Twisted Innocence (Moonlighters Series Book 3)

by Terri Blackstock

  Anger spiraled through her chest. She couldn’t just sit here waiting. She had to do something. She didn’t know where to find her muggers, but she might be able to help track Creed down.

  She’d gotten pretty good at finding missing persons and tracking those who hid from creditors and ex-wives. Creed’s knowledge of Lily was a frightening thing, something she’d never expected. Making sure he was arrested for whatever he’d done was one way to ensure that he put no claims on her daughter’s life.

  Then again, hunting him could be dangerous.

  The police would find him eventually. But if she left it up to them, she might be looking over her shoulder for days, even weeks. No, she had to be proactive. Somehow she had to move this along and make sure Creed didn’t pop up when she least expected it.

  CHAPTER 5

  Michael Hogan grabbed a wad of trash and stuffed it into his flimsy garbage bag. It was raining, but the work wasn’t finished, so there was no way Lieutenant Rafferty would take the work crew back to the jail. Michael worked faster, hoping to get the job done. But some of the others continued to work slowly, as if they’d rather get soaked than go back to that place.

  Being a trustee allowed to go out on the work crew was a privilege, earned only through months of good behavior. It broke up the hours of monotony, sitting in the cell with the same faces day after day, the same fights, the same insanity among the mentally ill, the same rage of hungry addicts, and the bitter, angry offenders who found themselves locked up.

  Someone honked a horn, and Michael looked up. A car full of teenaged girls drove by, laughing and waving, mocking them. He looked down at his green-and-white-striped Dr. Seuss pants, society’s assurance that none of the inmates would ever be mistaken for the general public.

  When he got out of jail, he would never wear stripes again.

  He was here for breaking the law, illegally using a firearm when he was a convicted felon. Though he’d been helping break up the biggest drug ring ever to work this area, and defending his friend and her kidnapped children, he couldn’t deny that he’d violated probation. There was a penalty for that, and he had to accept it. Juliet and her kids were safe, which made a year behind bars worth it.

  He’d filled his bag, so he tied it up and left it where the garbage men could pick it up, then went back to the truck to get another one. The drivers waiting for the light to change kept their eyes focused ahead of them, as if afraid to glance in the prisoners’ direction. He heard a click—someone locking his doors.

  Michael pulled a garbage bag off its roll, shook it out. “Hogan, cross the street and start over there,” Rafferty shouted.

  Michael nodded. Rafferty wouldn’t let cars get between himself and most of the other inmates, but he trusted Michael. He’d known him back when Michael was a detective on the Panama City police force. He’d been one of Michael’s sympathizers when he was convicted, and he’d vouched for him and gotten him on the work crew at the earliest opportunity.

  Michael went to the crosswalk and waited for the light to change again. It turned yellow, and cars turning left passed in front of him.

  When the crossing light turned green, he stepped out into the street. But the approaching SUV didn’t slow, and Michael jumped back just as it rounded the corner. His gaze connected with the driver.

  No way. It couldn’t be him!

  Michael stared at the driver as the SUV passed. His hair was blond and longer than it had been before . . . He took a few steps in the direction of the SUV, memorizing the tag. LTH 425.

  LTH 425 . . . LTH 425 . . . LTH 425. If only he had a pen.

  He’d have to remember it. Heart racing, he crossed the street and worked on the road cleanup, repeating the number in his mind over and over as he finished his work, constantly glancing up to watch the passing cars. LTH 425. Black Lincoln Navigator, 2012 or 2013.

  Leonard Miller. Did he have the gall to come back into town when he knew so many were looking for him? Was he so pompous that he thought he was invincible?

  If that was him, Michael would find him. Miller wouldn’t get away again. Even from the inside, there were things Michael could do. He wouldn’t rest until his brother’s killer faced the justice he deserved.

  CHAPTER 6

  Cathy Cramer had never felt so determined. Ever since Michael, her fiancé, had been sentenced to prison, she’d spent every waking moment thinking about how to save him.

