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“Block it all out for now and do your job. Stay safe. Stay strong. Make us proud. Afterward, take those personal issues out of the lockbox, and if they still need resolving, resolve them at that time.”
“Thanks, Dad.” She sniffed again. Last time, she promised herself, as she turned the key on her mental lockbox. “This helped.”
“I’m glad. Call after everything shakes out and let your old man know you’re okay, okay?”
“I will. I promise.” She glanced at the clock on the coffeemaker and calculated her time. “Everything good with you and mom?”
“We’re great. I’ll let you in on a little secret. We’re already extremely proud of you.”
She knew it. She did. But it still meant something to hear him say so. “I…thanks. I, um…I better…”
“You’re on the clock. You’ve got to go.”
“I do. But thanks, again. For everything.”
“Anytime, baby. Lockbox!”
“Lockbox,” she echoed and disconnected. The ring on the table twinkled in the waning sunlight, catching her eye, defying her intentions to put the whole mess aside for now. “Lockbox,” she repeated, and walked out the door.
…
Swain tapped his fingers on the steering wheel while he waited for the automatic gate leading to the secure area behind the Sheriff’s station to open. While gears turned, he thought about taking Eden out. Out for real. Not Rawley’s—somewhere far enough beyond the borders of Bluelick that their chance of running into Kenny or Dobie or anyone else from town topped out at improbable. Someplace she could wear something from her actual wardrobe. Somewhere they could ditch Eden Braxton and Michael Swain for a few hours and be themselves.
The maddeningly slow mechanism finally retracted far enough for him to steer the Bronco through to where they parked the duty vehicles. Using the secured parking took extra time to get in and out—time he didn’t have, because picking up the files from their whistleblower had taken way long
er than he’d expected. He’d been in, he’d been out, then in again, and finally out. The woman was wound up and tired and kept second-guessing herself about the sufficiency of the evidence she’d spent all night gathering and organizing, then so relieved to have completed her part of the hand-off she’d actually gotten a little teary. And when he’d reassured her she’d done well, she’d hugged him and kissed his cheek.
So yeah, he was behind schedule, but parking out front risked someone who happened to be driving along the AA Highway, passing the low-slung modern structure with its green tin roof and thick white pillars, recognizing his ride. He preferred not to have to come up with a reason he’d be there. With the gym bag full of documents, he swung through the back entrance and down the fluorescent-lit hall lined with photographs of county officials. When he reached Malone’s office, the white-haired admin looked up from her desk at his approach, smiled a greeting, and waved him in.
Malone sat behind his streamlined L-shaped cherry desk, surrounded by tall, matching bookshelves full of leather-bound volumes interspersed with various awards and family photos. Leaning back in an ergonomic chair, carrying on a phone conversation, he gestured Swain to one of the two black, upholstered guest chairs opposite his desk and told someone on the other end of the phone to have the report to him by noon. He unzipped the bag and began stacking the files on the desk.
The chair squeaked as Malone leaned forward and hung up the phone. To Swain, he said, “Thanks for bringing this in.” He glanced at his watch, and his brows lifted. “Took a while.”
Swain shrugged. “Ms. Hill organized everything and kept detailed notes. She walked me through every bit of it, then worried she was so mentally fried she’d skipped something important and walked me through it all again. Our esteemed treasurer is definitely dirty, and the circle of bad actors is slowly taking shape. Whichever prosecutor draws this case is going to love her.”
Despite his urge to dump the files and be on his way, he did his job and completed the evidence report, then spent time giving his boss the highlights. Once Malone had a good overview, he instructed Swain to take everything to the custody officer and log it in, then report back to provide an update on his main assignment.
That wouldn’t take long, since they’d received no word regarding the chance of a meeting with Kenny’s and Dobie’s source. While he waited for the custody officer to log his evidence, he stared at his phone. No new texts. No messages. Nada. He could call Eden and see if she’d heard anything before he rejoined Malone, but if the guys had been in contact, she’d have reached out to him. The custody officer chose that moment to return with his receipt, so he put the notion aside.
His footsteps echoed in the empty hall as he made his way back to the sheriff’s office. Malone’s admin waved him in. Malone was on the phone again. With an extended finger, he gestured to shut the door. Swain complied and returned to the chair he’d vacated earlier.
Malone hit the speaker button on his phone and returned the headset to the cradle. To Swain, he said, “Buchanan’s on the line. He’s got some good news and some bad news regarding our op.”
His pulse scrambled. “News?”
“Dobie came through,” the disembodied voice of Chief Buchanan informed him. “The meet is set for two p.m. at Rawley’s Pub.”
Why hadn’t Eden called him? Called him first? Obviously, she’d spoken to Dobie and relayed the information to Buchanan. Why was he, her partner, finding out dead last?
“The bad news,” Malone interjected before he could ask, “is that the source—who still remains unnamed, though we can certain speculate based on the location—only wants to meet with Eden.”
That’s why.
And fuck no. “I’m not okay with that. We’re partners for a reason. You send her in solo, nobody’s got her back.”
“It’s not your call, Swain, and she’s not going in solo,” Buchanan calmly disagreed. “She’ll wear a camera and wire, and we’ll station ourselves close by. You’ll have her back. We all will. As soon as she gets what we need, we’ll make arrests. Wrap this up in one nice, tidy package with very little risk.”
“I don’t like it. There are troubling unknowns. I don’t understand what went down, or when, or why I was cut out of the meet.” Going with a late-breaking suspicion, he asked, “Is she on the line?”
