“Stay here, I’ll be right back,” Reed said to Billie, pushing out of the car and jogging to the front. He found the door unlocked and swung through the first floor, ignoring the empty desks stretched out to either side, the executive suite behind frosted glass on the back half of the building.
Instead he jogged up the stairs, taking them three at a time, following the only lights in the building to the second floor.
A perfect match in layout to the ground level, detectives desks were housed on the left, all of them sitting quiet. The back half of the place was reserved for the evidence locker, also completely void of life.
The entire amount of human activity in the building was clustered around the dispatch desk to Reed’s right, Jackie, Gilchrist, and Greene all standing alongside it, staring back at him expectantly.
Joining them behind the waist-high desk was Lou, the longtime dispatch operator for the day shift, a man that Reed had heard say no more than two dozen words in his entire 10 months with the 8th. One of the older employees in the CPD system, his head was void of hair, what little was left reduced to white tufts around the base of his skull. Most of his muscle mass had also deteriorated, leaving his facial features sagging and the collar on his shirt gapping more than an inch from his neck.
The expression on his face revealed there was a good chance he may be sick at any moment.
Reed knew the feeling.
“Did you run it?” Reed asked, his voice clipped and even, loud enough to be heard.
A moment of silence passed, nobody taking the lead.
“Jackie,” Reed said, stopping himself just short of snapping, “were you able to retrieve the plate on the vehicle they pulled over?”
Jackie’s mouth dropped open, her face a mix of shocked at having been brought into the conversation and surprise at his tone, before she collected herself. She closed her jaw and drew herself up a few inches higher, the same oversized jacket still enveloping her.
“Yes. The plate is registered to...” she paused, aiming her attention down at the counter beside her, “Jonas Hendrix. The address is in Grove City.”
Reed nodded, pausing just a moment. He was a bit surprised that the address on the car was outside The Bottoms, the area comprising the majority of the 8th Precinct’s jurisdiction. The mailing address for it was Franklinton, and a small sliver nudged into Hilliard, but Grove City was a good piece further south.
Not that it mattered in the slightest at the moment.
“Okay,” he said, his attention on her. “Call Grimes and ask him to get on the horn with Grove City. Have him tell them we will be entering their jurisdiction to inquire about an attempted homicide on two police officers. If they could have a couple units on standby just in case, that would be great.”
For the first time since Reed had met her, Jackie accepted a directive without saying a word. She offered only a nod, a short, curt gesture that moved no more than an inch in total.
“Also, can you call in a BOLO for Hendrix’s car?”
Once more she nodded in assent, remaining silent.
Shifting to his left, Reed looked to Greene and Gilchrist, both appearing as antsy as he felt, their faces drawn tight.
“You guys ready to go pay Jonas Hendrix a visit?”
Chapter Seven
Pulling up in front of the house of Jonas Hendrix, Reed had a feeling. Somehow, deep inside, he just knew they’d been sent on a fool’s errand.
It might have been the neighborhood, a full mile off the freeway, far enough not to catch a single residual sound from the outer belt encircling Columbus, even in the still night air. It could have been that every house on the street was built within the last two decades, their exteriors made of brick or white siding. Yards were clipped neat and uniform. Newer cars were parked in the driveways.
More than anything though, it was the collection of pumpkins sitting out on the front stoop that shifted Reed’s demeanor in an instant. One moment he was amped up, adrenaline, anger, surging through his system. Despite the cool temperatures outside, sweat had plastered the t-shirt he wore under his sweatshirt to the small of his back. Veins stood up on the backs of his hands, running up his forearms before disappearing beneath the thick cuffs of his hoodie.
Just a single glance at the quartet of carved pumpkins arranged on the concrete steps leading to the front door pushed all that aside, though. Sloppy and uneven, they were clearly the work of amateurs, children no more seven or eight.
Seeing them there, the tension bled from Reed. He still had no idea what he might find inside the house, but he knew that nobody that displayed the handiwork of their kids on the front step spent their free time out shooting police officers.
Jamming the gear shift of his sedan into park, Reed grabbed the radio off the dash in front of him. He raised it to his lips, pressed the lever on the side and said, “Gilchrist, Greene, you there?”
A long moment of static passed through the car, filling the space. Behind him Billie nudged her nose up between the seats, her breath warm and foul.
“Yeah Reed, go ahead,” Gilchrist replied.
“This isn’t the place,” Reed said, not adding any preamble at all. “This might have been where the car came from, but this isn’t the guy that shot Ike and Bishop.”
Another moment passed, Reed flicking his gaze to the rearview mirror. Pulled onto the curb behind him, he could see both their silhouettes looking to the house before Gilchrist came back over the line.
“Agreed,” he said. “How do you want to handle it?”
As certain as Reed felt, as sure as the sense in his gut seemed, he wasn’t about to do something foolish. They did still need to determine why the car belonging to this address was 15 miles north and why it was firing at police officers over moving violations.
“We’ve got more than probable cause,” Reed said. “We’re still going in.” He paused and added, “Billie and I will breech. You guys stay back and keep an eye out for runners, watch the windows for any sign of life.”
