Chapter Twenty-One
Miah watched Nicki’s car disappear down the road, then pulled out his phone and called Vince.
“Hey,” came the greeting after a single ring.
“Hey. Got news. Maybe. Maybe not,” Miah added, leaning against the lot’s wooden fence.
“Find something on those tapes?” Vince asked. Miah had been keeping him up to date.
“Maybe,” he said again.
A muffled voice was in the background on Vince’s end of the line—Casey’s. “He see some shit?”
“He says maybe,” Vince told his brother. “Shut up a sec.”
“There’s a guy who’s come around the ranch twice now,” Miah said, “last winter and again today. He does water and soil sampling—the casino’s big show of environmental concern. And I saw him on the bank’s surveillance footage from two days before the fire.”
“Huh.”
“It doesn’t make much sense, but the guy’s been on the property and he was at the bank . . . Fuck, I dunno. Deputy Ritchey’s going to tell the detectives this afternoon.”
“Deputy Ritchey?” Vince asked, voice all funny, warm and sly.
“Yeah. What about her?”
“What’s her first name? Nicki?”
“Yeah.”
“Call her Nicki, for fuck’s sake. We all know you guys are fucking.”
“You don’t know that.”
“You’re easier to read than a billboard, Church. Raina said she could tell the second she saw you two sitting together.”
He felt his face burning. “Whatever. That’s not even important right now.”
Casey’s voice again, closer this time. “What’d he find on the videos?”
Vince gave his brother the gist. There was a strange rustling noise on the other end, then Casey’s voice came on, crystal clear. “What’s the guy’s number?”
“I dunno. I’ve got his business card someplace, though.”
“I have an idea. Come down to the spot.” The garage where the Grossiers and Miah and Raina worked on bikes, he meant.
“I’m not done with work—”
“This is fucking important, get your ass over here. I’ve got an idea, but we have to beat the detectives to the punch, all right?”
Miah was about to argue, except recent history had taught him Casey’s plans weren’t half bad. “Okay, fine. Twenty minutes.”
“Bring the guy’s number. And beer. We’re out of beer.”
Miah rolled his eyes. “See you.”
He went inside, found Vreeland’s card, and grabbed a six-pack from the fridge and his helmet off its peg in the front hall. He loaded the beer into his cargo box and rode downtown.
The garage was a few blocks up Station Street from the bar. Though it was only seven, the sun had already slipped behind the distant, pointy peak the locals all called Lights Out, a sure sign summer was coming to an end. Miah pulled up, finding the bay doors wide open, an unfamiliar bike parked in the middle of the concrete floor with half its guts ripped out.
Vince and Casey abandoned it, Casey pulling out his phone while Vince went to wash his hands in the shop sink.
On second thought, Miah thought as he walked up, not Casey’s phone. Casey was forever pecking away on a smartphone, but this thing wasn’t much fancier than Miah’s ancient one.
“Whose bike?” he asked Vince, setting the six-pack on the floor beside it.
“Not sure yet. Just came into my possession.”
“You steal it?” Miah’s best friend was known to acquire things from the scrapyard on occasion. Not his finest quality, and one Miah had thought Kim had managed to curtail.
“No, I didn’t. Got it from a guy who couldn’t pay me off on a bet.”
“Fair enough.” Miah eyed it. “Looks like a pile of shit.”
“I know.” Vince smiled. “I love a challenge.”
“And since those challenges no longer come in skirts and heels, a bike’ll have to do,” Casey said.
Vince tossed an empty can at his brother’s head.
Casey ducked it and looked to Miah. “Number?”
“Got his business card. Before I hand it over, tell me your plan.”
“I’m gonna call and tell him I know what he did.”
Miah frowned. “What he did? Like, accuse him of being involved in the fire and the murder?”
Casey shrugged. “I won’t hit the nail on the head. Drop a few key words so if he did have something to do with it, he’ll know what I’m saying, but not so much that we’ll risk overplaying our hand.”
“That sounds moderately crazy.”
Case stooped for a bottle of beer. “It’s a throwaway phone, so he won’t know it was me. Worst thing that happens, as I see it, is that he has shit to do with Bean and I freak him the fuck out. But he’ll get over it.”
