Sanctuary in Chef Voleur

Chapter Four

“What kind of narcotics do they deal in?” he asked Dusty.

“Mostly Oxy,” Dusty said.

Stunned, Mack muttered a curse. Oxycontin.

“Yeah,” Dusty continued. “Word is, they’re bringing it into Galveston from Mexico. Get this. The DEA knows all about a big-time trafficker named Ficone in Galveston, but they’ve been spending their time watching a suspected small-time operator, until he was murdered yesterday.”

“Murdered?” Dread settled heavy as an anvil in Mack’s chest. “Yesterday? Who was he?”

“Campbell. Billy Joe Campbell. He was shot once in the chest at close range. A neighbor complained about gunshots.” Dusty took a breath. “You know something about this?”

Hannah’s jumbled words echoed in Mack’s ears. I had to run. He was going to shoot me.

“Where did this happen?” he croaked, positive he knew the answer.

“Hang on.”

Mack heard computer keys tapping.

“A little town called Dowdie.” Dusty paused for a second. “Mack, tell me you don’t have a client who’s driving that chopped car. That would not be good.”

“Nope. No client. Just checking for a friend.” Not a complete lie.

“O-kay,” Dusty said, her tone making it obvious that she didn’t believe him. “You want me to send you the details from the police report?”

“Yeah. Everything you’ve got on Billy Joe Campbell. I appreciate it.”

“No problem, Mack. You be careful. I’ll TTYL. ’Bye.”

Mack hung up, remembering the changing expressions on Hannah’s face and the terror in her eyes when her telephone rang. He knew that terror, knew it intimately. Had Hannah done what Mack hadn’t been able to do when he was twelve? Had she killed the man who had hurt her mother?

He waited impatiently, repeatedly checking for new mail until Dusty’s message about the murder came in. He scanned the police report, his heart sinking with every sentence. A neighbor had called the sheriff’s office around 7:00 p.m. complaining about gunshots at 1400 Redbud Lane, Dowdie, Texas.

A sheriff’s deputy arrived at around seven-thirty to find the house and driveway empty. A quick investigation by the deputy turned up a body of a white male, mid to late thirties, in the garage. Cause of death, a single gunshot wound to the chest. The victim was identified as Billy Joe Campbell of Fort Worth, Texas. The police report indicated that neither the owner of the house, a Ms. Stephanie Clemens, nor her daughter, Ms. Hannah Martin, could be found. Both were being sought for questioning in the matter.

Campbell had been killed around twelve hours before Hannah had turned up at Mack’s door, looking for Kathleen Griffin. She’d also mentioned seeing Billy Joe collapse and die and being shot at. What were the odds that Hannah had witnessed her mother’s boyfriend being murdered?

* * *

A LOUD CRASH and a harsh male voice startled Hannah out of a restless sleep. Her pulse drummed in her ears and she couldn’t catch a full breath. “Mom?” she called, before she came fully awake.

The crashing began again. With a start, she remembered. It couldn’t be her mom. Her mom had been kidnapped by Billy Joe and Billy Joe was dead.

Hannah rubbed her eyes as she forced her brain to sort out the noises that were battering her ears. It had to be the man with the red tattoo. He’d found her.

“Police! Open up!”

Police? Surprised and terrified, Hannah jumped out of bed and ran to the door. “What is it? Did you find my—” She stopped herself just as she was about to throw the dead bolt. What if it wasn’t the police?

She glanced at the clock on the bedside table. It was almost one o’clock in the morning. She’d slept for a couple of hours. “I need proof you’re the police.” She made her voice as stern as she could, but it still quavered.

“Hannah Martin, I’m Detective Anthony Teilhard of the Metairie Police Department. I’ve got the motel’s night manager here. He’s going to unlock the door and we’re coming in. I’d suggest you move back.”

She scrambled backward as a key turned in the doorknob and then in the dead bolt. The door swung open and slammed against the wall as three officers burst into the room, guns at the ready. Hannah shrieked as two of them, one male and one female, turned their weapons on her. The third officer quickly checked the bathroom and the tiny closet.

“Clear,” he said.

The officer who’d entered first took three steps forward and looked down the barrel of his gun at her. “Hannah Martin?” he said.

Hannah’s head jerked in a nod. Her first instinct was to retreat, but she bumped her hip on the corner of the bedside table. She was trapped between the bed and the wall. “Who—wha—?” Nothing but broken, senseless sounds escaped her constricted throat. She clutched at the neck of her shirt with trembling fingers.

“I’m Detective Teilhard. Keep your hands where I can see them. Good. Now, where did you get the car, Hannah?”

“The car?” she parroted. “It’s—I don’t—” All she could think about was Billy Joe saying, That’s where the drugs are. They’re hidden in the trunk lining.

“Come on, Hannah. Pull yourself together. You’re in a lot of trouble. The best thing you can do is answer my questions. Now tell me about the car.”

