by Lynda Bailey
The automatic doors swishing open whirled her around. In marched a troop of men, all wearing flak jackets embossed with FBI and carrying assault rifles. Following behind was Lynch.
Momentary joy shot through Shasta’s chest before she realized his hands were bound behind his back, and two more enormous officers flanked him.
Lynch flicked a glimpse in her direction then stared straight ahead, his mouth set in a grim line. Reality spiked her blood pressure. Lynch was being arrested—for killing Todd?
No. No. No.
That made no sense…no sense at all. After Lynch was so adamant yesterday about her not being alone, he wouldn’t have hurt Todd, especially since the deputy helped her out.
Seeing Lynch disappeared into the interrogation room spurred Shasta to move, and she marched straight to Dell’s office.
Unmindful that her brother was on the phone, she burst through his door. “Why did you arrest Lynch?”
Dell’s eyebrows slashed together in a ferocious scowl while Adam actually looked amused.
“Thanks for the update,” Dell said into the receiver then hung up. Daggers shot from his eyes. “What the hell ever happened to knocking?”
She ignored his reprimand. “Tell me why you arrested Lynch.”
“I didn’t. The FBI did.”
Adam coughed, a small grin still on his lips. “As entertaining as this loving exchange between brother and sister promises to be, I need to get to Callan’s interview.”
Once the DA left, Shasta honed her attention back on Dell. “Why did you call the FBI?”
“It’s standard procedure for the feds to take over the case when a law enforcement officer is murdered.”
“But Lynch didn’t kill Todd.”
“And you know this how? From your extensive training as a cop?”
Her brother’s jeer slapped her face, but she stared him down.
He glanced away with a tired sigh. “Look…they found Todd’s body at Callan’s trailer. They had no choice but to bring him in.”
Blood drained from her cheeks as she sank in the chair across from Dell. “Lynch’s trailer?”
Dell scrubbed both hands down his face. “Yeah.”
For the first time Shasta noticed his ashen complexion and the lines marring his features. He’d just lost his deputy—and friend. God…she felt like such a shit. “Hey.”
He met her gaze.
“You okay?”
With a nod, he sat taller and shuffled through the papers on his desk. “I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
“I said I was fine.”
Hearing that tone, she knew better than to push. “What else do you know about Todd?”
“Not much. The feds don’t want the particulars leaked, but there was an anonymous tip early this morning around three saying where the body of a deputy sheriff could be found. They also found a nine millimeter Glock in Callan’s motorcycle pack when they arrested him. That’s the same caliber used to murder Todd.”
She wilted into a chair. “Really?”
“Yeah. And if the ballistics on the recovered nine mil matches the gun used to kill Todd, the case against Callan will be a slam-dunk.”
A slam-dunk? Shasta’s stomach dropped through the floor. She needed to tell her brother about what happened yesterday, her promise to Lynch be damned. If the Streeters truly had been after her, maybe one of them saw Todd pick her up at the Grab-n-Go and killed him for interfering. It might be the only way to save Lynch now…
“I need to tell you—”
Dell’s phone interrupted her words. “Albright.” After listening for a moment, he waved her from his office.
“But I need to talk to you,” she mouthed.
Frowning, he shook his head. She crossed her arms, her own jaw set.
“Hang on for a second,” Dell said into the phone. He covered the receiver with his hand. “This is official business.”
“But I—”
“Close the door on your way out.”
She narrowed her eyes, but he scowled right back, one eyebrow arched. After a long moment, she stood and walked out.
If her dear brother thought this conversation was over, he was so wrong. She’d prove Lynch had nothing to do with Todd’s death if it was the last thing she ever did.
Chapter Sixteen
SITTING IN INTERROGATION, his hands folded on the table and his posture relaxed, Lynch observed the two men across from him as they straighten their respective stacks of papers, rifled through them, then straightened them again.
Silence soaked the room, but he didn’t mind. He knew this tactic…make the suspect sweat with an extended quiet.
