Living Lies

by Natalie Walters

  “Bye, friend Miguel.” Noah waved.

  Lane hurried Noah to her Jeep, unwilling to find out what had spooked Miguel so suddenly. Inside the safety of the SUV, she realized two things: it’d be a long time before she stepped foot in the woods near the Ogeechee River again, and something had Miguel terrified.

  “DEA?” Charlie slipped a sideways glance at Sheriff Huggins as he took the exit toward Savannah. The sheriff was only catching Charlie’s side of the conversation he was having with Agent Padello, but he imagined they shared the same expression—shock.

  “Yep. Deputy Frost sent me that address, and as soon as I hit enter on my keyboard my office phone rang with a curious DEA agent demanding information,” Agent Padello said.

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Only what I know. Video shows your vic carrying a package with the address on it the day before she was killed.”

  “And what’d they say?”

  “He, Agent Mitch Edmonds, is wondering if you’ll let him observe your knock and talk?”

  “Knock and talk?” Charlie scratched his cheek. This day . . . this case . . . was not what he was expecting. “Why? What’s the DEA’s interest in our case?”

  “Wish I could tell you.” Agent Padello’s tone went rigid. “Unfortunately, not all agencies have an affinity for sharing information. All I can tell you is that they’re interested and I’m not sure you have much of a choice in letting him observe you, if you catch my drift.”

  “Yeah, I got it.”

  “Oh, and I’m running the video footage we have of Sydney leaving the gallery through facial recognition. Maybe we’ll get a hit on someone in the area who’s not supposed to be there.”

  “Like Pablo Escobar frequenting an art gallery in Savannah?” Charlie’s mention of the infamous Mexican drug lord drew a short laugh from Agent Padello, but something else pricked his memory. “We appreciate your help more than you know.”

  Charlie filled in Sheriff Huggins on the rest of the information as they pulled in front of a clapboard house on West Hull Street. An ornate iron gate surrounded the home facing Orleans Square and looked postcard ready. The kind of home that would have lots of art hanging on the walls.

  “These homes remind me of the ones in Annapolis.” Charlie’s phone beeped with an incoming text message. “Frost says the Hollinses have been out of the country since May and aren’t scheduled to return until late August.”

  “Interesting.” Sheriff Huggins stepped out of the car with Charlie. “So, it’s unlikely they made any art purchases around the time of Sydney’s murder.”

  A black Suburban with heavily tinted windows was parked in front of the Hollinses’ home. The driver-side door opened and out stepped a sizeable man in an ebony suit, with skin that almost matched. A pair of aviators shielded his eyes as he looked in their direction and gave them a nod.

  “What do we know about the DEA agent?” Sherriff Huggins asked.

  “Not a whole lot except he wanted to be a part of the knock and talk.”

  The sheriff’s forehead creased. “Knock and talk?”

  “Afternoon, Sheriff, I’m Agent Mitch Edmonds.” He held out his hand. They exchanged handshakes and introductions. “I appreciate you fellas letting me tag along.”

  Charlie almost smirked at the agent’s attempt to make it sound like they had a choice.

  “If it helps us come closer to catching a killer, I’m obliged to be cooperative.” Sheriff Huggins straightened his shoulders, bringing him an inch taller than the DEA agent. “But I’m curious to know what the DEA’s interest is in Mr. Floyd Hollins.”

  “I’m just here to observe.” Agent Edmonds bowed his head slightly. “This investigation is yours, Sheriff, and I have no intention of interfering.”

  So, cooperation was going to be one-sided. At least they knew where they stood. Charlie led the way to the home. It was a corner property with a gated driveway at the side that was open. A silver Tesla was parked inside. Hopefully that meant its driver was home. They passed the Tesla and climbed the stairs decorated with planters of ferns and colorful flowers. It reminded him of Lane’s garden.

  Tonight was her father’s barbecue fund-raiser. Though Charlie and a few of the other deputies were working security, Judge Sullivan wanted to make sure his guests weren’t aware of their presence. They wouldn’t be wearing uniforms and would be allowed to mingle with guests. The only person Charlie wanted to mingle with had fiery green eyes and auburn hair.

  “We waiting for something?” Agent Edmonds asked.

