Silent Smile (Sheila Stone #10)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Sheila felt the fatigue of a sleepless night creeping up on her as she and Finn pulled up to a modest bungalow on the outskirts of town.

Keep it together, she told herself. You've gotta stay sharp.

The first rays of sunlight were just beginning to peek over the horizon, revealing a small but well-maintained house with a neatly trimmed lawn and a few potted desert plants adorning the front porch. The neighborhood was quiet, most residents still asleep at this early hour.

"This is it," Finn said, double-checking the address on his phone. "Jason Hawke's last known residence, shared with a Malcolm 'Mick' O'Donnell."

Sheila nodded, her eyes scanning the property. "We need to be ready for anything. If he runs—"

"He won't get far," Finn said. "Trust me, he's not just gonna waltz out of here. If he wants to run, he'll have to do so over our dead bodies."

Sheila nodded. She hoped it wouldn't come to violence, but it was good to be prepared for anything.

They got out of the vehicle and approached the front door. A wind chime made of polished stones tinkled softly in the morning breeze. Sheila rapped sharply on the door, the sound echoing in the quiet neighborhood. No answer. She tried again, louder this time. Still nothing.

"Maybe they're heavy sleepers," Finn suggested, peering through a nearby window. The curtains were drawn, revealing nothing of the interior.

"Let's take a look around," Sheila said, already moving toward the side of the house. "They might have a back entrance."

The backyard was small but well-kept, with a patio area featuring a barbecue grill and a couple of weathered lawn chairs. A shed stood in one corner, its paint peeling slightly. What caught Sheila's attention, however, were the two vehicles parked in the driveway: a battered blue pickup truck and a newer-model silver sedan.

"Two vehicles," Sheila murmured to Finn. "Interesting."

Just as she was about to suggest they check the shed, a light flicked on inside the house. Moments later, the back door opened and a man stepped out onto the patio. He was in his early thirties, with tousled brown hair and the beginnings of a beard. He squinted at them in the early morning light, confusion and wariness evident on his face.

"Can I help you?" he called out, his voice rough with sleep. He was wearing sweatpants and a faded t-shirt.

Sheila held up her badge. "Sheriff Stone, and this is Deputy Mercer. We're looking for Jason Hawke. Is he here?"

The man's expression tightened almost imperceptibly. A muscle in his jaw twitched. "Haven't seen him. I'm Mick. Mick O'Donnell. This is my place."

Sheila's eyes flickered to the vehicles. "Both of these yours, Mr. O'Donnell?"

Mick nodded a bit too quickly. "Yeah, that's right. The truck's for work, the sedan's my personal ride."

"What kind of vehicle does Hawke drive?" Finn asked casually.

Mick hesitated for a split second before answering. "A motorcycle. Old Harley."

Sheila's instincts were screaming at her that Mick was lying. "Mr. O'Donnell," she said, her voice hardening slightly, "I'm going to ask you again. Is Jason Hawke here?"

Mick's facade cracked a little. He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes darting between Sheila and Finn. "Look, I told you—"

"Let me be clear," Sheila interrupted, taking a step forward. "Impeding a police investigation is a serious offense. If you're lying to us—"

"Alright, alright!" Mick held up his hands in surrender, his shoulders sagging. "He's here. He But if this is about that thing with the flowers—"

"It isn't," Sheila said.

Mick sighed. "Okay. Whatever it is, he just wants to be left alone, alright?"

"We get it, Mick," Finn said. "We're not here to cause trouble. We just need to clear some things up with Jason. That's all."

Mick looked between them, clearly undecided. Sheila could almost see the wheels turning in his head.

After a moment's hesitation, Mick nodded. "Fine. Come in. But... go easy on him, alright? He's not much of a conversationalist."

Sheila and Finn followed Mick into the house. Mismatched furniture filled the living room, and the walls were covered in posters of national parks and rock bands. A bookshelf in the corner caught Sheila's eye—it was filled with books on geology, park management, and, interestingly, several volumes on Native American history and culture.

"Nice place," Finn said, his eyes scanning the room. "You been here long?"

Mick shrugged. "Couple of years. It's not much, but it's home."

"Where's Jason?" Sheila asked.

"Upstairs," Mick said, gesturing toward a narrow staircase. "Probably still asleep."

As if on cue, they heard movement from above. Floorboards creaked, and a door opened. A moment later, Jason Hawke descended the stairs. He was tall and lean, with long hair tied back in a ponytail and a scruffy beard. He was wearing jeans and a flannel shirt, as if he'd fallen asleep in his clothes.

