tighten with hunger?
Morgan glanced around as though he could sense eyes on him and met Boyd’s gaze for a second. His dark-blond hair was slicked back, and his handsome, heavy-boned face was set grimly. A muscle in his jaw jumped, clenched tightly under tanned skin and stubble, and he looked away again.
Boyd didn’t. He studied the strong profile, all cheekbone and jaw, and tried to map Sammy’s face onto it or find something that reminded him of Sammy in the way Morgan held his broad shoulders or scratched at his wrist. It was hard. As often as he’d tried to conjure a world where Sammy hadn’t been taken that day, he’d never really imagined a Sammy who’d changed.
He folded his lower lip between his teeth as he slid his gaze down to Morgan’s tight stomach and lean hips, and he’d certainly never entertained the idea that Sammy would be hot.
The admission, even in the privacy of his own head, made him squirm with embarrassment.
“Well?” Mac asked. “What do you think?”
Boyd dragged his eyes away from Morgan and turned back to the cops uncomfortably. They both looked at him with expectant, neutral faces, one of Mac’s eyebrows raised. Apparently they were focused on the actual important things, like who Morgan really was, and hadn’t noticed Boyd’s mind slide into the gutter.
“I….” His voice caught in his throat, and he paused to clear it. “I don’t know. I see it, and then I don’t. Half the time I’m trying to convince myself that he could be Sammy, and half the time I’m sure he’s not, and I’m looking for evidence of that. It works either way.”
Mac clapped a hand on his shoulder and squeezed.
“Go call Shay,” he said. “I need to talk to Bennett about how we can all get some clarity here.”
Boyd hesitated. He was ready to argue, but Mac’s cool stare and the pressure on his shoulder reminded him he didn’t have any actual right to be in this conversation. Childhood best friend was good enough as family for the press, but he didn’t have any official standing. Boyd backed down before Mac had to remind Bennett of that.
“I’ll try again,” he said. “If anything comes up, let me know.”
“Of course.”
Bennett stuck out her hand. Her palm was chilled from the water bottle when Boyd grasped it. “Thanks for coming,” she said. “We appreciate it. Hopefully we’ll have some answers for you and the family soon.”
That would be a change. It wasn’t her fault, though. It wasn’t anyone’s, except whoever stole a kid.
Boyd nodded and headed off in search of somewhere quiet to make a call. Or
seven. One of the court security guards helpfully directed him down a quiet corridor. Two social workers—after a while, you learned the look—and a lawyer were already tucked in down there, propped up against doorframes or seated on benches with case files on their knees.
A bench next to a half-dead palm provided enough privacy for Boyd’s call. He leaned back against the wall and sat through Shay’s voicemail message five more times until the chipper singsong blandness of the instruction to leave a message made him clench his jaw.
“Call me back before lunch,” he snapped at last. “Or I’ll assume you’re dead, and I’ll send Harry and Danni around to kick your door in. Asshole.”
One of the social workers frowned at him. Boyd grimaced an apology and tilted his head back against the smooth plastered wall as he took a deep breath. Part of him wanted to blurt out the facts and dump the whole situation on Shay’s plate for him to deal with. But he doubted Shay would listen all the way to the end of that message… or if he did, it would be from the bottom of a bottle.
“I need to talk to you,” he said instead. “This time it was something…. It isn’t something where I can fill in for you. Call me. I meant what I said about Harry.”
He hung up and leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees and hands wrapped loosely around his phone. The inside of his skull felt as though someone had crumpled up a ball of static and left it to rattle around in there.
Fifteen years, and he’d never really imagined Sammy grown up. After a couple of years, even as a kid, he understood that his friend was dead. That conviction took up a small, raw place in his brain. He didn’t know how to fit this new idea in there.
A finger poked his shoulder. He looked up at the lawyer, her papers tucked away in her briefcase, who pointed up to the clock on the wall.
“If you’re here for the bail hearing, it’s about to start,” she said. “Judge Gallen today.”
“Is that good or bad?” Boyd asked as he stood up.
The lawyer smiled thinly as she tucked her phone into a slim pocket on her skirt. “Could be worse. Could be better.” She shrugged. “It is what it is.”
THE HEARINGS had already started. Boyd slid into the room behind the lawyer and ducked his chin in quick apology as the clerk glared at him. He slid into an empty seat and slouched down as though that would placate the irritated man.
At the front of the room, a lawyer in a pale-blue suit rhymed off the reasons his client should be bailed on his own recognizance. “In addition to his family and friends, Mr.—” He paused to look at the paperwork on the table. “Blanchard has a new job. He has every reason to stay in the area and to clear his name against these charges.”
He fell silent. The only noise was the scritch of the judge’s pen as she made notes and the rustle and quiet stomach noises from the gallery. After a moment, Gallen, her gray-brown hair cut in a neat pixie cut around her ears, looked up with a flinty expression on her face.
“I assume his other family in… Nevada would have thought the same,” she said dryly. “Nice try, Mario.”
Mr. Blanchard did not get bail. Even he didn’t seem surprised.
Next up was Boyd’s prompt lawyer friend, with a wet-eyed woman at his elbow who breast-fed a baby as she listened to his plea for her. Boyd felt a wash of sympathy for her, but it faded as the charges against her were laid out. She’d driven drunk, killed two women, and injured a baby. Not the one at her breast.
She got bail, but nudged higher than expected, to judge by the lawyer’s protest.
