“So, before we talk this through with you, you know that if you take this on, you do this by the book. You’re deputized, you report, you take orders and I’ll repeat, you don’t go maverick,” Mick continued, and Deck drew in breath.
Then he stated it plain.
“My understanding of this meet is, if I wanna take this on, and seein’ if I do, my usual charges will need to be significantly discounted considering you can’t afford to pay them as I charge them, it’ll need to be somethin’ I really wanna do. And you got a reputation I admire, Shaughnessy, so I hope you take no offense but I don’t take orders. I work a case how I feel it needs to be worked. I report what I feel is necessary. And last, I only do maverick.”
Mick looked to the room and announced, “This isn’t startin’ good.”
“Why don’t we lay it out, see what Deck thinks and get the other shit sorted if it’s somethin’ he wants to do?” Chace suggested, moving to a wide whiteboard set at an angle in the corner.
No one said anything. Deck settled in but Chace’s eyes came to him.
“You’re gonna see somethin’ you might not like on this board that probably will make Mick’s warnings moot seein’ as I figure you are not gonna want this case. I would have told you about it sooner, but if I did, you might not have come in, and, respect Mick,” Chace glanced at Shaughnessy before he looked back to Deck, “with what happened a few days ago, we need you.”
With that, he flipped the whiteboard and Deck’s eyes scanned it.
Half a second later, his body froze solid.
This was because there was a picture of the man he just met on the street, top center of the whiteboard, his name in red marker written under the picture, “Boss” under his name. Coming off his picture were a variety of red, black and blue lines that led to smaller pictures with names and other information. And last, the reason he knew Chace knew Deck would not like what he saw was the blue line that led from McFarland’s picture down to the bottom right corner where there were two pictures.
One, a color shot of McFarland and Emme making out at the side of his pimped-out truck. The one next to it, a black-and-white shot of Emme walking down the boardwalk, head turned to the side looking at something. She was wearing different but no less fashionable shades over her eyes, her long hair was unhindered by a hat showing she had a deep, thick, sexy-as-all-fuck bang that hung into her eyes, her body was encased in different jeans, coat and shoes but her outfit was no less stylish. Her lips were smiling, the dimple out.
Under the picture it said “Emmanuelle Holmes.” Under that “Girlfriend/Lover.” Under that it said “Partner?”
With practice and deduction, Deck knew that the black lines were definite alliances the team had confirmed. Red lines were hot, lieutenants or those with records, possible weak links. And blue were unconfirmed members of the crew.
“Doesn’t look like it, but it’s Emme, man,” Chace said quietly, and Deck tore his eyes from the picture of Emme and looked at Chace. “Saw the name. Couldn’t believe it until they showed me her trail. It all fits. That’s her. Totally changed.”
“Saw her outside, just now, with him,” Deck told the room, watched Chace blink and jerked his head toward the top of the whiteboard. He then declared, “He’s no boss. She’s no partner.”
“So you do have a history with Emmanuelle Holmes,” Carole stated, but it was a question and Deck looked to her.
Shaughnessy ran his men his way and word was, Shaughnessy took his job seriously but he was as laidback as they come otherwise. Even his officers didn’t wear uniforms. They wore jeans and tan shirts with their badges but that was as far as they got.
Gibbons was mostly the same, his two detectives dressed as they wanted. Officers wore uniforms, however.
Weatherspoon, who oversaw Chantelle, a town with more money, coming in top of the heap of the trinity it held with Gnaw Bone (second runner-up, a town that depended a great deal on tourist trade and took that seriously) and Carnal (not even close, it was a biker haven, mostly blue collar, definitely rougher). She was in full uniform. Her officers wore full uniforms. Her detectives wore suits or sports jackets and trousers. Her elite citizenry would expect nothing less.
Deck’s eyes shifted to Kenton Douglas.
