Page 88 of Jonas

Outdoor shower.

Damn, the woman was full of surprises. Though it shouldn’t’ve been surprising a woman who grew up on a ranch, loving the outdoors, would want to shower outside.

“No shade to East Coast architecture and building materials. People like what they like and I suppose a lot of it has to do with where they grew up, but the ginormous pillars out front are not my thing. And who wants an enormous house when your neighbor can look into your windows?”

“Don’t know. I’d rather spend my money on the land and have a small house smack in the middle.”

“Yeah.”

I didn’t miss her wistful tone.

“As soon as this is over, baby, we’ll hit my place and you can get out of the city for a while,” I reminded her.

Just like the first time I’d made the suggestion, I waited for the unease to hit at the thought of her in my space. And just like the first time, none came. Instead, I wondered what she’d think about my house. Knowing her, she wouldn’t give it much headspace, except for the huge fireplace and stone hearth that went clear to the vaulted ceiling. I had a feeling she’d dig that, and maybe the bathroom. Unlike Cash, who was loud and proud about his love for baths, I wasn’t a fan. Yet, I’d allowed the builder to talk me into a big, jetted tub—he said it was for resale value. I’d never filled that tub. With Derrika there, we’d break it in.

She’d be all about the land, the privacy, the view of Piney Creek.

I was so wrapped up in my thoughts about being able to give Derrika some of the peace she’d talked about, I wasn’t paying attention to my surroundings.

But I didn’t miss Derrika’s hissed, “Holy shit.”

I cleared my mind of playtime with Derrika and focused on the Petersons’ house in front of us at the end of the cul-de-sac.

I quickly pulled over in front of the house just before the curve, reached for the dial, and put the SUV into park, longing for the day when there were still gear shifters. The turn of a dial didn’t have the same satisfaction as slamming a car out of gear.

“Well fuck,” I muttered, taking in the black Merc parked under the portico.

Before I could do it, Derrika snatched my phone off the center console charging station and unlocked it. I’d barely processed she’d remembered my code before she finished scrolling through screens and the interior of the Caddy was ringing.

“Yeah?” Kira answered.

“Can you run a plate for us?” Derrika asked. “There’s a black Mercedes, same model as before in the driveway of Lou Peterson’s but the plate is different than before.”

“Ready,” Kira returned.

Derrika rattled off the information.

Within seconds Kira came back with, “Lou Peterson is the registered owner.”

Daryl Barnes’ story checked out. The question was why would a man of his status take the chance of his driver getting pulled over with a fake plate? Not to mention he was on the BOD of Delcon; his car being seen there wouldn’t be a red flag.

“What do we have on the driver?” I asked.

“Nothing. Les Stevenson. No priors. Not married. No real debt other than the Toyota 4-Runner in his name. Nothing out of the ordinary on his credit cards or charges using his debit card, no influx of money coming or going out of his account. Decent savings, but not enough to raise any eyebrows. Parents are still married and nothing out of the ordinary in their accounts. I can dig deeper⁠—”

“No. If he’s in there, we’ll scoop him up, too. Zane’ll have a place ready…hang on a second.” I glanced at Derrika. “Did you hear that?”

She nodded and cracked her window.

“Was that a gunshot?”

As soon as she asked, there were two more pops.

“Suppressed,” I muttered. “Stay in the car and⁠—”

“That’s a big fat, fuck no,” she argued and grabbed my arm. “I’m going with you.”

“Mind cluing me in?” Kira snapped.