Chapter Fifteen
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“T his is Deputy Carlisle .”
He let the curtain drop over the window of the condo he’d rented and tightened his grip on his burner phone. “Thanks for taking my call. I understand you’re the public liaison officer with the Sheriff’s Office?”
“That’s correct. How can I be of assistance today?”
“I’m a reporter with the Central Coast Chronicle,” he said, using the cover story he’d created.
He needed intel, and he needed it fast. This seemed like the best way to get it without raising suspicion.
“I’m following up on a story that broke earlier.
About the arrest of a Crimson Point Security agent involved in the shooting incident on the highway last Thursday.
My sources say her name is...” He paused as if he was checking somewhere. “Cassie Edwards. Can you comment?”
“She was not arrested. She was brought in for questioning.”
The unexpected news threw him. “Then she’s currently being detained, and charges are pending.”
“No. She was cleared of all charges and released several hours ago.”
What the fuck ? His guts knotted. “Ah. I see.” Except he didn’t. Not at fucking all. “Can you give me any more information about the incident that led to her being detained for questioning?”
“No, not at this time. You can report that Ms. Edwards was questioned and has been cleared of any criminal responsibility relating to the incident, and that subsequently, no charges were filed against her.” Her tone was brusque, all business. “Have a good day.” She hung up.
“What the fuck ?” he snapped into the empty room.
He paced to the other side, mind whirling.
They’d let her go, even after finding drugs in her trunk.
Even though someone had reported seeing her buy them off someone in the parking lot.
Even though she’d been involved in the shooting just a few days ago and for all they knew, the two events could be related.
“What the hell’s it gonna take?” he snarled, fuming and sick to his damned stomach.
As far as he’d been able to find out, she hadn’t been fired from CPS. He’d planned this next shot out so carefully, making sure to insulate himself against any hint of suspicion or involvement. Had Mikey been caught planting the drugs?
No way he could leave things like this. He needed to know what the hell had gone wrong. And if there was any way that he could be tied up in it...
He got in his rental car and drove north up the coast toward Crimson Point, going way slower than he wanted, but he couldn’t risk getting pulled over for something as stupid as speeding. Thankfully traffic was light, and he arrived at his destination in a little more than twenty minutes.
The old cottage was hidden amongst towering evergreens that marked the edge of the forest climbing the southern edge of the hill that overlooked the town. A layer of gray mist hugged the ground, hiding the driveway from view.
He parked on the road and walked up the driveway.
The eaves along the front of the cottage sagged with what looked like years of rust-orange cedar needles covering the roof and overflowing the gutters.
When he stepped onto the front porch, the half-rotten boards creaked ominously beneath his weight.
He banged the end of his fist on the peeling front door. Waited with hands on hips while footsteps approached on the other side.
Mike pulled the door open a crack and blinked at him with sleepy, bloodshot eyes, his hair sticking up all over the place. “What are you doing here?” he mumbled, either drunk or high.
They knew each other. Had partied together. But never worked together until now. “Nah, what are you still doing here?” He pushed the door open with his forearm, forcing Mike to take a stumbling step back and let him in.
“Whoa, calm down. There a problem?”
“You’re damned right there is.” He slammed the door shut and stalked into the cramped living room that smelled like it hadn’t been aired out in a decade. The coffee table was covered in empty beer bottles and a small mirror and razor where Mike had recently been doing lines.
While he fumed, Mike wandered over there and picked up a joint, lit it, and took a drag. “Want some?” He held it out.
Part of him was tempted. He was half-desperate to get high. Would love to just let loose the way he used to, forget how shit his life had become since that bitch had brought his world tumbling down on him and landed him in prison. “Did anyone see you plant the drugs?”
“No, course not.” He sounded insulted. “I was quick.”
“Were there cameras around?”
Mike gave him an angry look. “Like I’m supposed to know where every fucking camera in the area is? She parked at the far end of the lot, away from the road. But even if I was caught on camera, I had a hat on, wore it low. No one could’ve seen my face to ID me.”
Yeah, but if he’d been caught on camera, then it defeated the entire purpose of planting the drugs—to make it appear not to be a fucking setup .
