Held by You (2 page)

“Shotgun to the face.” Suarez crouched beside John and gestured to the tattoo on the man’s neck. “Jesus Perez’s gang. Who do you think the victim is this time?”

“Hard to tell.” John frowned as he saw a bulge in the victim’s back pocket. “Maybe this will clue us in.”

John pulled on a latex glove and tugged the worn leather wallet out of the pocket. He flipped it open. “Looks like someone took care of our latest problem.” He held out the driver’s license.

“Rudy Garcia.” Suarez whistled through his teeth. “Merry Christmas.”

“If this is Rudy, Jesus’ gang is short another top man.” John nodded. “This smells of Freddy Victors. He was likely getting revenge for the death of his own man, Hurley Cartwright.”

Suarez nodded. “We haven’t been able to prove that Jesus killed Hurley, or that Freddy killed Jesus’ brother, Juan, but we will.” John swept his gaze over the body in front of him. “Sooner rather than later.”

“This is getting nasty,” Suarez said.

John frowned. “Ever since Johnny Rocha was taken down and killed, the two gangs trying to take over his territory are getting bolder and bolder. If you can call Freddy and his redneck lackeys a gang.”

With a mirthless smile, Suarez said, “Maybe they’ll solve the problem by taking each other out until none of the bastards are left.”

John got to his feet, looked over his shoulder, and saw his stepbrother, Reese McBride, who was a detective with the Prescott Police Department. “Reese and Carter are here.” John watched his stepbrother who walked beside his new partner, Detective Will Carter.

Reese had light brown hair, square features, and was as tall as John. His stepbrother was missing two fingers from his left hand from an explosion a few months back. He’d recently married his former partner, Detective Kelley Petrova.

Carter, whose skin was a dark shade of rich mahogany, was two inches taller than Reese’s six-two. He was built like a runner and from what John had heard, the man was as fast as he looked, maybe even faster than Reese, who had always been an exceptional sprinter.

When Reese and Carter stopped beside John and Suarez, John gave the newcomers a nod each. He held up the wallet. “Rudy Garcia, who appears to have taken it in the face with a shotgun.”

Carter narrowed his gaze. “Just like Juan Perez.”

“If we don’t get this under control,” Reese said with a frown, “we’re going to end up with a real problem.”

Carter nodded. “You’ve got that right.”

In moments, John and the other officers were combing the area for clues. Reese and Carter spoke with bystanders, trying to find a witness to the murder. When the medical examiner examined the body, he confirmed that the man had been murdered shortly before the police reached the scene.

As they worked the scene, John’s thoughts turned to Hollie, the sweet stepsister of the men who were at the top of the department’s list of suspects for the deaths of Rudy Garcia and Jesus Perez’s brother, Juan. John wondered if Hollie could be in danger just by being around her stepbrothers. Jesus could possibly target Hollie to get back at the Whitfield brothers. Not that the brothers probably cared.

The thought made anger rise in John’s chest, burning with a ferocity that surprised him, yet didn’t. He felt an unusually strong need to protect Hollie. It was more than simply the desire to watch over the innocent…it was the need to protect someone he cared about. It didn’t make a hell of a lot of sense because he barely knew Hollie, and today was the first time he’d ever spoken with her. But there it was.

A spot of red, almost hidden in a clump of dry yellow grass, caught John’s eye and he walked toward it. With some satisfaction, he saw that it was a shotgun shell. He pulled out a clear plastic evidence bag and used his gloved hand to pick up the shell and drop it into the bag.

“Reese.” John held up the evidence. “If we’re lucky, we’ll get prints off the shell.”

“Good.” Reese gave a nod. “Looks like that’s our only evidence so far. Doesn’t seem that we have any witnesses. At least none who will admit they saw anything.”

“This shell also gives us a reason to pick up Freddy Victors for questioning.” John handed the evidence bag to Reese. “He carries a shotgun in the gun racks in his truck.”

“Since Cruz is out, you need backup,” Reese said. “Carter and I will head to Freddy’s with you.”

John strode toward his cruiser and climbed in while Reese and his partner went to their unmarked vehicle. As he drove, John mulled the crime over in his mind. Every now and then his thoughts would touch on Hollie, distracting him and causing him to frown. He shook his head as he turned into the trailer park where Freddy lived. It wasn’t like him to get distracted by anything, especially by a woman.

