by Freya Barker
“Had an interesting night. McNeely made a move tonight,” I share as I turn left onto my street.
“What?”
Bree twists in her seat and I catch her look of surprise from the corner of my eye.
“Caught him on one of the cameras heading into the vines.”
I tell her about the fire and the shooting, the phone call from Dimi, and the frustrating half hour I was stuck answering questions from local cops before they reluctantly let me go. I had to leave my weapon with them and commit to coming into the station in the morning, but I planned to do that anyway. I want to hear what that punk I shot has to say.
I opt not to share I blew through every speed limit to get to her.
“Quite the coincidence,” she comments when I pull into my driveway.
Putting the car in park and shutting off the engine, I turn to face her.
“Is it?” I pose the question that’s been plaguing me since we found those cameras. “What if it’s not? If someone’s been watching, they would’ve noticed my comings and goings as well. What if the two are connected?”
“But why? The cameras were in my bedroom and bathroom for crying out loud. That implies an interest that definitely can be labeled as personal. How does that fit in with the vineyard?”
“Don’t know yet,” I admit, opening my door.
The sky’s already getting a little lighter and we need to get a few hours of shut-eye. Looks like we’ll need to grab it while we can. Something tells me things are heating up on all fronts.
I help Bree down and let her go ahead to open the door, while I grab the stuff we packed up at her place from the back seat. She’s already punching the code in the alarm. My house is outfitted with a numbered door lock and a state-of-the-art alarm. The first for convenience—no keys to worry about—and the second is for security. My neighbors are at a fair distance and I have expensive equipment in the house. Add that to my long hours and frequent traveling and my place is a prime target for thieves.
I carry her stuff straight to the master bedroom and she follows me on her crutches.
“What do the two cases have in common?” she asks from behind me, as I put her things on the bench at the foot of my bed.
Turning, I lift a hand to her face etched with fatigue.
“Tygrys, we need to get some sleep.”
“I know, but humor me for a minute.”
“Fine,” I grumble, but the question does make me think. “PASS is involved with both, but other than that I can’t see a connection.”
“Maybe there is,” she suggests, stifling a yawn. “We know someone of some influence is involved in the business in Denver. Someone who isn’t afraid to use power or money, or both, to get to all levels in the department. Those were some high-tech gadgets they found in my apartment, Yanis. They’ve gotta cost a whack.”
I grunt in acknowledgement and wait for her to make her point.
“Someone with money, who wields power, is also behind the sabotage at the winery.”
“You’re talking about Sarrazin? What would he have to do with Bobby Lee or the attack on you?”
“Remember Robert Connell? The floater whose prints were linked to the limo? Evans said he was a known criminal with connections.”
“You’re thinking the Albero family?”
She shrugs.
“Worth checking into. Maybe give Evans a call, drop Sarrazin’s name and see what he comes up with.”
I tighten my arms around her. This is one of the things that makes her such a valuable agent; the ability to think outside of the box. Her great mind is fucking sexy as hell too.
“Radar can look into any possible connections between Bobby Lee and anyone in the Albero family,” I suggest.
“Has Flynn ever revealed the details of the beef between him and Sarrazin?”
He hadn’t, other than to say it was about a woman, and yet he’d taken the other man’s recommendations in hiring McNeely and PASS, which seems odd if they’re supposed to be enemies. They hadn’t looked particularly acrimonious when Bree and I saw him with Sarrazin. Annoyed, maybe, but not much more than that.
Since I have to head back to Palisade later anyway, I’ll stop by the vineyard and sit him down.
“I’m coming with you,” Bree announces when I tell her of my plans.
I won’t argue with that. I’d rather have her where I can keep an eye on her myself.
“Fine. Now can we get some sleep?”
“Yeah.”
She snuggles into me and I press a kiss to the top of her head.
“You still smell like smoke,” she mumbles in my chest.
“Then let me go so I can grab a quick shower.”
She lifts her head, the expression on her face one that has me want to confess my feelings. Vulnerable and trusting. Instead, I drop a hard kiss on her mouth and head for the bathroom. She’s here under my roof and plans to stick close, that’s enough for now. Last thing I want to do is make her feel pressured if I tell her I love her. Plenty of time for that.
By the time I walk back into the bedroom she’s already under the covers, fast asleep. I carefully get in, trying not to wake her, but the moment I stretch out, she turns and snuggles up against me.
My last thought before I drift off myself is how perfectly she fits me.
Bree
It’s already afternoon by the time we drive into Palisade.
Yanis wants to hit the police station first and hopes I can act as liaison in getting him in to see McNeely. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to—I’ve only established a connection with one of the two police sergeants on the force recently—but I’ll give it my best shot.
The police department is right beside the fire station. An unassuming, one-floor brick building with little more adornment than a flag pole and a bench at the entrance. Plenty of parking around the side and back, though. It doesn’t look particularly busy with just a few cruisers and a couple of regular vehicles parked in the slots.
“I was hoping to speak with Sergeant Fillmore if she’s available?”
