Chapter Two #2
“I think so. She and another woman were seen chatting with a local inn owner whose body was discovered this morning. I think whoever they’re looking for is either our killer or he’s at least involved somehow. They never notified us that they were hunting a fugitive in our county.”
“Well, Lambert doesn’t like talking to the locals, so she’s not a favorite of ours, but she does run a clean operation.
She’s got a better-than-decent closure rate and she hires good people.
To be fair, they’ve returned some bad actors to our jurisdiction, but they don’t tend to call for backup until the situation is already fucked-up.
Puts our guys in danger when we go in to save their asses. ”
Ronan didn’t like the sound of that. “How often does that happen?”
Dwight hesitated. “I guess I personally know of one time.”
“That doesn’t seem too bad.”
“Yeah, but that one time was brutal. We nearly lost two cops. They pulled through, but it was close.” He sighed. “Lambert’s just…abrasive. Pushy. Not interested in anyone’s opinion but her own.”
Okay. Ronan had learned from Penny that “abrasive” often meant that a woman stood up for herself, and Dwight was old-school enough to think that his opinion was supreme. Ronan had learned not to correct him while he’d been training.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said diplomatically. “She was accompanied by another woman two nights ago. Tall, auburn hair. Ellie Reynolds was the name my contact at the inn remembered, but I don’t think that’s right.”
“Ellie? I don’t know any—oh, maybe she meant Elle.
Real name’s Giselle.” He made a scoffing sound, like the woman’s name was a joke.
“But her last name isn’t Reynolds. Give me a second.
Need to search for something on my phone…
” Dwight put himself on speaker, muttering to himself.
“Right. Giselle Randolph. That’s what I thought.
I’m sending you a link for your reading pleasure. Good luck corralling that one.”
Ronan wasn’t keen on corralling anyone, much less a bounty hunter. He thanked Dwight, promised to go fishing with him at some point in the future, and then ended the call.
Giselle Randolph. The name was familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it, so he clicked on the link that appeared in Dwight’s text.
It was a newspaper article. And…oh. Ronan remembered this story now. It had happened a little more than two years ago and had kept the Bay Area riveted for days. It had all the hallmarks of a blockbuster—fugitive murderer, child hostage, explosions.
And a heroine who’d saved the day.
Giselle Randolph.
The photo included in the article immediately captured his attention. This was the image he remembered. It had been plastered all over the internet for several news cycles.
It was dark and grainy and it was hard to tell what Giselle Randolph even looked like.
She was striding forward, holding the three-year-old she’d rescued from the building that blazed behind them.
Though the camera caught her head-on, the top half of her face was hidden by a ball cap.
The lower half of her face was streaked with soot and grime, her lips pressed together in pain.
She’d been injured during the rescue, but not in a life-threatening way.
The child had escaped unscathed. Physically, anyway. The little girl’s face was buried in Randolph’s shoulder, her tiny arms clutching the woman’s neck like she’d never let go. Randolph’s grip was equally strong.
He remembered that the bounty hunter had been careful to shield the child’s face from the cameras, preserving her privacy.
Not that that had been necessary. The child’s photo had been everywhere in the days after her abduction, her frantic parents having offered a sizable reward for her safe return.
Anyone with access to a computer knew what the child looked like.
Still, it had been a nice gesture.
The fugitive Randolph had been seeking had met a bad end, trapped in the fire that he himself had started. Ironic, since he was out on bail from an arson charge. Randolph claimed that she’d tried to save him, too, but had been too late.
Ronan scrolled through the article until he got to a photo of Randolph, taken at what appeared to be a press conference. Seated at a table, she was cleaned up and wearing a black leather jacket, her long hair in a ponytail. It was auburn, just as the young mother described.
Sara Lambert sat on her right, Felicia Flaherty on her left. Lambert’s hand covered one of Randolph’s, and Flaherty’s arm was around Randolph’s shoulders. Their posture screamed protection, as if Randolph were fragile somehow.
That left Ronan…irked, and he had no idea why. Seemed like a woman who rescued a child from a murderous fugitive who’d set a building on fire didn’t need coddling.
Randolph herself looked uncomfortable as all hell, like she’d rather be anywhere else but at that press conference.
He studied her face, looking for something, but he wasn’t sure what that was. She was objectively very pretty, he supposed. The lips she’d pursed in the rescue photo were actually full. They weren’t pursed now, but she wasn’t smiling, either. Her skin was on the pale side and…
He zoomed in on her face. She had freckles over her nose and cheeks, making her look younger than the thirty-three the article quoted. She’d be thirty-five by now.
