by Lynda Bailey
“I’m not having an affair.”
“I appreciate you saying that, but if you were to have a tryst, I know you’d be extraordinarily discreet. But to sleep with a dangerous man like Lynch Callan—”
“I did not sleep with him,” she asserted firmly. “I’m not sleeping with anyone. I really wish Adam hadn’t said anything to you because I’m fine. Lynch didn’t hurt me. And I’ve learned my lesson not to go out alone until the whole new trial thing is settled. Can we please not talk about this anymore? Today has been upsetting enough with Todd’s funeral.”
“Of course, honey…I’m sorry.”
He offered her his hand, palm open. She immediately twined her fingers with his.
He brought her hand to his mouth, kissed the back of it then rested it on the arm of his wheelchair. “We could still come back to Reno for lunch tomorrow, if you want.”
“If it’s all right with you, I think I’d rather stay home. Maybe we could keep Wyatt home too. Just have a family day. How does that sound?”
His smile looked more relaxed. “Perfect.”
Chapter Nineteen
BLOOD POUNDS BEHIND my eyeballs.
“No, you imbecile,” I snarl into the phone. “All the vans have been compromised. You need to get a new vehicle for this delivery…I don’t care. Something that’ll accommodate the shipment…Spare me your opinion and just do as I say. I want that shipment on its way here as soon as possible, understand? Good.”
I hang up then pause to rub the pressure at my temples. For a moment, I fear I’m about to have a stroke—just like my doctor predicted. But the tension eases and I inhale a deep breath. Now that transportation for the shipment has been dealt with, I can move on to the next thing.
I slip the small cassette cartridge into the manila envelope, seal the flap and scrawl the address across the front with my left hand. At this point I can’t allow something as pedestrian as my handwriting being recognized to railroad my plans.
This consignment of girls is the biggest yet—over two dozen with most of them cherries. Hopefully that will lessen the blow when I tell Fuentes I’m quitting. To be honest, the Columbian has become a demanding diva, making me glad this is my last deal with him. And the payout will be quite substantial. Combined with the money I’ve already stashed in a Cayman account, there’ll be more than enough for me to disappear. With Shasta, of course.
I’ve got the ideal getaway place picked out, too. A small isle that’s part of the Marshall Islands in the South Pacific. Nothing but sun, sand and Shasta for the rest of my life.
Thinking about my future puts a smile on my face. I stand, envelope in hand and sauntered into the warehouse.
The sound of flesh hitting flesh accompanies the echoing click of my heels while I stroll across the concrete floor. I savor the sight before me. Suspended between two columns by piano wires wrapped around his wrists, Junkyard’s feet dangle just inches from the substantial pool of his blood. A shirtless and sweating Bowyer lands another punch to Junkyard’s blackened midsection using weighted gloves. The soon-to-be-former Streeter VP doesn’t react. As I approach, Bowyer steps back.
I bend forward and peer into Junkyard’s distorted face. His eyes are so swollen, I can’t be sure he’s conscious. It wasn’t like I didn’t warn him of the consequences should he fail me. And fail me he did. More than once.
First he tried to hurt the love of my life, then he fails to eliminate Callan. But to repeatedly use the same license plates on those vans? Epic disappointment. And I hate to be disappointed.
I pick up the cattle prod from the nearby table and zap Junkyard in the ribcage. His head lolls up with a hoarse moan. He doesn’t even try to shift from the painful current.
“Ah, good. You’re awake.” I replace the instrument then turn to Bowyer. “Take him back to Stardust, finish him off and bury him somewhere outside of town that’ll be easy to find.”
“Puheeze,” Junkyard mumbles through bloated, chapped lips. “On’t ill me.”
I cluck my tongue. “So pathetic…begging for your life. But you’ve been a constant disappointment to me, dear boy. Perhaps it’s my fault for having been so lenient. But no longer. I can’t afford any more mistakes. It’s time for you to go.”
Junkyard feebly shakes his head. “Nooo…”
“Don’t despair,” I tell him. “Your death won’t be in vain. In fact, it should ultimately lead to my victory.”
