Last Light (23 page)

Lucy considered that. “Exactly what did you do in Afghanistan?”

TK shrugged, looked away. “Support. Enablers, the brass called us. The guys would go in, searching for insurgents, enter a village or compound. I’d search the women and children, their quarters, talk with them.”

Her words came slowly as if she was redacting her own history. But Lucy could read between the lines. Translating “guys” into “special ops” and “enter” into “raid.” She’d been right; TK had seen real action.

“Anyway,” TK finished, despite the fact that she’d really told Lucy very little, “I can do it. If you let me try.”

“Go, get the photos. I’ll take them to Saylor, see what he says.”

“But what if he was involved?” TK protested.

“I’m not about to interview a fragile witness like Alan without his guardian present. Take it or leave it.”

TK nodded and ran out the door before Lucy could change her mind.

Lucy called Nick to ask for his advice in dealing with Alan, but he was in with a patient. She could wait until he was free, but they really didn’t have many other avenues to pursue. Except maybe one. She called Wash. “How difficult would it be for us to run fingerprints? Do we have any access to AFIS?”

He hesitated. “We have run comparison prints—usually to identify John Does whose prints were taken before the modern databases existed. You don’t have more bodies out there, do you?”

“No,” she assured him. “But those bullets, they bother me.”

“Why not ask the sheriff to run them? They’d be easy to do nowadays with local tech. No need to send to the state lab.”

Because she didn’t want to trust Blackwell or his people with potentially valuable evidence. Especially not if Blackwell’s family might be involved.

Wash picked up on her concern without her saying anything. “You think if you bring their attention to them, they might disappear or miraculously get wiped clean? Like those scrapped cars?”

“Then why leave the bullets there for us to find at all? Unless the prints on them point to someone else—”

“Someone they want us to find? Like his father, Roscoe?” He gave a low whistle. “I thought my mind was twisted, but that is...just diabolical.”

“Should I ask them to run them or not?”

“Once they’re run, they become part of the official record. Took Michael Manning twenty-nine years to fight his way free of that red tape.”

“But, I’d love to know—” He was right. Despite her curiosity, she couldn’t play into Blackwell’s hand. The sheriff was definitely playing a larger game, one she couldn’t see.

“We could run them unofficially,” he suggested. “One of our guys is a certified latent-print examiner with access to AFIS as part of our partnership with NamUs and NCMEC. Problem is, if there is a match, we’ll have some explaining to do about why the prints came from us instead of local law enforcement.”

“Which might make them inadmissible and destroy the chain of custody.” Satisfying her own curiosity, but not doing Michael Manning any good. She had to remind herself that, unlike the FBI, her job here was to free a man, not convict one.

“Isn’t that against the law? Tampering with evidence?” He sounded more excited than nervous about the prospect.

“Not to mention obstruction of justice. Damn if we do, damn if we don’t.”

“Sorry, boss. Wish I had an answer. Maybe ask Valencia?”

No way in hell was Lucy going running to the woman who just hired her—talk about amateur hour. It was Lucy’s case. She’d make the decision. Every reflex drilled into her by the FBI told her to trust the system and follow procedure, but that idea left a sour taste that burned through her gut.

Before she could decide, a knock came on her door. She looked through the peephole: Augusta, the woman whose life had been turned upside down by the county seizing her possessions and jailing her husband.

Lucy opened the door and stepped outside, blocking Augusta’s view of the evidence strewn around her room.

“I’m sorry,” the younger woman said in a rush. “I hate to bother you, but you seem so much better at this stuff than I am. My father made it here with the money but he’s exhausted. Would you come with me to the sheriff department? I don’t want to mess this up. It’s all the money we have.” Augusta opened the plastic shopping bag she clutched, revealing wads of cash.

“They asked you to bring cash?” Lucy was surprised. She’d paid David and TK’s fine this morning with a credit card and the notices said the sheriff’s department also took certified checks. Of course that fine had only been two hundred dollars, but she couldn’t believe a speeding ticket would require this much cash.

