Page 70 of Murder in Calusa Cove
The harsh fluorescent lights of the small interrogation room buzzed overhead, casting a sterile glow across the table. Chloe sat across from Stacey, the reporter’s carefully layered facade beginning to fray at the edges. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest. Her jaw clenched just a little too hard.
Buddy leaned against the wall, arms folded, while Dawson sat beside Chloe, silent for now but radiating that quiet authority that made people talk.
Hayes paced in the hallway. It had been decided that Stacey would clam up faster than a speeding bullet if he were in the room. That hadn’t gone over too well with Hayes. He’d turned up his protective instincts, which had made Chloe turn to mush for a half a second, but she’d quickly recovered. She didn’t need any man’s protection.
But she’d admit—to herself—that she enjoyed the way Hayes wanted to keep her safe and spare her any more embarrassment or shame. But what was done was done.
“No more games, Stacey.” Chloe held the young woman’s gaze. “People have died, and another girl is missing. We need your source, and we need to know what else he’s fed you.”
“I know my rights. I don’t have to tell you anything.” She raised her finger. “Unless there was a moral or ethical or compelling reason to, or you’ve got a court order. Right now, I don’t see any of those.” She unfolded her arms and leaned back.
Dawson tapped a folder. “I’ll wake up the judge, and he’ll give me the warrant based on what I have. But I don’t want to go that route. He just had a kid, and that will piss him off, much like how all this has cut my honeymoon short. Hell, I barely got a wedding night. So, start talking, otherwise, I’m charging you with obstruction of justice.”
“That’s bullshit,” Stacey muttered.
“You’ve been played,” Chloe said evenly, tapping a pen against her notepad. She glanced at Buddy, who nodded. Time to go for the jugular. “This wasn’t just a tip, Stacey. You’ve been used—by the killer.”
Stacey scoffed, but the sound rang hollow. “What are you talking about?”
“We know your source,” Chloe said evenly. “It’s the killer.”
Stacey’s chest rose and fell in shallow breaths. “That’s absurd.” Her voice wavered. “I don’t even know who my source is—it’s always been anonymous.”
“Right,” Buddy said, arms crossed. “And yet somehow this ‘anonymous’ source knew Chloe was related to one of the victims. Not just related—her twin. That wasn’t public knowledge. Hell, only a handful of people inside the Bureau knew that.”
“I got a tip,” Stacey snapped. “Then I did some digging. It wasn’t hard to figure out. Just because they had different last names?—”
“No one,” Chloe cut in. “No one except a small, vetted team knew about the missing fingers or that we’d linked multiple cases. That information didn’t come from a public tip. It came from someone who knew the truth.”
“And let’s not forget,” Buddy added, “Chloe wasn’t officially assigned to this case. That detail was never published. Neither was the timing nor the location of our last suspect pickup. You’re really telling us a random tipster just happened to know all that?”
Stacey’s eyes darted between them. “I thought it was someone in your department. A whistleblower. Someone who wanted to expose the truth. They implied that. Implied that someone wasn’t doing their job. Implied that Chloe…and you…were trying to make a name for yourselves, and you weren’t doing things by the book. Stories come about like that all the time.”
Chloe leaned forward, her voice quieter but sharper. “That’s what they wanted you to think. You didn’t get played because you’re a bad journalist, Stacey. You got played because you’re the kind who’ll chase a story straight into hell if the headline’s big enough. They knew exactly what bait to use.” Chloe raised two fingers. “You get what looks like a great lead on a murderer, and a potential botched case by two decorated FBI agents. It’s sensational, and the killer is writing the narrative. Controlling every detail, and using you to do it.”
Silence.
“You really think the killer fed me everything?” Stacey whispered.
“We do,” Dawson said flatly. “So now, you’re going to tell us everything you know—because if you don’t, you won’t be walking out of here tonight.”
Stacey’s mouth trembled. “I don’t have a name. It’s been burner phones and encrypted emails. I don’t even know if I’m talking to a man or a woman. The voice is distorted. Whoever it is, they fed me leads, all a little too detailed, too perfect. That’s why I thought it had to be someone inside. Another agent. Someone close to the investigation.”
“I get there’s more,” Buddy said.
“Yeah,” she said quietly. “I was supposed to give you something—but not until tomorrow. They was specific about that. It had to be tomorrow.”
Chloe’s spine went rigid. “What kind of something?”
“A location. They told me there’s a shack in the Everglades—some kind of stash site. Said you’d find proof there. But they were going to check it out first…” She grimaced. “Yeah, I can see how this doesn’t seem right now.”
Buddy straightened. “Did they give you a name?”
“No. Just a nickname. They called him…‘the wrangler.’ Said you’d know who it was.”
“As if you don’t know that’s Trent Mallor,” Dawson said.
Chloe’s stomach turned. “Everyone in these parts knows that. Even I know that.”
