Gone Daddy Gone (Sloane Monroe Book 7)

by Cheryl Bradshaw

  I called Maddie.

  “How is he?” I asked.

  “I’m going to give it to you straight. He’s a mess, Sloane. I was able to stop the bleeding for the most part. I won’t know how bad he is until we get him to the hospital and he gets checked out. The ambulance is loading him up now.”

  “I’m sorry I took off.”

  “Where did you go? Where are you?”

  “I saw the guy who shot him run up the hillside, and I followed. His footprints are everywhere, but he’s gone. I’m coming down. I should be with Cade.”

  “He’s unconscious, Sloane. He won’t know the difference.”

  For now.

  “If he wakes up and I’m not there—”

  “What would Cade want you to do? Think about it. Think about what he’d do if this happened to you.”

  He’d want to stay with me, but if he’d seen what I had, he would have gone after the killer too.

  “Stay up there and see what you can find,” Maddie said. “I’ll ride over with Cade and meet you at the hospital in a few.”

  I slipped my phone into my coat pocket and said to Proctor, “This was a premeditated attack. Someone waited in the parking lot for Cade to come out.”

  “Just like someone waited for Shelby to walk home that day,” Proctor said. “The shot was dead on, and in my opinion, clearly meant to target him and not you. What I’d like to know is ...”

  He trailed off, his focus shifting from me to something else.

  “What is it? What are you looking at?”

  “I’m not sure. You mentioned seeing something reflective up here. Think I know what you were talking about.”

  He pointed.

  I looked.

  Dangling from a branch of a tree several feet away was a piece of black fabric about the size of a credit card. The back was coated with reflective tape.

  “Stay put while I check it out,” he said. “Might be nothing, might be something, might be a trap.”

  He walked to the object in question. Before touching it, he ran his hand along the ground, locating a twig. He snapped it in half, using it to poke around before removing his camera phone and snapping several photos.

  “Well, what is it?”

  “The one side is nothing more than a strip of fabric. Cotton, looks like.”

  “Maybe a piece of his coat got caught on the branch when he was trying to get away.”

  Proctor shook his head. “Nope, it’s much more than that. He left this here for a reason. It was planted. He wanted us to find it.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  He motioned for me to walk over. I did.

  “Take a look at this,” he said.

  Attached to the fabric was a playing card, this time a Jack of Hearts. Written on the card was a message: How does it feel to lose the one you love?

  CHAPTER 27

  A larger picture was forming, one wherein revenge proved to be the guiding force behind the shootings. New questions entered my mind, pushing me in a different direction.

  What was the game the killer was playing, and why?

  And what was the real meaning behind the message on the playing cards?

  I thought about Cade’s history in law enforcement. Over the years, there had been times when firing his weapon had been his only option. There had been fatalities. Not many, but a few.

  Could the loved one of someone Cade had killed be seeking justice?

  If true, why had the killer waited until now?

  It didn’t make sense.

  I found Maddie pacing the waiting room floor of the hospital. We made eye contact, and the look on her face gave me pause, scaring me. Whatever news she was about to deliver, I believed it wasn’t good.

  “Glad you’re here,” she said.

  “Is it bad? Just tell me. No matter how hard it is, I need to know. Is he ...”

  Dead.

  I choked on the word, unable to get it out.

  “He’s alive, Sloane, and he’s in surgery. That’s the most important thing you need to know right now.”

  I breathed hope into my lungs. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Everything should be fine. There is a chance he might not make it through surgery, but so far he’s doing all right. I spoke with the neurosurgeon. He’s a friend of Hooker’s. He has performed this type of surgery before, and he’s optimistic he can save his life.”

  “What do you know so far?”

  “When we arrived, he was still unconscious and in critical condition, but the good news is the bullet went through and through. If it had lodged inside his brain, we’d be looking at a much more severe injury. He probably wouldn’t have survived the trip to the hospital.”

  I dug deep, focusing on the positive—hope instead of fear.

  Cade was tough.

  A fighter.

  He would survive.

  He had to survive.

  “Tell me about the surgery they’re performing,” I said.

  “The operation is called a decompressive hemicraniotomy.”

  “A what?”

  “It’s a lot to explain. We don’t need to go into the specifics of it right now, okay?”

  I shrugged. “Why not? I want to understand the procedure.”

  “If I go into detail, I’m afraid you’ll freak out.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it sounds a lot worse than it is. To be frank, it sounds crazy, but it’s not.”

  I crossed my arms in front of me. “Tell me. I want to know.”

  She walked to the reception desk, asked for a piece of paper, a pen, and a clipboard, and then walked back over to me. We sat down, and she drew me a picture—a cartoonlike version of a brain.

  Using the pen as a pointer, she said, “Okay, so, let’s say this is Cade’s brain and this is the area where the bullet hit. The neurosurgeon needs to remove a portion of the skull to allow his brain to expand.”

  She was right. It did sound crazy, reminding me of the scene in Hannibal when Hannibal had removed Krendler’s prefrontal cortex. “Why does it need to expand?”

  “To lower the pressure in his skull.”

  “There’s pressure in his skull?”