“I don’t know anything,” she said. It wasn’t exactly true.

“Nothing?” Teilhard said wryly. “Okay, Hannah. In that case, looks like we’re going to have to do this down at the station. You’re under arrest for possession of a stolen vehicle, driving a stolen vehicle and transporting a stolen vehicle across state lines.”

She waited, her heart in her throat, but he didn’t mention illegal drugs or homicide.

The detective looked at the female officer. “Officer Waller, would you check her for weapons and cuff her, please?”

“Arms straight out at your sides, please,” Officer Waller said.

Hannah obeyed, feeling a profound relief that the police were here about the car and not about Billy Joe’s murder. When she caught Teilhard gazing at her with a puzzled look, she ducked her head and tried to compose her features. Had he seen the relief on her face?

The female officer started to pat her down. Hannah recoiled. “No, wait,” she said quickly. “Please. I didn’t know it was stolen. I’ll tell you what I know. You don’t have to arrest me.” She felt a lump growing in her throat. If they arrested her, how was she ever going to get back to Dowdie to find her mother?

She swallowed hard, trying to stop the tears. She was sure Teilhard wasn’t the type who could be swayed by a damsel in distress. In fact, his mouth was already thinning in a line of distaste at her hedging.

She needed to figure out what to do and fast, because it wasn’t going to take the detective long to find out what she already knew—that the person who had stolen the car was dead, murdered, and that the car was filled with drugs. Then what would he do? He’d put her in jail. No question about it. She’d be charged with grand theft auto and murder. That meant that her mother would surely die.

Officer Waller quickly and efficiently finished patting her down, then pulled her arms behind her back and cuffed her hands.

“Do you really have to do this?” Hannah asked as the cold metal bit into her wrists, desperate to try anything to get out of being arrested. Anything but telling the truth. She was in too deep. If she tried to explain, Teilhard would laugh as he threw her into lockup. “It’s got to be a misunderstanding. I apologize for the trouble. I mean, I thought I was borrowing my mom’s boyfriend’s car. Can’t we just give the car back to its owner? I’ll pay for any damages.” She made her voice sound hopeful.

She could pretend all she wanted, but she knew that there was no way any sheriff’s office or police station would send three armed officers to bring in one relatively harmless female driving a stolen car. This had to be about something else. Then a horrible thought occurred to her. Had her mother been found—dead? Were they really here to arrest her for two murders, Billy Joe’s and her mother’s?

Teilhard laughed. “Yeah. It’s a misunderstanding,” he said sarcastically. “Why’d you go to the trouble to repaint the car when you didn’t bother to change the license plate or replace the broken passenger-side mirror? Kind of amateurish for a car thief. But it certainly narrows the suspect pool.” He turned toward the door. “Let’s go. I don’t have time to stand around all day listening to ‘he’s my mom’s boyfriend’ and ‘I didn’t know.’” The last was said in a tinny falsetto. The other two officers laughed.

Hannah wanted to cry as she felt the last droplets of hope drain from her heart.

They put her in the back of the squad car and drove to the Metairie Police Station. Waller and Teilhard were in the car with her. The third officer had taken her key to drive the Toyota to the impound lot.

After several intensely uncomfortable minutes as she tried to keep her hands from going to sleep and her wrists from being permanently marked by the tight metal cuffs, they arrived. She was pulled out of the car and marched into the police station, handcuffed like a common thief. Officer Waller stood her in front of the booking counter in view of all the other officers, detectives and criminals, with the cuffs hurting more after the ride, while Teilhard got the forms filled out. Then he turned to her.

“I’m placing your purse in this plastic bag to be held until your release or until someone posts bail. Officer Waller?” He turned to the female officer.

“Yes, sir,” Waller said, stepping forward.

“Please remove her earrings,” Teilhard said, nodding toward Hannah. “Hannah, do you have any other jewelry? Piercings? Any prosthetics like a partial bridge in your mouth?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“Sir?” Waller said to Teilhard. “Do you want a full search?”

Teilhard assessed Hannah, then shook his head. “I don’t think that will be necessary.” He turned to a cop who’d been waiting at the counter. “Put her in one of the interrogation rooms and get her some coffee if she wants.”

Hannah shook her head, but neither one of them paid any attention to her.

The cop took her into a small, stark room. “I’ll get that coffee,” he said and left.

She stood there next to the wooden table, not wanting to try sitting again with her hands cuffed behind her. As hard as it had been to sit in the police car with its upholstered backseat, a hard-backed chair would be torture.

She tried to take her mind off her aching shoulders and stinging wrists by studying the Formica tabletop. It was old and chipped, and had names and phrases carved into it. Idly, she wondered where Tony or Eddie Jewels or Turk had gotten their hands on something sharp enough to use to carve those deep grooves. She spent a few moments trying to read some other names and phrases, but her eyelids kept drooping.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.