Page 87 of Burning Justice

He put Blaze up in the kennel, then headed from the lot. As he took the ramp for I-25, he began tapping a finger on the wheel.

The attorney was the key to everything. Brett might not be able to prove it yet, but Charles Pilcher was full of shit. With his acting skills, the man could have been a Broadway star.

Images of the framed Prescott College diploma on the wall over Pilcher’s desk sprang to mind, as did the one on Michael Hawkin’s office wall, the one right next to the photo of Hawkin and two other men standing in front of an airplane.

Something started meshing in Brett’s memory.

He flipped on the turn signal and slowed, pulling onto the shoulder. Traffic whizzed by, rocking the SUV. Blaze stuck his head through the kennel window, snorting and blowing warm breath on Brett’s neck.

Holy shit.

Now he knew why Pilcher looked familiar. And from what he remembered of the DMV photo, one of the other men in the photo could have been David Hawkin.

The other was Charles Pilcher. He’d been wearing a visor, concealing part of his face, but it was definitely him. He’d said he didn’t know Michael Hawkin.

Pilcher had been lying. About everything, Brett now guessed, and he also assumed that the second he and Gemma had walked out of Pilcher’s office, the man had been on the phone with both Hawkin brothers.

Lori’s orders screamed so loudly they might as well have been tattooed on his brain, but so were the faces of those two kids who died last year. He owed it to them and to every other future victim of this conspiracy to put a stop to it. And he owed it to Ryan and Cody.

Battling the guilt over surviving that fire when he was a kid might be a war he’d be stuck waging for the rest of his life. The only thing that could possibly ease it and help him atone for surviving when Ryan and Cody hadn’t was to nail the Hawkin brothers and Charles Pilcher.

Brett pulled back onto the highway. He knew what he had to do. It could very well cost him his job, but it was the right thing to do. In his mind, it was the only thing to do.

He punched it, rocketing the Expedition up to ninety as he headed north, back to Denver. Gemma would be pissed, but he had to leave her out of this. He could be walking into a career-ending shitstorm, and he didn’t want her caught in the fallout. He cared about her too much. Hell, it was more than that.

He was falling for her. He didn’t know when that had happened, but it had.

In the week since he’d known her, he’d come to understand many things about Gemma, things he hadn’t expected.

The tough facade she showed the world wasn’t a facade at all. She was tough as nails, but behind those steel walls was a soft spot for dogs and struggling, unwed mothers with newborns. For abused and abandoned young men like Gavin Aldrich.

And for him. When they’d talked about his burns, what he’d glimpsed in her eyes was pain. His pain, for what he’d been through and was still going through.

That tough shell would protect Gemma from many things, but the tender side of her could still be hurt professionally and personally.

Brett pounded the wheel with his fist. Shithead that he was, he’d already done one of those and was about to do the other.

…

The same receptionist greeted Brett. “Good morning. May I help you?”

“Is he in?” Brett hitched his head in the direction of Pilcher’s office.

“Yes, but do you have—”

“An appointment? I do now.” Brett blew past the receptionist, heading toward the back office. He flung open the door with enough force to intentionally cause it to smack against the wall.

Pilcher shot up from his chair as if he’d been goosed. Surprise and fear lit the man’s face. “What are you doing? You can’t just barge in here.”

“Mr. Pilcher!” the receptionist shouted behind Brett. “Do you want me to call the police?”

“First of all,” Brett threw over his shoulder, never taking his eyes off Pilcher, “I am the police. Secondly, I have a feeling that when Mr. Pilcher hears what I have to say, he won’t want anyone else around.”

Unlike the first time they’d met, Pilcher’s bravado slipped, a sliver of worry evident in his eyes. “That’s all right, Mina.”

Brett all but slammed the door in Mina’s face. “Have a seat, Pilcher. I have a story to tell you. Most of it you already know.”

Slowly, Pilcher sank onto his chair, the steaming mug of coffee and half-eaten pastry wisely forgotten. “What do you want?”