CHAPTER 11
“Where are you?”
Sean put his phone on speaker and dropped it into the cup holder. “I’m parked outside his gym,” he told Callie.
“And where is that?”
“Fifth and West.”
“Don’t go anywhere.”
Sean stared through the windshield at the gym’s entrance, then shifted his gaze to the silver BMW parked at the front of the lot. Bradley Mahoney had driven over here an hour ago even though the gym was only six blocks from his condo. Guess he didn’t want to exert himself on the way to his workout.
The Riverbend condominium complex was a gated community on the south end of the riverfront district, an area known for restaurants, bars, and trendy coffee shops—including Java House, which was three short blocks from Mahoney’s home.
Coincidence? Sean planned to find out.
While he’d been stuck in the parking lot observing the neighborhood, Sean had come up with multiple scenarios in which Samantha Bonner might have crossed paths with her killer, such as serving up his coffee every morning. Mahoney might have noticed the pretty barista and asked her out. Or maybe they frequented the same dry cleaner’s. Or sandwich shop. They could have come into contact anywhere in the neighborhood where he lived and she worked. If there was an intersection point between them, Sean would find it.
The passenger-side door opened, and Callie slid into the truck.
“Damn, it’s cold in here. Why isn’t your heater on?”
“I’ve been here an hour. What have you got?”
“A lot.” She handed over a stapled stack of papers. “Bradley J. Mahoney, attorney-at-law.”
“Shit, you’re kidding.”
“No.”
Lawyers were connected, especially in a town this size. Sean hoped they weren’t going to have to deal with Mahoney’s hearing through the grapevine that he was a person of interest in a homicide investigation.
“Turns out he did have a traffic ticket,” Callie said. “Two, actually, both for speeding. And he got both dismissed. My guess is he’s got a contact at the courthouse who made these go away.”
Sean flipped through the papers, thinking about what else Mahoney could have made go away. As a general rule, Sean hated lawyers, even the ones on his side. They worried more about probable cause and admissibility than keeping dangerous people off the streets.
“What kind of law does he practice?” Sean asked, thumbing through the paperwork, which included an article in the state bar magazine: “Five Tips for Winning Your Case before Trial.” Bradley J. Mahoney was listed as a coauthor.
“From what I can tell? Mostly personal injury and workers’ comp.”
“Married?”
“No. And no kids, that I could find.”
Sean skimmed the printout of Mahoney’s driver’s record. Sean had already pulled it electronically while he’d been waiting outside the gym. He studied the driver’s license photo, looking for something menacing in the man’s eyes. But he just looked like some bored businessman who’d wasted his morning waiting in line at the DMV.
“I like his age,” he told Callie. “Twenty-nine.”
“Yeah, and you notice his size? Six-two, one-eighty.”
“Plenty big enough to ambush Samantha Bonner with a hunting knife.”
“That’s right. And I’m sure you noticed his address. Those Riverbend condos are what, three blocks from Java House?”
“That’s right.” Sean glanced at the gym, but still no sign of their suspect. “I want a credit-card dump. Maybe he’s been in there before.”
“You won’t get it without a warrant.”
“I know.”
“And you won’t get a warrant without Rachel’s help. Ric talked to her, and she’s not big on this familial-DNA thing. She told him it’s a can of worms.”
Ric had already called Sean and relayed the DA’s concerns, once again reinforcing all the reasons Sean hated lawyers. Rachel did everything by the book, which sucked from a detective’s perspective.
But Sean had to admit that her obsession with rules helped bolster her impressive conviction rate, which Sean did appreciate because it meant that many of his collars served time. As lawyers went, Rachel wasn’t all bad.
“The DA doesn’t like big suspect pools,” Sean told Callie. “Right now we’re at ten people, and that’s only in this county.”
“So, what are we going to do?”
“Narrow it down for her.”
“And how do you propose we do that?” Callie gestured toward the gym. “The two of us have wasted three solid hours already on one guy. We don’t have the time or the manpower to stake out every Mahoney on the list.”
Sean looked at her. “You ever heard of surreptitious evidence collection?”
Her gaze narrowed. “Yeah.”
“I talked to the building management over at Riverbend. Trash day is Monday.”
“That’s all you, Byrne. Don’t think for a minute I’m going Dumpster diving. You already owe me favors. And speaking of favors, I got a name for you, and you’re not going to like it.”
Sean tensed.
“Matt Jorgensen.”
Sean watched her, letting the words sink in. “I’ve heard that name before. He have a sheet?”
“No. He’s a deputy sheriff over in Burr County.”
Sean’s gut clenched. “Where’d you get this?”
“Maddie. Apparently, she’s met him and she’s not a fan.”
“She said that?”
“I think her exact words were ‘Thank God they broke up. The guy’s a prick.’ ”
“Fuck,” Sean said, combing his hand through his hair.
“That was pretty much my reaction.”