Since getting handcuffed, no one had said a word to him. And he responded in kind. He didn’t have a clue was going on, and didn’t bother asking. He was just grateful to have on his clothes.
Luckily, he’d seen the black sedans pull up in front of his mom’s house and quickly shot off a couple of texts. One to Hez telling him to take care of Ma that day. The second to Newman. With Jarvis out of town, he hoped her “associate” would be able to do something if he got detained. Otherwise, God only knew when Lynch would get released.
Finally the guy to his right spoke, “Mr. Callan, I’m Special Agent Granger and this is Special Agent Coleston. We’re with the FBI. Would you mind enlightening us to your whereabouts last night between the hours of midnight and six am?”
“Not at all,” Lynch replied with a nonchalant shrug. “Once my lawyer, Emma Jarvis, gets here I’d be happy to…enlighten…you about anything you want.”
No recognition of Jarvis’s name flickered on either man’s face. Was that because these two were the world’s best actors or did they really not know a fellow agent? Lynch’s stomach tightened. If they didn’t know Jarvis, then they didn’t know about his deal with her. But then she’d warned him the Reno office wouldn’t be in the loop…
Granger turned to Coleston. “He wants his lawyer. You know what that means.”
Coleston nodded. “He’s guilty.” The agent shoved a picture across the table. “Do you know this man?”
Lynch said nothing, not lowering his gaze.
“This is Deputy Todd Weedly. Found murdered early this morning. Shot in the back of the head.”
Icy fingers squeezed Lynch’s throat. Todd Weedly…the guy who picked up Shasta yesterday at the Grab-n-Go. If Lynch hadn’t followed Weedly’s car back to her house and seen her walk inside, he might have feared something had happened to her. He pushed the photo back, still not looking directly at it. “Haven’t had the pleasure.”
“Interesting,” Granger interjected, “considering we found his body next to your trailer.”
Lynch’s pulse skyrocketed and his stomach contorted, but he kept his expression dispassionate. “I said I want my lawyer.”
Coleston extracted another photo from a file and held it up. It was of a nine mil Glock. “You got out of prison a couple of weeks ago?” He glanced at the picture. “This was found in your motorcycle gear.”
Lynch swallowed his snort. How dumb did these two think he was? If he had shot someone, would he seriously have kept the weapon, or left the body next to his trailer?
“A parolee in possession of a gun will get him a seat on the first bus back to prison,” Coleston continued. “And if the gun killed a law enforcement officer in cold blood, then that parolee will spend what’s left of his life in solitary twenty-three hours a day. But…” He tented his fingers, “…you save us the trouble of proving you murdered Deputy Weedly, and we’ll not only see to it that you go into gen pop, we might even be able to take the death penalty off the table. But this offer is only good for the next five seconds.”
Lynch clamped his jaws together and glared as Coleston made a show of looking at his watch.
“Time’s up.”
The agents collected their pictures and files then stood, but Granger paused to lean close to Lynch’s ear.
“I’m really glad you’re as stupid as you look, Call
an,” he said. “I’ll have a front row seat to your date with a needle.”
Lynch stared at his reflection in the one-way mirror, maintaining a stoic exterior while the agents left, but the knot in his stomach increased. With this evidence, his name would be on a return ticket back inside before the day ended if something didn’t happen, and happen real fucking soon.
If Lynch went back to prison, what would happen to Jarvis’s op? To his club? His mom?
Shasta…?
Someone had to be framing him. It was the only explanation. Question was who…
It didn’t make sense for Junkyard or another Streeter to go to this effort if they wanted to eliminate Lynch. A bullet to the head was faster and infinitely easier, not to mention foolproof.
No. Someone either couldn’t get rid of him the swift, simple way…or they wanted him to suffer. Then there was the fact Weedly had driven Shasta home. Could be a coincidence, but Lynch didn’t believe in coincidences. His gut said Shasta was involved. But how—and was she in danger?
