DESPERATE CREED: (Book 5 Ryder Creed K-9 Mystery Series)

by Kava, Alex

  Maggie didn’t ask how she was sure she hadn’t been followed. She knew Hannah was already worried sick about her friend. Yesterday, when she told Hannah what she’d learned about Tyler Gates and Deacon Kaye, Hannah had gone quiet on the other end of the line for so long Maggie finally had to prompt a reply, “Hannah, are you okay?”

  “Those poor young men. They definitely stumbled onto something, didn’t they?”

  After a couple of back and forth phone calls, Maggie had Frankie’s email address and password to give to Alonzo. And Hannah had arranged for her to meet Frankie just outside of Montgomery, Alabama. It’d cut two or three hours of drive time for Maggie. She knew Hannah was being practical, but she couldn’t help being disappointed. If she’d driven all the way to the Florida Panhandle to K9 CrimeScents she would have been able to see Ryder.

  Hannah obviously sensed this, because without any encouragement she told Maggie that Ryder and Jason were working a site devastated by a tornado.

  “It’s just south of Montgomery,” Hannah told her. “I’m sure he’d love to see you.”

  She wondered if that were true or if it was Hannah simply wishing it to be true. Maggie knew she had pushed Creed away. The closer they got, the harder she pushed. And yet, just the idea of seeing him made her palms sweat and her pulse race. She was thinking about all that while Hannah was trying to give her directions to where she was to meet Frankie Russo.

  “It’s a meat-and-three called Southern Blessings. Big parking lot right across from a truck stop. On the south side of Montgomery. Just off the interstate. You are going to love the biscuits,” Hannah told her as though this were a simple lunch date.

  Maggie had jotted down all the directions and instructions before it occurred to her to ask, “I know it’s a diner or restaurant, but what’s a meat-and-three?”

  “Oh sweetie, I’m sorry. You choose your meat and three sides. It’s a little slice of heaven. And speaking of slices, make sure you try the butterscotch or pecan pie.”

  It made Maggie smile even this morning as she remembered the conversation from last night. Hannah, herself, was a fantastic cook who sincerely hoped and believed she could soothe the soul and solve most problems with her food.

  Maggie’s mouth watered thinking about Hannah’s smothered fried chicken and black-eyed peas. She’d have to settle for airport food or road trip food. Before she headed out to pick up her rental car, she found a corner table in one of the terminal’s small cafés. She ordered a bagel, cream cheese, fresh berries and a Diet Pepsi. She needed to check her messages. She had left Agent Alonzo with a long wish list, and she was anxious to see his progress.

  One of the many televisions mounted all over the airport terminal hung ten feet in front of her. She thought about moving to another table but liked this corner. She could see the entrance and her back was to the wall. All were important ingredients for a seasoned FBI agent. After ten years she figured she was allowed to call it seasoned instead of jaded or paranoid.

  Then her eyes caught the closed caption crawling across the bottom of the television screen. It read: MAJOR FOOD COMPANY CEO AND SENATORS SIGN GLOBAL INITIATIVE TO FEED THE WORLD’S HUNGRY.

  She turned her phone from airplane mode to ON and immediately noticed she had a text message from Alonzo. It was short and simple:

  CALL ME AS SOON AS YOU LAND.

  Maggie dug out her wireless earbuds as the waitress brought her plate.

  “Those berries look wonderful,” she told the woman.

  “We aim to please. But I’m afraid you’ll need to settle for Diet Coca Cola instead of Pepsi. You’re in Atlanta, you know.”

  “That’s fine. Thanks.”

  And as she tapped Alonzo’s phone number, she also dug a bottle of water out of her travel bag. Her eyes darted back to the television screen. The news conference with the food company CEO and the senators was still in progress. Now the closed caption identified that company as Carson Foods. Of course it was. Before she looked away she saw a face she recognized standing alongside the senators back behind the CEO. She shouldn’t have been surprised to see her boss, Assistant Director Raymond Kunze.

