[Bellamy and the Brute 01.0] Bellamy and the Brute

by Alicia Michaels

  “Okay, show me what you got,” he said, gesturing toward the table. “My stuff is going to take a while.”

  Reaching into my pocket for the phone, I took one of the seats at the table, while he took the other. I showed him the text messages between Jones and Camila, then the emails.

  Tate’s eyebrows shot up as he glanced over the DNA test results. “Do you think this is Canton Haines’s DNA?”

  I shrugged. “It could be. The only thing we haven’t done is tie him to Isabella. If we can prove they knew each other somehow, and that he had a reason to kill her… maybe we can solve this thing.”

  “Bell, we’re supposed to be taking this to the police, remember?” he said, his voice far too stern. He sounded like my dad.

  “Right,” I said with a sheepish smile. “I meant, if the police can prove it.”

  Rolling his eyes, Tate shook his head at me, obviously not convinced. “Well, we might not be able to verify a connection between Canton and Isabella, but Camila has proof in these files on a lot of other deaths.”

  As he reached into the box and produced a handful of files, I frowned. “Canton Haines killed all these people?”

  “Not himself,” Tate clarified. “But each of these people died in weird accidents, and, in some way, had an issue with the former mayor.”

  Opening one of the files, he revealed a photo of a man who looked familiar to me. I recognized the man who had drowned in his own hot tub, Jim Barnes.

  “Remember Jim?” Tate asked.

  I nodded. “The journalist who was writing all those editorial pieces on Canton.”

  “Right. Well, Camila got access to his laptop and found the last story Jim was working on before he died.”

  Pulling a stack of stapled papers from the file, he handed them to me. “Prepare yourself… it’s insane.”

  Taking the papers, I read Jim’s headline: Investigation Reveals Criminal Organization Ties to Mayor Canton Haines. Eyes widening, I glanced back up at Tate. He nodded as if to assure me what I saw was real, and then gestured for me to keep reading.

  I skimmed the article, in which Jim laid out years’ worth of investigative journalism that proved Canton Haines had ties to a crime organization based in Atlanta. According to Jim, there was a paper trail of money laundering that led from Canton’s charities, straight to his bank account, and then into the pockets of the thugs working for the organization. The story accused Canton of embezzling city funds and using them to line his own pockets—fancy cars, lavish parties, designer clothes. It also called out some of the local police for being in Canton’s pocket—taking bribes to turn their back on certain crimes, losing evidence… it was bad.

  “No wonder these suspicious deaths weren’t investigated,” I said once I’d gotten to the end of the article. “But why have them killed in the first place?”

  “Well, we know why Jim was murdered,” Tate replied. “There are a few more in here who seem to have ties to Canton.”

  Retrieving another file, he sat it in front of me. “This is Mary Hinckley. She was a community organizer as part of a program advocating healthy school lunches for kids. There was a fundraiser held for the program, but Mary was only given a third of the money that was raised, despite being led to believe she’d get all of it. She was persistent in going after him for it, showing up at his office and raising a fuss at city council meetings. Guess what happened to her not long after?”

  Glancing at the photo of her, I recognized her from one of the obituaries I’d found. “She wandered into a construction site and never came out again.”

  Tate nodded. “Exactly. There are more. Every one of these files connects a suspicious death in town to the mayor.”

  “Yeah, but how do we prove it?” I argued. “An attorney could just claim that it’s all circumstantial. Unless he confesses, they can’t prove anything.”

  Tate reached into the box and pulled out another file, his mouth curving into a smirk. “Bell, meet Jameson Whitlock… organized crime thug and Canton Haines’ pit bull.”

  Dropping the folder in front of me, he opened it to reveal a photo of a man with weathered, tan skin, cold, black eyes, and a grimacing mouth.

  Lifting the documents paper-clipped to the photo, I skimmed them with wide eyes. “This guy has quite the rap sheet. Wow.”

  “He has ties to the Atlanta crime family that Jim wrote about in his story.”

