by Lynda Bailey
The car veered again. “Are you fucking kidding me? The license plates numbers? That’s good work, Callan. Damn good work.”
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…
*
Though 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.
Chapter Eighteen
STRETCHED OUT ON the hotel bed, clad only in a towel, the 44 Remington by his side, Lynch flipped through the late night TV channels.
Newman had dropped him at the hotel around one that afternoon—with instructions to sit tight until morning—and Lynch called his mom…as promised. She’d been more pissed about Hez staying with her than about Lynch being gone. But she finally, and thankfully, accepted both.
Despite knowing his mom was safe, he was wound tighter than a rice rocket hyped up on NOS fuel because try as he might, he couldn’t get what happened with Shasta out of his head. Her taste and smell. The way her body had reacted to him. Those little moans of hers…
His dick tented the towel. Again. Shit. He needed another shower.
He realized it was madness to dwell on that event, but he felt powerless to stop himself. He feared if he stopped thinking about it, he’d lose the memory—and he couldn’t allow that. He would need every second of those glorious moments to keep him company in the endless years to come…since he wasn’t staying in Stardust.
Sitting alone in the hotel room had given Lynch the time and perspective to come to an important decision. Once this shit-whole investigation mess with the Streeters and the FBI was done, and providing he wasn’t dead or back in prison, he’d take his mom and leave Stardust. Start over someplace new. He had to. For his sanity. But, more importantly, for Shasta.
She was married, had a kid and definitely didn’t need him being as a constant reminder of their past. She deserved better. Better than him.
Frustrated, and still horny, he switched off the television then
the nightstand lamp. He rolled onto his side, determined to ignore his aching erection. At the rate he was masturbating, he’d probably peel the skin off his dick. He wrapped his hand around the handle of the gun and closed his eyes, only to have Shasta’s beautiful image float behind his lids…
In prison, Lynch never allowed himself to fall into a deep sleep. That was a sure-fire prescription for disaster. But after just a few weeks out, he’d gotten soft. He didn’t hear anything until his door clicked open.
He tightened his grip on the magnum and rolled out of bed, away from the door. Thank God he’d latched the security lock because it gave him just enough time to scuttle across the room and behind the floor-to-ceiling oak bureau before whoever was outside his room kicked their way inside.
Rapid muzzle flash from automatic weapons joined the intense hallway light streaming into the darkened room. Bullets annihilated the space on the bed where Lynch had been a nanosecond earlier.
He cautiously peered around the dresser and made out two shooters standing in the doorway. Balancing his arm against the wood edge, he fired.
Christ…Newman hadn’t lied about the recoil as his arm wrenched upwards. He crouched low as bullets pelted his barricade. Bits of wood embedded in his arms, legs and face. Without looking, he pointed his gun at the intruders and fired, emptying the barrel.
An eerie silence followed, then Lynch heard muffled, fading footsteps like someone running on carpet. He chanced another look at the door to see a body on the floor. With care, he stood and crossed to the unmoving form. His mind whirled.
Newman had said no one would know where he was staying. So how the hell did these guys find him?
Frantic shouts and fast approaching sirens jarred him into action. He tossed the gun on the bed, grabbed his jeans from the nearby chair and pulled out his phone. He hit speed dial number one, praying Jarvis was back in Reno because there was no way he’d call Newman.
As the phone rang, he stuffed his legs into his denims. Her voicemail message answered.
Fuck.
He left a cryptic message saying where he was and that she’d better get here ASAP then hung up. He could only hope to God she arrived before he landed in jail, this time with the key thrown away.