His anger shifted into something far more sinister and dangerous. This motherfucker was a potential liability who could get them all caught, bring them all down again. He couldn’t take that chance. The others would come after him if he didn’t take care of this himself.
He shoved his hand inside his vest and pulled his gun. Mike froze for an instant.
He felt a momentary twinge of guilt. Of sadness. He liked Mike. Loved partying with him. “Sorry, Mikey.”
Mike threw his hands up, eyes wide. “What—no, no !”
He fired two shots, center mass. Mike hit the floor on his back, wheezing as blood flowed out of his chest and bubbled out of his nose and mouth.
Lungs shot. Aorta severed.
Mike’s legs twitched on the scuffed hardwood like a squashed bug.
He stared down at the dying man. Mike’s family lived in another state, and he’d only moved here a few weeks ago. Nobody would miss him for a while. And out here, nobody would have heard or reported the shots.
But Mike’s phone was a potential problem.
He bent, quickly checked Mike’s pockets, ignoring the agonized, accusing stare leveled at him. The phone wasn’t in his pockets. Or on the coffee table.
He rushed to the cramped kitchen, every surface cluttered with so much shit it would take him half an hour to do a thorough search. Still no phone.
It wasn’t on the dresser or nightstand in the bedroom. Or on the bathroom counter.
Where the fuck would Mike have put the damned thing? It could have incriminating evidence on it. If he’d been caught on camera planting drugs, then it wasn’t a stretch to assume Mike hadn’t erased any message chains either.
He couldn’t leave it here and risk the cops finding any messages between the group, even though they’d all used burner phones.
His head snapped toward the front of the house when he heard a vehicle approach the bottom of the driveway. He rushed to the bedroom window at the front of the cottage, eased the edge of the blind aside and cursed under his breath when he saw the truck through the trees at the end of the driveway.
A flash of red was his only warning before a figure appeared on the driveway, coming toward the house. Why was this person coming up to the house?
He dropped the blind and pressed his back to the wall, thinking fast. There was no time to slip out the front. He didn’t want to add anyone to his body count.
He couldn’t remember if there had been a gap in the curtains on the window in the living room. If whoever was coming up the driveway looked in and saw Mike lying there on the floor...
Hollow footsteps sounded on the wooden front stairs. The porch creaked. Then whoever it was knocked on the door. Followed by a pause. Because Mike was in, but he couldn’t answer.
Another knock, louder. “Yo, Mikey. You there? Came to get the stuff from you.”
Weed and/or coke, most likely. Mike hadn’t been able to go a single day without either, or scotch. Shit, and now this guy was complicating things further.
“Mikey?”
He could just picture the guy trying to peer through the front windows. His pulse accelerated, beads of sweat popping out on his back and upper lip. Why wasn’t the guy leaving?
The seconds ticked past slowly as he stood there, unmoving. Crawling out the bathroom window was too risky. He’d just have to wait it out, until this guy left. And then hope whoever it was didn’t come back before he got the hell out of here.
Four, maybe five minutes passed while the mail carrier went around back and tried that door.
He swore silently, every muscle tensed, ready to pull his weapon again if necessary. But thankfully the back door didn’t open.
Footsteps sounded on the gravel around the side of the house. “Guess I’ll come back when I finish the street,” the guy muttered to himself in annoyance, then his footsteps began to fade as he moved down the driveway. A few moments after that, an engine started.
Peeking through the edge of the blind again, he saw the truck drive away and let out a long breath, his muscles relaxing.
Now where the hell was Mikey’s damned phone? He took one last cursory glance around the place. Mike was now dead on the living room floor, his half-open eyes staring at the wall.
A wave of rage rolled through him that he’d been forced to kill someone else. If he got caught for either murder after what he’d already done, he’d die in prison.
“Christ what a mess,” he muttered to himself in disgust. Short of turning the place upside down, he wasn’t going to find the phone. And he’d stayed here too long as it was.
He left using the front door, careful not to leave prints.
The place was so filthy inside, he didn’t worry that forensics would be able to isolate his shoe prints from all the others.
And the gun he’d used was a ghost weapon he’d put together using a 3D printer.
Impossible to track and easily disposed of.
For the time being, he needed to go to ground and figure out his next move. Cassie had somehow evaded the intended fallout from the ambush, but not for long.