Her jaw dropped.
Good.
Finally, she was getting it. This wasn’t just about right or wrong. This was his future. Did it suck? Sure. Instinctively, he knew he should go to the authorities. How much could he risk, though, to make things right?
“Oh, my God,” Maggie said.
“Yeah. Still want me to go to the feds?”
She started pacing again. She didn’t like his thinking. In her world, if a law was broken, law enforcement handled it.
In his world? It sounded good, but reality was a bitch.
She moved around the breakfast bar into the kitchen, where she placed her hands on his forearms and squeezed. Her touch, still new, but already so damned comfortable.
“Please,” she said. “I know this is difficult, but you have to do the right thing here.”
All she saw was a way to right a wrong. Down deep, he agreed with her. In a perfect world, the feds locked up bad guys.
“Look, Mags. I hear you.”
“But.”
“Paskins agreed to talk to the league.”
“About what?”
“About getting Celebrate Hope to back off Sam and me. I gave him two days.”
“You’re negotiating with blackmailers?”
Yeah. He supposed he was. “I told him I’d go to the press.”
She let go of him and stormed away, her ponytail swinging as she went. “Oh, Jayson!”
“Hey, I have to do something. This whole situation sucks. I know it’s not just about me either. People who need help aren’t receiving it because the money is gone. If I go to the press, maybe it’ll help.”
A lightning bolt of pain stabbed at the back of his eyes and he dug his palms into his eye sockets. So goddamned tired. He should have gone to Grif with this. He’d see the logic.
Maggie? No way. And, shit, now that he’d brought her into this, what responsibility did she have?
He lowered his hands, found her leaning against the wall at the kitchen opening. “Should I even talk to you about this? Is there a conflict of interest for you?”
“It’s fine. I want you to talk to me.”
“Yeah, but you’re a civil servant.”
“Celebrate Hope is outside my jurisdiction. The only obligation I have is a moral one. These people should be punished. They’re covering up a crime and they’re blackmailing you. On top of that, I have a problem with a thief going free. But, hey,” she waved one hand, “this is your life and you have to do what you think is right. I’ll help you where I can, but I totally disagree with how you’re handling this.”
Of course she did. Props to her for saying it to his face. Aside from Grif and a few trusted others, most wouldn’t. The others only cared about being in his circle. If it meant staying on his contact list, they’d go along with whatever he wanted.
“You wanna know the real pisser in this whole thing?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Reid might get business out of it. Paskins had the balls to tell me the Golden Boy is doing a shitty job with team morale. He wants to send some of the guys out here for team building exercises. I can’t get away from these fucking people.”
“Oh, that’s brilliant.”
Jayson’s phone rang and he dug it from his pants pocket, remembering he hadn’t checked the missed call from when Maggie had rocked his world in epic fashion.
“You gotta be kidding me,” he said.
“Who is it?”
Unable to believe it, which was saying something considering the shit show he was running, he held the phone so Maggie could see the name lighting up his screen.
“Eric Webb,” she said. “Fascinating.”
“That’s one word for it.”
“Put him on speaker. I’ll grab my phone and record it.”
“Why not? Let’s see what this douchebag wants.”
While Maggie ran to the bedroom for her phone, Jay put the call on speaker. He had nothing to hide and he wanted a witness.
Just in case.
“This should be good,” he said to Webb.
“Listen up, fucker,” Webb said and Maggie, who’d run back into the kitchen, holding out her phone as she got to him, rolled her eyes.
“No. You listen up. If you want to talk to me in a civil tone, like a man, we’ll do this. Otherwise, I’m out. Nothing to say.”
“Stay away from my wife, stay away from my team. You think because you’re not on a football field I can’t get to you? You’re done, asshole.”
Jay laughed. This nutjob needed to get a life. Or some brain cells. “Now you think you’re tough, rookie? Try again. I’ll be done when I say I’m done. Up to this point, out of respect for your kids, I’ve kept my mouth shut. Keep it up, Webb, and I’ll start talking. That stunt you pulled with Rajae Evans? How do you think the league will like ESPN breaking the story about how you tried to end my career? And I haven’t started on the spousal abuse yet. Get your head out of your ass, Webb.”
Silence drifted and Maggie raised her eyebrows.
“What’s wrong, Webb?” Jay asked. “Are you out of gas already? Can’t come up with anything from that scrambled brain of yours?”
Webb didn’t just explode, he went nuclear, stringing four-letter words together with the added kicker of a few five-letter ones.
Jay held the phone up. “He’s using more than three syllables. Stretching his vocabulary.”
Maggie clamped her hand over her mouth to smother a horrified laugh.
When Webb ran out of steam, Jay nodded. “You about done?”
“You’re dead!” Webb fumed. “What Rajae did to you is nothing. You hear me? You’ll beg for mercy. I’ll come down there and carve you up so good your mother won’t recognize you.”
“Okay. Great. See you then. Buh-bye.” Jay punched off the call. “Did you get all that, Sheriff?”
“I sure did,” Maggie said.
“Good. If he gives me any trouble, I’m shoving it up his ass and pulling it out his mouth. I’ll bury him with his own words.”
