Chapter 30
THIRTY
In the cards
REED
Parking in the bar district in downtown at night can be a shit show, so I opt to drive my motorcycle. However, I stow my vest for the short drive. No sense putting a target on my back by being that visible.
While driving to the bar, I envision how things might play out.
If I’m the first one on the scene as SSA Chase suggested, I’ll need to enter the bar to confirm Riddick is still inside.
Ideally, I’d do that without drawing attention.
If I walk through the door with FBI emblazoned on my chest in bright yellow letters, slipping in unnoticed goes out the window.
I’ll keep the vest stowed for now. Should be fine as long as he doesn’t recognize me and start shooting.
Maybe I’ll get lucky, and the team will arrive when I do, so I don’t have to decide. After parking near the bar, I dial Andrews.
“You there, kid?” he answers.
“Just parked. How far out are you?”
“Five minutes. And boy, do I have a lot of shit to download to you when I get there.”
“About?”
“Your Lila.”
Shit.
“How pissed will I be? Scale of one to ten.”
“It depends.”
“On what?”
“We can talk about it later. First things first. Did you get a visual on Riddick?”
“Not yet. I was debating whether to go inside the bar with my vest on. I need to be discreet, but he’s dangerous.”
“Hmm. That’s a tough one.”
My eyes roll involuntarily. “A lot of help you are.”
“You’ll make the right call, kid. You always do.”
My chin lifts slightly at that. “I’m going in. Stand by.”
A few seconds later, I enter the bar with my badge hidden in the pocket of my jeans. Although I left the vest in my bike’s storage compartment, my service weapon is concealed under my shirt.
I keep my head low as I scan the patrons. Luckily, it seems to be a large crowd tonight, thanks to the Bucs game playing on all the TVs. The busy scene gives my odds of being undetected a nice boost.
It doesn’t take long for me to confirm Riddick is still there, sitting in a booth with his back to me.
And he isn’t alone.
Andrews isn’t gonna believe this shit. Grieving girlfriend, my fucking ass.
I lean casually against the wall, pulling out my phone to update the team.
Me:
Got a visual on Riddick. Booth in the east corner of the bar. Ginny Lawrence is with him.
Almost immediately, bubbles appear at the bottom of the chat screen as multiple team members start typing their replies.
Romero:
You should have given us a trigger warning for the juicy plot twist.
Hemsley:
Didn’t I say not to trust the girlfriend?
Carson:
I guess her tears were for show.
Andrews:
This answers so many questions I had about my interactions with her this morning.
McBride:
Any sign of that Silas yahoo?
Me:
We aren’t that lucky.
SSA Chase:
Keep eyes on them, Hayes. We’re rolling up with SWAT in three minutes.
Me:
Copy.
I send a separate text to Andrews, asking him to grab my vest from the storage compartment on my bike. I’ll meet them outside the bar as soon as they arrive. Before slipping my phone back in my pocket, I discreetly snap a couple of pictures of Riddick and Lawrence for the file.
Riddick exits the booth and strides toward the back of the bar. His duplicitous companion remains seated.
Fuck me running.
Of course, they aren’t leaving together. That would be too easy.
Of the two, Riddick is my primary target. I inch forward, trailing him languidly while maintaining some cover. Seemingly unaware he’s being followed, he struts into the restroom.
Huh. Maybe my luck is turning around. Assuming there isn’t a way out through the men’s room, he’ll be back with Ginny by the time SWAT arrives.
I scan the room, taking in the throngs of innocent patrons out enjoying the football game. I hate the idea of this turning into a hostage situation. I should take Riddick now. I can catch him off guard in the bathroom.
It goes against orders, but it seems the safest approach for everyone concerned. Except me and my lack of Kevlar.
Fuck it. Here I go.
Moving with confidence, I close in. Before entering the restroom, I pause to briefly listen through the door. With nothing setting off alarm bells, I grab my revolver and silently enter.
Riddick’s ponied up to a urinal, with his back to me.
Perfect scenario.
The only thing that would make this situation better is if he were alone. Fortunately, the other guy is a few spots down. Glad they followed the unwritten rule of not pissing right next to another man unless there are no other options.
Wasting no time, I rush Riddick, clamp one hand on his shoulder, and stick my gun against the side of his neck. “FBI. Hands up.”
Saying that never fucking gets old.
