She pursed her lips. “Yes, unfortunately I’m afraid you might be right about that. I’m looking into it.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Get me the fuck out of here then and I might not take down the whole fucking place with the lawsuit I’m going to shove so far up your ass, you’ll be lucky to be pushing paper behind some desk.”
Her grin was wicked as she slid a folder my way. “Take a seat and calm down. You’re not here for terrorism, but you are here for a very good reason.”
I didn’t sit, but I did open the folder.
She tapped her fingernails on the table. “I’m not going to beat around the bush, Logan. You’re our prime suspect in the murder of Elizabeth O’Shea. That’s why you’re here.”
My head jerked down. I hadn’t even read the first line of the report yet. I was having trouble wrapping my head around the pictures of Lizzy’s dead body spread out on the table. “What?”
“We’ve got your fingerprints on an item found at the crime scene. I have a statement from you claiming you never met Elizabeth O’Shea, and yet a mechanic has identified you as the man with Elizabeth O’Shea on March twenty-first when her car went into the shop.”
“Did he identify Elizabeth?”
“No, he said he’d met her inside a bar and it was too dark.”
Whatever. I started to list the other facts. “My fingerprints? On what?” I asked quietly, suddenly very concerned.
“A baby rattle. An elephant’s head.” She pointed to the folder. “It’s all in there.”
I slammed the folder down. “You know I didn’t kill her. Just like the terrorist charge, that’s not why I’m here. So what’s the real reason?”
She shook her head. “Believe it or not, Logan, what I think is irrelevant. It’s the evidence that tells the story, and the evidence in this case is very convincing.”
It would be easy enough to clear up the identification of Elizabeth with a few more photos. The messy part would be explaining why Elle was pretending to be her. And I didn’t want to bring her into this at all. I sat down. Not. One. Fucking. Bit. “What do you want?”
“I want to know where you got the drugs. Who had them before you moved them to Lucy’s.”
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
I knew it.
She knew.
Fierceness tightened my features. “I had nothing to do with that.”
She picked up the folder. “You and I both know that’s bullshit.”
I stared her in the eyes.
She opened the folder and pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to me.
I glanced at it. I knew I was looking at compounds, but what the values meant, I had no idea.
“You can keep that,” she said with a smile.
“What is it?”
“Evidence.”
“Okay, I’ll bite. Evidence for what?”
That smirk wasn’t fading. “To convict you of a felony. We found traces of an acidifier compound on the bags of cocaine that were picked up at Lucy’s, and traces of the same agent were found in your vehicle during a recent forensic search.”
My brows drew together in concentration. “An acidifier compound? What the hell are you talking about?”
The bricks of coke were in bags of salt.
“Flora Crystal Clear is what it’s called. It’s a salt compound used to increase the life of fresh-cut flowers.”
No fucking way.
A light bulb went on in my head at the same time a conversation I had with Killian presented itself in my mind.
“O’Shea, he’s Mickey the florist’s boy?”
“Yeah, that’s him. He’s an attorney.”
My gramps raised his brows. “And young O’Shea’s claiming he isn’t involved?”
“That’s what he told Pop, but I’m not so sure.”
Gramps shook his head. “I’m with you. Not sure I’d believe him.”
The tiredness in the back of my eyes faded at the realization I might be right. “Why do you say that?”
Shifting on the bed, he brought his large frame to the head and settled back. “I can’t say, really. It’s a feeling based on what I know of his old man. When Mickey O’Shea was a teenager, he was a small-timer hoping to hit it big. Always doing stupid things. I warned your father to stay away from him in school. And it was a good thing I did. At nineteen, Mickey did a five-year stretch for hijacking a fleet of trucks. His first big job and he gets caught right out of the gate. Fucking idiot. When he got out, he started up his own gang. Some shit went down with his wife and after that the gang folded. Lucky for him, his mother had passed and he took over her flower shop. He seemed to give up on making his fortune and settled for domestic life. Then his wife was killed in some gang-related crime and I haven’t heard his name since. But if the young O’Shea is anything like his old man was, he’s a dreamer hoping to hit it big the easy way.”
Holy fucking shit. Mickey O’Shea was the Priest, and that’s the connection to Michael O’Shea.
It has to be.
Holy.
Fucking.
Shit.