High School Massacre (Lincoln Steele Book 2)
Copyright© 2020 by S.W. Blayde
Chapter 8
Thriller Sex Story: Chapter 8 - Lincoln Steele comes to the aid of a former girlfriend whose son is said to have committed a high school shooting. She knows he is innocent, but everything points to him being the mass murderer. In the small southern Arizona town, Steele encounters corrupt law enforcement, drug trafficking, sex slavery, extortion, and murder on both sides of the border. He gets to the truth and makes the guilty pay.
Caution: This Thriller Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Coercion Consensual NonConsensual Rape Crime Mystery Violence
Lincoln Steele had never heard of Blood Gorge, but assumed it was a large town because the sheriff was located there. A big mistake. Larger than Cactus Point, it still wasn’t much of a town. It just happened to be situated in a central area to all the small towns in that part of uninhabited Arizona.
Perched in his car outside the sheriff’s office, Steele lifted his pants leg and unstrapped the ankle holster. He locked the gun in the glove compartment. Anyone could carry a concealed weapon in Arizona, but wearing it into a police station was a bit too much. He felt naked without it, though.
Steele entered the small building and walked up to the front desk. “I’d like to see Sheriff Millwater.”
The officer eyed Steele from his chair. The buttons on his shirt threatened to pop as they strained to keep the shirt closed around his round belly. “What’s your business?”
“The Cactus Point High School shooting.”
The officer jumped to his feet and leaned forward with his hands flat on the desk. “What about it?”
“I have some questions.”
“Reporter?”
“Private investigator.”
“Who the fuck hired you?”
“That’s not relevant. Now can I see the sheriff?”
The policeman’s eyebrows furrowed. He glared at Steele and then yelled over his shoulder, “Jack, a private dick wants to talk to you.”
A stocky man emerged from the only office. His barrel chest strained the starched white shirt and his thick salt-and-pepper mustache covered his entire upper lip and then some. Steele wondered if he tasted his breakfast all day. He walked up to Steele.
“I’m Deputy Sheriff Millwater.”
“Oh, Buck said you were the sheriff.”
“People call me that, but there’s only one sheriff in the county. He’s in Bisbee. He’s an elected official, I’m not. I like it that way. What can I do for you?”
“Is there someplace we can talk?”
“Sure. My office. Follow me.”
The deputy sheriff led Steele to his office. Millwater took the seat behind the gray metal desk and Steele plopped down in a visitor chair across from him. The deputy sheriff shoved stacks of papers to the side and swung his legs up, dropping his heels in the cleared space with a loud thump and crossed his ankles. Steele stared at the worn soles and pointy toes of his shiny black cowboy boots.
“You ain’t from Cactus Point,” the deputy sheriff said.
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