Sanctuary in Chef Voleur. Mallory Kane
not just the case,” he said. “It’s a lot of things. It’s been fun, but...”
“But?” she echoed.
“You know. We talked about this. We were never in it for the long haul. We both agreed.”
There was a slight pause. “That’s true.”
He didn’t speak. He really didn’t like this. He wasn’t quite sure why he’d chosen tonight as the night to break up with her.
“Okay, then,” she said. “I enjoyed—everything.”
“Me, too,” he replied. He took a breath to say something else, but she hung up. He winced. That abrupt hang up was the only indication that she might have been upset.
Maybe he should have handled that in person, but unfortunately, Sadie could be quite persuasive in person. Or at least she had been once, he amended, as his brain compared Sadie and Hannah. Hannah, with her unmade-up face and flyaway hair and no lipstick, won by a mile.
Mack shook his head and resisted the urge to pound on his temples with his fists. He didn’t want Hannah Martin in there. She was nothing but trouble. Mack had always loved women, but he’d learned very young that relationships were not for him. Whenever he met someone he was attracted to, he made his position clear from the first moment. If the woman protested at all, then she was not the woman for him. Most women he asked out were happy with the arrangement, because Mack was very careful to pick like-minded women. Usually he picked well. After a while, by mutual agreement, he and the woman parted ways and eventually he met another like-minded woman.
He sat down to send an email to Dusty Graves, Dawson’s computer wizard, to ask how much longer until she had information back on the license plate of the car Hannah had been driving. As he did, his phone rang. Surely it wasn’t Sadie again. Give it up, doll.
But when he looked, the display name was Dust007. “Hey, Dusty, what you got for me?”
“Finally got the info on that plate you wanted me to run,” Dusty said, “but you’re not going to like it.”
“Why not?”
“It’s registered to a Nelson Vance, of Paris, Texas. He reported it stolen about a week ago. The license and registration also report the vehicle as sky blue, not dark blue.”
Mack’s stomach sank. Stolen and repainted? Ten to one, whoever stole it was either reselling cars or running drugs. Either way, this wasn’t good. “A witness? Any sightings by highway patrol? Anything?”
“The Tyler, Texas, police have a BOLO out on the car. The DEA has been watching a small-time narcotics distribution ring operating around the area. The perps apparently steal a vehicle from a neighboring town or county, use it for one drug delivery, then clean it out and abandon it. This vehicle is suspected to have been stolen by the ring.”
Dusty was right. Mack didn’t like what he was hearing at all. What was Hannah Martin doing driving a car suspected of being stolen by a narcotics distribution ring?
Chapter Four
“What kind of narcotics do they deal in?” he asked Dusty.
“Mostly Oxy,” Dusty said.
Stunned, Mack muttered a curse. Oxycontin.
“Yeah,” Dusty continued. “Word is, they’re bringing it into Galveston from Mexico. Get this. The DEA knows all about a big-time trafficker named Ficone in Galveston, but they’ve been spending their time watching a suspected small-time operator, until he was murdered yesterday.”
“Murdered?” Dread settled heavy as an anvil in Mack’s chest. “Yesterday? Who was he?”
“Campbell. Billy Joe Campbell. He was shot once in the chest at close range. A neighbor complained about gunshots.” Dusty took a breath. “You know something about this?”
Hannah’s jumbled words echoed in Mack’s ears. I had to run. He was going to shoot me.
“Where did this happen?” he croaked, positive he knew the answer.
“Hang on.”
Mack heard computer keys tapping.
“A little town called Dowdie.” Dusty paused for a second. “Mack, tell me you don’t have a client who’s driving that chopped car. That would not be good.”
“Nope. No client. Just checking for a friend.” Not a complete lie.
“O-kay,” Dusty said, her tone making it obvious that she didn’t believe him. “You want me to send you the details from the police report?”
“Yeah. Everything you’ve got on Billy Joe Campbell. I appreciate it.”
“No problem, Mack. You be careful. I’ll TTYL. ’Bye.”
Mack hung up, remembering the changing expressions on Hannah’s face and the terror in her eyes when her telephone rang. He knew that terror, knew it intimately. Had Hannah done what Mack hadn’t been able to do when he was twelve? Had she killed the man who had hurt her mother?
He waited impatiently, repeatedly checking for new mail until Dusty’s message about the murder came in. He scanned the police report, his heart sinking with every sentence. A neighbor had called the sheriff’s office around 7:00 p.m. complaining about gunshots at 1400 Redbud Lane, Dowdie, Texas.
A sheriff’s deputy arrived at around seven-thirty to find the house and driveway empty. A quick investigation by the deputy turned up a body of a white male, mid to late thirties, in the garage. Cause of death, a single gunshot wound to the chest. The victim was identified as Billy Joe Campbell of Fort Worth, Texas. The police report indicated that neither the owner of the house, a Ms. Stephanie Clemens, nor her daughter, Ms. Hannah Martin, could be found. Both were being sought for questioning in the matter.
Campbell had been killed around twelve hours before Hannah had turned up at Mack’s door, looking for Kathleen Griffin. She’d also mentioned seeing Billy Joe collapse and die and being shot at. What were the odds that Hannah had witnessed her mother’s boyfriend being murdered?
* * *
A LOUD CRASH and a harsh male voice startled Hannah out of a restless sleep. Her pulse drummed in her ears and she couldn’t catch a full breath. “Mom?” she called, before she came fully awake.
The crashing began again. With a start, she remembered. It couldn’t be her mom. Her mom had been kidnapped by Billy Joe and Billy Joe was dead.
Hannah rubbed her eyes as she forced her brain to sort out the noises that were battering her ears. It had to be the man with the red tattoo. He’d found her.
“Police! Open up!”
Police? Surprised and terrified, Hannah jumped out of bed and ran to the door. “What is it? Did you find my—” She stopped herself just as she was about to throw the dead bolt. What if it wasn’t the police?
She glanced at the clock on the bedside table. It was almost one o’clock in the morning. She’d slept for a couple of hours. “I need proof you’re the police.” She made her voice as stern as she could, but it still quavered.
“Hannah Martin, I’m Detective Anthony Teilhard of the Metairie Police Department. I’ve got the motel’s night manager here. He’s going to unlock the door and we’re coming in. I’d suggest you move back.”
She scrambled backward as a key turned in the doorknob and then in the dead bolt. The door swung open and slammed against the wall as three officers burst into the room, guns at the ready. Hannah shrieked as two of them, one male and one female, turned their weapons on her. The third officer quickly checked the bathroom and the tiny closet.
“Clear,” he said.
The officer who’d entered first took three steps forward and looked down the barrel of his gun at