15
To start her morning, Maggie skimmed the daily commitment report, a listing of all individuals arrested the day prior. Today’s reading included four failure to reports, a DUI, three driving without a license, and a domestic battery. A relatively light day. She set the report aside and picked up the next folder Shari had left for her. This one had bright yellow caution tape wrapped around it. Her assistant’s attempt at humor when it came to the budget.
“Everyone is a comedian,” Maggie muttered.
Before she got the folder open, said comedian buzzed through on the intercom.
“Ma’am?” Shari said. “I have Kolten Porter here for you. He said he has an appointment.”
The emphasis on the word appointment left little doubt Maggie had violated the I will tell you everything rule. “Yes. Thank you, Shari. I forgot to tell you I added him to my calendar. Please send him back to the conference room.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Maggie clicked off. She adored Shari, but never allowed the lines to blur between professional and personal. They were not friends, they did not socialize outside of office functions, and Maggie certainly wouldn’t apologize for managing her own schedule.
A schedule that included a sudden meeting with the handwriting expert she’d suggested to Jay. She’d spoken to Mr. Porter the day before, sending him copies of Celebrate Hope’s suspicious checks, supposedly endorsed by Jayson. She also provided Jayson’s actual signature for comparison. An additional charge—which Jayson would be paying—won them the honor of first priority and a fast turnaround.
Money. Always got the job done.
If that money didn’t come out of her budget, even better. Hopefully, the man brought good news.
Handwriting analysis would never be the end-all, but building a case meant stacking evidence upon evidence until each element added up to a solid case.
Assuming everything went the right way.
Too many times, inconclusive results equ
aled a weak case that left the good guys on the losing side.
Hopefully, not this time.
Maggie grabbed her legal pad and pen and headed for the conference room near the main part of the station. No-frills, but freshly painted, this room served as the department’s go-to space for meetings happening outside of Maggie’s office.
As she entered the room, Mr. Porter stood to greet her. A stocky, gray-haired man at least an inch shorter than Maggie, he shook her hand, his grip firm but not obnoxious like so many men attempting dominance over the lady-sheriff. At some point, she’d simply be the sheriff. No gender designation.
After exchanging pleasantries, Mr. Porter returned to his seat across from Maggie.
Now retired from the State Police, he’d had thirty years on the job as a forensics examiner. Working the private sector allowed him to take his pension while charging the exorbitant going rate for expert witnesses. Not a bad gig for someone who’d spent a career on a civil servant’s salary.
“Mr. Porter, thank you for taking care of this so quickly.”
“Of course. Can’t say I’ve ever worked with such a high-profile client.”
Jay. The superstar. What a life. Nothing he did remained private. Every movement, every slip of the tongue documented or photographed. Something she’d have to remember if their affair continued. The idea of constantly being camera ready—God help her—gave her a sick feeling.
Later. She’d worry about it later.
Mr. Porter opened a blue folder he’d set on the table and arranged the contents in front of her. “Regarding the copies of canceled checks, I like to work with original documents, but I realize they weren’t available.”
“Unfortunately, we don’t have access to those. I’m assuming, given that you’re here, you’ve been able to draw at least some conclusions.”
For what her man was paying, Porter better have something for them.
Porter pointed to the first two documents on the table. The first was a blown-up copy of the checks and the second Jayson’s actual signature. Beside those sat two charts, each with the letters of Jayson’s name in the first column and then copies of each letter in the second. The first row on both charts held a J.
“What we’re looking for,” Porter said, “is the form of the letters. Curves, size, any particular slants, et cetera.”
Well, God bless on that one because Jayson’s penmanship, in a word, stunk. That alone should make his signature impossible to forge.
“Next,” Porter said, “I studied the thickness of the line forms. This is an indicator of the pressure and speed used when the signature was created. Also, take note of the spacing between the letters.”
Maggie leaned in, studied first the endorsed checks, then Jayson’s actual signature. To her? Identical.
Please let him have something for me.
“I don’t see a difference.”
“To the naked eye, yes.” He pointed to the charts. “Ordinarily, I’d prefer to have multiple examples of all the letters in different forms. Handwritten notes, legal documents, for example. However, I studied the samples provided.”
Yada, yada. Come on, Porter. She met his gaze. “And?”
“The Js look similar.”
Similar? They were more than similar. Try exactly the same. Maggie looked again, studying the samples more closely. The loop of the Js, the cross of the Ts, the way the n at the end of Jayson dipped just below the signature line, anything she could use to prove the check endorsements were forged.
Porter pulled another document from his folder and set it on the table. “Here are two enlarged versions of Mr. Tucker’s signature. The top one is the real one. Note the smooth lines and edges as the base of the J hooks around. This indicates the speed with which the name was written. It appears to be made in one stroke.” He tapped the bottom signature—the endorsed check. “If you look at this one, you’ll see the lines are different.”
Before, without the benefit of magnification, she’d missed the form change. Now she saw it, that slight squiggle on the bottom of the J. She met Porter’s eye. “The signature on the check isn’t as seamless as his actual one. Right?”
