Page 8

The SUV rolled through the streets of Pinecrest with Chief Morgan at the wheel, each person inside wrapped in their own thoughts.

This time Colonel Spelling was sitting up front and Jenna sat beside Jake in the back, his thigh occasionally brushing against hers when Morgan took a corner too sharply.

Each time, Jenna felt a momentary distraction that she tried to ignore.

She had to acknowledge that attraction to Jake was growing, but she still had no idea where it could possibly lead.

Aside from the issue of their jobs, she wasn’t sure she was ready for the kind of relationship that wouldn’t be casual and wasn’t likely to be brief.

For so long her personal life had been focused on the loss of her sister, the death of her father, and her mother’s problems. Everything else she’d dedicated to being a good sheriff.

Pulling her attention back to being Sheriff, Jenna gazed out the window at the storefronts of Pinecrest sliding past. The town had a quaint charm that belied the darkness they were investigating.

“Mitchell’s daughter was certain that Lynch was angry about the radio,” Jake said, breaking the silence. “Angry enough to kill over it?”

“People have killed for less,” Morgan replied, his tone flat.

“But whoever killed Derrick didn’t take the radio from his home,” Jenna mused. “And Lynch has no record,” she said. “Not even a parking ticket.”

“Sometimes the cleanest records hide the dirtiest deeds,” Colonel Spelling remarked, his voice carrying the weight of decades in law enforcement.

“And there are lots of reasons why he might not have taken the radio. Maybe he harbored some longstanding grudge against Derrick that was more important than the radio. Or maybe he got spooked and ran away before he could grab it.”

The car slowed as they approached a corner building with large display windows. Even from a distance, Jenna could see the cluttered exhibition of oddities in the window—old cameras, tarnished silver pieces, and what appeared to be a stuffed owl with one glass eye missing.

“Welcome to Golden Legend Treasures,” Morgan announced, pulling into a parking space across the street. “Where one man’s trash becomes another man’s overpriced collectible.”

They exited the vehicle and crossed the street toward the shop that stood like a monument to forgotten things, its facade weathered but maintained, a hand-painted sign hanging above the door.

As they neared the entrance, the door swung open. A man stepped out, thin and wiry, with darting eyes that widened at the sight of the approaching group. He wore jeans that hung loose on his frame and a faded t-shirt that had seen better days. His steps faltered when he spotted them.

Chief Morgan’s posture changed instantly, transformed into a strange, almost predatory alertness.

“Well, if it isn’t Mickey Guest,” Morgan called out, his voice carrying a forced joviality that immediately put Jenna on edge. “What a surprise seeing you here.”

The man—Mickey—froze momentarily, then attempted a casual smile that looked more like a grimace.

“Chief Morgan,” he acknowledged, his gaze flicking between the officers. “Just doing some shopping.”

Morgan stepped closer, invading Mickey’s personal space. “Let me introduce my colleagues. This is Sheriff Graves from Genesius County, Deputy Hawkins, and Colonel Spelling from the State Highway Patrol.”

Mickey nodded, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. “Nice to meet you all.”

“How long has it been now, Mickey? Two months since you got sprung from the joint?” Morgan asked, in a pose of casual interest that fooled no one.

“Three,” Mickey corrected, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“That’s right. Three months. Any luck finding honest work?” Morgan’s emphasis on “honest” wasn’t subtle.

Jenna observed the exchange closely. Mickey’s body language screamed discomfort—averted eyes, hands that couldn’t decide where to rest, the slight backward lean of someone who wanted to run.

“I’ve got some prospects,” Mickey mumbled, his eyes now fixed on a point beyond Morgan’s shoulder.

“I bet you do,” Morgan replied knowingly.

Something flashed in Mickey’s eyes—fear, Jenna thought. Not the generalized anxiety of an ex-con encountering law enforcement, but something specific and immediate.

“I should get going,” Mickey said, already edging sideways. “Got an appointment.”

“Don’t let us keep you.” Morgan’s smile never reached his eyes. “We should catch up sometime. I’m always interested in your... business ventures.”

Mickey gave a jerky nod, then walked away with hurried steps that fell just short of running. Jenna watched him go, noting the way he glanced back twice before turning the corner.

