“All I know is that the first responders called it in as usual. It was assigned to the dynamic duo.” Benton Miller and Zayden Miller—not related—had earned the nickname by their highest-in-the-department homicides solved percentage.
Nickolai liked and respected both young men. “I can’t believe they wouldn’t have gotten the information in questioning. I didn’t have to push Lewis hard to get the info.”
“That’s just it. The case was assigned to them, but before they could interview anyone besides the driver and officer with the armored truck, Captain Palmer took over the investigation.”
That was very unusual. “Did he give any reason why?” Nickolai stopped pacing and leaned against the back of the recliner.
Chris snorted. “You know Palmer, he’s a jerk. He just announced he’d be overseeing the investigation and that was that. He had a couple of uniforms type up the statements from everyone he interviewed. That’s pretty much all the paperwork that’s in the files.”
Kid Palmer was more than a jerk … he embodied the definition of narcissist. Everyone in the eighth district knew he had his eye on the political arena and dared anyone to get in his way. Was it just the Winslet name, with all the money and power that came with it, that had pulled him to take over the case, or was there something else?
“Miller and Miller were pretty miffed to have the case pulled from them, that’s for sure.”
They were younger, new detectives who wanted to make names for themselves. But they played by the book. “I can imagine. Any chance they’re working off the books?” It’s what Nickolai would do. Matter of fact, he and Chris had done that very thing several times in their nine-year partnership.
“Officially? No, of course not.”
Which meant they were. “Maybe I’ll call them when I get back in town. Been a while since I’ve seen the dynamic duo. I think we’re due for catching up.”
“Hey, I think we should get together for a few drinks and catching up. When you get home, of course.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Nickolai scooped up his duffel bag.
“You take care, Baptiste.”
Nickolai held the phone tighter. The message was deeper than the words themselves. “I will.”
“And call if you need me. I mean that.”
“Thanks.” Nickolai let out a steadying breath. “I’ll call you when I get back to town.”
He slipped his cell into his back jean pocket, locked the front door, and headed to his truck. He’d left the envelope filled with papers in there. Nickolai tossed his duffel into the backseat of the extended cab and climbed behind the steering wheel. He set his cell’s mapping GPS to Apache Junction, Arizona. It showed a driving time of twenty-two hours, forty-seven minutes. Good thing he’d just had the oil changed last week.
Starting the truck’s engine, he had but one last thought: he’d gotten information the police didn’t have that was relatively easy to get, but he knew no one else had spoken with Miles Lewis in the last twenty-four hours. Knowing that, he couldn’t help but wonder: What was Landry Parker’s lead that was taking her to Arizona?
CHAPTER SIX
This cannot be the only establishment that has any vacancies.” Stan Hauge slammed the door to the sedan and stared at the Apache Junction Motel.
Landry pressed her lips together as she shut the door to the rental Jeep and leaned against it. Even in the dark of night, the motel looked, at best, like a hokey, run-down, sad place. Two rows of buildings with the parking lot between them boasted plain cream walls with terra-cotta-colored accents. While she had no problem with the accommodations, she could only imagine the offensiveness Stan felt. On the plane ride and layover, she’d gotten to know him just a little, enough to recognize he’d become accustomed to the finer aspects of life, courtesy of Winslet Industries.
“You said there was a marathon going on this weekend?” Landry slipped her purse’s strap over her shoulder and moved toward the motel office door. The bag was a little heavier than usual since she’d pulled her 9mm out of her checked bag as soon as she’d gotten the Jeep.
“This is ridiculous. We can’t stay here. It’s probably infested with roaches.” Stan’s lip curled as he spoke.
Landry pushed down the laugh. “Aw, come on, it isn’t that bad. Just needs a little updating, but it looks clean.”
“Looks like it needs to be condemned,” he muttered under his breath, but he followed her into the office.
She smiled as a bell over the door announced their late arrival, then stopped so suddenly that Stan bumped into her.
Nickolai Baptiste stood, a duffel bag on the floor beside his chair. “I was about to give up on y’all making it.”
Why was he here? Better yet, how did he get here before her?
Stan stepped around her. “Forgive my tardiness. I didn’t realize we had to wait for a shuttle to take us from the concourse to the rental agency. There were complications there.” He pulled out a credit card and advanced to the counter to speak to the older woman leaning there who was watching their interaction with great interest.
Landry turned her back to the woman and Stan and collided with Nickolai’s smug expression. “I thought you weren’t taking the case.”
He shrugged. “Changed my mind.”
“Funny how money can compromise someone’s ideals and perception.” She’d seen it many times over in her military career. Good, honest soldiers who’d gone down the slippery slope of exchanging their moral fortitude to cash in on a little good fortune. Ruining their careers and their lives.
He narrowed his eyes. “I’m not compromising anything.”
Yeah. Sure. Right. “What happened to interfering in a police investigation?”
“I’ve checked in with the police about the case. I was a detective there for almost a decade, remember?”
Great. So he’d have inside information that she didn’t have access to. “Glad you got that all worked out with your conscience.”
