Reckoning and Ruin (5 page)

Chapter Ten

Trey dropped the duffel bag inside the door. Behind him, I saw the swing of headlights—a silver convertible backing out of the lot. Gabriella, choosing for once to stay out of his life.

I took him by the elbow and dragged him into the corner. “Well?”

He didn't take his eyes off Hope. “I heard her story.”

“And?”

“It's problematic.”

“No kidding.” I motioned toward his forehead. “How well does your cranial lie detector function on oxy?”

“I don't know.”

“Then we should probably find out.”

Trey refocused his attention on me. I was a clever and practiced liar, but I had yet to succeed against his super-sensitive frontal lobes. My brother had explained it using neurology lingo—what Trey had lost in the accident was the white-lie shield that the rest of us used to negotiate social environments. Normal brains could ignore a tiny untruth. Trey's brain couldn't.

I tried to keep my expression blank. “All I had to eat for lunch was a family-size bag of kettle corn and a beer.”

He tracked his gaze over my mouth. “True. And foolish. You need protein to—”

“Great. You passed.” I spun him around and propelled him toward the front. “Now get in there and…wait a second.”

I moved my hand across the small of his back, then pulled his windbreaker open, revealing his old department-issue S&W in a hip carry holster. He'd had to give up side carry after the accident, so when he'd started at Phoenix, he'd traded up to a custom-made shoulder holster, doctor's orders. And yet there he was, side-armed and dangerous again.

I put my hands on my hips. “I thought you weren't supposed to be wearing a holster.”

“Gabriella meant the shoulder rig.”

“No, she meant—”

He pushed past me into the room. “I know what she meant.”

I stifled the urge to snatch him back as he positioned himself right in front of Hope. She regarded him with the feral look of a prey animal about to bolt, and for a second, I wished she would. That would solve most of my problems at the moment. But it would leave the larger problems still lurking.

Her testimony was crucial in the upcoming trial. We had security camera footage from that night, but as Garrity had pointed out, all it had shown was Trey shooting Jasper three times. The necessary background of that encounter—why Hope was in danger, why Jasper was that danger, and why Trey had had to use almost-deadly force to protect her—rested with our various testimonies. But our statements needed context, and Hope—reluctant, wary, and now terrified—was that context.

She held out her wrists toward Trey. “Did you bring the handcuffs? Or maybe you want to frisk me first?”

He ignored her. “Is that your car out front?”

“You know it is.”

“Did you come alone?”

“You know I did.”

Trey moved closer, about six inches too close for comfort. Hope flinched, then tried to cover it. I sympathized. When Trey put you in his sights, it took a mighty amount of discipline to stay still.

“Tell me what happened,” he said. “From the beginning.”

Hope retold the tale again, with no variation. Trey asked specific questions—times and places and dates. I could see the cop coming out in him, wanting to get the details down. Despite his time in corporate America, he remained a patrol officer in his heart, with an invisible badge on his chest.

“And you had no contact with John after he dropped you off?” he said.

“No.”

“No texts? No phone calls?”

“Do you think I'd be here, in
her
shop, talking to
you
, if I had?”

Trey didn't take his eyes off her face. “Was your husband involved in any illegal activities?”

“No.”

“What about you?”

“Five months behind bars was enough. I learned my lesson.”

“So no outside contact with known criminals?”

“None.”

“No illegal activities or intent to commit illegal activities?”

“None.”

He hesitated. Something she'd said was tripping his switch. I knew that look. Technically true but deliberately evasive. She really was hiding something.

Her face was a defiant mask. “You think I'm lying, don't you?”

“I think there's something you're not telling me.”

She shook her head. “Nope.”

He narrowed his eyes. I knew that look too. The rest of what she said might have been wishy-washy half-truth, but that “nope” was a big fat lie.

He kept his voice non-threatening. “It would be in your best interest—”

“Fuck you.” She folded her arms. “You're not a cop. I don't have to tell you anything.”

