Just Keep Sweet (The Compound Series) (2 page)

“I want passion,” she’d said. “Someone who wants me so badly he can barely see straight. And that’s not you, Jonathan. I’m not sure it ever was.”

“What are you talking about?” I was confused, shocked. “What we have is great. You’re my best friend, E.”

“And you’re mine. But this isn’t working—it’s a friendship, not a marriage.”

And that was that. She moved out two weeks later, and we’d been best friends ever since.

“I’m not lonely, E. Drop it, all right? Work’s just been busy. I’ve got this new case and it’s . . . it’s pretty extreme.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

“Naw, I should really go to sleep.”

“Fine, I get it.” She laughed. “I’ll talk to you later this week, ‘kay?”

“Yep.”

Thoughts of the case rambled through my brain as I attempted to sleep. Aspen Black was a bold and determined wife of the FLDS and as much as I hated that sham of a cult, I couldn’t pass her case on to someone else. I wanted to help her and her children. Lord knew if I didn’t, it would remain on my conscience for the rest of my life.

She wasn’t like the other FLDS women I’d come in contact with in Colorado City. “Shy” didn’t begin to cover it. Most of them wouldn’t even make eye contact with normal guys. They’d shush their children and scurry away if you offered them so much as a “Good morning.”
Poor, brainwashed women with long braids and starchy cotton dresses that covered every square inch of skin possible.

Aspen had the braid and she had the dress, but nothing else about her was the same as those other women. She was confident, resolute, and daring. And despite her devout nature, she wasn’t afraid to go up against someone as powerful as her prophet if it meant saving her children from his clutches. I admired that. Hell, I admired her. Never thought I’d say that about a member of the freaking FLDS.

With my hand behind my head, I stared up at my ceiling fan, wondering where she was. And as if some grand force of nature connected us (which is something I definitely don’t believe in whatsoever), my cell phone rang. I jumped to attention, placing my glasses on and sitting up in bed.

“Yeah,” I answered.

Her voice was strained. “I have it . . . I have proof.”

“What did you find?”

“It’s disturbing. I took pictures. I’ll show you when I get there. Can I come to your house?”

Aspen? In my apartment? It must be really horrific for her to leave the compound.

I closed my eyes tight, running my fingers through my hair. “Now? It’s one o’clock in the morning, Aspen.”

“It can’t wait! You have to see—” Her voice cracked before she was silent. The tension that hung in the air killed me. I had to help her.

“Of course. I’ll pick you up. Go to the corner of Ridge and Canyon Street, and I’ll be there waiting, all right? I don’t live nearby, and I don’t want you walking alone at this time of night.”

“Fine. I’ll be there in five minutes.”

“Okay, be safe.”

“I will.”

“Little House?” I said before hanging up, using my nickname for her. Initially it was said in snark, a flippant pop culture reference that I knew she’d never quite comprehend. Now it was a term of endearment.

“Yes?”

“I’m proud of you.”

Once back at my apartment, Aspen told me about what she’d found in the old temple: a creepy-assed bed in a room attached to a classroom. Bile rose in my throat as my imagination ran wild. She found condoms, K-Y, plastic sheets, and duct tape.

You twisted fuck.

Even with her sheltered existence, Aspen knew as well as I did that only something evil and abusive was happening inside that room. But to whom? As we continued to discuss her discoveries at the temple, she retrieved a ledger from her bag, and panic consumed me. No court of law in the state of Arizona would approve a stolen ledger as evidence—especially not one that was handwritten. Knowing the diabolical nature of Clarence Black, I was certain he’d use the money from these horrific transactions to pay for the best defense attorney money could buy . . . and that ledger, which held the key to this case, would be thrown out.

I raised my voice and regretted it immediately. Clearly Aspen didn’t realize she was supposed to simply take pictures—she was trying to help, to put this fucker behind bars. But now . . . well, now we had to figure out how to get it back inside the temple.

My phone rang, and I wondered who in the hell could possibly be calling me. When I looked at the screen of my phone and saw “LITTLE HOUSE” staring back at me, adrenaline plunged through my stomach.

“Aspen, where’s your phone?” I demanded.

“What?” She tilted her head to the side, confused.

“The call. It’s coming from your phone. Did you accidentally dial me?”

She dug through her bag, pulling it this way and that, but looked at me in horror after several seconds of frantic searching.

“It’s gone!”

She jumped to her feet and ran to stand beside me. Together, we stared down at the screen until Aspen shrieked.

“Oh no, I-I left it on his . . . oh no, Jonathan! It’s him, it’s the prophet!”

With a sneer, I answered the call. “Who is this?”

I heard nothing at first, but then breathing. In and out, I heard the caller breathe into the phone, and it made my fucking skin crawl. My eyes widened as I waited for the prophet to speak, but he didn’t. He just kept breathing. Aspen looked desperate to understand what was happening, so I placed the phone to her ear. Horror crossed her face as she listened for several seconds, then she handed the phone back to me.

“It was the prophet; it had to be.”

I nodded. “Without a doubt.”

“Did he say anything to you when you first picked up?”

I shook my head. “No. He just breathed into it. Creepiest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Aspen swallowed hard. “He knows.”

“And he has your phone.”

“And the pictures. He knows what I found upstairs.”

I nodded again. “The proof we needed, it’s gone.”

