And of Cisco’s.
“She wants a meet. Tomorrow,” Hawk went on.
“I thought Boone was Cisco’s handler,” Auggie noted.
“This meet won’t be with Cisco, though Mamá wants him there,” Hawk shared. “It’s gonna be with Lynn Crowley.”
All five of the men immediately went wired.
Lynn Crowley was Tony Crowley’s widow.
And Tony Crowley was the cop who Cisco was framed for killing.
Then, when that frame job went south, what they now knew was a syndicate of dirty cops moved in to clean up that business.
This being staging a murder-suicide of two of their own: Detectives Lance Mueller and Kevin Bogart. Partners as cops, partners in crime, and part of a collective of bad police who the team knew were out there, they just didn’t know who they were or what they were up to.
Mueller left a bogus suicide note that explained why they killed Crowley (who was investigating them) and why he personally killed Bogart (who the note said did the kill on Crowley).
How they knew this was bigger than just Mueller and Bogart was because they had several good cops on their team. One of them was Malik, Elvira’s husband. Malik got his hands on the suicide note, and they had just enough time to have it gone over by an expert to find that it was forged before Malik had to return it.
Also, before whoever was still pulling the strings got to him, the medical examiner who examined the bodies shared that Mueller was so juiced with Rohypnol, even at close range, he in no way could aim to hit Bogart dead center in the heart, because he wouldn’t even have enough faculty to lift the gun to his own head. Both of which happened, shot to the heart took Bogart out, one to the brain took out Mueller.
Though, this was not in the report that was filed.
It was deemed murder-suicide and the case was closed.
Until now, even though the murder of her husband had left her with two kids and pregnant with the third, Lynn Crowley had been adamantly opposed to assisting them in any manner to find out who and what her husband was investigating before he got dead.
This told the team that she was under someone’s thumb.
Now she was reaching out through Mamá Nana.
“And Heidi Mueller,” Hawk finished.
“Holy fuck,” Mag whispered.
Yeah.
That said it all.
Because no one had even thought to go to Heidi Mueller, Lance Mueller’s widow.
Not now.
Maybe not ever.
Because she was a woman who had been through the wringer not only because her husband of nearly two decades was dead, after murdering another man and being a party to having a good cop get killed. She was also under the false impression he’d cheated on her repeatedly by coercing freebies from sex workers.
Rounding this out, the media had had a field day with this and Heidi was the current poster child for “Wronged Woman, You Decide If She Was Just a Huge Idiot or If Her Husband Was That Good at Being a Lying Douchebag.” And considering the word woman denoted she had a vagina, the vast majority of assholes out there considered her an idiot, no matter how massive a lying douchebag her husband was.
Somehow, that was her responsibility and she took that rap.
And the last few weeks, Heidi Mueller had been living heavy with that rap.
“Boone, get on Cisco,” Hawk ordered. “Mamá wants us for lunch tomorrow.”
“On it,” Boone said.
Hawk looked to Mo and then to Axl. “I want you two with Boone and me.”
Axl nodded.
Then to Auggie, Hawk said, “I wanna know anything I don’t already know about Heidi Mueller.”
“You got it,” Auggie replied, shifting to his workstation.
Hawk jerked up his chin then moved to the steps that would take him to his office.
“Is this a break in the case?” Mag murmured to them all.
“Fuck, I hope so,” Boone answered.
Axl did too.
He really did.
Because this needed to be done seeing as they were talking dirty cops and death.
But also, he had something important to concentrate on, that being Hattie, and this bullshit was getting in the way.
CHAPTER FOUR
Whoosh
HATTIE
It was morning and I was sitting out on my side deck in my jammies with a cup of coffee and my phone, scrolling up and down.
Yes, doing this on Axl’s text string.
There had been nothing new.
Not after what happened at my studio two days ago.
Instead, I was scrolling through the old from after he and Ryn saw me lose it while dancing in that studio to when I was dancing to “Shut Up” at Smithie’s.
It started with:
You OK?
And then:
Hattie, just tell me if you’re OK.
I’m OK.
Thanks for asking.
He gave it a couple of days and then:
You want to meet up? No pressure.
Just want to see for myself you’re good.
I’m good.
Right.
You want to meet up?
To that one, I didn’t answer.
Then, the next day:
Time for lunch? Going to Mustard’s.
Mac says you dig it there.