“You are correct. Very good. The variation could indicate this second signature was done much more slowly.”
Slowly. Un-hunh. Maggie didn’t want to get ahead of herself, but she’d been around law enforcement long enough to make an educated guess. “As if someone were tracing it?”
Porter nodded. “When a signature is forged, particularly by amateurs, variations in the letters may exist. This indicates stopping and starting points—pen lifts, if you will. These lifts are a result of copying the letters slowly rather than in a quick, natural formation.”
“You’re saying the bottom one with the squiggly line is forged?”
The corners of his mouth dipped to a pronounced frown. The frown of noncommital. Dang it. She hated that. Had seen it so many damned times with suspects it made her nearly insane.
“Mr. Porter, all I need is your opinion. I can work with that.”
“As I mentioned, with the limited number of samples, this wouldn’t hold up in court, but in my opinion, yes, the bottom signature is forged.”
Jackpot. Yes! Fighting to maintain professionalism, she bit her bottom lip to bury a smile. Inside though? Total happy dance.
She hadn’t doubted Jayson, but having an expert concur gave her hope they’d clear him. No matter what supposed evidence Celebrate Hope had conjured.
Maggie, the orgasm-addicted female, wanted to raise her fists in victory.
The buttoned-up sheriff? No way. Total neutrality.
She met Porter’s eye. “This is extremely helpful.”
“I’m happy to be of service.” He gathered the documents into a neat pile and slid them into the blue folder before handing it over. “These are yours.”
She gripped the folder, squeezing it between her fingers. Got it. “Thank you.”
Very, very much.
After ten minutes of shoptalk with Porter, Maggie hustled back to her office. She needed to call Jay. Right now. While her adrenaline still buzzed.
She rounded the corner of her desk, scooping up the handset before even landing in her chair, and punched out his cell number.
Straight to voice mail.
Darn it. She left him a message to call her ASAP, as in stat, as in as soon as he got the message because she had great news.
She sat and spun her chair to the window where sunshine spilled across the grass along the side of the building. That morning, before leaving her bed—eh-hem—Jay mentioned a meeting with Grif. If he was still in town, he could pop over to her office. She hit the intercom button.
“Ma’am?” Shari said.
Down deep, Maggie hated being called ma’am. She’d never correct the staff, though. Part of her power came from that one little word. If she gave it up, what other liberties would subordinates take advantage of?
“Shari, I have a message in to Jayson Tucker. If he comes by, please send him back.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The red voice mail light on Maggie’s phone blinked and riding on a high, she hit the button. Maybe he’d left a message while she’d been in with Porter.
First message. Not Jay. The district attorney’s office regarding an upcoming trial. She’d call them back. Next message. Cameron Blackwell, the Steeles’ FBI agent cousin on their dad’s side, calling regarding the video she’d sent him. He’d done her a huge favor by running it through the FBI’s facial recognition software.
She saved the message and moved on to the next one.
Way’s voice sprang from the phone. “Hey. It’s me. Way.”
As if she wouldn’t know her own brother. The sound of his voice, even on a recording, brought her good cheer up a notch. Way had managed to carve himself a nice little life that included custom fitting ammunition for government weapons. At twenty-nine and a restless spirit, Way had yet to get married or have kids. This left him with the
ability to pick up and go between contracted assignments. On a whim, he’d hop on his motorcycle or into his truck and take off for a few days. Or, if time allowed, weeks.
That was Waylon. Maggie wasn’t quite sure what drove her brother to these trips. She suspected his time as a Marine plagued him with emotional struggles he chose to sort out in isolation. For Way, Maggie imagined, moving back to Steele Ridge meant being hounded by a loving but nosey family. If the Kingstons weren’t up in your business, you weren’t family.
All those years away had softened Way, left him out of practice in dealing with life in the family bubble. After his military career ended, there were moments Maggie sensed something in Way. Something sad and…dark.
“I’m in Georgia,” the message continued. “Heading home tomorrow for a job. Shep told me your vacation was canceled. Why this time? Call me.”
As a reminder to call him back, she jotted Way’s name on her notepad. He’d be after Jay and Cam.
From the stand on her desk, her cell phone rang. She glanced at it.
Cam’s office number. He knew well enough that if he couldn’t reach her via the office line to try her cell. She swiped the screen. “Cam, hey. Sorry. Just got your voice mail.”
“Hey,” he said. “No prob. I’m in between meetings. Got a second?”
“Absolutely. What’s up?”
“I was able to fly under the radar with running your video.”
Good news there. At least Jay wouldn’t have to dig into his coffers to pay for the FBI lab. Sometimes connections got them a freebie.
“Sorry, Maggie, we didn’t get a hit on this guy.”
The news knocked a bit of her Porter-meeting euphoria to the curb and she sunk back in her chair. “He’s not in the system.”
“Not for DNA. On the facial recognition, if we had his whole face, it would have been better. With what you sent, the computer couldn’t match him.”
Well, shoot. “Unfortunately, I sent you the best we had.”
Craving Heat Page 21
