“Well, no. He had a red Pinto in his driveway,” Sam said. “But we don’t know what other vehicles he has. Maybe he has a black SUV stored away. His house didn’t reflect the kind of money that would be coming in for a drug dealer, so we think he’s hiding funds somewhere.”
Hopefully, that would satisfy Holden Joyce as far as the black truck went.
“So then the only person tied to this case who drives a black SUV with a roof rack is your friend Mick Gervasi.”
It felt like a punch in the gut. Crap. How much did this Holden know about him anyway? It was almost as if he were here to nail Sam, using the case as an excuse. Thorne had probably planted people in law enforcement. If Holden Joyce was here on Thorne’s request, trying to frame Sam, this didn’t bode well.
“Oh, you didn’t think we knew about Mr. Gervasi, huh?” Holden looked smug. “In fact, we know a lot. Especially in connection with what happened during the trial for your cousin.”
“I don’t see how that’s pertinent to the current case,” Sam said.
“It is when it indicates how you might handle things that aren’t going your way.”
Kevin piped in. “Gervasi isn’t the only one that drives a black SUV with a roof rack. I’ve been researching, and I’ve narrowed it down, but there’re more than one thousand SUVs in the area with roof racks. And it could be someone who isn’t even from the area.”
Was Kevin stalling for time, protecting Mick? Sam’s estimation of the officer rose a few notches.
“I’m getting a little confused here,” Bev said. “Are you accusing Chief Mason of something?”
Holden looked contrite. “No, of course not. I’m simply stating the facts.”
Holden held Sam’s gaze for a few tense seconds before turning to Bev. “If you’re almost done here, I’ll follow you to your office and pick up what you have on the Richardson case.”
Bev scowled. Sam could tell she didn’t really want Holden Joyce following her to her office, but what choice did she have?
“Fine. We’re done here.” They walked off, Bev giving Sam a glance on her way out.
Sam could tell that Bev didn’t like Holden Joyce. At least that was one saving grace. Bev would be on his side. But he also knew he’d better prove who the killer was fast, because Bev wouldn’t remain on his side if she discovered he’d been lying.
* * *
By the time Kevin clocked out of work that day, he had a major tension headache. The visit from the FBI agent had been disturbing, especially the allegations he’d tossed around about Sam. Kevin was under no illusion that Sam was some angel, but what had he done in the past? Judging by the FBI agent’s threat, he knew it had been something bad.
It didn’t matter what Sam had done in the past. Kevin knew he was the kind of guy who did the right thing now. And besides, Sam had said something about protecting his cousin. Protecting family was the right thing to do. That FBI guy was working some angle, and Kevin wasn’t going to stand by and let him railroad Sam.
That was why he’d spoken up about the black SUVs. He figured it probably was Mick’s truck that Rita had seen, but he wanted to do his part and throw the FBI guy off track. He’d been nervous that Wyatt would throw his two cents in, but he’d kept his mouth shut. Kevin might have to reevaluate his impression of the guy. At least Wyatt had his loyalties in the right place and sided with his own team instead of blabbing to the FBI.
It almost seemed as though the FBI guy was trying to pin the murder on Sam. Had Sam really done something questionable twenty years ago? Did Sam really kill Dupont? But if he had, why would Kevin’s contact be trying to get him to lead the investigation to the glove planted on Sam’s property? Seemed like they could come up with easier evidence if Sam was the killer.
Kevin’s gut churned. When they’d gotten word about Scott Elliott, he’d half hoped Elliott was his contact. But even if he was, Kevin knew the notes wouldn’t stop. A new person would take his place. The photo of the guy in the shallow grave cinched it—Elliott wasn’t any of the guys that Kevin had met before.
To top it all off, his contact had left another note the night before. Kevin had had a hell of a time wording the reply to persuade them that it wasn’t the right time to lead them toward the glove.
And now, if the FBI guy was in cahoots with Thorne, Kevin would have to be extra careful about how he proceeded.
He picked up some aspirin at the convenience store and then drove past the new construction area, keeping his eye on the spot where he’d buried the glove. They were pouring concrete now right next to it. Hopefully, the glove would still be discoverable when he needed it to be, and hopefully, no one else would find it beforehand.
Kevin didn’t know how much longer his contact was going to believe his lame excuses. Too bad they were nowhere near locking Thorne up. Maybe this new lead with the garbageman would speed things up.
His thoughts turned to the thumb drive hidden in his kitchen. Was it time to take that out and give it to Sam? What if there was something hidden on it that could help them put Thorne away faster?
He had to be really careful about how he proceeded with that thumb drive, too. How would he explain it being in his possession? He didn’t want to ruin his reputation in the police department, nor did he want to lose Sam’s trust.
His job was becoming important to him. It had felt good to be trusted to go to the medical examiner and bring back the results of the Elliott autopsy. Maybe he would think about coming on full-time once this case was over. Now he regretted turning down the full-time position that had been offered to him before they’d hired Wyatt.
Not wanting to attract attention, he continued past the construction site to his house, dread gnawing at him. Hopefully, there wouldn’t be another note from his contact—or something worse—waiting when he got there.
Chapter Eighteen
Jo arrived home later than usual that night. The day hadn’t gone very well at all. The appearance of Holden Joyce had been a complete surprise and not a pleasant one. The only saving grace was that Bev seemed to be on their side. For now.
As she pulled into her crushed-stone driveway, she spotted a ball of orange fur on her porch. The cat hunched over the dish, eating the food she’d put out before she’d left that morning. Finally, a bright spot in the day.
She got out of the car and approached slowly, not wanting to scare the small cat off. Golden eyes regarded her warily as she sat on the porch step and held her hand out toward the cat, making cooing noises.
The cat’s eyes flicked from her hand to the food then to the safety of the woods. It crouched further, ears flattening, ringed tail twitching as if the cat was deciding whether to trust Jo or make a break for it. Was it a boy or a girl? Jo had no idea how to tell the gender of a cat, but she got a sense it was female. Jo sat patiently until, finally, the cat made a cautious move toward her.
“There you go. I won’t hurt you.”
The cat came closer.
“I’m the one putting the food out. Maybe when winter comes, you’ll want someplace warm. You’d better make friends with me,” Jo said, already picturing how she might put a cat bed on the porch, maybe even inside when the temperatures dipped below freezing.
Mew.
The cat sniffed her fingers, and Jo tentatively reached out an index finger to lightly scratch its head. The cat stiffened but didn’t run away. Her fur was soft and silky.
She’d finally worked her way around to scratching the cat’s neck, and the cat had even rubbed her face against Jo’s knee a few times when the crunch of tires on crushed stone interrupted them. She looked up to see the White Rock Police Station Tahoe pulling in with Sam behind the wheel, Lucy staring out the front window.
The cat stiffened.
As Sam came to a stop, the cat pulled away and raced into the woods.
“You got a new friend?” Sam asked, his eyes following the path of the cat as it bounded past Jo’s picnic table.