“There was a man. That first day we were in the gallery. He had a smell about him I couldn’t place at first, but it was strawberry tobacco. The kind they use in shisha pipes. The men in Afghanistan smoked it all the time. Add a couple of years and a few pounds. His beard is full now.” Charlie looked at the picture. A lot of things could be changed about a person’s appearance, but he learned eyes were the hardest feature to disguise. And they could almost always be read. “But those eyes are the same.”

“If they’re connected, then that would explain how El Chico’s product has found its way into the Middle East.” Agent Edmonds’s cadence picked up. “They’re using the art to smuggle the drugs.”

Sheriff Huggins crossed his arms. “Is it possible Sydney knew about the drugs in the paintings?”

“Or Miguel?” Frost asked.

Charlie scratched his chin. “We’ve got pictures that prove Annika is connected to Marco Solis—a known drug dealer who’s connected to the Mexican cartel run by El Chico.”

“And the man whose sister is dating the guy painting drugs onto the canvases,” Frost added.

“Which is where Floyd Hollins comes into play,” Agent Edmonds said. “That punk is a lot of things, but a killer ain’t one of them.”

Charlie explained Marco Solis’s questionable presence in Lane’s life to Agent Edmonds.

“If Marco’s connection is Annika, then why was he here in Walton? How does Lane fit into all of this?”

It was like they had the edges of a puzzle put together but didn’t have enough middle pieces to decipher what the picture was—yet. “I think Annika is the connecting piece to this puzzle.”

“With these shipping labels, her gallery’s connection to the drugs was enough to get us a warrant to search her property. Lynch, you want in on it?”

His ears perked at the invitation. Of course he did. And he could see from Frost’s tapping foot that he did too. “Yes, count two of us in.”

Frost looked up, eyes round. “Me,” he whispered, pointing to himself.

Charlie nodded.

“I’ll give you a call as soon as I have details.”

The call ended and Charlie ran both hands through his hair. This felt familiar. Painful weeks of routine waiting for intel to secure enough information on the enemy when—bam!—all at once data would come pouring in and the mission was a go.

“Charlie, it’s time.” Sheriff Huggins tapped Charlie’s shoulder. “Judge Sullivan is ready with the warrant.”

TWENTY-FIVE