He opened his mouth, but Stan rejoined them. He handed them their keys. Real keys, not electronic cards. “Our rooms are all next to each other.” He paused, looking from Landry to Nickolai, then back to Landry. “I’ll take the room in the middle as we’ll use it as the base of operations, if we need it.”
Landry took the key Stan offered her and mumbled thanks.
Nickolai broke eye contact with Landry and accepted his key from Stan. “How does a base of operations work, exactly?” He fell into step beside Stan, leaving Landry to trail them.
She turned and smiled at the lady behind the counter. “Thank you, ma’am.”
The woman’s face lit up as she returned the smile. “You’re welcome. You have a good night.”
Landry followed Stan and Nickolai into the parking lot. Of course, his truck was just two spaces from where she’d parked the Jeep. How had she not recognized it? She needed to get to the top of her game.
“So any on-site expenses, you just let me know and I’ll take care of them,” Stan was saying as Landry stepped up next to him. “I’m here to assist in any way I can, and to liaise with Winifred as needed, of course.”
“I don’t expect I’ll be needing any assistance.” Nickolai wore his cockiness as shamelessly as his smugness.
But he’d missed the casualness of Stan’s reference to Mrs. Winslet. His boss, but there was a softness to his tone as he’d said her name. Not exactly a caress, but a slow gentleness. Interesting. Landry smiled as sweetly as she could muster, considering her exhaustion from a long day of traveling and the frustration of seeing her competition. “If you gentlemen will excuse me, I’m going to call it a night. I have some things to do yet and a busy day tomorrow.” Without waiting for an answer, she climbed into the Jeep and started it.
She checked the number of the motel room, did a quick scan to see where it was located, and then drove the short way to park in front of the door. She’d barely parked and opened the back door to grab her suitcase when Nickolai appeared at her side. “Would y
ou like me to help you with that?”
She slammed the back door shut and locked the Jeep. “No, thanks. I’ve got it.” She eyed his duffel slung over his shoulder. “Do you need any help with that?”
He smiled, nearly disarming her with its high wattage. “I’m good.”
“Well then, good night.” She marched to the door and unlocked it before stepping inside. She pulled the door shut and locked the door as quickly as she could muster, thankful all the while for the darkness of night that hid the blush burning her cheeks. She flipped on the lights. Tossed her purse on the table.
Why did the man infuriate her so?
Before she could answer herself, her cell phone chimed. She grinned at the caller ID. “Hey, Marcie.”
“You were supposed to call when you got settled in.”
“I actually just stepped into my motel room.” She flung her bag on the dresser beside the television set.
“How is it?”
Landry glanced around. The room was bigger than she’d imagined. Clean. Stan would be happy—not a roach in sight. “Good.”
“You sound tired.”
“I am. The flight was uneventful, but long. The layover was brutally boring. Had a snafu at the rental place, but got it all ironed out.” She sat down in the chair, kicked off her shoes, and propped her feet up on the edge of the bed. “Then we get here and guess who’s waiting on us?”
“Who?”
“Nickolai Baptiste.”
Marcie’s quick intake came loudly over the connection. “Well, isn’t that interesting? I thought you said he wasn’t going to take the case.”
“That’s what I asked him. Apparently, he changed his mind.”
“Money often has a way of doing that.”
Landry pulled the band from her hair and rubbed her head, loosening her curls. “That’s exactly what I said.”
“What time is your appointment tomorrow?”
“I’m supposed to meet with the seller at twelve thirty.” Landry grabbed her notebook—a gift from her father—and opened it to her notes.
“What’s this person’s name again?”
Landry smiled to herself. “They don’t give out names, Marcie. He’ll know me because I’ll be wearing a red flannel shirt and my hair in a ponytail.”
“I still don’t like this.”
“We’re meeting in a very public place. Cobb’s Restaurant, a few blocks from the motel. It’s a family diner–type of place and should be pretty busy during lunchtime. Especially with all the people in town for the marathon.”
“I don’t like it.”
Landry chuckled. “I know you don’t, but it must be done. Just think, Marcie, it could all be over with tomorrow. If the map’s real, I get it, return it to Mrs. Winslet, and collect fifty g’s.” And leave Nickolai Baptiste eating the dust in her wake.
“How will you know if the map’s real?”
“Of course there’s no way to know if it’s really real until an appraiser checks it out, but I did my research. There are a few things I know to look for.” Her friend in the art world had been kind enough to get a detailed description from the original seller’s correspondence with Mr. Winslet.
“Okay. But if you think it’s real, how do you plan to get it to bring it to Mrs. Winslet?”
“A minor detail, Marcie. I can always call in the local police here.” It shouldn’t come to that. Once she felt like she was looking at the real map, she planned to pull her gun and credentials and that usually had the criminals running off and leaving whatever she wanted. She wouldn’t, however, advise Marcie of such.
“Sounds too dangerous. Remember, Mr. Winslet was murdered for this.”
“I’ll be careful. I promise.”
“You and I have very different definitions of being careful.”
Landry laughed. “I’ll call you tomorrow. I need to unpack and take a shower. Flying makes me feel grimy.”
Now it was Marcie’s turn to chuckle. “Okay. Call me if anything else comes up.”
