The Trapped Girls Collection: Detective Grant Abduction Mysteries

by James Hunt

  Watching the video, seeing the events unfold for the first time since it happened only yesterday, Grant’s stomach tightened, and he turned away before he was forced to watch himself detonate Mary’s bomb, struggling to keep down what little food he had in his stomach.

  The video ended, and Hickem pocketed the device. “Without the audio, there’s no way of telling it’s Grant. But if this gets into the hands of the media, it won’t take long before they demand a head to roll, and with Grant’s prior… record… I think it’s safe to say things could turn very ugly for him very quickly.”

  Mocks’s nostrils flared, arms still crossed, her body so tense she was shaking. “Could you trace who sent it?”

  “It was just a dummy account,” Hickem answered. “Fake name. Fake number.”

  Grant finally composed himself and rejoined Hickem and Mocks. “It had to have been Dennis. And if he sent it to you, then I’m sure he kept a few copies for insurance.”

  Mocks kicked a nearby desk. “How the fuck did he get that?” The anger dissipated, and she slumped her shoulders forward. “Grant… I’m sorry.”

  Whatever had happened, however Dennis had gotten a hold of the video, Grant knew that it wasn’t her fault. He placed a hand on her shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “It’s fine.” He flicked his eyes toward Hickem. “What are you going to do with that video?”

  “While both of you may find this hard to believe, my priority is to catch Pullman. He’s already killed a State Attorney General, and that’s not something my bosses are going to let slide.” Hickem backed toward the door and unlocked it. “And while we have had our differences, Grant, I know that it’s better to have you on my side than against me. I’ll see you back at the precinct.” He winked and disappeared into the hallway.

  The door clicked shut, leaving Mocks and Grant to mull over their options.

  “You trust him?” Mocks asked.

  “No. But I believe him.” Grant sighed. “So long as Dennis breathes free air, Hickem will be under pressure to find him. I can help, and he knows it. That’s the only reason he hasn’t shown it to the mayor.”

  “I could always just shoot him and steal his phone,” Mocks said.

  Grant smirked. “We’ll keep that one in our back pocket.”

  Mocks headed for the door but stopped when her phone rang. “This is Mullocks.” Her face slackened. “When?... I want Forensics there immediately. And rope off the entire property. If the media wants a picture, then they’ll have to use a telephoto lens.” She ended the call, pulling the door open. “We have our first stiff. The bastard isn’t wasting any time.”

  Grant followed her out the door. “Then neither should we.”

  6

  The light from the camera was unnatural, but that was what the make-up was used for, which she’d layered on extra thick today because of the rain. The moisture wasn’t doing any favors to her hair either. But having grown up in the hot, humid environment that was Florida’s swamps, she was prepared for it.

  When she was younger, Lacey White promised herself that she would get as far away from her shitty little Florida town as she possibly could. She knew that if she stayed, her best-case scenario would be a future of working odd shifts at a local bar and marrying a man who wasn’t a mean drunk.

  So, she’d studied, done well in school, and when it came to apply for colleges, she was accepted into the University of Florida on a full ride. Then after graduation, she applied for every news station position on the West Coast, save for Alaska. She’d fuck lazy-eyed Gary before she’d ever move to Alaska. But as fate would have it, she’d landed a job for KVLR Channel 9 News in Seattle.

  Lacey read through the spiel that she put together this morning before the sun came up. This was the first chance at a story she’d been given that didn’t involve a fair, marketplace, or installation of a new traffic light.

  It was a classic case of gentrification, the rich pushing out the poor in the name of progress. The poor always had the same plight. The rich always had the same defense.

  It would run as a headline for a few cycles, and then burn out when both sides realized that the issue was going to end the same way it had always done: with the rich getting their way.

  But Lacey had put effort into the story. It might have been a well-worn story, but it still had some meat to it. And she was starving for anything she could sink her teeth into.

