"Show me," I said simply, forcing my shoulders to relax even as every instinct screamed for caution.
Juan nodded once, a gesture that acknowledged the reluctant truce between us. "Then let's not waste any more time. Let me show you."
Chapter 20
Juan movedto his car with deliberate steps, opened the passenger door, and retrieved a sleek laptop. His movements were precise and economical, as if choreographed to convey professionalism. He placed the computer on the Cadillac's hood, the metal still warm from the engine's heat. When he opened it, the screen cast an eerie blue glow across our faces, transforming the dim garage into something otherworldly. I watched his fingers tap across the keyboard with practiced efficiency, noting how he positioned the screen so both Matt and I could see it clearly while maintaining control of the device. Trust only extends so far in our world.
"These are internal police reports," Juan said, opening a folder labeled with an alphanumeric code I recognized as Tampa PD's filing system. "Not the sanitized versions released to the press."
I leaned closer, my eyes scanning the document that appeared on screen. Autopsy report for Richard Collins, complete with crime scene photos I hadn't seen before. The clinical language of death contrasted with the violent reality captured in the images. Photos from what appeared to be his living room floor, blood patterns suggesting he'd been standing when first shot, then fallen and been shot again.
"Page four," Juan directed, his manicured finger tapping the screen. "Cause of death and ballistics."
Matt shifted beside me, moving into a better position to see while maintaining his vigilance of our surroundings. I felt the slight pressure of his arm against mine—a small, anchoring touch in the midst of chaos.
I scrolled to page four, my eyes immediately locking onto the highlighted section. "Victim sustained two gunshot wounds, consistent with .38 caliber rounds, likely fired from a Smith & Wesson Model 642."
My blood went cold. The Smith & Wesson 642 was a common enough weapon, but it was also my weapon of choice throughout my FBI career. The gun I'd carried for years, the one I'd trained with until it felt like an extension of my hand.
"That's my gun," I said, the words barely audible above the drip of water somewhere in the distance. "Not just the same model—that specific description matches my service weapon exactly."
Juan's expression remained neutral, but his eyes tracked my reaction with scientific interest. "I thought it might," he said. "So, the killer used an identical weapon. That suggests they know you intimately. Not just your movements or your schedule, but your preferences, your history.”
The implication hung in the air between us, heavy with menace. Someone who knew me well enough to choose the exact weapon model I preferred. Someone who understood that this detail would add another layer of circumstantial evidence against me, another thread in the tapestry of my supposed guilt.
"There's more," Juan continued, scrolling to another document. "The bullets recovered from Collins' body had rifling marks consistent with a newer weapon—manufactured within the last two years. But according to your service records, you've had your .38 for over a decade."
Matt spoke for the first time since Juan had opened the laptop. "So, whoever did this knew enough to match the caliber and model but didn't account for the age difference in the ballistics."
"A small mistake," Juan agreed, "but potentially significant. It'sthe kind of detail that might eventually create reasonable doubt—if your case ever made it to trial."
"If," I repeated, the word bitter on my tongue. “If I’m not killed before then.”
"Collins was killed by the first gunshot, a shot to the back of the head. Execution style." His finger tapped rhythmically against the hood of his car as he spoke. "No defensive wounds, no signs of struggle. No signs of forced entry."
I processed this information, turning it over in my mind like a puzzle piece seeking its fit. "He knew his killer."
"Or at least didn't perceive them as a threat until it was too late," Juan corrected. "You don’t turn your back on someone you’re afraid of."
“Or maybe they snuck up on him from behind.”
“Sure.”
Matt had moved slightly behind Juan while he spoke, his detective's eyes studying the man's every micro-expression and body language. I caught Matt's gaze briefly—a subtle nod indicating that, so far, he detected no deception. Juan was telling us what he believed to be true, though that didn't necessarily make it accurate.
I thought about Victor Reeves—his brute-force approach, his lack of subtlety, his preference for direct confrontation rather than manipulation. "But this murder doesn’t have Reeves’ signature. It doesn’t look like his work."
Juan's lips curved in what might have been approval. "Maybe he’s changing things up? He knows you know his methods, so perhaps he changed to hide that it was him? If the main goal was to frame you, he would be smart enough not to leave a trace that could lead to him."
I stared at the autopsy photos still displayed on the screen, the clinical documentation of violence that had set this nightmare in motion. Someone had selected Richard Collins specifically, had executed him with a weapon chosen to implicate me, had planted his body in my trunk, and ensured I would be discovered with it. Someone who knew me well enough to anticipate my reactions, to predict how I would respond when cornered.
Someone who was still watching, still maneuvering pieces on a board I couldn't fully see.
"There's something connecting Collins to me," I said, certainty hardening in my voice. "Something beyond the frame-up. He wasn't chosen at random."
Juan nodded slowly. "That's what I believe as well. The question is—what was that connection, and why did it make him a target?"
Matt shifted his weight, drawing my attention. His expression remained neutral, but I recognized the slight narrowing of his eyes—he was processing something, seeing a pattern I hadn't yet grasped.