“Roger that.”
Reed replaced the mic without another word, taking up his Glock from the passenger seat beside him. He slid the holster from the outside out of it and checked the slide, racking a round into the chamber as he rested a hand on his door.
“You ready?”
There was no need to open the rear, Billie darting between the seats and following him out behind the steering wheel. His feet had no more than hit the pavement when she spilled out behind him, her solid black form nothing more than a shadow as she circled to the front of the sedan, waiting for him.
Ten feet away, both doors to the second sedan opened, Greene climbing from the driver’s side, Gilchrist opposite him. Both had already drawn their weapons, each moving to take up positions on either end of their car.
Once they both had a clear vantage of the front of the house, Greene raised a hand and motioned Reed forward, quickly returning it to the base of his weapon, using it for support as he kept the muzzle pointed at an angle toward the ground.
“Come,” Reed said, dropping his voice a few octaves, calling on the tone reserved especially for commands. Upon hearing it Billie’s body snapped rigid, her nose pointed straight ahead, every movement done with practiced efficiency.
Despite the deep-rooted feeling that the house was empty, Reed felt his pulse surge, his breathing growing shallow in his chest. Twice he gave soft squeezes on the handle of his weapon, feeling the gnarled ridges in the grip dig into his palm.
Eschewing the driveway and front walk, he cut a diagonal path across the lawn, the grass soft and springy beneath his feet. In 10 quick strides he was across it and up to the concrete steps, wasting no effort as he came upon the door and balled his hand into a fist, slamming it into the thick wooden barrier.
“Jonas Hendrix!” he yelled, his voice carrying out through the neighborhood. “Columbus PD, open up!”
The command was followed by a second pounding on the door, the blows echoing back through the hou
se, no doubt heard by half the homes on the block. Within minutes lights would begin coming on around them, the telltale sign of onlookers curious to see what the commotion was about.
“Jonas Hendrix!” Reed yelled again, giving the door one last trio of knocks before stepping back. He waited there a full 15 seconds, listening close for any sounds of movement from within.
His knock-and-announce requirement satisfied, he took a step back and looked over his shoulder to the officers standing behind him. “Anything?”
At the rear of the car Gilchrist gave a terse twist of his hand, glancing over to his partner.
“Nothing,” Greene said, his form having not moved an inch since taking up position.
“Prepare to breach,” Reed said, not waiting for a response as he turned back to the front door. Beside him Billie bounced lightly in place, having been through this procedure a time or two before, recognition, anticipation, rolling off of her.
“On three,” Reed whispered, as much for himself as his partner beside him. “One...two...three.”
Pushing forward off his left foot, Reed drove the heel of his right foot through the narrow expanse of wood between the brass handle and the doorframe. The cushioned sole of his running shoe connecting flush, the deadbolt resisted just a moment before the thin wood fleshing outlining the frame gave way. Two long strips tore away, the sound of them sheering free finding his ears, a shower of wooden shards hitting the floor right behind it.
The smell of sawdust found Reed’s nostrils as he let the momentum of the kick carry him forward, pushing the door open with his shoulder. “Clear!”
The word was still on his tongue as Billie bolted past, darting into the house and disappearing from sight. Reed could hear the sound of her toenails clattering on hardwood floors as he raised his gun to shoulder level and moved in behind her, swinging his weapon from side to side.
The interior of the house matched the exterior to the letter, the place having a comfortable, lived-in feeling, despite it being dark and silent. Heavy rugs covered large swaths of the floor and overstuffed furniture was placed around the living and dining rooms.
Piled high in the corner was a mountain of children’s toys, the predominant colors being pink and purple. A bevy of photos hung on the walls, many featuring two smiling girls with blonde curls, confirming the motif of the toys, neither child appearing to be more than six.
Just as fast as she had gone, Billie reappeared, some of the tension released from her body. In quick order Reed made a pass over everything she had just been through, seeing three bedrooms, a kitchen, and a single bathroom before making his way back to the front door.
“Still clear?” he asked, raising his voice a bit to be heard. On the opposite side of the street he couldn’t help but notice a trio of lights had come on in various houses, a direct response to his pounding and yelling just a few moments before.
“Clear,” Greene said. “Inside?”
“Nothing,” Reed said, lifting his sweatshirt and tucking his weapon into the small of his back. “Come on in.”
He paused a moment, watching as both officers holstered their guns and began to walk forward, before disappearing back into the house.
At a second glance, the place was a bit more lived in than he had previously noticed, the sofa bearing a large stain of an indeterminate origin, bits of crayon and puzzle pieces cast to various places on the floor.
While he had never had children of his own, had never been especially close to anybody having young ones, it seemed to fit exactly with what he would anticipate. The place was as clean as could be expected, the house very much meant for comfort and not show.
“Yeah, no way the owner of this house did that,” Greene said upon entering, his voice low and even. The soles of his shoes echoed across the floor as he stepped in, Gilchrist bringing up the rear.
“Nope,” Reed agreed, casting one more look around the place. “Garage?”
“Mhmm,” Greene agreed, falling in beside Reed as they circled through the living room and back into the kitchen.