“What was that about?” Spelling asked Morgan once Mickey was out of earshot.

Morgan’s eyes remained fixed on the spot where Mickey had disappeared. “Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.”

“That’s not an answer,” Jenna pressed.

Morgan turned to her, his expression unreadable. “Let’s just say Mr. Guest has a talent for acquiring items that don’t belong to him, and an even greater talent for finding buyers who don’t ask questions.”

Morgan nodded. “One of the best thieves in three counties. But proving it...” He shrugged. “That’s another matter entirely.”

The bell above the shop door jingled as the four of them entered Golden Legend Treasures.

The interior was even more chaotic than the windows had suggested.

Every available surface bore some relic of the past—shelves lined with antique books, glass cases filled with jewelry and watches, tables piled with cameras, typewriters, radios, and phonographs.

Mannequin torsos draped in vintage clothing stood between larger furniture pieces.

The air held the distinctive scent of old things—musty paper, aged wood, the metallic tang of tarnished silver.

The room felt small, an effect created by the sheer volume of merchandise crammed into every corner.

Jenna could see that Golden Legend Treasures was a shop with a reputation that matched its name only in the sense that its contents were old.

Whether they were treasures remained to be seen.

Behind a glass counter at the rear stood a short man, with thinning hair combed carefully over a balding crown.

His eyes were sharp and assessing, taking in the four visitors with a shopkeeper’s practiced evaluation of potential customers.

His expression shifted when he spotted the local police chief.

“Chief Morgan,” Lynch said, his smile too wide and too quick. “What brings you in today? Looking for a gift for the missus?”

“Not exactly, Harris,” Morgan replied, stepping forward. “I’m here with Sheriff Graves, Deputy Hawkins, and Colonel Spelling. They’re investigating a homicide.”

Lynch’s smile dimmed slightly. “A homicide? That’s terrible. But I’m not sure how I could help.”

Jenna stepped forward, studying Lynch’s face. His expression was open, even unconcerned, but there was a calculation behind his eyes, an awareness that didn’t match his words.

“We’re investigating the murder of Marcus Derrick,” she said, watching carefully for his reaction. “His name mean anything to you?”

Lynch’s expression remained neutral. “I can’t say it does. Should it?”

It was a lie. Jenna felt it with certainty. Rebecca Mitchell had specifically named Lynch as being upset about the radio sale to Derrick, describing him as angry when he learned that a “well-known crank” had purchased it.

“I think I’ll browse a bit,” Morgan announced suddenly, drawing Jenna’s attention. “Our anniversary’s coming up. Might find something here after all.”

He wandered off toward a display of copper cookware, leaving Jenna momentarily puzzled by his abrupt departure. But then she realized his strategy—Morgan was giving her space to question Lynch while he investigated the shop.

“Mr. Lynch,” she continued, “Marcus Derrick was recently found dead from an act of violence. He owned an antique ham radio set, vacuum tube technology from the 1940s. We have reason to believe he purchased it at Howard Mitchell’s estate sale.”

Lynch tapped once against the glass countertop. “I didn’t attend that sale. Too picked over by the time I got wind of it.”

It was another lie. “That’s interesting,” Jenna said, “because Rebecca Mitchell specifically mentioned you were interested in a particular radio her father owned.”

“She must be mistaken,” Lynch replied, his casual tone now sounding forced.

Jenna reached into her pocket and produced a photograph of the radio found at Derrick’s home. She placed it on the counter between them, watching Lynch’s eyes as they flicked down to the image.

“Ever seen this before?” she asked.

Lynch barely glanced at the photo. “No, never.”

His response came too quickly, without the consideration someone would give if genuinely trying to remember. Jenna noted the slight tightening around his eyes, the way his fingers had stopped their nervous movement and now pressed flat against the counter.

“That’s strange,” Jake commented from just behind Jenna’s shoulder, “because Ms. Mitchell clearly remembered you expressing interest in this exact model. Said you were quite upset when she sold it to Derrick instead.”

“I deal with hundreds of items every month,” Lynch said, a defensive edge creeping into his voice. “Maybe I expressed interest in something similar. I certainly don’t recall this specific radio, and I definitely didn’t know this Derrick person.”

