Page 12 of Once Marked (Riley Paige #19)
Riley felt eyes upon them as the sheriff’s blue and white cruiser rolled through Sandhaven’s main street. The town, with its weathered buildings, felt worn rather than welcoming.
“Feels like stepping into an old photograph,” Ann Marie whispered beside her.
Riley watched through the car window as locals paused mid-step to scrutinize the vehicle, their gazes tinged with suspicion.
She recognized this type of curiosity; it was rooted in caution and mistrust. The FBI badge she carried did not grant her any favors here—she was an outsider, possibly a threat.
Sheriff Beeler turned the car into the small parking lot of the Sandhaven Police Headquarters, a modest structure that mirrored the town’s no-frills, utilitarian approach to life. Beeler parked the car, gravel crunching under tires announcing their arrival.
As Riley stepped out, she caught sight of a group of fishermen across the street. Their conversation dwindled into silence, their eyes fixed on the newcomers.
“Welcome to Sandhaven,” Beeler said dryly, closing his car door with a definitive thud.
A bell above the door announced their entry with a jarring ring.
As Riley stepped across the threshold, she saw a man who could only be Police Chief Rick Thorne.
His stocky frame was like an old tree stump—solid and unyielding.
The lines in his face spoke of storms weathered and battles endured.
His blue eyes, sharp as shards of ice, met hers with an intensity that felt almost tangible.
“Chief Thorne,” Beeler said. They shook hands, then Beeler gestured towards Riley and Ann Marie.
“My companions are FBI Agents, here to help with the Shearer and Sternan cases.”
Thorne’s response was just an upward twitch of his eyebrows.
“I’m Special Agent Paige,” Riley said, then glanced at Ann Marie as she added, “And this is my partner, Special Agent Esmer.”
Thorne nodded, a motion as purposeful as everything else about him.
“I take it the two of you are here because of our recent murders here on the Outer Banks,” he said.
“That’s right,” Riley said.
“I called for the FBI’s assistance, Sheriff Beeler explained.
“Not a bad idea,” Thorne said with a monosyllabic chuckle. “We could use some help.”
Then he extended his hand to Riley. “Welcome to Sandhaven,” he said.
The skin was rough like sandpaper, and the grasp very firm, almost challenging.
“Thank you, Chief,” she responded.
He gestured to an open office door, and the three investigators followed him inside. Thorne took his seat behind his cluttered desk, and Riley settled into a creaking wooden chair across from him. There was only one other vacant chair, and Beeler indicated that Ann Marie should take it.
Sheriff Beeler leaned against a filing cabinet, his voice breaking the silence. “We’re here because the FBI has traced those emails and photos that were sent to one Billie Shearer. And we’re sure that those messages sent to Billie Shearer came from the same source.”
“And who might that be?” Thorne asked.
“Marcus Callahan,” Beeler said.
Thorne’s chair groaned as he reclined. “Callahan,” he muttered, the lines on his face deepening with weariness. His reaction was a clear confirmation of the man’s notoriety. “Can’t say I’m surprised. That man’s been a thorn in our side for years.”
Riley leaned forward, her elbows resting on the edge of the scarred wooden surface separating them. “What can you tell us about him, Chief Thorne?”
“Persistent troublemaker,” Thorne spat out. “Toeing the line just enough to stay out of cuffs, at least most of the time. It’s like he knows how far he can push it without crossing over. Smart, in a devious sort of way.”
“Has he ever shown violent tendencies? Anything physical?” Riley asked.
“Violence? No, not other than ordinary skirmishes, often with his own friends,” Thorne admitted reluctantly. “You know, barroom brawls, that kind of thing. But his type, they’re all about power, control. Wouldn’t put it past him to escalate.”
“Any known associates we should be aware of?” Riley pressed. “Anyone who might corroborate his story or give him an alibi?”
