CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Matt used a lacrosse stick to fling a tennis ball as far across his backyard as he could. Greta streaked after it. She made a sweeping turn. Barely slowing, she snatched the ball off the grass and raced back. Dropping it at Matt’s feet, she backed away and barked at him.
At eight o’clock, the evening was going dark. He’d spent an hour calling his contacts in the SFPD asking about Brian Dylan. But none of the SFPD officers admitted to knowing him well.
Cady walked across the grass and stopped next to him. “She is so demanding.”
“She never gets tired,” Matt said with pride as he hurled the ball again.
“You and Brody are going to miss her when she’s gone.”
Lying at Matt’s feet, Brody all but rolled his eyes.
Matt laughed. “I might, but I think Brody will be happy to return to his regularly scheduled naps.”
Cady shoved her hands into her pockets. “So I gave the caterer the final guest total.”
“I can’t believe we sold every ticket to a black-tie night of board games.” Matt sent the tennis ball sailing again, but he sensed reservation in his sister’s tone.
“We need to talk about that.” Cady dug a sneakered toe into the damp grass. “Two local sponsors canceled today.”
“What?” Matt turned to face her.
Cady’s mouth pursed. “The youth group at the church was going to hold a bake sale. We rented a table for them. But their leader pulled out, citing that garbage story about nude pics of Bree and pornography. He said he can’t have the kids mixed up with ‘that sort of immorality.’”
Matt swore. “What part of ‘fake pictures’ don’t people understand?”
“I pointed out that the photos were fabricated. He didn’t believe me.” Cady lifted a hand. “I don’t think we have to be worried yet, but if this story gains any more momentum . . .”
“We could lose more money.” Matt raked a hand through his hair. The whole fundraiser was at stake. “It’s nearly impossible to prove a negative.”
“I know,” Cady said. “But Bree has to get out ahead of this. She needs to fight it. Her reputation is on the line.”
Matt agreed. “Not sure how she’s supposed to do that. She gave a press conference. She explained what happened.”
“I don’t know, but I’d hate to see all the hard work that went into this fundraiser go to waste.”
Greta spit the ball onto Matt’s shoes. K-9s were typically funded with private donations. Small local budgets couldn’t afford the costs. If Bree’s department couldn’t raise the money, what would he do with Greta? She was a working dog. She needed a job, and it would be a shame to waste her potential. Could he donate her to a different department? He might not see her again.
Which shouldn’t matter, right?
His business model hadn’t allowed for getting attached to the dogs.
The road to hell and all that.
He said, “The sheriff’s department really needs a K-9.”
Investigations had been hamstrung on several occasions waiting for a K-9 to arrive from another department.
“I know it.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. Shit,” Cady agreed. “Talk to Bree, OK? Let her know what’s going on.”
“I will.” But that was a conversation Matt didn’t want to have tonight. Bree had enough on her plate. And really, what could she ever do about rumors?
Cady said goodbye and headed for her minivan. Matt took the dogs to the house. Brody stretched out on his orthopedic dog bed. Greta drank a whole bowl of water and lay beside him on the tile, finally tuckered out.
Disturbed by the conversation with his sister, Matt opened his laptop and did a Google search with Bree’s name. The number of links and images that search returned shocked him. The story had gained speed like an avalanche.
But what could they do about it?
His phone buzzed, and he answered, “Flynn.”
“Hey, Matt. This is Detective Brody McNamara with the Scarlet Falls PD. You helped me with a drug case about five years back when you were working the K-9 unit for the sheriff’s department.”
Matt laughed. “How could I forget? You and my dog have the same name.”
“I’m honored. He’s an awesome dog. The way he tracked down that drug dealer was epic.”
“He’s the best,” Matt agreed.
“How is Brody?”
“Enjoying his retirement.” Matt glanced at his dog, snoozing hard in his bed, which took up an entire corner of the kitchen.
“And you’re working for the new sheriff?”
“Now and then,” Matt said. “As a civilian consultant.”
McNamara hesitated. “Rumor says you’ve been asking about Brian Dylan.”
Matt straightened. “I have. What can you tell me?”
“Is your inquiry related to that double homicide you’re working?”
“He is a person of interest.” Matt enunciated the words in a way to let McNamara know that Dylan was indeed a murder suspect.
“This is off the record and unofficial. I don’t have any definitive proof, just speculation.”
“OK.”
“We did an internal investigation after his incident”—McNamara paused—“and linked Dylan to the Hudson Footmen, a survivalist group.”
“We know that.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised,” McNamara said. “But did you know the Hudson Footmen were evolving into a paramilitary group? They’ve been loosely linked to online chatter about a planned cyberattack on a hospital. The FBI shut it down before it happened, but it wouldn’t surprise me if the Footmen get added to the FBI’s list of domestic terror groups. Also, they recently set up an elaborate social media recruitment and funding campaign. Our sources say Dylan is spearheading the recruitment effort.”
Matt was surprised. “Seriously?”
“Yes,” McNamara said. “They need members and money. They’ve developed a significant dark web presence. Dylan’s involvement in the organization has escalated since he lost his job, and he has some expertise with technology and software.”
Matt thought of all the satellites on Dylan’s roof. “Is Dylan at a decision-making level yet?”
“We don’t know. The Footmen aren’t doing anything illegal that we’ve discovered. They are a legitimate organization. Dylan’s involvement was more secondary information, but when I heard you were asking about Dylan, I thought you should know.”
“What about Eugene Oscar?” Matt asked. “Have you ever heard his name associated with the Footmen?”
“No. But I would be suspect of any close associates of Brian Dylan.”
Matt ended the call and stared into space for a few minutes. Brian Dylan was involved with a paramilitary group. Oscar had been close friends with him. Could the survivalist group be involved in Oscar’s death?
Matt picked up his phone and called Todd. “I want to track down Jim Rogers tonight. You in?”
“Yep. I’m not far from your place. I’ll pick you up in ten minutes.”
“OK.” Matt grabbed his keys and wallet from the counter and stuffed them into his pockets.
Brody whined.
“You want to come with?” Matt asked.
Brody went to the door and stood under the hook that held his leash.
“OK.” Matt kenneled Greta and he and Brody went outside.
Todd pulled up in his personal vehicle, a compact SUV. He stepped out. Brody trotted over to greet him. “Good to see you, Brody.” Todd scratched his neck.
“Do you mind if he comes with us?” Matt asked. “He’s bored, and Greta is driving him a little nuts.”
“Of course he can come.” Todd opened the back door. The dog jumped in and settled on the back seat, his nose pressed to the window.
Todd drove out to Rogers’s house, but no one answered their knock. They returned to the SUV.
Matt drummed his fingers on the armrest. “Where now?”