  “You ready, Lacey?” Gary asked.

  Lacey applied a few last-minute touches, and then snapped her compact mirror shut. “It rains in summer, and then it’s freezing in winter?” She sniffled and hoped that her nose wasn’t too red and found her mark in front of a new row of apartment buildings being set. “Is it ever not miserable in this fucking city?”

  Gary offered a friendly smile. “Oh, come on, it’s not that bad. We have our good days.” He heaved the camera onto his shoulder and then had his one good eye peer through the video display. “Feed’s good, and we’re on in five, four, three, two, one.” He pointed at her, and Lacey flashed that winning pageant smile that had landed her the job despite having to deny the station manager’s advances.

  “I’m north of downtown Seattle at the site of a new and controversial row of apartments where city officials have just broken ground.” Lacey walked along the old and crumbling buildings, gesturing to the eviction notices taped onto the doors. “Local residents were given thirty days to relocate, and city officials are making resources available to help with those relocation efforts.” She stopped walking and turned back to the camera, gripping the mic with both hands. “However, the residents I managed to speak with said that the notices were delivered late, and that efforts to contact those resources have not led to anyone being placed into a new home. Many residents have decided to stay, which would force the city to remove these residents before new construction can begin. And despite the uncertainty of their future, the citizens I spoke to all had the same unified message. We’re not going anywhere. I’m Lacey White, Channel 9 News.”

  Lacey held the smile and waited for the camera light to turn off and the producer in her ear to tell her she was clear before she lowered her microphone and dropped the smile.

  “That was good,” Gary said, rotating the shoulder that held the camera, and then winced as he walked back to the van. “This thing gets heavier every year.”

  Lacey plucked the device from her ear and hopped into the passenger seat of the van. She rested her head back against the seat and gazed at the skyline of downtown, wishing she’d been given the police headquarters assignment.

  Whatever was happening there was big, but instead of being in the middle of the action where she could have the most impact, she was stuck on the back burner. She wrinkled her nose as she caught a whiff of something on the breeze. She glanced back to Gary, who was still fiddling with his camera. “How much longer? This place is starting to clog my pores.”

  “Not long,” Gary said.

  Not long stretched for another twenty minutes, and then Gary dropped her off at her apartment on his way back to the station. The pair had worked together for the past eight months, and she had just been waiting for the inevitable moment when he tried to make a pass at her. She figured now would be the time and braced herself to have to let him down easy, because even bruising the ego of a lowly cameraman could come back to bite her in the ass.

  “Good work today,” Gary said, smiling as he shifted the van into park.

  “Thanks,” Lacey said. “You too.”

  “Imagine what I could do if both worked.” Gary pointed to his lazy eye and laughed. “I’m surprised they even let me drive.”

  Lacey frowned, and Gary tried to correct himself.

  “I mean, I’m perfectly capable of driving.” Gary cleared his throat. “Accident-free.”

  An unexpected laugh bubbled up from inside Lacey. A real one. Not the fake laugh that she used on-air or with her bosses. “Good to know.” Lacey opened the door and then looked back to Gary. “I’l
l see you back at the station at ten.” She slammed the door shut and walked like she was balancing on a tightrope in her heels on her way inside the building.

  The tiny studio cost her two grand a month, and after paying for rent, make-up, and clothes for her on-air persona, there wasn’t much left for anything else, limiting the furnishing of the studio to what she had dragged from her room in college.

  Lacey opened the fridge, forgetting that she still hadn’t gone to the grocery store, finding nothing but three-day old leftover Chinese and a beer. She shrugged, reaching for the beer and leaving the Chinese food. “People drink at brunch.”

  Lacey popped the cap and collapsed onto the tiny love seat that she’d hauled all the way from Gainesville at her college apartment. The thing was old, and ugly as sin, but she had yet to relax on a more comfortable sofa in her entire life. She’d never get rid of that couch.

