A loud buzzer sounded soon after we were seated, and I turned my gaze eagerly toward the door that led to the cells. It slid open, and I gasped audibly as Mickey was led into the room. He wore an orange jumpsuit that practically swallowed him whole, which was bizarre given his broad frame. His brown hair lacked its usual luster, hanging in limp, greasy tangles around his face. Mickey's hands were cuffed in front of him, and there were several long scratches marring his arms and neck. He was also sporting a horrific-looking black eye.
"Jeez," Bronwyn murmured from beside me. "Didn't take long for him to get his ass kicked." I nodded, turning my head away as I tried to regain my composure. My heart hurt to look at him like this.
Two officers pulled Mickey along toward the chair on the opposite side of the Plexiglas in our visitor's stall. He sat down and held up his hands as if waiting to have his handcuffs unlocked. The officer to his right shook his head, and Mickey heaved a resigned sigh. He slowly raised his gaze to mine, and there was such pain and fear in his brown eyes that I almost had to look away again.
"What happened to you?" Bronwyn blurted from beside me, and I scowled at her. Bron's nothing if not blunt.
I picked up the phone attached to our side of the stall, thankful Mickey hadn't been able to hear her. Mickey raised his cuffed hands and lifted the corresponding phone to his ear. "Are you all right?" I asked.
"Been better," he mumbled. He looked down at the scratches on his arms, and his pale cheeks colored. "Had a run-in with a guy who wasn't a Royal Flush fan. Said we were just Incubus-wannabes." A faint smile curled his lips. "In hindsight, I probably shouldn't have made that quip about his mother being one of our groupies."
"Always gotta have the last word." My own lips twitched upward before settling back into a frown. "Look, I'm sorry about before. Running from you, I mean. I was scared."
Mickey shrugged. "It's okay—I don't blame you. The whole scene must have made me look pretty guilty. I just wish I knew what really happened." He licked his lips.
"Tell me everything you remember about Saturday night." I gestured to Bronwyn, who leaned toward the phone's receiver so she could hear as well. "We want to help, but we need to know everything that happened."
Mickey's eyes misted. "That means a lot," he said, meeting my gaze. "I knew I could count on you."
Don't thank me yet, I thought, picturing Mickey's bloody pocketknife. "Tell us everything you can remember."
Mickey leaned back in his chair, the phone pinned between his ear and shoulder. "I left the hotel with the rest of the band," he began. He squinted toward the ceiling as he called forth his memory of the night before. "Sid wasn't with us. The last time anyone saw him before Sunday morning was when he stormed out after the meet and greet. Ginger chased him, but she said he was already pulling away in a cab by the time she caught up to him." He blew out a breath, and his face pinched in concentration. "We were all pretty beat after the show, so Chad and I called it a night relatively early, around one-thirty in the morning. I was just about to fall asleep when my phone dinged. It was a text from Sid, saying that he wanted to meet up. He said he wanted to apologize for earlier but wasn't ready to face the rest of the band yet. He asked if I knew somewhere private we could meet. Most of the bars would be closing soon, so I suggested the tour bus."
I arched a brow, and my mouth twisted. "So, Sid's the one who lured you away from the hotel."
Mickey nodded. "Maybe he really did want to clear the air—or maybe someone else had his phone and wanted to set me up. At the time, I assumed he was going to apologize for hitting you and ask to be let back into the band. I replied that I was on my way, got dressed, and then called a cab."
"Why do you think someone other than Sid might have sent the text?" Bronwyn asked. "He could have really wanted to meet with you, and then someone else showed up and killed him," she guessed.
Mickey grimaced. "This is where it gets really weird. When I insisted they check my phone for the text from Sid, it was gone. Someone must have taken my phone while I was unconscious on the bus and deleted his part of the conversation. All they found was a message from me, asking Sid to meet me on the bus."
"So it looks like you lured him there," Bronwyn said.
I drummed my nails on the counter as I processed this news. I wanted to believe him, but the knife…
"I've got to ask you something," I said, sitting up in my seat and leaning toward the Plexiglas. I lowered my voice and fixed Mickey with a serious gaze. "Do you remember the present I gave you for our one-year anniversary?" I asked. Mickey opened his mouth to reply but I held up a hand. "Don't," I mouthed quickly, afraid the police might be listening or recording our conversation. I screwed my eyes upward as I racked my brain for another word to replace knife. "The pocket watch." I put emphasis on the word watch and gave Mickey a pointed look. "Do you still have that pocket watch?"