Maybe this was how Blackwell and his men were profiting from the forfeitures? More than the official funds raised by the auctions, but actual cash in their pockets. But then where did the destroyed vehicles and missing women play into things?

“They said it had to be cash. My father didn’t feel comfortable wiring it, and since he had to drive from Florida to take us to Dallas once we get Paul out of jail, he brought it with him.”

“And your husband, he’s been charged with what exactly?”

“They said he was speeding and resisted arrest. Even though he wasn’t, he didn’t. But we can’t risk him having a record. He’ll lose his job, so they said if we paid his fine in full, in cash, they’d set him free. They have to keep the car and all our stuff because it was used in the commission of a crime, but I don’t care. I just need Paul back. Will you help me?”

“Of course.” Lucy texted David and TK to let them know where she was going. As they walked across the street and around to the entrance to the jail annex, Lucy asked, “Exactly how much cash did they ask you to bring?”

“They said to drop the resisting arrest charge and clear his record, it would be a ten-thousand dollar fine.” Augusta was practically in tears. “I would have hired a lawyer and fought it—that’s what Paul said we should do—but the lawyers charge hundreds of dollars an hour, and when I called, most said they’d need at least ten thousand dollars up front as a retainer anyway. And that’s with no guarantees, Paul could have still gone to prison. So I called my dad instead and asked for the money. Paul’s going to be furious. But what else could I do?”

Lucy opened the door, the same one she’d entered through earlier that morning when she came to bail out TK and David. Same deputy at the counter as well, adding to the sense of
deja vu
.
He kept eying her as Augusta set her bag of cash on the counter and explained that she was here to pay the fee to release her husband.

“It’s all here,” she said, tearfully. “You can count it.”

The deputy frowned at the cash and then again at Lucy, who helpfully had her photo ID out—the retired federal agent government-issued photo ID. Technically, it was no better than a driver’s license, but it certainly seemed to impress the deputy. “Ma’am, let me check our records,” he finally said. “I’ll be right back.”

Augusta sagged against the counter, palm pressed against her belly as if she was about to be sick. “What if it’s not enough? We don’t have any more—”

Lucy took her by the arm and steered her to a bench, the bag bundled into her lap. “You hold on to this, Augusta. Don’t worry. Everything is going to be just fine.”

A few minutes later, the deputy returned, accompanied by a rumpled-appearing man in a sweat-stained polo and jeans. “Paul!” Augusta cried, running to him.

Right behind them was Caleb Blackwell. “I understand we had a clerical error here,” he said with a genial smile. “Seems there was a misplaced decimal in the computer. Ma’am, your husband is free to go. With our apologies.”

“What about the fine?” Augusta asked, holding up her bag.

“Since it was our mistake, we won’t worry about it.” He was talking to Augusta but looking at Lucy. “These things happen from time to time.”

“Of course they do,” Lucy said. “You’d be amazed at the errors a single misplaced keystroke could lead to—sometimes I think computers are out to get us. Augusta, I’m sure your car and all your possessions will be returned as well. After all, if there was no offense, then there was no reason for a forfeiture to have occurred in the first place. Am I right, Sheriff Blackwell?”

His smile was forced but his smile never wavered. Politician, Lucy reminded herself. No wonder she was worried about trusting him with potentially crucial evidence. “Of course you are, Mrs. Guardino. Hoskins, let’s get these fine young people their vehicle and let them be on their way.”

Augusta threw her arms around Lucy. “I don’t know how you did it, but thank you!”

“You’re welcome. Go enjoy your new life in Dallas.”

As the deputy hustled Augusta and her husband out the door, Lucy lingered. “Seems like your forfeiture process could use a little fine-tuning.”

“The process is just fine,” Blackwell said, a warning edging his voice. “But I think you’re right, the men are maybe getting a bit overzealous. Perhaps some extra training on the finer points of the law. What do you think?” He made it sound as if they were partners.

Last thing Lucy wanted was to antagonize him, especially when she was getting ready to make a request of his department, so she nodded. “I think that’s a good idea.”