  Lacey finished the beer and then lay down, her body the perfect length to rest her calves on the arm rest at the other end comfortably, staring up at the white popcorn-covered ceiling.

  Seven different cracks ran along the ceiling, and that was just directly above her. A few of them leaked when it rained. When she told her landlord about it, he had said that he’d fix it next week.

  That was four months ago.

  Lacey rubbed her eyes, remembering that all of this was only temporary. She wasn’t going to be stuck in a shitty apartment forever. She wasn’t going to be covering dumb stories forever. She was just starting out, and she was already making good progress. She was the youngest field reporter at the station, and she had just gotten her foot in the door with a lead at the mayor’s office.

  Lacey checked her phone. She had just enough time for a nap before she had to head back and finish the package for the twelve o’clock news, but her rest was interrupted by a knock at the door.

  Lacey frowned. In the eight months she’d lived in Seattle, she had never had a single visitor. And any time she met a guy and chose to sleep with him, it was always at his place.

  It helped ensure that she could shrug off stalkers, and it also confirmed whether or not they were telling the truth about being single.

  Lacey peeked through the peephole and saw a delivery man. She unlocked the door, but only cracked it open. She’d done enough research to know how predators had gotten creative with abductions.

  But the UPS driver kept his attention on the device in his hand, the box tucked under his arm, and then extended the small digital display toward Lacey. “Sign here, please.”

  With no triggers of alarm bells, Lacey opened the door all the way and signed for the package. The driver handed it over to her, keeping his face on the screen the entire time during their interaction.

  “Have a good day,” he said, and then disappeared down the hall.

  Balancing the box awkwardly in her hands, Lacey locked the door and walked over to the couch, setting the package down. She hadn’t bought anything online, seeing as how she had no money.

  “Okay then.” Lacey grabbed a pair of scissors and cut through the top of the box. She shoved the Styrofoam innards aside and found a note taped to the top of another box nestled amongst the packaging peanuts. The note had her name written on the outside, the cursive neat and legible. She opened it to see a handwritten note.

  “Dear Lacey,

  Inside you’ll find information relating to a former Seattle Detective that I think you’ll find quite interesting. More to come. Happy hunting.”

  Lacey checked for a signature, but she found none, and figured it must be from her contact in the mayor’s office.

  Excited, Lacey opened the package and cast the note aside, plopping down on the couch. In addition to a large file, there were folders that contained pictures of crime scenes, along with a separate USB drive.

  Lacey reached for the file first, which was a thick administrative file from the Seattle Police Department. She opened the first page and saw the picture of a young, handsome officer in his dress blues.

  “And who are you?” Lacey tapped her nail against the officer’s nose and then ran her finger down to the name listed. “Hello, Chase Grant.”

  7

  Yellow crime scene tape cordoned off the entrance to the men’s bathroom in the bus building’s annex. Evidence markers dotted the areas where blood splatter had landed from the victim’s attack, and a photographer snapped pictures of Jimmy Shanahan who lay face down, the top half of his body protruding from the bathroom stall, stripped down to his underwear, his scalp removed from his skull.

  Grant stood behind the yellow tape as he watched Mocks place a small round device left by the body and into a plastic evidence bag. She glanced down at Shanahan one last time, and then pressed the back of her hand to her mouth and stepped out of the bathroom.

  “Knifed twice,” Mocks said. “Both along the rib cage. He bled out. Time of death is between one and two hours ago. We won’t know for sure if Pullman scalped him before or after he was dead until the examiner has a look at him.” She handed Grant the evidence bag. “This was the only thing on him besides his personal items.”

  Grant peeled his eyes away from the victim, thoughts of Mary Sullivan lingering in his head, and he wondered if her quick death was more merciful than the slow bloodletting that Jimmy Shanahan had experienced. “What about the bus?”