Mickey studied my expression for a moment then nodded, his own features pinched. "Uh, yeah. Of course I do. I've kept every gift you ever gave me. They're all I have left of us." He dropped his gaze to the floor. "Why do you ask?"
"Well," I began, feeling heartsick again for a different reason. "Would anyone know where to find that watch without you knowing they'd taken it?" I swallowed. "I think it may have been used to…er…tell Sid that time was up."
Mickey stared at me. His eyes widened, and his jaw went slack. "Son of a bitch," he murmured. He sat up straight again. "Someone stole my pocket—" he saw the panicked look on my face and caught himself. "—watch?" He groaned. "No wonder I'm stuck in here. Of course they think I did it. That thing's got my prints—and my name—all over it." Mickey slumped down in his chair again.
I blew out a shaky breath. "So, you had it on you that night?"
"Of course I did," he said unhappily. "I took it everywhere. It would've been in the back right pocket of my jeans. I didn't check them when I left the hotel to meet Sid, but I'd pulled on the same pair I wore to the show, so it would've still been there."
Unless someone slipped it out without him noticing. I opened my mouth to continue my questioning but was interrupted by the sound of a buzzer. The door behind Mickey slid open again, and the guards that had escorted him in reappeared. "Time's up, Ward," called the shorter of the two, a stern-looking man with graying brown hair.
"You've got to believe me, Ame," Mickey said in an urgent whisper. "I know it looks bad, but I'm being set up." His desperate brown eyes burned into mine.
"Do you trust me?" I whispered back.
Mickey nodded, his face softening. "Always."
"Then hang in there. I'll do what I can to find out what really happened."
A ghost of Mickey's old boyish grin flickered across his face. "I knew you wouldn't give up on me," he said. The two officers stepped forward then, one grabbing the phone from Mickey's hand and hanging it up while the other gripped his shoulders and pulled him to his feet. Mickey cast one last glance at me over his shoulder as he disappeared through the doorway leading back to his cell.
I slumped in the uncomfortable aluminum chair, the phone still in my hand. My palm felt sweaty from gripping the receiver so tightly, and my head swam with muddled thoughts. "Let's get out of here," I said glumly. I placed the phone back on its hook.
* * *
"That was a waste of time," I muttered as I pulled the car onto I-75.
Bronwyn gave me a sidelong glance from the passenger seat. "How so?"
I inhaled slowly and pushed it out then reached down to fiddle with the AC. "Nothing Mickey told us proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that he didn't kill Sid," I said. "He claims Sid texted him first to lure him out, but that conversation is missing from his phone. He thinks someone could've stolen his, er, pocket watch without him realizing it, but there's no proof that he's not the one who—"
"All right, cut the pocket watch crap," Bronwyn cut in. "We're not at the station anymore. You can tell me what you really meant to say." I arched a brow at her, and she added, "Come on, I'm your snarky s
idekick, remember? We don't keep secrets." Her lips parted, and she flashed me a toothy grin.
I turned my attention back to the lunch rush-hour traffic that crawled down the interstate in front of me. I know I can trust her, I thought, weighing my options. But she is the Sarge's daughter. "This doesn't leave this car, okay?" I briefly met her gaze. "I mean it. Don't tell Reese, Kat—anyone. The fewer people involved, the better."
"Cross my heart," Bron said, tracing an X over her chest with her index finger. She turned in her seat to face me, her green eyes bright. "So, spill! What awesome clue did you find?"
I rolled my eyes. "It's not awesome," I said. "In fact, it could potentially keep Mickey behind bars." As we pulled to a stop in the stand-still traffic, I turned down the radio and looked at her. "Okay, here goes. Full disclosure—I think I found the murder weapon."
Bronwyn's eyebrows shot up. "What was it?"
I gulped. "It was Mickey's pocketknife—I gave it to him as an anniversary gift in college. Has his initials engraved on it and everything."
Bron's lips formed a surprised-looking O. "That's not good," she agreed, slumping in her seat. "Where did you find it?"