That man was a wildcard. Recently voted sheriff, he came out of the blue, young, attractive, African-American, in the Sheriff’s Department only ten years, and he’d wiped the floor with his opponent who held that spot for twenty-five years. The old sheriff also held it while a serial killer hunted his patch and a police chief in his county got so dirty he was foul. The county was ready for change. Douglas was smart enough to know the time was ripe and slid in on a landslide.
Then he made sweeping changes.
And one of those changes was taking his sheriff’s police out of uniform and giving them the Mick treatment. Tan shirts. Badges on belts. Jeans. Boots.
It was a smart move. His county was a rural, mountain county. His residents liked easy and familiar, but they were scared after all that had gone on and many of them had learned not to trust the police. Easier to trust a badge wearing jeans and boots than one kitted out in full gear.
It wasn’t only smart, it was subtle. And so far, successful.
Change wasn’t easy and it wasn’t easily accepted.
Douglas breezed his through, didn’t take a breath, and kept on keepin’ on.
Deck didn’t know what to make of him. He was handsome. He was slick. He was personable. He was sharp. And he had balls. So Deck was leaning toward admiration.
“She’s an old friend,” Deck answered Carole’s question about Emme.
“What kind of old friend?” she asked, and Deck tamped down his annoyance at going through this again.
“My ex’s best friend,” he answered. “That kind of old friend.”
“How do you know she’s not involved?” Jeff asked and Deck looked to him.
“I know Emme. She wouldn’t do this shit,” Deck stated.
And she wouldn’t. He knew what was happening. The whole county knew. It was bad shit that, four days ago, got a hell of a lot worse. With all the shit going down in that county over the last few years, they wanted this nipped in the bud and they wanted that three months ago.
Problem was, they had a multi-department task force set up to do it and they still were finding fuck all.
This was why Chace suggested Deck. Deck would find everything they needed to end this and he wouldn’t dick around finding it.
“How well do you know Emme, son?” Henry asked, and Deck’s eyes went to Chace’s boss.
“Well,” he answered.
“They spend a lot of time together,” Jeff noted. “Holmes and McFarland.”
“She’s his girlfriend. They would,” Deck told him. “But this shit?” He shook his head. “No way.”
“Sometimes,” Chace started, and his tone was cautious, “girls like her, girls like she used to be who turn into girls like she is now, get a guy’s attention, a good-lookin’ guy like that, and they can go—”
Deck cut him off. “Chace, you know Emme. You know that’s bullshit. She’s always known her own mind. And she’s always been cool. Even when she wasn’t a knockout, she wasn’t that kind of person.”
“It’s been years, Deck,” Chace reminded him. “A lot of them. People change, and it isn’t lost on either of us she has in a big way.”
“Yeah, and I just met her on the street. I’m havin’ dinner with her tonight and she looks good, man, but she acts the same. And her man is a dick but he’s also a moron. So he’s no boss,” Deck declared and looked at Shaughnessy. “And you just got yourself a maverick.”
The mood in the room shifted. It had been alert. Now it was relieved.
Shaughnessy was the only one who didn’t want Deck stepping in.
The rest of them, after all they’d seen for the past few years, wanted this done, and they were willing to take risks to get that.
“Terrific,” Shaughnessy mu
ttered, his eyes moving through the room.
“Decker, this needs to be discussed,” Douglas stated, and Deck looked to him.
“You want me on the team, we talk money. I’ll give a discount, see this shit sorted. I’ll want a full brief. I’ll want the entire file. I won’t take orders. I’ll keep you in the know of what I do and what I find. But, just sayin’, that woman means something to me.” He threw out a hand toward the whiteboard. “So even if you don’t put me on the team and pay me, I’ll still be seein’ her clear of this shit.”
“You can’t let her know we’re investigating her boyfriend,” Carole said swiftly.
“This isn’t my first rodeo,” Deck returned. “What’s goin’ down, I wouldn’t fuck your investigation. But she’s still clear and she’s clear in no more than a week. Not months. Not as long as it’ll take you to track this crew, the way you’re goin’, and stop their shit.”