  Lifting a page that appeared to be a phone record, I raised my eyebrows. “These are a lot of phone calls between an Atlanta area code and a Wellhollow Springs one.”

  Tate nodded. “Calls from Canton to Jameson… there are texts in there too. There are also some stoplight camera images that put Jameson in town during every single one of these accidental deaths. And guess what kind of car he drives?”

  “A black Lincoln?”

  “Yes,” he confirmed.

  “Wow,” I whispered. “Haines is a monster.”

  “He is,” Tate replied. “He obviously put Jameson on our trail after he realized you knew something.”

  My pulse leapt at the thought of having survived a brush with a hit man. “You were right when you said we were in over our heads. This goes way deeper than I thought.”

  “You got that right,” Tate muttered. “It’s cool to see where it all leads, though. We followed our instincts and look how far it got us. Forget Library Science, I think you need to study Criminal Justice in college.”

  Giving him a pointed look, I pursed my lips. “And what are you going to study?”

  Cheeks flaming red, he glanced back down at the papers. “You know what I don’t get?” he said, changing the subject completely.

  “What’s that?” I asked, deciding to give him an out for now. One step at a time. If I couldn’t get him to take me to a dance, then I certainly couldn’t convince him to give college a try.

  “The connection to Isabella. I mean, she was a prostitute, right? Maybe Canton was one of her customers or something.”

  “Good luck proving that.” I snorted. “Prostitution leaves no paper trail. The girl does her thing, the guy hands her money, end of story. Unless someone got them together on tape, we can’t prove that. Maybe it will be enough that we turn over the evidence we have. He’ll still go down for the other crimes, and Camila and Isabella can finally rest knowing he can’t hurt anyone ever again.”

  “Unless…” Tate paused.

  I leaned toward him. “Unless what?”

  “Well, times have changed,” he mused. “A lot of prostitution occurs over the Internet now. Girls sell themselves on Craigslist and other sites, and some make a lot of money doing it.”

  Raising my eyebrows, I folded my arms across my chest. “And just how do you know that?”

  He laughed. “Relax, Bell. I’ve been a hermit for the past two years… I watched a lot of TV. Documentaries are my favorite, and there are a lot of them about sex trafficking.”

  “Fair enough,” I muttered grudgingly. “So, do you think Isabella was using the Internet to sell herself?”

  Tate shrugged. “Could be. When I get home, I’ll poke around online for a bit and try to see if I can find anything. But we might still hit a dead end here. No matter what I find, we still have to go with your dad to the sheriff’s office tomorrow and turn all this evidence over. We’ve done what we can for Isabella and Camila. All we can do now is pray it’ll be enough.”

  Helping him reorganize the papers and photos into their proper files, I stacked them inside the box. Then, I stood and faced him, reaching out to take both his hands in mine. “The Vasquez sisters will get their justice and be happy,” I assured him. “Then, we can both move on with our lives.”

  Tate nodded before bending his head to kiss me. I heard what he didn’t say, even as he tried to steal my focus. We knew what moving on would be for me. Finishing my last year of school, graduating, and then college. But for him? We had no way of knowing if his illness would continue to progress or get better—and even if it did, would h
e ever be ready to step fully out of the shadows and live his life in the open?

  Saying good-bye, I watched as Tate collected the phone and files before taking them to his car, promising to have them ready Monday for our trip to the sheriff’s office. I raised my hand to wave as he backed down the driveway, and then retreated into the house, trying not to dwell on it for too long. Things would work themselves out. I might have been skeptical before, but I was now fully invested in Tate. There could be no other outcome other than one that ended with us happy and together, living full lives.

  Monday seemed to creep by with aching slowness, each minute feeling like an hour. I found myself distracted, my palms becoming damp whenever I thought about what we were about to do. Finally, when the Baldwins returned home from work, I found Dad waiting for us outside, parked in the driveway.

  “How were things today?” Faith asked, while Douglas continued past me, removing his suit jacket as he retreated to his office.

  “Great,” I said with a forced smile. “We painted, and then the kids swam for most of the afternoon. They should sleep good tonight.”