  “Hey, Maggie.” Alonzo answered.

  “I realized I’m asking you to do this on a Saturday.”

  “And this is probably why neither of us are in relationships.”

  She knew he meant it as a joke. So why did it sting a little?

  “Have you seen the news? Carson Foods’ CEO is on TV right now.”

  “Their wonderful global initiative,” he said. “Sounds like they’re so generous, right? They actually stand to make billions.”

  “A.D. Director Kunze is there.”

  “For sure. His homeboy, Senator John Quincy is sponsoring the initiative.”

  “I don’t want to get you in trouble with Kunze. I’m doing this as a favor to a friend, but you—”

  “Maggie, don’t worry about it. I can already tell you something doesn’t look right about this whole thing. Listen,” he paused and she heard him moving around, “I worked some magic last night. Don’t ask any questions as to how or what, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “I can track Tyler Gates’ phone.”

  “We already know where he was before he got shot. Frankie said he was at Deacon Kaye’s apartment.”

  “No, no. Not where he’s been. I’m able to track the phone since it got taken.”

  It took her a few seconds to realize what he was saying.

  “Okay,” she said, waiting for more.

  “Remember I told you the killers may have stolen the phone because it would be a treasure trove of information? They’d have access to Gates’ emails, his texts, contacts, all of his accounts especially social media, subscription services, any apps he had downloaded.”

  “Okay, but would they keep the phone turned on? It’s harder to track it if they’ve shut it off.”

  “True. But they didn’t shut it down, and why would they? If they shut it down they’d need to figure out what his passcode was to turn it back on. Why go to that extra trouble when they could just keep it on? Charge the battery every now and then.”

  “Unless you can tell me exactly where these guys live in Chicago, I’m not sure how tracking them helps us,” she told Alonzo as she slathered cream cheese on her bagel.

  “Except they’re not in Chicago.”

  “Again, if we don’t have an address—”

  “Maggie, listen to me for a minute. I can’t give you an exact address, but I can narrow it down to one of two hotels that are across the street from each other. Listen carefully, across from each other in Brentwood, Tennessee.”

  “Brentwood?”

  “It’s a suburb of Nashville. Just off Interstate 65.”

  She placed her knife on the edge of the plate and sat back. Took a deep breath, because she felt like she’d just had the air knocked out of her.

  “They’re still following her,” she said. “How is that possible? They have his phone, not hers.”

  “My best guess? They were able to use his email to gain access to hers.”

  “That’s possible?”

  Alonzo laughed, a genuine full-throated laugh that had Maggie tapping her earbud to reduce the volume. The café was getting crowded with a wave of passengers. Her eyes scanned the new faces coming into the café while her mind raced.

  This was much bigger than she expected. More serious than she realized. And with Assistant Director Kunze involved? No way could she tell him what she was doing. But what about Frankie Russo? She needed to alert the woman. Tell her she was right. She was being followed.

  Maggie glanced at her watch. Russo had to already be on the road.

  Then her stomach took a nosedive.

  Maybe they’d already killed her.

  “Sorry Maggie,” Alonzo finally said, and she couldn’t even remember what he was apologizing for.

  “Too little sleep,” he continued, “and too much caffeine. To answer your question, yes, it’s
possible. If they tapped into her email account they may have seen a hotel confirmation. Even if she paid in cash, the hotel probably asked for her email for that purpose or to send a receipt. Most people aren’t going to have a problem with it. We give out our email addresses as easily as we do our phone numbers. Ms. Russo probably wouldn’t think twice about it.”

  He paused. When he came back on his voice was lower, “I have to tell you, if that’s what happened, this is a level of sophistication that goes beyond Tyler Gates and Deacon Kaye hacking into a corporation’s internal email system. These killers are not a couple of thugs. They’re definitely professionals.”

  “Do you think they already took care of her?” Maggie asked.

  Now Alonzo went quiet. The silence lasted so long she knew he hadn’t thought about that.