"Near Castle Rock, in the bushes under the overpass."
"What were you doing in the bushes?" Bronwyn furrowed her brow.
"Don't ask. Anyway, if I tell the cops where it is, they'll find Mickey's prints all over it."
"True," Bronwyn agreed. "But what if they also find a separate set of prints? That would mean that the killer stole the knife from Mickey and then hid it after he used it to stab Sid."
"Yeah, but…" I let out a shaky breath just before my real worries came tumbling out of my mouth. "What if they don't find someone else's prints on the knife? What if Mickey did kill Sid and then hid the weapon?"
"Do you really believe that's what happened?"
"No—I don't know. I guess I'm afraid to find out that a man I almost married could be capable of cold-blooded murder."
"You still really care about him," Bronwyn said, her tone matter-of-fact.
I nodded. "Yeah, I guess I really do. More than I realized."
"Then we need to turn in that knife," she said. "If Mickey did kill Sid, then there must be something wrong with him to drive him to that kind of violence. He needs help. And if he didn't do it, the other prints on that knife could be his ticket to freedom."
I nodded. "You're wise beyond your years, kid." I reached over and gave her shoulder a light squeeze.
"Don't I know it?" she replied, grinning. "So, where is the knife now?"
"Right where I found it. I didn't want to move it in case I got up the nerve to call Detective Dixon. The last thing I need is for him to throw me back in jail for tampering with evidence or something."
"Well." Bron glanced up at the sky. "If we don't go grab it now, there may not be evidence to tamper with."
I followed her gaze, and my heart sank. Dark storm clouds were gathering high above the city skyline. Sudden thunder rumbled in warning, making us both jump in our seats. If the rain hit before we reached Castle Rock, it would wash off the dried blood and prints on Mickey's knife—along with any chance of proving his innocence. I glanced anxiously from the rain clouds back to the snarled traffic in front of us. I-75 looked more like a parking lot than a road. "We've gotta get off the highway," I said feeling anxiety pull my chest tight.
"Hop into the carpool lane," Bronwyn suggested. "It's moving kinda slow, but it'll get us past the worst of the traffic, and then we can take the next exit onto 10th Street."
I put on my blinker and crept my car over into the next lane, angering the driver of the red Volvo that I cut off in the process. Ten minutes and two more pissed-off drivers later, I'd managed to navigate my Jetta through the sea of brake lights and into the carpool lane. We inched forward at a marginally faster pace, my heart thumping loudly with each second that passed as the storm rolled closer. The first few drops of rain splattered against my windshield just as we reached the 10th Street exit ramp. I turned onto 10th and gunned the Jetta's gas pedal, weaving my way around other cars and rocketing through Midtown as fast as the speed limit and traffic lights would allow.
"I wish I had my dad's extra dome light," Bron said, eagerly leaning forward in her seat as we squealed onto North Avenue. I hit the brakes when we caught a red light, and she bounced in her seat, nearly bumping her head on the ceiling.
"We may be too late," I said, feeling sick. The rain was falling steadily now. Why hadn't I grabbed the stupid knife when I found it? If the evidence washed away and Mickey was wrongly convicted, it would be my fault. I couldn't let that happen. Clenching my jaw, I floored the gas as soon as the traffic light turned green. My Jetta sprang forward and hit a slick patch of pavement, causing the car to skid. Bron and I both shrieked as the back of the vehicle fishtailed. I regained control within a few seconds, and we continued up the hill toward Castle Rock.
"We won't be able to help Mickey if we die in a fiery car crash," Bronwyn muttered. "Jeez, Ame. You drive worse than I do."
I shot her a dark look and continued up the hill. Castle Rock came into view, and the overpass soon after. Pulling onto the gravel in front of the venue, I threw the car into park, and Bronwyn and I tumbled out. We sprinted down the sidewalk through the rain, sidestepping the waterlogged flowers and candles that fans had placed there as tributes to Sid. "Wait," I panted, coming to a halt as we reached the Belt Line overpass.
Bronwyn blinked at me, her own chest heaving. "What?" she asked breathlessly.
"If I move the knife now, it's still tampering with evidence." And what do we say to Dixon? He'll want to know why we were traipsing around in the bushes in the first place."