I nod to Bowyer who punches Junkyard in the face, knocking him out cold. I grab a clean towel and wipe my hands. “Once you’ve disposed of the body, wait a couple of days then report him missing.” I toss the towel back on the table. “In the meantime, pick up Rolo Pruett’s daughters and bring them and their father here. The Streeter president needs a lesson about the dangers of crossing me. Lastly, find Callan.”
“How? No one’s seen him in days.”
“Use your imagination. Bribe every cop in Northern Nevada. Use his mother as leverage. Just find him.”
“Want me to take care of him when I do?”
“No. He needs to suffer before I personally put a bullet in his brain. Oh, and mail this from anywhere in Stardust.” I hand him the envelope.
“What’s this?”
“The beginning of the end for Lynch Callan.”
Chapter Twenty
LYNCH DESPISED HIDING. When playing hide and seek as a kid, he always insisted on being “it” because he loathed the hiding part. For him hiding translated into cowardice.
Yet for six days, six long fucking days, he’d been locked in a hotel room with Jarvis…hiding. He’d rather cut off his left nut—with a rusty knife.
But as bad as hiding was, not being able to leave the room proved worse. Even in prison he’d had the freedom to go to the yard for some exercise. Not here. Not safe, or so he was told…repeatedly.
Good thing the room was slightly bigger than average. It permitted him to set up a small workout station between the two queen beds where he could do jumping jacks or squat thrusts along with various pushups and sit ups. Jarvis didn’t seem to mind his activity as she kept herself sequestered to her bed and the small table next to the window, piled high with papers as well as her computer.
She had some new high-tech hotspot gadget which allowed for a secure internet connection so she could work. It also gave him the opportunity to talk to his mom each night. All-in-all, Lynch really couldn’t complain too much about the situation, but he still wasn’t happy.
He just finished his fourth set of tricep pushups when Jarvis slapped her laptop closed.
“Goddamn it.”
He scooted his butt onto his bed. “Problem counselor?”
She glared at him. “Yes. Finding those stolen passenger vans is taking forever.”
He wiped his sweaty face with a towel. “Even with the plate numbers?”
“Even with the plate numbers.”
“Maybe you can’t find them because they’re not being used.”
“No such luck.” She tapped a stack of folders. “At least two dozen girls have been reported missing from the northwest in just the past month.”
Lynch whistled low. “Two dozen?”
“Yeah. And the clock is ticking for them.” She reopened her laptop and went back to typing.
He studied her as she adjusted her glasses and squinted at the screen. With her hair slicked back from her shower and dressed in a t-shirt and Capri pants, she looked more like a college student than a federal agent. Except for the gun holster hooked to her waistband.
“Maybe you should take a break,” he suggested.
“Maybe,” she responded as she switched her focus to an open folder.
“Newman should be here soon with some lunch, right?”
“Uh huh.”
Shaking his head, Lynch went back to the floor for one last set of pushups then he’d jump in the shower. He’d say this about the two federal agents…they kept their word.
Somehow, and Lynch had no idea how, Newman managed to
get rid of the local cops from the night of the botched assassination attempt as well as procure a room at the Flamingo Star under yet another false name. And Jarvis had said she wouldn’t leave his side, and she hadn’t.
A knock thudded on the door.
Lynch and Jarvis vaulted to their feet. Gun in hand, she motioned him into the bathroom. He rolled his eyes, but complied knowing the futility of arguing. If they’d been discovered, being in the bathroom would do no good.
He peered through the cracked door. Jarvis checked the peephole, unbolted the lock and turned the knob. She stepped back, her gun still raised, as Newman came inside. Only after the deadbolt had been resecured, did she lower her weapon.
“Clear. You can come out.”
Lynch existed the bathroom, noting Newman’s empty hands and the agent’s grim expression. “Something happen?”
“Yeah.” Newman rubbed the back of his neck. “There’s been another murder.”
Lynch’s gut contracted. “Who?”
“Junkyard Taylor.”
“Taylor?” Jarvis sounded as shocked as Lynch felt. “When?”
