Vigilante Investigator Series Box Set

by Eden Sharp

  Contents

  VIJ#1

  Blurb

  The Breaks

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  VIJ#2

  Blurb

  GET9

  VIJ#3

  Blurb

  Zero Day

  About the Author

  Dear Reader

  The Breaks

  Eden Sharp

  The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.

  Ernest Hemingway - A Farewell To Arms

  Angela McGlynn is concealing dark secrets: engaging in vigilante activism in an attempt to dismiss self-destructive thoughts. When she employs recently discharged veteran John Knox to aid her in the search for a missing girl she soon comes to realize that war has left him broken. As they both become embroiled ever deeper into a vortex of danger and half-truths rapidly spinning out of control, his need to rescue the girl and her search for justice compel each of them to pursue a course of action with no regard for the potential psychological fallout.

  First published in 2015 by Maximum City Publishing

  Copyright © Eden Sharp 2015

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means - electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise - without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owner.

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to real events or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. The names of software and the procedures are also fictional.

  The hacks are real.

  ONE

  At two minutes to ten in the evening, with fifteen hours to go, Lorentz Pulido exited the train at West Oakland BART station. It had been a long time since he had used public transit. He hadn't been looking forward to it but had actually enjoyed the journey and the sights along the way like the weird gas station and the crazy murals. There had been the backyard filled with junk all neatly lined up like it was representative of some kind of plan and even a boat on a roof.

  He walked out of the station into a largely deserted street. It was a clear night but the moon was new and the combination of darkness, lack of social amenities and the reputation of the neighborhood meant no dog walkers, or joggers, or couples out taking a stroll.

  After taking in some of the surrounding area he noticed a white Chevrolet cargo van parked at the curb up ahead. It was possible it belonged to someone who worked in carpentry, or an electrical or maintenance trade. He was pretty sure women were advised not to park next to such vehicles in lots and that children were told they should cross the street, wary of men waiting to snatch them.

  As he approached he could see it had a large sliding door in place of side panels, a practicality for taking out ladders and paint and putting back other such tools and equipment.

  He got level with the drivers' door and paused to check his reflection in the wing mirror, satisfying himself that the dark hooded clothing made him unidentifiable. Whoever had planned on saving seven bucks by using the free street parking on Magnolia was about to discover it had cost them a whole lot more.

  He beat the lock, defeated the immobilizer, and started up the engine. After a five minute drive on West Grande Avenue he entered the eighteen lane toll plaza of the Bay Bridge and headed westbound for home back into the City, taking in the interesting new construction of the eastern span.

  At the storage lock-up, he unscrewed the license tag and replaced it with one from out of state. A large roll of plastic sheeting lay propped in a corner. He dragged it to the shutter to be nearer the light and began to unwrap it. He settled on a three foot length as manageable and used a craft knife to slice it from the main roll.

  Inside the van he stapled it to part of the first of several plywood sheets lining the interior. After repeating the process until all the wood was covered, he bolted two D-rings to the floor ready for attaching chains and handcuffs.

  After two hours of steady work he sat down satisfied with his efforts and thought about the new day ahead. Driving out to the mall, the stalking and the take down. The slight nausea of adrenalin started to grip his gut. He was going to enjoy himself.

  Twelve hours later he trailed around Westfield like a bored boyfriend, hanging back, being discreet. Every time he caught a glimpse of himself in store windows he worried if he had dressed right. Looked like a lot of people were about to go out for the night rather than spend an afternoon in a mall. At least he didn't look like the tourists with the waist wallets and cameras. Craning their necks at everything. Making themselves easy targets when they didn't realize that this was an odd city, the good, bad and ugly neighborhoods all mixed up, different by day and night. The worst parts were only blocks away from the tourist traps and not marked on the map. It was easy to stray off track.

  Outside on the street the girl was harder to follow. At one point she looked over in his direction but he knew he hadn't been made. It was just a quick look around like she was checking street signs. He got the idea she was lost. She was heading down exactly the right streets as far as he was concerned.

  He was excited. Cash money, the best kind, and the bonus of time to play. Pulido parked the van in a space twenty yards further up the street and checked the mirror. Ten yards out he readied to make his move. He slid out of the driver's side and unlocked the panel door. He pulled it back a few inches. The interior was dark, not too revealing of the modifications.

  To begin with, he thought the bitch was raising some kind of alarm with her cell phone. Her fingers moved fast like those of kids texting always did. Why were they so attached to their phones? Even when they were in danger? Even when they should be running?