Next up was a drug dealer. Then a shoplifter. Finally Morgan stood up. Even from the back, he looked—Sexy, a small voice muttered in the back of Boyd’s head—defiant. There was a mute “fuck you” in the way he stood, the way he tilted his chin. The woman who stepped up next to him cleared her throat.
“Your Honor,” she said. “I believe you’ve already been informed that there are some special circumstances around this case?”
The clerk leaned in to direct Gallen’s attention to something in a file. She looked it over, raised her perfectly plucked brows, and nodded. “That’s certainly a new one on me,” she remarked. “So, Mr. Graves, do you substantiate this claim?”
The lawyer cleared her throat. “My client isn’t sure,” she said. “The DNA evidence, however, speaks for itself.”
“Not your usual stance, Ms. Hagen,” Gallen said dryly. “Nor am I convinced that this information is relevant to—”
Mac stood up. “Your Honor,” he said. “I’m Captain Macintosh. You have some of my files there, I believe. May I approach?”
Gallen looked at him for a second, her lips pursed, and crooked a finger to bring him forward. Ms. Hagen hurried forward too, so they reached the bench at the same time. It was a terse, soft-voiced exchange of words that didn’t carry. Boyd leaned forward as though a couple of inches would make any difference in whether he could hear it or not.
“Fine,” Gallen said abruptly as she sat back in her chair. She straightened her robes and ignored the cop and the lawyer in front of her until they retreated to their respective sides of the room. “Mr. Graves. In light of the information that I have here, it’s clear that there is a compelling case for you to accompany Captain Macintosh back to Cutter’s Gap. However, the case against you with respect to Sergeant Lo’s injuries is also compelling. No matter what Captain Macintosh uncovers in relation to your recent discovery, you did assault a police officer in commission of his duties.”
“Overzealous commission, Your Honor,” Hagen blurted. “My client was being arrested for an as yet unproven crime that was committed against him.”
Gallen gestured her acceptance. “There are avenues for him to pursue that complaint, Ms. Hagen, but none of them involve headbutting the arresting officer. Bail is set at fifteen thousand dollars, with the understanding that Mr. Graves will be under Captain Macintosh’s supervision.”
She gave the desk a pro forma tap with her gavel.
Morgan’s snort was a low, almost satisfied sound as he shrugged.
“Judge Gallen,” Mac protested as he bolted back to his feet. “How am I meant to carry out this investigation—”
“My client is not able to make that sort of—”
This time Gallen banged the gavel sharply on the desk. “Enough,” she snapped into the jarred silence. “I believe I made it clear that I appreciate both of your stances on this. That is why the bail is only set at fifteen thousand dollars, despite his assault on a member of the police force.”
Hagen protested, “That is still an unreasonable amount, considering that my client’s marginal lifestyle could easily be read as a direct result of—”
Boyd stood up. “I’ll pay it,” he said. Somewhere down in Key West, he imagined his mother had just woken up in a cold, fiscally responsible sweat. He flushed as Gallen narrowed her eyes at him but squared his shoulders. “I’ll cover Morgan’s bail.”
“Appreciated, whoever you are,” Gallen said. “But not exactly necessary to announce in open court.”
The sardonic bite to her voice deflated Boyd. That should have been obvious, he supposed, but he hadn’t stopped to think about how the process actually worked. He’d just blurted out what was on his mind.
“However, I assume that settles your objections, Ms. Hagen?” Gallen continued as she leaned forward to raise an eyebrow at Hagen.
It took a moment, but Hagen finally nodded. “It’s acceptable,” she said stiffly.
“My day is made,” Gallen said. “Next.”
The nervous young man in question muttered urgently to his lawyer as they stood up. While they stammered through a decision not to appeal a speeding ticket, Mac, Hagen, and Morgan turned to glare at Boyd. A slight dip of the chin from Hagen registered her gratitude. The other two just looked pissed at him.
Boyd awkwardly sank back into his chair. Maybe this was a bad idea. For a start, he had no idea where he was going to find fifteen grand.
Chapter Four
WALLET. KEYS. Po
cket knife. Three condoms, fingered by the guard and handed over with a smirk.
Morgan didn’t react. He didn’t give a fuck what some flunked-out cop relegated to a plexiglass box in this fart-sour hole thought. Of the two of them, it was Morgan who got to walk outside, and he certainly didn’t plan to ever come back.
He shoved his property into the pockets of his jeans and followed the signs that directed him toward the exit. The soles of his sneakers squeaked against the freshly scrubbed linoleum as he walked, but the heavy application of bleach and soap didn’t do much to banish the smell of old puke and too many bodies.
Morgan wasn’t entirely surprised when he saw Lo in front of the exit, white bandage stark where it folded over his nose. Someone like Lo was used to getting their due whenever something happened to them—workman’s comp if they got whiplash in a car chase, free drinks at the bar if they had a bad case, payback if someone broke their nose—even if they deserved it.
“It was my anniversary last night,” Lo said once Morgan was within range. His voice was flattened, almost comical, as he tried to drag an angry tone out of his swollen face. “You think my wife was happy when I turned up at the restaurant looking like this?”
Morgan laughed at him. “Gotta tell you, Sergeant Lo,” he said. “I kind of just assume your wife’s not happy. I mean, she’s married to you.”
A ruddy flush crawled over Lo’s wide cheekbones. He took a step forward and leaned in to Morgan.
“I don’t give a fuck who these people think you are,” he said. “I know who you are. You’re a thug, a petty thief, and a waste of the money the foster-care system spent to drag you up. Sooner or later, Morgan, you’ll end up back. A little older and a little uglier every time. Until pretty boys don’t want to bail you out.”