  She grabbed my hand. “The important thing to remember here is that it needs to be done in order to keep Cade alive.”

  “What happens to the part of skull they remove?”

  “They use a computer to recreate the shape of the piece of bone that was removed, and they make a plastic replacement.”

  “And when the surgery is over, will he be fine? Will he be normal again?”

  “No, Sloane. He won’t. Probably not for a long time. He’ll need to work with specialists to recover the functions he lost. But the good news is, Cade’s a fighter. If anyone can come out of this, he can.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Several hours later, Cade was out of surgery. He’d survived, but was still considered to be in critical condition. The surgeon disallowed visitors, at least until the following day when he could reassess Cade’s condition. I didn’t like it, but I understood.

  Nick arrived in town for a meeting Proctor had set up. Proctor hoped merging details about the case would help us create a better profile of the killer. We met at Cade’s house, filing into the den for a group discussion. Before we got started, Nick called Coop so he could listen in via phone.

  Proctor began by saying he’d spent the day sifting through Cade’s old case files. In his opinion, we were looking for someone with a vendetta against Cade. We needed a connection—any connection—to tie Cade’s attempted murder to someone from his past. The question was whether or not we’d find it.

  “All right,” Proctor said, “let’s get started. I’ve got Hooker at the lab going over the forensic evidence. He’ll be checking in with me if he finds anything of interest.”

  “My friend Maddie is also there assisting him,” I said.

  Proctor’s jaw tensed. “Yes, I heard.”

  “Is that a pro
blem?”

  “He needs to focus and not get distracted. She can stay, for now, as long as she doesn’t get in the way.”

  “Get in the way?” Coop snorted through the phone. “She’s one of the top medical examiners in the country. She’ll be the one assisting him, not the other way around.”

  Proctor frowned, looking irritated. “Getting back to why we’re here, Cade is usually in charge of cases like this, but I’ve been asked to step in. Based on the playing cards left by the killer at both crime scenes, the perp is sending a clear message. It’s safe to assume he’s out for vengeance and has a bone to pick. We need to find out why.”

  “The calling card is key,” Nick said. “First the Ten of Hearts, and now the Jack. He’s working up to something.”

  “A royal flush,” Coop said, “which means he’s only hit two out of five targets. How are you profiling him?”

  “I believe the man we’re looking for is either a criminal out for revenge, or a member of the criminal’s family, looking to do the same thing,” Proctor said. “Both attacks were planned, methodical. He’s somewhat organized and disciplined. The words ‘how does it feel’ suggest rage, and I’d even say resentment.”

  “I agree,” Coop said. “The window between the first attack and the second was small. It won’t be long until there’s a third. You have any good suspects?”

  “For now I’m focusing on two of his old cases.”

  “Why only two? Seems a bit on the slim side, if you ask me.”

  “We can expand from there. My strategy is to isolate suspects who have reason to retaliate against Cade and work outward from there, most likely suspects to least.”

  “What’s your plan?”

  “I’ll be speaking with the suspects’ families to see if I can find a connection.”

  “I assume you’re giving us permission to speak to them as well?” Coop asked.

  Proctor sighed. “You know, I understand what you’re asking, but it would be better for you to let us handle the—”

  “I don’t think so. We’re either working together or we’re not. I didn’t send my man up there so he could sit on his ass while you do the dirty work. He’s there to get dirty, and I’m expecting you to let him.”

  “He won’t be sitting around,” I said.

  “Wasn’t asking you, Sloane,” Coop said.

  “Your man was asked here for a reason,” Proctor said, “We’re doing our best to cooperate.”

  “Good, that’s all I wanted to know. I’ve got someplace I need to be,” Coop said. “Nick, I’ll give you a call later for an update.”

  “Will do,” Nick said.

  Nick pressed the end button on the phone.

  Proctor shook his head. “Geez, is he always like that?”

  “For as long as I’ve known him,” I said. “Be grateful you only had to deal with the mild version. It could have been a lot worse.”

  He raised a brow. “Well, we’d better discuss these suspects.”

  Proctor grabbed a folder on the coffee table and flipped it open. “First up is Jeff Ward. He was incarcerated ten years ago for killing a female store clerk during an armed robbery.”

  “What made you choose him?” Nick asked.

  “He’s always claimed he is innocent.”

  “How can he be innocent if a woman was killed?”

  “The robbery involved Jeff and his cousin Ned. In Ned’s original statement, he said Jeff had pulled the trigger, and since Jeff’s prints were also found on the gun, Jeff received the lion’s share of the prison sentence. For years Ned stuck to his story. Then last year at his parole hearing, he broke down, said Jeff wasn’t even in the store at the time of the robbery. He now claims Jeff was the getaway driver, which was what Jeff had said all along.”

  “What does Jeff claim happened?”

  “In Jeff’s statement, he said it was supposed to be a robbery, nothing more, and that Ned had told him there weren’t any bullets in the gun—it was just for show. Ned shot the clerk, ran out of the store, handed Jeff the gun, and told him to hide it. Jeff shoved it under his seat. Seconds later as they were making their getaway, cops caught up to them. The gun was taken into evidence, and the only prints found on it were Jeff’s. Not a single one belonged to Ned. In Jeff’s defense, he said Ned must have wiped the gun clean before handing it off to him.”

