Deceitful above all thin.., p.22
Deceitful Above All Things: Hank Lin Mystery Book 1, page 22
She nodded, encouraged a bit. She sat back and pushed the wild read ringlets out of her face.
Hank then asked, “What would Mason say?”
“I don’t know. What would Mason say?” she asked.
Hank laughed and shrugged. “I really don’t know. I bet he’d have something encouraging to say. He’d probably tell you to pray about it or trust God or something.”
“That is what he would say. He’d tell me to pray about it and to not let the anxiety and stress crush me.”
“See? There you go. Besides, you have me as your secret weapon.”
Sierra laughed this time. “Some secret weapon you are, Hank. You are lying in a hospital bed with a concussion.”
“Fair point. I am good with my cell phone, though.”
“I’m sure the murderer is shaking in his boots,” she said with a heavy dose of sarcasm.
“Which reminds me.” Hank pointed at the bandages on his injured head. “My mind still feels pretty swampy. There is another angle we need to look into.”
“OK, what’s that?”
Hank opened the photos app on his phone again and found the screenshots from earlier. “The Vista Lago Consortium, besides Leo Hart and a couple other people, includes a corporation called Fortunius, LLC.” He showed her the screen shot. “I chased that down and found Fortunius is owned by a company called Fortis Holdings. So, I followed that thread and found that Fortis Holdings is owned by an anonymous LLC.”
“What’s that?”
“Apparently, Nevada allows you to create a business and keep the officers and owners secret. The only way to get the list of owners is with a subpoena.”
Sierra’s eyes went wide. “I’ve never heard about this before.”
“I just learned about it today. We need to find out who this anonymous corporation is. They might be our killer.”
“A subpoena will take time,” Sierra said, “But, I’ll get it started first thing.” Sierra had Hank send several photos to her own phone.
A tall black-haired doctor with wire-frame glasses entered and greeted them. He carried an iPad and wore the traditional white coat.
Sierra stood to go. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow. We’ve got a long night and a tough day tomorrow. You take care of yourself and don’t do anything stupid.”
“Everyone keeps telling me that,” Hank said.
The doctor stepped to the bed and, with a deep voice, said, “Good evening, Mr. Lin. I’m glad you are awake. Let’s talk about this concussion.”
CHAPTER
THIRTY-NINE
Ponderosa County Sheriff’s Office
Thursday Morning
Sierra placed her laptop and the bag of evidence from the forest crime scene into her shoulder bag. Standing next to her desk, she felt groggy and exhausted from the overnight stakeout. She knew this was going to be a challenging day. Deputy Beth Porter relieved her two hours ago, which gave Sierra enough time to race home, take a hot shower, and snooze for forty-five minutes before coming to the office. Although exhausted, her clean uniform and freshly washed hair helped her feel ready for the day. She currently left the unruly mane hanging loose around her shoulders, but she would tie it up before heading into action.
Sierra sipped her coffee from the silver insulated travel mug and checked her watch again. Time was clicking by and she didn’t like it. The tingling tentacles of anxiety were creeping through her body. Getting to Leo Hart’s property as early as possible was all she could think about. They couldn’t risk letting any more time pass, giving Hart the chance to move the truck or destroy it. Sierra was still a little skeptical of Hart’s involvement, but the evidence was stacking up against him. Since she hardly knew him, she couldn’t say either way if the man was capable of two grisly murders.
Diane wasn’t in yet, only Sierra and Truckee. When she heard the door chime, she grabbed her bag and coffee and hurried out to catch the courier. Truckee was also standing, hat in hand, staring at the door as Thatcher and Ploski unexpectedly entered. Sierra stopped next to Truckee.
Ploski pushed through the interior door, leading two scowling, rough-looking men. Thatcher followed, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.
Truckee moaned next to Sierra. She recognized these men immediately, Giovanni, Jr. and Benedetto Massetti. They looked like younger and larger versions of their father. They also exuded the family hostility, likely from being dragged into the sheriff’s department.
