“Did we ever find out if the receptionist knew anything?”

  Savannah pulled open the file of her notes. “The officers who knocked on her door for a follow-up interview got no answer. Both times they went.”

  “Want me to look into that?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Mia needed to be careful in any situation. Noise above a certain decibel level would destroy her hearing on a permanent level. Savannah wanted to tell her to be cautious, but her partner already knew that.

  “On it.” She grabbed her weapon from her drawer and headed for Conroy’s office.

  Savannah went back to the folder of hate mail. At least it would give her another guide for her next round of interviews.

  Aggerton had investments all over town. In fact, he’d had his finger in so many businesses in town that they numbered far more than those that hadn’t been at least partially funded by him. He also prepared tax returns for nearly everyone in town—except those who worked at the police department, or Tate.

  Savannah tapped her pen on the edge of her desk. There must be people around town seriously grateful he was dead and their debt had been wiped clear—assuming no one took up where Aggerton left off.

  Mia waved as she left. Savannah read an email. Hatred dripped from the words—which included a detailed description of what the sender intended to do to Aggerton. It wasn’t a stabbing though. The address was nondescript.

  Savannah sent a note to Ted on their internal messaging system and asked him to take a look at it.

  The next was from Patrick Dearnum—Robert Gaynes’s assistant. Vague threats, veiled in disappointment and distrust. Basically, the city council was no longer going to outsource certain accounts to Aggerton’s business. It was pretty pompous sounding; someone stuck up on their high horse, refusing to give a reason that would justify the end to their association.

  Her desk phone rang, the extension for Conroy’s phone.

  “Yeah, Chief?”

  “Summers’s account books are ready for you at evidence lockup.”

  The basement of the courthouse, next door to city hall. Only a block of walking. Savannah didn’t do “cold,” so she’d drive over there.

  “Copy that.” She hung up and wrote herself a note to look into Patrick Dearnum and find out what went on between the city council and Aggerton.

  Could be there was bad blood. Above board, or no, she was going to find out where they stood and why.

  Savannah locked her computer profile and waved to Kaylee on the way out. She waited a couple of minutes for the car to warm up before pulling out, all the vents pumping warm air. It wasn’t even fifty degrees. She might have lived here for two years now, but she planned on never growing accustomed to the weather. Talk about freezing.

  She needed a vacation somewhere warm.

  The desk sergeant in evidence lockup seemed like the only one in the courthouse this late at night. And he wasn’t happy about it. Not even with a ball game on the radio.

  Savannah signed for the account books, and they were turned over to her, sealed in an evidence bag. “Thanks.”

  He didn’t smile.

  She headed back out. Another couple of hours at her desk, and she’d call it. Head home for some sleep. She was dedicated, but she knew what happened if she burned out.

  Savannah beeped the locks on her car. She heard a shuffle right behind her. Before she could turn, a heavy body slammed into her.

  Savannah’s forehead hit the driver’s side window and everything went black.

  Eleven

  Tate was deciding whether or not to honk his horn when he saw Phil round the corner of the house. No, this wasn’t Phil. The Hammer was back. His bald head covered by a beanie, he had on a heavy, dark-colored jacket, jeans, and boots.

  He pulled the door open and climbed into the passenger seat. “Hey.”

  Tate stared at the spider web tattoo, visible above the collar of the jacket. “How’d you cover that earlier? Assuming you didn’t just draw it back on.”

  Hammer said, “Basically it’s makeup. Got it off the web. Cover up that actors use to disguise tattoos for a performance. Works pretty good.”

  Tate pulled out. “And you don’t mind the back and forth?”

  “For the chance to be…not me, but someone good? Yeah, I don’t mind. Being this guy—” He grasped the edges of the jacket for a second—“It gets old pretty fast.”

  “And no one’s recognized you?”

  “The Hammer and Phil Tilley do not frequent the same places.”

  That was good procedure. Tate said, “Where to?”

  “House on Candlewood. But we need to come at it from the back, so we’re going to circle around.”

  “Copy that.” He said, “What is this place?”

  “Stash house.”

  “Anyone there tonight?”

  “It’s been clear for the last few nights. I put a camera in the yard, and no one’s come or gone, so we should be good to take a look around inside.”

  “Looking for what?”

  “Evidence I can run with. Something to take to Eric, get him to approve a raid on the mid-level guys, get them to flip over on their suppliers.”

  He could hear the fatigue in Hammer’s voice. Despite his new lease on life as Phil—which might have been Eric offering him some respite in the middle of what was proving to be a long operation—The Hammer seemed to be tiring of the job.

  “How long have you been on this?”

  “Eleven months,” Hammer said. “Took me a while to get to Summers as the point man. After he was taken down, thought they were going to pull me back. Instead I get new orders to go through Aggerton to the next level. Take down the whole organization.”

  “Rough.”

  “Yeah.”

  Tate said, “I did a few assignments like that with the FBI, back in the day. Mostly Texas, Colorado. Guy like me would stick out in LA or Miami.”

  The Hammer snorted.

