Page 38 of Silent Smile

An hour later, warrant in hand, Sheila and Finn pulled up to Hawke's house, a convoy of patrol cars behind them. The quiet suburban street seemed to hold its breath as officers emerged from their vehicles, ready to swarm the property.

"Remember," Sheila said, addressing the assembled officers, "we're looking for anything related to the murders of Amanda Weller and Carl Donovan. Pay special attention to any Native American artifacts, symbols, or literature. And keep an eye out for plant specimens or digging tools that seem out of place."

The officers nodded, their faces serious. Sheila felt the weight of the moment. This could be the break they needed, or it could be another dead end. Either way, they had to be thorough.

Sheila approached the front door, Finn at her side, the warrant feeling heavy in her pocket. She knocked firmly. "Jason Hawke! This is Sheriff Stone. We have a warrant to search the premises!"

After a tense moment, the door opened. Hawke stood there, his face a mix of confusion and anger. "What's going on?"

Sheila held up the warrant. "As I said, Mr. Hawke, we have a warrant to search your home. Please step aside."

"This is ridiculous," Hawke protested as officers streamed past him into the house. "I told you everything already! You can't just come in here and—"

"Actually, we can," Finn interrupted. "That's exactly what this warrant allows us to do. Now, please, stay out of the way and let us do our job."

Sheila nodded to a deputy. "Keep an eye on Mr. Hawke. Make sure he doesn't interfere with the search or attempt to leave."

As the deputy led a fuming Hawke to the living room, Sheila and Finn began their methodical search of the house. They started in the kitchen, opening every drawer and cabinet, checking behind appliances.

"Sheila," Finn called from the pantry. "Take a look at this."

She joined him, eyeing the shelves of canned goods and dry goods. "What am I looking at?"

Finn pointed to several unmarked glass jars filled with what looked like dried plants. "These don't look like your average kitchen herbs."

Sheila carefully opened one of the jars, a pungent aroma filling the air. "Definitely not oregano," she murmured. "Bag these for analysis. Could be more stolen park specimens."

They moved on to the bedrooms. Hawke's room was spartanly furnished, with just a bed, dresser, and desk. Sheila rifled through the desk drawers while Finn checked the closet.

"Sheila," Finn called again. "I think I've got something."

She joined him at the closet, where he was kneeling by the back wall. "Look," he said, pointing to a small gap between the floorboards. "This one's loose."

Together, they pried up the board, revealing a hidden compartment. Inside, they found a collection of rare desert plants, each in its own carefully maintained terrarium. Delicate flowers and succulents, some Sheila had never seen before, thrived under specialized grow lights. Beside them lay a notebook filled with names, dates, and dollar amounts.

"Looks like you didn't give up your side business after all, Hawke," Finn said, leafing through the notebook.

Sheila examined the plants closely. "Some of these are endangered species," she said. "This is way beyond just taking a few flowers. This is organized trafficking of protected plants."

Hawke, who had been allowed to watch the search under the deputy's supervision, paled visibly. "That's... that's not what you think," he stammered.

"Really?" Sheila raised an eyebrow. "Because it looks like evidence of ongoing criminal activity to me. Care to explain?"

Hawke opened his mouth, then closed it again, clearly struggling for words.

Sheila was about to press further when a shout came from the backyard. "Sheriff! You need to see this!"

She hurried outside, where an officer stood near the shed, pointing at a patch of recently disturbed earth. "There's something buried here," he said.

With growing excitement, Sheila knelt and began to dig. The soil was loose, easy to move. A few inches down, her hand struck something solid. She brushed away the dirt, revealing the handle of a shovel.

It was not the shovel itself that captured Sheila's attention, however, but rather the faint stain on the blade of the shovel. Blood, by the look of it.

She thought of the bruises on the victims: the one on the side of Amanda's head and the one on Carl's forehead.

Was she holding in her hands the tool that had dealt those blows?

Hawke, who had followed them outside, stared at the shovel in horror. "That's not mine," he said, his voice shaking. "I've never seen that before in my life. You have to believe me!"

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