“The body was discovered in a shallow grave yesterday afternoon on the north side of Stardust. And he was tortured—by someone who knew what they were doing. The ME put time of death at sometime late Wednesday night.”
Jarvis holstered her weapon. “Wednesday? That’s four days ago.”
Newman nodded. “I know.”
“Why the hell did it take so long for you to get that information?”
“That I don’t know, but that’s not the real interesting part.”
“Oh?” Jarvis smirked. “And what’s the interesting part?”
“A cassette recording showed up in Sheriff Albright’s mail on Thursday.” He leveled his gaze on Lynch. “A recording that has you threatening Taylor.”
An icy blast hit Lynch’s stomach. “Me?”
“Him?” Jarvis moved stand beside Lynch. “That’s not possible. He’s been with me.”
Newman nodded. “Again, I know. But listen to this.” He extracted his cell, pressed a button and held it up.
Lynch immediately recognized Rolo’s voice—and the last conversation he’d had with the president. “Don’t worry about Junkyard.” Lynch heard himself say. “If it’s the last thing I ever do, I’ll put him in the ground. Permanently.”
Newman clicked off the phone.
“That’s hardly a smoking gun,” Jarvis stated.
“True, but with this evidence, the search for Callan has quadrupled.” Newman sighed. “And to top it off, Albright’s scheduled a press conference for tomorrow afternoon, where he plans to name Callan as a person of interest in Taylor’s murder.”
“Shit,” Jarvis muttered. “That’ll make things messy. You said the cassette was mailed. Forensics get anything off the envelope?”
“Nope. And before you ask, the postmark said it was mailed from the post office in Stardust. So that’s a dead end.”
Jarvis smirked. “You’re just full of good news today, aren’t you? Did you at least have something new on Murphy?”
Newman shook his head. “The guy hasn’t put so much as a toenail out of place. And his financials are squeaky clean.” He took out a small notebook from his pocket and flipped through the pages. “He’s divorced with no kids. Makes sixty-eight thousand a year, has a mortgage, two car payments and owes thirty-five hundred on his Visa card.” He closed the book. “Like I said squeaky clean.”
Jarvis paced to the window, her head bowed and arms crossed. “Shit, shit, shit…”
“Got any ideas?” Newman asked.
Lynch sat on the bed. “Um, I hate to be the one to point this out, but the cops coming after me isn’t the worst thing about that recording.”
Jarvis turned to look at him. “What are you talking about?”
“That conversation with Rolo was also when he told me about the plate numbers. So if the cops know I threatened Junkyard…”
Her eyes slammed shut. “Then whoever sent that tape probably knows Pruett spilled about the plates. Shit.” She went back to the table. “No wonder we weren’t able to locate those vans. Goddamn it.”
“But all might not be lost, counselor.”
Jarvis snapped her gaze to Lynch. “What the hell do you mean?”
“It means that whoever has those girls will now hafta find another means of transportation. And fast. They’ll be improvising which should make them careless.” Lynch nudged his chin to her computer. “Use your agency voodoo to do a search on recently stolen vehicles. Everything from passenger vans to SUVs to semi trucks.”
Jarvis shook her head. “Using my agency connections will compromise this op.”
“It’s already been compromised. Doing this secret agent shit hasn’t worked. Murphy, Blackwell or whoever’s behind this, has been one step ahead of us the entire time.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“That we go straight at the fucker.”
She snorted a laugh. “Go straight at him? How?”
“Use me.”
“Come again?”
“You use me,” Lynch repeated. “March me into Albright’s office and tell the good sheriff I’ve been working with you all along. Come clean about everything. With you vouching for me, that should clear me of any murder charges.”
“Then what?” Newman asked.
“Hopefully it’ll cause a shit storm with everyone trying to deal with me which might give you the chance to find the girls.”
“You’re taking a huge risk, you know that, right?” Jarvis asked. “There’s no way we’ll be able to keep that kind of news under wraps. Your involvement with the agency will come out and you’ll most likely end up with a bullet in the head. Courtesy of one of the Streeters.”
