When informed, Lieutenant Flood was skeptical. “One of our own? You must be nuts, Slater. I’ve known Rawley for years. You’re barking up the wrong tree. This is gonna fall apart in court. You’ll see.”
The arrest was slick. Jeff Rawley feigned shock and sputtered about his rights when Slater and his deputy, along with Santiago Cruz, knocked on his seedy apartment door. He was outraged that the warrant allowed them to search the premises, but didn’t resist arrest.
It was almost too easy, Cruz thought, when they found concrete evidence that Rawley was involved in the death of Dickey Hinchey.
“Sheesh, it’s Murder 101,” Slater said to Rawley. “Don’t hang on to incriminating evidence, man.”
Slater held up the bloody remnants of what appeared to be Dickey Hinchey’s tee shirt, and the cheap little ring the homeless man always wore on his pinky finger. Cruz recognized it immediately.
Slater cuffed Rawley and placed him in the squad car, “This is good evidence. The case will hold up in court.”
“You think Rawley did them all?” Cruz asked.
Slater shook his head. “I have to believe it. The D.A. won’t buy anything else.”
Cruz felt suddenly exhausted. All he wanted was to get back to Slater’s house and check up on the ever-interesting Dr. Jones. He’d been gone from the ranch too long. Anything could’ve happened in his absence.
Chapter 61
Frankie was gone.
When Cruz arrived at the ranch house, she was nowhere to be found. Cole was resting in the master suite and looked a helluva lot better than he had yesterday. He could sit up in bed, eat a little, and even go to the john on his own.
What he couldn’t do was tell Cruz where Frankie had gone, and how she’d gotten away without transportation, isolated as Slater’s ranch was.
“She’s taken my old truck,” Slater said when he arrived an hour later after booking Rawley in the Bigler County Jail. “Must’ve hotwired it because I’ve got the only key to it.” He eyed Cruz thoughtfully. “Were you aware she had such ... skills?”
“Yeah,” Cruz complained, “something else her father must’ve taught her, along with how to handle firearms.”
“Where would she go?”
“I’d guess to see that father who taught her so much.”
“You figure she can handle herself?” Slater frowned as he reached for a beer in the refrigerator. “If someone from Stark’s gang is after her, she’s not safe.”
“She’s not safe from me,” Cruz said flatly. “I might just throttle her.”
Detective Flood was still smoldering from the news that one of the officers in the Rosedale Police Department was a serial killer. At least that’s the crap Sheriff Slater and Santiago Cruz were trying to shove down his throat.
But evidence was evidence, and Flood would do his duty despite the gloating he saw in Cruz’s eyes. The man had been a burr up his ass for a long time now, and him being in on the arrest didn’t sit well with Flood.
Still, he’d get the credit for closing the case. Sacramento PD be damned. They could figure out on their own whether Rawley had done the homeless hag in their county, or if it was someone else.
Not Flood’s problem.
Slater had hinted about another killer, someone other than Jeff Rawley, but Flood wasn’t buying that hogwash. He wasn’t going to muddy the waters by taking a wild theory to the district attorney. They had their man – as much as he didn’t like it – and he wasn’t going to give up the limelight of a good arrest by chasing down a rabbit hole.
Still, hard to believe a mealy-mouthed beat cop like Jeff Rawley was capable of all that mayhem. You never really knew a person deep inside, he guessed.
The guard on Anson Stark’s payroll managed to get the inmate a sit-down with his second in command, Bones Griff. They met in the corridor adjacent to the dog run where Stark went for his daily exercise. A small part of the hallway wasn’t secured by video cameras, a flaw in the supermax’s design.
As they stood near the entrance to the SHU exercise yard, Stark could barely control his fury. He seldom allowed himself to lose control of his temper. In fact, he could remember only two times in his entire life when he’d gone into a blinding rage. Even when he committed murder, he did the deed with cold calculation.
Now Bones was testing him to his limits.
“Perkins blew it. I had to put a gang member on her,” Bones explained in a puerile tone. “He was supposed to get both of them, but something happened. The bitch fought back. Who knew she’d be so ... lethal.”
“I don’t want explanations. I want results.” Stark’s face purpled with unleashed anger. He took several deep breaths before continuing. “What about Cole Hansen?”
Bones shook his head. “Left him bleeding to death on the doc’s bedroom floor.”
“He ran out on a job before completing it?” the Professor asked flatly.