Locked In: The Noah Braddock Series, #5

By Jeff Shelby

Noah Braddock's past won't leave him alone.

After a self-imposed exile in Florida, Noah is back in San Diego, ready to face the fallout from the crime he committed. He doesn't want to go to jail, but he doesn't want to live his life as a fugitive, either.

When the district attorney offers him the chance to walk free, Noah listens. Her request is simple: investigate an assault on a local college campus, provide her with what he finds, and she'll assure that charges won't be brought against him. Noah reluctantly agrees, suspicious of both the deal and what he might find.

His suspicion turns out to be correct, as he's dropped into a case where people can't remember and don't want to share what they know. The more he digs, the more confusing it becomes.

And as the district attorney demands answers in exchange for his freedom, Noah realizes that the deal he's struck might be more than he bargained for.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeff Shelby
• Release date: Feb 2, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524293949

Book preview

TWO

Detective John Wellton slid into the booth across from me, gave me the once over, and said, Well, this is probably gonna get me fired.

You didn't have to come, I said.

He snorted and said nothing.

I'd called him a second time, once we'd gotten into town, and offered to come to his house. He was expecting me and quickly suggested a dirty fast food joint in El Cajon instead. I didn’t blame him.

A faded sign mounted above the door advertised huge burgers and the best French fries in San Diego. Neither claim was true and the place appeared to be one bad sales week away from closing.

Saw your asshole friend outside, Wellton said, turning back to me. His blue eyes were as icy as ever, blue eyes that still caught me by surprise.

Figured it would be better if just you and I talked, I said.

It would be better if I just shot him in the face.

Carter and Wellton had a history.

Or that.

I had a half-eaten cheeseburger and a soda in front of me, and Wellton nodded at the limp, soggy bun. That looks terrible.

It is.

He glanced around the restaurant, taking in the scuffed tile floor, the peeling wallpaper. The menu board was one of those old style ones, with black letters tacked in place. A few were missing. And this place is a hole.

You suggested it.

He shifted in the vinyl booth, his worn sport coat bunching around his shoulders. Alright, that’s it for the small talk. His expression was hard. What the hell are you doing back here?

I wrapped the paper over the burger and shoved it aside. Nowhere else to go.

Really? Nowhere?

I shrugged.

You must've found somewhere to go, Wellton said. Because I haven't heard a word from you in months.

I didn't have anything to say.

But now you do?

I shrugged again.

His smaller frame looked bigger than it was, sitting in the bench seat. He ran a hand over his chin, the muscles in his jaw twitching. The outline of his gun bulged beneath his left arm.

What do you want? he asked.

I want to know...I don't know, I said. I fingered the wrapper in front of me, pinching it between my thumb and forefinger. I guess I want to know what I should do.

Probably take your ass back to wherever you've been since you left.

I'm done with that, I told him, shaking my head. And it doesn't fix anything.

So now you're back to fix things? he asked with a raised eyebrow. You're just gonna walk back into town and fix shit that needs fixing?

I want to try, yes.

Just like you tried to fix things before?

His words were like a hammer to my chest. I’d lost Liz, but he had, too. Because they had been partners.

I didn’t answer his question. Look, Liz trusted you more than anyone else, I said. More than me.

His gaze shifted to the cracked linoleum table. Don't lay that shit on me.

Too late, I said. It's the truth. And it's why I called you. I don't know what to do. So I'm trusting you to help me figure it out. Because that’s what Liz would do.

Wellton rubbed at his chin again and shook his head, not hiding the fact that he wanted to be anywhere but sitting with me. I didn't blame him, but I knew I didn't have any other options. Carter could help me by running away from the problem, but Wellton might be able to help me face it. Head on.

You wanna go to jail? he finally asked.

I swallowed. Not particularly.

Well, jail is where they put guys who confess to or are found guilty of murdering other people, he said, leveling his eyes on me. His tone was steady, even. And Klimes and Zanella would be happy to assist you in making that happen.

Klimes and Zanella. Two SDPD homicide detectives who'd complicated my life before Liz was killed. Who showed up after I found her in her bedroom. Who told me not to do anything stupid. Who warned me I was the first person they’d come looking for if Keene ended up dead.