But it was her brown eyes that caught his attention. They were clear and…honest.
And that thought irked him even more than the coddling. He didn’t know this woman. He didn’t know if she was honest or not. All he knew was that she’d talked to Dianne Foster and, two days later, Dianne was dead.
“Well, at least I know what I’m dealing with,” he muttered. He’d track them down and find out who they were looking for.
Because that was likely who he was looking for, too.
Fort Bragg, California
Tuesday, January 20, 10:15 p.m.
“That’s all we need,” Sara said with satisfaction.
They were parked in the Tahoe a half mile from Steve Garfield’s house, watching the feed from the cameras they’d planted around his backyard.
On Sara’s screen was Garfield, joking around with a very shady-looking customer. The man’s hands shook as he gave Garfield a wadded-up fistful of cash.
Garfield counted it, then handed over a small amber prescription bottle.
They had him now.
“First thing that’s gone right since we got here,” Sara muttered.
She and Sara had arrived in Fort Bragg after Miller’s credit card had pinged at the pharmacy the first time, but no one had seen him—or would admit to it, anyway.
Unfortunately the coastal towns welcomed a lot of tourists. People came to see the stunning views of the Pacific Ocean, its waves crashing against rocks at the base of hundred-foot cliffs.
Strangers were the norm and usually not remembered.
The one person they’d found who’d remembered Miller hadn’t seen him in nearly ten years. Dianne Foster had been Miller’s high school English teacher for two years. He’d been a troubled youth, according to the older woman who now ran an inn down in Mendocino.
Miller was a now a troubled adult.
Elle hoped that the pharmacy guy could be persuaded to tell them what Miller had bought the two times he’d shopped in the pharmacy.
They waited until Steve’s business was done, and then Elle started the Tahoe. “Are we ready?”
“We are.” Sara made still copies of the video frames that showed the drug transaction and saved them to the cloud. “You can be good cop.”
“I’m always good cop.”
Sara smiled at her fondly. “Because you’re an awful bad cop.”
It was fair. Once, many years ago, she’d been a fierce contender in the courtroom. She’d thrived on confrontation. But after five years of marriage to Todd, that Elle had all but disappeared.
She was slowly becoming reacquainted with the woman she’d been.
“I’ll start, then,” Elle said. “And you can swoop in with the photographic goods.”
“It’s a plan.”
Elle watched as the customer’s car pulled out of Steve’s driveway and, after a minute, they started toward the pharmacy tech’s house in the woods.
They’d found his house, but it hadn’t been easy. He lived in a heavily wooded area where the driveways seemed to melt into the trees. It was a perfect location for the clandestine selling of drugs from his back porch.
They hadn’t seen any cameras when they’d planted theirs earlier that day, so they doubted he knew they were on to him.
They found him on the deck, puffing at a fat blunt. Relaxing after a long day of filling prescriptions and dealing illegal drugs. The twenty-seven-year-old stiffened when he saw them get out of their car.
He might be armed. They’d have to be careful. Both Elle and Sara were also armed, but Elle hated to pull her weapon. It rarely ended well.
“I got no money,” Garfield said.
“We’re not here to rob you,” Elle said, holding out her hands to show that they were empty. Sara had done the same. “We want to ask you about a customer you had yesterday evening.”
He frowned as they climbed the stairs to his deck. “I remember you. I couldn’t talk to you last week and I can’t talk to you now. My customers are entitled to privacy under the law.”
“This one is on the run from the police.” Elle showed Garfield the photo of Miller they’d been carrying around. “His name is Reece Miller.”
Garfield studied the photo. “What did he do?”
“Stole some valuable artwork and shot a security guard and a passerby during his escape,” Sara said. “The guard may never walk again.”
Garfield grimaced. “Well, I hope you catch him, Detectives, but I can’t help you.”
“We aren’t police,” Elle said. “We’re bounty hunters.” They’d decided to tell Garfield who they really were because he was unlikely to go to the cops, considering what he’d been doing.
Garfield perked up. “Oh yeah?”
Elle nodded. “Yeah. This guy’s mother mortgaged her house to cover his bail. He doesn’t seem to care that he’s made his mother homeless. Did you see him?”
“It sucks for his mom, but no. He didn’t come in.”