  Charlie brought his attention back to the mission at hand and pressed the doorbell. A couple minutes passed and he tried again. The door opened and Floyd Hollins stood there in boxer shorts and a T-shirt, rubbing his eyes like he’d just woken up.

  “Mr. Hollins?”

  “Who wants to know?” The man ran a hand through his disheveled hair. He didn’t seem to be aware that he was in his underwear—or he didn’t care.

  “I’m Deputy Lynch and this is Sheriff Huggins. Would you mind if we talked to you for a few minutes?”

  “Who’s the suit?”

  Charlie wasn’t sure if there was a protocol for protecting a DEA agent’s identity and he hadn’t asked.

  “I’m Agent Edmonds. Just here for observation.”

  “Uh, okay.” Floyd disappeared down the hall.

  “I guess we show ourselves in?” Charlie looked at Sheriff Huggins. He shrugged before nodding his head.

  They entered the foyer and walked down the hall, past a living room with a television the size of one wall. Pizza boxes and empty cans and bottles littered the leather furniture. Charlie thought he heard Agent Edmonds mutter something about ungrateful kids, but he kept walking.

  Floyd was in the kitchen scooping a spoonful of cereal into his mouth, his eyes on another flat-screen TV.

  “Can you believe it? I lost five grand on those losers.” Floyd threw a piece of cereal at the TV. “Braves decide to start winning.”

  “Mr. Hollins?” Charlie said, trying to get the kid’s attention.

  “That’s my dad. You can call me Floyd or F-Dawg.”

  Agent Edmonds’s cheek flinched as Charlie fought the urge to roll his eyes. What was wrong with kids these days?

  “I’ll stick with Floyd.” Annoyance colored Charlie’s words. “Does anyone else live here besides you?”

  “My parents own the home if that’s what you’re asking, but they haven’t lived here since I graduated from Tech.” Floyd picked up the remote and turned up the volume. “And you can tell my neighbor that I have the same rights as he does to entertain friends.”

  Charlie flicked a look at Sheriff Huggins before asking, “Any of those friends in the house right now?”

  “Nope.”

  “How long have you known Sydney Donovan?”

  “Who?”

  “Sydney Donovan,” Charlie repeated, stepping in front of the television. “A high school student from Walton.”

  “I don’t know any Sydney whatever you said her last name was.” Floyd’s head bobbed side to side as he tried to see the television over Charlie’s shoulders. “I know better than to touch jailbait.”

  “How many times have you been to Bohemian Signature Gallery?”

  “Do I look like someone who likes art?” Floyd spoke around another mouthful. “Is that why you’re here? To check out my decorating?”

  “Actually, we’re investigating a murder.”

  “And drugs,” Agent Edmonds added.

  Floyd choked, the color draining from his face. With wide eyes, he glanced at each of them. Charlie’s eyes cut to the DEA agent. Was that the reaction Edmonds was expecting?

  “Look, man, I don’t know anything about a murder. I thought y’all were here because of the noise. My neighbors are always complaining, but I was here all night. Had some friends over. I’ll give you their names. They’ll tell you.”

  “Why don’t we start with why Sydney Donovan was carrying a painting wi
th your address on it a day before she was murdered?”

  “I already told you I don’t know any Sydney Donovan.”

  Charlie pulled up a picture of Sydney—the same as the one sitting on the Donovans’ mantel—on his phone. He turned it so Floyd could see. “Tell me you don’t know her.”

  Floyd looked at the phone before raising his hands up defensively. “I’ve never seen that chick in my life.” Floyd’s eyes flashed to Sheriff Huggins. “I swear, man.”

  “I didn’t hear you say anything about the drugs,” Charlie said, his instincts returning. What wasn’t said usually spoke louder than what was.

  “I-I don’t know anything about that either.”

  “I’m not a betting man like you, F-Dawg, but if I were, I’d bet my entire salary that my associate in the suit over there is going to find drugs in your parents’ home.”

  “Wha—no. Wait.” A sheen of sweat broke out on Floyd’s forehead, washing the rest of the color from his face. “You can’t do that. Don’t you need a search warrant or something like that?”