My pulse thrums loudly with the familiar adrenaline spike that comes with an arrest. One less murderer off the streets.
Aside from Riddick’s bulky frame stiffening, he doesn’t outwardly react. In the corner of my eye, I see the other guy reacting enough for them both. He leaps away from the urinal and stumbles toward the wall. A trash can goes careening to the floor as he flails around.
On the bright side, I don’t feel dampness anywhere, so it’s possible I avoided piss splatter.
“Put your fucking hands up right now. SWAT is surrounding the building as we speak. You’re leaving this bar in one of two ways. In cuffs or a body bag. You choose.”
When he doesn’t comply right away, I double the pressure of my gun’s muzzle against his neck. “Do it. Show me your hands.”
With a frustrated growl, he reluctantly surrenders.
Addressing the other man from the side of my mouth, I order, “You, the graceful one in the red shirt, get out of here.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket, likely my team wondering where the fuck I am. They’ll find out soon enough.
The clumsy footsteps of the bystander clatter toward the door. The din of the bar gets louder, then it fades as he exits.
With him clear, I give Riddick another order. “Slowly move your hands to the top of your head.”
Once he does, I frisk him with one hand, while keeping my gun on his with the other. In short order, I divest him of a handgun and a military-style knife in a leather protective sheath.
I can’t help but wonder if this is the murder weapon.
“Felons are allowed to have guns now? Must have missed that law change,” I taunt, uttering a mere ounce of the disdain I have for him.
I roughly grab Riddick’s right hand, wrenching it behind his back.
He doesn’t resist, which should be a relief but never is.
With a firm hold of that arm, I slip my gun into its holster and retrieve my handcuffs in one smooth motion.
His left hand follows the other, and I get him cuffed without incident.
My heart rate slows as I turn him around until I’m face-to-face with a heartless, vile murderer. “Elliott Riddick, you’re under arrest for the murder of Troy Hartley.”
Hopefully, that’s just the first of many crimes we charge him with. This fucker deserves never to see the light of day again.
He doesn’t flinch at the accusation. “You gonna let me put my junk back in my pants?”
“Not a fucking chance. Best I’ll do is untuck your shirt to cover you up so you don’t flash everyone when I perp walk you out of the bar. And that’s only for the benefit of the innocent people out there who don’t deserve to have their night ruined.”
When we walk out of the bathroom, I catch sight of McBride’s fucking cowboy hat, towering above the crowd.
He’s the first to spot me, heading over with a shit-eating grin on his face. “Hoo boy, whatcha got there, rook?”
I don’t answer his question because it isn’t one. And I’m not a fucking rookie.
Since Agent McBride arrived with the rest of the unit, he’s outfitted with comms, and he alerts the team. “Stand down. Suspect in cuffs. Scene secure.” He joins me, gripping Riddick by the opposite elbow, and we lead him out unceremoniously.
When we enter the main part of the bar, a half dozen agents swarm the room. Not with weapons drawn, but simply making their presence known. I glance at the booth where Ginny Lawrence was seated moments ago. Luckily, she’s still there.
Her head whips around, likely noticing the increasing FBI presence.
“Agent McBride, take this POS outside and read him his rights.” When he nods in agreement, I hand Riddick over to him. “There’s someone I need to talk to before she leaves.”
Feet in motion, I scan for Andrews. We lock eyes briefly, and I wave him toward our secondary target.
The grieving girlfriend notices my rapid approach. Her eyes widen, and her jaw drops. After quickly grabbing her purse, she scoots toward the edge of the half-moon-shaped booth. Suppose she’s gonna try to make a quick escape.
Not today.
Arriving right in the nick of time, I slide onto the edge of the seat to block her exit.
Our thighs brush, and she reacts instantly, jerking in the other direction.
Stupid plan, since it’s a big ass booth she’d have to get around to flee.
Even without the agents hovering, she has no chance of escaping.
Casually, I address her. “Mind if I join you? I’m a big fan of the Bucs.”
Fact. Baker Mayfield was sent to save us.
Well, for the first half of most seasons, at least. We’re still working on finishing strong. But I digress.
Ginny’s only response is to continue frantically rounding the booth. Figured she’d give up by the halfway point to save herself from the sticky plastic seat I hear attacking the back of her legs with each scoot.
Guilty people can’t help but run.