She waved to Augusta and her husband as the deputy pulled their van up from the impound lot and had them sign the paperwork.

“So, Mrs. Guardino. What brought you back here? I thought your associate finished with the evidence review.” His tone was formal, his expression guarded. He must have assumed TK told her about his family’s possible involvement with the killings, but clearly was uncomfortable discussing it here. Not that she blamed him. TK was right. Any interviews with Blackwell would be better done in private and away from the sheriff station.

“Oh, she did, pretty much. There are just a few loose ends,” Lucy said breezily. “You know how it is with lawyers looking over your shoulder. Can’t leave anything undone. Besides, poor TK spent most of the day shut up in that records area of yours, and it wouldn’t be fair to send her back. I thought I’d come finish up for her.”

“That’s mighty nice of you. Wouldn’t expect a former FBI agent to get her hands dirty like that, rummaging through a bunch of dusty files.”

Lucy smiled at him. “Oh, Sheriff, you’d be surprised at what I’d do for a case.”

DAVID PACED HIS
cramped motel room, weaving in and out of the document cartons he’d moved over from the Sweetbriar. To think that after all these years...it was painful even to hope.

Not to mention the guilt at the fact that he’d actually believed his father was guilty, capable of committing such a heinous crime.

He’d tried to call his mother but the nurse said she was having a bad day, had finally fallen asleep. Now he sat on the edge of the bed and buried his face in his hands. He was such an idiot. All that anger was what had driven him through school, given him the strength to face the bloody streets of Baltimore working the crime beat, sent him halfway around the world to more blood and death. As if he needed to see the worst people could do in order to understand his own life.

And it was all a lie.

Maria—he had to tell his mother. Or should he wait until the lawyers got back to him? Last thing she needed was the pain of false hope.

She’d never given up on Michael. David sprang from the bed and grabbed his keys. She deserved to know her faith had not been misplaced. Even if it might take the courts and justice system time to agree.

She deserved to hear from him, in person, that he now believed. Just like she had all those years. He believed in his father.

He opened the door to find TK standing outside, hand raised, poised to knock.

“Good,” she said, breezing past him into his room. “You’re still here. I need your help.”

TK glanced around Ruiz’s room crowded with the files he’d moved from the Sweetbriar. She spied his laptop perched on the nightstand between the two beds. “Do you have a printer?”

“Yeah, why?” He closed the door and moved to the TV console. Tucked beside the TV, one corner hanging off the edge, was a small inkjet. “What do you need?”

Energy radiated from her like electricity. “I’m going to crack this. Tonight.”

He frowned and shook his head at her. “What are you talking about?”

“This case. Your father’s case. We’re going to find out who did it.”

<><><>

LUCY MADE HER
way down to the records area in the basement of the sheriff’s department. A tall man in his sixties, his gray hair cropped tight, military style, manned the reception desk.
PRESCOTT
, his nametag read.

“Why should I waste more of our department’s time and resources on your wild-goose chase to free a killer?” Prescott asked after she explained who she was.

“Deputy, someone has given you the wrong impression of exactly why we’re here,” Lucy answered. “I was an FBI agent for fifteen years. Last thing I want is for a killer to walk free. We’re here to review the evidence and prevent that.”

He frowned. “I thought you were working for the Justice Project—all those bleeding hearts want is to empty the prisons and blame everything on honest cops.”

“We don’t work for them. We only want the facts. If we can find evidence that supports the original conviction, we give that to the Justice Project and make sure it’s on the record. Hard to argue against the truth, right?”

“Yeah, except those lawyers never seem to realize that. Okay.” He gave her a grudging nod. “What do you want from us?”

“It’s a little thing, really. Just tidying up loose ends so the lawyers can’t use it against us.” Lucy chose her pronoun carefully and edged closer to Prescott so their bodies were now aligned, facing the same direction, standing side by side. “In the chaos of the original case, no one ran fingerprints from the bullets found in the murder weapon.”

“Why should they? We already had Manning’s prints in the victims’ blood on the revolver.”

“Ah, but if his prints are also on the bullets, then we could argue premeditation.”