Page 82 of Claimed By the Deputies

Sherry is back at her desk.

It wasn’t my idea. Mitch insisted we let her believe she’s off the hook.

“It’s only a matter of time before she slips up again,” Mitch says as we walk out of my office. “She needs to believe she’s in the clear.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

I don’t. Not even a little bit. I’d rather let her rot in one of our holding cells downstairs. As long as she’s up here, she might still be useful to whoever wants access.

And unbeknownst to her, we have Dante.

“Sheriff, I’ve canceled all of your meetings for today,” Sherry says. “Have you found Dante yet?”

“No,” I bark back. “Frankly, Sherry, if you still want to work here, you’d best put him out of your mind.”

“But I?—”

“Save it,” I cut her off. “Be thankful you’re not being charged as an accessory.”

“Where are you going?” she asks.

“Out,” I bluntly reply. “You can reach me on my cell.”

Once Mitch and I are out of the station, it’s as if the world is clean and clear again. That place was once my safe haven—now it’s a source of secrecy, suspicion, and grief.

“Patterson scrubbed Dante’s cellphone,” Mitch says, going over his text messages. “Found something useful.”

“Is he willing to talk?”

He shakes his head. “Not yet. But she and Tassia are working him over.”

“Okay, what did we get from Dante’s phone, then?”

“A meeting that’s supposed to happen at the Terrazzo today,” Mitch replies. “No specific names, just the place and time.”

We’re plantedoutside the restaurant in an unmarked car. We have a clear view of the terrace, as well as the people currently enjoying their meals and wine.

“What time is it?” I ask Mitch as I look through the long-distance lens of a camera, snapping photos of anything that might be relevant.

“Noon. They should be here soon.”

“It would be great to know who ‘they’ are.”

It’s a clear, sunny day. Most of the people I see are familiar townsfolk. Frost Valley folks I’m sworn to protect. Yet they all fade to nothingness in the back of my head as I see a silver Lexus pull up.

“Trevor,” I say.

“Where?”

“Three cars up from the main entrance.” I give Mitch the camera to confirm. “Grey suit. Can’t miss him.”

“Yeah, that’s Trevor Callaghan alright. And there’s Jerry Spring. Son of a bitch. In plain sight, too. Their audacity is off the charts.”

“I’m grateful for it. Can anybody say probable cause?”

Before Mitch can reply, I get out of the car and walk toward the restaurant. Not that long ago, Tassia met Timothy here. It was the last time she’d ever see him before he was killed in cold blood, likely by Trevor or one of his lackeys.

“Wait, what are we doing?” Mitch asks, catching up.

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