  It had been her sister Holly’s idea to start a letter-writing campaign, and even though it was a long shot, she had to believe that a pardon was possible if the governor was barraged with mountains of letters on Michael’s behalf.

  Her blog, Cat’s Curious, was her best means to that end.

  Dear Friends,

  Many thanks to those of you who’ve already contacted the governor of Florida to request a pardon for Michael Hogan. To the rest of you, I’m begging you to write a simple letter on paper—not just e-mail—and send it to the governor’s office. At the very least, it will get his attention and make him consider Michael’s case.

  The man is a hero. He has spent his life fighting crime and locking up bad guys, and now he lives among those he helped put away. Everyone who watched Leonard Miller’s trial two and a half years ago knows that Michael didn’t deliberately lie during his testimony. He didn’t suppress evidence. He forgot the affidavit a woman with dementia had signed, describing someone other than Leonard Miller as the one who’d shot Joe. Michael realized that she wasn’t reliable; every other witness identified Miller without hesitation.

  Forgive me for rehashing this, but my newer Cat’s Curious readers may not know the details of the case. When the defense attorney called the mistaken woman’s daughter to the stand, Michael didn’t even remember meeting her. She testified that Michael hadn’t followed through on her mother’s affidavit, thereby effectively refuting Michael’s claim under oath that he’d never in his life suppressed evidence.

  Because of the woman’s testimony and the defense attorney’s focus on this, the jury had reasonable doubt about the police department’s integrity and found Leonard Miller not guilty. After the trial, Michael was convicted of lying under oath. He lost his job at the police department since, as a convicted felon, he could no longer carry a weapon.

  Needless to say, Miller went on to kill and kidnap others as he climbed the ladder of his deadly drug-trafficking ring. When Michael Hogan later took up arms to save my sister Juliet and her children from Miller’s murderous cruelty, he violated probation. Michael pled guilty and took the sentence without hesitation or regret, even though I begged him to fight it. His marriage proposal to me came as they hauled him off to jail.

  Again, a cold-blooded, brutal bottom dweller escaped justice, while a hero is in jail. And they wonder why I lost faith in the justice system and quit practicing law.

  If there was ever a man who was wrongfully incarcerated, it’s Michael Hogan. If there’s ever been a man who deserves not just freedom, but a complete pardon, it’s Michael.

  Please take fifteen minutes to draft a letter to the governor, begging him to offer that pardon. You don’t have to be from Florida to do it. Just add your voice to all the other voices, and let’s get Michael free.

  Curious Cat

  She sat back in her chair and closed her eyes. Would this even work? She had accumulated over two million readers since she’d devoted herself to investigative blogging, enough that big advertisers sought her out to buy ad space on her site. If only a fraction of those readers responded and wrote a letter, surely it would get the governor’s attention.

  But Governor Larimore was known to eschew his pardoning powers. During his campaign, he complained often about the number of pardons the previous governor had granted—some to convicted murderers and rapists. Larimore’s vow to not grant a single pardon was one of the reasons he’d won the governor’s seat.

  Was getting him to make an exception even possible?

  Anxiety ebbed in her again, and she looked down a
t the photo album the florist had given her. She was supposed to be picking out the colors she wanted, the kind of flowers, the shape of the bouquet, but she couldn’t think about any of that when Michael was in jail. His release nine months from now seemed so far away.

  Her computer pinged as readers commented on the blog she’d just posted—pledges from readers to write that letter. She hoped she could fill up the governor’s mail room.

  She checked her watch. Almost time to visit Michael. She wouldn’t be able to use her attorney privileges to get into the same room with him today, so she’d have to visit like any other loved one. She couldn’t hug him or kiss him or touch the stubble on his face or smell his unique scent.

  She shut down her computer, letting the readers take it from there, and headed to the jail.

  CHAPTER 7

  Cathy drank in the sight of Michael like a parched desert traveler. He sat behind the dirty glass, phone to his ear, his gaze locked to hers. “Are you sure it was Miller?” she asked into the phone.

  “No, not completely.”

  “It’s just that . . . you want to find him so badly, maybe you just think it looked like him.”

