“We can only speculate at this point until we find Danny or his body.”
Jake barely refrained from flinching and had to swallow down the sudden lump in his throat at how calmly Stevens had said body.
“What?” Grant Jones asked, looking alarmingly pale now.
“We have a crime scene. Your garage actually. Someone did a fine job trashing it. Danny, is my guess. You see, I’m thinking you caught Danny in the middle of getting some payback for humiliating him at Monroe’s—”
“Monroe’s?” Grant repeated with genuine confusion. “I don’t remember—”
Stevens pulled a small notebook out of his pocket. “Let me refresh your memory for you. In front of approximately fifty people, you told Danny you wished he was dead and that you were going to quote—bury him—to get your life back.”
The dread of realization that crossed Grant’s face was almost poetic as the bastard finally connected the dots and comprehended the reason for him being there.
“You don’t think I’d actually hurt my own son!” The words practically burst from the man’s chest.
“You already did,” Jake interjected before Stevens could say anything, even though he was supposed to stay quiet. “You attacked him the night of the accident when you found out the truth about him.”
“That was different!” The defense was weak at best, utterly stupid at worst, and only jacked Jake’s temper. He clamped his jaw over saying anything else, however, as Stevens shot him a warning glare.
“Not even if you were angry, drunk, and found Danny smashing your family’s garage to pieces?” the detective asked coolly.
Grant didn’t reply. It was clear he was racking his alcohol-hazed memory, trying to figure out what he’d done after leaving the bar.
“Not only is your workshop trashed, but we found this.” Stevens reached into his jacket and pulled out a clear plastic bag containing Danny’s bloodied phone. By the time he’d set it in the middle of the table, Jake was fighting the urge to smash Grant’s face into it, maybe see if that’d jog his memory. “Alongside a concerning amount of blood on the floor. I’m betting when DNA testing comes back in a few hours, it’ll be a match to your son. So, tell me, Grant, what kind of picture do you think I should make of all that?”
“I didn’t hurt Danny.” Grant held up both hands. There was a decent-sized gash in the palm of his right hand, crusted with blood.
“Yeah? Then tell me where you went after you left the bar,” Stevens pressed.
“I don’t remember!” Grant yelled, obviously getting desperate. “I don’t remember what I did. I know I was angry. I punched out the window in my truck. But I’m sure I didn’t see Danny. I’m sure I didn’t hurt him.”
“But you can’t say for certain.” Stevens pointedly tapped his fingers on the top of Danny’s phone.
“I—I just don’t—” Grant stammered a bit, before suddenly clamping his mouth shut. He calmly looked at the phone and then back up at Stevens. “I want a lawyer. I’m entitled to one, right? That’s how this works?”
Jake’s stomach dropped into his feet as Steven’s sat back with a triumphant expression on his features.
No. No. This wasn’t happening. It didn’t have to mean anything, Grant asking for a lawyer. He was just smart enough to realize he was in some serious shit and needed to cover his ass.
“That can certainly be arranged.” Stevens got to his feet. “I’ll go get started. Perez, with me.”
For a second he couldn’t move, just sat there staring at Danny’s father and fought the urge to leap across the table and wrap his hands around the man’s neck to squeeze until he told them what he’d done with Danny. The man kept his face averted, staring at the blank wall and refusing to acknowledge his presence. A hundred things came and went through his mind in a second, things he wanted to yell and scream at this bastard who didn’t deserve to be anyone’s father, let alone someone as wonderful as Danny. In the end, it all slid away, leaving him with only one thing.
He slowly got to his feet, staring at the profile that held hints of Danny’s features, enough to make his chest hurt.
“You want to know something?” He paused, even though he didn’t expect an answer. “Somehow, you managed to produce an amazing man. Danny is the most remarkable, gorgeous person I’ve ever met. In a matter of weeks, he’s become my everything. I love him, and when I get him back, we’re going to live a long, happy life together in spite of you.”