  Ten seconds later he caught up with her and landed one to her temple which connected so squarely he was surprised it hadn't completely knocked her out. She staggered back dazed but still gripping the phone. He snatched it from her hand, delivered another blow and bundled her limp and confused into the back of the van and made everything secure. He scanned the surroundings and slid the side door shut happy there were no witnesses.

  He checked the cell phone for any connections. He didn't want 911 dispatch listening in. No calls had been made. No text messages appeared to have been sent. He thought about it for a moment and then opened up the photo file. She had been smart. She had managed to take his picture but then, luckily for him, she had run out of time. He on the other hand, now had all the time in the world. After deleting the photo he focused his attention back to the girl. Back to all the fun he was going to have.

  TWO

  Two weeks later.

  I drove out of the flats of downtown and West Oakland into the hills along the northeast side of the city. The further from San Francisco Bay the more affluent the neighborhoods and properties became until the apartments and condos gave way to cottages and modern mansions positioned in forested hills along winding streets in a valley named Montclair which had been formed way back in time by the Hayward Fault.

  The girl's father introduced himself as Kyle Grigson. I shook his hand.

  'Angela McGlynn,' I said.

  He led me through a spacious and airy hallway into a large living area full of furniture that though old and worn, was solid and elegant, had never been cheap, and had been crafted by artisans to last.

  His face had shown a hint of uncertainty when he opened the door. An initial and fleeting impression, probably about my age. People often assumed
I was younger than twenty-seven. Possibly the result of good genes though it was difficult to know. The irony was that in my early teens people had thought of me as older because I had always been taller than my peers. The average height for an American woman is five-feet-four inches, an increase of only one inch in sixty years. But the CDC-stated average was five inches shorter than I was.

  I employed a barrage of small talk designed to ease him into harder questioning and discovered he was a high school chemistry teacher recently retired from a local and highly ranked public school. He was slight. Not skinny or short but naturally wiry and now shrunken in on himself as though recoiling from reality.

  I let him finish his resume but delayed starting in on business. Letting the pause ride while I assessed his comfort levels as he stared out of the window at nothing.

  His eyes moved rapidly viewing some interior movie but his mouth remained silent. A couple of slight twitches at the corners of his lips signaled forthcoming information but he didn't follow through as though he was struggling to sort and prioritise a coherent account of the salient points.

  People only had two states of being and noticing the clues to which state they were in was always informative. Someone exhibiting signs of comfort who then gave off visual cues to their discomfort when asked a certain question, would give away any attempt at deception with their body language. Lie detectors could be beaten but the primitive limbic brain couldn't be overridden by a good actor practiced at deceit. One cue by itself didn't mean much, but tie a bunch together in context and you could be pretty sure if someone was being truthful or attempting concealment.

  Initially he had avoided eye contact but then I would have expected him to show some signs of discomfort. There had been no arm across the body blocking behavior though, no fiddling with cuffs or his watch. When he finally began I didn't fill any silences, I just let him talk.

  He said he didn't know if she had meant some of the things she had said, but he had discovered his eighteen-year-old daughter, Amber, was abusing coke and she had packed a bag when the resulting discussion had become heated. He had tried a softer approach then, the caring parent realizing he was losing and that tough love was a crock.

  Look let's sit down and work this out. We can work this out right? I mean you can't just walk out. Where would you go? What would you do for money? He had offered to ask around friends, see if they could use some temporary help while she figured out a future like university or public service.

  'What happened then?'

  'She just exploded. She didn't need me. She had a friend who worked as an escort. That was what she was planning to do. Earn some real money she said. Work as a prostitute.'

  The word caught in his throat and for a moment I thought his composure was going to slip.

  'Sounds like she was lashing out. She probably didn't mean it,' I said.

  But he was shaking his head, already certain.

  'She's gone and she isn't coming back.'

  He couldn't be convinced that sooner or later she would be in touch. That his daughter was an adult in the eyes of the law. That in fighting to assert autonomy, spontaneous threats were often selected in order they hurt loved ones the most.

  'My rates are a thousand a day with the first two days in advance,' I said.

  He waved away the figure with his hand.

  'Whatever it takes,' he said. 'A very dear work colleague introduced me to Mr. Besson. We've only spoken on the telephone, but my friend vouches for his integrity.'

  'As do I,' I said.

  'He told me you find people.'

  'I will find her,' I said. 'But I can't make her come back. Not everyone wants to be found. I can only make contact and try to determine if she's safe.'

  'Then that's the best I can hope for Ms. McGlynn.'

  I looked into his eyes and saw truth in his statement.

  'Can you remember what she was wearing?'

  'Jeans, a plaid shirt, or maybe black pants, definitely not a skirt.'

  I wrote it down. Not because it was particularly useful or that I couldn't remember but because it made me look like I was actively doing something.

