by Sandra Brown
Wilson’s return came as a welcome relief from Rye’s glower.
“I sent a deputy out to assess the damage to your car,” the deputy said. “He confirmed that it can’t be driven. I’ve called a tow truck, but they won’t go out till daylight. You can ride to the department with me. Mr. Mallett can go with Deputy Rawlins. Okay?”
She got the sense that the question was asked out of politeness and not because her opinion of the plan made any difference. “Department?”
“Sheriff’s office. We’ll take your statements there. Get y’all some coffee. You’ll be a lot more comfortable.”
Having overheard the plan, Rye hissed an expletive. As coarse as it was, Brynn wanted to underscore it. “How long will that take?” she asked.
“Can’t say,” Wilson replied.
“There’s nothing I can add to what I’ve already told you.”
Wilson gave her a pleasant smile. “Maybe in the retelling, you’ll think of something else.”
“I won’t.”
“And anyway,” he said, continuing as though she hadn’t spoken, “we’d like to take a look inside that box.”
Chapter 7
4:02 a.m.
The two squad cars arrived at the sheriff’s department at the same time, but Rye and Brynn were kept separated as Rawlins and Wilson escorted them toward the building. They didn’t want them collaborating on their stories.
Police procedure. Rye got it. He just didn’t like it. He was being treated more like a suspect than a material witness. The implication made him angry and apprehensive.
Just what the hell was going on? The answer lay with Brynn. She might not have aimed that laser at him herself, but were she and that damned box the reason someone had? Something was keeping her from being up-front, and not just with him. The deputies smelled a rat, too.
The four of them entered through a door marked “Official Personnel Only.” No sooner were they inside than a gruff voice called out, “Brynn! Is that you, honey?”
The woman lumbering down the corridor toward them wore a deputy’s uniform stretched to capacity over her full figure. With iron gray hair and lips so thin they were nonexistent, Rye placed her age as sixty-something. Her no-nonsense bearing was belied by her smile as she approached Brynn.
“I heard your name over dispatch and knew you were coming in. Couldn’t wait to see you!”
Brynn smiled at her with genuine warmth. “Hello, Myra.”
Myra wrapped her in a hug that looked bone-crushing, then set her back and held her at arm’s length. “Look at you! I’m so proud of you, girl.”
“Thank you.”
“Still in Atlanta? And a doctor?”
“Yes to both.”
“Mercy sakes,” the woman said. “That’s wonderful. Pretty as ever, too.”
Brynn’s smile became a bit more tentative, as though the woman’s flattery made her uneasy. “I thought you would have retired by now, Myra.”
“To do what? Sit and rock? Take up knitting or rose-growing? Just shoot me now. Besides, this department would fall apart if I wasn’t here to hold it together.”
Brynn laughed. “I don’t doubt that.”
Myra continued to beam, then seemed to remember that Brynn hadn’t simply dropped by to say hello. “What happened out there at the airfield? Brady White’s in the ER. What’s going on?” She’d addressed the questions to Rawlins in a tone that was almost accusatory.
“We’re trying to determine that,” he replied. “Excuse us.”
Under his and Wilson’s prodding, Rye and Brynn were shepherded toward the staircase. Over her shoulder, Brynn said, “It was good to see you, Myra. Happy Thanksgiving.”
As they started up the enclosed stairwell, Rye slid off his bomber jacket and folded it over his forearm. Rounding the landing, Brynn happened to bump elbows with him. When she turned her head to excuse herself, she caught a glimpse of the jacket’s lining.
It stopped her where she stood on the tread above him. Her gaze snapped to his.
With exaggerated care, he refolded the jacket so that the well-endowed pinup girl, hand-painted on the silk lining, was no longer visible. “Sorry,” he said, with all the sincerity of a snake oil salesman. “There’s a world map on the inside.”
“How convenient.”
“It is, actually. Unfamiliar terrain can be tricky to navigate.”
From behind them, Wilson said, “Move it along, please.”
