Connolly disconnected the call, held the cell phone in his hand for a moment, then turned and flung it at the wall.
Behind him, Sheriff Leonard Smith said, “What happened?”
Connolly spun around, his face red, glaring down at the sheriff. Then the fire went out of his eyes, and he sighed. “Four more of my men are dead.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“They found them in the canyons. Three of them had bullets in their heads, one in the throat.”
“Their bikes?”
“Still there, plus the one the asshole and the girl were using.”
“Which means they’re now on foot.”
Connolly nodded.
“And didn’t you say something’s wrong with her ankle?”
“Rick said she twisted it when she tried running away the first time. They won’t get far.”
“What about weapons?”
“Two of the rifles are missing, as are two of the pistols. Some extra ammunition. And a radio. Who is this guy?”
“I have no idea.”
“You let him stay in this office last night. You gave him a goddamn ride into Townsend earlier today. You don’t know his name?”
“He said his name was John.”
“You didn’t check his ID?”
“I did and I ran it. Everything seemed legit. If John really isn’t his name, then his fake identity is flawless. Besides, I was trying not to make a big deal out of things. The less hassle we gave him, the more I figured he would be ready to just walk away.”
Connolly approached the desk, slowly, the fire in his eyes returning. He placed his hands on the edge of the desk and leaned forward. “What the fuck has been going on in this town?”
The sheriff looked away, staring off at a far wall. He took a deep breath. “You’ve said it time and again, there’s always more money to be made.”
“What did you do?”
“We saw an opportunity. One of the men we deliver to outside L.A. asked us if we wanted to make more money. He knew our location and said he had friends in the area, friends who could help us. He drew up an entire plan, the number of people needed, just how much each of us would make. The money was just too good to say no.”
“You already make more than enough money. Everyone here does.”
Now keeping his gaze level with Connolly’s, the sheriff said, “There’s always more money to be made.”
Connolly’s nails dug into the desktop, his face burning red. “You are a goddamn hick sheriff in a goddamn hick town. What could you possibly need more money for?”
Before Smith could answer, the door opened and in walked Samuel carrying a notepad. He saw Connolly leaning on the desk, then the pieces of the shattered cell phone on the floor, and paused. “What happened?”
“Four more of our men are dead is what happened,” Connolly said, pushing away from the desk. “Did you know about this side operation?”
Samuel hesitated only a beat, but it was more than enough for Connolly.
“I should kill both of you right now,” he said. “How long has this been going on?”
A long moment of silence, neither man wanting to answer. Finally Smith said, “Nearly two years.”
Connolly turned away, shaking his head, staring up at the ceiling. “Stealing cars. What the fuck were you thinking?”
“They weren’t just any cars. They were specific cars. High-value cars. This guy has contacts at every insurance company. He makes sure the insurance companies take the hit and nothing ever comes back on us. Trust me, we’re careful. We only choose cars with one driver. We have jammers set up on the highway to block cell reception. There were always questions, and sometimes there were suspicions, but nothing ever came of it. The guy made sure everything ran smoothly.”
Connolly turned back around. “You’re in contact with this guy?”
Smith nodded hesitantly.
“Find out where the Mustang is. Have them search every inch of it. I want to know who this asshole really is.” He paused, took a breath. “Any word on the helicopter?”
Samuel nodded. “It should be here within an hour.”
“Good. Have them land it at the mine.” He noticed Samuel’s notepad. “What have you got there?”
Samuel cleared his throat, looking down at the notepad. “There doesn’t seem to be any connection between the man and the girl. She arrived early yesterday afternoon. Said something about driving west and asked if she could get a room. She paid cash.”
“ID?”
“No. Not even any credit cards or registration in the glove box. But I called one of our contacts at the DMV and had him run the license plate. Her name is Jessica Hirsch. Her address is Flat Rock, Michigan. She’s twenty-two years old.”
“That’s great, but it doesn’t explain why she was taking pictures of the mine.”
“Actually,” Smith said, his chair squeaking as he leaned forward, “I think it does.”