The idea of an unknown person threatening her curled his hands into fists. He would kill anyone who harmed Shasta. With his bare fucking hands if necessary. His murderous thoughts were disrupted when Newman hurried into the room.
Lynch never thought he’d be happy to see a fed, but he sure as shit was now. “Thanks for coming.”
“I didn’t really have a choice.” Newman held the door. “C’mon…let’s go.”
Shock jolted Lynch’s heart. “I can leave?”
The agent nodded. “That’s what I said.”
“But how?”
“I’ll explain later. Right now, let’s just get out of here.”
In no mood to argue, Lynch stood and preceded Newman out of interrogation. Feeling every set of eyes on him as he strode across the squad room floor, Lynch kept his gaze fixed on the main entrance. In his peripheral vision, though, he noticed Granger and Coleston in what appeared to be a heated discussion with Adam Murphy. He also caught a glimpse of Shasta sitting at a desk. While she looked drawn and pale, relief warmed his chest at seeing her.
Once outside, he turned to Newman. “How’d you managed to get me released? Neither of those FBI guys seemed to know Jarvis.”
“That’s because they don’t. My car’s over here.”
“So I’ll ask again—how’d you get me released?”
“I made a deal with the DA.” Newman hit the key fob of a black Toyota.
“DA Murphy? How’d you pull that off? They think I killed a deputy.”
“I know. I also know you didn’t.”
Lynch pulled up short. “How the hell do you know that?”
“Get in the car and I’ll tell you all about it.”
“Tell me now.”
Newman opened the passenger door and fixed Lynch with a glare. “Time’s running out so get in the damn car.”
Warning bells clanged in Lynch’s head. This whole situation was too sketchy by half. He crossed his arms. “No.”
Newman looked left then right—then pulled his weapon. “I said get in the fucking car.”
“So now you’re gonna shoot me in broad daylight?”
“If that’s what it takes to get you in this car, yes.”
Lynch stared Newman down. As pissing contests went, this one was a tough call for Lynch. Capitulate by getting in the car and God-only-knew what would happen to him. Or stand here and maybe get shot.
Finally Newman lowered his gun. “Oh for Christ’s sake…I’m not your enemy. The ballistics on the nine mil recovered from your stuff matches the gun that killed Weedly.”
Despite the warm breeze, a cold shiver hit between Lynch’s shoulder blades. He dropped his arms. “I take it Granger and Coleston don’t know this.”
“Correct. But they’re gonna find out soon and you need to be somewhere else when they do.”
“Does Murphy know about the ballistics?”
“Yes.”
Lynch’s mouth fell open. “And he signed off on releasing me? How does that square?” Realization knotted his gut. “Did you blow my cover with the DA?”
“Oh, for the love of God…” Newman holstered his weapon and slammed the car door shut. “It’s protocol to bring in a local for an operation of this size, so, yes…Murphy knows you’re working with us.”
“What the fuck? If word leaks out about my involvement, I’m dead.”
“Relax. Murphy has every incentive to keep your connection secret. He’s been working on a RICO indictment of the Streeters since he became DA, but the investigation was stalled—until you came into the picture and started doling out information about the gun and drug shipments.”
“I never agreed to be a part of any RICO bullshit.”
“I know. That’s why you weren’t told, but Jarvis and I don’t give a fuck about that. We care about getting Blackwell and ultimately Fuentes, which trumps whatever a small-minded, power-hungry DA wants. I did, however, tell Murphy that unless he intended for his precious case to go tits-up, he’d better find a reason to have you released before that ballistics report became common knowledge.” He reopened the door. “Now will you get in the car?”
Stunned, Lynch slid into the passenger seat while Newman stomped to the driver’s side and got behind the wheel. If Lynch had any lingering doubts about Newman, or even Jarvis, they were gone—for the most part. He clicked his seatbelt into place. “How is it you’re convinced I didn’t kill Weedly?”
Newman started the engine and backed out of the parking slot. “For one because there were no fingerprints on that weapon. None. Inside or out. Doesn’t make much sense for you to wipe it down, including the bullets, then leave it in your motorcycle pack. And two, the GPS on your phone said you were at your mom’s house all last night.”
