Lane pulled the phone from her pocket and checked the ID. It wasn’t Charlie. It was Dottie, Harley’s wife. “Hello?”
“Honey, thank God you answered. I’m about fit to have my britches tied. Have you seen Miguel?”
Lane froze. “No. Why?”
“They think he killed that little girl. The deputy—the good-looking one—he came by this morning to talk to Harley.” Dottie’s voice was breathless, panicked. “Honey, they’re getting a warrant out for his arrest.”
Lane rubbed her forehead, catching her sister’s concerned gaze. “I-I just can’t believe it’s Miguel.”
“Me either, honey, and Harley tried his best to convince them, but they got something on him. Something bad.”
When Charlie left the barbecue on Saturday night, he said it was because of work. When he returned, he told Lane they’d been at Miguel’s. What had they found? Her heart thumped wildly in her chest. She peered out the window and could see the outline of the courthouse.
“They’re wrong, Dottie. Whatever they’ve got . . . it can’t be Miguel.”
Lane ended the call just as Noah came traipsing down the stairs.
If Miguel had been at her parents’ house on Saturday night—why? And why did she have such a strong feeling that he wasn’t the killer? People hid the things that shamed them most. Maybe Miguel was a killer hiding out. Pretending to be normal . . . like her.
“Everything okay?” Meagan put a hand on Lane’s shoulder. “You don’t look well.”
“I’m fine.” Lane shook her head and shook off the dark thoughts pervading her mind. She really needed to see Dr. Wong, but first she needed to know if she was wrong and Charlie was right.
Noah peeked through the spindles of the stairs. “Can I take my train with me to Pops?”
Lane squeezed her eyes shut. She doubted she’d have enough time to drop off Noah with Pops before her father issued the warrant. “Change of plans, bud. You can’t go to Pops’s right now.”
Noah’s lips began to quiver and, like magic, crocodile-size tears filled his eyes. She definitely didn’t have time for a breakdown.
“I can take him . . . or he can come with me.” Meagan spoke softly, her cheeks flushed. “I mean, if you need to be somewhere. Paige and Owen will be home soon and they can play in the sprinklers. I promise I won’t let him out of my sight for even a second.”
Lane knew what happened at the barbecue was an accident. Her sister really did love Noah and wouldn’t let anything happen to him, but a tingle of fear kept Lane from answering her sister for a few seconds.
“Okay.”
“Okay?” Meagan’s eyes lit up. “Really?”
“I can play with Owen and Paige.” Noah smiled. “Can I still bring my train?”
“Sure, but hurry.”
Meagan smiled, but it was lacking something. “Thank you.”
Lane studied Meagan. The last thing she wanted was for her sister to feel guilty about what happened, but Meagan’s face held the same pale pallor it had the night of the barbecue. “Are you feeling okay?”
“Sure.” Meagan ran a hand over the peach sheath dress that highlighted her perfectly tan skin. “You know, all the Junior League meetings leading up to the fund-raiser and the auction, added with the chaos of”—her eyes flashed to Lane’s— “well, I think it’s zapped my energy.”
“I don’t know about your kids, but Noah still takes a nap. Maybe that’s what you need—a little nap.”
“That sounds really good actually.”
Noah came bounding down the stairs with his backpack on. Lane gave him extra kisses, which he quickly wiped away with the back of his hand, before she led him outside and buckled him in the back of Meagan’s minivan. As soon as they pulled out of the drive, Lane locked up the café and started for the courthouse. How was she going to convince Sheriff Huggins and Charlie they were wrong about Miguel? And what evidence did they have that had Sheriff Huggins convinced Miguel could’ve killed Sydney? And what would she say if she ran into Charlie?
The steady cadence of determined purpose hummed from every desk inside the sheriff’s station. The drone of reporters milling about outside had set Charlie’s nerves on edge. They were waiting for a statement, but it wouldn’t be issued until after Charlie and Sheriff Huggins spoke with Judge Sullivan.