  Tate followed his directions and they parked under a heavy tree, then made their way through two backyards—thankfully not guarded by dogs—to the back door of the house Hammer was interested in. A stash house where drugs would be hidden as they transferred hands from supplier to dealer, or from the dealers to their runners. Somewhere along the line the product was cut, often multiple times. Concentration diminished as everyone in the chain sought to maximize profit.

  Money grew as addicts needed more and more to get their hit.

  Tate drew his gun from the shoulder holster he wore under his jacket and checked it one more time. Sure, not as easily accessible as it would be if it were simply on his hip—up and able to fire in less than a second. But he sacrificed that second or two for the way his gun was stowed inconspicuously—less obvious to an attentive bystander. But tonight it would be in his hand. Given the people Hammer was up against, Tate wasn’t going to take any chances on either of their safety.

  “Ready?”

  Hammer nodded.

  Tate tried the handle on the back door. Unlocked. Gun loose by his side, Tate stepped in. A rancid smell came from the kitchen. No one had cleaned since the residents moved out, and whoever was last here had left food, dishes, and paper goods strewn across the counter.

  He’d done that early on as an adult but then quickly realized that wasn’t the way to impress anyone who came over—not to mention how sick he’d gotten because of the filth. Cleaning up his act, literally, was also how he’d finally gotten his sister off his back for being a slob.

  They walked through the kitchen and living areas, then headed for the bedrooms. Closets. The bathroom. There was no furniture that he could see, and the fridge and oven had both been unplugged. Was there even any power in the house?

  He found a broken plastic hanger.

  “Clear.”

  Hammer nodded. “Wish I had a K9 drug dog.” He slid his gun into a holster at the small of his back. “Let’s check the floor and the vents. Look for anything that might’ve been left behind.”

  Tate nodded. He went into the second bedroom while Hammer took the master. He didn’t mind backing up the undercover agent. Spending an hour or two with someone who wasn’t a criminal, doing something that, at least to an extent, felt like actual police work was invigorating.

  He wandered around, checked the vents in the floor. Looked for boards that were loose. Whatever carpet there was had been removed at some point.

  In the kitchen, Tate leaned up on the toes of his boots and looked at the top of the refrigerator. “Bingo.”

  Hammer came in a second later. “Yeah?”

  Tate grabbed it and showed Hammer. “A phone.” One of the old, flip kinds. Probably a burner. He flipped it open and powered it up. “Left it here, switched off. Basically a perfect place to hide something, on top of the fridge where you know no one looks.”

  Hammer looked over his shoulder, a smirk on his face. Then he said, “Eric should be able to pull all the recent calls and texts off it.”

  “I can, if you want me to take a look.” Tate said, “No sense sending it in if there’s nothing on it.”

  Hammer nodded. “Sounds good. But shouldn’t you be working to prove you didn’t kill Aggerton?”

  When he hadn’t done it, and there was no evidence that pointed to him? Seemed like a waste of his time compared with taking down a drug dealer. “I have time to help you as well.”

  Hammer didn’t seem like he agreed with that assessment. Tate ignored his tone. He didn’t kill Aggerton, so who would be able to prove that he had? There couldn’t be any evidence, unless it had been planted.

  The Hammer could have planted evidence the night Aggerton was killed. But if he had, then Savannah would’ve found it already. Tate would have been hauled into the police department to answer questions he had no response for.

  Tate handed it over. “See if anything jumps out. I’ll do one more walkthrough, make sure we didn’t miss anything.”

  Mostly he figured the phone was discarded for a reason. They might be able to get something from it. Or not. It wasn’t Tate’s case, so he didn’t have a vested interest in it being solved. He’d rather be at the hospital, with Claire awake, trying to talk some sense into her about Rob.

  After he’d exhausted all the necessary searching, he went back to the kitchen. “Definitely nothing else.”

  Hammer looked up. “Bunch of threats. Demands. Instructions. Whoever owned this phone, they were low level. Seems like several people thought they could make him do whatever they wanted.”

  “Any idea who they are or who the owner was?”

  “Just one name. Not the phone’s owner, but someone else. West.”

  “Heard it before?”

  “No,” Hammer said. “It’s a new one.”

  “Hope it plays out into something.”

  “Me too.”

  A car pulled into the drive. Headlights swept across the front window, lighting the kitchen entrance.

  “Time’s up.”

  “I need to see who it is.” Hammer moved to the door of the hall and looked out. “Two guys. Muscle, but not brains.”

  Tate would’ve questioned how Hammer knew that, but he could do the same himself. It was all in the swagger. How a person carried themselves spoke volumes about who they thought they were before they even opened their mouth and dispelled all doubt.

  Hammer muttered something under his breath. “One went around back. The other is headed for the front door.”

  “Rush them and run, or hide?”

  “Closet. Let’s find out why they’re—” Hammer said nothing else. He just moved.

  Tate got the message, moving to the pantry where he closed the folding door on himself and held his breath. Mushed between the shelves and the door panels, he couldn’t move much. But he could see through a gap.

  Enough to see one of the men enter through the back door, the same way he and Hammer had come in.

  “You in?”

  His friend called out in reply. “Yep!”

  Both shut doors. The man in the kitchen held a gun and moved out to the hall. “Let’s find it.”