Aside from the smell of wood just inside the front door, Reed could notice no other scents in the house, not from food having been cooked or disinfectants having been recently used.
“I get the impression nobody’s been home for a while,” Reed said.
“No way a family with kids that young is still out for the evening,” Gilchrist replied.
Reed nodded in agreement, coming to the door in the rear of the kitchen. Using the bank of switches on the wall beside it, he flipped all three up, twin bulbs blazing bright overhead, the third becoming visible through the curtain on the top half of the door.
Reaching into the small of his back, he drew his weapon, hearing both men behind him do the same as he clutched the door handle and paused for just a moment.
In one quick motion he jerked the door open, the hinges moaning slightly in protest. He considered issuing the command for Billie to clear the space again but pulled up short, there being no need.
The garage was one large square, extended out almost 20 feet, measuring half that from front-to-back. A row of wooden shelves and a freezer were lined along the far side and a door stood against the back wall, though otherwise the place was empty.
Casting a glance to the other two, Reed returned the gun to his waistband and stepped into the garage, the brushed concrete smooth underfoot. He gave a quick look over the place before moving toward the door along the back wall, bending and placing his elbows on his knees to get a closer vantage.
“Looks like somebody’s jimmied this thing,” he said, his voice coming out a bit pained from the awkward position. “Crowbar, large screwdriver maybe.”
“We’ve got some glass over here on the ground, too,” Greene said.
Pushing himself to full height, Reed turned to look at him, seeing the senior officer in a crouch in the far corner of garage. After a moment he stood, all exchanging glances.
“Well, this certainly expands things,” Reed said, thinking aloud, feeling his stomach somehow grow even tighter than it had been a short time before.
“Two attempted murders and grand theft?” Gilchrist asked, following the line of thinking.
“Maybe more than that,” Greene said beside him.
“Yeah,” Reed said, “where is the Hendrix family?”
All blood seemed to drain from Gilchrist’s face as he looked between Reed and Greene. “No sign of a struggle, no other indication of forced entry.”
Reed nodded, his mind already pushing forward. Despite the late hour there were things that needed to be done, regardless who they might wake up or annoy in the process.
“Still, until we find them, we have to consider the possibility,” Reed said. Once more he lowered himself to look at the door casing, careful to touch nothing before pushing himself upright and moving a few steps back toward the kitchen.
“I’m going to call this in to the local precinct, tell them we’ve had a certain B & E and grand theft auto, potentially kidnapping or worse, have them send their crime scene techs out to gather whatever they can. In the meantime, can you guys go hit those houses across the street with the lights on, see if anybody noticed anything, if they happen to know of the Hendrix’s whereabouts?”
Greene nodded, saying nothing.
“Where are you off to?” Gilchrist asked.
“I’m going to visit our crime scene guys,” Reed said. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Chapter Eight
Road flares began more than 100 yards from the scene, starting at the edge of the road and angling out across the far right lane. Laid on their side, the flares were interspersed every 10 yards, laid end-to-end in a jigsaw pattern so that the moment one burned out it automatically ignited the next in order.
The flares were already three deep, the remains of the first two nothing more than ashy outlines on the asphalt, as Reed arrived. He ignored the glowing red markers trying to push him out to the side and pulled to a stop off th
e shoulder of the road, fourth in a line that included two blue-and-white cruisers and a large white paneled van.
The cruisers were self-explanatory. One would belong to McMichaels and Jacobs, there to secure the scene. The other would be a pair of officers set to direct traffic, most likely unneeded for the time being, maybe at all given how light things tended to be in the area on Sunday mornings.
The van belonged to Earl and his crime scene crew, the doors on it standing open, the interior light illuminating stacks of equipment stowed tight in the back.
“Stay,” Reed said, climbing out to the sound of Billie emitting a low whine from the back seat. It was the same exact way she reacted every time she was left behind, something Reed made a point of doing as little as possible.
As an officer of the law, she was entitled to go wherever he went.
Still, there were certain realities that didn’t always make that practical. Despite her expert training, first with the Marines overseas and now with the department, there was no way to get around the fact that she was a dog. With that came a certain degree of contamination that could occur at a fresh crime scene, especially where blood or bodily fluids were present.
As much as Reed hated the thought, pushed it aside as fast as it entered his mind, he held a deep-rooted certainty that there was about to be plenty of the former present.
The smell of sulfur found Reed’s nose as he walked toward the scene, the effects of the flares burning bright nearby. They sent up a hazy red light that shielded all else from view until he was past them, the glare replaced by crime scene lights 50 yards ahead, a few silhouettes moving between them.
With his badge swinging from the chain around his neck, Reed walked with his hands extended by either side, careful to let every person present see he wasn’t a threat as he approached.
The first person to spot him and step forward was Officer Tommy Jacobs. On duty when the call came in, he was dressed in his full black uniform, the cooler weather causing him to switch from the short sleeves back into full length. Several inches shorter than Reed, he had an open, fleshy face and a mouth encased by a thin goatee.
The Kid: A Suspense Thriller (A Reed & Billie Novel Book 3) Page 3