Miah wasn’t sold on this plan. Now faced with the possibility of actually confronting him, Oren Vreeland seemed like a normal, honest man just trying to do his job. “The detectives should be the ones to approach him, after they get a subpoena and see if he was even at the bank to make a withdrawal.”
“And how long’ll that take?” Casey asked.
“If the cops even take this seriously,” Vince added, opening a beer.
“I don’t love this vigilante shit,” Miah said, glaring at each of them in turn.
“Yeah,” Casey said, “but that’s why you need us. We’re good at it. And we enjoy it.”
“I don’t trust the authorities,” Vince said gravely. “Not after Tremblay, and not after somebody managed to off him in custody. There’s no telling if whoever did that didn’t have a friend in the BCSD to help get them inside.”
“The deputy guarding him got concussed,” Miah said.
“Yeah, but how’d the person who killed Tremblay get inside to begin with? You don’t just wander into the station in the middle of the night off the street.”
Miah sighed, tired and annoyed, having heard all this crap before. He grabbed a beer and twisted it open. “You know how I feel about your theories.”
Vince shrugged. “Mine and everybody else’s.”
“Just let me,” Casey said. “What’s the downside?”
“Oh, I dunno,” Miah said, waving his bottle around. “Maybe you terrify an innocent man. Or maybe he does have something to do with Bean, and you call and tip him off and he skips town—”
“I’m not gonna threaten him—I’m gonna blackmail him.”
“Maybe he takes that bait and we meet up with him or whatever, and he fucking shoots somebody. Or you shoot him,” Miah said, winding up tighter by the second. “Or maybe nobody shoots anybody, but we all get served for who-fucking-knows what, obstruction of justice or impeding a federal murder investigation!” He was shouting, he knew, and sweating, and pissed, and confused.
Casey smiled. “One way to find out.”
Vince cut in. “Look, Church—chances are the guy didn’t do anything but his job. But I’m with Case. The investigators are idiots at best and corrupt at worst. I know you think I’m fucking nuts, but if somebody over at the BCSD has a connection to Bean and whoever hired him, and they know about this guy and that he’s involved, and they get wind that you’re onto him, what do you think they’ll do?”
Miah frowned. “Jack shit.”
“Best case scenario. Worst case, retaliation.”
Miah thought of his mother, his employees, the stock and the land. It still didn’t sit well with him, and he still thought Vince was pushing it, but . . . But if it was any of that shit Vince had rattled off, versus a weird-ass phone call freaking Oren Vreeland out? Plus he’d thought Vince had been paranoid last year, insisting the car crash that had killed Alex had been murder, not drunk driving. And Vince had been goddamn right.
Vince was watching him, studying his face, and the moment when Miah began to crack must’ve showed. “Come on, Church. You’ve got everything to gain.”
He sighed, so tired. “Say . . . say he is involved. He could deny whatever it is Casey’s implying and just take off.”
“Feds’ll find him,” Casey said. “They find everybody, this day and age.”
“And even if they didn’t,” Vince added, “this guy could break the case wide open—if he isn’t the kingpin, he could lead them to whoever is.”
“I doubt he is,” Miah said. “He doesn’t seem like he’d have the connections Bean implied.”
“You never know.” Vince drained his beer.
“But there’s one way to learn a little bit more about this guy,” Casey said. “Come on. Let me creep on him.”
Miah relented, curiosity winning out. He opened his wallet and handed Casey the business card.
He studied it. “Cell number, jackpot. So, what do we know? He’s been around the property. He was at the bank at a suspicious-ass time.”
“That’s it precisely.” And fuck if it didn’t sound like nothing at all.
Casey started plugging numbers into his phone. “He got family?”
“I don’t—” Miah’s memory kicked in. “He’s married, I know that much.” This afternoon, Oren had mentioned how his wife had grown up riding horses.
“He’s probably off work, anyhow.” Miah half hoped he was.
Casey took his smartphone out and poked at his screen. “Here,” he said to Miah. “Hold this.”
Miah took it. What looked like an audio recording app was running.
Casey punched some buttons on his disposable cell, then another, and the speakerphone kicked in, broadcasting a dial tone. He held the phone between the three of them and put a finger over his lips, looking meaningfully at Miah and Vince. They both nodded.
Four rings, and Miah was ready to give up. He was relieved, frankly—
“Oren Vreeland.”
His heart stopped.