“Maybe, maybe not. The only reason this scheme has worked this far is because none of my brothers knew the truth. Once they know the facts, they’ll be on my side.”
“Another gamble.”
“One I’m willing to take.” Lynch stood. “Besides, I’m sick of hiding like a rat in a trap. If it’s my time to go, then I want to face it. Head on.”
Jarvis looked at Newman. “Whatcha think?”
The agent brushed his hand over his buzzed hair. “I think it’s dicey as hell, but I don’t see an alternative.”
“Me neither,” Jarvis conceded. She glowered at Lynch. “All right, Callan, we’ll do it your way. But God help us—and you—if this plan goes south.”
“Look at it this way, counselor, could things get worse?”
*
Shasta leaned into the backseat to release Wyatt’s seatbelt. The first grader banged open the door, but she snagged his arm. “Nah, uh, young man.” She slipped the strap of his backpack over her wrist, closed the door and hit the lock.
“But Mom…I want to see Uncle Dell.”
“And you will.” With a firm grip on her son’s hand, she ushered him up the sidewalk. “But it’s like I told you this morning, Uncle Dell is very busy so you will not run around like a crazy person. You’ll sit quietly at my desk and not bug him or anyone else. You read me?”
“Aw, Mom.” He tugged at his hand.
“Don’t ‘aw Mom’ me.” She pulled to a stop and bent down, giving Wyatt her best stink eye. “If you don’t behave, I’ll have Mrs. Hinckley watch you for the rest of the week. You want that?”
Wyatt’s mouth flattened into a mulish line, but shook his head.
Shasta stood. “I didn’t think so. C’mon…I’ll get you a glass of lemonade.” She started walking again, Wyatt compliant by her side.
Ah the joys of conference week when kids got dismissed early from school with more bottled-up energy than they—or their parents—knew how to handle. And today was just the first day of early release…
Under normal circumstances, it wouldn’t be an issue for Wyatt to hang out at the stationhouse in the afternoons. But these circumstances were far from normal.
The investigation into
Todd’s murder continued at full throttle. Though the local police and sheriff deputies had returned to their regular duties, the conference room still overflowed with the half dozen FBI agents assigned to the case. The last thing anyone needed, especially Shasta, was for her darling son to be a royal pain to the men and woman searching for the murderer.
Approaching the front entrance, Wyatt gave a hard yank of his hand, and broke free.
With a devilish grin, he sprinted to the door. “Race ya, Mom.”
“Wyatt—no…”
Shasta hurried after him, entering the building in time to see Wyatt bulldoze into a pair of jean-clad legs. The resulting impact bounced the six-year-old back into her.
“Oh my gosh,” she gushed. She juggled the backpack while recapturing Wyatt’s wrist. “I’m so sorry about that. Wyatt, apologize to the…”
Her voice trailed off when she stared at the man Wyatt rammed into.
Lynch. His gaze darkened as it swept over her face and ever-so-quickly down her body…
Confusion froze her brain, and her thoughts. What on earth was he doing here? Dressed in a chest-molding, white t-shirt and low-slung jeans, he held his cut in his right hand. Did he not think someone would recognize him?
Her pulse rate zoomed and her breathing quickened. She clutched the short sleeve of his shirt, glancing quickly around the squad room. Any second someone would spot him and slap cuffs on him. “What are you doing here?”
“Mrs. Dupree?”
Shasta dropped her hand and spun toward the female voice. Lynch’s lawyer strolled up. “Oh…um…Ms. Jarvis.”
“Actually it’s Special Agent Jarvis. I’m with the FBI.”
Air choked Shasta’s throat. “The FBI?”
“Yes ma’am. Mr. Callan has been assisting me and Special Agent Newman,” she pointed to the man beside her who’d left with Lynch the morning after the discovery of Todd’s body, “in an investigation.”
Bewildered, Shasta looked back at Lynch, noting his relaxed stance, his left thumb hooked in his belt loop. “An investigation?”
He winked as a small, crooked grin lifted the corners of his mouth.
Wyatt turned his gaze up to Shasta. “Mom…what’s a vestigation?”