  “You invited us into your home, Mr. Hollins,” Sheriff Huggins spoke up. “If we see anything out in the open, say, in an ashtray in your living room, that looks like it might be drug paraphernalia, we’d have probable cause to search the rest of your home.”

  Charlie closed the space between him and Floyd. “My interest isn’t in the drugs. It’s in the murder of Sydney Donovan, who was holding a package with your address on it hours before she was hit by a car and then stabbed over and over—”

  “Stop, please.” A greenish hue put color back into Floyd’s cheeks. “A package was delivered to my house a few days ago. I don’t even know if it’s a painting, man. I was just doing a favor.”

  Adrenaline surged through Charlie. “For who?”

  “I don’t know, man.”

  “You don’t know?” Charlie leveled a cold stare at Floyd. “Maybe we should check the house for drugs. What do you say, Agent Edmonds?”

  The man grunted and cracked his knuckles.

  “No. Wait. I swear. I don’t know anything about the package or what’s in it. I was just following directions.”

  “Last time I’m going to ask—for who?”

  “Look, man, I already told you I don’t know.” Floyd’s voice rose an octave. “I swear.” His eyes darted to Agent Edmonds. He lifted his hands, palms outward like he was trying to calm a bull from charging. “Just . . . just wait here.”

  When Floyd hurried out of the kitchen, Sheriff Huggins turned to Charlie and asked, “What makes you think there are drugs here?”

  “Same reason you assumed those ashtrays in the front held more than cigarette butts. He’s a frat boy with complaining neighbors.”

  “He’s probably hiding his stash right now,” Agent Edmonds mumbled. “The F-Dawg nickname almost makes me want to call in the dogs.”

  “My deputy here’s done a good job soliciting information.” Sheriff Huggins raised his eyebrows. “Maybe now you can share some information about why you’re here.”

  “Have you ever heard of El Chico?”

  Charlie and the sheriff shook their heads.

  “Benito Rodriguez runs the largest Mexican cartel out of Atlanta that specializes in meth. He’s been smuggling throughout the Atlanta region for years, but it’s slowed. What hasn’t slowed is the money. We have an informant on the inside who says the money is still coming in—”

  “Which means the drugs are still going out,” Charlie said.

  “Right.” Agent Edmonds ran his hands over his bald head. “We’ve tracked payments to this address.”

  Sheriff Huggins, looking ashen, rocked back on his heels. “I can’t picture Sydney being involved with drugs . . . or a cartel.”

  Neither could Charlie, if he was honest, but outward appearances could be deceiving. Unlike Miguel, most people didn’t let their issues out in the open. They kept them hidden. Private. Protected. Like an ugly secret that made them feel ashamed. Charlie thought about Lane. And Tate. If his battle buddy hadn’t kept his secret hidden, maybe he’d still be alive today. And Lane . . .

  Floyd returned with a package wrapped in brown paper. He tossed it onto the counter. “Last time I checked, doing a favor wasn’t a crime.”

  “If it’s connected to a murder it is.” Charlie watched Sheriff Huggins pull a pair of latex gloves from his belt. “Now, tell us who gave it to you.”

  “Dude, I don’t know how many times I have to tell you that I don’t know who it was.”

  Charlie’s blood pressure was rising. He stepped around the kitchen island and closed in on Floyd. “Have you been to jail before, F-Dawg?”

  “N-no.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing you’ve got some money. See, it’s dangerous for pretty boys like you to be mixed in with gen pop. Do you know what that is?” Floyd swallowed, barely moving his head. “General population. It’s where the rapists, killers, mutilators, and the like hang out. They have their own code of justice—funny enough—and the murder of a beautiful young girl ranks pretty high on the list of crimes they don’t tolerate. But I’m sure a wealthy boy like yourself can pay for a private cell while you wait for the judge to consider your innocence.”

  “Is that true?” Floyd looked like he was going to be sick.

  “Nah.” Agent Edmonds narrowed his eyes. “They don’t believe in segregation in the prison system. Rich. Poor. They’re all mixed up. Killers. Baby-faced art lovers doing favors for people they don’t know.”

  “I swear, man.” Floyd’s voice became whiny as he edged farther away from the package like it was a contagion. “It was just a quick way to earn a few bucks since my parents have me on a stupid allowance until I get a job.”