Brynn turned and continued up the stairs just ahead of Rye. He was tempted to grab a strand of wavy hair and yank her to a stop, then tell her she had her nerve being pissy with him, when it was he who had every right to be furious. He, who only ever wanted to be left alone to go about his business, now found himself embroiled in one hell of a mess of her making, and the nature of the mess was still a mystery to him.
The situation had gone tits up the instant that laser had skewered his eyeballs. Things hadn’t improved. They continued to get worse.
A sheriff’s office was never a good place to find oneself in the predawn. He had the uneasy feeling that he was entering the lions’ den and realized he was bracing himself for whatever nasty shock came next.
Besides Wilson, Rawlins, and Myra, there were only a handful of personnel on duty, but as they reached the second floor, an older officer, who was on his way downstairs, hesitated when he saw Brynn and smiled in recognition.
“Well, I’ll be,” he said in the gravelly voice of a long-time smoker. After getting only a marginal smile and murmured hello from her, he held back whatever else he was about to say, doffed an imaginary hat, and continued on down the steps.
The staircase opened into a large squad room with a warren of desks, only one of them occupied by a sleepy-looking man in plainclothes who sat staring into a computer monitor.
“You and I will take room three,” Wilson said to Brynn. Rye noticed that she headed toward an offshoot hallway without needing direction.
Rawlins followed them and said to Rye, “Down here.” He passed the room Brynn and Wilson entered. Farther down the hall, he opened the door to a cramped office. He hung his coat and hat on a wall-mounted hook and motioned Rye in. “Have a seat. I’ll be back.”
“Can I please borrow a phone charger?” Rye asked.
“Sure.” Rawlins pulled the door shut as he left.
Between Rawlins and Wilson, it was no contest as to which was the “bad cop.” Rye wondered why he’d been unlucky enough to draw him.
He sat down in front of a desk that looked like it had sustained storm damage. The rest of the office was equally cluttered, the walls papered with outdated calendars, old wanted posters, and notices of one kind or another.
Several tacky golf trophies were jammed between books and files in the three-shelf bookcase. It also contained a bobblehead of a Clemson tiger next to a picture of a younger Rawlins wearing the full gear of the university’s football team. A signed baseball was encased in a Plexiglas cube.
The things a man hoarded revealed a lot about the man and what he valued.
Rawlins was easy to peg. A former jock, clinging to glory days.
Brady White loved his family and aviation.
Rye Mallett?
He looked down at his brown bomber jacket where it lay across his lap.
It was vintage World War II. He’d discovered it in a trunk in a dusty antiques store that specialized in aviation memorabilia. It had been love at first sight. He’d asked the proprietor to please hold it for him until he could scrape up enough money to buy it. He left a ten-dollar down payment and paid on the layaway whenever he had some spare cash. On the day he’d gotten his pilot’s license at age sixteen, he’d gone into the store, settled the balance, and worn the jacket out.
The store owner couldn’t recall from where or whom he’d obtained the trunk, so Rye never learned the name or fate of the aviator who’d worn the jacket during the war. The patches on it designated his squadron and various air bases, but Rye never pursued those clues.
He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the pilot’s fate, because odds were good that he hadn’t survived. If he had, he never would have parted with his bomber jacket.
Rye ran his hand over the creased and scored leather, wishing he knew how each imperfection had come to be there. They were imbedded into the leather, representing chapters in the jacket’s history. He’d added nicks and scratches of his own, making him an intrinsic part of it, yet he didn’t consider himself its owner. He was merely its caretaker, the flyer to whom it had been temporarily entrusted until he passed it on to another.
Thinking back to Dr. O’Neal’s prissy disapproval of the lining, he snickered. He stretched his legs out, tilted his head back, and closed his eyes. Except for the nap he’d taken on Dash’s sofa, he hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours. He was beat.
The next thing he knew, Rawlins was back. Rye sat up straight, dry-scrubbed his face, and glanced at his watch. He’d dozed for nearly fifteen minutes.
During that time, the deputy had been busy. His hands were so full, he had to push the door shut with his heel. He passed Rye a phone charger and pointed to the nearest wall outlet.
