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“I understand you have a job to do, Sheriff, but—six degrees of separation and all—it’d be impossible for me to rule out having any overlapping acquaintances with Anthony.”
Sheriff Marlin narrowed his eyes and held the expression of a man much more astute than his faded uniform and modest country surroundings implied. A man unwilling to tolerate ambiguous bullshit. “You know, son, I’ve done some research on you.”
A bitter taste filled Dean’s mouth, but he pressed his lips into a firm, flat line, still trying to give nothing away. “And what did you find?”
“You’re ex-army. An infantry sergeant.” The sheriff kept his brows low and his stare hard. His research had clearly paid off. “You did time in military prison for assaulting an officer. You were discharged for bad conduct. You then dropped off the radar for a solid ten years before resurfacing in Harlow in the aftermath of a shoot-out. See how all that doesn’t sit well with me?”
Fuck. Holy fuck.
Still, this was stuff a background check would show up. So maybe all hope wasn’t lost.
Dean had no control over his past, including what had happened after his incarceration and discharge. The many instances he’d tried to rebuild, failing over and over and over again…
“I did my time.” He controlled his tone, his simmering anger nearly undetectable beneath his still delivery, despite the searing sensation expanding in his belly. “What’s your point?”
“You have no employment records since your release.” The sheriff lifted both brows, lightening the severity of his face but not the weight of his suspicion. “How have you survived all these years without any income?”
“What can I say? I did a bunch of cash-in-hand jobs, not too dissimilar to what I’m offering now that I’m in Harlow. Good thing you’re not the IRS, huh?” He gave a casual smirk, the lighthearted gesture intended to distract from his thundering pulse and the sweat beading at his temples.
If he concentrated too hard on the effect of his nerves, the shallow pull of each breath alone would send him undone.
“I can arrange a call to the IRS if you’d like, Mr. Holloway?” Sheriff Marlin gave a dry reply, one that held the flat frankness of someone who’d been on the job for far too many decades. “I’m not sure you appreciate how bad this looks for you. Mr. Stucco left no evidence of having driven to Harlow on his own. No trace of a car. No keys on his body. He didn’t have the resources or ability to find Ms. Bonacci on his own, either. But perhaps a man with a military past would. Now”—the sheriff leaned in farther, pointing a finger in Dean’s direction as if to demand his total attention—“if Mr. Stucco had survived his attempts to extort money, he’d be up for a number of charges, including attempted murder. That’s one hell of a charge, don’t you think, Mr. Holloway?”
The sheriff didn’t wait for a reply, and Dean didn’t get the feeling he’d ever really wanted one. The older man scowled now, harsh wrinkles scoring his age-freckled cheekbones. “You should understand, if someone delivered Mr. Stucco to Ms. Bonacci’s door here in Harlow, I need to know. I need to ensure they’re caught, or at least that they’ve left. I won’t have any murderous criminals loose in my town.”
Murderous criminals? Dean’s face and hands burned with an instant rush of blood. Emilia and Harlow had nothing to fear from him, not even back when he’d been in on helping Anthony get here.
Dean’s work with Luciano had always been about finding people. Not killing them. He’d said as much to Anthony on the drive over. Hell, the entire syndicate knew that he never stooped that low. He’d had more than his fill of blood, guns, and gore in the service; his need for money was the only reason he’d justified working for Luciano. The syndicate had been mostly about rich criminals screwing over other rich criminals. Innocent civilians were rarely involved.
The Bonacci job was different. He’d nearly begged Luciano to keep Anthony distracted in LA while he worked that one alone. He would have been quick. He would have figured out if there was even any money to be had. And everyone would have survived the ordeal, shaken, but very much alive and unharmed.
But Stucco had always been a loose cannon, even as far back as when he’d hired Dean a decade earlier to help find and pry some girlfriend away from another man. Hell, he probably should have bowed out of that trivial job, too. He couldn’t blame that woman for choosing literally any guy who wasn’t Anthony.
Maybe all of this was Dean’s fault. He should have bailed out of the syndicate earlier. Should have suspected that Anthony would sneak a gun on this latest trip.
“If someone helped Mr. Stucco, wouldn’t it make sense for them to return to LA?” Dean drew a slow inhalation. He'd been half banking on the syndicate and law looking for him anywhere but here, though perhaps a little resigned now to whatever came next. “This whole mess has stirred up a lot of attention.”
Sheriff Marlin’s gaze darted about Dean’s face. “Maybe, but it’s still a little too convenient that you, Mr. Stucco, and Ms. Bonacci all originate from the same city.”
“Like I said, a coincidence at best, but I appreciate you have a job to do. In fact, I’m grateful to live in a town where keeping the peace is a priority.” Despite the sharp prickle raking over his skin, he shrugged, a small semblance of fight returning. He’d known nothing of Anthony’s intentions that day and wouldn’t take the heat for another man’s crime. “So, tell me Sheriff, what can I do to put your suspicions to rest?”
The sheriff inched his posture back. “It’d help if I knew your movements in the hours leading up to the shooting.”
Dean drummed his fingertips on his armrest and bit back a smile because, once again, meeting Sarah turned out to be a stroke of, for him, hugely unusual good luck. Perhaps he wasn’t quite so done for after all. “I’m not sure the woman I was with would appreciate me saying.”
The sheriff jolted his chin back in poorly hidden surprise. “You were with someone?”
Dean gave a slow nod, trying his best not to come across like a smug bastard. Not because of what he’d been doing that night, but because for once in his goddamn miserable life, he had a genuine alibi. “We met before ten p.m. at the soiree, and I left her house around three the next afternoon. As far as I know, that time would overlap Mr. Stucco’s foiled crime spree, am I right?”
Sheriff Marlin didn’t bother to answer. He instead dug a pen from his light brown shirt pocket as well as a small notebook, his movements a sudden flurry of activity. “I’ll need this woman’s name and address.”
Dean opened his mouth, then pulled it shut again. Not an hour had passed since he’d promised Sarah he’d keep quiet about their night. As sketchy as his morals had been over the years, a sharp pang still knocked at his heart. He’d be betraying her trust, and so quickly too.
So much for turning over a new leaf.
Then again, the LAPD had suspicions about the syndicate, and the sheriff knew about Dean’s past. What future did he have with Sarah if he didn’t speak up?
He scrubbed a hand over his face and let out a low groan. “You know what sort of trouble you’re getting me into here?”
