Blood Trade: A Sean Coleman Thriller (20 page)

“What the hell?” squawked a wide-eyed Roy Hughes, his voice shooting up an extra
octave. The dark, matted hair on his head and the redness in his eyes indicated that
he had been asleep.

The owner and operator of the
Winston Beacon
was a short, trim man only an inch or
two taller than Lumbergh. He normally wore circular rimless glasses that made him
appear an intellectual—the academic type that might be found sitting inside of a
Starbucks Coffee wearing polar fleece and sipping a latte. He sported a permanent
five o’clock shadow around his chin, artificially trimmed to precision.

It was a look Hughes had most certainly worked hard to achieve as a way of compensating
for his upbringing in a rural mountain town, as well as having been given the name
Roy
at birth.

“Why were you at Sean Coleman’s house last night?” Lumbergh asked with fire in his
eyes, directing a pointed finger at Hughes’s chest.

Hughes’s face tangled in confusion. Clad in a t-shirt from an Ivy League university
he had never attended and sweatpants rolled at the cuffs, he blinked sporadically.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Chief.”

Lumbergh tightened his chin and glared through the reporter with such intensity that
Hughes felt compelled to take a step back.

“Honest, Chief!” said Hughes. “I was here all last night.”

Lumbergh wasn’t buying it. “You wanted to snap some embarrassing photos of him, didn’t
you? Maybe walking round in his underwear for some bullshit
story
to print in your
shitty paper!”

He threw his hand up in the air in a broad motion, casting a curse along the interior
of the small workroom they stood in. Neatly clipped-out newspaper articles and columns
from what Hughes’s had deemed the
Winston Beacon’s
finest work over the years wallpapered
the room. Some of the clippings were framed. Others were simply laminated. There
were even some award plaques displayed neatly and strategically, which Lumbergh could
only assume had been earned during Hughes’s father’s tenure at the paper.

“It’s an award-winning paper!” Hughes barked back, clearly offended.

“It’s trash!” Lumbergh retorted. “But lucky for you I’m not here to haul you off
for peeping through someone’s window. I need to know what you saw last night. Was
Sean with anyone?”

Hughes’s eyes rolled up, and he threw both hands in the air. “I
wasn’t
there, Chief!
I don’t know what in the hell you’re talking about!”

Lumbergh continued glaring at him, his chest rising and declining as his nostrils
spread open. He looked for a hint of deception in the newsman’s eyes. To his surprise,
he didn’t see any.

“Why do you think I was at his house?” Hughes asked with a raised eyebrow, assuredly
sensing a new story.

Lumbergh held his focus on Hughes for a while longer, his stomach tight from the
sense of defeat that was brewing in his gut.
If it wasn’t Hughes, who else could
have been standing outside Sean’s window?
“Roy, I’m going to ask you this one more
time because it’s
extremely
important. Don’t fuck with me. A man’s life is at stake.”

Hughes’s eyes widened upon hearing this. He licked his lips and his eyes scanned
the small room, looking for a pencil or pen to write with.

Lumbergh continued. “I promise you that you will not get in any trouble if the answer
is yes. Were you at Sean’s house anytime within the last twenty-four hours?”

Hughes swallowed, his body almost trembling with the excitement he was failing to
contain.

“No,” he finally managed to answer before he enthusiastically added, “but what’s
going on? You have to tell me! A man’s life is at stake?
Which
man? Did Sean beat
somebody up again?” He nearly wore a full-out smile, likely envisioning big headlines.

Lumbergh’s eye twitched at the reporter’s opportunistic instincts. He nearly cursed
him out but knew he couldn’t afford to waste any more time. He turned and walked
toward the front door with Hughes chasing after him.

“Oh come on, Chief!” Hughes pleaded. “You’ve got to tell me what’s going on!”

“No I don’t,” said Lumbergh.

Just as he was about to leave through the open doorway, where a cold, light breeze
was pushing its way in, he caught something out of the corner of his eye; a pile
of papers were being shuffled by the wind across Hughes’s work desk at the front
of the room. The papers consisted of clipped-out newspaper articles. The top one
included a large photo of a face that nearly stopped Lumbergh’s
heart—a face that
had no sense being the focus of any current news cycle if Hughes was telling him
the truth.