“But now you’re not denying that you went to the sale?” Jake asked.

“Perhaps I did,” Lynch said with a shrug. “I don’t see why it matters.”

Colonel Spelling, who had been silently observing the exchange, stepped forward. “In my experience, Mr. Lynch, people in your profession have exceptional memories for merchandise. Especially valuable pieces.”

Lynch’s mouth twisted. “With all due respect, Colonel, my ‘profession’ is legitimate business. I buy and sell antiques and collectibles. Everything here is acquired legally.”

“Everything?” Chief Morgan’s voice carried across the shop. He was standing beside an ornate brass and silver samovar displayed on a pedestal near the window. “Even this?”

Lynch’s expression flickered with something Jenna couldn’t quite identify. Annoyance, perhaps. “That’s a nineteenth-century Russian samovar. A fine piece. Museum quality. Probably out of a police chief’s price range.”

Morgan approached the samovar, examining it with exaggerated interest. “You know, it does look familiar.” He pulled out his phone, scrolled for a moment, then held the screen up. “In fact, it looks exactly like this one.”

Jenna moved to see the image on Morgan’s phone—a photograph of the same samovar, but sitting on a mantelpiece in what appeared to be someone’s living room.

“The Schwartz family on Maple Drive reported this stolen,” Morgan continued, his voice now carrying the unmistakable tone of a cop who’d just sprung a trap. “They provided this photo for the report. Same distinctive dent on the left handle. Same engraving on the base.”

Lynch’s face drained of color. “I had no idea it was stolen,” he said quickly. “I buy from various sources. If someone misrepresented—”

“And who did you buy it from, Harris?” Morgan cut in.

Lynch’s jaw tightened. “I’m not required to disclose my sources.”

“True,” Morgan agreed, with a satisfaction that made it clear he’d been waiting for this moment.

“But it doesn’t matter, because I already know.

You bought it from Mickey Guest. The same Mickey Guest I just saw leaving your shop.

The same Mickey Guest who’s been fencing stolen goods for fifteen years—at least until he did some time in the joint. Maybe he’s gone back to work.”

Jenna watched the realization spread across Lynch’s face. The confident shopkeeper facade crumbled, revealing something desperate underneath. His eyes darted toward the back of the shop, and Jenna tensed, ready to move if he tried to run.

“You can’t prove that,” Lynch said, but his voice had lost its certainty.

Morgan smiled thinly. “Oh, I’m pretty sure we can. If we lean on Mickey a little, I’m sure he’ll talk. Meanwhile, as they say, ‘possession is nine tenths of the law.’” He nodded to Colonel Spelling. “Would you do the honors, Colonel?”

Spelling stepped forward, removing handcuffs from his belt. “Harris Lynch, you’re under arrest for receiving stolen property.”

As Spelling secured the cuffs around Lynch’s wrists, Morgan recited the Miranda rights with the practiced cadence of someone who’d done it hundreds of times.

“This is ridiculous,” Lynch protested weakly. “I run a legitimate business.”

“Tell it to the judge,” Morgan replied, then turned to Spelling, then called for transport for the man they were taking into custody.

Lynch stood rigid between Jenna and Jake, his earlier confidence completely evaporated. His eyes darted between the officers, calculating. A cornered man looking for escape.

“Mr. Lynch,” Jenna said, leaning against the counter. “Now might be a good time to reconsider what you know about Marcus Derrick and that radio.”

Lynch swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing above his buttoned collar. “I want a lawyer.”

Of course he did. Jenna fought back a sigh of frustration. They’d caught him red-handed with stolen goods, but the murder case had just hit another wall.

She glanced around the cluttered shop, at the hundreds of items with uncertain origins and ownership. How many other crimes were hidden among these shelves? How many secrets did Harris Lynch keep behind that calculating gaze?

Lynch’s obvious lies about that radio suggested guilt of some kind. But if he had killed Derrick, wouldn’t he have taken the object that he coveted? Or had he perhaps acted in rage and then realized that he couldn’t risk being caught with that vintage radio in his possession?

Jenna caught Jake’s eye. The same question she was thinking was reflected in his gaze: Had they just arrested Marcus Derrick’s killer? Or was the murderer still on the loose?