Chapter 6
Six
“Who the hell authorized warrants against Duncan Vaughn?” Bowers slammed Nic’s office door shut, rattling the walls.
Nic didn’t startle or jump. He was honestly surprised it had taken Bowers this long to charge in. Probably because the US Attorney had had to come all the way from his club, the wrinkled golf polo and waft of cigar smoke giving away where he’d been.
He did find Bowers’s word choice—against—interesting.
Nic set aside his pen and laced his fingers together on his desk blotter.
“I don’t need authorization to ask the grand jury for warrants on the target of an ongoing investigation.
” Bowers opened his mouth to protest; Nic talked over him.
“But I did get it from them and the Deputy AG.”
Bowers’s round face flamed red. “You and Jack Hayward are awfully cozy.”
“What exactly are you implying?”
Bowers was seriously grasping at straws to even suggest there was anything more than professional between him and the happily married Deputy AG.
He seemed to realize that too, backpedaling and trying another argument. “I’m your boss,” he said, jutting a thumb at his chest.
“And Jack is yours.” Nic crossed one leg over the other, hands resting in his lap. “As for Vaughn, you’ve known about this case for months. You know I’ve been working it with the FBI and grand jury.”
“But I didn’t know you were going to serve warrants today.”
“Vaughn was back in the country. It was time to move.” Nic shrugged one shoulder. “Why does it matter if I told you about a routine service of process?”
“Routine?” Bowers scoffed. Nic admittedly had been pushing it there on purpose, and Bowers predictably took the bait. “This is far from routine. Duncan Vaughn is a high-profile local business figure. This is a high-profile case for us. We can’t afford a misstep.”
“I don’t misstep.”
Bowers didn’t argue that one. “Maybe I wanted the press there.”
That Nic would believe, though he thought it more likely an excuse. A cover-up. He played along anyhow like he would with a witness or suspect on the stand, leading them down Nic’s chosen path. “A photo op? That’s what you’re upset about? That I didn’t include you?”
“It’s a win for our office.”
“Not yet. I haven’t officially brought charges.”
“Is that your next move?” That was the very direction Nic had anticipated. Had led. Back to Bowers fishing for information.
“Depends on what we find in the evidence collected.” It was a hedge and the truth.
He couldn’t tell Bowers everything, and they were still processing evidence, but it was enough to set Bowers on edge, rocking on his feet, exactly as Nic had intended.
He’d be more likely to make a misstep, off balance as he was, and then Nic would catch him too.
Bowers froze, as if he realized his tell. “When’s Vaughn coming in for questioning?”
“Tomorrow.”
“I want to be there for it.”
Of course he did. Which put their biometrics reading in jeopardy if it was too crowded in the room or if Bowers was there to eavesdrop.
“Give me a thirty-minute heads-up.” On that directive, Bowers spun on his heel, yanked open the door, and stormed out, charging across the bullpen toward the elevators. Back to his club. So much for actually working.
Shaking his head, Nic picked up his pen, ready to get back to revising orders for another case, but before he put ink to paper, his phone rang. “Nic Price,” he answered.
“This is Coroner Jong.” She sounded as tired as he felt.
He glanced at his watch. She’d just come on shift when Curtis had been brought in.
It would be nearing the end of her twelve hours now.
“I don’t have the tox screen results yet,” she said, answering Nic’s first question before he even asked. “But I did fully examine the body.”
“And?” If she was calling instead of emailing, she must have found something out of the ordinary.
“There were puncture marks we didn’t see before.”
“Where?”
“Inside his mouth. Soft tissue of his right jaw.”
Nic winced. He’d seen that before in cases where the killer was trying to hide a murder behind apparent suicide.
It usually took a bit for the bruising to appear and that was assuming the coroner even knew to look for it.
It wasn’t as easy as spotting bruising on the limbs, torso or .
. . “The bruise on the side of his head?” There’d been an angry welt rising there under Curtis’s thinning white hair.
“Where they knocked him unconscious. It wasn’t what killed him.”
Nic tapped his pen on the blotter, a timeline of events coming together in his head. “Whatever they injected him with did when he was unconscious.”
“Looks like it. With something that induced a heart attack.”
At least there was no pain then, beyond the initial blow. Unless . . . “Did he know? Did he feel his heart give out?”
“I can’t say for certain but very likely not.”
