Silent Smile (Sheila Stone #10)

CHAPTER EIGHT

EEN

Sheila's eyes burned from staring at the computer screen, the words beginning to blur together. She blinked hard, refocusing on the personnel file in front of her.

The Sheriff's office was quiet, most deputies out on patrol or following up on other cases. She'd been here for hours, digging through digital archives and dusty files, searching for anything that might shed light on Jason Hawke.

The process hadn't been easy. When she first requested Hawke's employment records, she hit a wall of bureaucracy. The state park system, citing privacy concerns, initially refused to release his full file. She had to track down Marcus Sheridan, the superintendent, who was in a remote section of the park that lacked cell service, and get him to provide her authorization to access the records.

Now that she had them, though, it didn't take long for her to realize the effort had been worth it.

"Well, that's interesting," she murmured, studying notes about a series of complaints lodged against Hawke during his tenure at the park: multiple incidents of overzealous rule enforcement, confrontations with visitors, even a few formal reprimands from his superiors.

Sheila leaned back in her chair, rubbing her temples. It didn't add up. Hawke was fired for stealing rare wildflowers from the park and selling them online. Why would someone engaged in illegal activities be so zealous about enforcing park rules? Was he overcompensating, trying to throw suspicion off himself?

She scrolled through the complaints, each one painting a picture of a man obsessed with rules and order. There was the time Hawke had confronted a family for straying a few feet off a marked trail, reducing a child to tears. Another incident involved him confiscating a visitor's drone, claiming it was disturbing wildlife, despite the park having no official policy on drones at the time.

"What were you really up to, Hawke?" Sheila muttered, jotting down notes.

The door opened, and Finn walked in, a file tucked under his arm and two cups of coffee in his hands. "Thought you could use a pick-me-up, boss," he said, placing one cup on Sheila's desk.

Sheila picked up the coffee, then hesitated. "You don't have to do that, you know," she said.

"What? Bring you coffee?"

"Call me boss. Or bring me coffee, for that matter."

Finn shrugged. "It was a slip of the tongue, that's all. If you'd prefer I didn't call you boss, I'll make sure it doesn't happen again."

She cocked her head at him. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Treat every comment I make like an order."

Finn's expression tightened slightly. He set his own coffee down and leaned against the desk. "Look, Sheila, I'm just trying to navigate this new situation. We both are. It's not easy, you know?"

Sheila sighed. "I know. I'm sorry. I don't want things to be awkward between us. I just... I miss how we used to be. Partners."

"We're still partners," Finn said. "It's just... different now."

Yeah, Sheila thought. So different that I can't even recognize us.

She cleared her throat and decided to get back to the case. "So, want to tell me what've you got there?" she asked, nodding at the file under Finn's arm.

Finn seemed to relax a bit, moving back into familiar professional territory. "Right, about that. I've been digging into Hawke's alibi, and things aren't adding up."

He opened the file, spreading out several papers on Sheila's desk. "I spoke with Jake, the bartender at the Rusty Nail. He confirms Hawke was there two nights ago but says he left around 11 PM, not at closing."

Sheila leaned forward, her earlier frustration forgotten in the face of new information. "That's a significant discrepancy. Did Jake seem sure about the time?"

Finn nodded. "Pretty sure. Said Hawke was a regular, always paid cash. He remembered because Hawke seemed agitated that night, kept checking his phone."

"Interesting," Sheila mused, her detective instincts kicking in. "And what about the friend he supposedly stayed with?"

"Dave Murdoch," Finn said, pulling out his phone and bringing up a photo of a scruffy-looking man in his thirties. "Says Hawke crashed on his couch, but can't say exactly when he arrived. He was pretty wasted himself that night."

"Did you get a sense of their relationship? How well does Murdoch know Hawke?"

Finn shrugged. "Seems they're drinking buddies more than close friends. Murdoch said Hawke crashes at his place occasionally when he's had too much. Didn't seem to know much about Hawke's personal life."

Sheila's mind raced, connecting the dots. "So there's a window of time unaccounted for. Plenty of time to drive out to the dunes, murder Amanda Weller, and get back."

"It's possible," Finn agreed. "Not proof, but definitely suspicious. Oh, and get this—I checked Hawke's cell phone records. There's a gap in activity last night from about 11:30 PM to just after 3 AM. No calls, no texts, no data usage."

Sheila raised an eyebrow. "As if his phone was turned off. Or in an area with no service."

"Like the dunes," Finn said.

"And last night? What about that alibi?"

Finn shrugged. "I tracked down the pizza guy—he confirmed delivering a pizza to the residence around 6:30 and seeing a man matching Hawke's description. The pay-per-view checks out, too. But that obviously leaves a lot of blank space. He could've done anything last night. No cameras nearby, no neighbors who saw anything one way or the other. Mick vouched for him, but it's hard to know whether we can trust his word."