“He seems proud of himself,” Truckee said quietly.
“Good morning, Deputies,” Thatcher said from the entrance. “How are Ponderosa county’s finest doing on this lovely morning?”
Truckee grunted and went to the front counter.
Before Sierra could say anything, Thatcher continued. “We’ll be occupied in the interview rooms for a while this morning.”
Ploski led the two irritated men down the hall.
Sierra approached Thatcher. “Understood, Detective. Take as long as you need.”
“I assume you want to watch the video stream again?” Thatcher asked, looking down his nose at her.
“Not this morning. I have other things to take care of. But I would like to see the transcript later today.”
“Oh, really? What could be more important?”
“Stuff,” she said with one hand on her hip, then slurped some coffee from her mug.
“Stuff, eh? That sounds like highly technical police work.”
“It is.”
Thatcher chuckled. He seemed amused by Sierra’s unwillingness to share anything with him. “Well, with a little work, we should have an arrest for the murder of Dylan and Martina McLean before lunch.”
Truckee sauntered toward them. He slipped his white, flat-brimmed hat onto his head atop his braided hair as he approached. “You sound quite confident.”
“I am. Are you going to hang around to see how it’s done, Deputy?”
“Nope.”
“Your loss.”
“Yup,” Truckee said.
The door chime rang again, and a middle-aged man with a mustache and round glasses entered the small lobby. He looked around and saw Sierra and Truckee in their green uniforms and held up an envelope, then poked his head through the glass door between the lobby and the office area.
“Deputy McLean?”
“That’s me,” Sierra said.
Without coming all the way in, he said, “I’ve got a search warrant here from Judge Thompson for you.”
“Perfect. Thank you,” Sierra said, stepping toward the door and taking the envelope. The man left quickly.
Thatcher, hovering close, asked, “What’s that?”
“A search warrant,” she said flatly. “Truckee, you ready?”
“I am.”
“Detective, our administrator Diane will be in by 8:00am. If you need anything, she will help you.” Sierra turned to leave.
“What’s the search warrant for?” Thatcher asked.
“Stuff,” she said, without looking at him.
Thatcher laughed again, but this time he was less jovial about it. He then reached out and grabbed Sierra by the elbow and turned her around. “Deputy, what are you doing?”
Sierra was about to yank her arm away and give Thatcher an earful for having the nerve to touch her, but Truckee acted faster.
Truckee was a blur of green uniform and massive brown arms. He grabbed Thatcher by the lapels of his navy blazer and shoved him against the wall. The detective’s body slammed against the wall, causing him to grunt. Truckee pinned him there with one hand full of twisted blazer and the forearm of his other arm pinning Thatcher to the wall by his neck.
Thatcher was a tall man, but he looked small and weak as Truckee manhandled him. It surprised Sierra that Thatcher’s eyes betrayed the momentary fear that rushed through him as the massive Paiute attacked him.
Truckee snarled and said, “If you want to touch someone, try touching me instead.”
Detective Ploski was back down the hallway in an instant, yelling at Truckee. “Let him go right now, Deputy!”
Sierra braced herself for fists to start flying, but Ploski proved to be smarter than she’d given him credit for. He stayed out of Truckee’s reach and didn’t try to stop him.
Truckee brought his fist up toward Thatcher’s face, the tendons under the headdress wearing skull tattoo flexing. He then popped his finger out of the fist, pointing at Thatcher’s nose from a quarter of an inch away. “Do not ever touch her again.”
Thatcher put his hands up, and his expression changed back to his usual arrogant attitude. “No problem. I meant nothing. My mistake.”
Truckee held him against the wall for another five seconds, breathing like a bull after the matador.
“Deputy!” Ploski yelled again.
Truckee finally let him go and straightened Thatcher’s coat. He didn’t move out of Thatcher’s personal space, though.
Thatcher cleared his throat.
“Are you OK, Vince?” Ploski asked.
“Yeah, yeah. Fine,” Thatcher said.
Truckee didn’t move, but Sierra went for the door.
