Page 41 of Dirty Valentine (A J.J. Graves Mystery #17)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

“Keep it running,” Jack said, his voice stripped of all emotion—the kind of flat, deadly calm that made seasoned criminals confess just to avoid whatever was building behind his eyes.

Doug’s fingers trembled slightly as he advanced the footage. “Here…she’s approaching the driver’s side.”

We watched the empty view as Potts moved toward the luxury SUV, invisible to the forward-facing camera.

The Escalade’s driver’s window rolled down with mechanical precision.

Through the rain-distorted footage, we could see movement inside—Jack’s father leaning toward the window, probably reaching for his wallet like any law-abiding citizen during a routine traffic stop.

Then everything went to hell.

A muzzle flash erupted from beside the patrol car. The brief, brilliant flare was followed by the Escalade rocking slightly on its suspension. From this angle, we couldn’t see inside, couldn’t tell what damage had been done or who might have been hit.

“No,” Doug breathed, his face pale.

Jack went absolutely still. Years of SWAT training had taught him to compartmentalize, to push personal feelings into a locked box so his tactical mind could function. I watched him make that shift in real time—from son to law enforcement officer.

“Can’t determine the target from this angle,” he said, his voice clinical. “Need to see movement, assess casualties.”

The driver’s door opened. Jack’s father emerged with careful movements—hands visible, no sudden motions, the practiced compliance of a man who understood exactly what kind of danger he was in.

“Dad’s mobile, responsive,” Jack observed with professional detachment. “Following commands. Means the shooter’s got him under control.”

Richard Lawson moved toward the rear of the Escalade, maintaining visibility of his hands. The rain continued to pour, turning the highway into a river. Potts had chosen her location well—isolated, dark, with perfect sight lines and no witnesses.

The rear door opened, and Richard began to climb inside. That’s when Potts struck—a swift blow from behind. We couldn’t see the weapon from the dash cam angle, only Richard’s body jerking forward before he collapsed into the back seat.

My stomach clenched. Even after all my years in medicine and forensics, watching someone I cared about being brutalized made bile rise in my throat.

“Textbook takedown,” Jack said, maintaining his clinical tone. “Nonlethal force, immediate compliance. She’s maintaining two hostages.”

The Escalade rocked as Potts secured her prisoner.

Then she walked directly toward the dash cam, moving with purpose through the rain.

Her dark hair was plastered to her skull, water streaming down her face.

But it was her expression that made my blood run cold.

Even through the rain and grainy footage, her smile was clearly visible—wide and bright and absolutely insane.

The smile of someone who’d been planning this moment for a very long time.

She looked directly into the camera with focused intensity. Her lips moved, forming words we couldn’t hear over the storm, but the malicious joy in her expression was unmistakable. She was talking to Jack, knowing he would see this, knowing it would tear him apart.

“She knows,” Doug said, voice tight with realization. “She knows we’re watching. She wants us to see.”

Potts raised her service weapon with deliberate slowness, pointing it directly at the camera lens. For a heartbeat, she held that pose—gun aimed, that terrifying smile never wavering, rain streaming down her face like tears of joy.

Then she pulled the trigger.

The screen exploded into static, white noise filling Jack’s office like electronic screaming. Doug frantically worked the controls, but the dash cam was dead, the connection severed by a well-placed bullet.

“That’s it,” Doug said quietly. “The feed ends there.”

Jack stood frozen, staring at the wall of static. The silence stretched between us like a taut wire, broken only by the storm outside and the hum of equipment.

When he finally spoke, his voice was barely audible. “She shot into the car first. Before she took Dad. Can’t tell what the target was from this angle.”

My chest tightened, but I kept my voice steady. “Your father got out under his own power. That’s something.”

Jack was already reaching for his phone. “Doug, send Cole and Martinez the GPS coordinates for Unit 47. They need to locate that patrol car.”

Doug’s fingers flew across the keyboard. “Sending now. Last ping shows it stationary at mile marker 47 on Route 218.”

Jack put the call on speaker. “Cole, coordinates coming to you now. I need you and Martinez to locate Unit 47 immediately.”

“Copy that, Sheriff. En route now.” Cole’s voice was crisp, professional. “What are we looking for?”

“Abandoned patrol car. Potts used it to take my parents, then ditched it for their vehicle. Process it as a crime scene but don’t touch anything until Daniels gets there.”