Lumbergh dashed over to the desk and riffled through the clippings.

“What?” Hughes asked.

There was a large manila file folder sprawled open below the articles and when Lumbergh
saw that the name “Alvar Montoya” was written across its tab, his blood boiled. “Son
of a bitch!”

He reached under his jacket and pulled out his Glock. He spun toward Hughes, whose
eyes displayed sheer terror at the sight of the pure hatred fuming in the chief ’s
face.

“I told you not to fuck with me, Roy!” Lumbergh’s voice echoed off the walls.

He shoved his gun right between Hughes’s eyes. The frightened newsman tripped backwards
in an impulsive act of self-preservation. He stumbled on shaky legs before falling
straight down to the floor on his butt. “What?” he cried out, hands up in the air
as if he were being robbed. His face was taut with fear. “What are you talking about?”

“Why were you looking into the Alvar Montoya case?” Lumbergh screamed, unable to
contain any sliver of composure. He kept his gun trained on Hughes. “Who did you
see at Sean’s house last night?”

“No one! I w-w-wasn’t!” Hughes stammered. “I just haven’t put the file away yet!”

“What does that mean?” Lumbergh demanded.

“Yesterday! He came over yesterday! He wanted to look through the Montoya archive
again! He said he was doing more research! I let him! What’s the big deal?”

“Who?” Lumbergh yelled savagely. “Who are you talking about?”

Chapter 16

“Y
ou can’t go in there because it’s a dang crime scene!” explained Jefferson. “You
didn’t learn that in any of your pricey college books? We can’t let just any nitwit
who strolls on by walk into a crime scene.” He fought back the urge to smirk, enjoying
a bit of a power trip at the moment.

“Come on, Officer Jefferson,” replied Alex Martinez, wearing a broad smile and displaying
only a hint of a Spanish accent. He had just arrived at Sean’s place with the copies
of Lautaro Montoya’s mug shot, per Lumbergh’s earlier request. “I’m not a
nitwit
.
I work in the police station with you. I’m a colleague.”

“A what?”

“A colleague. A coworker.”

“You sure as hell ain’t,” Jefferson said with a chuckle. “You’re an intern. A gofer.
You don’t even get paid. Hell, you smell too pretty to be a cop.”

Martinez retained his smile. “But how am I supposed to learn about law enforcement
if I don’t get to do anything but odd jobs?”

“Well, I hear they need meter maids up in Lakeland. That might be a good start. They
might even pay you.”

“Oh. Come on,” said Martinez, waving off the teasing with his hand. His short dark
hair shone under the bright sun.

Jefferson suddenly erupted into a coughing fit that drew a wince from Martinez. When
it ended, the officer leaned against the side of Martinez’s dark-green Pontiac Sunfire
and folded his arms in front of him. His grin widened in satisfaction.

“So what happened to the back of Sean’s car? You know?”

The grin on Jefferson’s face dissipated. “Uh, I don’t know. He probably backed into
a tree or something.”

“Jefferson!” Lumbergh’s voice blared out of the walkie-talkie clipped to Jefferson’s
belt.

The officer snatched it and held it to his mouth. “I’m here, Chief.”

“Is anyone there with you?” asked Lumbergh, a hint of unease in his voice.

“No one important,” Jefferson answered, winking at Martinez who was close enough
to hear both sides of the conversation.

“Jefferson, I need to talk to you in private. It’s of a personal matter.”

Jefferson trained a perplexed look on the speaker. “Personal?”

Martinez widened his eyes, flashing Jefferson a simper.

“All right. Hold on,” Jefferson spoke into the gadget, turning from Martinez. He
walked out to the road, his stomach feeling anxious as he did. Once he was convinced
he was out of earshot from Martinez, he acknowledged Lumbergh again.

“Who’s all with you, Jefferson?” Lumbergh asked.

“Just Martinez. He brought copies of the Montoya mug shot. The boys from County haven’t
arrived yet. Why?”

“Listen carefully, Jefferson. Martinez is in on this somehow. He’s been digging into
the Montoya case.”

“What?” Jefferson replied dismissively. “Are you kidding me?”

Jefferson turned toward the intern—a young man he had gotten to know well and had
come to like over the past few months. Martinez was staring blankly back at him from
across the street, leaning against the side of his rusted Sunfire.