“As contract to this task force, you cannot engage in illegal activities. We can’t prosecute with fruit from the poisonous tree,” Douglas told him.
“Again, not my first rodeo,” Deck replied.
“You have a crew or do you work alone?” Henry asked.
“This, I’ll be bringin’ in my crew,” Deck answered.
“They’ll all need to see me,” Douglas stated. “Contract is signed, you all work for my department until the case is done.”
Deck nodded and his eyes went to Chace. “Want a picture of that board, want the file.”
“Deck, not sure this is a good idea. You got a conflict of interest with this—”
Deck again cut Chace off. “This is Emme.”
“I know it’s Emme,” Chace shot back, concerned for Deck and losing patience because of it. “Until just now, I had no idea you’d react the way you have when you saw it was Emme. So Emme’s the goddamned conflict of interest.”
“You know her,” Deck whispered, also losing patience, and he watched his friend’s face. Definite concern but also indecision.
He knew Emme.
Chace went from the academy into Carnal’s Police Department and stayed there but that didn’t mean Deck didn’t spend time with Chace throughout all Deck’s travels. Chace had met Elsbeth. Chace had spent time with her. And with Elsbeth came Emme. So Chace had spent time with Emme too.
“Her change is remarkable, Deck,” Chace noted again. “That’s something to take into account.”
At his words, Deck felt the ghost of her fingers digging into his shoulder through his coat. Saw the dimple. Heard her call him honey.
And he knew her history. Elsbeth told him. He knew what she’d survived. He knew what made her what she was.
He didn’t know what made her what she was now, but he was going to find out at dinner.
Last, he knew Emme would not be a part of a crew who burgled homes across an entire county and recruited high school students to do it. Not for the attention of the likes Dane McFarland. Not for money. Not for power. Not for anything.
“She’s up first. I investigate her. Clear her. Then clear her of this shit,” Deck stated.
“You work that with me,” Chace returned.
“Suit yourself. But dinner with Emme tonight is just her and me.”
Chace studied him.
Deck took it then looked to Douglas. “You got a file for me?”
“It’ll be delivered to your house by three thirty,” Douglas replied.
“Contracts will be emailed to you by then. My crew will be in tomorrow at eight to be deputized,” Deck replied.
“You gonna be with them?” Douglas asked.
“Wouldn’t miss that shit for the world,” Deck answered, cut his eyes through the people in the room, noting Henry Gibbons looked amused, Mick Shaughnessy looked annoyed, Carole Weatherspoon looked reflective and Chace still looked worried.
Then he walked out of office, out of the station and to his truck.
Chapter Two
Kaleidoscope
Deck stood at his dining room table, chin tipped down, eyes scanning the carnage in the photo on top of the mess of papers that was spread out across his table that had once been three thick but organized police files.
A kid. Boy. Seventeen years of age. Hair too long. Clothes ill-fitting by design. Top of his head blown off since he put the barrel of a gun under his chin and pulled the trigger.
He’d been bonded out two hours before. They were pushing to try him as an adult. They were doing this because, in the six months the burglaries had been occurring with increasing frequency across the county, he’d been the first one they caught.
Not the first one who was seen. There were two others, both boys, described as young, but since the burglaries occurred in the dead of night, the vehicles used stolen and later dumped and no fingerprints, no IDs had been made. But both the others seen were noted as no older than eighteen.
They were hoping the one they caught would run scared and talk. He’d lawyered up, his family bonded him out, but the cops made it clear that things would go smoother on him, he turned rat.
Two hours later, he’d got his dad’s gun and, instead of talking, took his own life.
Bad shit.
Dark shit.
Pitch.
And no way Dane McFarland would make a kid run that scared he’d blow the top of his head off instead of talking. And no way the likes of Dane McFarland could make a kid follow him to the dark side.
He shoved papers and pictures aside and found a messy stack he’d made. He flipped through them, examining them closely even if it made his throat prickle.