Nic blew out a held breath, dropping his pen and slouching in his chair.
No matter the shit his father had put him through, he hadn’t wanted him to suffer in death.
He’d seen enough of that in the desert, in war.
He didn’t wish that on anyone, even Curtis Price.
Knowing he’d been taken by surprise, a hit to the head, then likely died while unconscious, was a relief to his mind and soul.
A little of the guilt that lingered fell away.
“Call me as soon as you know what he was injected with,” Nic said.
“And if you find anything else.” He made sure Jong had all his numbers, Cam’s too, before hanging up and heading for the stairs, needing to update Cam and the team.
He had a hand on the stairwell door when his phone vibrated. He glanced at the screen and cursed.
He ducked into the stairwell, bringing the phone to his ear. “Hey, Eddie, I’m sorry again for the early morning phone call. And that I didn’t call back sooner for an update.”
“Don’t apologize,” Eddie clipped, his SEAL voice seeping through before he took it down a notch, closer to his laid-back, flirtatious off-duty self who brewed beer. “Saw the news. Guessing that’s what the wake-up call was about?”
Nic rested against the cement wall, closing his eyes and enjoying the chill of the stone, letting it cool the desert heat beneath his skin.
He had enough to do already—juggling two jobs—without the complications of the past twelve hours.
Monday was supposed to be his catch-up night at Gravity—payroll, paperwork, and the like—of which there would be a ton as he’d been gone all weekend.
That stack was only going to get bigger.
“Yeah,” he said. “And I don’t think I’m going to make it into the brewery tonight. ”
“No shit, buddy. Looks like your life went tits up.”
“Thought we were done with that when we left the desert.”
“Speak for yourself.” Eddie chuckled. “At least a third of my other job is dealing with people’s tits-up situations.” Search and rescue was one of the primary tasks of the local Coast Guard unit Eddie had transferred into from the SEALs. “Now it’s your turn. What do you need me to do?”
Like the rest of his friends, Eddie knew him well. And he knew the SEAL side of him better than anyone. No sympathy or coddling. Just an accurate assessment of the situation and detailing a mission to tackle it. Forever his teammate.
“Keep Gravity running for me.”
“I can do that.”
“And keep the heightened security up.” Nic had been jumped and shot at on brewery grounds, and Vaughn had visited once too, the night he’d made the overture Cam had been stewing about earlier.
Vaughn had wanted to make it clear that Nic was vulnerable anywhere, and that he’d use Gravity as leverage if there was no other means of collecting on Curtis’s debts.
Not a dime of his family’s money had gone into the brewery—all of it was funded by Nic and Eddie themselves—but Vaughn didn’t care about that.
No matter how tangentially connected to Curtis, it was a valuable asset Vaughn intended to force Nic to liquefy. Or liquefy himself by fire or other means to get the insurance proceeds if Nic didn’t cooperate. “Round the clock, Vasquez.”
“I got a couple Coast Guard buddies who wouldn’t mind helping out for some extra cash.”
“Do it,” Nic said. It had been a better-than-average year, saleswise. They could afford it, especially to safeguard their future. “You scheduled to be out anytime soon?”
“Team’s on routine exercises for the next month unless they need extra hands on an emergency, but it would only be local.”
Good. While Nic was happy with their assistant manager hires, he still wanted either himself or Eddie there or at least near. This was their venture, dreamed up on a blistering hot day, hiding in a sandy trench.
“Thanks, Eddie, for everything.”
“Anything else, you let me know. And when the dust settles or if you just need a break, get by here and taste your special brew.”
Nic pushed off the wall, rubbing a hand over his left hip. One of the few places left on him to ink that would still be covered by his suit, and he had a good idea of what he wanted there, a version of what would be on the label of the new brew. “How’s it looking?”
“Might be our best yet,” Eddie said, smile audible in his voice.
“Logo back from the designer yet?”
“Just came in. Let me email it to you. It’s sweet as fuck.”
Nic switched the phone to speaker, then opened his email, waiting eagerly for the message to load. He opened the attachment and gasped, putting a hand on the wall to steady himself.
The clover. The apricot. The name—Fighting Boston Irish—and emphasized initials—FBI Stout—their double meaning clear.
Finally, something had gone right today. Something he wanted to do desperately for the man he loved. “It’s perfect.”