  “He almost ran over me. I was only three feet from him. I saw his face.”

  “Still . . . you said his hair was a lighter color. It could have been someone else. I just . . . I don’t think he’d come back. It’s too dangerous. He’s wanted for drug trafficking, distribution, conspiracy, kidnapping, and murder . . . and that’s not all. His face has been all over the news. He barely escaped last time. He’d be insane to come back now.”

  “But he is insane, and there are millions of dollars more to be made if he stays in the game. Think about it. A guy like Miller, who was basically just a street dealer, who then rises to the level of distributor in an international drug ring? And then he gets chased out of town. He wouldn’t just disappear, knowing there was more to be had.”

  “But he got away with so much. Enough to live on comfortably for the rest of his life.”

  “He doesn’t think like we do. He gets a rush out of living dangerously.”

  Cathy felt that knot forming in her throat, and she swallowed hard. The pain of losing her former fiancé—Michael’s brother—had grown duller over the last two and a half years, but remembering how his killer walked free still refilled that grief well.

  And that had only been the beginning.

  She looked down at the paper she’d printed out. “So the SUV is a 2013 Lincoln Navigator registered to Sidney Hutchinson, forty-five. He lives at 1366 Pendleton Street. Only there isn’t a 1366 Pendleton Street. There was, but it was recently demolished. They’re building a CVS Pharmacy there.”

  Michael leaned forward, clutching the phone to his ear. “See? If this wasn’t Miller, the tag would check out.”

  “I agree. So we’re looking for him, and so is Max, but I don’t want you to get your hopes up.” Her eyes glistened with tears, and she touched the glass.

  He met her fingertips on the other side and smiled, always the comforter. Even in prison clothes, he looked strong and healthy, as though he could protect her from inside. There seemed to be no hint of weakness from the gunshot wound to his chest. He’d been getting some sun, and his face was tan, his cheekbones slightly burned.

  She wished they would let him have sunscreen.

  “So . . . tell me about the wedding plans,” he said.

  That was just like him, to change the subject when he saw the tears coming on. It worked. She dropped her hand and grinned. He had asked her to marry him at his sentencing, and they’d scheduled the wedding for the month after he was to be released. “Well, I heard back from the venue. Looks like the Sterling Reef is available that day. It’s nice and it’s on the beach. I want something with a beautiful ocean view from inside, so we can get the outdoor feel but still have air conditioning.”

  “I’m all for AC. Did you put down a deposit?”

  She twisted her mouth. “No. I’m still thinking about it.”

  “Why?”

  “Money, for one.”

  She wished she hadn’t brought it up. It only made him feel inadequate. “But business is good,” she went on. “Your clients are still calling, and Juliet, Holly, and I are keeping things going. Business is almost too good. We’re having trouble keeping up with all of it.”

  “Don’t forget to bill them.”

  “Yeah, Juliet is taking care of that. She’s the most organized.”

  “She also has three kids now.”

  “She’s managing. We’re all managing.”

  “So . . . we should have enough for the wedding, right?”

  “Yes, but do we want to spend it on that? We’ll be just as married if we do it more simply. We could walk across the street from my house and do it on our beach.”

  “But we couldn’t invite all our friends. We couldn’t even manage much family without needing some kind of permit. And once you’re into all that, you might as well have a nice venue.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “I’ll think about it some more.”

  “We could still get married in my church,” he said.

  Cathy met his eyes, aware that he wanted it to be her church too, but she hadn’t made it her own yet. “Yeah, that’s a possibility. Or Juliet’s. She’d love it. She’d surely fill the place up with her friends.”

  “I want people to celebrate with us,” he said into the phone.

  “Maybe.”

  He moved closer to the dirty glass, tapped on it. She met his eyes. “You sure you’re okay with this?” he said. “Getting married, I mean?”

  “Of course I am.” Her smile caught in her eyes, and those tears shimmered back. “It’s just . . . kind of nostalgic, you know? I’ve planned a wedding before. Instead of happy, all these decisions just make me . . . kind of sad. And when you’re not able to plan with me . . .”