Bronwyn leaned down, placing her hands on her knees as she caught her breath. "I've got it," she said finally. She reached up and removed one of her silver skull-and-cross-bones earrings. "You and I were out for a walk when all of a sudden—oops!" She flung her earring into the bushes and grinned at me. "It looks like my earring rolled into the bushes. Better go find it."
"Genius." I smiled back at her. Bronwyn stalked into the shrubbery and stooped down, disappearing in a pile of leaves and branches. "A little farther left," I called when she popped her head above the shrubs. I pointed to the spot where I'd crouched to hide from Tim Scott and the other reporters.
"I don't see anything," she called, and my stomach did a flip-flop.
"Are you sure?" I waded into the brush after her. I got down on my hands and knees and moved the branches aside, my eyes scanning the damp dirt. The used condom and the hypodermic needle were still there—this had to be the right spot. There was no sign of Mickey's knife or the plastic Royal Flush drink cup. A slow chill went through me. "Bron," I said, my voice hoarse. "It's gone. The knife is gone."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"You think the killer came back and took it?" Bronwyn asked. We were sitting on the sidewalk, our knees pulled to our chests as we leaned against the cement wall of the overpass. The storm had progressed to a torrential downpour, trapping us there until the rain eased up. "Ugh!" Bron cried when a passing car sent street water spraying over us. Her lips pulled down in a scowl. "Jerk!" she called after the disappearing taillights. She shivered. Despite the heat of the June day, our soaked clothes left us both cold. "You owe me a coffee," Bronwyn griped through chattering teeth. "And a new pair of earrings."
"Deal." I cast a glance back to the bushes. "If someone removed the knife, that makes Mickey seem a lot less guilty." My heart felt a little lighter at the thought, but we weren't any closer to solving Sid's murder. "We've got to find out who took it."
"Did you tell anyone else about it?"
"Nope."
"Not even Emmett?"
My frustration bubbled over. "I said I didn't tell anyone," I groused.
"Whoa. Didn't mean to hit a nerve there," Bron said. "I'm just trying to narrow down who else might have gone on urban safari to retrieve the murder weapon."
"I know." I blew out
a breath. "Sorry," I said quietly. "But Emmett didn't know. Besides, he's gone. He left early this morning."
"Oh," Bronwyn murmured, her tone sympathetic. She scooted a little closer to me. "Was it because of the fight y'all had yesterday at Camila's?"
I shook my head. "The Bureau called him back to Vegas to keep working on the Stone case. He promised he'd return by the end of the week."
"You don't sound too thrilled about that." Bron furrowed her brow. "Everything okay between you two? Do you want him to come back?"
"Yes. No. Maybe?" I shrugged, and my face became pinched. "I don't really know," I admitted. "I mean, we should be great—he even dropped the L word yesterday."
"Lasagna?" Bron asked. I looked at her like she'd grown a third eye. She smirked. "I'm just kidding. That's great, though! You should be happy—unless you don't feel the same way." She raised one eyebrow in question.
"I don't know if I, er, lasagna him just yet. We need to spend more than two days at a time together before I can make up my mind about how I feel, ya know?"
"Totally," Bronwyn agreed. She cleared her throat. "I'm just surprised he left you all alone when a certain drummer is back in town—even if he is currently behind bars."
I frowned. "You think Emmett doesn't trust me around Mickey?"
"Do you trust you around Mickey?" she countered, crossing her arms over her chest. "I was there with you at the jail, remember? That Plexiglas couldn't block the major vibes between you two."
I gawked at her. "I was questioning him about Sid's murder. There was no vibage whatsoever."
"If you say so." Bronwyn didn't look convinced. "All I'm saying is there are definitely still some sparks between you and Mickey. It was obvious the minute Royal Flush walked into Castle Rock, and it's still obvious now, even if you did think for a minute that he might be a psycho."
"Can we change the subject please?" I asked, trying to keep the irritation out of my tone. I knew Bronwyn meant well, but now wasn't the time to start obsessing over my feelings again. The loud sound of pelting rain eased up, and I glanced toward the sidewalk. "We could try to make a run for the car now," I suggested. "Maybe some dry clothes and coffee will clear our heads. Then we can make a list of other potential suspects."
Deception at Castle Rock (Amelia Grace Rock 'n' Roll Mysteries Book 2) Page 11
