Chapter 18

"Do you remember anything strange that night?"

Dan Harris straightened from pulling a soda can out of the vending machine in the hallway of the Public Safety Center. "No, it was a lot of the usual. Some personal property thefts—phones and things. Lost items. One little girl got separated from her parents, but we found them." The security guard flipped the tab of the soda can and took a swig.

Hawthorne pretended he wanted a bag of chips from the machine, though he'd only come over to interview Harris. According to the old duty roster he'd gotten from Human Resources, Harris was one of three security guards who were there the night of Sam's death and were on staff again this year. "What about a group of rowdy, possibly intoxicated young men?"

"A group?" Harris rested a hand on his hip and leveled a curious look at Hawthorne. "You mean like a gang?"

"No. I don't think so. Just four or five guys who might've been particularly noisy and obnoxious." Hawthorne slipped coins into the machine and pressed the button for the bag of chips. "A ride operator said they gave her a hard time that night. I thought she might not be the only one who had a run in with them."

"You know…"

Hawthorne nearly snapped his head in the guard's direction but forced himself to retrieve the chips calmly before looking at Harris.

"I think that was the night there were some punks like that."

"Less talk, more patrol, men." Butch's gruff voice drew Hawthorne's attention to the head of security. He stood in the doorway of his office, which seemed strategically placed by the vending machine. Perfect way for him to catch any slackers.

"Hey, Butch. You remember that night the Ackerman kid died?"

Hawthorne would have to find a way to thank Harris for the assist. He hadn't been able to think of a way to casually bring up the incident to Butch. But he was listed as having been the supervisor on duty that night. Given his greater expertise and seniority, Butch might be able to shed more light on the events of the evening than anyone.

"Of course. Nobody here will forget it." Butch crossed his arms over his thick torso. "Didn't exactly win our security team any awards."

Harris winced. "Right." He aimed his index finger at Hawthorne. "Emerson here was asking about it."

"Why is that?" Butch turned his dark eyes on Hawthorne, more than a little suspicion housed in them.

Hawthorne didn't blame him. Like Butch had observed, the reputation of the fair's security had taken a hit that night. And Butch probably took heat personally since he'd been the supervisor on duty. But the police investigation hadn't found him or anyone else negligent. And clearly the man had kept his job.

"You remember. He's a mystery writer." Harris smiled at Hawthorne. "Doing research, right?"

Hawthorne nodded, focusing on Butch instead. "I admit I'm intrigued by any suspicious deaths. Never know when they'll end up working as inspiration for one of my novels."

"I don't know much about writers. I'll take your word for it." Butch's features relaxed into the friendliest expression he seemed to have, still far short of a smile. "But there's nothing suspicious about this death. The police ruled it was an accident. No fault of ours."

"Oh, I know. I read the report." Hawthorne opened the chip bag for something to do that would make him look nonchalant. "I'm just curious. Occupational hazard, I'm afraid. One of the ride operators said she'd been harassed a little by a group of four or five young men that night. I was just asking Harris here if he remembered them."

"Yeah." Harris looked from Hawthorne to Butch. "It sounds like those punks I had to send away from the rifle sharpshooting game. They were mad at the operator. Accused him of cheating." Harris returned his gaze to Hawthorne. "I only remember because I had to deal with them again later on at the Skyride. They were hanging out of the pods, disobeying the safety guidelines. They were all pretty drunk."

Confirmation of Christy's story. At least that a group of guys like that had been at the fair. "Can you describe them?"

Harris swiped a hand over his close-cropped black hair. "Man, that was a long time ago. They were young. Early twenties, I'd say. A couple were tall. Others medium height. Midwestern accents like they were from here."

"Anyone younger in the group? Like a teenager?" Hawthorne's breath slowed as he waited for the answer.

"Not that I remember. But I can't say for sure." Harris glanced at Butch. "You remember?"

Butch uncrossed his arms and landed his large hands on his hips. "I never saw them. I recall your report at the end of the night. I was inside pretty much all night that shift. Paperwork. Except when I had to oversee arresting a purse snatcher over by the cattle barns."