They attached themselves to Keene's death as soon as his body was identified in El Centro, Wellton said, lowering his voice. He stole a quick glance around but, aside from two teenagers wolfing down burgers, we were the only ones in the dining area. At least once a week, one of them stops by my desk, asks me if I've heard from you. I raise my middle finger and they walk away. He paused. So they know it was you.

Evidence? I asked.

You tell me.

I forced a neutral expression and a neutral tone. I have no idea. I flashed back to the last conversation I’d had with him. Sitting on the couch in my house, telling me Keene had been found. And telling me he was giving me a two-hour head start before he officially started looking for me.

Wellton gave me a long stare but I wasn't about to offer the details he’d shared with me: that SDPD knew I’d talked to Asanti, a local detective. That I’d gone to see Lucia Vasquez, had taken her and her kids to a motel to get her out of the way.

Well, they can draw straight lines, he finally said. And they obviously can hang motive on you.

Motive was probably the only concrete thing they had on me. Landon Keene killed Liz Santangelo. My father ordered him to do it. I would've killed my father, too, if the state hadn't beaten me to it. So I'd had to make do with Keene.

That enough for them to bring me in? I asked.

Sure, he said. He ran his hand along the table, his thumbnail digging into a crack on the surface. That coupled with the fact that you've been invisible for awhile.

They just want to question me? Or do they want to charge?

If they'd had enough to file charges, they would've done it, Wellton said. And I haven't heard a word. So that tells me they've been waiting for you to show up so they could sit down with you and kick you in the nuts and see if you cry a little.

I looked down at the wrapped up burger. Grease stains had turned the paper almost translucent. A small ring of water had formed around my half-full soda cup.

So what do I do? I asked.

"What do you want to do?"

I leaned back in the booth and folded my arms across my chest. I don't want to go to jail. A part of me hated admitting this. I knew I deserved it—I’d killed someone—but I also knew that the earth was a better place without Landon Keene. But I don't want to live like some fugitive. I'm asking you for advice because I don't know if I wait for them to come to me or if I go to them or what. I don't know.

Wellton studied me across the table. We'd had our moments over the years, but I thought he was on my side. I wasn't sure if it was because he'd been Liz's partner or because he'd approved of what I'd done to Keene, but I felt fairly certain that he'd try to guide me. At the very least, I didn't think he'd turn me in and walk away.

He sighed and ran a hand over his closely cropped Afro. There might be another way.

THREE

Wellton walked up to the counter and ordered a soda.

I spied Carter through the window, his head tilted back inside the car, probably snoring away.

Wellton slid back into the booth and unwrapped the straw, stabbing it into the plastic lid. District attorney's office. Christina Benavides. You know her at all?

I shook my head.

Benavides, he said, repeating her last name. Good at her job and good at the politics. Not a position you make friends in, but her track record is good. There's something cooking in their offices, though, that they don't want to touch.

Like what?

Like I'll tell you if we get that far, he said. He took a long sip through the straw. I don't know all the details, just a little of what I've heard. We might be able to make some trades.

Make some trades?

Christ, sometimes I wonder how Santangelo liked you when you're as dumb as a doorknob, he said, frowning. They need something and you need something. You help them out and they'll help you out.

Why would they do that? I said. He was talking in circles. I don't know anyone in the DA's office.

Wellton wrapped both hands around the soda. Let's say they charge you. And let's say you somehow land some pain in the ass defense attorney who knows what he or she is doing. Let's say your attorney sets up shop with the media, reminding them every day that the DA's office is prosecuting a guy whose only supposed crime is taking out a piece of shit who killed a female cop. You'll be a goddamned hero and they'll be sweating their asses off, trying to find jurors who don't want to buy you a beer. He shook his head. They might be able to present a case, but I promise you, there’s no way in hell they want to take you to trial. They'd rather find a way around that.

I took a moment to process his words. For the first time since I'd left for Florida, I felt like I could exhale. Maybe there was an end in sight, an end that didn't have me locked up in a prison cell. Because what he said made sense. I might've been guilty of killing Landon Keene, but that didn't mean people would care.

So if you had something to offer them, they might find a way to make your issues go away, he said, a microscopic smile flickering across his lips. No matter what Klimes and Zanella bring in.