“Plenty,” Thorne responded. “He’s got cronies, yes-men who hang on his every word. They work for him, drink with him, cover for him. You won’t get a straight answer out of any of them.”
The chief’s hand ran through thinning hair—a gesture of exasperation and inevitability that spoke volumes about the difficulty of his job in this unruly community. “Questioning Callahan won’t be straightforward. He’s slippery, and you can bet he’ll be tipped off the moment we make a move.”
Ann Marie chimed in, “Sheriff Beeler mentioned a previous arrest for stalking?”
Thorne’s nod was slow, pained. “Yeah, that was a few years back.” His expression darkened as if recalling a particularly troublesome memory.
“A tourist filed a complaint after he wouldn’t stop harassing her.
We arrested him, but...” He let out a breath that carried with it the burden of unresolved justice.
“But he got off with a fine and mandatory counseling. His lawyer argued it was all a misunderstanding.”
“Sounds like he’s good at playing the system,” Riley mused, her thoughts tracing the outlines of a man adept at manipulation.
Thorne grunted in agreement, his jaw setting in a hard line. “Too good.” The room seemed to settle into a quiet understanding, a shared recognition that they were dealing with someone who had learned to play just along the edge of the law—perhaps until now.
“Who represented him?” Riley inquired, knowing that the answer might shed light on how Callahan managed to evade more serious consequences.
“Local attorney named Stuart Ludwig,” Thorne replied, his disdain apparent. “A real sleaze, an ambulance chaser. But not a guy to be underestimated. He knows everyone and everything about this town. Makes it his business to keep it that way.”
“Now that we know that Callahan sent those emails, we’ve got enough on him to bring him in.”
“Well, then, I’d say it’s high time we did just that,” the police chief declared.
He got to his feet, his hand resting on the holster at his hip as he added, “But be aware that Callahan’s not going to come quietly.
He’s got a network of supporters all over town.
If they even get a hint that something’s coming down, they might try to warn him or even help him evade arrest.”
His words were heavy with the kind of weary resignation that came from years of fighting and often losing battles within his own jurisdiction. Yet, there was still a fire behind those piercing blue eyes—a steadfast determination that Riley recognized.
“I think the four of us should be able to handle it,” Thorne added, patting the sidearm as if to reassure himself.
Riley felt the weight of her own weapon against her side, a familiar comfort.
They all got into Sheriff Beeler’s cruiser, and he drove them toward the marina. Men who were clustered on street corners paused mid-conversation, their attention shifting to follow the passing police vehicle, then turned away just as Riley tried to meet their gaze.
The sheer masculinity of the place was jarring.
It was as if the town itself was an embodiment of the outdated beliefs that seemed to permeate its very foundations—a stark reminder of why they were here.
But something didn’t fit for Riley. Her mind circled back to an earlier hunch, the incongruous thought that amidst this bastion of testosterone—that the killer might be a woman.
Sheriff Beeler guided the cruiser into a parking spot across from Callahan’s Boat Repair. The building, like an old sailor, bore the scars of countless storms, its sign bleached by relentless sun and lashed by salty winds.
The door creaked open to reveal a spartan interior where the smell of varnish was strong enough to taste.
Several men looked up from their tasks, hands stilling on sandpaper and wrenches.
Their gazes lingered not with curiosity, but with a silent challenge.
Riley acknowledged them with a nod, alert to every shift in their body language.
They continued on into front office, where a pair of weathered locals sat hunched over a game of dominoes. The clack of ivory tiles punctuated the tense silence that descended as Riley and her companions entered.
“Two FBI Agents are here to ask a few questions,” Thorne announced. The two men offered no greeting, their focus returning to the game as if the intrusion was nothing more than a passing annoyance.
Thorne made the introductions. “These are Agents Paige and Esmer, FBI,” he stated, “You might have met Sheriff Beeler before. Agents, this is Amos Dunkelberg and Art Butler.”