Charlie looked at his phone. Lane hadn’t answered any of his calls or text messages. And when he stopped by the Way Station Café, a simple sign in Lane’s handwriting said the café was closed for cleaning. He tried knocking, but there was no answer.
Heaving a sigh, Charlie looked at the report he’d just finished. The evidence was strong and it pointed to Miguel. Deputy Wilson even found a chiseling tool in Miguel’s workshop with traces of blood on it. It would take time to get the DNA results back, but the shape of the tool was unusual enough that a quick call to the medical examiner confirmed it could be the murder weapon.
“Deputy Lynch.” Frost appeared at his side. “You need to see something. You too, Sheriff.”
Sheriff Huggins had stepped out of his office and was now following Charlie and Frost as they headed to the back room. The bounce in Frost’s steps, Charlie quickly learned, meant the young man had something important—and an endless supply of energy.
“Agent Padello sent these over a few minutes ago.” Frost held up several still shots. “Recognize anyone?”
The two people in the photos clearly had no idea they were being photographed. The first photo was of a man and a woman sitting under an umbrella. They both wore sunglasses. She also had on an oversized sun hat. The next photo was a close-up of the same couple sitting at what looked like a beach or poolside bar. The woman was still wearing the hat, but her sunglasses were off.
Charlie’s body went rigid. “That’s Annika Benedict.”
“And Deputy Lynch gets the point.” Frost’s lips curled into a goofy grin. “Don’t feel left out, Sheriff. You get double points if you can guess who the man is with her.”
There was only one logical guess, but Sheriff Huggins beat Charlie to it.
“Marco Solis.”
“And the sheriff swoops in for the win.” Frost held his hand up for a high five, but the sheriff left him hanging. “Okay . . . If you can’t already tell, you’ll notice that Ms. Benedict is a little less frigid in these photos—and I’m referring to more than the tropical location. Agent Padello said these photos were taken about three years ago on a lovely beach in the French Riviera.”
“Why was the FBI taking photos of Annika Benedict and Marco Solis three years ago in France?”
“That is a good question, Deputy Lynch.” Frost rubbed his hands together and then popped his knuckles before he started typing. “They weren’t.”
A second later, a picture of an Arab man flashed to the screen. With dark hair and a goatee, the man held a cigarette in his mouth as he looked off into the distance from the deck of a luxurious boat.
“Meet Abas Nawabi.”
“Should we know this man?”
“Probably not.” Frost lifted his shoulders. “But the FBI believes he’s got connections with a terrorist organization inside Afghanistan.”
“Frost, you have me completely lost.” Sheriff Huggins exhaled. “What does this guy have to do with Annika and Marco Solis?”
Frost tapped the photos. “Sir, the real question is why is Annika hanging out with a drug dealer and a suspected terrorist?”
Charlie opened the desk drawer and pulled out a sketch. It was the face of the man Lane said was in her shop after hours asking questions about her dead husband and their little boy. The one who may or may not have been outside the café tampering with the alarm system. And possibly the one who ran Lane and Noah off Old Ogeechee Road. “Sir, this is Marco Solis.”
Sheriff Huggins’s face drew taut as his eyes passed between the sketch and the photo. “He’s been here.”
“And he may be the killer.” As Charlie thought about how close Marco Solis had gotten to Lane and
Noah, anger rose in his chest. But why was Solis going after her? His cell phone rang before he could voice his questions. “It’s Agent Edmonds.”
“Answer it,” Sheriff Huggins said. “He might be interested in this.”
“Agent Edmonds, I have you on speakerphone. Sheriff Huggins and Deputy Frost are here with me.” He set his phone on the table between them. “We’ve got something here that might interest you.”
“Hmm, looks like the stars are aligning in both our favors, because I’ve got some interesting news for you too.”
Charlie looked to Sheriff Huggins for permission and received a quick nod. “You go first, Agent Edmonds.”
“I have two pieces of information. Good and bad. Which do you prefer to hear first?”
“Good,” Charlie said as his voice collided with that of Frost, who opted to hear the bad news first.
“We could use good,” Sheriff Huggins said.