What exactly do I have to offer? I asked.

Your services, Wellton said. I gave him a blank stare and he added, They need some help. Like I said, I don't know all the particulars. But I think it’s something to at least present to them.

Unless I get there and they have no interest in it and they just lock me up on the spot, I said.

I can feel it out first, he said. He sipped his soda. But, yeah, that's always a possibility.

I glanced out the window. Carter still appeared to be sleeping behind the wheel. A semi barreled past, the gears grinding as it downshifted for the red light. Carter didn't stir.

Why me specifically? I asked. I mean, there are other investigators.

I don't really like most other investigators.

You don't really like me.

He shrugged.

Why do they even need an outside investigator? I asked. His suggestion still wasn’t adding up for me. They've got their own. Even if they don't want to use one of their in-house people, there must be other people they've used. Other people who weren’t being investigated for murder.

Wellton sighed. Look, this is the best I've got. You don't like it, you're welcome to try your own ideas, whatever those might be. I can't promise you anything, Noah. You know that. But if you really wanna stop looking over your shoulder and find some...closure, well, this is the best I've got. Take it or leave it.

Take it or leave it. The problem was, I didn't know what I was taking. A chance to put the past behind me, to start moving in a forward direction again. But, without Liz, I didn't know where I was headed, or where I even wanted to go. It was like all the road signs had disappeared, leaving me with an empty, open road, with no idea what was around the next bend. I could leave it—hop back in that car with Carter and drive back to Florida and disappear for good on the quiet beaches on the Gulf.

But I knew that would only last so long. And I knew that Liz would be disappointed.

I took a deep breath. I'll take it.

FOUR

That's a terrible idea, Carter said, shaking his head.

You have a better one?

We'd left the restaurant in El Cajon. Wellton told me he'd feel out the situation with the DA and let me know what he came up with. We were headed west on I-8, heading toward the beach, and I'd recounted the conversation I'd just had.

No, but, dude. Come on, he said. His hands were on the wheel but his eyes were squarely on me. You're just going to walk in there and make some deal with some asshole attorney? An attorney who's more of a politician than an actual attorney? I hate that idea, Noah.

Like I said, you got a better one?

Costa Rica. Mexico. South Africa. He rattled them off in quick succession. I like all three of those better than what you're talking about.

Those three aren't realistic options.

Yeah, they are. Hell, they aren't any crazier than turning yourself in and crossing your fingers.

I looked out the window. We were cutting through La Mesa, passing the Grossmont College exit. The traffic was thickening, cars clogging the highway, and my stomach churned. None of the options sounded appealing to me. I was trying to choose the one that would eat at me the least.

I think Wellton's point is a good one, I said. They don't want to put me on trial.

Klimes and Zanella sure as hell do.

They don't get to decide.

If they give the DA a rock solid case they do.

They don't have that, I said.

As far as you know. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. I think it's a mistake. Big time.

They don't want you. They want me, I said. But I understand if that changes how you feel.

He glanced at me. I know that, and I don't give a shit if they want me or not. That isn't my point. My point is that putting your trust in some shitbird politician masquerading as an attorney is a bad gamble. But if that’s what you wanna do, it’s your call.

He wasn't wrong, but I didn't see any other way out of it.

And I was done talking about it.

Where are we going again? I asked.

His fingers pounded the steering wheel again. It's up in PB. Near Tourmaline. I didn't think going back to Mission was a great idea. Guy I know needed to rent out his duplex for a year. Our names aren't on any paperwork and I paid him in cash upfront.

Cash?

He shrugged, rolling his big shoulders. He owed me for something. Gave me a discount. Was just easier.

What do I owe you?

You don't owe me shit. Not for the house, not for anything.

We drove in silence through Mission Valley, past Qualcomm, then beneath San Diego State until we emptied out near Mission. I deliberately turned my head to the north, not wanting to even look in the direction of the place I'd left behind. Carter navigated the streets over the bay until we were out on Mission Boulevard, heading toward La Jolla. We drove through the roundabout, then hooked a left on Loring and then a right on Pacific View. He cut the engine in front of a brown, low-slung bungalow that was separated from the sand by only the road. A long porch ran the length of the front of the house and the small patch of grass in the front looked more beige than green. Round shrubs lined a cracked and pitted sidewalk and a lone palm tree near the garage listed dangerously to the left. The house looked like it had been built in the seventies and hadn't been touched since.

