by Freya Barker
“Incoming. What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking I may have a talk with him. I’d like to know where his head’s at. I’ve dealt with most of the top brass in the Denver area. On both sides of the law,” he clarifies. “Might be able to offer some insight, but I also have good connections with the local feds here. You never know when that may come in handy.”
“I appreciate it, Joe. Especially given how busy you already are.”
“Hey, if it nets me another detective, I’m gonna owe you one.”
A seriously decent guy. Glad to know he hasn’t lost his sense of justice, even in a job I know is rife with politics.
“That happens you can buy me dinner if I’m ever in town.”
“Deal. I’ll hold off ‘til tomorrow before I give him a call, in case you wanna give him the heads-up.”
“Probably not a bad idea.”
As soon as I get off the phone with him, I shoot Bill a text rather than call him.
Talked to Benedetti. Expect a call.
Barely a second later I get a responding message with a thumbs-up emoji.
With that off my list, I get up, flick off the lights, and head to the bathroom to draw a bath. My body is aching. Despite being stuck behind a desk all week, I probably should’ve eased into things a little more. The bath will hopefully relax me enough so I can sleep.
While the tub fills, I pull up an audiobook on my phone. I normally listen when I’m driving, which I haven’t done in weeks. I don’t like using headphones unless I’m working out in the gym at the office, so I prop up my phone on the vanity and press play. Then I take off my walking boot, strip down, and toss my dirty clothes in the hamper, and with a groan of pleasure get into the tub.
The male narrator’s voice—he reminds me of Yanis—is of a nice rumbly quality and I close my eyes, letting myself sink into the story.
The water is cool when I startle awake. The audio is still playing but I must’ve been dozing for a bit because I’m not sure what’s going on in the story. For a moment I consider heating up the water but it’s probably better to get out and in bed. I’m already pruned.
I pause my book—I’ll have to remember to backtrack the chunk I missed—and note to my surprise it’s after midnight. Jesus, I didn’t just doze off for a bit, I slept solidly for almost two hours. No wonder my fingertips look like raisins.
I strap on my walking boot and slip into the kimono I have hanging on the back of the door. Then I head for the kitchen to grab a glass of water for the night. It feels chilly in here, but that’s probably because I was in cold water for a while. I’ll get warm soon enough under my fluffy comforter.
The apartment is dark, but the sparse light coming in from outside is just enough for me to find a clean pair of underwear and a fresh night shirt. I quickly change and turn to the bed when all the air is sucked from my lungs.
There something lying in the middle of my bed.
Not wanting to take my eyes off the object, my hand searches blindly for the light switch. With the stark overhead light on, I see what it is.
A fire poker.
I react, diving for my gun in the top drawer of my nightstand. Then I press my back into the corner and visually scan every inch of my room, starting with the window, which appears untouched. I ease slowly toward the door I left open, leading with my gun.
When I hit the doorpost, I take a deep breath in, count to three as I exhale, and swing around, stepping into the doorway. I do a quick scan of the hallway, make sure the bathroom is clear, and flick on every light as I go.
Nothing. There’s no one in my apartment, but there definitely was someone at some point, because that poker didn’t leave itself here. The front door is locked and deadbolted, the windows look solid, and the latch on the sliding door is still in place.
I retrieve my phone from the bathroom counter where I left it and dial.
Chapter Eighteen
Yanis
Time is crawling.
I brought my laptop and have been able to do some work, but my eyes are getting gritty from staring at either my laptop screen or the two bigger ones, showing a grid of all sixteen cameras we have tracking movement all over the winery.
I’ve been following the movements of the vineyard’s night security guard doing his routine rounds, something I suggested to Flynn should continue as normal to avoid raising suspicion with staff. The older man is aware I’m here and was in here earlier to fill up the travel mug he carries around.
Between the two of us, one coffee pot is gone and a second one is brewing in hopes it’ll infuse some energy, because mine is fast wearing out. There was a time I could pull all-nighters, sometimes two in a row, and not think twice about it. Guess my forty-six years are starting to show, because I’ve barely done three hours of this shift and already I’m struggling.
The coffee machine stops gurgling so I get up to get a fresh cup and stretch my legs. When I turn back, something catches my eye on one of the big monitors. Movement behind the large wine storage facility where the fermentation tanks are kept.
A quick glance confirms the night watchman is still inside that same building, checking every nook and cranny, so the shadow I just saw darting across the small video window is definitely not him.
On full alert now, I click on the exterior camera feed to pull it up full screen.
There, just inside the first row of vines, I see movement. I quickly enlarge a different angle on the second monitor, coming from a camera we mounted on one of the high floodlights used during harvesting. Zooming in as close as the camera allows, I notice the figure is not empty-handed.
Fuck.
I grab the two-way radio, shove my phone in my pocket, and dart out of the tasting room. The agreement had been to observe, record, and wait for law enforcement if anything happened, but if I don’t step in now, it could spell disaster for the vineyard.
“Steve, come in…” I use the radio while I’m running out the back door.