  “Truthfully? I don’t know. But then that’s your area of expertise.”

  “I need to check on her. Call me if you find anything else.”

  “Let me know what you find out.”

  Hannah had given her the number for Frankie’s burner phone, and Maggie had programmed it into her contacts. It had been a long time since she’d used one, and now she wondered if burner phones had caller I.D. The woman might not answer. She found the number and hit the call button, silently praying for the woman to pick up. Maggie did not want to have to call Hannah. How could she explain to her that she may have already failed her?

  On the other end she could hear the phone ringing.

  Pick up, Russo. Please pick up.

  32

  Alabama

  Sometime during the early morning hours, Frankie Russo had been at the window watching when she saw them make the turn into the entrance to the luxury hotel. At first, she thought she must be mistaken. She was dead tired. Her eyes could barely stay open. Exhaustion had overwhelmed her after her room service meal, and yet, she still couldn’t sleep.

  So at four o’clock in the morning, she had perched in front of the window, staring out from her fourth floor window, almost as if she had expected them. She had chosen this hotel because it had just one entrance into the parking lot. And now in the dark, with only the pole lights to illuminate the inside of the vehicle, Frankie could see the huge square head of the driver, like a block on top of shoulders that looked like a tank.

  At that time of morning, the parking lot was empty of people but packed with vehicles. Instead of driving around, the black sedan pulled up under the carport. He got out of the car and there was no doubt in her mind that this was the man with the scar on his neck even though she couldn’t see the scar. She knew it was the same man she saw kill Tyler; the same man she saw at the airport searching for her. The other passenger stayed in the vehicle and out of sight.

  Frankie had scouted out and planned her escape route before she had even gone into her room. She’d even timed it. Her bag stayed packed, and after her shower she’d put on fresh clothes instead of pajamas. When she saw the car, she slid into her shoes and gathered the few items she’d scattered on the desk and in the bathroom. One glance out the window had told her it was still parked at the front door.

  Within minutes, Frankie had taken the back stairs to an exit at the rear of the building. She had parked her Ford Escape just a few steps from that door where it was out of sight of the front entrance. The one entrance to the parking lot had been an advantage for her to see them, but she knew she’d need to leave another way. In the back of the hotel she’d found a landscaped berm that connected the hotel’s lot to another parking lot next door. Just as Frankie had hoped, her small SUV glided over the area without trampling any of the plants. She was on the interstate in less than ten minutes.

  Now here she was, just an hour outside of Montgomery. She was still gripping the steering wheel. Her eyes continuously watched her rearview and side mirrors. She knew the only thing she had going for her was that she was ahead of them. But she’d have no idea when, not if, they discovered she had left the hotel.

  Were they an hour behind her? Two hours? Twenty minutes?

  How the hell had they found her?

  Ever since she left—as soon as she could breathe again—her mind kept trying to go over what she’d done that might have tipped them off. How was it possible? If they were able to track her phone, they might know she was in the Nashville area, but how did they know exactly what hotel she had chosen?

  She had told no one, except Hannah. And Hannah wouldn’t have told anyone. Except... Did Hannah tell the FBI agent?

  Frankie’s mind went back to what her assistant had said about the men waiting for her at the agency. They told her it was something “official.” Was it possible they were law enforcement?

  “No,” she told herself. She shook her head and met her eyes in the rearview mirror. The FBI agent was a friend of Hannah’s. Someone she trusted.

  “You’re just getting punchy from too little sleep. Come on, Frankie,” she told herself out loud. “Law enforcement officers don’t gun down computer hackers in the street.”

  At her last stop for gas—and gas only—she texted Hannah to let her know she was on her way. She didn’t share with her friend anything else. Hannah was already worried sick. Frankie wouldn’t add to that. Besides, there wasn’t anything else her friend could do for her.

