Page 8 of Fighting for Mallory

“Shaken and terrified. She called me from the fundraiser last night and said she was afraid of their limo driver. Said she saw part of a fanged copperhead tattoo on him. Find him, Hutch.”

“On it. I’ll keep you posted.”

When Judd rejoined Luca twenty minutes later, he’d lost his cocky attitude. “Your alibi checked out.”

Luca suspected either Brielle or Justice gave Judd hell for assuming even for a minute that he’d murdered Bentley Hayes. “What now?”

“Help me, Detective. You’re duty bound to tell me the truth, though it may incriminate Mrs. Hayes.”

“Judd, I swear to you, I’m in the dark here. But I do know one thing. Mallory isn’t capable of cold-blooded murder. Do your job and investigate this case. It’s not as open and shut as you think.”

Judd returned Luca’s service weapon and shield. “Don’t interfere?” His cell phone vibrated with a notification. “I need to see the medical examiner. You’re free to go, Detective Martinelli.”

* * *

A pall hung over the LA SWAT Command Center after the early morning call to the Hayes’ Bel-Air estate. Finnigan carried more responsibility since Brielle wouldn’t return to duty for another six months at least, and it weighed on him. He could barely concentrate on work with Tawny undercover in the California Institution for Women. She’d only been incarcerated for two days when an inmate attacked her. Justice had prepared Tawny well for such an eventuality, and she put the other woman in the infirmary. Word spread and another inmate decided to try her luck. This time Tawny sustained some minor cuts and bruises, but her second attacker also ended up in the infirmary with worse injuries than the first inmate.

Justice, and Tawny’s handler, Special Agent in Charge Jiena Cofield, Hutch’s fiancée, were keeping a close eye on her via a microscopic device implanted under her skin provided by Tex. Though he trusted them, Finnigan worried that Tawny would fall victim to the corruption going on inside the prison and disappear or die by a drug overdose like her friend who brought the situation to her attention. After a rocky beginning to their relationship, they’d come to appreciate their differences and were in a steady, loving place in their lives. Finnigan couldn’t bear to lose his redhaired firecracker now.

A text message from Hutch jarred him out of his distraction. Finnigan read it and summoned Macklin. “Hutch wants us to check out this address for Bentley’s limo driver. His name is Andre Lapeno.”

“Let’s go. I’ll tell our squad leader what we’re doing on the way.”

They took one of SWAT’s unmarked cars and headed into Compton. Though not entirely free of crime, the LAPD had made great strides working with community leaders to cut down on gang activity, spruce up the neighborhoods by turning empty, overgrown lots into gardens and repairing homes, and building trust between cops and residents. It wasn’t a perfect solution, nothing could be, but now children were riding their bikes again and playing outside with less fear of being shot in a drive-by or accosted by drug dealers.

Finnigan and Macklin passed several parked squad cars and acknowledged them with a nod of their heads. They pulled into the driveway of a dilapidated pale blue and white home and gave their location to one of their teammates in the command center. The yard hadn’t been mowed, and debris blew across it in the warm early fall wind. A couple of tall trees provided some shade.

They followed a brick path, weeds poking up through the cracks, to the front door with a screen hanging lopsided. Finnigan knocked and called, “Mr. Lapeno! LAPD! Please open the door!”

Nothing but the wind soughing through the trees answered them. Finnigan tried again, and they waited. Still no sound came from inside the home.

They were about to give up when a brisk breeze assaulted them with a foul odor.

“Do you smell that?” Macklin asked.

“Yeah.”

Macklin spoke into his shoulder mike. “Stand by. We’re entering the residence. No one has responded, and we’re smelling something that might indicate a dead body.”

“Proceed with caution.”

Finnigan and Macklin released their guns and communicated with hand signals. Macklin would kick in the door and Finnigan would provide cover. Finnigan counted to three with his fingers, and they sprang into action, shouting, “LAPD SWAT!”

They cleared the living room, dining area, and the kitchen. Moving down the hallway, they checked a bedroom with twin beds. The furnishings and décor suggested it belonged to boys. The odor of death and decay grew more pungent when they approached the next bedroom. Finnigan entered first. “Jesus Christ.” He lowered his weapon.

Andre Lapeno, his wife, and young sons lay on the king-sized bed side by side. Each had a small round bullet hole in the forehead. The family had been bound and gagged. Based on the blood spatter, the Lapenos had been killed there on the bed.

“Holy Hell, they’ve been executed,” Macklin declared in a low voice. “Either Bentley or Mallory is mixed up in some dangerous shit.”

Finnigan turned away from the massacre. “Call it in. I’m texting Luca.”

* * *

Luca read the text message from Finnigan and cursed. “Hold up. Hold on.” He interrupted Cameron’s conversation with Mallory.

From his grim expression and tone of voice, they knew the news wasn’t good. “What is it?” Cameron demanded.

“Mallory, do you remember the name of your limo driver?”

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