Grant had stiffened and slowly turned to look at him, absolute rage and disgust burning in his eyes. Good, he hoped the man choked on it and had an aneurism.
He turned his back on him, vowing it was the last time he was going to speak to Grant Jones. If he ever had to face him again, he doubted he’d be able to resist giving in to the urge to pummel the asshole into the dust.
Out in the hallway, he joined the sheriff and Stevens, who were discussing whether to get a lawyer over from Conroe or wait the extra time it’d take for one to come from Houston.
“This doesn’t mean we give up,” he butted in, beyond caring about whether he pissed off Stevens any longer.
Both men paused to look at him.
“I’m sorry, Perez,” Stevens said, managing to sound anything but apologetic. “But he basically just confessed to killing his son.”
“By asking for a lawyer?” he demanded, not bothering to keep the heat out of his voice. “That doesn’t mean anything except he’s unfortunately smart enough to know that even if he didn’t do it and doesn’t remember anything from last night, none of it looks good and you’re probably going to nail him with it whether we’ve got a body or not.”
Stevens crossed his arms. “We’ve got a complete picture, Perez. Grant Jones killed his son. Once the lawyer turns up, we’ll make a deal and get him to tell us what he did with the body. I’m sorry, I know you and Danny were involved, but this is open and shut, and there’s two other murders in this town needing to be solved.”
His pulse was racing, a sheen of cold sweat settling over his skin at the detective’s calm clinical view of Danny’s apparent death. No. He didn’t accept it. He wasn’t going to sit around and wait another few hours before they found Danny. It’d already been too long. Grant hadn’t said the words I killed Danny, so until someone told him otherwise, he was going to keep searching.
He glanced at the sheriff, who had a stoic expression set on his features; however there was a sheen of moisture in his eyes. Clearly, he believed Danny had fallen victim to Grant’s drunken temper as well. Whatever. He didn’t need any help, didn’t need them telling him he should just accept it and give up.
Turning on his heel, he hurried away from the two men, blinking to clear the burn in his own eyes. He went into the main office and brought up the overnight call logs that’d come in on 911. Maybe someone had seen or heard something that’d been missed before.
“Perez.” The sheriff came over and perched on the edge of the desk, but Jake didn’t pull his gaze away from the computer screen as he started scanning the transcripts.
“Jake,” Hayes said in a low voice, making all his muscles lock up with tension. Even though he didn’t want to, he found himself looking up at the older man. “It’s been a long night. We can’t do anything else now. Why don’t you go home and get a few hours sleep? I’ll call you when the lawyer arrives.”
“You really think I could go home and sleep while Danny’s out there—” His voice broke over the last words, and he had to swallow down the tension in his throat.
He couldn’t go home to his bed, no way. Not when the last time he’d been in it was yesterday morning with Danny. The sheets probably still smelled like him. While he was here working, doing something, trying to find him, he could hold it together. If he went home and faced his bed, there was every chance he’d break in a way he hadn’t even when Luis had died.
“I can’t go home,” he told Hayes, refocusing on the screen. “I need to be here.”
“Why don’t you at
least go into my office and lay on the couch for a while?” The sheriff’s voice was almost too understanding, and Jake couldn’t decide whether he wanted to get angry about it or simply cry.
“I need to do this first.” He nodded at the screen in front of him.
Hayes leaned over to take a quick look at it. “The call logs from last night? I already had one of the other deputies go over it.”
“I just want to check it again. Maybe they missed something.”
Hayes didn’t look convinced, but stood, clearly willing to leave him to it. “Make sure you take a break after.”
Jake nodded absently as he started reading through the transcripts, looking for any detail that might seem innocuous on the surface, but could actually be something important.
He paused three-quarters of the way down the screen, a noise complaint from a Stan Burton on Banks Street. Something about the address niggled at him, but he couldn’t figure out why. He noted it down on a piece of paper, then continued through, not finding anything of use and growing increasingly frustrated.