  “What prompted Ned to change his statement?”

  Proctor shrugged. “No idea. He just did. Balled like a baby, said he was ashamed Jeff had received a life sentence that should have been his. We talked to his cellmate, and he said he’d been quoting scripture lately, claimed to have found Jesus.”

  “Where is Jeff now?”

  “He was released a couple months ago. Lives a few miles from here in a rundown house on the edge of town. Word is he’s been looking for work, and no one will hire him.”

  “If he wanted revenge for all of those years spent in prison, why not just go after Cade and spare Shelby?”

  “Hard to say what goes on in these bottom-feeders warped minds. Time served may have jacked his brain.”

  I saw his point, but wasn’t convinced. “Who’s next?”

  Proctor closed Jeff’s folder and opened the next. “Margot Wiggins.”

  It was a name I was familiar with—one Cade had mentioned every now and then. “I know about her. She’s the one who held her ex-husband hostage when he wouldn’t hand over the kids.”

  Proctor nodded. “You’re right.”

  “What’s her story?” Nick asked.

  “She lost visitation rights with her two youngest boys because of her drug addiction,” Proctor said. “A week out of rehab, she showed up at her ex-husband’s house all hopped up on cocaine, toting a gun, ready to blow his brains out.”

  “What happened?” Nick asked.

  “When she drew on her husband, Cade did his best to talk her down, but when he realized she was going to shoot, he had no choice. He fired.”

  “When was this?”

  “Couple years ago.”

  “Did she survive?”

  “She was in a coma for a while, until her parents made the decision to take her off life support.”

  I shook my head. “If she’s dead, how could she be a suspect?”

  “She isn’t the suspect,” Proctor said. “Her oldest son Joe is. He was overseas when she died, in the Army. I hear he’s back now, came home last month. Rumor is he blames Cade for what happened. He’s been going around town saying Cade could have spared his mother’s life if he wouldn’t have shot her where he did.”

  “Cade hesitated,” I said.

  “What do you mean?” Nick asked.

  “Right before he shot her. He was going for her shoulder, trying to disarm her with the least amount of damage, but he aimed too high. He still loses sleep over it, even though he was justified in what he did. If he wouldn’t have taken the shot, her ex-husband would probably be dead.”

  “I know that, and you know that,” Proctor said. “But her son refuses to believe anything other than the story he has created in his mind.”

  I sighed. “Which suspect are you talking to first?”

  “Think I’ll start with Jeff and Ned. I want to hear their stories myself.”

  I nodded. “Care if I take Nick and see what we can get out of Joe?”

  He rubbed his hands together. “If I say no, are you going to do it anyway?”

  He knew me too well. “Probably.”

  My phone lit up, a text message from Bonnie giving me an update on Cade.

  “Everything all right?” Nick asked.

  I nodded. “Yeah, Bonnie’s just talked to the surgeon. I should call her.”

  Proctor checked his phone as well. “Looks like they’ve recovered the bullet. It lodged into the wall at the funeral home. Found the casing, too, behind one of the cars.”

  “Was it a Speer Gold Dot Centerfire?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “We’re dealing with the same perp, but ju
st to be sure, I’ll have Hooker run a comparison on the marks on the casings and the bullet’s ridges and valleys, even though we all know what we’re going to find.”

  “The question is, who is he targeting next?” I said.

  Proctor slid his chair back, stood, “Since you mentioned it, if the killer is picking off those close to Cade, I assume you’re on the list. I’d like to put a detail on you.”

  It had been on my mind all day—the constant looking over my shoulder, wondering if the killer was out there, watching and waiting just like he had with Cade and Shelby. One thing I questioned: If Cade was the one he wanted to make pay by having those around him suffer, why not save Cade for last?

  “Put a detail on me if you like, but I can take care of myself. I always have a gun on me, and I’m keeping an eye on my surroundings.”

  “Still, I’m putting a couple guys here at the house.”

  “I’m here too,” Nick said. “I won’t let anything happen to her.”

  Proctor slid his fingers into his pockets and sighed. “I get what you’re both saying, but don’t you think Cade would have said the same thing? And look where he is right now.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Joe Wiggins was lean and tall, six foot five or so, with dark, greasy hair that looked like it hadn’t been shampooed in quite some time. His face was long and oval and had a hollow, sunken look to it. But what stood out the most was a distressed tattoo of an eagle taking up half of the real estate on his forearm.

  I stood at the door with Nick, ignoring the fact that Joe was eyeballing me like he was the biggest rat in New York City and I was the prized cheese.

  “Who are you?” he grunted.

  “My name is Sloane Monroe, and this is—”

  “I don’t care ‘bout your name, lady. Who are you?”

  Nick stepped forward, taking over the conversation. “We’re investigators here working on the—”

  “Wasn’t talkin’ to you, man.” He pressed the tip of his fingertip to my nose. “Was talkin’ to her. You single?”

  “I’m almost twice your age.”

  “So what? You single or not?”

  “Whether I am or not doesn’t matter.”