“Got a business proposition for you,” Casey said, adopting a deeper voice, a neutral accent.
A pause. “Excuse me?”
“I know about you. About you and your affiliations with a certain dead man named Christopher Bean.”
Another pause, twice as long as the first. “Who?”
“Don’t be coy, Oren. I know you’re involved. I know you paid him off. Three grand in cash, right?”
“I have no idea what you’re—”
“You do. And listen, I’m not gonna tattle on you, Oren. I don’t want to, at least. I want in, you see.”
“Who are—”
“I don’t know your endgame with the ranch, not all of it, and I’m not even after a cut. Alls I want is a little hush money, you follow? I’m real good at hushing. And hell, you saved yourself another three grand when Bean wound up dead—I’m sure you can afford it. Let’s say fifteen thousand. I prefer small bills, though, unlike Bean. Twenties and fifties.”
Silence. Miah’s pulse was pounding so hard he half expected Oren Vreeland could hear it.
“I’m going to hang up now. I don’t know who you are or what you think I—”
“Your wife would understand,” Casey said coolly. “If you had to dip into your savings to scrape it together.”
Miah shivered, thinking of Chris Bean and feeling a flash of compassion for the man. He’d had his wife and daughter leveraged against him just this way.
This time, the pause was filled with audible breathing, the sounds of a man trying to calm himself, to assemble the right words. He was probably scared to death—perfectly innocent, but suddenly faced with vague threats against his wife. Miah was tempted to abort this entire mission, tell Oren to forget it—
A calm, cool voice. “You leave my wife out of this, you understand?”
“I do,” Casey said, blue eyes jumping between Vince and Miah. “But you understand me, don’t you? I’m a man of my word. You pay up, one lump sum, I’m out of your hair for good. That I promise. Fifteen grand and I keep my mouth shut in perpetuity. Plus you didn’t act alone, did you? I bet you didn’t. Fifteen grand split two ways, three, more? Pennies, really, for the peace of mind.”
“Fuck you.”
Casey smiled. “No need for language, Oren. Let me summarize your position, all right? Let me spell it all out for you. I know what you did. I want fifteen grand. If I don’t get it, I’ll go to the cops. You’re an educated guy. I’m sure you can do the math.”
More silence.
“You run,” Casey went on, “and the feds’ll get you. Guaranteed. But I got nothing against you, personally. We’re the same, really. Opportunists. I’m happy for you to keep on walking free, keep on working toward your goal. Must be a better payday than fifteen thousand bucks, right? If it was important enough to kill for?” Casey’s expression faltered, his gaze moving uncertainly to Miah.
Miah didn’t flinch.
When Oren’s reply didn’t come, Casey said, “Listen—I’m a reasonable man. And a patient one. I want my money in five days. Five days, or I tell the feds all about you. I’ll be in touch with a time and place. I’ll expect you to answer when I call.”
“How do you know all this?” Oren’s voice was cold. Icy.
The world tilted beneath Miah. He didn’t think his heart had sped like this since the day of the fire. It was frightening.
“You can’t trust everyone you get in bed with,” Casey said smoothly. “But you can trust me, Oren. Pay up and we’ll be just fine, you and me. You’ll never hear from me again. Fuck with me and you’re going down. Understand?”
No reply aside from that shallow breathing.
“I’ll be in touch.” Casey ended the call. His cool act fell away and he gaped at Miah and Vince in turn, threw his arms out and waved them around like a man who couldn’t believe his dark horse had just swept the pack. He mouthed, “What the fuuuhhh . . .”
“Holy fucking shit,” Miah said, blank. “He did it.” He stopped the audio recorder and handed Casey’s phone back.
“Guess you owe that Devon guy his bonus,” Casey said. “Probably wouldn’t have got this far without that talk.”
“Yeah.” And shit, that also meant Miah owed John Dancer a hundred bucks and a week at the hot springs . . . Small price.
Casey pocketed the phone, then picked up his bottle, businesslike. “Now what?”
Miah stared. “You just riffed all that shit, and you have no fucking idea what comes next?”
“No, man, what were the chances he was actually guilty?”
“Fuck.”
“You don’t know where he lives, do you?” Vince asked.
Miah shook his head. “Never came up. The company’s in town, on Railroad, in that business park with the tech company. Not sure he’s there much, though—sounds like he spends most of his time on the road. He could split.”