He didn't reply for a good thirty seconds. When he spoke, his voice was composed. “You are correct that I'm not a sworn officer anymore. I am, however, a consultant with the Atlanta Metro Major Offenders Task Force, which is a joint effort between the APD and the FBI. And while you have the right to remain silent, lying to a federal agent in a material investigation is a felony. Section 1001, Title 18 of the federal code. So let me ask you again, as clearly and concisely as I can—what is it that you aren't telling me?”

I tried not to let my astonishment show on my face. He was lying. Well, not lying as much as sticking two pieces of truth together and letting them imply something that wasn't true. It was the oldest trick in my book, one he'd obviously picked up on since even though he was a consultant with AMMO, that did not qualify him as a federal agent, not even close. And quizzing Hope in a gun shop did not count as a material investigation. Even I knew that.

But Hope looked conflicted. She was weighing her options, considering the pros and cons. She didn't trust us, but she damn sure needed us, both of us, and information was a commodity at such times.

She looked up at Trey. “Are you saying I'm a liar?”

“I'm saying that you're lying.”

She reached in her pocket and threw him her keys. “There. You don't believe me, search the damn car. Tear it apart. I got nothing to hide. You think I'd still be sitting here, knowing you were on the way, if I did?”

Trey didn't reply, but he pocketed the keys. I could sense the various impulses warring in his brain—kick Hope out and fortify the shop against whatever trouble she'd brought to town, call the authorities to haul her away, interrogate her until she coughed up the details herself—and I knew he couldn't sift through them easily.

He turned and headed for the door. I watched him go, then grabbed a chair, dropped it in front of Hope, and straddled it backwards. “Nice try. Now spill it.”

“Spill what?”

“Whatever it is you're keeping from him.”

She let a smile flicker at the corner of her mouth. “He'll run after any bone you toss, won't he? So damn predictable. How do you stand it?”

In my peripheral vision, I saw Trey approach the car, a dark blue two-door, dull in the amber streetlight. Even though he had the keys, he didn't touch it. Instead, he pulled a slim penlight from his pocket and ran it along every inch of the vehicle, starting with the driver's side door.

I shook my head at Hope. “He risked his life to save you once. He did it because he is incapable of anything else. You came in here because you had no place else to go and that hasn't changed, so unless you want me dialing up 911 my own sweet self, you will spit out whatever it is you're still hiding.”

She looked like she wanted to argue. I saw defiance in her, but I also saw weariness and a landsliding grief. She was at the end of her rope physically and emotionally, but she had a wild card she wasn't showing.

“You're scared,” I said, “and not only because you think something has happened to John. You think you're in danger too. That's why you're putting up with Trey. Because you think you might need him. Again.”

Her phone rang. She snatched it up and stood at the same time. Without saying a word, she walked toward the hallway and turned her back on me. Her voice was a low murmur as she answered.

In the parking area, Trey reached the car's trunk. He stopped walking, dropping into a crouch, head cocked. He played the light back and forth across the bumper. Then he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket along with his phone. My guts went cold. Handkerchief plus phone could only mean one thing.

He'd found something.

Chapter Eleven

I shoved open the door and joined Trey at the back of the car. He had switched the light to UV and was examining the undercarriage now. He looked up when he saw me.

“Go back inside,” he said.

I caught a glimpse of what he'd discovered. I was no CSI, but I knew bullet holes when I saw them. Two of them punctured the trunk, joined by what appeared to be a graze running like a claw mark up the side.

“Back inside, Tai. Now.”

He was ice-cold polite, every sentence a command. Voice control, the second step on the use of force continuum. He also had his phone in hand, and I knew what he would be doing the second I went into the shop.

I pointed. “I know what you think is in that trunk.”

“Tai—”

“And if you're right, then yes, I'll be calling 911. But open it first.”

He shook his head, a warning shot. “You shouldn't—”

“Just open the damn trunk.”

He hesitated only a second, then inserted the key. One twist, and the trunk popped open. He lifted it the rest of the way with a handkerchief-covered hand.