“Maybe I left the phone behind.”
The agent gave Lynch a sidelong look. “Did you?”
“No.”
“Didn’t think so.”
Lynch glanced out the window. “Where are we going?”
“Gonna stash you in a hotel in Reno until we can figure out this mess.”
“But what about my mom? It’s not safe for her to be alone.”
Newman eased to a stop at a red light. “I’ve instructed a team to keep an eye on her.”
“Can we at least swing by her place so I can grab some clean clothes?”
The agent hauled a duffle up from the backseat. “Already taken care of. And here are two new burner phones.” He handed over silver and black cells.
“Same as before? The silver is only for you and Jarvis?”
Newman nodded. “Our numbers are programmed in.”
Lynch stowed the silver in his jean pocket and switched on the black one. “I don’t suppose I can tell anyone where I’m going?”
A sardonic grin twisted Newman’s mouth. “You suppose correctly. No one is to know anything, got that?”
“Yeah…I got it.” Lynch punched in Hez’s number.
It took four rings before his best friend answered, “Yeah?”
“Yo, brother. It’s me.”
“Hey…you got a new phone?”
“Uh…lost my other one. Listen, I need a favor.”
“Anything, brother. You know that.”
“I need you to stay with my mom for the next couple of days.”
“Oh?” Curiosity flourished in the single word.
“Yeah. And I need you not to ask any questions.”
Silence met that statement. “Okay, but what do I tell your ma?”
Lynch glanced at Newman. “Tell her I’m tied up with pretrial and lawyer shit and that I’ll be outta town for a while. Tell her not to worry and that I’ll call her.”
“You can count on me, brother.” Hez paused. “And take care of yourself. Okay?”
His best friend always could tell when something more was going on. “I will. And thanks.”
Lynch disconnected the call then looked inside the bag. It was a jumbled mass of tshirts and jeans, underwea
r and socks. And nestled on top of the heap sat a cannon of a Remington 44 magnum handgun, with a box of ammunition. He looked at Newman. “What’s this?”
“My backup.”
Lynch molded his palm around the grip. “This is your backup?”
Not taking his gaze from the road, Newman answered. “It’s my unofficial backup. But I figured you’d need to be armed…with an untraceable gun…in case.”
“In case what?”
“Whatever. Suffices to say, I’m not willing to take any chances. Be careful with her, though. The recoil’s a bitch.”
Lynch picked it up. Weighty, but comfortable. A good fit for his hand. He shook his head. Obviously he was much deeper in the weeds than he could have ever imagined. He replaced the weapon and zipped the bag closed. “I guess so long as we’re sharing, there are a few things you probably should know about yesterday.”
“Yesterday?”
“Yeah. I stopped a couple of rogue Streeters from kidnapping Albright’s sister.”
Newman swung his head around to stare at Lynch. “How’d that happen? She’s got twenty-four, seven protection.”
“Shasta…Albright’s sister…slipped the detail and went for a run by herself.”
“How’d you know this?”
“Got a tip. And I got to her before the others did.”
“And you’re sure they were Streeters?”
“Positive. They mentioned the Streeter VP, Junkyard, by name. They also said Junkyard wanted her on the next shipment.”
The car swerved. “Shipment of girls?” Newman asked.
“Makes sense. They also commented that Shasta…Albright’s sister…was too old.”
“What else can you tell me?”
“Not much. I confronted Rolo last night about the human trafficking.”
“You think that was smart?”
“I needed to know what he knew.”
“And?”
Lynch sighed. “Rolo’s been in on the trafficking from the beginning, though not by choice. His daughters were threatened.”
“Did he say when the next shipment is?”
“He didn’t know. Guess Junkyard doesn’t give out that info until right before.” Lynch removed the slip of paper from his jean pocket and placed it on the center console. “But he did have the plate numbers on the vans they’re using.”