I take the lead when we walk up to the front desk.
“And your name is?” the woman who looks past retirement age asks briskly.
“Bree Graves. I’m with PASS Security? She and I spoke a few weeks ago.”
“Have a seat.”
Without looking, she waves at a few chairs on the opposite side of the lobby.
The moment we’re seated—well out of hearing distance—I notice she picks up her phone, glancing our way briefly. A few minutes later, a tall woman around my age, dressed conservatively in a pantsuit, walks into the lobby, her eyes aimed my way. Yanis is already on his feet by the time she reaches us.
“Linda Fillmore.”
Her introduction is followed by a firm handshake before she turns to Yanis.
“This is my boss, Yanis Mazur. He owns PASS Security.”
They shake as well and she narrows her eyes on him.
“I know. You were at Flynn’s Fields last night,” she shares. “I was just reading the report. Your name stood out.”
“It’s actually the reason we’re here,” I volunteer.
“I figured as much. Follow me.”
She turns on her heel and walks ahead of us down a hallway and through the bullpen to a small office at the far end.
“Mazur!”
Both Yanis and I turn around to one of the officers standing up behind his desk.
“Wait your turn, Scottie,” Linda tells the young officer sharply before waving us into her office, closing the door behind us.
“Chris Underwood’s a friend of mine.” She’s looking in my direction. “I had a word with him after you called a few weeks ago. It won’t come as a surprise he has nothing but good things to say about your outfit.”
Christopher Underwood is Grand Junction’s Chief of Police. He hired us last year to help clean up his department, which had come under scrutiny. Good to know the sergeant is tight with him, maybe that’l
l give us a foot in the door with her.
“Good to know,” Yanis mumbles, drawing her attention.
“I’m sure,” she comments dryly. “However, that doesn’t mean I won’t be looking closely into the events of last night. There are a few things that raise questions.”
“Like?”
“Your involvement with Flynn’s Fields, for one.”
I haven’t had a chance to speak yet. I get the feeling these two have forgotten I’m even here, the way they glare at each other. I wish I could give Yanis a cautionary kick to the heels, but he’s sitting on the wrong side of me.
In the few minutes I’ve observed Sergeant Fillmore, I can tell her rank did not come easy. Not surprising, in a small force like this you’re less likely to see diversity in the ranks than in larger departments.
A man like Yanis—who exudes testosterone without even trying—might get her back up, and he in turn will see it as a challenge.
“Told the officer everything last night. I’m sure it’s in his report.”
This conversation is definitely not going in the right direction, judging from Yanis’s tone. Linda Fillmore leaning forward, her elbows on her desk as she glares at him, confirms it.
“Tell me anyway,” she says in a low voice.
The moment I notice Yanis moving forward in his seat, I clamp a firm hand on his arm. Linda notices and raises an eyebrow. I meet his sharp look and give my head a little shake and his nostrils flare.
Chances of Yanis getting to talk to McNeely are diminishing by the second.
“Joe Flynn hired my company to install security after several incidents of sabotage occurred at the vineyard. He felt it necessary since there was no satisfactory response from your department. I agree with his assessment.”
I close my eyes and slap my hand to my forehead. That just sealed it. We may as well pack it in.
But the next moment my head jerks up in surprise at Linda’s words.
“So do I,” she says, easing back in her chair with a satisfied look on her face. “Which is why the door to my office is closed. I’m in an awkward position here and wanted to be sure where your loyalties lie.”
“I’m not sure I’m clear on what is happening here,” I finally interject.
Yanis is the one who responds.
“Unless I’m way off base, Sergeant Fillmore has some concerns about her department.”
“A few,” she confirms. “I don’t want to go into too much detail, but suffice it to say your visit isn’t the only surprise I had today. I was told this morning it would serve me well to fast-track this case.”
“Fast-track, how?” Yanis asks.
“Process Mr. McNeely with a minimum of questions.”
“Or else?” I ask, since I assume there was an or else added to that request.
Linda glances at me.
“Or else my position within the department would be on shaky ground. I was told to be a team player, to prove I’m one of the boys.” She lifts her chin defiantly. “You should know I was just about to sit down with Mr. McNeely and have a comprehensive and in-depth discussion with him.”
I look over at Yanis, who nods approvingly. Clearly Sergeant Fillmore does not intend to bow to pressure. Good on her.
“Maybe we should share what happened in Denver,” I suggest to Yanis. “Sounds like Linda and Bill may have something in common.”
“Who’s Bill?”
We spend the next twenty minutes sharing our suspicions with the unexpected ally we found in Sergeant Fillmore.
“I’m going to give you my cell number,” she tells me. “If you wouldn’t mind passing it on to Detective Evans. I’ll leave it to him if he wants to talk to me.”
I’m handed a card with a phone number scribbled on the back.
“Now…” She turns her attention to Yanis. “How would you feel about sitting in on my interview with Mr. McNeely? Wouldn’t hurt to have a second person in the room, and who knows? Your presence may encourage him to open up.”