It was empty.

I felt a knee-weakening wash of relief. Trey ran his flashlight into every corner of the space, but there was no sign of blood or body or foul play.

I glanced back into the shop. Hope was still on the phone, her eyes on us. Trey had his phone out too. I couldn't watch both of them at the same time. If Hope ran, the alarms would let us know, but she'd make like a rabbit and we'd never catch her. If Trey finished his call, we'd be swarmed with uniforms within minutes.

I put a hand on his elbow. “Listen. I know that every neuron in your cranium is screaming that you need to call this in, but you need to hold off until we've talked to her some more.”

“Why?”

“Because she's hiding something, and whatever it is, I am on the verge of getting it out of her. But if the cops come, she'll bolt. Or clam up.” I looked him in the eye. “And because you promised me you wouldn't.”

His expression changed, a mixture of contrition and determination. “Circumstances often require a change of strategy.”

And then I heard it, from several blocks away, the unmistakable growl of a motorcycle. For a wild second I thought it was John's Harley, but then, from the other side of the square, I heard an almost identical rumble. And then several more, from behind the shop.

I glared at Trey. “You son of a bitch. You already called 911, didn't you?”

Something flickered in his expression. “No.”

“Then who is that surrounding the place as we speak?”

“The Blue Line.”

“The what?”

“It's a law enforcement motorcycle club.”

I stared at him. “You called a motorcycle gang to surround my shop?”

“Motorcycle
club
, mostly retired APD. They agreed to provide…non-official protection and support. At least until I could assess the situation.”

The night grew quiet again, but in my imagination, I could hear the ticking of cooling engines, smell the bike leathers. I'd seen this particular group of bikers on the news—gray-haired and hard-eyed, lining the roadways during cop funerals. They reminded me of a wolf pack, rangy and silent.

I folded my arms. “And what is your assessment?”

Trey held my gaze. “If John really is missing, then this car is quite likely evidence of a crime. What kind of crime, I'm not certain, but that's not for me to determine. The Line is here to maintain the perimeter until the car can be examined by the proper officials. That might give you the time you need.”

“To do what?”

“Convince Hope to go quietly into custody. Because this car has what appears to be bullet holes. Because a man is allegedly missing. Because I have no choice at this point, Tai, I simply don't. And neither do you.”

The back door alarms went off inside, but neither of us moved. Hope, making a run for it. Trey was already tapping his phone, one quick text. I heard the roar of more engines behind the shop, saw the white flash of headlights. I heard Hope hit the wall of them. She was screaming at them, cursing. And for the first time since she'd darkened my door, I felt a pang of sympathy.

***

It was over pretty quickly after that. Hope got dragged to the station to give a statement, while her car went to the vehicle processing shed and her Saturday night special went into evidence. Cobb County would shove the case down Savannah Metro's way as soon as possible, and then both agencies would play hot potato with it. Nobody wanted to deal with somebody like John vanishing, a man who wouldn't be missed but whose absence would be tough investigating.

In the aftermath, I sat outside on the curb in front of my shop in the glow of the single streetlight. Four had been installed during the fervor of the Kennesaw Revitalization Committee's attempt to class up this particular acre of real estate, but only one of them still worked. Now the dark nestled close, velvety with humidity.

Trey conferred with his Blue Line friends gathered in the square. The leader of the group was a retired APD sergeant named Davis. He was short, barely five-eight, but his body was a rectangle of muscle. He was older than Trey, with gray eyes and a trimmed gray beard. He had a single gold stud in one ear and a tattoo on his forearm, faded now, an eagle clutching a rifle in each talon.

He clapped Trey on the shoulder, and I winced. But Trey didn't throw a Krav Maga block or reach for his firearm. I realized with a start that I was watching my alpha dog boyfriend go beta. Only there was not an ounce of give in it, not a hint of submission. With this man, Trey was one of the pack again, and he fell into his assigned role as easily as breathing.