Dunkelberg, a man whose skin was tanned by years under a merciless sun, leaned back in his chair, his lips twitching into a half-smile. Art Butler casually flicked a domino onto the table.
“FBI, huh?” Amos drawled, his voice slow and thick. Then he placed another domino, the click echoing mockingly in the tight space. There was a story behind those eyes, Riley thought—a narrative spun from many such encounters.
“Just what’s your business?” Art chimed in, his tone matching his companion’s.
“We’re here to have a word with Marcus.”
“Well, ain’t that interesting,” Art said, sliding a domino into position.
“Sure is, Amos,” Amos said.
“Don’t suppose you know where the boss is, do ya?” Art asked.
“Can’t say that I do,” Amos responded, stroking his chin as though deep in thought. “How ‘bout you?”
“Nope, no idea,” Art replied with a shrug.
Chief Thorne’s hand clamp onto Art Butler’s grimy collar and hauled the man to his feet, the chair scraping against the floor with a grating.
“Listen here,” Thorne growled, his face mere inches from Art’s, eyes boring into the man with an intensity that could scorch. “We’re not playing games. Where’s Callahan?”
The room seemed to contract, the air thickening with tension.
Riley’s instincts flared, honed from years of navigating perilous situations where violence hung precariously in balance.
She readied herself for what might come next, her hand inching subtly toward her holster just in case restraint gave way to aggression.
Art’s reaction, however, was not what Riley expected. He remained unflappable, a cool contrast to Thorne’s heated aggression. With a steady hand, he reached up and calmly disengaged the chief’s grip from his shirt.
“Like we said, we don’t know where he is,” Art spoke slowly, enunciating each word. “But feel free to have a look around the docks. We’ve got nothing to hide.”
Thorne released a slow breath, his shoulders dropping as he took a measured step back. Art straightened his shirt, a smug tilt to his lips as he resumed his seat.
“Fine,” Thorne muttered, his tone suggesting that this was far from over. He turned to Sheriff Beeler and Riley with a silent signal that it was time to leave. As they moved towards the door, the clatter of dominos resumed behind them, a mocking reminder of the impasse they faced.
Riley observed the silent exchange between him and Sheriff Beeler. They were two men in agreement, a wordless pact to continue their pursuit despite the obstacles. “Alright,” Thorne grumbled with a resolve that seemed to harden his features even more.
Riley followed them out of the office, her senses heightened.
There was a prickling at the back of her neck, an instinctive alert to the scrutiny she felt from all angles.
They regrouped near the entrance of Callahan’s Boat Repair, frustration marking the lines on Beeler’s face and the furrowed brow of Chief Thorne.
Riley leaned against the side of the police cruiser, her arms crossed as she scanned the faces of the Sandhaven locals.
Their eyes still darted away when they met hers, their mouths tight-lipped.
The salty breeze did little to clear the cloying sense of secrecy that seemed to hang over the docks like a fog.
“They all know exactly where he is,” she said quietly, voicing what they were all thinking. Her gaze lingered on a cluster of men who huddled together, whispering furtively before dispersing at her notice.
“What about another round of questioning with Amos and Art?” Ann Marie suggested, her voice tinged with that persistent cheerfulness that seemed incongruous amid the tension. “I mean at the police station, and one at a time. Maybe their memories would be better there.”
Riley watched Beeler’s reaction, noting the slight shake of his head before he even spoke. “We’re not going to get anything out of them, not even there.”
“No point in trying,” Thorne agreed with Riley, dismissing the idea with a gruff finality. “They’ll just keep playing dumb.” His piercing blue eyes narrowed as he stared off toward the marina, and then Riley saw a shift in his demeanor.
He paused for a moment. A thoughtful look crossed his weathered face, a spark igniting in his gaze. Riley recognized that expression—it was one she often saw in the mirror when a crucial piece of the puzzle clicked into place.
“But I think I know where to find Callahan,” Thorne told them.