Emme. The new, beautiful, stylish Emme with McFarland.
He couldn’t get used to seeing her like that, even as long as he studied those photos. If the dimple wasn’t there, he wouldn’t believe it was her. And if there weren’t shots of her without sunglasses so he could see her eyes. Eyes he always thought of as exotic. Perfect almonds coming to points at the sides that tipped up, back then her most attractive feature (outside the dimple) by far. Now it was debatable.
Jeff was right. She and McFarland spent a lot of time together. And McFarland wanted it known she was his. He did this by touching her all the fucking time. Hand to her hip, her waist, the small of her back. Arm around her shoulders. Her in both his arms, his mouth locked to hers. PDA and lots of it.
If Deck didn’t know her and he had that dimple in his bed, those light brown eyes he could make dance, he’d likely do the same.
But he didn’t like it with McFarland. It wasn’t just possessive. It wasn’t at all protective. It was a statement and it was borderline creepy.
He couldn’t see Emme putting up with that.
And he didn’t like that she was.
He had to get her shot of this guy.
What he could see was what Chace said. Whatever made her make the change, grow her hair, get her style together, take off weight, could mean she was finally moving beyond what happened to her and looking to enter the game, find a man. And maybe after not having one for as long as he’d known her, before (if what Elsbeth said was true) and likely for a while after, it could make her think she struck gold with a tall, good-looking, built guy who showed her a fuckload of attention. This might make her put up with a load of shit that might send up red flags she’d ignore just to get that attention, the kind she’d never had.
His eyes drifted to his mantel and the long, polished, handsomely carved wooden box sitting there.
Seeing that box, he again couldn’t see Emme doing that.
Further, McFarland had tried that possessive bullshit with her in front of Deck and she ended it in a second.
He was whipped. She was not the one having the wool pulled. He had her and he was still gagging for more.
This made Deck’s throat prickle further due to the fact that, he didn’t know Emme, he saw what he saw, he’d be switching pictures on that whiteboard. McFarland bottom right corner, Emme, top center.
But, his eyes aimed to that box, he knew her.
That shit couldn’t be.
He looked back down, shoving the pictures aside and scanning the reports.
He got why they pinpointed McFarland as boss. He had a sister who was a high school chemistry teacher in Carnal. He had a brother who was a high school history teacher in Gnaw Bone. The dead kid’s history teacher. Black lines from McFarland to both of them. The sister had a red line between her and her boyfriend, a known dealer who worked the Carnal/Gnaw Bone/Chantelle triangle. Another red line from that dealer to McFarland since they’d been best friends since high school.
But Emme was clear on paper. Copious recognizance showed she spent the night with McFarland but mostly he spent the night with her. Her father bought the local lumberyard a couple of years after the last owner got put away for murder. Emme ran it for him.
She also bought a place called the Canard Mansion.
Deck had looked it up on the Internet and it was a summer home built for Denver-dwelling silver boom millionaires in 1899. It was purchased from them by different kinds of millionaires in the 1920s. Throughout the ’20s, it saw a variety of rip-roarin’ good times but fell on hard times, as did the rest of the nation, when its owners were cleaned out by the Depression. A number of subsequent owners did their best with the twenty-room house but eventually it fell out of glory to become a bed-and-breakfast and stayed that way through the ’70s and ’80s. The owner lost his wife, grew reclusive, lived in that big pile the next two decades and died without a will. His family fought over it for half a decade before Emme bought it for a song.
It was likely a wreck.
He figured this from his Internet research and the fact that reports stated, when Emme wasn’t working, getting her hair done, going to Denver to visit family and friends or fucking McFarland, she was working on her house.
On her own.
She didn’t have time to work in or lead a burglary crew.
McFarland, however, frequently disappeared, shaking a tail in a way that the task force was relatively certain he knew he had one. Which meant he had a reason to have one and shake it.
Emme didn’t. If she noticed a tail, she didn’t try to shake it. She lived open.