The radio was chattering in the background, and he heard Olsen discussing with Lauren about going out on a call that was probably a waste of time. He glanced up as Olsen walked his way, looking annoyed. When he passed the desk, Olsen glanced down and paused as his gaze landed on the piece of paper.
“You on duty, Perez? Thinking of taking the Banks Street call? I’ve got other things to do if you want to get out of the office for a bit.”
“Banks Street?” he repeated. Something was right there at the edge of his mind, but he couldn’t get it to surface.
“Yeah, Stan Burton called again. Said there’re some kids or someone messing around making a hell of a racket in the abandoned house next door to him. Says if the county don’t do something about it, he’s going to take a bulldozer to it himself. Sick of the squatters and vandals—”
Olsen saying squatters finally kicked his memory. He snatched the piece of paper off the desk and ran into the sheriff’s office, startling the man who’d been typing something on his computer. Jake ignored his exclamation, however, rushing over to the whiteboard and yanking down the two reports filed on Leroy Hobbs.
The warning for squatting and being ordered to move on. Banks Street. His stomach dropped even as adrenaline ramped up his pulse rate.
“This is it!” he told the sheriff, slapping both pieces of paper on the desk. “This has to be it. It has to be Danny.”
“Perez, slow down. You’re not making any sense.” The sheriff pushed to his feet and leaned over to slide the papers toward himself.
“When Hobbs arrived in town, he was squatting in an abandoned house on Banks Street, but he was told to move on. The neighbor—Stan Burton—called last night to say he could hear a commotion coming from the house, but with everything going on here, a quick drive-by was done more than an hour later, and the deputy who took it reportedly didn’t see anything. But Burton just called back again, complaining about some noise—”
“It’s probably just vandals again,” Hayes said calmly. “They get in there every so often and smash things.”
“I don’t care. It’s a lead, no matter how slim it seems. I’m going right now to search the premises.” He didn’t wait for the sheriff to reply but hurried out of his office, heading into the back to get himself a weapon.
“Olsen was already heading out; leave him do it.” The sheriff had followed him and watched in concern as he signed out a service weapon. “You need to take a break, Perez.”
“I’m going, whether you want me to or not. Fire me if you have to, but if there’s even a chance Danny is there and this was actually Leroy Hobbs all along, not Grant Jones, then you’ll have to lock me in a cell to keep me here.”
Hayes stared at him for a tense moment, before shaking his head. “You’re a stubborn fool. At least let me drive.”
The relief flowing through him that Hayes was going to back him up was acute, especially considering he’d said a moment ago he didn’t care.
Maybe it was a long shot. Maybe he was grasping at straws and this would be a huge, heartbreaking, disappointing waste of time. But hope was all he had left, and he wasn’t going to let it go until the moment he laid eyes on Danny—dead or alive.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
DANNY COULD have lain there on the packed-earth floor and cried in relief when the door finally gave way, the outside handle with the chain wrapped around it splintering away from the weathered wood. He did take a precious second to catch his breath and wait for the pain in his head, arms, shoulders, ankles, knees, and hips to fade—he hadn’t thought it was possible to hurt in so many places at once.
After a few seconds, unfortunately it started looking like the aches were here to stay. But the pain didn’t matter. He could feel sorry for himself and wallow later when he was alive and safe and that bastard was in jail.
He clenched his teeth as he rolled to his knees. It took a couple of tries to get to his feet—having his hands tied behind his back was hampering his balance and movement, plus he was still dizzy from being hit in the head. Finally, though, he got upright and stumbled outside into the early-morning sunshine. He rounded the edge of the doorway and leaned against the wall, already panting, squinting as he tried to make his eyes focus against the light. He was in a large backyard, overgrown with weeds, decorated with an old, rusted-out Chevy pickup, and littered with other junk. The house was run-down, all the window smashed in and screen door hanging brokenly in the doorway. Obviously he wasn’t going to find any help in there.