“We tracked that painting to Atlanta.”
“The one that was in Miami on Saturday?” Charlie leaned forward. “How? There’s no mail service on Sundays.”
“The mailing labels they’ve been using are fake, or at least this one was. A man not wearing a uniform picked up the painting late Saturday night and delivered it yesterday afternoon to a house known for drug activity. Our team breached the location and found the painting being covered with a colored paste of methamphetamine.”
Charlie frowned. “Say again.”
“They melt the meth into a gelatin-type substance. They paint it onto the canvas and, once the gel dries, it can be scraped off, remelted, and then distributed.”
“They’re painting the drugs onto the canvas?” Sheriff Huggins seemed to be saying it aloud for his own benefit.
“We found several more paintings in various stages inside the home. They all had mailing labels with the address of the gallery in Savannah.”
“Was the house occupied?”
“Just one man. One of the painters—we’re assuming there are more than one by the number we found inside the house—but he hasn’t been very cooperative. We believe he’s the boyfriend of Marco Solis’s sister, which brings me to the bad news. Marco Solis’s body was discovered in a dumpster off River Street last night.”
Stunned silence filled the room. If anyone other than Miguel was responsible for Sydney’s murder, it was Marco—and now he was dead. Part of Charlie was relieved. If Marco was the one harassing Lane, then that meant she was safe now. But Miguel was still missing.
“Now, you tell me some good news.” Agent Edmonds’s deep voice cut into the silence. “Or is it bad news?”
“It’s news. Good or bad might be up for interpretation after what you’ve just told us.” Charlie was halfway through explaining about the photos when a thought occurred to him. “Agent Edmonds, do you know anything about Abas Nawabi?”
Silent seconds ticked by. “He’s been on the DEA’s watchlist for some time as one of the main contributors bringing meth into the Middle East and parts of Europe.” Agent Edmonds’s tone went flat. “I’m curious how you came up with that name.”
Charlie studied the photos in his hand. “I’m looking at surveillance photos the FBI took of Abas Nawabi. They include Marco Solis and Annika Benedict together from three years ago. And I think I saw Abas Nawabi in Savannah the first time we questioned Annika.”
“You saw Abas Nawabi in Savannah?” Agent Edmonds’s question was leveled in disbelief.
“There was a man. That first day we were in the gallery. He had a smell about him I couldn’t place at first, but it was strawberry tobacco. The kind they use in shisha pipes. The men in Afghanistan smoked it all the time. Add a couple of years and a few pounds. His beard is full now.” Charlie looked at the picture. A lot of things could be changed about a person’s appearance, but he learned eyes were the hardest feature to disguise. And they could almost always be read. “But those eyes are the same.”
“If they’re connected, then that would explain how El Chico’s product has found its way into the Middle East.” Agent Edmonds’s cadence picked up. “They’re using the art to smuggle the drugs.”
Sheriff Huggins crossed his arms. “Is it possible Sydney knew about the drugs in the paintings?”
“Or Miguel?” Frost asked.
Charlie scratched his chin. “We’ve got pictures that prove Annika is connected to Marco Solis—a known drug dealer who’s connected to the Mexican cartel run by El Chico.”
“And the man whose sister is dating the guy painting drugs onto the canvases,” Frost added.
“Which is where Floyd Hollins comes into play,” Agent Edmonds said. “That punk is a lot of things, but a killer ain’t one of them.”
Charlie explained Marco Solis’s questionable presence in Lane’s life to Agent Edmonds.
“If Marco’s connection is Annika, then why was he here in Walton? How does Lane fit into all of this?”
It was like they had the edges of a puzzle put together but didn’t have enough middle pieces to decipher what the picture was—yet. “I think Annika is the connecting piece to this puzzle.”
“With these shipping labels, her gallery’s connection to the drugs was enough to get us a warrant to search her property. Lynch, you want in on it?”
His ears perked at the invitation. Of course he did. And he could see from Frost’s tapping foot that he did too. “Yes, count two of us in.”
Frost looked up, eyes round. “Me,” he whispered, pointing to himself.