It’s close to four in the afternoon by the time we’re on our way to the vineyard.
While Yanis and Linda were interviewing Dan McNeely, I used the time to follow up with Bill Evans, Detective Bissette, and Lena at the office.
Bill didn’t answer his phone but texted me ten minutes after I left him a message, apologizing for not answering but he was in the middle of something, and could I please shoot over the sergeant’s number, which I did.
Detective Bissette shared the department’s lab was looking at the cameras to see if they could determine the source. Apparently, there weren’t any prints found in my apartment that were unaccounted for, so the cameras are the only tangible lead she has. She assured me she had officers on the street ringing doorbells and checking for security cameras on buildings up and down my street, and was confident something would surface.
“So I told her to get in touch with Radar if her techs are not successful. I figure if anyone can get information from those cameras, it would be him,” I continue filling Yanis in. “Then I checked in with Lena to see if there was anything urgent. She says it’s been quiet there.”
“Good.”
I glance over and notice his jaw is still as tight as when he marched out of the interview room.
“Your turn,” I prompt him. “Although I’m guessing it didn’t go so well.”
He snorts.
“Fucking punk,” he shares with fire. “Two hours we tried and the little shit said nothing. Finally, when Sergeant Fillmore told him he’d be charged with attempted murder he asked to speak to his lawyer. Two fucking hours wasted on that piece of crap and nothing.” Frustrated, he slams the heel of his hand against the steering wheel. “I need a connection to Sarrazin.”
“You know there are other ways, right?” I carefully suggest. “Radar can pull phone records, look at his bank acc—”
“Not ready to make that call. Wouldn’t be admissible in court,” he cuts me off. “Let’s talk to Flynn and see what he can tell us.”
We caught Joe on his way out the door at the winery. He mostly repeated he and Sarrazin were nothing but old college buddies, who happened to fall for the same girl, and occasionally ran into each other. When asked if it surprised him Sarrazin might be involved with the trouble at the vineyard, he made the comment he wouldn’t put anything past his former friend.
Half an hour later we’re on our way back to Grand Junction, not much wiser, and Yanis’s mood hasn’t improved.
“Fucking call Radar.”
Aye, aye, Boss.
Chapter Twenty
Bree
“You don’t have to come in, I can take a cab back to the office.”
As he’s done regularly these past couple of days, he ignores my suggestion and walks me into the hospital.
Grumpy bear.
I have a follow-up appointment I hope will have me walking out of here without this damn plastic boot. The swelling is gone, there’s no sign of bruising left, and the few times I’ve tested the ankle it feels pretty stable. I don’t mind doing some PT to get it back to full strength, especially if I can start driving myself. My poor Jeep has been parked in the office parking lot this entire time.
I have a feeling Yanis doesn’t share my hope.
The only time he leaves my side since someone broke into my apartment is during office hours, when one or more of my teammates are around. I know he still struggles with the fact he wasn’t there right away, but he’s going to have to let up at some point. As endearing—however unnecessary—his protectiveness is, it’s starting to feel claustrophobic.
We walk up to the desk and I tell the receptionist I have an appointment.
“You can go right in, Ms. Graves. Number three. The doctor will be right in.”
When Yanis starts following me to the small hallway with treatment rooms I stop and turn, putting my flat hand on his chest.
“I’m good,” I tell him.
He seems surprised at first, but then his jaw clenches an
d he gives me a sharp nod. I don’t miss the flash of hurt in his eyes, but he doesn’t say a word before turning back to the waiting area.
Great. Now I feel guilty for setting some boundaries.
It’s not that I don’t want him to come in—I have nothing to hide—but I’m tired of being treated like a child who needs monitoring twenty-four seven.
When I walk back into the waiting area half an hour later—still with crutches—but without the walking cast, he’s on the phone facing me. His eyes immediately drop to my feet.
“Gotta go,” he says to whoever he has on the line before ending the call. Then he gets to his feet. “Ready to go?”
I nod and we’re quiet as we make our way back to his SUV, but when he’s about to pull out of the parking spot I put a hand on his arm.
“Wait.” I twist in my seat so I can look at him. “Talk to me.”
“About what?”
He doesn’t know me well if he thinks he can put me off with feigned ignorance.
“About what has been eating at you.” His frown lines deepen and his mouth sets in a rigid line, but I’m not about to let that deter me. “Are you angry at me?”
“Angry?”
He seems genuinely surprised at that.
“Yeah. You barely talk to me, and you bark at everyone else. You don’t even ask what the doctor said.”
“Was that me inside you this morning?”
I shouldn’t be surprised he comes back with that. He’s right, in that respect nothing’s changed. We’re good together, we always were. But he’s shown me another side to him recently as well. That of a man willing to put in the effort for more than a physical connection. I liked that side of him—a lot—but now he treats me like he did before and that doesn’t sit well.
“I was there, Yanis,” I respond, working on keeping my calm. “And that’s not the part I’m talking about. Something is wrong and it bothers me you won’t just tell me what it is. Why not share?”