Sean gritted his teeth. Why hadn’t Brooke told him? He glanced out the window and shook his head. A goddamn sheriff’s deputy. No wonder she’d balked at the idea of getting an RO. Maybe she figured she’d be better off ignoring him or handling the situation alone.
Well, she wasn’t alone now. She was getting Sean’s help with this guy whether she wanted it or not. The trick would be finding a way to help her that didn’t piss her off. It would be much easier if he could convince her to let him.
Sean glanced at his phone. He wanted to call her right this minute and see if she’d gotten those locks changed.
“Hey, Callie, thanks so much for spending part of your Sunday doing me a favor,” she quipped.
Sean glanced at her. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. And for the record, I’d be happy to help you follow up on this, whatever you plan to do. I like Brooke and I hope she shakes loose of this guy.”
Sean looked at his phone again. Then he glanced at the gym as the door opened and Bradley Mahoney stepped out.
“Heads up,” Sean said.
Mahoney wore black workout clothes, and sunlight gleamed off his shaved head. He had his phone pressed to his ear and a water bottle in his hand.
“Dang, look at the size of him,” Callie murmured. “No way he’s one-eighty.”
“I’d put him at two hundred, easy.”
Sean watched as Mahoney finished his call, then guzzled water. He tossed the bottle in a nearby can and started across the parking lot to his car.
“Where are you parked?” Sean asked.
“One row back.”
Sean turned around and spotted her SUV. “Wait until he leaves. Then tail him. I’m guessing he’s going home after this, but you never know. Maybe he has a girlfriend or something, which would be a lead.”
Callie put her hand on the door handle and waited. Mahoney got into his car and backed out of the space. He exited the lot, turning left on Fifth.
“Okay, now.”
She turned to look at him. “What about you?”
“I’m going after that water bottle.”
• • •
Brooke left Sunrise Donuts hungry and discouraged. She’d stopped by half a dozen times this weekend and failed to spot anyone even remotely resembling their redheaded mystery witness. Her new pal, Evan, was off today, too, so she’d had to talk to the manager, who was getting annoyed with her frequent visits. And Brooke was getting annoyed with buying doughnuts she didn’t want.
She slid into her car and tossed a water bottle on the floorboard, adding to the collection there. She’d felt compelled to at least purchase a beverage every time she went in.
Her phone chimed, and she checked the number. Sean. She tried to tell herself the warm zip of excitement was because she hadn’t talked to him all day and she needed an update on the case. It had nothing to do with her recent discovery that he was an amazing kisser.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hey there.” Just the sound of his voice made her skin flush. How did he do that with only two words?
“So, how’s your day going?” Brooke drove across the street and pulled into Dairy Queen.
“Fine. What are you doing?”
“About to get a bite of lunch. Why?”
“A little late for that, isn’t it?”
“Not really.” She got out of her car and scanned the kids clustered at picnic tables near the doors.
“How’d it go with the locksmith?”
“It didn’t.”
“What happened?”
“He moved the appointment. Now he’s meeting me over there at five.”
“Who are you using?”
“Turn Key. They had good reviews.”
“If he doesn’t show, I have a friend I can call.”
The smell of french fries made Brooke’s stomach grumble as she stepped into the restaurant. “Thanks, but I’ve got it covered. What’s up with the case today?”
“We’ve had some developments. I’ll fill you in later. Listen, I have to go. I just wanted to check on that locksmith. Let me know if you need me to contact my friend.”
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary.”
“If it is—”
“Then I’ll let you know.”
He went quiet.
“Thanks for the offer,” she added.
“Sure. I’ll call you later, okay?”
They hung up, and Brooke stood for a moment, staring at the menu board. She wasn’t thinking about what she wanted, she was thinking about the worry in Sean’s tone.
He knew.
It probably hadn’t taken much for him to find out who her ex was. It wasn’t like it was a secret or anything—she’d just never mentioned his name in front of Sean.
Oh, well. She’d known Sean would find out sooner or later. The man was a detective. There was probably very little she could hide from him if he was determined to look. And he’d definitely seemed determined lately. About a lot of things.
“Ma’am?”
“Sorry.” She stepped up to the register. “Um . . . I’ll have a chicken-strip basket with onion rings.”
I’ll call you later. Did that mean tonight? Would he ask her out again? Or maybe he’d show up on her doorstep with that sexy smile and invite her out for “just beers” again?
“Wait. Change that. Make it fries instead of onion rings.”
Just in case.
The woman rang her up, and Brooke glanced to her side, where a young boy stood at the neighboring register. The sight of his rust-colored hair made Brooke’s pulse skip. It skipped again as he dumped a pile of coins on the counter and slid them, one by one, toward the cashier.
“You’re fifty-nine cents short,” the cashier told him.
The kid dug into his pocket and came up with another quarter, which earned him an eye roll.
“Thirty-four cents short.”
Brooke stepped over with a twenty-dollar bill. “Here, let me.”