Page 44 of The Gift
Coop had seen enough. He returned to the corridor. “What’s the estimated time of death?”
“Preliminary puts it around twenty hundred,” a tech answered.
Before he could ask a follow-up, the metal doors at the end of the hall opened. “Jesus,” a voice snapped. “What a fucking mess.”
The sheriff came in like a storm front, already tearing into the jail supervisor trailing him.
Already sweating through his collar, the man stammered, “We’re not sure what happened. There was a storm, but the power didn’t so much as flicker. And no disturbances—”
“No disturbances?” the sheriff barked. “Three men are dead in Holding under our noses. How does that happen?”
He pulled off his gloves and moved forward. “That’s what I’d like to know.”
The sheriff turned, eyes narrowing. “And you are?”
“Texas Rangers. Lieutenant Cooper. I’m the lead on this case, which your jail has compromised.”
Conversation halted. Even the techs turned to look.
The sheriff’s nostrils flared. Embarrassment under his anger. “This is unacceptable. We’ll get answers.”
“Investigating your own house won’t cut it,” Coop said. “This was staged.”
The supervisor bristled. “You think one of my people did this?”
“They either did it or facilitated it,” Coop replied calmly, although he wasn’t feeling it. “Not that it matters,” he went on. “Accessory to murder carries the same sentence.”
“Let’s not start pointing fingers,” the sheriff insisted, a tremor of rising panic in his tone. “We’ll cooperate, but we can’t have it getting out that three trafficking suspects died in county custody. I’m up for reelection. This”—he gestured helplessly at the cells—“won’t poll well.”
Contempt kindled in his chest, the kind that came from too many years watching politics outrank victims. He kept it buried. “Your election isn’t my concern. Securing this scene is.”
O’Reilly came up beside him, tension coiled beneath the surface as if bracing for trouble. “The wing’s locked down, asordered, Lieutenant. No one in or out until Crime Scene and IA clear it.”
The sheriff’s gaze snapped to him. “You can’t—”
Coop met his stare without blinking. “I can, and I did. This was a coordinated hit tied to the warehouse raid. It’s not only a county problem. Frankly, I’m surprised the feds aren’t already here.”
The sheriff’s face hardened. “You think I’d let anything compromise this department? You think I don’t want the truth?”
“Then help us,” Coop said. “Give us access to logs, sign-in sheets, vendor deliveries… all of it. Let us see who had clearance during that eleven-minute window.”
The sheriff’s mouth flattened into a thin line. “You want a scapegoat. To make this political.”
He met his accusation without hesitating. “I want answers. If there’s a leak, we’ll find it. If someone’s compromised, we find them. You want to protect your campaign? Stay out of my way.”
The sheriff stared at him, weighing his options, then turned away. He barked an order at the supervisor. “Give them what they ask for.”
When the doors closed behind him, Coop exhaled. Not with relief, with focus.
The techs returned to documenting, cataloging, and preserving what remained. But the part that mattered, the eleven minutes that would tell the truth, was already gone.
The message was delivered. Kedrov’s reach was wider and more lethal than he would have guessed. Before he flexed that reach again, Coop had to prove it.
Chapter 13
Coop moved through the bullpen Monday morning, extra-large black coffee in one hand, dialing his cell with the other. Sutton answered almost immediately.
“Tell me you’ve got something.”