“Understood. We’ll call as soon as we locate it.”

Jack ended the call and looked at Doug. “I need continuous monitoring on all emergency frequencies. If she tries to communicate, I want to know immediately. And Doug—keep this off the main channels. Potts is one of ours. She could be monitoring our systems.”

The wait was excruciating. I watched Jack pace his office with controlled energy, every muscle coiled tight. Twenty minutes felt like hours before his phone finally rang.

“Cole, report.”

“Found the patrol car at mile marker 47, exactly where Doug’s GPS showed. Vehicle’s abandoned, keys still in the ignition. No sign of Potts or your parents.”

“Evidence?”

“Clean scene on the patrol car itself. But we found a cell phone on the front seat, deliberately placed. Looks like she wanted us to find it.”

Jack’s expression remained unchanged. “Don’t touch it. Daniels will process it. Any sign of the Escalade?”

“Negative. No trace.”

“Copy that. Return here immediately. We’re establishing a command post.”

Jack ended the call and immediately dialed another number.

“Daniels? I need you at my location. Just you and one person you trust completely—pick someone who can keep their mouth shut. We’ve got two active crime scenes and a kidnapping in progress, but the suspect is one of ours. Potts. We need to keep this tight.”

* * *

The house felt different with a command post taking shape in Jack’s office. What had been our sanctuary was now ground zero for a manhunt, with laptops, phones, and evidence boxes transforming the space into something that belonged more in a precinct than a home.

Cole and Martinez arrived within minutes of each other, both soaked from the storm that continued to rage outside.

Derby came next, his equipment bags slung over both shoulders, glasses immediately fogging from the temperature change.

Daniels arrived next, having stopped to collect evidence from the abandoned patrol car.

She’d brought one of her CSI techs with her—the guy introduced himself as Pete Rogers—and Daniels said he was someone she trusted completely.

Plank, Chen, Riley, and Cheek rounded out the group. We’d all been in tough situations together before, and I knew more than anything that Jack could rely on them if things went bad.

“The phone Potts left was wiped clean,” Daniels said, setting an evidence bag on Jack’s desk. “But she wanted us to find it. Staged it like a theater production. I have no idea why she left it. There were no other personal effects in the vehicle. It’s been impounded. No sign of the Escalade.”

Jack stood at the digital murder board, every victim’s photo connected by a red line to locations, times, evidence. His parents’ photos were now at the center, two question marks beneath them indicating their unknown status.

“Let’s walk through this,” Jack said, his voice carrying that dangerous calm that meant he was thinking ten steps ahead. “Four days, three murders, one attempted murder, and now a kidnapping. The logistics alone are staggering.”

He moved to the timeline they’d constructed, his finger starting at Monday evening.

“Five thirty p.m.—Victoria Mills flees her medical practice. The woman at the insurance office next door, Dolores Hutchins, said Mills was loading her car like the devil himself was chasing her. Hands shaking so bad she dropped her keys twice.”

“So someone got to her at work,” Martinez said. “Threatened her. That kind of panic doesn’t come from nowhere.”

Jack nodded. “She races home, probably thinking she’s got enough time to grab her things and run.” Jack’s expression darkened. “She meets her attacker in the garage on her way out. That’s where we found the blood—still tacky on the concrete when CSI processed it.”

“Attacker takes her and her Mercedes,” Cole continued, building the narrative. “Meanwhile, less than two hours later across town, Thomas Whitman shows up at Judith Hughes’s apartment for what he thinks is just dinner and a good time.”

I felt the pieces clicking together as I studied the timeline.

“Judith cooks—chicken and rice, opens a bottle of wine. They’re talking, eating, and neither one realizes they’re being poisoned.

Belladonna—deadly nightshade. One of the herbs stolen from Evangeline’s greenhouse.

” I traced my finger along the timeline.

“At low doses, it causes hallucinations, confusion, nightmares—exactly what Judith described. She’s been getting microdoses for weeks through those letters.

The herb smell she mentioned? That’s the delivery method.

Just handling the parchment, inhaling the scent—it builds up in her system. ”

“Both get sick,” Jack said. “Thomas leaves before nine, probably thinking it’s food poisoning. Judith goes to bed. But the poison keeps working.”

“Thomas is dying,” I said quietly. “The belladonna weakens his heart. All he’d need is a sudden shock or surprise to trigger cardiac arrest. And then he’s dead.”