Actually, that’s not quite true. Stupid guilty people always run. The intelligent ones think they can talk their way out of it.
Andrews joins us at the table, blocking the other side. He grins at her cordially, resembling a friend who arrived for drinks. “Hi, Ginny. I wasn’t expecting to see you until we resumed our questioning tomorrow. Glad to see you’re feeling better.”
Panic-stricken, she bounces her gaze between Andrews and me. “Listen, I just needed a drink. That ain’t a crime, is it?”
Aiming to appear nonthreatening, my partner nonchalantly unfolds his hands on the table, showing her his empty palms. “Not a crime at all. It’s a little odd that you had to travel across the state to find a drink. And your company is questionable.”
Perplexed, Ginny looks at me.
I roll my eyes. “He meant the felon I just arrested.”
“Is that what I meant?” Andrews quips, smirking at me with far too much delight for the occasion.
I mentally flip him off.
He swipes the plastic menu from atop the napkin dispenser and feigns perusing it, squinting eyes and all. “What’s good here, Ms. Lawrence?”
Her forehead wrinkles as her worry increases, but confusion seems to overpower all other thoughts. “For real?”
Her brain is in tumbleweed territory.
Dammit. McBride is rubbing off on me.
Andrews skims his line of sight around the bar. “Seems like a nice place.”
“It must be.” I pile on, addressing her with overt judgment. “I mean, only hours ago, you were unable to speak through the grief of what happened to your boyfriend. And now, look at you. All dressed up, with your fancy jewelry and fruity drink. Maybe this place is magic.”
Some of the dust clouds from behind her eyes blow away as she realizes what we’re implying. Slowly, she lowers her purse to her lap.
Nope.
I unholster my weapon and set it on the table in front of me. After spinning the muzzle in her direction, I rest my hand on top of it. “Put the purse on the table, and keep your hands where we can see them at all times.”
Her sight falls to my gun and stays there while she shakily complies. Once her empty hands are on the table, she nervously fiddles with an ostentatious black bracelet. The beads click loudly on the Formica table, making my teeth grind.
Andrews leans across the table to move the purse out of her reach.
In an almost fatherly tone, he tells her, “We need to talk, Ginny. Come take a ride with us. As we leave the bar, you won’t do anything stupid, will you?”
She finally stops fidgeting with that fucking bracelet. “I won’t. I promise.”
About thirty minutes later, we’re at the regional FBI office. Ginny’s parked in a locked interrogation room where we’ll let her sweat it out before we question her.
Unfortunately, Riddick lawyered up as soon as we had him out of the bar. So he’s en route to lockup, where he’ll stay. No chance of bail, given his history.
After handling a few things in my office, I rise to find Andrews. I need to know what he alluded to earlier about Lila.
I find him filling his coffee in the break room. Crossing my arms, I cut to the chase. “Talk to me about Lila.”
No response or acknowledgment. Without a care in the world, he languidly stirs his coffee for three more seconds.
I savor a deep breath, attempting to keep my frustration and worry in check.
Andrews removes the stir stick from his coffee, tapping it on the lip of the mug before lazily tossing it in the trash can. He keeps his eyes on the dark brown sludge, which is starting to feel like an intentional stall tactic.
Bringing the mug to his mouth, he blows across it, finally meeting my eyes. “Oh, hey, Reed.”
I roll my eyes. “Point made. Now, tell me about Lila.”
He raises his brows, inclining his head slightly.
“Please,” I add, suddenly resembling a scolded child.
“Atta boy. I knew you could do it.” Winking, he pats my shoulder twice. “Join me in my office. You should sit for this.”
Fuck.
I’m too tired for this shit.
This damn day has shoved me through an emotional ringer. Since I barely slept last night, everything seems worse than it probably is.
All I want to do is go home, make love to Lila, then pass out in her arms for about eighteen hours.
Then I’d talk to her about whatever shit she’s done and figure out how to help her through it.
Then I’d find out what Ginny was doing in the bar with the man who murdered her boyfriend.
Then I’d be prepared to hear Andrews tell me about Lila’s crimes.
But nope.
Instead, I’m probably about to learn that the woman I love—who I left alone in my condo—is in too deep for me to save her.
If only collaring Riddick without a violent escalation had earned me some good karma. Guess that wasn’t in the cards for me.
Turns out, tarot cards are no better for me than playing cards.