Landry disconnected the call, stood, and stretched. Her muscles complained about the flight and lack of activity. She should take a quick jog. Just to get a feel for the area and get enough exercise that she’d be able to get some sleep. Maybe if she exerted herself enough she would be too tired to think about Nickolai Baptiste.
Doubtful, but she could try.
The nerve of Landry Parker: implying money would shift the direction of his moral compass.
Nickolai tossed his shaving kit on the bathroom counter. If he found even the slightest connection with anything here to the murder investigation, he’d call the police captain himself, no matter how much he personally disliked the man.
Compromising ideals? He didn’t compromise on anything, but especially not on anything that could cast a shadow on his integrity. He shook his head as he set his duffel on the table and sat in the chair, not sure what to do with himself. Nickolai had tried to locate Joel Easton several times while he’d waited for Stan Hauge and her to show up. No luck.
His cell phone rang. He checked the caller ID and let out a breath. Earlier, he’d texted a woman he’d gone out with a couple of times. She was a PI, handled mostly divorce dirt, but she was thorough and honest. Even though they hadn’t connected, they’d remained friends. “Hi, EmmaGrace. Thanks for getting back to me so quickly.”
“Yeah, you owe me for this one, Nick.”
His gut tightened. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Finally found your Joel Easton.”
Nickolai remained silent. EmmaGrace liked to do things her way, in her time. That included relaying information. He grabbed a pen and the notepad.
“Easton hasn’t made any significant purchases since returning to Arizona. However, my sources tell me you should check out Ironwood Cancer and Research Center in Gilbert.”
“Gilbert, Arizona?”
“It’s twenty-something minutes from Apache Junction where Easton lived.”
“Okay. Who should I check for there? Easton?”
“Yes, but not Joel. Look for an Abigail Easton.”
Easton had never married. “Sister?”
“Mother.”
“Ah.” He wrote notes quickly. “Thanks, EmmaGrace.”
“Just remember, you owe me, Nick.”
He tapped the pen on the notepad. His mom had cancer. That could explain a lot. A whole lot.
Nickolai opened his phone’s GPS and searched for the name of the cancer place. In seconds he had the full address of the facility. He’d be making a trip to Gilbert bright and early in the morning.
Nickolai turned the television on and flipped through the channels. Nothing held his interest. Too much driving. He dropped to the worn carpet and did a couple reps of push-ups. As usual, his right shoulder seized. No matter how much physical therapy he tortured himself with, or how hard he worked to keep his range of motion at the highest level, it was no match for the wad of scar tissue balled between his shoulder joint and collarbone.
Maybe some fresh air would help clear his mind. At least enough that he could take a hot shower and crash. Some nights, that was the best he could do—wear himself out entirely so he had no choice but to sleep, even if it was the most restless sleep known to man. The worst nights always ended with his nightmare of flames jerking him awake.
He opened the door. It might be February, but Arizona was about the same as New Orleans this year. He slipped on his light jacket. He locked the door behind him and stepped around a patio chair. Every room had a plastic chair sitting by the door, cluttering the walkway. He noticed both Stan and Landry had their curtains drawn. Good. Better for safety that way.
Nickolai took in a deep breath. The spicy scent of creosote and sage bushes assaulted him, but in a strangely comforting manner. Almost familiar. He turned and headed toward the road, Apache Trail. There was quite a bit of traffic, probably not usual for a regular Thursday night. But with the marathon …
He turned right, to the empty dirt parking lot beside
the motel. There were no security or streetlights burning, but the Arizona sky blazed with stars and the Taurus the Bull constellation, and an almost full moon, giving Nickolai plenty of light for his walk. After all, he’d heard the horror stories about snakes in the area, and he wasn’t keen on meeting one face-to-face his first night here.
Picking up his pace, Nickolai walked along the back of the motel’s rooms. He took note of access to the rooms, a habit he couldn’t shake after so many years on the police force. The air-conditioning units were definitely the biggest point of vulnerability. He made long strides down the back row of the motel. The cool air did seem to clear his mind. Maybe now a hot shower would relax him enough for sleep to come.
Nickolai went around the back side of the motel and moved quickly toward his room. Only then did he notice a figure in the shadows. Was that someone by the Jeep Landry had rented?
He crouched and moved closer. Silently. Stealthily. He couldn’t see the figure anymore. Where had he gone? Nickolai risked straightening. An unmistakable coldness crept over him as a voice from behind him said, “Who are you, and what are you doing by my Jeep?”
He whipped around. Froze. Landry stood facing him, a 9mm looking comfortable in her hands. “You!” She lowered her weapon and glared at him. “What are you doing creeping around out here?”
“What are you doing with a gun?”
Even in the dark he could make out her widened eyes. “Seriously? Don’t you carry?”
“Usually.” His Beretta was in his jacket pocket, but he wouldn’t pull it unless absolutely necessary. Especially since …
“So what are you doing by my Jeep?”
“I saw you but didn’t know it was you. I thought it was somebody else, so I was checking it out for you.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “Who else would it be?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I was checking it out.” Did she have to be so insufferably annoying? “What are you doing out here?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but after a day of traveling, I needed to stretch a little, so I took a quick jog. What are you doing out here?”
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