Sheila stood up, pacing the small office. "Okay, let's think this through. We have Hawke, a former ranger with extensive knowledge of the park, including restricted areas. He has a history of rule enforcement bordering on obsession, but was fired for stealing rare plants. Now we find out his alibi for two nights ago—the night of Amanda's murder—is shaky at best, and his alibi for last night—the night of Carl Donovan's murder—has holes."

Finn nodded, following her train of thought. "And don't forget the interest in Native American culture. That could explain the symbols found on the victims."

"Right," Sheila agreed. "It's circumstantial, but..."

"But enough for a warrant," Finn said.

Sheila nodded decisively. "Let's go see Judge Martinez. We need to search Hawke's place, and we need to do it now."

***

An hour later, warrant in hand, Sheila and Finn pulled up to Hawke's house, a convoy of patrol cars behind them. The quiet suburban street seemed to hold its breath as officers emerged from their vehicles, ready to swarm the property.

"Remember," Sheila said, addressing the assembled officers, "we're looking for anything related to the murders of Amanda Weller and Carl Donovan. Pay special attention to any Native American artifacts, symbols, or literature. And keep an eye out for plant specimens or digging tools that seem out of place."

The officers nodded, their faces serious. Sheila felt the weight of the moment. This could be the break they needed, or it could be another dead end. Either way, they had to be thorough.

Sheila approached the front door, Finn at her side, the warrant feeling heavy in her pocket. She knocked firmly. "Jason Hawke! This is Sheriff Stone. We have a warrant to search the premises!"

After a tense moment, the door opened. Hawke stood there, his face a mix of confusion and anger. "What's going on?"

Sheila held up the warrant. "As I said, Mr. Hawke, we have a warrant to search your home. Please step aside."

"This is ridiculous," Hawke protested as officers streamed past him into the house. "I told you everything already! You can't just come in here and—"

"Actually, we can," Finn interrupted. "That's exactly what this warrant allows us to do. Now, please, stay out of the way and let us do our job."

Sheila nodded to a deputy. "Keep an eye on Mr. Hawke. Make sure he doesn't interfere with the search or attempt to leave."

As the deputy led a fuming Hawke to the living room, Sheila and Finn began their methodical search of the house. They started in the kitchen, opening every drawer and cabinet, checking behind appliances.

"Sheila," Finn called from the pantry. "Take a look at this."

She joined him, eyeing the shelves of canned goods and dry goods. "What am I looking at?"

Finn pointed to several unmarked glass jars filled with what looked like dried plants. "These don't look like your average kitchen herbs."

Sheila carefully opened one of the jars, a pungent aroma filling the air. "Definitely not oregano," she murmured. "Bag these for analysis. Could be more stolen park specimens."

They moved on to the bedrooms. Hawke's room was spartanly furnished, with just a bed, dresser, and desk. Sheila rifled through the desk drawers while Finn checked the closet.

"Sheila," Finn called again. "I think I've got something."

She joined him at the closet, where he was kneeling by the back wall. "Look," he said, pointing to a small gap between the floorboards. "This one's loose."

Together, they pried up the board, revealing a hidden compartment. Inside, they found a collection of rare desert plants, each in its own carefully maintained terrarium. Delicate flowers and succulents, some Sheila had never seen before, thrived under specialized grow lights. Beside them lay a notebook filled with names, dates, and dollar amounts.

"Looks like you didn't give up your side business after all, Hawke," Finn said, leafing through the notebook.

Sheila examined the plants closely. "Some of these are endangered species," she said. "This is way beyond just taking a few flowers. This is organized trafficking of protected plants."

Hawke, who had been allowed to watch the search under the deputy's supervision, paled visibly. "That's... that's not what you think," he stammered.

"Really?" Sheila raised an eyebrow. "Because it looks like evidence of ongoing criminal activity to me. Care to explain?"

Hawke opened his mouth, then closed it again, clearly struggling for words.

Sheila was about to press further when a shout came from the backyard. "Sheriff! You need to see this!"

She hurried outside, where an officer stood near the shed, pointing at a patch of recently disturbed earth. "There's something buried here," he said.

With growing excitement, Sheila knelt and began to dig. The soil was loose, easy to move. A few inches down, her hand struck something solid. She brushed away the dirt, revealing the handle of a shovel.

It was not the shovel itself that captured Sheila's attention, however, but rather the faint stain on the blade of the shovel. Blood, by the look of it.

She thought of the bruises on the victims: the one on the side of Amanda's head and the one on Carl's forehead.

Was she holding in her hands the tool that had dealt those blows?

Hawke, who had followed them outside, stared at the shovel in horror. "That's not mine," he said, his voice shaking. "I've never seen that before in my life. You have to believe me!"

"No," Sheila said as she rose and pulled out a pair of handcuffs, "I'm afraid we don't."