38. Maverick
MAVERICK
PLAY THE PART
“This is a fucking disaster.” Judge McClannan sighs heavily and removes his glasses, letting them hang around his neck. He swipes a thick hand down his face and stares at the evidence.
The DNA report and case files are spread out before him, the surveillance footage paused on the laptop to his right, showing the mayor and Marie walking out of the coffee shop together.
Judge McClannan is a seventy-something, heavyset man—his coily silver hair a contrast to his dark skin.
His demeanor is light, but I’ve heard enough about him to know that he takes no shit in the courtroom.
He’s worked closely with Cruz for at least a decade, and Cruz trusted him enough to confide in him.
Not wanting the evidence to travel, he agreed to meet us at the FBI resident agency office.
“I’d ask if you were sure, but…” His voice trails off as he gestures to everything in front of him.
The evidence speaks for itself.
“Yeah, I know.” Cruz shakes his head, keeping his eyes locked on the judge.
The entire task force waits on pins and needles, eager for the signature to appear on the warrant. We briefed everyone at the same time, needing to ensure our circle was small.
“All right.” Judge McClannan’s deep, raspy voice severs the quiet. He pulls a ballpoint pen from his chest pocket, cursing under his breath as he signs his name on the solid line.
The moment he signs the warrant, it feels as though the air shifts. It hasn’t felt real until this second.
We let out a collective breath and thank the good judge. We’ve been chasing a ghost for months. Now, we’re walking into the monster’s lair with a key in hand.
Cruz and I are the first to arrive on scene. The mayor’s house is befitting of a man who built a reputation on charm and control—grand, polished, and meant to impress.
The house is a colonial revival—three stories of symmetrical perfection, with white columns, dark shutters, and stone steps leading to an arched front door.
The setting sun washes the place in warm gold and blood-orange light, highlighting its beauty.
It looks like a picturesque landscape on a magazine cover.
Classy and timeless without being ostentatious.
But it’s a pretty facade, hiding something rotten behind the walls.
Cruz lets out a low whistle. “Fucker’s got taste, I’ll give him that,” he mutters.
I grunt, eyes sweeping over the property. “Fucker’s got secrets.”
We make our way up the steps, pausing at the door.
“A fingerprint scanner? Really?” Cruz asks, disbelief coating his voice.
Cruz knocks—or rather, pounds—on the door. “Mr. Evans,” he yells. “It’s Detective Cruz.”
No one answers.
After a few more loud knocks, it’s clear the mayor isn’t home.
“Arlo,” I call. “You’re up!”
I hear a shift of bodies behind me before Arlo appears at my side. He takes one look at the electronic door handle and shakes his head. “Just a minute.”
Two minutes later, the handle is in Arlo’s hand and the front door is pushed open.
Cruz and I are the first to enter, followed by my team and a few trusted RPD officers on the task force.
The inside is just as pristine as the outside. Not a single thing out of place. This is the home of a man who controls his environment, down to the last inch.
But monsters don’t always live in haunted houses. They live in places just like this, using their charm and riches to cover their tracks.
“Search everything,” I tell the team. “Attic, basement, crawlspaces. Lift the fucking floorboards if you have to. ”
We split up. The team fans out, Cruz takes the study, and I head up the stairs toward the master bedroom.
It’s as polished as the rest of the house. A king-sized bed with ironed sheets. Ornate, heavy, wooden furniture. A large bay window.
I stride into the attached bathroom—equally extravagant—and sift through drawers and cabinets. Finding nothing remarkable, I make my way back into the bedroom.
I step inside the closet. It’s so organized, it looks like a display room. Rows of crisp suits, all lined up by color. A pendant light fixture hangs from the middle of the space.
My fingers trail along the back walls, hoping to find a seam or a loose panel, but I come up empty.
Something feels off.
Swallowing down my frustration, I turn and study the wall closest to the door frame. It’s lined with shelves full of designer dress shoes, but the white cornice molding seems thicker here.
I trail my fingers down the wall, close to the molding. And there it is. It blends in so naturally, I almost miss it.
I press against the panel. It shifts.
“Got something!” I holler. “Hidden entrance in the master closet!”
Cruz is at my side in seconds. Footsteps in the hallway alert me to the rest of the team heading our way.
I tug the panel open, revealing a narrow, well-lit, spiral staircase leading upward.
We ascend slowly, guns drawn. When we breach the space, it confirms every nightmare Clara ever had.
A workstation takes up half the attic. Three large monitors glow faintly, casting shadows on a row of external hard drives. A worn leather chair sits neatly in front of a keyboard and mouse.
“Rhodes, come look at this shit.”
I turn to find Cruz standing in front of a clothing rack filled with various uniforms and lower quality suits.
My attention is drawn to the tall dresser next to the rack. I pull latex gloves from my pocket and slip them on. Opening the top drawer, I’m greeted with dozens of fake IDs and bundles of bills.
“Un-fucking-believable,” I mutter as I open the rest of the drawers, finding high-end wigs, a variety of glasses, different shades of contact lenses—the whole fucking gamut. He has everything he needs to blend in, to camouflage himself. Like a true goddamn chameleon.
“Rhodes. Cruz,” Riley beckons.
Jesse and Evie have already started setting up their equipment, securing the scene for photos, videos, and evidence collection.
Cruz and I weave around them to the other side of the attic where Riley is, flipping through the pages of a book.
Three bookshelves line the back wall. My brows furrow as I take them in, each shelf full of the same style of books. I move closer and pull one off the shelf at random.
No. Not books.
Journals.
Dozens of them. Leather-bound. Numbered.
I inspect the journal in my hand—number thirty-nine—then flip it open. The handwriting is neat. Familiar. Obsessive. Pages filled with photos and scrupulous details—license plates, routines, favorite coffee orders. His victims. His hunts. His fantasies. His truths.
“Box all these up,” I order.
Exhaling loudly, I take in the scene before me. I don’t know what I expected to find, but this level of obsession and sophistication wasn’t it.
Glancing toward the workstation, I spy Arlo and Spencer setting up their laptops. They’ll be bringing the external hard drives and computers back to the office, but they’re no doubt getting a head start on cataloguing everything.
The RPD officers follow Jesse’s lead, carefully boxing and bagging evidence.
Cruz has a crowbar in his hand.
I raise a brow, starting for the back corner where he’s staring at an oversized trunk as if it insulted his leather shoes. “What are you doing, Cruz?”
“About to open this fucking trunk. What’s it look like?”
“Evie! You get a photo of this yet?” I question before Cruz takes the crowbar to task.
“Yup! All good,” she responds, the camera viewfinder pressed to her eye and fixated on the dresser.
Cruz doesn’t wait any longer to pry the trunk open. The lock snaps with the force of a bone breaking—sharp and sudden.
The hinges groan in protest when Cruz opens the lid.
“This ain’t storage,” he says.
“Trophies?” I ask, even though I already know the answer .
“Trophies.”
Personal belongings. A locket. A keychain. Torn pieces of clothing. A ring I recognize from one of the early victim photos.
Cruz doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.
I stare at the contents of the trunk, heart pounding like a war drum in my chest.
This is it. This is everything we need.