  Mocks leaned back against the wall adjacent to the bathroom door. “Bus went through all of the stops and the kids arrived on time at school this morning. I’ve got Lane checking to make sure the school isn’t missing anyone.” She cocked her jaw to the side, biting her lower lip. “He drove over forty kids around and no one batted an eyelash.”

  Grant examined the evidence in the plastic bag. It was a small, round device and resembled some of the transponders that they’d found in Barry Finster’s apartment, along with the radio equipment used to construct the bombs for the Sullivan family. “We should match these up with the electronics we found at Finster’s apartment.”

  Mocks pushed off the wall and headed toward the door, Grant following. “I get killing the bus driver, but why take the bus? He’s never killed a kid before.” She shouldered the door open and headed toward the car in the parking lot. “And even though Susie Mullins was abducted, it was Waffer who actually did it.”

  Grant paused at the passenger side door of the car and examined the small transponder in the bag. “I don’t know.”

  Mocks ducked into the car and started the engine as Grant climbed inside. She reached for the radio and had dispatch put her back through to the office, requesting to speak with Detective Lane, who had been their team lead during the investigation to locate the Missing Persons from yesterday. “All the kids accounted for on that bus?”

  “All but one, Lieutenant.” Lane cleared his throat. He sounded congested. “Harold Brockwater’s son. As in Judge Harold Brockwater. The man who sentenced Dennis Pullman to life in prison.”

  Grant and Mocks exchanged a glance before Mocks shifted into drive and flipped the cruiser lights. Grant took the radio handle from Mocks. “Give me the judge’s address.” Grant pulled out his phone and typed it into the GPS.

  “Lane, I want the closest available unit headed toward Brockwater’s house immediately to secure the area,” Mocks said. “But they do not engage. Understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The request went out over the radio, a unit responding within a few seconds as Mocks headed for the highway.

  “I-5 will get us there fastest,” Grant said. “Brockwater lives in Bellevue.”

  “Son of a bitch!” Mocks slapped the steering wheel.

  The red and blue lights from Mocks’s Crown Vic flashed and parted traffic as they sped through the Seattle streets.

  Mocks kept one hand on the wheel, but Grant saw in his peripheral that she kept glancing at him. “If you have any theories you’d like to share, then I’m listening.”

  “What makes you think I have a working theory?” Grant asked.

&nb
sp; “Because you’ve got your thinking face on,” Mocks answered. “You’ve furrowed your brow so hard the lines in your forehead have nearly become permanent.”

  Grant turned from his view of the window, almost smiling. “Furrowed?”

  Mocks shrugged. “I’ve been reading more.” She raised her eyebrows. “Well?”

  Grant shifted in his seat and wiped his sweaty palms across his jeans. “He wants something from Brockwater.”

  Mocks switched lanes, pulling around a semi-truck who was hogging the fast lane. “Leverage really isn’t Pullman’s style.”

  “No, but his focus has always been control.” Grant tightened his grip on the hand rest as Mocks continued her manic pace through traffic.

  Mocks rocked her head from side to side, that mind of hers moving faster than the car she drove. “So, Pullman wants to control Brockwater… why?”

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  The radio crackled in Mocks’s car, Dispatch informing them that a black and white was already on scene and reported no suspicious activity. Mocks grabbed hold of the radio. “We’re two minutes out. Tell them to hang tight.”

  Bellevue housed most of the city’s well-to-do residents, which was located on the south side of the city.

  Once in the neighborhood, the row of houses that they passed on the left were all of the same cookie cutter fashion and style. Every yard was immaculate, the sidewalks clean, the cars parked in the driveway totaling more than most people’s yearly salary. The neighborhood could have been a model for a Sam Rockwell painting.

  Grant spotted the patrol car down the street as Mocks parked in Brockwater’s driveway, blocking his car.

  Mocks radioed the unit nearby. “Any confirmation he’s home?”

  “Negative, Lieutenant.”

  “After we go to the door, I want one of you to head around back, make sure no one takes off running.”