  Faith smiled. “That’s good to hear. I have to say, Bellamy, how wonderful it’s been having you around. The kids have never been happier.”

  I smiled back, this time genuinely. “Thank you, ma’am. They really aren’t any trouble at all. You have great kids.”

  “And the things you’ve done for Tate…” Her eyes grew watery. “I’ve been trying to get him out of that room for years. You’ve been here six weeks, and it’s like he’s a new person. I can’t thank you enough.”

  “Hey, I’m standing right here,” Tate quipped, appearing at the bottom of the staircase, toting the box of files.

  Faith blinked back her tears and turned to greet Tate, who sat his box down on the entryway table before gathering her close for a hug.

  “Hi, Mom,” he said, kissing her cheek.

  Faith gasped. “Well, my goodness. What was that for?”

  He shrugged. “Can’t a guy hug his mother?”

  “Yes, but… well, I… thank you,” she stammered, blinking rapidly.

  She had obviously grown used to Tate being withdrawn and sullen. As she’d said, he was a different person now. I wanted to tell her that I didn’t deserve all the credit—Tate had made an effort to change of his own free will. I’d simply been there for him when he’d needed me. But I didn’t get a chance.

  Tate gathered the box again and turned to me. “Ready?”

  I nodded. “Sure.”

  “Where are you going?” Faith asked, glancing back and forth between us.

  “I need to help Bellamy with something,” he hedged, keeping his tone light. “I’ll only be gone an hour or two.”

  She nodded. “Okay. Hilda’s making lasagna for dinner. Will we see you?”

  “I wouldn’t miss Hilda’s lasagna,” he replied. “I’ll be home for dinner, I promise.”

  Faith waved us off before bending to remove her heels, and then marching up the stairs. Tate preceded me out the front door with the box, and I followed, closing it behind us. We trotted down the front steps to where Dad waited, idling in the car.

  “Hey guys,” he said as we got in—Tate in back and me in the front passenger seat. “Bell, how was your day?”

  “Pretty low key,” I replied. “When I wasn’t thinking about what we’re about to do, anyway.”

  Nodding, he threw the car into drive and pulled into the long lane leading off the Baldwin property. “I understand that you guys are nervous about it, but you’re doing the right thing.”

  “How do we explain how we came across all this stuff?” Tate asked. “I mean, we can’t exactly tell the truth.”

  “No,” Dad agreed. “What you’ll do is say that you found the box, and once you saw what was inside, you knew you needed to report it to the police.”

  “Found it where?” I asked. “What can we say that’ll be believable?”

  “Well, by now everyone knows Tate’s car got towed back to town and is sitting in the local junkyard, getting pulled apart for scrap.”

  “My poor baby,” Tate murmured from the backseat.

  Dad chuckled. “In a town this size, people will know about it. Just tell them you went to the scrap yard to collect some belongings they found in the trunk, and they mixed your stuff up with stuff from Camila Vasquez’s wrecked car. Hers was taken there after her accident, and it’s entirely possible the police didn’t recover everything. Don’t explain too much, give minimal details. Once they see what you have, it won’t matter to them how you found it. It’ll be up to them to use it how they see fit.”

  I nodded in agreement, but fell silent as we drew closer to town. I was still leery about giving up our evidence, but after all that had happened, we had no choice. Glancing over my shoulder, I noticed Tate looked anxious as well. Was he having second thoughts about this whole thing?

  “We’re here,” Dad said a few moments later, pulling to a stop in front of Wellhollow Springs’ municipal plaza—where city hall, the courthouse, and sheriff’s office were located. Not far from where we were parked, I could see the sign pointing the way to the office of the Young County Sheriff, Phillip Bailey.

  I was reaching for my door handle when a heavy hand grasped my arm, pulling me back into my seat.

  “Wait,” Dad whispered.

  Glancing at him, I frowned to see fear in his expression. “Dad, what’s going on?”

  “Look,” he said, inclining his head to the left and the opening front door of the courthouse.