“Thanks.” Rye took his spare phone from his flight bag and plugged into it.
Rawlins set a Styrofoam cup of coffee in front of him. “Cream’s curdled and we’ve run out of powdered. I have sweetener.” He scattered a variety of packets on the desk as he sat down.
“I’m good.” Rye removed the plastic lid and sipped. The brew was scalding, strong, and bracing.
Rawlins set his cell phone within reach on his cluttered desk, drank from his cup of coffee, then worked an oversize paperclip off the sheaf of paper he’d carried in tucked under his arm. Rye saw that it was a stack of printouts of official-looking forms and documents.
Fuck.
Rawlins said, “You’re a surprise, Mr. Mallett.”
Rye kept his expression a blank. “How’s that?”
“You look like a bum and act like a prick, but you graduated from the Air Force Academy with honors, flew dangerous missions in Afghanistan, returned from your second tour a decorated hero.” Rawlins looked across the desk at him. “What happened?”
“I found God.”
The deputy heaved a weary sigh and leaned back in his desk chair. “Your comic timing needs work.”
“Speaking of timing, how soon can I get out of here?”
Rawlins reacted to that with a show of temper. “I don’t want to be here, either, you know. The sun is about to come up on Thanksgiving, and my wife is mad as hell because a passel of kinfolk is descending at noon, and I forgot to pick up evaporated milk last night. Or maybe it was condensed milk. Whichever, she can’t finish her pie-baking, and I’m catching the blame.” He brought his chair upright like he was about to launch. “All because of you.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“No?”
“No. Well, except for keeping my plane aloft long enough to spare Dr. O’Neal’s life, but good flying doesn’t seem to go very far with you people.”
“You ever been arrested?”
Rye hitched his chin toward the stack of paperwork. “What’s it say?”
Rawlins thumbed through several sheets. “Says disturbing the peace.”
“When and where, specifically?”
“That’s rather the point,” Rawlins returned dryly. “All over the place.” He scanned more sheets. “Says drunkenness.”
“Guilty. San Diego. Bad batch of tequila. Spent the night in the drunk tank, which was a lot more luxurious than the motel the skinflint client had agreed to cover. At least I knew whose pee it was on the floor.”
“Reno, Nevada. Assault in a hotel room.”
“You’re reading it wrong. I filed the complaint. He assaulted me.”
“He?”
“She failed to mention she had a husband.”
Rawlins snuffled and shook his head. “Man. When you bottomed out, you bottomed out good, didn’t you?”
“I’m an overachiever.”
The deputy wasn’t amused. “Who won? You or the husband?”
“I threatened to throw him out the tenth-floor window if he didn’t back off.”
“Were you bluffing?”
“We’ll never know. He backed off before I was tested.”
Rawlins studied him over his cup of coffee as he took another drink, then said, “You’re lying.”
“I’ll swear under oath that it was the tenth floor.”
“You’re lying when you say you don’t know what’s in that box of Dr. O’Neal’s.”
“I don’t.”
“Or why Brady White was attacked.”
“No idea.”
“That’s a crock of shit, Mr. Mallett.”
Rye yawned widely.
Rawlins looked through more of the sheets. “You’ve spent a lot of time flying in Central and South America.”
“I’ve logged thousands of hours.”
“Any particular reason why?”
“Big continent. Lots of real estate to cover. Lots of out-of-the-way places that can only be reached by air. Peru alone has—”
“Have you ever flown weapons?”
“Only for the U.S. Air Force.”
“Drugs?”
“Yes.”
He could tell the swift admission took Rawlins aback.
“Once,” Rye qualified, holding up his index finger. “Without my knowledge. The payload was knock-off designer handbags destined for a discount department store chain in south Texas. When I arrived and started unloading the freight, I discovered the damn purses were stuffed with heroin. I was pissed. Anonymously tipped both the DEA and Customs, but not before making the guy who set me up rue the day he was born.”