He pushed off from the wall and unsteadily started across the yard, worried that if he tripped and went down, he wouldn’t be able to get up again. Halfway across the weeds and junk, a shadow of a person stretched out from the side of the house on account of the morning sun being behind them as they walked up the cracked pavement of the driveway.
Danny’s heart leapt, jamming up into his throat as he threw himself down behind the rusted pickup and scrabbled around to keep out of sight. He held his breath, debating whether to scrunch down further and simply wait him out, or peek so he could keep an eye on him and make a run for it when he went into the garden shed.
In the end, he spent so long trying to decide, the decision got taken out of his hands. The man hadn’t even finished crossing the yard when he swore loudly, obviously having spotted the open shed door and chain on the ground.
Danny pressed harder against the side of the pickup, silently begging for him to simply leave, not search the yard or house. The shed door slammed several times in succession, and then it sounded like he was kicking the side paneling.
Despite the risk, Danny leaned out a little to see the man who’d apparently been following him for at least several days—the ALP member he’d seen with that group the first day he and Jake had gone out to the diner together for breakfast. He didn’t know who the hell he was or why he’d abducted him from the garage last night. His intention was clear, however. He’d come back with a gun and a can of gasoline. Shoot him and burn him, that seemed to be the plan.
His whole body trembled violently as a new wave of fear smashed through him. He had to get out of here before that psychopath saw him. He took a breath, trying to find some calm beyond the fear he was drowning in, and then started sidling along the side of the truck, brushing through the weeds and long grass.
“Hey!”
He froze at the shout, and it took a second to realize it’d come from the direction of the house, not the garden shed.
“This place might be condemned, but you’re still trespassing!”
Danny peeked out from around the back of the pickup to see an older man striding angrily from the drive. Must have been a neighbor.
He was torn, instinct warring between leaping out to warn the man he was in danger or to continue hiding to save himself. However, his conscience wasn’t into self-preservation, apparently, and he moved around the tail of the truck, where he was still out of sight from the man a
t the shed, but in the neighbor’s view. He shook his head at the guy, half twisting to show where his arms were tied behind his back. The neighbor froze, shock chasing over his features as he seemed to not know what to do.
The rapport of several gunshots made Danny jerk back hard against the pickup. The neighbor’s arms flung out as he went down backward like someone had shoved him over.
“Oh shit, oh shit,” he muttered, crouching tighter against the feeble cover he had, no idea if the gunman had seen him and his chances would be better to make a run for it, or if the man still didn’t know Danny was hiding in the yard. Blood was pooling on the cracked pavement beneath the neighbor, the way he was lying absolutely still telling him the older man was probably dead.
Oh God. This man obviously had no qualms about killing people. The second the guy spotted him, he’d get shot, just like the neighbor had.
Annoyed muttering reached him, and he started with a cold shock as the shooter walked into view. Danny hurriedly slid backward for more cover behind the pickup as the man nudged at the neighbor with the toe of his boot.
“Drop your weapon and step away!” The shouted order made Danny freeze, gaze cutting up to see Jake stalking out from the side of the house with a gun pointed. “Do it, Hobbs!”
Hobbs—apparently Jake knew who he was—aimed at Jake in return, a twisted grin on his face.
“Couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you, boy?” Hobbs sneered at him, gloating as if he had the upper hand. “You got no right coming after me. Stalking, isn’t that what they call it? I wasn’t guilty of killing your brother. The courts said so. Tried to start a new life in a new town. It’s what I deserve, isn’t it? But you just had to come after me. So what do you want? Revenge? How’s that working out for you so far?”
Stalking? Revenge? What the hell was going on? Jake didn’t deny any of it, just stared at Hobbs with a flinty expression.
“Where’s Danny Jones?” Jake’s voice shook with barely suppressed fury.
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