  “I know.”

  “I made all these decisions once. All the things I’d dreamed of, but I can’t do those same things now because . . . well, it just seems weird.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So I’m trying to make different decisions. Only I still like the same things.”

  His gaze held her for a long moment. “Joe wouldn’t mind if you planned the same kind of wedding.”

  “I know. I just don’t want to be thinking of him that day. I don’t want to be sad on our wedding day. And I don’t want you to be.”

  “Maybe that’s the wrong approach. Maybe we do need to think of him. Maybe we need to make him part of it somehow.”

  She didn’t know what that would look like, but as she left the jail, she tried to shake herself out of her melancholy. Part of it, of course, was that she hadn’t been able to hug Michael more than a few times since he was incarcerated, and then only because she was his attorney and was able to get into the same room with him now and then. The rest of the time, she had to sit with virus-crusted glass between them and talk to him on the phone.

  She opened her purse and pulled out her latest letter to the governor that she had typed and sealed. She said a silent prayer over it, then drove to the nearest postal box and dropped it in. Please, God . . . I’m begging you . . .

  Michael’s fate was in God’s hands. She would have to trust him, but meanwhile, she would follow up on every avenue he put into her mind.

  CHAPTER 8

  Holly stood in front of the bathroom mirror, the box of hair dye in her hands. The bleach should erase the pink tips. She had been dyeing the bottom half of her hair pink since before her pregnancy, giving her an edgy, two-tone look that set her apart. Maybe it had something to do with being a preacher’s kid. Her father’s betrayal of the family had created a rebellious streak in her. Pink hair and tattoos had been a way of thumbing her nose at those who judged her, but now she was sick of them. Her old life was wilted around the edges, like decaying flowers.

  Hurrying to finish before Lily woke up, she opened the box and pulled out the bottles of peroxide and blea
ch. If she was going to locate Creed Kershaw, she needed to blend in. The tattoos were easy enough to cover with sleeves, but the pink hair was too memorable.

  She read over the instructions then poured the bleach over her hair and worked it through, making sure it covered all the pink. As she waited for the developer to work, she got on the computer and searched for anything she could find about Creed Kershaw. Though she had access to a lot of Michael’s databases from home, she would probably have to go into the office to gain entry to sites only accessible from his computer.

  When she found Creed, she would call Petri and Tynes and tell them where he was. Then she’d know for sure that he wasn’t about to intrude on Lily’s life. If he truly was guilty of murder, a prison sentence would solve the problem for her.

  Holly suspected that if her sisters knew about Creed, they’d tell her that failing to tell her baby’s father about Lily was deceptive. He had a right to know, they would say. But they didn’t get it. The idea of having some stranger in her life sharing custody with her was unbearable.

  When the time was up for the color to develop, she rinsed out her hair and checked to see if the pink was gone. Good—it was now a soft champagne color.

  She dried it quickly, wincing at the look of normalcy. It wasn’t bad. It might even be pretty . . . but pretty had never been what Holly valued most.

  Lily woke and began crying before Holly’s hair was completely dry, so she abandoned the dryer and went to get her daughter. As she comforted Lily, she sat near the window, looking out through the curtains, making sure that no murderers or muggers or estranged fathers lurked nearby, watching.

  It had been a long time since she’d kept her sisters and brother in the dark about her deepest emotions. The isolation was heavy. She had never felt more lonely.

  CHAPTER 9

  Holly went to Michael’s office after she fed Lily. She parked out by the defunct gas pumps under the sign that said “Hogan Investigative Services.” The building, which had once been a convenience store and gas station, had seen better days. The grass had grown taller in the cracked and weed-riddled pavement. They needed to have an outside workday to care for the property, but the work inside took priority. Clients still came asking for their help to locate biological parents, to check out backgrounds on employees, to investigate workers’ comp fraud cases, and a million other little things that kept them in business. Their PR about disrupting Miller’s drug ring a few months ago had increased business almost a hundred percent, at the worst possible time.