“You’re telling me that no one’s ever tried to hire you—”
“I didn’t tell you that. I’m approached all the time. Kingpins, penny-ante pushers, corrupt government officials. They’ve all offered me top dollar because they know I’ll fly anywhere.
“But the thought of federal prison doesn’t appeal to me, and, in any effing case, I’m not a damn drug runner.” He stood up and pulled on his jacket. “You haven’t thought this through, Rawlins.”
“Sit down.”
Rye remained standing and kept talking. “I’m up there, skirting mountains and power lines. Can’t see a goddamn thing through the fog, relying on instruments and Brady White, who’s doing all he can to help me make a safe landing. Now, why in hell, after walking away from what could easily have been a fatal crash, would I want to bash that man in the skull?” Rawlins didn’t need to know that his initial intention had been to do just that.
“Easy,” the deputy said. “You blamed him for missing the runway.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Your instruments blinked out? Come on, Mallett. Admit it. You screwed up big, and Brady was your scapegoat.”
It was all he could do to keep quiet about the laser. He had not one iota of evidence that it had happened. It would look like whining, blaming the crash on something besides his own fallibility. Rawlins already had a trustworthiness issue with him. He would probably laugh out loud.
Rye also had nothing to back up an allegation that Brady White’s attackers had been the ones who had shone the laser at him. But, being a conscientious cop, Rawlins would grudgingly look into it, and looking into it would take time, and Rye was long past ready to clear out. Let this going-to-fat ex-jock think what he wanted about the crash.
Rye told him the truth. “I didn’t attack Brady, and I don’t know who did.” He picked up his flight bag. “You want to take that as my statement and have me sign it, fine. Type it up, and we’re both outta here. You pick up canned milk on your way home to pacify the angry wife.
“Or. If you want to hold me for suspicion of a crime, I’ll shut down all talk and lawyer up so fast your head will spin. Even if you put me in lockup, your passel of kinfolk will celebrate Thanksgiving without you, because you’ll be here filling out for
ms, trying to make up for your misjudgment, and preventing your fine sheriff’s department from being sued for keeping me in a holding cell when I didn’t do anything.”
The last word was still reverberating when Rawlins’s cell phone rang. He picked it up and answered with his name. He listened, then reached for a notepad.
“How do you spell it? When did this take place?” For a couple of minutes, he scribbled notes as the caller imparted information. “You have an address for him? Okay, go see if he’s at home. Find out where he was around two o’clock this morning. Let me know ASAP.”
He clicked off, glanced across at Rye, then used speed dial to make a call. “Wilson, me. Shake anything out of Dr. O’Neal?”
Wilson must’ve replied in the negative.
“Me neither. Not much, anyway,” Rawlins said. “Listen, Thatcher just called from the hospital. Seems Brady White had a heated argument day before yesterday with a local guy who keeps his plane in the hangar. He owed Brady for fuel and back rent. When Brady tried to collect, the man accused him of price gouging and refused to pay. Brady’s holding the keys to the guy’s plane until he receives payment.” He coughed behind his fist. “Thatcher’s going to check him out.”
Wilson asked a few questions, which Rawlins answered in monotones.
Numerous sly and insulting remarks skittered through Rye’s mind, but he figured that Rawlins was eating enough crow as it was. Besides, he was relieved to know that Brady White had regained consciousness. So when Rawlins clicked off, he said, “Brady came out of it okay?”
Rawlins shook his head. “He’s still out. Our deputy got all this about the argument from his wife. She’s standing vigil at the hospital. Has a lot of friends with her. The Whites are well thought of around here.”
“I gathered.” It was deflating news that Brady still hadn’t come around. Rye waited a beat, then asked, “Can we get to that statement now so I can be on my way?”
“In a minute. Answer me this, why did you take issue over the fingerprinting?”
Rye shrugged. “I don’t know. Impulse. Seemed a dumb and wasteful thing to do to artifacts.”
“Huh.” Rawlins studied him for a moment. “Why have you and Dr. O’Neal acted so squirrely about the contents of that box? What’s in it?”