But Hollie wasn’t just any woman.

He blew out his breath as he reached the trailer and a beat-up old Ford club cab truck parked out front that belonged to Carl Whitfield, one of Hollie’s stepbrothers. Freddy Victors’ newer truck was next to it.

Freddy was sitting on the porch with Carl. Both Freddy and Carl were sitting on shabby lawn chairs beneath the mobile home’s tattered and faded green awning. They wore jackets, ball caps, and work boots. Carl had his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket, presumably to keep them warm. John didn’t plan to take any chances that Carl wasn’t keeping a weapon in his jacket pocket.

John parked and shut off the engine before climbing out of the vehicle, his gaze remaining focused on the two rednecks. Reese and Carter pulled up in their car, parked, and got out of their vehicles, too. John had already started toward the men, the detectives following him.

Freddy had always been a cocky sonofabitch with a permanent sneer on his average face. He had straight light-brown hair that was barely visible with the John Deere cap on his head. His eyes were muddy brown, his skin littered with pockmarks from having had chicken pox as an adult.

Carl, on the other hand, was considered the pretty boy of the brothers, which wasn’t saying much. Blond-haired and blue-eyed, Carl had a darkness in his gaze that reflected something sick inside of him.

Disgust for the Whitfield brothers and Freddy Victors was something John had to work hard at holding back. From the time they were kids, Freddy and the Whitfields had been bullies and nothing but trouble. As pre-teens they’d been accused of stealing bikes, toys, and other items. They’d also been suspected of mutilating and killing small animals but had never been caught in the act.

When they were teenagers, Freddy and the Whitfields had been arrested for underage drinking and for possession of illegal substances. They’d broken into homes, stealing whatever they could. Eventually they’d been arrested, tried, and convicted as juveniles for the thefts, and sent to the juvenile detention center more than once. Of course those records were sealed, but John was the same age as the oldest Whitfield brother, Floyd, and knew firsthand how rotten the brothers were.

As adults the Whitfield brothers had been arrested for disturbing the peace, carrying a gun without a permit, and had done some time for narcotics possession.

Unlike the Whitfields, somehow Freddy had avoided getting caught and prosecuted for the same acts, which was how he managed to get a gun permit. John knew with everything he had that Freddy had been just as guilty as the Whitfields in their past misdeeds, but Freddy had never been convicted.

John ground his teeth as he approached the two men sitting outside the trailer. He couldn’t stand men like the Whitfields and Freddy. One of these days, if they were indeed guilty of murder, the men would land in the penitentiary. John would see to it.

He reached the men as Freddy gave a broad grin. “Hi, Officer. What brings you around here?”

John would have liked to punch the grin right off of Freddy’s face, but schooled his expression. “Where have you been this morning?”

“Right here with good ol’ Carl.” The grin didn’t leave Freddy’s face. “We haven’t left the place. So what’s the problem, Officer?”

“Your neighbors can corroborate that you’ve been sitting in front of your trailer all morning?” John asked.

Freddy shrugged. “We were inside a while.”

John walked to the closest truck, Victor’s newer white Ford, which had a rifle and a shotgun in the gun racks in the window of the cab. John set his palm on the hood that was warm to the touch despite the December chill in the air. He focused his gaze on Carl, who appeared to be having a harder time than Freddy looking at ease.

“Someone’s been driving this truck.” John removed his hand from the surface. “Want to try telling me your story again?”

A flash of something crossed Freddy’s face but his smile broadened. “Carl here ran to that mart on the corner.”

“You said both of you haven’t left the place,” John said. “You’re changing your story?”

Freddy kept grinning. “It was only a quick run.”

John turned his gaze on Carl. “What did you buy?”

Uncertainty glinted in Carl’s gaze. “Uh—”

“A six-pack.” Freddy inclined his head toward the trailer. “It’s in the fridge.”

“I didn’t ask you.” John gave Freddy a hard look before he turned his gaze back on Carl. “What did you buy, Carl?”

“Like Freddy said.” Carl shifted in his seat. “Beer.”

“We’ll have the surveillance videos checked.” John watched both Carl and Freddy and neither seemed concerned. Likely they knew that the little mart didn’t have surveillance cameras. They’d been shot out not long ago and the owners of the mart hadn’t had the money to have them replaced.