“Deputy McLean,” Thatcher said.
Sierra turned back, pushing the door into the lobby open with her back.
“What is the search warrant for? We are on the same team, remember?”
Sierra paused a beat and said, “We have a tip on the location of the victim’s truck. We’re going to confirm.”
“The truck? Where?” Thatcher sounded surprised.
“In the barn of a man named Leo Hart.”
“The country commissioner?” Thatcher asked, whistling loudly after.
“Uh, yeah, that’s right. How do you know him?” Sierra asked, surprised that Thatcher would know Hart.
“Oh, I don’t. I think the mayor may have mentioned him. I don’t remember exactly. But you should have given this lead to us.”
“But, detective, you’re busy with the Massetti family angle.”
“Still.”
“Listen,” Sierra said, asserting some authority. “We don’t have time to wait or argue about this. The clock is ticking. Same for you. We’ll run this lead down while you do your interviews. If we actually find the truck, we’ll bring Leo Hart in. By then, you’ll hopefully have what you need from the Massettis and we’ll fill you in on all the details. Deal?”
Thatcher looked at Ploski, who just shrugged.
“I don’t like it, but you’ve got a deal. And, deputy, control your gorilla, will ya?” Thatcher said, lifting his chin towards Truckee.
“I don’t have any control over Deputy John. You’re on your own with him,” Sierra said with a smile, then hurried through the lobby and out into the crisp morning air. Truckee exited right behind her. Without a word, she climbed into her Tahoe, while Truckee climbed into his Chevy Truck. They roared out of the parking lot toward Hart’s Ranch.
CHAPTER
FORTY
Hart’s Ranch
Thursday Morning
The two Ponderosa Country Sheriff vehicles slowed and came to a stop in front of the gate, blocking access onto Hart’s property. Deputy Beth Porter—who was waiting for Sierra and Truckee at the driveway—pulled her forest green Chevy Tahoe in behind them, in the third position.
Beth had remained in the stakeout position, watching the fire road, until Sierra informed her over the radio that they were inbound. Since one deputy couldn’t watch both roads, Beth came up with the creative solution of placing her husband’s game camera on a tree near Hart’s gate while she stayed in position on the fire road. They figured the fire road was a more likely way to sneak the truck off the property, rather than the front gate. Motion would activate Beth’s game camera and video record anything—man, animal, or vehicle—that entered or exited the property through the gate.
While stopped at the gate, Beth got out of her SUV and collected the game camera from the tree. Sierra, who was first in the line of vehicles, opened the emergency control switch with the county master key carried in every emergency response vehicle in the region.
The three vehicles raced quickly down the gravel drive, kicking up a plume of dust across the meadow. Once they cleared the tree line, the stunning blue surface of Lake Tahoe came into view to their right. Sierra knew Hart’s property boasted of a view worth tens of millions of dollars, but this was even more beautiful than she’d imagined. The scenery of her hometown never got old or common to her.
The sprawling ranch house stood in front of them, sunlight glistening off the windows and metal roof. Pine trees climbed the mountainside behind the massive house. As she came to a stop, Leo Hart, his wife, and two cowboys stood in the driveway. She knew using the emergency gate switch would alert Hart and, based on the limited information she knew of the man, she also expected a hostile encounter. The look on his face as the road dust passed over him confirmed her expectation. The shotgun in his hands also gave her an idea of how this would go.
Sierra quickly pulled her unruly and still slightly wet hair into a ponytail and placed a forest green ball cap with the Ponderosa Country Sheriff logo on her head before hopping out onto the gravel driveway. She grabbed the envelope with the search warrant and slammed the door closed.
She checked the surroundings quickly before moving. Trees and the meadow behind them. Dense forest to the left. The colossal horse barn and arena stood behind Hart and his entourage in front of her. The architectural masterpiece home to her right front and the gorgeous lake to her far right. If this was a social call, she’d stop and take in the natural and manufactured beauty of the property. But this was no social call.
