Aimee Thurlo - Secrets of the Lynx

All things considered, Yolanda, or whoever she was, had come to the right P.I. He’d never had much patience with bullies, particularly those who preyed on women.

As the minutes stretched by and the temperature continued to drop, he reached into his pocket for his cell phone and dialed his foster brother, Preston.

Like it was with all his foster brothers, Preston and he had come from completely different backgrounds. Yet, once they’d been taken in by Hosteen Silver, the traditionalist Navajo medicine man who’d become their foster father, they’d grown as close, or closer, than blood brothers.

Preston Bowman, now a Hartley Police detective, lived for his job. Even though it was getting close to seven, Paul knew his brother would still be clocked in.

Preston picked up on the first ring and barked his name.

“It’s me,” Paul said.

“What’s up?” Preston asked.

“I’m supposed to meet a client—Yolanda—no last name. She contacted me last night claiming she’d been trying to break up with her boyfriend, a Hartley cop. He’s apparently started using her as a punching bag, so she’s asked for my protection.”

“Hook her up with the chief’s office or Internal Affairs. We have ways of dealing with this kind of thing,” Preston answered immediately.

“I suggested that, but she doesn’t trust the police. She thinks they’ll cover for one of their own.”

“No way. We try to keep things in-house, sure, but we make sure the situation gets handled. We take a dim view of domestic abuse,” he said. “Give her my number and tell her to come see me.”

“I’ll pass that on when she shows up, but if she says no, I’m taking her case.”

“You’re waiting for her right now?”

“Yeah. She’s late. She said six-thirty.”

“You thinking maybe her boyfriend found out she was looking for help?”

“The thought occurred to me, yeah,” Paul said.

“She wouldn’t give you a last name?”

“Nope. She was whispering when she called, so wherever she was, she was worried about being overheard. All I got was a description so I could spot her,” Paul said.

“Go on.”

“Blonde, five foot seven, average build. She said she’d be driving a green Ford SUV, wearing a denim jacket and jeans, and carrying a red handbag. She sound familiar?”

“You mean do I know an officer with a girlfriend named Yolanda who fits that bill?”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry, doesn’t ring a bell. Give me her number and I’ll run it through the system.”

Paul gave him the number straight from his caller ID, then waited.

“That matches a residential landline for a woman named Yolanda Sharpe. The address is on Hartley’s south side—485 Conejo Road. Hang on a sec. Here’s more. Yolanda’s got a record—shoplifting, check fraud and a few misdemeanors,” Preston said. “She’s served six months jail time.”

“Interesting background, but she still doesn’t deserve to get batted around.”

“True, but I think you should back off, at least for now. Look at the facts. She didn’t give you her full name or even the first name of her boyfriend. Now she’s late. Who knows what might have gone down? What if the boyfriend shows up instead, mad as hell and looking for a fight? With that bum shoulder, if he comes at you, you’re going down hard.”

“Like hell.”

“Look, bro, something’s off. You felt that too or you wouldn’t have called,” Preston said. “Anyone who checks you out on the internet knows you like riding to the rescue. Remember that roughneck you threw out the window after he cornered the waitress at the Blue Corral? Made the cable news.”

“That was self-defense.” Paul chuckled softly. “And my shoulder didn’t hold me back. He flew a good ten feet.”

“Okay, so you’re not backing off. Give me your location and I’ll join you. You might be able to use a little backup.”

“Just don’t get in my way,” Paul growled. “I’m standing behind the pines in the park beside the Murray Building on Main. My truck’s across the street.”

“I’m in my cruiser now. My ETA’s only three minutes or less, so try to stay out of trouble till then.”

Paul hung up, his gaze still on the empty street. His brother was right. He had a sixth sense about some things, and right now his instincts were telling him trouble was close at hand.

Muscles tensing up, Paul reached for the lynx fetish he wore around his neck on a leather cord. The slivers of pyrite that comprised its eyes glittered ominously. He’d never been able to figure out why, or how, but whenever danger was near, the eyes of the lynx would take on a light of their own. Tonight, maybe it was the lightning or the cold playing tricks on his senses, but either way, he’d learned not to ignore the warning.

After checking his watch one last time, Paul decided to walk back over to his pickup. He’d just stepped out of cover when a blue truck pulled up to the curb and the driver leaned toward the passenger’s side window. As a brilliant flash of lightning lit up the night sky, he saw the pistol in the driver’s hand.

Paul dove to the ground just as two loud gunshots ripped through the air.

Paul rolled to his right, and using a tree trunk as cover, he rose to one knee, pistol in hand, but it was too late. The truck was already speeding away. Making a split-second decision, he ran after it, hoping to read the plates.

He hadn’t gone fifty yards when he heard the wail of an approaching siren. A heartbeat later Preston rounded the corner and pulled to a screeching stop beside him.

“You hit?” Preston asked, leaning over and shouting out the passenger’s side window.

“No.” Paul opened the door of his brother’s unit and jumped in. “Blue pickup, turned south down Applewood.”

“Make and model?”

“Ford 150, I think,” Paul said, reaching for the shoulder belt as Preston hit the gas. “Or maybe a Chevy. The tailgate was down and it happened in a flash.”

“Let me guess. No Yolanda?”

“I never got a look at the driver. All I saw was the pistol sticking out the passenger’s window. If that lightning flash hadn’t lit up everything at just the right time, I would have been on the ground right now, a soon-to-be chalk outline.”

“You were set up, bro.” Preston turned the corner at high speed, yanking Paul to one side. “The shooter can’t be far. Keep an eye out for taillights on the side streets.”

Paul kept a close watch on the area as his foster brother raced down the street. Traffic here was light. Hartley was barely a city. Most downtown businesses were closed before six, and the area restaurants and bars were all farther east or west.

“In your gut you knew all along that this wasn’t just another domestic abuse situation. I’m right, aren’t I?” Preston said as he took another left, then slowed down and directed his spotlight into the darkened alley they passed.

“I didn’t know, but I had a feeling something wasn’t right,” Paul said. “I’d just decided to call it a night when it went down.”

Preston slowed as they passed a bank parking lot, giving them time to study every inch of the well-lit area. “I think we struck out. The pickup’s gone.”

After another ten minutes, Preston picked up his radio and called off the other patrol cars in the area.

“So, you gonna report this to the marshals service?” he finally asked Paul.

“Yeah. I have to because Miller is still at large.” Paul understood his brother’s lack of enthusiasm. Local departments hated dealing with the feds. But locating Chris Miller, the man who’d killed his partner and wounded him, was a priority. “It’s been ten months since the shooting, so this is probably unrelated, but no matter. I still have to report an incident like this.”