Kinda ugly, Carter said. But you can't beat the view.

I turned my head and looked across the street, toward the ocean. A set of steps led to the sand below, a wide swath of beach littered with lumps of seaweed, and a thin layer of haze hung loosely over the dark blue water. I could smell the ocean through the window. It smelled different than the Atlantic—wilder, cooler, the salt and seaweed more pungent—and it ignited memories I wasn't sure I wanted. I shifted my gaze back to the house.

It's good, I said, as much to convince myself as to convince Carter. Totally good.

He yanked the keys from the ignition. Your boards are in the garage.

How?

Night you left, I grabbed them, he said. He held up his hand, as if he expected me to object. I know you didn't want them then, but I thought you might someday.

I nodded. Alright. Thanks. I paused. And sorry I asked what I owed you.

He shoved his sunglasses up and offered a grim smile. It's alright. We just need to get back into our routine. His eyes narrowed. And you need to remember who I am.

I nodded, properly chastised. I knew who Carter was. The only person I could count on. Especially with Liz gone.

I never forgot. But I'm sorry, anyway. I waited a beat. And it's not that I'm not listening to you. I know doing this is a risk. But I can't get past anything until this is settled. Running away won't settle it. So this is the best I've got right now.

There's some sort of SUV in the garage behind the house, he said, like he hadn't heard me. He left us the keys so we can use it. I'll probably kick this thing in tomorrow for something else. There's also some clothes in the house. Figured you didn't have much with you.

Did you hear me? I asked.

Yeah, I heard you, Carter said. You're two feet away from me. But I don't have a better option for you so there's nothing for me to say about it. You've gotta do what you need to do. I get it. Doesn't mean I like it, though. But I don't need to like it. He shrugged. So let's get your shit moved in and we'll figure out the next move after we have a beer and you choose which room you want.

Like you didn't already choose.

He chuckled and pushed open his door. Looks like you do still remember me.

I laughed and got out of the car. The breeze blew in off the ocean, ruffling my hair, and I breathed in deeply. Despite the darkness that weighed on me, it still felt like I was home.

A bittersweet homecoming, but a homecoming, nonetheless.

The burner phone vibrated in my pocket and I pulled it out.

A text. From Wellton.

We're on. Eleven tomorrow morning at the DA's office. I'll be there to meet you.

I shoved the phone back in my pocket and watched the ocean for a moment. The waves rolled in, soft southern swells that toppled over one another. They kept coming, one right after the other, a relentless pounding of harnessed energy. There was small comfort watching them. Knowing the ocean was there. Always would be.

And remembering Liz wasn’t.

I reached for the phone again and re-read Wellton's text.

We were on.

Whether I wanted to be or not.

FIVE

Christina Benavides stared at me with hard eyes. Takes a lot of guts to walk in here. Or a lot of stupidity.

I'd barely slept and had gotten up early. Made coffee and sat outside on the deck, watching the dawn patrol ride the waves at sunrise. I checked Carter's room, but it was empty. After a couple hours, I showered and dressed, found the keys to the old Explorer in the garage, and headed downtown to meet Wellton. He was there before me, and we didn't say a word on the elevator ride up to District Attorney Christina Benavides' office. An assistant ushered us into her office, where she was already sitting behind a large desk. She nodded at Wellton and he introduced me. She didn't offer her hand and I'd just sat down when she accused me of being dumb.

Probably more of the latter, I said.

She studied me with those hard brown eyes, eyes behind a pair of black, thick-framed glasses. Her black hair was cut even with her chin, her cheeks and jaw at sharp angles with each other. She wore a purple blouse, the top button unbuttoned, and a small silver locket hung loosely around her neck. If her eyes hadn't seemed like tiny razor blades cutting into me, she might've been attractive in a severe way.

Tell me exactly why you're here, she said. Her red lips were pursed in disapproval.

I think we covered that on the phone, Wellton said from the chair next to me. He leaned forward. What he wants—

"I want