  “You don’t have to tell me twice,” the other sounded like he was tired and in a bad mood. Probably hangry as well. “If we don’t get that phone back, he’ll take it out on us and I’m not looking forward to that.”

  The other made a noncommittal noise. Probably figuring he’d run before that happened, make his associate face the music for him while he got as far away as possible.

  After a few minutes of boots on the floorboards, banging doors, and yelling, Tate figured wherever Hammer had hidden was a good spot. They hadn’t found him.

  One of the men returned to the kitchen. “It’s not here.”

  “Maybe he never dumped it. Now he’s dead, and we’ll never find it.”

  Tate bit down on his molars. The second that one of them decided to check the pantry, he was going to have to be ready to fight.

  “West is gonna be pissed if we don’t find it.”

  The other man shoved him. “I know, idiot. You said that already. Just keep looking.”

  They moved out of the kitchen. Tate pushed at the hinged section of the door, folding it enough so that he could slip through when it was time. Then he’d duck outside. Hang around, hide in a better spot while making sure Hammer got out all right.

  Phil needed to make another trip to the diner so Hollis could give him that look. He’d smile at her, and she would swoon.

  Tate watched it happen all the time. Some people just fell for each other that way, while it had always been much more complicated for him.

  And why did that make him think of Savannah?

  “They’re here.”

  Tate froze, halfway out the pantry. More guys? He moved to the hall, saw both their backs turned and headed down the hall. Bedroom, or bathroom? He found Hammer halfway out the bedroom window.

  He lifted his gun, realized it was Tate, and said, “Come on.”

  “More are here.”

  “I know.” He dropped onto the grass outside.

  Tate stuck a leg over the window ledge after him.

  “Hey!” A man stood in the doorway. He lifted a gun.

  Too late. Tate had nowhere to go.

  He made a split second decision, based entirely on gut. Which turned out to have a healthy dose of, “one of us should get out of here.”

  Out the window, Tate signaled to his companion. Get out of here. He didn’t need Hammer, with the phone he’d confiscated, to get captured either. That wasn’t going to be good for either of them.

  He heard a low, “Sure?”

  Tate made the signal again.

  “Get back in here!” The gunman’s yell echoed in the empty room.

  He heard Hammer leave, a shuffle of boots headed away from him. Tate swung his leg over, and he was back inside the room.

  “Lookie what I found.”

  His friends showed up. The two manhandled Tate until he was facing the wall, and then patted him down. They took his gun, wallet, keys, and phone.

  Most of it they tossed aside.

  When they spun him around, he said, “How you fellas doin’ tonight?”

  “Shut up.” Gun guy shoved the barrel in his face. “And tell me what you’re doin’ here.”

  “Hard to tell you, if I shut up. Don’t you think?”

  The guy punched him with the hand holding the gun. Hard metal slammed into his ribs. Tate went down on one knee.

  “Get him up.”

  They hauled him to his feet to face the gunman.

  “You okay, old man?”

  Tate blew out a breath. It was a pretty fair jab. Too bad he’d been sliced yesterday, or he’d probably be more on his game right now. Maybe he was getting to be too old for this.

  “Now tell me why you’re here.”

  To hear something they’d probably kill him for overhearing.

  Tate figured this phone had something to do with Aggerton’s death, and might even belong to him since he was the only person he knew who’d died recently. Hopefully his mind was firing correctly. He’d assumed Aggerton was low level, but maybe not.

  Did all this really have to do with an undercover operation?

  And why was Tate getting dragged into it every time he turned around?

  Twelve

  Savannah moaned. She lifted a hand to touch her forehead and found an explosion of fire. Under her, the ground was hard. Her entire body ached.

  Her phone was vibrating in her back pocket, underneath her.

  She tried to blink. Felt for her gun—still there. That was a relief, at least as much of a relief as she could experience right now. Still can’t see.

  She blinked and realized she could see, but it was dark outside. She turned to look at a street light. Not blind. Her whole body shuddered. Hot. Cold. Pain. Warm numbness. It was like it couldn’t decide how to feel.

  Her phone was still ringing.

  She shifted enough to slide it out. Focusing on the screen hurt a lot. She was pretty sure there was blood all down her face, and her nose might be broken.

  “Hello?” She sounded like she had the worst cold in the world.

  “Savannah?” It was Mia. “You okay?”

  “No.” Sounded more like, “Bo.”

  “You didn’t come back, and it’s been ages. We were getting worried.” Mia said. “Ted ran a trace on your phone, so I’m on my way to the courthouse. You’re still outside?”

  She tried to sit up. It took a second and a lot of groaning, but she planted her hand and managed to finally sit up.

  The world spun like a kid’s spinning top, and she leaned back against her car door.

  “…can you hear me? Savannah?”

  “Yep.” She hissed out a breath and groaned.

  “I see you.” The call ended.

  Savannah let her hand holding the phone drop to her lap and closed her eyes. Her upper lip was wet, and when she swallowed, her mouth tasted metallic. Like blood. She knew what that meant.

  After a couple of seconds she heard shoes on the sidewalk. Running toward her. Sounded like more than one pair.