Hers To Protect. Catherine Lanigan
couldn’t forget the look in his eyes when she’d put him in the cell.
Josh was her first lockup. Her first arrest.
As she’d ushered him into the cell, she’d felt her heart squeeze in her chest. Two steps inside the cell, his broad shoulders had slumped and his face had gone ashen.
Shockingly, he’d thanked her.
Why?
What kind of man thanked an officer for showing him his limitations? His vulnerability?
The unique kind.
When he’d looked at her, his blue eyes weren’t malicious. They actually held gratitude.
Every assessment she’d made about Josh Stevens from the second of his arrest was shattered in that moment.
Suddenly, she wanted to comfort him, but she didn’t know why. He was her prisoner. He was in the wrong.
Yet she’d nearly reached for the bars to touch his hand, to reassure him.
A jangling phone on Sal’s desk broke through her thoughts. “Paluzzi here,” he answered, then checked his watch. His eyes meandered over to her, checking to see if she was working.
Violet quickly scanned her computer for the photographs she’d taken of the farmhouse. With her thumb and forefinger, she enlarged a particular photo of the white clapboard house. It looked like it had been recently painted. Sure enough, she picked out three paint cans near a fenced-off area with garbage cans.
She moved her fingers over the photo and the image of the side of the house. She could see a For Sale sign against the side of the house. She sat up straight. “But the sign isn’t in the front yard. It’s been put away. Which can mean that they took it off the market, or it’s recently sold. But to whom?”
Miguel Garcia? she thought. And was this where he intended to headquarter his gang?
Enlarging the picture even more, she was able to read the Realtor’s phone number. She jotted down the number on a notepad, then picked up her phone and dialed.
A pleasant-sounding woman answered. “Indian Lake Realty Company. This is Heather. How may I direct your call?”
“This is Officer Violet Hawks, of the Indian Lake Police Department. I understand your company recently sold a farmhouse out near 1000 North?”
“Let me check.”
“I need to speak to the listing agent, please.”
“Sure,” Heather said. “That would be Roy King. He’s out for the day. Funeral. May I take your number and have him call you back?”
Violet left the station number and her extension. “I appreciate your help, Heather.” Violet hung up.
Now that her call was over, she heard the phones in the booking area ringing. She glanced over to the dispatcher’s area. She was putting calls through to various extensions without taking a breath. Another phone rang and Trey grabbed a call. Then Sal took a call.
“Busy day,” she mumbled as she looked at the farmhouse photo. She rubbed her forehead. Trent Davis’s wife, Cate, was a Realtor. There was a good chance Cate would know about the recent sale.
Violet watched as Trey rushed past her desk toward the front door. “What’s the rush?”
“A delivery.”
“Oh,” she replied. Trey was known for his pizza addiction. The slender guy could eat pizza three times a day and never gain an ounce.
She logged in to the database, looking for more information on Miguel Garcia and the blue car. If she could track down the Maserati dealer where Garcia bought the car, there might be an address, and it might even be legitimate.
She scrolled through more information as Trey bounded back through the room toward the jail cell area. But he wasn’t carrying a pizza carton. Instead, it was a brown bag with the Indian Lake Deli logo on it as well as a pink-and-white-striped sack from Cupcakes and Coffee Café. She could only guess the food was for Josh.
She started to stand, and as she did, she came face-to-face with her brother-in-law.
“Violet.” Scott greeted her with a wide anticipatory grin. “Trent tells me you have Josh Stevens in lockup. Is that right?”
“Word travels fast.”
“Can I see him?” Scott asked, looking toward the metal door.
“Scott, you’re drooling,” she said sarcastically.
“I should be! An interview with a real celebrity never happens in Indian Lake.”
Violet dropped her chin to her chest. “Not you, too.”
“What?”
“In all these years you’ve hung around my family, you never told us you were a race car enthusiast.”
“I keep it on the down low. Besides, Vi, c’mon. How can you live in Indiana and not go just a little nuts over Memorial Day weekend when you hear the announcers call the race? It’s in our blood.” He leaned closer. “And it’s certainly in my readers’ blood.”
“I don’t have the authority to grant you that interview. You have to talk to Trent.”
“Piece of cake.” Scott smiled widely.
“Hey, a word to the wise. Friendship may not get you this one. Detective Davis isn’t all that happy that Stevens is in a cell. Anyway, he’ll be out before sundown. His manager is arranging bail as we speak.”
Scott’s expression sobered. “You don’t like him, do you?”
“The manager?”
“No, Josh.”
Violet pursed her lips. “I don’t like his entitled attitude. He thinks he can come here and do as he pleases. Race his car through our roads at over two hundred miles an hour.”
Scott whistled lowly. “Seriously?”
She nodded. “I clocked it. I wish I hadn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because these celebrity types don’t care if their publicity is negative, as long as they stay in the limelight. It’s the juice they need. Take this guy. He’s got a need for speed. For what? What’s he trying to prove? Or gain? More fame? He’s got that. Obviously, he’s got money to burn. Detective Davis says that Bugatti of his is so expensive that until recently, a price wasn’t even posted. Dealers negotiate the price quietly. His success isn’t a result of hard work and sacrifice. It’s all luck. He hasn’t earned it. And he sure hasn’t earned my respect.”
“I see that,” Scott mused, keeping his eyes on her.
Violet wanted to squirm under Scott’s introspective gaze. “What?”
“Nothin’. Just that I never heard you talk like this about anyone before.”
“Yeah? Then you never watched a Cubs game with me in the room, have you?”
“Bad?”
“Brutal.” She paused. “Scott, take my advice. If you want a story about Josh Stevens, wait till he’s in court and I’m testifying against him.”
Scott peered at her, his right eyebrow hitched and his jaw slowly opening. “You’re going to testify against this country’s most famous race car driver? The current winning driver of the Indianapolis race? The guy who’s in a half-dozen ads on TV? The guy who just signed with Breitling to model their watches?”
“I am.”
“You do realize he’ll pull in some high-powered and totally brilliant lawyer from Chicago...”
“He’s in Indianapolis...” she interjected.
“And