Clipboards pass between two guards, and ever so briefly, my dad’s eyes lift to the camera and hold. His gaze flicks left then right, counting the cams probably. I squirm. It’s another habit we share.
Whatever was on the clipboard apparently made the second guard happy because he waves Michael through. The video jumps to my dad going down another hallway . . . through another secured door . . . and into an open receiving area. A blond guy is waiting for him and they walk out. There’s maybe another forty-five seconds of the two of them leaving the parking lot. Walking.
Whoever this guy is, he was smart enough not to leave his car where the plate would be picked up by the security cams. Which probably means he left it down the road a bit. Risky. There isn’t a cop alive who wouldn’t check an abandoned vehicle that close to the jail.
Maybe somebody else met them?
I watch the whole thing again. And then once more. Hart’s right. It’s not particularly useful. Yeah, Michael doesn’t look surprised, so you could assume he knew what was coming, but the biggest problem is not knowing Blondie’s real identity. He had the release papers. He walked both of them straight through the doors. That means purpose; he needs Michael for something.
The money? That can’t be it—not if my dad thinks I have it. Unless . . . unless Blondie is supposed to help Michael get it back.
I skim two fingers over my still scabby forearm. Did Blondie pull me from Hart’s car in the accident? If so, who was waiting in the SUV?
My stomach threatens to swoop into my mouth and I swallow. Get a grip. There’s no point in speculating. I need to stick to what I do know: There are some serious connections at work here. You don’t get those kinds of papers at Walmart or whatever. This took thought, planning, and the right kind of forger.
I don’t know anyone capable of pulling it off and I know—knew—most of my father’s contacts. I rewind a few frames to watch the two men walk out like it’s no big deal. Maybe Michael’s expanded his circle of friends since landing in jail? I mean I guess it’s possible, but wouldn’t that sort of thing take money?
Which Michael doesn’t have. He’s never had.
Except maybe he did and now he thinks I have it.
I pause the video and rewind it until I’m at the receiving area again. They don’t shake hands. I can’t see Michael’s expression since the camera’s behind him, but the blond guy seems relaxed enough. This could be any other day. Like he does it all the time.
And that worrisome feeling I’d had earlier breathes up from the grave I put it in.
It couldn’t be.
Or is it because I don’t want it to be?
I rewind frame by frame until I’m dead on Blondie. The angle’s perfect and I need to know this, but I still have to take a deep, deep breath before I open the editing program. It takes me a few minutes to manipulate the images. I have to enlarge his face and smooth some of the pixilation.
I don’t know a ton of cops. I know the faces of the few who came to our house for domestic disturbances. I could probably pick out the one or two who worked security at our school. And then, of course, there was Carson.
Blondie is definitely not Carson.
But he is one of Carson’s guys.
I twist my chair from side to side and glare at my reflection in the windows. Every minute or so, Kent looks my way and our eyes meet. His narrow. Mine narrow. I give him the finger and he turns completely around and focuses on his computer again.
I don’t know what to do. I still don’t know Blondie’s name, but I do recognize him. He was riding shotgun in Carson’s car one day when I left the jail. I didn’t think too much of it after the detective disappeared, but Carson had a team that worked for him back when he was a rising star in the police department. I assumed they were reassigned once he was put under investigation.
What if this one is still working for him? Maybe he thinks Carson’s innocent? The detective’s been running for over a month now. What if they’re trying to clear Carson’s name?
I mentally kick myself. There’s no connection between Carson and Michael other than Carson hunted and arrested my father. Why would he get Michael out of jail?
Or better yet: What would Carson gain by Michael getting out of jail?
Of course, that’s assuming Blondie still works for him—unless Blondie works for my dad.
Now that’s a disturbing thought. I keep my eyes on Kent, but he doesn’t turn around. I twist my chair some more, still thinking. Michael’s been in jail for months. Why wait until now to escape? Why not do it sooner? What changed?
I sigh, rub my forehead. Because he thinks I stole the money from whatever super-secret account he put it in? That’s stupid. I haven’t been around the neighborhood in months—not since Griff and I were still dating. And it would have to be somewhere in the neighborhood, somewhere physical. The Feds knew about his bank accounts. If it had been deposited, they would’ve found it and confiscated it, right?