Page 118 of Diamonds in the Mud

“I get a chance at him first,” I warned.

“Why?” Randy said as we weaved around traffic.

“I’m guessing these numbers mean something to him. Guessing he found out she had them. Hell, maybe Rayne had even figured out what they meant. Somehow connected him to…” To what? I thought quickly. “The only thing left unsolved was the murders,” I said, feeling a shiver race down my spine.

“Why in the hell would Jackson Pennington murder Sharon Taylor?” Randy asked, taking a corner at top speed.

I glanced down at Rayne’s phone. “This could be a phone number?” I said, pulling out my phone and punching the digits in.

The phone rang. When someone answered, I could hear breathing, Rayne screaming, then a gun shot before the line went dead.

“Shit, that was her,” I said, jerking the phone from my ear. I turned the Mobile Data Terminal screen towards me and punched the phone number in. It took a moment before the data came up. “It’s his cell number all right.” I looked down at the phone and swiped the screen to the photo before the image of the numbers. This image was a handwritten note. I read it out loud for Randy.

“You’re falling into his trap. He’s going to pin everything on you. We are going to take the blame for everything. Meet me tonight behind the bar in the alley. I have the proof you asked for.”

“This must be from Evelyn. To…” I stilled as it hit me.

“Quincy,” Randy finished for me as we slowed down.

Shit. I looked at the next image. “What’s this?” I showed Randy the image of a receipt.

He frowned at it.

“That’s an old-school receipt for an evidence locker and police file case that we used to give out. We haven’t used those in years.” I glanced up as he stopped the car and shut off the lights and siren as we paused at the end of a long driveway just out of sight of the house. “I doubt he’s here,” Randy said. “Jackson is too smart to bring her back here. We’ll check.” He glanced at me. “Tell me you’re armed.”

I nodded. “You take the left, I’ll go right.”

We climbed out of the patrol car and both darted in different directions.

I raced through the brush and trees, keeping out of sight of the house until I could approach it without the possibility of being seen. I glanced in a few dark windows, feeling defeated.

Randy was right. There wasn’t a car in the driveway or in the detached carport area.

“What now?” Randy asked after we looked in a few more windows. “The place is empty.”

I thought. “Think you can find the locker or file that this goes to?” I asked, holding up Rayne’s phone.

We rushed back to the car. When we pulled into the station, Owen was there waiting with everyone else that was on duty.

“This way.” Randy ran through the office and headed towards the evidence locker. He used his keys to unlock the doors and gate and then glanced down at Rayne’s phone again.

“Nine thousand thirty-two. Shit.” He closed his eyes. “Storage room.” He turned and darted down the hallway. “We moved them a few years back. Anything older than ten thousand went back here.” He opened another locked door and flipped on the lights. Rows and rows of file cabinets and stacked boxes on shelving filled the massive area.

It took him less than five minutes to find the box marked nine thousand thirty and when he pulled out the thick file marked thirty-two, I held my breath.

“It’s an old arrest report for a teenager named Jack Wheeler. He was caught skinning a dog alive. They found several other skinned animals at his residence after an investigation. I don’t remember this case. I think I’d just taken the chief job.” Randy turned the page and we both gasped. There, in black and white, was an old image of a very young Jackson Pennington. “The Wheeler place is just outside of town on the bayou,” Randy added, pointing to the address on the report. “Let’s go.”

This time more than half a dozen cop cars followed Randy and I out of town. We headed down a dirt road. When we came to a downed tree across the road, we parked.

“How would he get through this?” I asked as I climbed out and glanced around.

“There.” Someone shined a flashlight on a large black SUV.

“That’s his,” Randy said, walking over to it.

“Four-wheeler tracks,” someone else shouted.

“Block his car in,” I called out as we all shot through the brush, following the tracks.