I wince at the loud crackle coming through and hope the sound doesn’t carry. I don’t want to announce my approach, I want to catch the fucker in the act.
“…Steve here…”
“Got a prowler, I’m heading your way. Call 911. Police and fire. Stay put.”
“…ten-four…”
Glad the man doesn’t ask unnecessary questions; I turn off the radio. Making sure to stay in the shadows, I make my way over the storage barn, keeping my back to the wall as I inch my way along to the corner. There I drop the radio and unholster my gun before sticking my head around the edge.
It’s about twenty yards to the first row of vines from the back of the building, to allow room for equipment and vehicles. Only a matter of seconds to dash across the open space to the cover of the vines, but it’s still seconds of exposure.
If I go full out, he’ll hear me, if I make a careful approach, he may see me. Six of one, half a dozen of the other, and given that my best sprinting days are behind me, I stand a better chance of catching him with stealth.
I crouch as low as I can manage and make my way into the vines, trying not to make a sound. I don’t hear anything, but the closer I get to the vines, the stronger the smell of gasoline becomes.
Son of a bitch, if I don’t catch him before he throws a match there’ll be no way I’m fast enough to get out of here ahead of the flames.
Sneaking a peek over the vines, I see him about three rows down and moving away from the winery to the far end of the field. I duck back down and move as fast as I dare up this row to get level with him. Then I slip between the vines to get over a row and hold still until I’m sure he hasn’t heard me.
On the next quick glance, I see he’s stopped in his tracks and I hold my breath as he slowly swivels his head around.
Then I hear it too—sirens.
Before the guy can make the decision to run, I dive out of my hiding spot and run full tilt at him. Hoping to startle him long enough so I can reach him.
But he’s fast. I wat
ch him flick on a Zippo lighter and helplessly follow the arc of the flame as he tosses it behind him in the row of vines before taking off.
I’m now not just running to catch him; I’m running to get out of the path of the sudden whoosh of flames.
No longer concerned about stealth, he runs full speed toward the creek that borders that side of the property. I’m having a hard time keeping up but at least I’m clear of the fire. The next thing I know a shot is fired, I feel the brush of something pass by my head, just before I hit the dirt.
He’s fucking shooting at me.
I tentatively lift my head and catch him taking off again. I jump to my feet, raise my gun to eye level, and take aim.
My legs may not be fast enough to catch up, but no one can outrun the speed of a well-aimed bullet.
Almost before I register the sound of the gunshot, I watch the guy’s body spin before going down. I break into a run and hope to fuck I get to him before he gets back up.
I reach him just as he scrambles to his feet and launch myself at him. He falls facedown in the dirt, which makes it easier to restrain him long enough to slap a pair of zip ties on him. Ignoring his yelp of pain, I haul him in a sitting position and yank off the balaclava he’s wearing.
Dan McNeely.
It doesn’t surprise me, but it still feels good to have suspicions confirmed.
“You shot me, you asshole,” he complains.
I look at his left arm. The sleeve of the black hoodie he’s wearing glistens with blood. He’s lucky it’s just his arm.
I was aiming for his torso.
Grabbing his right arm, I haul him to his feet and turn him toward the winery, only now noticing the emergency vehicles pulling up to the fire destroying the section of vines we left behind us. Suddenly the floodlights come on—Steve must’ve thrown the switch—and shouting voices can be heard.
Keeping a firm hold on McNeely’s good arm, I march him to the two cops coming toward us.
“Mazur?” one of them asks as I hand the punk over to the other.
“That’s me.”
“I’m gonna need your gun.”
I fish it out of its holster and hand it over by the barrel.
“You’ll find his back there. He dropped it.”
“Was it discharged?”
I look the young officer straight in the eye.
“Yes, or I wouldn’t have returned fire.”
He pauses a moment before nodding.
“Show me where.”
As I retrace my steps with the officer right beside me, I hear a phone ringing in the distance. Recognizing the ringtone my hand immediately goes for my back pocket, which no longer holds my phone. I must’ve lost it when he shot at me.
“Hey, where are you going?” the cop asks when I make a sharp left toward the fire, following the sound.
“I went down when he shot at me. Must’ve dropped my phone,” I call over my shoulder. “The gun should be in front of you somewhere. Can’t be far.”
The ringing has already stopped when I find my phone, so close to the fire I can feel the heat.
A quick glance at the screen shows a missed call from my brother and an uneasy feeling crawls up my spine.
There’d have to be a good reason for him to call me in the middle of the night.
Bree
I’ve barely moved from my spot in the middle of the apartment when a sharp knock sounds at the front door.
“Bree! It’s me. I’m here with the cops. Open the door.”
Jake.
I called him. It made sense because he’s closest to me.
Forcing my feet to move, I walk to the door and throw the locks back, but it isn’t until Jake steps inside and quietly removes the gun I’m still holding, I feel I can breathe.
“You good?” he asks, as two officers who stepped in behind him slip around us into my apartment.
I nod.
“Yup.”
“Good.” He grabs my crutches and hands them to me. “Use these. Your ankle is hurting.”
