Chapter 25

Chapter Twenty-Five

B right and early the next morning, Shane sat at a picnic table outside the South Platte River marina, the morning air crisp and thick with the faint scent of pine and wet earth. The marina was tucked just outside Denver, near the Four Corners region, where the mountains loomed in the distance. The rhythmic clink of fishing equipment filled the air as two men from Fly Guys Fishing Guides worked around their boat, loading rods, reels, waders, and other gear.

He was cold as hell and Shane took a sip of his coffee, watching the scene unfold from behind a pair of dark sunglasses. He’d arrived at dawn, scoping out the location and keeping an eye out for Cotton Timmons. The dock was busy but not chaotic, and the Fly Guys boat stood out with its logo emblazoned on the side in bold, orange letters.

It was only about a fifty-fifty chance in Shane’s mind that Timmons would make an appearance. More than likely, he was already on the run, hundreds or thousands of miles away from Colorado, which he’d used as a diversion. Still yet, it had to be checked out.

Fifteen minutes before the appointed time, Shane spotted an old Ford pickup truck pulling into the gravel lot. Much to his relief, Timmons hopped out of the passenger seat, flanked by two men who looked like they hadn’t worried about a thing in their lives. They were laughing, hauling a cooler out of the truck bed along with a couple of fishing rods and tackle boxes. They headed for the dock.

Shane set his coffee down and rose from his bench, keeping his pace deliberate as he intercepted them before they could reach the boat.

“Cotton Timmons,” Shane called, his voice firm.

Timmons froze, his laughter dying instantly. His face twisted into a mixture of shock and anger. “What the hell are you doing here?”

The two men with him exchanged confused glances. “Who’s this?” one of them asked.

“Shane Weaver, Detective,” Shane said, flashing his badge. He turned his gaze back to Timmons. “We need to talk.”

Timmons shook his head, his hands balling into fists. “No way. I’ve got a fishing trip, man. I done told you everything you wanted to know, and you can’t just show up here and ruin my trip!”

The two Fly Guys employees on the boat looked up, concern flashing across their faces. One of them, a grizzled man in his forties who looked like he’d seen his share of drama on these waters, climbed onto the dock and approached.

“I’m Will, and I’m in charge of this charter. What’s going on here?”

“This guy’s harassing me,” Timmons snapped, gesturing toward Shane.

Shane held up his badge again. “I’m not harassing anyone. This is official business.”

The foreman’s eyes narrowed as he looked between Timmons and Shane. “I can vouch for these guys. They come every year but, if there’s a problem, I’m not taking anyone out on my boat until it’s cleared up. Last thing I need is my company wrapped up in something illegal.”

Timmons turned to his friends, his face reddening. “Can you believe this?”

One of his friends clapped him on the shoulder. “Look, Cotton. Just go talk to him and get it over with. We want to fish, man.”

Timmons grumbled under his breath but finally nodded.

Shane gestured toward a picnic table near the parking lot, keeping a close eye on Timmons as they walked. Every muscle in Shane’s body was coiled, ready in case Timmons tried to make a run for it. He didn’t look like he could outrun a toddler, but you never knew.

When they reached the table, he stood close enough to ensure Timmons couldn’t bolt.

“Let’s go over this again,” Shane began, his tone sharp. “First, let me ask you, why did you make a reservation at the Hampton Inn but never check in?”

Timmons gestured toward the dock, where his friends were waiting impatiently. “Because they picked me up at the airport. We went back to Max’s place for a cookout and beer. I drank too much, so Max insisted I stay in his guest room. Is that a crime?”

Shane’s eyes narrowed. “This is all convenient timing, don’t you think? A fishing trip just as we’re narrowing in on you as a suspect.”

Timmons threw his hands in the air. “I’ve had this trip planned for a year! Ask my buddies if you don’t believe me. What the hell is your problem?”

“My problem,” Shane said, his voice lowering, “is that, even if you did have this trip planned for a year, maybe you planned the murders to coincide, so you’d have a reason to leave town. I just got word that your DNA was found in the Colburns’ house. So let me ask you again—have you ever been inside?”

Timmons’ face turned crimson. “I’ve told you a hundred times—I’ve never been in that house!”

“Then how do you explain your DNA being there?”

Timmons’ voice rose in frustration. “I can’t! If my DNA is in that house, someone planted it there. I don’t know how, but I wasn’t there, and I wasn’t part of that crime!”

Shane studied him, his instincts screaming that something wasn’t adding up. “If you’re innocent,” he said, his tone softening just slightly, “then you need to come back with me and prove it.”

Timmons looked over at his friends near the boat, then glared at Shane, his jaw tightening. “And if I say no? What are my options?”

Shane was nervous. He couldn’t legally detain Timmons.

He had to decide if he was going to do it anyway. But first he’d try persuasion and bending the truth. He leaned in like he was telling him a secret and changed his tone to a friendly one. Now it was time to play the buddy role.

“Listen, Timmons. As you know, the state GBI is now on this case. It’s a big deal and, unless you want to spend the rest of your life on the run with the photo from your driver’s license flashed on every news channel from coast to coast, I suggest you come back with me and straighten this mess out. I can help you.”

For a moment, they stood there, locked in a silent battle of wills. Finally, Timmons let out a heavy sigh. “Fine,” he said, his voice dripping with resignation. “But you better believe I’ll be calling my lawyer the second we get to the airport.”

Shane nodded. “That’s your right.”

He placed a firm hand on Timmons’ shoulder, guiding him back toward the parking lot. His eyes scanned the marina one last time, ensuring no surprises were waiting for them.

“Guys, go on without me,” Timmons yelled out to his friends, throwing his arms in the air in a frustrated and overly dramatic gesture.

As they walked, Shane’s mind churned with questions. Timmons’ story had holes big enough to drive a truck through, but the man’s indignation felt genuine. One way or another, Shane was determined to get to the truth—no matter how tangled the line.