Dream Chaser (Dream Team, #2)(116)

“I wanna read this note,” Boone said.

Eddie’s cell phone light swung that way.

Boone engaged his own, kept it to the ground, a couple inches in front of him, and moved in that direction, careful not to disturb anything.

As he moved, Mag asked, “What about the dead prostitute?”

“No mention of her,” Eddie answered.

“Forgot about her?” Mag went on.

“With these fucks, better guess, to them she just didn’t matter,” Eddie replied with unhidden disgust.

Bending over it, not touching it, he read the note.

Small, messy handwriting.

Though precise on the lines of the narrow-ruled paper.

There was a lot there, all of it that Eddie summed up, all on one sheet, including what Eddie didn’t say. That Eddie and Hank were the ones to get the heads-up because they were “good cops” Mueller knew would “see this through for Tony” and that Mueller was sorry for all he’d done.

Nice and shiny and tied up in a bow.

Boone got closer and trained his light right on it.

A man’s hand. Deep depression of the ballpoint. Could indicate written under stress, which could come from a man who knew he was about to murder his partner and shoot himself. Could be he wrote it with a gun to his head and knew his time on that earth was coming to a swift end.

Boone would tell them to go fuck themselves, though.

If he knew he’d been laid out and was going to take the fall, his blood would be on that paper, not his handwriting.

And he’d met Mueller once, but he knew in his gut Mueller was that same kind of man.

But the guys behind this, whoever they were, would not leave a note that wasn’t in Mueller’s hand.

Unless they knew a fantastic forger.

“We need to track down all known forgers,” Boone muttered.

“Yep,” Hawk agreed.

Boone straightened, turned and swept his light over the bodies.

They’d staged a kill-or-be-killed scenario.

Covering their bases.

But also making Bogart, who was known to be the bigger asshole of the two, out to be the ultimate bad guy.

No hero in the end for Kevin Bogart.

Bogart had a gun lying close to his hand. The look of the scene, he’d died holding it.

Chest shot.

Straight to the heart.

He was flat on his back.

Boone turned his attention.

Mueller was a mess.

He approached the body and squatted to its side.

Headshot, right side, gun was a .45, which was why Bogart was on his back. The force of that caliber of a bullet in this small of a space knocked him right there, obliterated his heart, he was dead before he hit floor.

Mueller had done himself sitting on the floor directly opposite his partner, leaning against the front of an armchair, legs out in front of him, not crossed. His gun hand had dropped with the gun still in his grip. It was loose, but it was there, to his side.

Boone did another sweep with his light.

Wall behind Mueller, bullet hole. Just in case anyone missed the message that Bogart was an asshole, he’d fired on his buddy not to dispense justice for the brother they’d taken out. Instead in an attempt to save his own ass.

Boone did another sweep, to the side. Blood spatter and brain matter went six feet across the room, all over the floor, low on the wall.

Killed sitting on his ass.

Died keeping his seat. What was left of his head was lolling to the side, his body was slumped, but upright.

Not cross-legged. Legs straight.

Crossing his legs would not keep him upright after taking that shot, but his legs weren’t even crossed.

There was no support to hold him upright.

“How’d he not fall sideways, taking a forty-five?” Boone asked.

Eddie got closer and squatted.

Hawk got closer and did the same.

To avoid the spatter, they were all in a tight huddle at one side of the body.

Mag approached but loomed over them with his cell phone held up but pointed down on the body.

“There. Shirt,” Mag grunted.

They all focused on his shirt.

Button down. Cotton.

Little wrinkles at the chest. Barely perceptible.

Like someone had the material in their grip.

“Could have been a struggle between him and Bogart,” Eddie noted.

“Could have been someone holding him steady to take a bullet,” Hawk noted. “Hunker down the right side of him, spatter would not be affected.”

Mag moved his light. “No scuffs on the carpet.”

“Unconscious?” Boone asked.

“I wouldn’t sit still for someone to plug my temple with a forty-five,” Eddie said.

“Why would they hold him up?” Mag asked.

“Maybe not unconscious. Maybe incapacitated,” Hawk remarked, straightening to stand and asking Eddie, “You gonna call this in?”

“Hank is waiting five minutes away for my call to come in hot. And that should have happened about ten minutes ago,” Eddie answered.

Hawk nodded and did a hand gesture that meant Mag and Boone moved.

“We’ll talk,” Boone heard Hawk say low to Eddie.

“Yeah,” Eddie agreed.

At the back gate, Hawk ordered, “Rendezvous, office,” before, in different directions, they all melted into the night.