"What's going on?" he asked, his gaze moving from Mick to the officers. His voice was calm, but Sheila noticed his hands were clenched at his sides.

"Mr. Hawke," she began, "I'm Sheriff Stone, and this is Deputy Mercer. We'd like to ask you a few questions about your time at Coral Pink Sand Dunes State Park."

A shadow passed over Hawke's face. "That was months ago. What's this about?"

Sheila leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. "Mr. Hawke, can you tell us about your work at the park? What were your primary duties?"

Hawke shrugged, his fingers drumming on the arm of his chair. "Standard ranger stuff. Led tours, maintained trails, enforced park rules. Nothing exciting."

"I heard you had a particular interest in the cultural aspects of the park," Finn said. "Native American history and such."

A flicker of something—annoyance? worry?—crossed Hawke's face. "It was part of the job. Tourists eat that stuff up."

Sheila nodded, her eyes never leaving Hawke's face. "And your whereabouts over the past few days? Specifically, the past couple of nights?"

Hawke didn't miss a beat. "Well, two nights ago—Tuesday, I mean—I was at the Rusty Nail from about 8 PM until closing. The bartender, Jake, can vouch for me. We got to talking about the Dodgers game."

"The Rusty Nail," Sheila repeated, making a note. "And after closing?"

"Crashed at my buddy Dave's place," Hawke continued smoothly. "He lives above the laundromat on Main Street. We stayed up late playing video games. I didn't get home until noon the next day."

Finn raised an eyebrow. "That's quite a detailed account, Mr. Hawke."

Hawke shrugged again, but Sheila noticed a bead of sweat forming on his temple. "What can I say? It was a memorable night. The Dodgers lost in extra innings."

It was interesting how such an event could act like a monument, reminding you that you were once there. Just like Sheila remembered exactly where she was when her dad called and shared the news about Mom: in her college dorm, straining to hear over the voices of her friends gathered to play a party game.

"And where have you been since then?" Sheila asked.

Hawke shrugged. "Here. I ordered pizza, tipped the delivery guy a little extra, and watched a pay-per-view." He glanced at Mick. "Mick was here, too."

Mick nodded gravely. "That's right."

Sheila leaned back, taking this all in. The alibi was perfect—too perfect. It was as if Hawke had been expecting this question, had rehearsed his response. But why?

She made a mental note to verify both alibis, but her gut told her something was off. It was too neat, too prepared. She glanced around the room, her eyes landing on a framed photo of Hawke in his park ranger uniform, standing proudly in front of the dunes.

"You must miss it," she said, nodding toward the photo. "The park, I mean."

A flicker of emotion crossed Hawke's face. It was gone too quickly for Sheila to be sure what it had been. "It was just a job," he said flatly.

"Really?" Finn asked. "Because from what we heard, you were pretty passionate about it. Especially the cultural aspects."

Hawke's jaw tightened. "Look, I made a mistake. I paid for it. I lost my job, my reputation. What more do you want from me?"

"The truth, Mr. Hawke," Sheila said quietly. "That's all we're after."

The tension in the room was palpable. Mick shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting between Hawke and the officers. Hawke himself seemed to be struggling with some internal battle.

"I told you the truth, okay?" he finally said. "My story's not going to change just because you don't like it."

Story, Sheila thought. Yes, that's exactly what it is.

Sheila cleared her throat and rose. "I understand, Mr. Hawke. We're just trying to get to the bottom of what's going on in the park, that's all."

"By implying I had something to do with murdering those two hikers," he muttered.

"You didn't know either of them by any chance, did you?" Finn asked. "Amanda Weller, Carl Donovan?"

Hawke shook his head. "Heard their names on the news. That's it."

Having exhausted their immediate questions, Sheila and Finn prepared to leave. As they stepped out onto the front porch, Finn turned to Sheila.

"Well?" he asked. "What do you think?"

Sheila waited until they were in their vehicle before responding. "I don't buy it, Finn. That alibi was too perfect, too ready. It's like he knew exactly what we were going to ask."

Finn nodded slowly. "You think he's involved?"

"I think he's guilty of something," Sheila said, her eyes narrowing as she looked back at the house. "We just need to figure out what. Did you notice how defensive he got when we mentioned the cultural aspects of his job?"

"I'll look into the alibi, see if it holds water," Finn said.

"Maybe it will. But I've got a funny feeling it's not going to tell the full story."