  'Is there a picture you can let me have?'

  'Yes of course.'

  There were several in the room. He leapt up, all nervous energy, and flitted from one to the other trying to find a happy medium between one that was truly representative and one that he could bear to be parted from.

  He selected a ten-by-eight in a gilt frame, lingered on the image for a while, then turned it over and unclipped the back. He carefully removed the photograph and kissed it before handing it to me. I wasn't sure what to make of that.

  'I even have trouble keeping up with her hair color,' he said. 'Currently it's blond. Golden with a slight red tinge maybe. Whatever. My daughter walked out of this house three weeks ago and I need her found. She should have returned by now. Her ongoing absence, it's... it's sinister.'

  From the vocabulary he used, the Montclair location, and the footprint and decor of the house, it was clear that Amber Grigson came from an educated middle-class background. Not that abuse and misery always went hand-in-hand with poverty by any means.

  'What about her mother?'

  'Her mother left when she was ten-years-old to go and start a new family in Australia.'

  'Have you contacted her?'

  'Yes I've contacted her. It's her legal right. But her misplaced anger at me seems to override any real maternal concern. In any case there is no way Amber could have made such a trip.'

  'She could have funds you don't know about. Is it possible her mother could have wired them?'

  'It's highly unlikely seeing as how they really don't get along and in any case Amber doesn't have a passport.'

  'That would make it difficult.'

  'I've called every relative, every friend,' he said.

  I watched him clasp his bony fingers together into prayer position. Stress.

  'The friends are few. Once their parents learned about the drug use they discouraged any ongoing relationships. Family members haven't been supportive. I've visited all of Amber's favorite hangouts, the ones I know about anyhow, then I waited twenty-four hours and went to the police. The officer I saw dutifully took everything down, he even managed to look sympathetic, but the momentum ended with him filing the report. When I called they had done no more than I had done myself. They say they're doing everything they can. But between the gang murders and robberies and drug dealing I'm not sure just how much manpower is being expended on searching for an eighteen-year-old who hasn't come home. To me she's my child, to them she's just another statistic in a database.'

  I had drawn a blank canvasing the neighborhood. I headed back towards the city ready to get caught up in the Friday afternoon crush and replayed the conversation in my head. Of Kyle Grigson attempting to take back control.

  Amber Grigson's journal and laptop were on the passenger seat. When I got home I'd check out both and go through the notes I'd made while looking at her room.

  The sheer volume of stuff there had been incredible. Every inch had been covered. The walls lined with posters, artwork and pictures from magazines. A barely visible mirror draped with pendants and beads. Cushions and stuffed animals all over the bed. A dressing table full of medium-priced cosmetics and thick with dust.

  The rest of the house had been spotless. Either the father was house proud or he paid for a cleaning service that bypassed Amber's room, hinting at a requirement for privacy and possibly hidden secrets.

  All the shelves had been loaded with board games from a younger age that no one had donated to Goodwill. Even the floor had been littered with books, old CDs, handbags, shoes, and clothes.

  By comparison my bedrooms had always been empty. Decorated by adult taste and with the bare accoutrements of a bed, nightstand, lamp, and closet.

  I remembered some of them. Not all of them. My main memory was of unpacking. It would take me around two minutes. After I took out my clothes,
all that was left was a doll I had loved very much. I couldn't remember its name only that it had a broken arm. Later when I was older, my prize possession was always a laptop, stashed away so no one could find it.

  The flow slackened off then funneled into a jam as I headed towards the bridge. I stretched back in the seat as far as I could, trying to release some of the tension in my muscles from sitting still for so long. The traffic inched forward and stopped.

  It was going to be a longer journey home than I had hoped for even using the FasTrak lane. I opened the window to let in some air and switched the radio on to see if there was anything to distract me.

  It's Friday September 9th and a beautiful afternoon here in the Bay area and it's about to get better so stayed tuned to 99-7 Now for all the hits with me, St. John and some of my good friends, after the news with Scott Hellem.

  At a press conference earlier today a White House spokesperson revealed that recent documents posted on the internet allegedly detailing senator Tim Deeley's involvement in a money for votes scheme linked to a billionaire Japanese businessman, are the work of a hacker known only as AVI. . .

  The sloppy research and bad reporting irritated me. The newsreader should have said AV1.

  . . .rose to notoriety almost a decade ago by purportedly hacking into NASA super-computers and forcing a satellite to move out of its orbit. Deeley is so far refusing to comment but it's becoming increasingly certain that this is a story that isn't going to go away. In other news...

  I leaned across and hit the off switch and for the second time in one day thought about the past.

  'Be careful Charlie,' I said.

  THREE