Kaleidoscope (Colorado Mountain #6)(4)
“I see that,” Deck allowed, not annoyed by the check—he’d expect nothing less—but he said no more.
“So, before we talk this through with you, you know that if you take this on, you do this by the book. You’re deputized, you report, you take orders and I’ll repeat, you don’t go maverick,” Mick continued, and Deck drew in breath.
Then he stated it plain.
“My understanding of this meet is, if I wanna take this on, and seein’ if I do, my usual charges will need to be significantly discounted considering you can’t afford to pay them as I charge them, it’ll need to be somethin’ I really wanna do. And you got a reputation I admire, Shaughnessy, so I hope you take no offense but I don’t take orders. I work a case how I feel it needs to be worked. I report what I feel is necessary. And last, I only do maverick.”
Mick looked to the room and announced, “This isn’t startin’ good.”
“Why don’t we lay it out, see what Deck thinks and get the other shit sorted if it’s somethin’ he wants to do?” Chace suggested, moving to a wide whiteboard set at an angle in the corner.
No one said anything. Deck settled in but Chace’s eyes came to him.
“You’re gonna see somethin’ you might not like on this board that probably will make Mick’s warnings moot seein’ as I figure you are not gonna want this case. I would have told you about it sooner, but if I did, you might not have come in, and, respect Mick,” Chace glanced at Shaughnessy before he looked back to Deck, “with what happened a few days ago, we need you.”
With that, he flipped the whiteboard and Deck’s eyes scanned it.
Half a second later, his body froze solid.
This was because there was a picture of the man he just met on the street, top center of the whiteboard, his name in red marker written under the picture, “Boss” under his name. Coming off his picture were a variety of red, black and blue lines that led to smaller pictures with names and other information. And last, the reason he knew Chace knew Deck would not like what he saw was the blue line that led from McFarland’s picture down to the bottom right corner where there were two pictures.
One, a color shot of McFarland and Emme making out at the side of his pimped-out truck. The one next to it, a black-and-white shot of Emme walking down the boardwalk, head turned to the side looking at something. She was wearing different but no less fashionable shades over her eyes, her long hair was unhindered by a hat showing she had a deep, thick, sexy-as-all-f*ck bang that hung into her eyes, her body was encased in different jeans, coat and shoes but her outfit was no less stylish. Her lips were smiling, the dimple out.
Under the picture it said “Emmanuelle Holmes.” Under that “Girlfriend/Lover.” Under that it said “Partner?”
With practice and deduction, Deck knew that the black lines were definite alliances the team had confirmed. Red lines were hot, lieutenants or those with records, possible weak links. And blue were unconfirmed members of the crew.
“Doesn’t look like it, but it’s Emme, man,” Chace said quietly, and Deck tore his eyes from the picture of Emme and looked at Chace. “Saw the name. Couldn’t believe it until they showed me her trail. It all fits. That’s her. Totally changed.”
“Saw her outside, just now, with him,” Deck told the room, watched Chace blink and jerked his head toward the top of the whiteboard. He then declared, “He’s no boss. She’s no partner.”
“So you do have a history with Emmanuelle Holmes,” Carole stated, but it was a question and Deck looked to her.
Shaughnessy ran his men his way and word was, Shaughnessy took his job seriously but he was as laidback as they come otherwise. Even his officers didn’t wear uniforms. They wore jeans and tan shirts with their badges but that was as far as they got.
Gibbons was mostly the same, his two detectives dressed as they wanted. Officers wore uniforms, however.
Weatherspoon, who oversaw Chantelle, a town with more money, coming in top of the heap of the trinity it held with Gnaw Bone (second runner-up, a town that depended a great deal on tourist trade and took that seriously) and Carnal (not even close, it was a biker haven, mostly blue collar, definitely rougher). She was in full uniform. Her officers wore full uniforms. Her detectives wore suits or sports jackets and trousers. Her elite citizenry would expect nothing less.
Deck’s eyes shifted to Kenton Douglas.
That man was a wildcard. Recently voted sheriff, he came out of the blue, young, attractive, African-American, in the Sheriff’s Department only ten years, and he’d wiped the floor with his opponent who held that spot for twenty-five years. The old sheriff also held it while a serial killer hunted his patch and a police chief in his county got so dirty he was foul. The county was ready for change. Douglas was smart enough to know the time was ripe and slid in on a landslide.
Then he made sweeping changes.
And one of those changes was taking his sheriff’s police out of uniform and giving them the Mick treatment. Tan shirts. Badges on belts. Jeans. Boots.
It was a smart move. His county was a rural, mountain county. His residents liked easy and familiar, but they were scared after all that had gone on and many of them had learned not to trust the police. Easier to trust a badge wearing jeans and boots than one kitted out in full gear.
It wasn’t only smart, it was subtle. And so far, successful.