Chapter 16
Marc left Crystal’s residence with his mind reeling and his shoulders taut with tension.
The photos in his possession were career-destroying. Unlike the shots from Guajome Lake Park, which had caused a minor stir, these would be the end of him. If she saw them, Stokes would have his badge for sure.
It seemed unlikely that Derek DeWinter had been the photographer. His residence was below the hill Sidney’s truck had been parked on, his line of vision obscured by orange trees. Even if he’d run to higher ground, he’d never have made it in time for the main event, which had lasted all of two minutes.
A friend or accomplice could have taken the shots from another vantage point, however, after a simple phone call. Marc would have to go out to Bonsall and scope the scene.
He decided to drop in on Tony first. It was late, and for once, his laid-back friend wasn’t happy to see him.
That made two of them. Furious with himself for getting caught on film for the second time that week, and with Tony for having shady business connections, he jerked his best friend outside by the front of his shirt.
Whispers began barking hoarsely from behind the screen door.
“Tell me about everyone DeWinter deals with,” he ordered.
“I already told you,” Tony returned, shoving him backward. “I don’t know.”
He bit off a curse, feeling his anger fade away, replaced by desperation. “Have you seen anyone outside my house today?” he asked. “Taping an envelope to my garage door?”
“No. Why?”
He groaned, rubbing his hand over his eyes. A riot of sensations from the past few days assaulted him. Sidney, lifting her mouth to his. Her body tensing as he thrust inside her. Him, burying his face in her breasts as he came. What sorcery had she seduced him with? He’d completely lost control, not once, or twice, but every damned time he touched her.
“You have to go out to Bonsall with me,” he said, shaking away the disturbing images. “Case the area.”
“Are you out of your mind? I’m not suicidal.”
“You said he wasn’t dangerous.”
“Men guard marijuana fields with shotguns, Marc.”
He remembered what Sidney had said about Blue being spooked by a gunshot. “I’ll bring my Glock. You still have that 9?”
“Christ,” he muttered. “Yeah.”
“I’ve got to change first,” he said, looking down at the way his pale gray T-shirt caught the moonlight. After he went inside to put on a black one, he left a text message for Lacy.
Just in case.
Tony joined him on the driveway, dressed in dark clothing as well, his long hair pulled back, a brown canvas knapsack slung over one shoulder. He looked like Che Guevara.
“Why are you bringing me along, anyway?” he said after he got in the passenger side. “Short on deputies?”
“You should be glad I’m taking you instead of DEA.”
He found the envelope on the floor mat beneath his feet. “What’s this?” he asked, thumbing through the photos. “Whoa.”
Marc felt heat rise to his face. With Crystal, he’d been too angry to be embarrassed. Now shame was setting in. Having a number of people bear witness to his most ham-handed sexual performance was excruciating.
“Where were these taken?” Tony asked.
“In Bonsall. A couple hundred feet from DeWinter’s.”
“Jesus, man. Couldn’t you have found a more private place?”
“Obviously I didn’t know we were being watched,” he said through clenched teeth.
“Who took them?”
“I don’t know that, either. Crystal said she didn’t.”
“Derek wouldn’t do this,” he asserted, replacing the photos.
“How do you know?”
“I stopped by his house earlier. He talked about her. Sidney.”
His eyes narrowed. “Talked about her how?”
“Like a guy who wishes he could have her,” Tony said. “Not like one who just watched her get it from somebody else.”
Marc struggled to control his jealousy, and lost. “He was planning on calling her?” he asked, his voice hard.
“Nah. He has a girlfriend. He was just…speculating. You know.”
“Bastard,” he muttered. “Did he read about her in the newspaper? Know she was involved with the investigation?”
“No. He didn’t mention it, anyway.”
“What else did he talk about?”
“His sister’s dialysis.”
Marc turned on the radio, noticing his friend’s nervous fidgeting. Tony’s ADD was acting up again. “Did you take your Ritalin?”
He scowled. “Hell, no. It makes me feel like a zombie.”
It made him act like one, too, so Marc was glad Tony wasn’t on medication. They both needed their wits about them this evening.
He drove past the orange grove where he’d parked Sidney’s truck the night before. Down the road a ways he found another secluded spot to park. From there he could see Derek DeWinter’s house and the rolling green hills behind it.
“The photographer would have been up there somewhere,” he said, pointing at a wide expanse of undeveloped land where sagebrush, beavertail cactus and manzanita grew wild. The native vegetation was interspersed with dry earth and flanked by rows of avocado trees.
It wasn’t easy terrain to cover, but they managed, cutting through groves and trampling over the thick brush.
The field was so well camouflaged they were practically standing in the middle of it before they realized where they were. Waist-high stalks, bushy with immature buds, quivered in the gentle night breeze. Marc guessed there were about a hundred individual plants. A hundred thousand dollars worth of high-grade stuff.
Tony’s eyes went wide with greed and black with lust.
Marc motioned for him to circle the right side of the field while he started off toward the left. The terrain was loose and rocky, with no discernible path. Nor did there appear to be one particular vantage point from which the grower could keep an eye on the entire crop. It covered too much ground.
There was a flat stretch of land at the base of the hill where a number of large oaks stood alongside a tributary of the San Luis Rey River. A crop this size would require a lot of water, Marc reasoned. If DeWinter was hauling buckets by hand, he probably had to work all night, every night, toward the end of the growing season.
Even so, it wasn’t a bad gig for the amount of cash he could rake in.
Under the cover of oaks, Marc waited, hoping he would hear the sound of splashing water or tromping footsteps. After listening to his own harsh breathing, the buzz of insects and the muted gurgle of the San Luis Rey for what seemed like an hour, he gave up and stepped out of his hiding place.
Looking for Tony, he ran into Derek DeWinter.
DeWinter raised his rifle before Marc could reach into his shoulder holster. “Keep your hands where I can see them,” he ordered in a shaky voice, sounding more bewildered than authoritative. If Marc could take a guess, he’d say DeWinter had never pointed a gun at a man before, and wasn’t enjoying the experience too much.
“I’m a cop,” Marc said, lifting his hands slowly. “I’ve got a badge in my front pocket.”
DeWinter took in a sharp breath, but he didn’t respond.