Nowhere near the midway or the rides, so it made sense Butch wouldn't have seen the rowdy guys.

"You could ask Barry Greer. He was on that night, too." Butch's suggestion signaled approval Hawthorne hadn't expected.

"Thanks." Barry was next on Hawthorne's list to interview if he could get a shift at the same time as the other security guard.

Butch made a show of looking at his thick watch. "How long is your break?"

"Just long enough to finish a soda." Harris downed the rest of his drink and lowered the can with a grin at Butch. "See you at the circus, Emerson." The guard punched Hawthorne's arm and headed up the hallway.

"Thanks for your help, Butch." Hawthorne met the supervisor's watchful gaze. "Great idea to bring on more security and overlap shifts for more coverage since the incidents."

Butch's features held steady. He apparently wasn't the kind of guy to be flattered by compliments.

"Do you think it'll be enough to avoid more sabotage?"

"You bet it will." Butch's voice dropped lower as his thick eyebrows slashed downward. "I'm not about to let those wackos put me out of a job."

"You mean Best Life?"

Butch took in a rough breath that seemed to grind in his throat. "Who else? The police are finally looking into them, now that somebody died. They'll get what's coming to them."

"I hope you're right." Fire stirred in Hawthorne's belly and traveled up to his chest at Butch's words. Desmond Patch stopped? Hawthorne's parents set free? If only it could be true. Could this be God's way of bringing justice to Patch and the cult at last?

"In the meantime, we need to keep this place locked up tighter than Alcatraz." Butch stared at Hawthorne.

"Ah. So I'd better get out there." Hawthorne gave him a half smile and walked up the hallway, folding down the top of the bag of chips he hadn't touched.

If God was finally going to judge the cult that had robbed Hawthorne of his family, he wanted to be part of it.

"You did not just say you're going to your apartment." Nevaeh's statement, part sarcasm and part dare made Jazz wince.

She turned her SUV into the parking lot of the apartment building. "Come on, girl. Don't make me regret being so honest. I'm calling to check in just like you wanted me to."

"Yeah, while you're driving right into the hitman's trap." Exasperation added volume to Nev's voice that came over the speakerphone.

Jazz glanced at her cell in the dashboard holder as if she could see her bestie that way. But she wasn't about to switch to video at a moment like this when Nev was already ready to give her a tongue lashing. "First off, we don't know there is a hit or any hitman after me."

Nev snorted. "No, everybody gets shot at and jumped every time they go out at night."

"Sof probably does."

"Don't try to distract me." But Nev couldn't hide her snicker that came across the line.

Jazz grinned. "You know I'm right." She slipped out of the SUV and got Flash from the back before Nev could insist she stay away from the apartment. "And I'm here already anyway. It's even daylight." The advantage of long days in the summer.

It was a few minutes after six p.m. but didn't look like evening yet. The sun was shining, clearly lighting every parked vehicle in the lot. "I can see everything, and there's nobody around. I'd say you can stay on the line with me, but you're supposed to be on patrol."

"Girl, Alvarez and I can do this blindfolded."

"And while talking on the phone?" Jazz smiled as she entered the building and went to the elevator.

"Just shut up and tell me when you get to your apartment."

Jazz laughed. "A little hard to do both at the same time."

"Don't make me come there and make you mind, girl." The mock discipline in Nev's tone kept the smile on Jazz's face.

"Well, you'll be happy to know there's no one in the elevator with Flash and me."

"You sure?" Sarcasm laced Nev's question.

"Flash is sure, so that's good enough for me." Jazz looked down at the handsome Malinois who seemed to grin up at her.

"I should be talkin' to him instead of you."

"Not a bad idea." The elevator doors slid open, and Jazz stepped out with Flash. "Okay, I'm at my apartment." She eyed her apartment door about sixteen feet up the hallway.

"Like literally at your apartment or almost?"

"Um, you do realize I've gone into my apartment hundreds of times without your supervision, right?"

"And how many of those times did you get jumped?"

Jazz rolled her eyes with a laugh as she slowed by the door. "Not enough to—"

Flash let out a rumble at her side.

The door flung open.