Eventually he joined me on the curb. The oxycodone had worn off hours ago, so there was a stiffness in his movements as he lowered himself to sit beside me.

“Did they arrest her?” I said.

“No. She's making a voluntary statement.”

“Because they would have arrested her otherwise. Or called her PO and got her thrown back in jail.”

Trey didn't answer. He was watching the cops in the square, some retired, some active duty, all of them bound by the brotherhood of blue. Davis was tidying things up, getting ready to ride.

“How do you know this Davis guy anyway?

“He was my Field Training Officer. I rode with him my first four months out of the academy, during my probationary period.”

So that explained the Trey I was seeing now. He was back in patrol mode, responding to cues like the well-trained sheepdog he was. This wasn't an insult, I'd discovered, among cops. They liked to think of themselves as sheepdogs, protecting the sheep of the world—people like me—from the wolves. As if we weren't all wolves when we got hungry enough.

“Will they put her in Witness Protection?”

He shook his head. “Wit-Sec is only for federally-prosecuted cases. Georgia has no state-run witness protection.”

“So what will happen to her?”

“That depends. If Hope has evidence that she's at risk because of her upcoming testimony, she can get protection through the prosecuting attorney. Or from the federal marshals. Depending.”

“On what?”

“If something really has happened to John.”

Her story was a wild and shaggy one: John's disappearance, his efforts to “make things right” and his phone call that morning warning me of trouble to come, plus the white pick-up stalking her and her own mysterious phone call. A lot of conjecture, very little solid evidence. Except the bullet holes in the trunk. That was pretty solid.

“And how is that story looking officially?”

“We did find one key piece of evidence supporting it.” Trey kept his eyes on his friends across the square. “An open box of ammunition under the front seat—.22s—and a receipt dated earlier this morning from a Savannah gun shop.”

“Did the bullets in the box match the ones in her gun?”

“We won't know that for a while. The gun had been fired, although I couldn't tell how recently.”

Hope hadn't mentioned buying ammo. And since she had no reason to edit that detail from her story, I knew that the purchaser had to have been John. As for the gun itself, Hope had gotten her fingerprints all over it. And then in my haste to secure it, I'd gotten mine on top of that. I'd explained this to the responding Cobb County officer, but not to Trey. I already had a headache. A lecture would have flipped me into the red zone.

“What happens next?” I said.

“Assuming she's not eventually arrested, Davis offered to put her up for the night in a safe house.”

“Pffft. Like she'll go for that.”

“It would be the smart thing to do.”

“Yeah well, we blew our chance at getting her to do the smart thing the second your friends closed in.”

We sat there in the dark for fifteen seconds, thirty. I felt a whole tidal wave of things I needed to ask him about, but there was one particularly itchy topic at the top of the list.

“You lied to Hope,” I said.

He looked confused. “When?”

“When you trotted out that whole bit about lying to federal officers and section whatever-the-hell.”

Now he looked insulted. “I did not. I simply…what's the word, multi-syllabic, starts with C?”

“Lied.”

“Everything I told her was the truth. She created the interpretation. That's not lying, it's—”

“Technically true but deliberately insinuating, that's what it is. And that counts as a lie.”

He pulled out his phone, didn't reply. He thumbed a quick text, barely paying attention to me. Ever since he'd shown up, he'd been in the cop flow chart—take orders from above, give orders to below. I knew where I ranked in that particular hierarchy.

“I didn't know you could lie. I didn't think your brain would let you.”

“Why did you think that?”

“Because the truth tends to fall out of your mouth even when you don't want it to.”

He shook his head, eyes still on his phone. “That's not the same thing.”

A whistle from across the square interrupted him, and he looked up. Davis was waving him over. Without another word, Trey stood up and trotted back. Acting once again like the cop he absolutely wasn't anymore.

I stood up too, but not to follow him. If Trey wouldn't answer these particular questions, I knew somebody who would. Somebody who'd be downright delighted to pontificate on all matters cognitive-psychological.