Now that he mentions it, I can feel it throbbing.
“Ms. Graves, why don’t you have a seat?”
Turning, I find one of the police officers standing by the couch. I look for the second one but she must’ve gone into my bedroom.
It takes me a while to fill them in on what happened tonight and what the fire poker represents. The one officer takes notes, but after listening to my story calls in a detective. Detective Bissette shows up ten minutes later.
I remember her, she was one of the detectives working a murder case we were involved with earlier this year. She clearly remembers me too.
“Do you mind if I have a quick look around?” she asks and I shake my head.
“Go right ahead.”
She does a perfunctory scan of the living room and kitchen before disappearing down the hall.
Ignoring the remaining officer and Jake, who is hovering in the kitchen, I elevate my leg, sink back in the couch, and suddenly exhausted, I close my eyes.
“Ms. Graves, you had a bath?” Bissette calls from the hallway. “There are damp footprints on your carpet.”
“It’s Bree, and yes, that was me,” I confirm.
I hear her talking, probably to the female officer, but can’t make out what she’s saying. My eyes drift to Jake, who mouths, “Coffee?” Knowing chances are slim I’ll get any decent sleep tonight anyway, I nod.
Footsteps come down the hall and Bissette walks in, taking a seat in one of my club chairs, while the officer darts out the door.
“She’s just getting a camera. We’re gonna take some pictures before we take the evidence with us.”
“Best dust for fingerprints now,” I tell her. “Last fire poker that was taken into evidence got miraculously clean before anyone had a chance to look at it.”
She raises a single eyebrow, but turns to the other uniformed officer.
“Go grab the kit.”
“Thanks,” I mumble.
“Tell me from the start?” she asks, pulling out a voice recorder.
I sigh and go over the entire thing again.
“No idea how they may have come in?” she wants to know when I’m done.
“Windows look untouched, front door was still on the deadbolt, and the sliding door is latched.”
She’s about to say something when there’s a loud commotion on the gallery outside and Yanis storms in, followed by the young officers. Yanis looks like hell.
“The fuck, Bree?” he barks, advancing on the couch. “I had to hear from Dimi?”
I guess word got around. Not surprising.
Jake stalks in from the kitchen, I’m sure to run interference, but I can take care of myself.
“Hello to you too. You look like hell and you smell like you spent the night in a smokehouse,” I fire back.
“You call Jake and not me?”
Sick of him hovering over me, I get to my feet. Not that it helps a lot, I’m still looking up at him.
“You were twenty minutes away and working a security detail. Jake was home and only five minutes away. Which was the better call?”
He opens his mouth and quickly closes it again. I figured logic would win out, although he doesn’t look too happy about it. He focuses on Bissette.
“How did they get in?”
“Nothing obvious,” she answers.
Yanis walks to the sliding door and suddenly swings around, his eyes on me.
“Did you go out on the balcony at all the past few days?”
“No. Last one out there was you.”
I notice Detective Bissette following the interplay carefully.
“Then they got in through here.”
“How do you know?” she asks moving toward Yanis.
“Second time I’ve seen the barbecue cover stuck in the door. Last time I closed that door I made sure it wasn’t caught.”
“How is that possible? It’s locked from inside,” I question.
“Does it lock
from the outside as well?”
Bissette shoves Yanis out of the way as she pulls a pair of latex gloves from her pocket and slips them on.
“If it does, I don’t have a key,” I comment, grabbing my crutches and hobbling toward them.
The detective already has the door open and steps onto the balcony.
“There’s a lock.”
I give Yanis—who is leaning through the opening—a little shove and stick my own head outside to take a look.
“Which apartment is the manager’s?” Bissette asks over my head.
“One-ten. First floor, south corner.”
I straighten and back up so she can step inside.
“Richards. Go wake him up,” she instructs the officer before turning to Yanis. “You said the cover was stuck once before? How long ago was that?”
“Little over a week ago.”
“Anything indicating someone came in then?”
Yanis shakes his head and then looks at me.
“Do you remember anything out of place?”
I try to think back but nothing comes to mind.
“I don’t.”
Yanis turns to Jake.
“Do you have a signal detector in your kit?”
A chill runs down my spine.
Jake looks at me, his face a mask, before nodding.
“Let me go grab it.”
“What are you thinking?” Bissette asks Yanis when Jake is gone.
“I’m thinking no one risks breaking in unless they want to take something.” His eyes find mine. “Or leave something behind.”
He must’ve noticed the shiver rippling over my skin because in two steps he’s in front of me, pulling me against his chest.
“Bree hasn’t been alone at night in this apartment since we got home from Denver,” he further clarifies. “Not until tonight.”
The detective clues in quickly, as is clear from her next words.
“Someone’s been watching.”
Chapter Nineteen
Yanis
“How come you smell like a campfire?”
This time I had no problem convincing Bree to come home with me. I think what shocked her more than knowing someone had been in her apartment was the discovery of two wireless cameras in her house. Her bedroom and bathroom specifically.