“He could,” Casey said, “but what’s the benefit? You think a man with a wife, maybe a family, would decide fifteen grand is a higher price to pay than living the rest of his life on the run?”
“We need to go to the detectives. Now. No more vigilante bullshit.”
Casey nodded and took a swig of his beer. “The recording’s not admissible, but it can sure as shit convince the cops Vreeland needs investigating, if the stuff Nicki’s told them isn’t enough.”
“This again,” Vince muttered.
Miah frowned. “It’s not admissible?”
Casey shook his head. “Nevada thing. Both parties have to consent to a recording for it to be legal as evidence. Doesn’t matter, though. They’ll find out whatever they do from the bank, and who knows what else, now that they know who to look into. Plus he’ll probably confess. If he loves his wife he will, at least. He could score a plea deal, if there’s somebody else at the helm of this thing.”
Vince smirked. “If he’s half as smart as Case, he’ll realize he’s getting blackmailed for less than half the money he’d make off the reward if he went to the cops himself.”
Miah nodded. “True. Though I suppose it only matters that we got him to confess.”
“Exactly,” Casey said, opening a second beer. “So call your girlfriend. Let’s get this fucker caught already.”
* * *
The chair under Nicki’s butt was hard, and she could feel its round rivets through her pants. It reminded her of school chairs, of being sent to the principal’s office. Matty might not be privy to the info, but she’d had her fair share of run-ins with authority when she’d been his age.
One of the detectives, Rick Parsons, had stepped out to make a phone call. His partner, Trace Gregory, was seated across from her, peering at his computer screen, at the surveillance footage. He had a cowboy’s name, but he didn’t live up to it. He was an irritable, chubby man, too pale for this county. But of the two, she preferred him. Gregory was grumpy, but Parsons was stern and scoldy. The latter had given Nicki several earfuls when the extent of her meddling had come out. Gregory hadn’t said much, just sat there frowning and blinking.
Now they were alone together while Parsons tried to get ahold of the acting sheriff, presumably so Nicki’s dressing-down could advance to the next level. Her phone buzzed in her bag—she could just make out the hum of it—the third time since she’d sat down. She peeked. Miah. Wanting to know what the investigators made of the Oren Vreeland connection, no doubt. She ignored it, hoping she’d have an answer soon.
Curiosity got the better of her after five or more minutes alone with Gregory, the silence interrupted only by the occasional skitter of his laptop keys.
“This is worth looking into, isn’t it?” she asked.
He glanced up from his computer, hazel eyes tired. “Sure.”
She perked up some at that. “Good. I know it’s not exactly a smoking gun, but . . .”
“It’s not nothing,” he allowed, pulling a pad over to scribble on. “You could’ve let us know a week ago that you’d gone over our heads, you know.”
“Not over your heads, really. Just sort of . . .”
“Behind our backs.”
“Ye-e-ah. But I didn’t expect anything to come of it. Seemed foolish to call attention to my sketchy-ass meddling if I didn’t need to.”
He cracked a smirk, gaze on his screen. “Fair, I suppose. How’d you get the video, anyhow?”
“Bald-faced lie and a bit of mascara.”
Gregory laughed. “I like your style. I hope you don’t lose your job.”
“You and me both—”
A knock on the door, then it swung in. It was Laura Dupree, the receptionist. She looked harried, and Miah appeared behind her. “Mr. Church needs to see you.”
“Which of us?” Nicki asked, glancing at Gregory.
“Both,” Laura said.
“And the other detective,” Miah cut in, stepping into the room. “It’s fucking urgent.” He had a cell phone in his hand—not his outdated one, but a smartphone. “I’ve got proof Oren Vreeland is involved.”
Nicki didn’t even register getting to her feet. Gregory’s chair squealed a moment later. “Have a seat, Mr. Church. I’ll find my partner.”
Nicki sat when Miah did, goggling at him. “You what?”
“Not enough proof to bring him down,” Miah said, giving the phone a little wave, “but it’s enough to light a massive fire under the appropriate asses.”
“What is it?”
“Recording of his confession. Or good as.”
“Holy shit. How—”
The detectives marched in.
“What’s this all about?” Parsons barked. He never spoke—only barked or grumbled or sighed. His face fit the bill, long and tired as a hound dog’s.