  “Holy shit,” Tate muttered as he turned to follow our gazes to the two men talking like old friends together in front of the courthouse.

  One of them wore an officer’s uniform, a black gun and pair of handcuffs hanging from his hip. The other was dressed casually, sipping from a coffee cup. He smiled and laughed like he didn’t have a care in the world as the officer said something that must surely be a joke.

  “Is that—” Tate began.

  “Canton Haines and Sheriff Bailey,” I confirmed. “Chatting it up like they’ve been friends their whole lives.”

  “Damn it,” Dad mumbled, shocking me. He almost never used profanity.

  “Maybe it’s nothing,” I offered, even though my every instinct told me otherwise. “They’re both elected officials in a small town.”

  “Except Canton isn’t the mayor anymore,” Tate pointed out. “What’s he doing at the courthouse talking to the sheriff?”

  “I don’t like it,” Dad said. “Not one bit.”

  “Well, what are we going to do?” I asked. “We can’t just sit here with this stuff.”

  The two men finished talking and parted ways, with the sheriff coming toward his office, forcing him to pass us as he did. Glancing toward the car, he seemed to recognize us. Lifting his sunglasses, he stared straight into the car, and then began sauntering toward us.

  “He’s coming this way,” I squeaked, feeling as if my heart were going to pound right out of my chest. “What do we do?”

  “Stay calm,” Dad urged. “Tate, the box.”

  “I’m on it,” he replied.

  I could hear him moving around, and by the time I turned to look back at him, the box had completely disappeared from view.

  Dad rolled down the window as the sheriff approached, flipping his glasses onto his head and leaning down until his face appeared in the driver’s side window.

  “Mr. McGuire,” he drawled. “How you folks doing today?”

  “We’re doing well,” Dad replied, his voice even.

  “I would expect you to be down at the bookstore this time of day,” he said, gazing from Dad to me and back again. “You all closing early?”

  “Just had to shut the place down for an hour,” Dad replied. “Personal business.”

  The sheriff nodded, but he didn’t back away. He leaned against the car, one arm braced on the door, the other sliding a toothpick into his mouth. It moved around his mouth when he spoke.
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  “Personal business,” he murmured, slowly nodding his head. “Wouldn’t it be nice if everyone just minded their personal business instead of running around sticking their noses where they don’t belong? What a better world it would be if we could all learn to follow your example. Know what I mean?”

  Dad inclined his head, studying the sheriff in silence for several seconds. Finally, he forced a smile. “Yes, I know exactly what you mean. Like you said, I’d better be getting back now. You have a good one.”

  Backing away from the car, the sheriff gave us another smile, but the warmth of it never quite met his eyes. I shivered, despite the ninety-eight-degree weather sweltering through the open window.

  “Y’all have a pleasant night,” he replied, reaching up to replace his sunglasses. “Hope to see you at the Founder’s Day ball next week.”

  As he strode away, continuing toward his office, I fell back against my seat and sighed with relief. “Anyone else interpret that as an all-out threat?” I muttered.

  “I would have been a fool to take it as anything else,” Dad replied, throwing the car into reverse and backing out of his parking spot. “He all but warned us to back off.”

  “Which means those two are in on all this together,” Tate supplied from the backseat. “I shouldn’t be surprised. Jim Barnes mentioned police corruption in the article he was writing. I assumed he was referring to the city police, but the county sheriff is dirty, and his deputies might be also. And with the sheriff also functioning as a coroner, he could declare the murders accidents or suicides with no one the wiser.”

  “Too bad Jim didn’t mention names in his articles,” I said as we began the drive back to Baldwin House. “Maybe then we’d know who to trust. With the sheriff corrupted, who knows how deep this goes?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Dad lamented, shaking his head. “The county sheriff’s office might as well be a nest of snakes as far as I’m concerned, and I’m not convinced the local police department will be any better. We are not turning that information over to any of them.”

  “Then what are we going to do?” I asked. “We’ve hit a wall here. If we can’t trust the cops, who can we trust?”