Page 92 of Brazen Criminals

“Great. I need you to get RJ and Walker back to the house.”

“Sure. What about Trips?”

She looks back from the crowd swarming around us, two pebbles in a river. “He’s in jail. But I think I can get him out. I just need everyone’s help.”

My heart stops. If the cops figure out that Trips was behind that old assault, we all could be in jail by the end of the week.

“I’ll call the guys,” I say, already rushing to my car with Clara striding beside me, never a step behind. I hope to God her plan is good. Otherwise, we’re all fucked.

Chapter 43

RJ

Thestreetsarestillslick from the rain, so I take it slow back to the house. Jansen sent out our SOS signal—blueberry muffins at the house. Blueberry muffins means we are having a meeting, and at the house is where it’s going down.

While I’m glad it wasn’t a “leftover scrambled eggs” text (because who wants to run?), I’m still sweating by the time I pull up to the front—coded messages are never a good sign.

Because I have a motorcycle, my job is to secure the front of the house. Pulling my bike into the yard is annoying, but it’s not like parking an SUV on the front lawn. I do a cursory scan and flag a possible police setup half a block down. Grimacing, I tuck my helmet under my arm and march toward the house.

The front porch makes me gag. Sopping wet teddy bears litter the floor, strung up in tangled balloon ribbons, and shattered vases of red roses add to the horror show. If a creepy Valentine’s Day card could vomit, it spewed all over our front porch.

The two vases closest to the door are both knocked over, petals already limp, glued to the wood. Sprawled between them, I find a soggy patrol officer’s dropped business card. That van is definitely the cops.

I cut a narrow path between the destroyed bouquets and throw open the door, yelling, “Hello?,” the bite of panic winning over my desire to observe, to measure, to verify the shape of everything and force it into a form that makes sense.

A chorus of voices come from the kitchen, one of them a little higher pitched than the others, and I let out a relieved sigh, yanking the door shut behind me.

Walker meets me in the hallway, handing me the frequency scanner, so I trade my helmet for the device. I do a full sweep of the main floor, closing curtains as I go, trying to block any way for the cops to get sound. This is obviously supposed to be a private conversation.

Nothing pings, so I signal we’re clean, setting the scanner on the end table. I open my damp bag, pulling out the rest of my gear, not looking forward to sharing what I found this afternoon.

I sneak a glance at Clara, expecting to see a nervous, anxious mess, especially after the “gifts” her monster ex obviously left on the porch for her.

Instead, she’s perched on the arm of the couch, her eyes focused on nothing in particular, her hands and legs still. For the first time, she looks in control of herself and her surroundings.

What changed?

My heart thumps, caught by the steel in her posture, the serenity of her purpose. This is new, and I’m pretty sure this is good.

“The house is clear. What’s actually going on?” Walker asks, tossing a kombucha from one hand to the other, not opening it.

Clara grimaces. “Trips is in jail. Bryce pressed charges. And I think friendly Officer Tom is close to linking Trips to the prior assault as well.”

“Shit,” Walker mutters.

I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. Clara doesn’t look worried. She looks sad. And Jansen is gazing at her like she’s the solution to every problem he’s ever had.

“Before we get into it, I have to share two things,” I say, watching Clara, wishing that she didn’t need to hear the second thing I have to tell her.

Clara nods, offering me the floor. That one motion is the start of something big. I don’t know what’s changing, but it’s huge, important, it slots in like a keystone in an arch—immovable and necessary for the whole contraption to stay upright.

I clear my throat, wary and energized. “Number one, there’s a good chance we have surveillance. There’s a dark van three doors down I haven’t seen before, and I saw more than one silhouette in the cab. The cops have to have something to rally this volume of resources against us. Officer Reed must have political clout, so be careful.”

Clara cringes for a second before her face falls back to neutral.

I rub my knees, push back, then reach for my laptop. “Number two, I have more news on Bryce and that friend of his we couldn’t pin down.” I glance at Clara, not wanting to embarrass her. “If now isn’t a good time, I can hold it for later.”

Clara meets my gaze, forcing me to look at her, the same way I usually make other people look at me.

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