“I just left Roy Hughes’s house,” Lumbergh continued. “He told me that Martinez has
been asking him all about Montoya for weeks. He even came over yesterday to review
the newspaper archives on the shootout.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s tied up in what’s going on,” Jefferson
replied. “Maybe he’s
doing a paper on the incident for one of his college classes.”

“And he hasn’t bothered to ask
me
about it?”

Jefferson sighed. He almost always trusted his boss’s instincts, but he felt that
this time his reasoning was thin.

Lumbergh continued. “There’s more. When Oldhorse came to the office yesterday morning,
he told me it didn’t make sense why there weren’t any foot imprints in the snow behind
the building from the pig being hung.”

“It snowed overnight,” Jefferson replied. “The falling snow covered them up.”

“It shouldn’t have covered them up
completely
. The back of the building was protected
from the wind. There weren’t any drifts. Whoever was back there should have left
foot impressions in the snow, if not detailed prints.”

“I’m not following,” Jefferson reluctantly admitted.

“Oldhorse asked me if it was possible that whoever had hung the pig had come inside
through the front door, walked through the building to the back porch, and then done
it. That would explain the lack of foot impressions in the back. I didn’t see how
that was possible though. I had locked both doors when I went home for dinner. They
were both still locked when I came back. There was no sign of jimmying. No one broke
in.”

Jefferson felt his heart drop to his stomach. “An inside job,” he whispered to himself.

“Jefferson, does Martinez have a key to the office?”

The officer swallowed hard. His hand shook as he raised the walkie-talkie close to
his mouth. “Yeah. He does. There’s a spare on the key ring I gave him for the plow
truck.”

“Jesus,” replied Lumbergh. “He’s got to be working with Montoya. He must have been
the second person in Sean’s house last night!”

Jefferson glared at Martinez from across the road, his complexion turning pale. Martinez
was staring back. He looked emotionless as
he tugged on what appeared to be a rubber
band looped around his wrist. The officer forced himself to grin, hoping to conceal
the anxiety he felt thundering through his veins. He turned his back to the intern
again, uncertain that he could maintain a poker face.

“How in the hell could they know each other?” asked Jefferson in such a quiet, quivering
voice that he had to repeat himself to Lumbergh.

“We’ll figure that out later. Listen, I’m on my way back. I’ll be there soon. Don’t
let him leave, and don’t let him know we’re onto him. That’s the safest play right
now if we want to find Sean. Got it?”

Jefferson nodded his head, glancing down at his sidearm. He fought back the urge
to grab for it.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Got it.”

He clipped the walkie-talkie back to his side, and when he turned to Martinez, he
saw that the intern was sliding into the front seat of his car. Jefferson gasped.

“Wait!” the officer shouted out, a phony smile forced onto his face as he hustled
across the street with his arm raised.

Martinez lowered his window.

“I need those mug shots from you!” said Jefferson.

Martinez squinted. “They’re in your jacket pocket, Officer Jefferson,” he said with
a grin.

Jefferson remembered that he had indeed folded the sheets in half and shoved them
in his liner pocket.

“Oh!” he said, awkwardly fumbling his hand around inside his jacket. “Yep, there
they are!”

Martinez nodded politely and cranked the engine.

“Wait!” yelped Jefferson again, his mind desperate to discover the right words to
keep Martinez from leaving. He placed his hand along the inside rim of the car door,
obstructing the intern from rolling up his window.

A dubious expression formed along Martinez’s face.

“Well what’s your hurry, intern?” said Jefferson, his mouth
suddenly feeling dry.
“Why don’t you just stick around for a few minutes?”

“Why?” Martinez replied, the cordial smile returning to his face.

“Because. . .I was going to . . . show you the crime scene. I mean, if you still
want to see it.” Jefferson coughed.

“I can see it now?”

“Yeah. Sure. Why not? You brought up a good point about needing to gain some experience
in this type of thing.”

The plastered grin remained on Martinez’s face, but his eyes went blank—dead as if
there was suddenly nothing behind them. His head lowered in the direction of Jefferson’s
walkie-talkie that dangled from his side, seemingly examining it for a moment. When
he lifted his face to again meet Jefferson’s contrived, urging smile, the officer
saw something different in his demeanor—something unexplainably dark and treacherous.