frustrated. It wasn't that he was being stonewalled, exactly; with Caldwell's death a clear murder, the judge hadn't hesitated to order the bank to make its records available to the investigators. Problem was, the bank records looked clean.
It was Caldwell's personal financial records that looked suspect, but there was nothing firm Justin could point to in order to explain why he had this itching on the back of his neck that told him to keep digging.
He just knew, dammit. Knew there was more to the story than he had yet discovered.
The problem was how in hell to find it.
The sheriff could have made it easier on him but instead had virtually tied his hands, and much as he wanted to it wasn't something Justin intended to complain about. He was treading carefully with the sheriff, perfectly aware that Ethan Cole didn't really trust him and equally aware that the sheriff was hiding something. Or trying to.
That was something else Justin knew but couldn't prove. And wasn't really sure he wanted to try and prove, all things considered. But he didn't have much of a choice.
Not really eager to return to the station any sooner than he had to, Justin stopped off on the way back for a cup of decent coffee at the downtown cafe. He sat alone at a front table and gazed broodingly out at the passing traffic.
Such a nice little town.
"Hey, Detective Byers—" One of the young waitresses he'd spoken to maybe twice stood by his table holding an envelope. "This was left for you." She handed it over.
His name was block-printed on the front—just his name, nothing to identify him as a cop. For some reason, that bothered him.
"Who left it, Emily?"
She shrugged and popped her gum. "Dunno. Vinny just found it on the counter and told me to bring it over to you. Guess somebody figured you'd stop by. You usually do, most afternoons."
"Yeah. Thanks, Emily."
"Welcome."
As she wandered away, Justin made a mental note to stop being so goddamned predictable, then stared at the envelope, turning it in his hands. The usual number-ten business-type, treated for security so what lay inside wasn't easily visible, at least through the paper. But what lay inside clearly had shape and bulk, something like a small notebook from the feel of it.
The envelope had been handled by so many people he knew it was useless to worry about fingerprints. As for what was inside…
He wasted a couple of minutes trying to convince himself somebody had sent him an early birthday card—okay, maybe an early birthday booklet—sighed, and carefully pried up the lightly sealed flap.
It was indeed a small, black notebook, the sort some people carried around in their pockets or purses to jot down phone numbers or whatever. Justin handled it carefully by the edges, even though his instincts and training told him the polished surface was polished for a reason and would yield no fingerprints whatsoever. Inside, a number of the lined pages contained notes. Two initials at the top of each page, followed by what looked like a list of dates and dollar amounts.
The dates on each page were spaced no less than a month apart, with some only every three or four months, and at least one page contained only two dates, more than six months apart.
He was no expert, but the spiky handwriting—different from the block-printing on the envelope— looked familiar. It looked like George Caldwell's handwriting.
Frowning, Justin pulled out his own notebook and made a careful list of all the dates, in chronological order. What he ended up with was a date for almost every month spanning the past three years. And when he compared the dates to earlier notes he had made, he was grimly unsurprised to find that they matched the dates of the regular deposits into one of Caldwell's bank accounts.
Those unexplained deposits.
That unexplained income.
"Blackmail," Justin muttered under his breath. It was possible. Maybe more than possible. Every one of the dead men had led a double life, a secret
It was Caldwell's personal financial records that looked suspect, but there was nothing firm Justin could point to in order to explain why he had this itching on the back of his neck that told him to keep digging.
He just knew, dammit. Knew there was more to the story than he had yet discovered.
The problem was how in hell to find it.
The sheriff could have made it easier on him but instead had virtually tied his hands, and much as he wanted to it wasn't something Justin intended to complain about. He was treading carefully with the sheriff, perfectly aware that Ethan Cole didn't really trust him and equally aware that the sheriff was hiding something. Or trying to.
That was something else Justin knew but couldn't prove. And wasn't really sure he wanted to try and prove, all things considered. But he didn't have much of a choice.
Not really eager to return to the station any sooner than he had to, Justin stopped off on the way back for a cup of decent coffee at the downtown cafe. He sat alone at a front table and gazed broodingly out at the passing traffic.
Such a nice little town.
"Hey, Detective Byers—" One of the young waitresses he'd spoken to maybe twice stood by his table holding an envelope. "This was left for you." She handed it over.
His name was block-printed on the front—just his name, nothing to identify him as a cop. For some reason, that bothered him.
"Who left it, Emily?"
She shrugged and popped her gum. "Dunno. Vinny just found it on the counter and told me to bring it over to you. Guess somebody figured you'd stop by. You usually do, most afternoons."
"Yeah. Thanks, Emily."
"Welcome."
As she wandered away, Justin made a mental note to stop being so goddamned predictable, then stared at the envelope, turning it in his hands. The usual number-ten business-type, treated for security so what lay inside wasn't easily visible, at least through the paper. But what lay inside clearly had shape and bulk, something like a small notebook from the feel of it.
The envelope had been handled by so many people he knew it was useless to worry about fingerprints. As for what was inside…
He wasted a couple of minutes trying to convince himself somebody had sent him an early birthday card—okay, maybe an early birthday booklet—sighed, and carefully pried up the lightly sealed flap.
It was indeed a small, black notebook, the sort some people carried around in their pockets or purses to jot down phone numbers or whatever. Justin handled it carefully by the edges, even though his instincts and training told him the polished surface was polished for a reason and would yield no fingerprints whatsoever. Inside, a number of the lined pages contained notes. Two initials at the top of each page, followed by what looked like a list of dates and dollar amounts.
The dates on each page were spaced no less than a month apart, with some only every three or four months, and at least one page contained only two dates, more than six months apart.
He was no expert, but the spiky handwriting—different from the block-printing on the envelope— looked familiar. It looked like George Caldwell's handwriting.
Frowning, Justin pulled out his own notebook and made a careful list of all the dates, in chronological order. What he ended up with was a date for almost every month spanning the past three years. And when he compared the dates to earlier notes he had made, he was grimly unsurprised to find that they matched the dates of the regular deposits into one of Caldwell's bank accounts.
Those unexplained deposits.
That unexplained income.
"Blackmail," Justin muttered under his breath. It was possible. Maybe more than possible. Every one of the dead men had led a double life, a secret
Similar Books