Charlie nodded.
“I’ll give you a call as soon as I have details.”
The call ended and Charlie ran both hands through his hair. This felt familiar. Painful weeks of routine waiting for intel to secure enough information on the enemy when—bam!—all at once data would come pouring in and the mission was a go.
“Charlie, it’s time.” Sheriff Huggins tapped Charlie’s shoulder. “Judge Sullivan is ready with the warrant.”
TWENTY-FIVE
CARS, TRUCKS, AND MEDIA VANS lined both sides of the street in front of the courthouse. The news of a possible suspect had drawn the attention of reporters and journalists from as far north as New York and all the way south to Miami. Camera operators jostled with one another for the best shot as their counterparts rehearsed their headline-grabbing hooks.
“He’s a baby killer.”
“Now her family can rest in peace.”
“Hides in the woods.”
Lane hurried up the steps of the courthouse, anxious to escape the scathing comments circling about Miguel, and pushed past the crowd hanging around the front door. Rumors were already starting and Miguel hadn’t even been named as a suspect—at least not officially. What did they find at his house that would make them believe he killed Sydney? She didn’t want to think about it. Whatever it was—there had to be an explanation.
The hallways of the courthouse were filled with people. Mondays were always busy arraignment days, but Lane guessed most of the people occupying floor space among the marble pillars were there because of Miguel. Lane paused outside her father’s office. What was she going to say?
“Lane, what are you doing here?”
His voice had a way of turning her insides into mush, and today was no exception. Lane turned to face Charlie. Blue eyes crinkled with concern even though his lips held the hint of a smile like he was glad to see her.
“Finding out the truth.” She hated the way seeing him made her heart race. How could she let herself fall for him so quickly? Believe there was a chance?
“The truth?”
“Yes.” She licked her lips, avoiding the tender look in his eyes. “I want to make sure you aren’t going after Miguel because of any medical conditions he might have.”
He took a tentative step toward her. “Do you really believe we’re going after him because of that?”
“I don’t know.” Lane’s purpose began to waver in the wake of Charlie’s gentle expression. “Why are you going after him then?”
“Somebody’s discussing something because there’s a crowd outside that thinks Miguel’s responsible for Sydney’s murder,” Lane said, her voice pitching defensively.
A few faces turned their way. A woman Lane recognized as an attorney’s secretary stepped into the hallway and flashed a tight smile at her and Charlie. This conversation wasn’t one Lane wanted to have in the middle of the courthouse. Charlie followed her into the corner of the hallway tucked behind one of the pillars. Her hand brushed against his, sending a longing to be wrapped in his arms again rolling through her body. She pushed away the desire.
Lane lowered her voice. “Please tell me you’re not like them.” Lane hitched her thumb in the direction of the courthouse’s front doors. “Miguel has PTSD and lives in the woods and keeps to himself, but he is not what they’re calling him. You have to believe me.”
Charlie drew in close and looked like he wanted to pull her into his arms, but then he stopped. Pushing his fingers through his hair, his expression pained, he finally said, “People with PTSD have been known to act out in unexpected ways.”
“He’s never hurt anyone before.”
“Maybe not, but people come home from war not right in the head—accident or not, they can be dangerous. I saw him the night when he hit you. I’ve seen too many buddies take the path of least resistance and try to numb their pain. It’s never ended well.”
Charlie’s voice was soft, as though he was speaking from experience. His friend, Tate. The one he couldn’t save. Her chest tightened. Charlie did understand—better than most—and yet it wasn’t enough.
“Do you know that for as long as Miguel’s come into my café, I’ve never even smelled a whiff of alcohol on him? Harley’s known Miguel since they fought in the war and even he can’t believe what you’re doing—”
“The evidence is there, Lane.” Charlie’s jaw flexed. “I know he’s your friend and you want to help, but it’s my job to follow the evidence.” Charlie closed the space between them by half. His fingers grazed hers. “Let me help Miguel by finding the truth. That’s the only way we can help him.”
Living Lies Page 26