  Sheriff Huggins pulled out a stool and put a hand on pretty boy’s shoulder. “Why don’t you sit down and tell us how this package came into your possession. From the beginning.”

  Floyd nodded and looked up at Sheriff Huggins with tenderness and appreciation. “I found an envelope on my doorstep. Inside was a letter and a wad of cash. The letter said there would be more. Next day a package gets delivered to my door and all I have to do is attach an address slip and mail it out. Then I get another five grand.”

  “That’s it?” Agent Edmonds growled.

  “And you have no idea who’s paying you or what the packages are?” Charlie asked.

  “Dude, they left a stack of bills on my porch. Why would I ask questions?”

  Sheriff Huggins continued. “How many times have you done this?”

  “Only a couple. Am I going to get in trouble for this? I don’t want to go to jail. I didn’t do anything wrong. Didn’t kill anyone.”

  As much as the playboy annoyed him, the evidence just wasn’t there to prove Floyd Hollins had anything to do with Sydney’s murder. He looked down at the painting Sheriff Huggins had unwrapped. Charlie knew the broad strokes of this piece made it a contemporary abstract. Red and black. Charlie wasn’t artistic in the least, but he could’ve probably created something similar. He searched the canvas for the artist’s signature, conflicted about whether he wanted to see Sydney’s name on it or not. But there was no signature. Weird.

  “We’re going to do you a favor, Mr. Hollins.” Agent Edmonds grabbed some paper towels from the kitchen counter to handle the painting as he wrapped it back in the brown paper. “We believe the person who delivered this painting to your front steps is a member of a cartel. We need to take this painting to our labs to run some tests on it for fingerprints—”

  “Wait. What if this cartel guy comes around looking for his painting?”

  Charlie fixed his eyes on Floyd. “I guess you should’ve asked questions before you pocketed money from the devil.”

  “Man, I’ve seen what those guys do to people who double-cross them.” Floyd’s face went slack. “Leave them naked and headless in the middle of the street.”

  “Where’s the shipping label?” Sheriff Huggins asked.

  “I haven’
t received it yet.” Floyd’s voice wobbled. “Those guys are going to kill me.”

  “Does the label come by mail or is it dropped off on your porch?” Charlie asked.

  Floyd looked up at Charlie, his face green again. “Dropped off.”

  “If you cooperate”—Agent Edmonds pulled out his cell phone—“we can offer you protection.”

  “Yes, sir. Whatever you need,” Floyd answered, offering his first act of respect.

  “But first, you need to go put on some pants and brush your teeth.” Agent Edmonds sighed. “And call your parents.”

  “Yes, sir.” Floyd disappeared to the upstairs.

  Fear does that to a person. Makes them start listening to the one who can offer protection. It was hard to feel sorry for the kid. He didn’t need the money and yet greed made him an unwitting participant in a scheme that could’ve cost him his life.

  Sheriff Huggins’s forehead creased. “You can trace money . . . you think you can trace a painting?”

  “We’ll run prints first, but yeah, I think we can put a tracer in it and find out where it leads. I don’t know if it’ll help out your investigation, but it might help ours.” Agent Edmonds put his phone back in the clip on his belt. “Sent a message to my guys and they’re going to work with Metro police to make sure Captain Oblivious here stays safe.”

  “What if we take the painting back to the gallery? Ms. Benedict lied to us. Sydney was there the day before she died.” Charlie caught Agent Edmonds eyeing him, but he didn’t care. This was a huge step forward in their case, and while they were currently on the same side, Charlie couldn’t help but feel that the DEA’s cooperation might conveniently cease the second the painting was in their hands. “Doesn’t murder trump a drug bust?”

  “Deputy Lynch, I don’t mean to trivialize the murder of the young lady in your town, but drugs kill millions of people every year. If we can take another one of these dealers off the streets, that’s thousands of lives we can save.”

  “I’m sure that’ll make us not finding Sydney’s killer justifiable to her parents,” Charlie said through gritted teeth,

  Sheriff Huggins leaned toward Charlie and whispered, “My gut tells me this painting is going to tell us a whole lot more if we let it go, but if you think this is something we need to fight back on, we can. This is your case. I trust you.”