“I know this is sketchy as fuck,” Miah said, “but a friend of mine called Oren Vreeland. Listen to this.” He tapped the phone’s screen, opened some app, punched up the volume. He hit PLAY.
Nicki frowned, butterflies swirling as she listened. She winced. She fidgeted, and then her jaw dropped so hard she was surprised it didn’t crack the table.
“How do you know all this?” Vreeland’s voice was cold as ice, and ice was what fell into Nicki’s gut at those words. Holy shit, they nailed him.
When the call ended, everyone glanced at each other for a long moment without speaking.
Miah broke the silence. “That’s enough to bring him in, surely.”
Gregory nodded. “Sure is. It won’t hold up in court, but you better fucking believe we’re all over this.”
You better be.
“Good,” Miah said, nodding. His chest was working like crazy now, like he’d remembered to breathe for the first time in an hour. Nicki couldn’t blame him. She wondered what he must be feeling . . . what she might have felt herself if she’d ever found out who’d killed her dad. She wondered also if Miah had known where Vreeland lived, would he have ever made it here to the station?
“Excuse us,” Parsons said. He’d never gotten around to sitting, merely leaning down with his palms on the table. He straightened and checked his pockets. To Gregory he said, “Find out Vreeland’s home address.”
“On it,” Gregory said, also on his feet now and whipping out his phone. He grabbed the smartphone from the desk and pocketed it as well, leaving without a word.
From out in the hall, Parson’s signature bark sounded. “Ritchey, the sheriff will deal with you tomorrow.”
She slumped in her chair, swallowed by a sigh so deep she just about drowned in relief. It blew away a second later and she rounded on Miah. “Oh my God, what the fuck?”
“It was all Casey.”
“That was insane. And genius. But also really, really insane.”
“That’s Case’s style. He had no subsequent moves, by the way. It was get a confession or traumatize an innocent man. I can’t fucking believe it wound up being the former.”
“Holy . . . That’s crazy. So what the fuck is Vreeland’s endgame, even? What’s he know about the land that you don’t?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. But like I said to Casey and Vince, I doubt he’s the kingpin. He wouldn’t have the connections to make the promises that Bean got given. Or I don’t think he would . . . I mean, Bean was scared to death of whoever he was dealing with. Even when Casey got Vreeland rattled, he wasn’t scary. He was shitting his pants.”
She shook her head, incredulous. “Unbelievable. Well, here’s hoping for a plea deal.”
He nodded, seeming to relax by a degree. “Exactly. I want the mastermind. If Chris Bean was the bullet, and Oren Vreeland was the trigger or the gun or whatever the fuck he was, I want the man who picked the target and ordered Bean to fire.”
“Amen. Jesus, what do we do now?”
“Wait, I guess. And hope Vreeland knows jack about Nevada recording laws and confesses the second the detectives come knocking.”
Nicki was reeling, her body hot and buzzing. She was just about to propose she and Miah go fuck in his truck when he spoke first.
“I gotta get home, fill my mom in.”
“Oh. Right, of course.” And Jesus, Matty was waiting in the lobby. He’d have been happy for hours on end, given free reign with Nicki’s tablet, but that was not Mother of the Year material, that impulse. “And I need to get Matty home. My stay of execution’s been extended, apparently. Knowing what you and your friends found out, that Vreeland’s looking pretty fucking guilty . . . Well, let’s hope my abuse of power looks justified, retroactively.”
Miah nodded and got to his feet. “If you hear anything, call me.”
“Ditto.”
She met him at the edge of the desk. They chanced a quick kiss, and in that gesture she could feel that her reckless desire to go despoil the nearest vehicle wasn’t isolated. He plundered her mouth in those few stolen seconds, and when his hands let her jaw go, she was reeling all over again.
“Thanks, honey.”
“For?”
“For sticking your neck out. And for this, just now.” His gaze dropped to her mouth. “I’d do way worse if I didn’t need to get back.”
“We’re on the same page.”
Their eyes met and darted, met and darted.
“Go,” she whispered. “I need to lock up.”
“Okay. I’ll be in touch. Or vice versa. Let’s touch base before bed, even if we hear nothing.”
“Deal.”
With a final, meaningful, piercing stare, he turned and walked out, leaving Nicki woozy for too many reasons to count.