Truckee walked quickly toward Hart, his boots crunching in the gravel. He had his right hand on the grip of his .45 caliber Sig P320 and his left hand out in a stop gesture toward Hart.
“Sir, you need to put down that weapon!” Truckee bellowed.
“What do you think you are doing on my property? You can’t barge in here like this!” Hart yelled back. “I’ve got rights!”
Hart and the two younger cowboys all wore dark jeans bunched up over their brown boots, plaid long sleeve shirts of different colors and patterns, and brown cowboy hats. They all looked like they belonged in a magazine about western culture and fashion. Hart’s wife, however, was fading slowly backwards toward the porch wearing her fluffy pink bathrobe and slippers.
“Mr. Hart, sir! You must put down that shotgun!” Truckee instructed again, now only ten feet from Hart, but he didn’t pull his firearm from its holster.
Sierra approached, holding up the envelope. In her periphery, she saw Beth come around the far side of Sierra’s SUV. Sierra said, “Mr. Hart, we are here on official police business. This is a search warrant for your property. You need to drop the weapon and allow us to do our job.”
Truckee put his hand out for the shotgun. “I’ll take that for now,” he said.
“What are you talking about? A search warrant? What is wrong with you people?” Hart said, spitting out the words. His face was wild with rage.
Sierra said, “Mr. Hart. I need you to hand over that shotgun and I’ll explain everything.”
Hart squinted and grimaced, looked back and forth between the deputies and his cowboys, and finally softened. He handed the shotgun to Truckee, who immediately pressed the slide release and pumped the shotgun, releasing six yellow 12-gauge shells through the ejection port. They landed on the gravel at his feet. He then placed the empty weapon on the hood of Sierra’s Tahoe.
“Let’s hear it then, deputy,” Hart said, his words dripping with disdain.
“Mr. Hart, this search warrant gives us the right to search your property and large structures,” Sierra informed him and handed him the papers. “At this time, we will not be searching the house.”
Speaking quieter now, Hart growled, “Didn’t I tell you not to screw this up, deputy? This looks to me like you are trying to destroy your career. You think you can be sheriff with this kind of foolish error?”
Sierra ignored Hart’s harsh words. “We are going to start at the back of the property in the old barn.” She pointed that direction. “I am asking you to not interfere with our search. There are legal consequences for interfering. Do you understand, Mr. Hart?”
“Oh, I understand alright. I’m calling my lawyer.” Turning and pointing toward his wife now on the porch, he yelled, “Debbie, get Fairlane on the phone right now!” His wife scurried into the house without delay. “What do you possibly think you are going to accomplish by harassing me like this, Deputy McLean?”
“We are not harassing you, sir, but searching for evidence in an ongoing investigation.”
“What evidence?”
“We received a tip that we’ll find Dylan McLean’s missing truck on your property.”
“What!” Hart said. “That’s absurd! A tip? There is no truck on my property.”
“We will see about that,” Truckee said.
As Sierra, Truckee, and Beth started hiking up the rise toward the old barns, Hart continued yelling at them. “You ain’t gonna find anything except the end of your short-lived career, McLean! You are wasting your time and making a fool out of yourself!”
Truckee quietly said, “That Wasi’chu will be the fool when we find the truck up there. Sheriff, you better hope your friend Hank was right.”
Sierra huffed and replied, “You don’t have to tell me that.”
Hart finally gave up his tirade, and the sheriff’s deputies walked straight toward the old barn at the back of the property near the small house that Hank had identified on the map. Truckee popped a Marlboro cigarette between his lips and lit it with a match. Sierra checked the picture on her phone as they followed a hard packed dirt driveway along the outer edge of the horse corral.
The old barn was nowhere near the size or extravagance of Hart’s prize quarter horse barn and arena, but it was still a tall structure. Both the rough and faded wood exterior and the shape of the building reminded her of old westerns she’d watched on TV with her father when she was young. The dirt driveway led along the right side of the barn. Sierra gazed up at the wood structure above her. It reached up into the blue morning sky. The smaller ranch house came into view in front of them.
