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Out in the hall, Ash caught Donovan’s arm as he passed. “Hey.” He nodded toward the lawyer’s back. “I’m glad you hired a lawyer this time. If this goes sideways, Cal Holden is the right man to have in your corner.”
chapter twenty
Ash watched Donovan and Cal cross the dispatch center, then pause in the lobby to shake hands. He’d been telling the truth—he was glad Donovan had secured Cal Holden as a defense attorney. Cal was a massive pain in his ass, which meant he was excellent at his job. But he was also honest and always played within the rules of the justice system. They didn’t make lawyers much better than the guy.
Ash glanced around the dispatch center, taking in the rows of computers and the scatter of whiteboards. The dispatchers had a dedicated row of cubicles in the corner where they kept a finger on the pulse of the community, but the rest of the room was dedicated to his deputies. Several large maps of the county and surrounding areas covered the walls. The space was usually buzzing with activity, but, today, it was silent save for the low murmur from the dispatchers in the corner. All of his deputies were in the field, dealing with the fire.
He crossed the lobby and walked down the short hall to his office. On his desk sat the old paper file folder of Darcy’s case that he’d dug up from the cold case archives. He grabbed it and the keys to his Tahoe. The former sheriff had been dodging his calls, but he knew where to find the man.
He drove to the golf course north of town, both surprised and disgusted to see the parking lot almost full. There was a fire raging to the south, and smoke hung thick in the air, but Christ forbid the country club types skipped their 18-holes.
He technically belonged to this club. He had a legacy lifetime membership since his several times over grandfather, flush with cash from the Gold Rush, had been one of the founding members. But he’d never had the patience for golf. Or for the snooty people who frequented this place.
He badged the guy at the reception desk, but it didn’t get him anywhere until he tapped into his inner Karen and demanded to speak to management. As soon as the manager spotted who was causing the ruckus, her entire demeanor shifted from pleasant, placating customer service to sycophant yes-woman, and he supposed there were some perks to being a legacy member. He was considered royalty here.
The manager pointed him toward the bar and restaurant overlooking the golf course, and he stalked through the tables, his mood souring with each step as he approached one by the windows. The former sheriff sat there with his son, Jerry Tennison Jr., or JT as he was often called, and Monarch Development CEO, Mark Salas.
The three of them were deep in conversation and didn’t notice his approach until he tossed the file down in front of Jerry.
JT flinched at the slap of the file on the table. Sheriff Jerry looked a little green as he stared down at it like it was a snake coiled to attack.
But not Mark Salas. He simply leaned back in his seat and offered his trademark smug smile. “Sheriff Rawlings. We don’t see you around her often enough.” He waved a hand at the empty seat at their table. “Care to join us?”
“You,” Ash said and shoved a finger in the guy’s face. “Are the entitled fuckhead with more money than brains who has been terrorizing my sister for over a year. I wouldn’t dine with you even if we were the last two men on earth and you were on the fucking menu. I’d starve first.”
Mark’s eyebrows winged up. “It’s just business, Sheriff. Nothing personal.”
“It feels fucking personal.” He turned his back on the asshole and stared at the former sheriff. “We need to talk.”
Jerry cleared his throat. “Uh, well, can it wait? I’m in the middle of lunch and—”
“No, it can’t wait. It’s waited fifteen years.” He opened the file and jabbed the picture of Darcy that the news kept flashing every few hours. “She’s waited long enough.”
JT stood up abruptly, his napkin sliding off his lap and fluttering to the tiled floor. “I, uh, need the restroom. I’ll be back.”
Ash ignored the little weasel. JT had never had a backbone, and, for a lawyer, he was shit at confrontation. Maybe that was why he’d gone into corporate law.
He pushed Jerry’s plate aside and replaced it with the file. “What the hell is this, Jerry? You tested the blood at the crime scene for blood type but not DNA. You didn’t test the shoe. You didn’t test the blood stain at Donovan’s house. What about the bat? Why didn’t you take it into evidence? You never even got Donovan’s DNA or fingerprints.” Both were on file now thanks to Donovan’s service in the Marines, and he’d already sent them to the lab to be tested against the scant evidence collected in 2007, but that didn’t negate the fact that Jerry hadn’t done his job correctly.
The former sheriff’s eyes skittered away. “Times were different back then. Policing was different. It didn’t seem like a pertinent move at the time since we never had enough to arrest him.”
“You could’ve at least asked during one of the interrogations if he’d provide them.”
Jerry scoffed. “That kid was trouble with a capital T and had one massive chip on his shoulder. He wasn’t going to provide anything willingly.”
“He would’ve if it cleared his name.”
Jerry said nothing.
“Then, today, the lab goes to check all of that evidence out of storage to see what we can still test, and it’s just… gone.”
“Stuff gets lost all the time, son. It’s unfortunate, but it happens. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
Ash slapped a hand on the table, caging him in his seat. “C’mon, Jerry. You taught me everything I know. You’re not a sloppy investigator, but this case file is so thin it barely needs a paperclip. So what happened?”
“Nothing happened. I investigated by the book, but without a body, we just never had a case.”
“We have a body now.” He’d have to be blind to miss the panicked flick of Jerry’s gaze toward Mark. He shifted, positioning himself between them. “Why are you looking at him?”