Aspen paced the room. “But why didn’t he say anything? I don’t understand.”

“To cover his ass.”

“I still don’t get it. He called the number, he made contact—why not speak?”

I crossed my arms. “He didn’t have to. He sent a message without saying a fucking word. And we received it loud and clear, didn’t we?”

“Yes, we did.”

Chapter 2

“Cooke.” The sharp sound of Sergeant Ross’s deep voice snapped me from my Aspen-induced haze. With a start, I pulled my elbows from my desk and sat at attention, opening my eyes wide and breathing in deeply.

“Yeah.”

With one hand against the doorframe and the other on his hip, he glared at me with obvious annoyance. “My office, two minutes.”

I swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.”

It took every bit of self-restraint I had to drop Aspen at her house the night before. I’ll never forget the look on her expressive face when she realized what was happening, when the prophet called my phone from hers.

Sheer terror.

Every ounce of color drained from her skin, her already stormy eyes bulged, and her entire body stiffened. She was scared out of her mind, and it killed me to see her like that. In fact, I wanted to drive to the compound that very minute and kill the diabolical son of a bitch.

Criminals were my business. Day in and day out I tracked them down, acquired evidence, and built cases against them. It’s what I do—and I’m damn good at it. I’d seen it all—murderers, rapists, child molesters—sick fucks who didn’t deserve the air they breathed. But no one . . .
not one
had creeped me out the way Clarence Black did. Power corrupts—history has proved this time and again. Hateful, murderous dictators destroy lives without a drop of remorse. It’s how they get off. And with all that I know about the sick bastards of the world, the self-proclaimed “prophet” got off on the misery of those he controlled.

He craved it.

He relished the control he had over thousands of lives . . . innocent, trusting people who would do just about anything to be in his good graces.

He made my blood boil.

Aspen was bound and determined to take him down, and I’d do just about anything to help her while still following the law. But if I was honest with myself, I wasn’t sure it was possible, even with the evidence she gathered at the temple. The most likely,
inadmissible
evidence, depending on whatever judge was assigned to the case . . . that is, if we
could
build a case against the fucker. Since he had her phone and all the photographs stored on it, this ledger was our saving grace—our shred of a chance to bring him down for his crimes.

But what exactly were his crimes?

Aspen and I didn’t know for sure. We knew he was being paid by gentiles, and we were pretty certain those same gentiles were engaging in (or simply watching) nonconsensual sex with someone inside the temple walls. But who? Other gentiles? The prophet’s young wives? Children of the compound who the prophet had groomed to not tell a soul? That last thought caused a chill to run down my spine, but the truth was, we had to be prepared for anything. And knowing the twisted mind we were dealing with, the answer wouldn’t be pretty. In fact, chances were it would be beyond fucked up.

I barely slept the last two nights and spent my (normally coveted) Sunday pacing my apartment and downing cup after cup of coffee. I was worried about Aspen and her children and when I heard nothing from her, I feared the worst.

The absolute worst. And it freaked the hell out of me.

Since arriving at work on this unwelcome Monday morning, I’d stared at the wall, hoping she’d call, hoping she was safe and that her kids were okay. I couldn’t focus on anything else but her well-being, and clearly my boss took notice.

When I arrived at his office, I waited for his acknowledgment, but his back was to me as he stared out the window, yelling on his cell phone.

“And how is that an emergency on my part? You call and expect me to drop everything. It doesn’t work like that.”

He paused, turning to face me and waving me in.

“Whatever, fine. Listen, I’ll speak to you later. Some of us have to work. Yeah, I bet you will. Goodbye.”

With a grimace, I offered an awkward smile, knowing this wouldn’t be a pleasant conversation. The least I could do was break the ice. “The ex?”

Sergeant Ross paused, his brow wrinkled and tense, then he nodded. “How’d you know?”

“I have one of my own.”

“Yeah, but you get along. Mine wants to take me to the cleaners so she can collect her fucking alimony checks. God forbid she go a week without getting her nails done.”

Ross took a seat at his desk and ran his fingers through his blond crew cut, hardening his expression. In no way were Edward Ross and I
friends
. He was my boss and that was all. In fact, this tiny amount of small talk was probably the most we’d spoken about our personal lives in years. Literally years. He wasn’t exactly known for being a personable guy around the station. Most people were terrified of him with his 6’5” hulking stature and barking voice, so they avoided him whenever possible. But I could handle him.

“Listen, Cooke, what the hell’s going on with you?”

“Sir?”

“You’re hardly out in the field, your reports are lazy, you were late this morning, and every time I walk past your office you’re staring at the fucking wall.”

“Sorry, this case I’m working on is . . . well, it’s consuming. I haven’t had time to focus on much else.”

“Rape? Murder?” he deadpanned. As odd as it would seem to civilians, crime was our business and there was no sense in mincing words.

“Not sure yet. It’s, uh . . .” I hesitated, knowing if I told him about Aspen and the prophet that a lecture from Ross was close behind. “It involves Short Creek.”

Sure enough, he closed his eyes and shook his head back and forth at the mention of the FLDS compound. He pressed his lips into a thin line and cocked his head to the side like I was a fucking two-year-old.

“Seriously, Cooke? Do we have to go over this?”

“I know, but this case . . . it’s important, sir.”