  She was so paranoid she kept the burner phone off. It didn’t help matters that dark storm clouds were gathering on the western horizon. It was warm and muggy, but the rain had washed everything clean. After a long Chicago winter, Frankie should have been enjoying all the green with pops of color along the roadsides. Instead, she couldn’t take her eyes off the vehicle’s mirrors.

  Somewhere behind her, she knew they were following.

  33

  Florida Panhandle

  Brodie dreaded the visit from her mother, but she had promised Ryder that she would allow it. Now that it was here, she didn’t want to think about it.

  “You need to cut her some slack,” Ryder had told her.

  “But why aren’t you close to her?” Brodie wanted to know.

  The silence that followed told her more than his answer.

  Those first days in the Omaha hospital were such a blur. Brodie had been dehydrated, malnourished and battling the residual effects of being drugged. She remembered waking and seeing Ryder sitting beside her bed, but in the beginning she wasn’t even sure who he was half the time. He was a man instead of the fourteen-year-old boy she had left behind. Complicate all that with the nightmares, along with Iris Malone’s voice still occupying a segment of her mind.

  One of Brodie’s first introductions to her mother was her television show. Ryder channel-surfed on the hospital TV until he found it. And that was another thing that bothered Brodie. Why was she Olivia James? Not Olivia Creed? She had asked Ryder, and he simply said she’d need to ask their mother.

  As for why the two weren’t close? Ryder had told her, “It’s a long story. It has nothing to do with you.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. And it doesn’t matter anymore. She wants to be a part of our lives. You have to at least give her a chance.”

  After everything he’d done for her, Brodie agreed to at least try. Even her therapist applauded the idea and reminded her, “Your mother is not the villain that Iris Malone said she was.”

  Brodie knew that Iris had lied to her, but it didn’t make it any easier to erase everything the woman had told her over and over again for the last sixteen years. It didn’t help matters that Iris’ lies fed off of Brodie’s guilt. She did, after all, disobey her parents. Why wouldn’t they be angry? Why wouldn’t they want to punish her?

  Last night’s nightmare, along with the rain, brought the beginning back so clearly. Too clearly. Sometimes it felt like ages ago. Other times, it felt like yesterday.

  It had been raining that day. She and Ryder were reading their new books that Gram had given them while their dad listened to the football game on the car radio. He was in a bad mood the entire drive. Their mom had s
tayed with Gram, and Brodie just figured he was upset that they had to go home without her.

  They stopped at a rest area so Brodie could go to the bathroom. It seemed silly, but even now she could remember how happy and carefree she skipped through the puddles, her new book still under her arm. The rain made all the taillights and truck lights blink and glow—red and orange, yellow and green. She didn’t feel scared at all.

  The little girl was standing at the sink when Brodie finished using the toilet. She was thin and her long hair stringy. At first, Brodie thought the girl was using the bathroom because she was sick. Her face was so pale, and she looked sad. She said her name was Charlotte, and she asked if Brodie would like to see her new puppy.

  Brodie realized too late that it should have been a warning signal. Why did the girl look so sad if she had just received a new puppy? Maybe she didn’t want the puppy. Maybe she was going to offer it to Brodie. But then, Brodie became mesmerized by the RV that Charlotte showed her. The girl scrambled up the steps, and Brodie followed. Inside it looked like a house on wheels. It was so pretty. The smiling woman invited her in. She showed her how they could sit on the sofa, watch TV—“go ahead, sit down”—and cook their meal while they rode along the countryside.

  Brodie had never been inside such a vehicle before. Iris had offered her a ride, just a short one for her to get the feel. Brodie paid little attention to the man behind the steering wheel or the boy in the passenger seat. She’d barely noticed that there wasn’t a puppy anywhere to be seen.

  When Iris pulled out her phone and said she’d call Brodie’s parents to see if it was okay, Brodie only nodded while she sipped the milkshake that the woman had already prepared for her and Charlotte.

  She remembered being fascinated by how high up they rode. By the time she wondered how this woman knew her parents, she was feeling sleepy, so sleepy she could barely move her arms.