John had already seen Freddy’s gun permit when he’d been questioned about Juan Perez’s murder, so he didn’t ask to see it again.

“We’re going to need you to come down to the station.” Reese nodded toward John’s cruiser. “We have more questions for you.”

Freddy’s smirk stayed. “You haven’t said what this is about, stubby,” he said, clearly referring to Reese’s hand.

“That’s Detective McBride to you,” Carter said, his deep voice holding a hint of danger.

John managed not to growl and instead hardened his gaze.

Reese didn’t appear to have noticed or cared about the slight in regards to his missing fingers. “We’ll tell you all about it at the station.”

Freddy and Carl didn’t move. “You’ve got no reason to take us in.”

“You’re coming with us, in handcuffs or not, it doesn’t matter,” John said. “You decide.”

“Whatever you want.” Freddy pushed himself up from his porch seat, Carl following his lead. John gave a nod toward his cruiser and the pair headed toward it.

As a precaution, Freddy and Carl were both patted down. Both had pocketknives, which John confiscated for the time being, but no other weapons. The entire time, Freddy made wiseass remarks.

John ground his teeth and said nothing as he opened the back door to the cruiser and the men scooted inside. John shut the door firmly behind them before climbing into the front seat. He backed up the vehicle and during the short distance to the station he ignored Freddy’s questions as to why they were being taken in.

Once they were inside the station, Freddy and Carl were placed in separate interview rooms. John watched through the one-way glass as Reese and Carter interviewed Freddy. The man maintained that he’d been at his trailer and didn’t know anything about the murder of Rudy Garcia. The whole time Freddy acted like it was a big joke. It was probably a good thing that it was Reese and Carter doing the interviewing because John wanted to knock the shit eating grin right off Freddy’s face.

The interview with Carl Whitfield went similarly to Freddy’s. Carl was clearly nervous about something, but kept to the same story as Freddy had. John was surprised at Carl’s nervousness this time around. Usually he was unshakeable, but this time something was different. Something had changed in the dynamic between Freddy and Carl.

At the end of each interview, Reese told the men, individually, that they would remain at the station for further questioning. Freddy had scowled, the first crack in the mask of amusement he’d been wearing ever since John had driven up to the man’s trailer.

John watched as the men were taken away to separate holding cells. Reese and Carter walked into the observation room.

“What do you think?” Reese asked John.

John shook his head. “They’re full of shit and Freddy is a good actor but he was definitely hiding something. Carl looked close to cracking.”

Reese nodded. “Maybe a little more time in the holding cell will convince him to talk.”

“He’s been in that position too many times over the years,” John said. “Frankly, I’m not sure it’s going to matter. We need to get something on them and get it now.”

Reese nodded as he folded his arms across his chest. “Damn it. Whatever it takes. We
will not
let these sonofabitches get away with murder.”

Hollie finished doling out the holiday cookies in star, bell, tree, stocking, and wreath shapes. The cookies were frosted with red and green icing along with red, green, and white sprinkles. She had two Jewish students to whom she gave blue and white cookies decorated with menorahs.

“Thank you, Miss Simmons,” the students chimed as they were each given a cookie.

She smiled, as the kindergarteners bit into the most delicious sugar cookies Hollie had ever tasted. Ricki’s bakery was one of the best things that had happened to Prescott as far as Hollie was concerned. She sighed and resisted patting her belly. It was true that she enjoyed sweets a little too much.

Thoughts of her stepbrothers’ remarks about her generous figure made her stomach clench. Every time she was around Floyd, Dickey, and Carl, they made comments about her appearance and were cruel in their remarks. They were the only family she had, but truth be told, she wouldn’t have minded never seeing them again.

Unfortunately, they lived with her on the ranch she’d inherited from her father. She’d been named her father’s sole heir. In the will, her three stepbrothers had received sums of fifty thousand dollars each, which they promptly squandered away somehow. She didn’t really want to know what they did with their money.

They made constant jibes about her being the favorite and that she should split the ranch with them. Hollie had steadfastly refused—it had been the one thing she’d been able to remain strong about. The ranch had been in the Simmons family for generations and she wasn’t going to let her stepbrothers ruin it and sell it off. It was the only time she’d been able to say no to her stepbrothers.