Midnight Sun: A Gripping Serial Killer Thriller (A Grant & Daniels Trilogy Book 1)

by Raine, Charlotte

  James leads his group south and all of the other groups part ways. Kenny and I follow Judge Latham.

  “James might find our cabin,” Kenny mutters. “If they find our meth paraphernalia—”

  I snort. “These are good law-abiding citizens. They’ll see our equipment and think we’re scientists. Just keep cool.”

  I watch as Judge Latham talks to the chief of police, Harlan Grant. I signal Kenny to follow me as I push my way up closer through the group of people to walk behind the two of them.

  “Do you really think Aaron is up to the job?” Judge Latham asks. “I don’t mean to insinuate that your son isn’t capable, but he hasn’t been himself since the fire. Nobody could be the same after a tragedy like that. I would know.”

  “He cares about your daughter,” Chief Grant says. “He will do what it takes to get her back in your arms. I promise you. He may be lost right now, but I wouldn’t trust anyone else to take this case.”

  “I didn’t see him in the group today,” Judge Latham says. “Where is he?”

  “Errr…” Chief Grant shrugs. “Honestly, I’m not sure. I called him earlier, but he didn’t pick up the phone. That doesn’t mean anything. He could be out searching for clues on his own. Or questioning suspects.”

  “Everyone in town is here. Who on earth would he be questioning?” Judge Latham shakes his head. “Don’t get me wrong. Aaron has a good heart and he’s a great detective, but this is not the time to test if he can be sober long enough to find my daughter.”

  “He will find her,” Chief Grant says. “The whole police force is doing everything they can, Judge Latham. It’s our top priority.”

  “I just…” Judge Latham shakes his head. “You’ll watch over the case, right?”

  “Of course.”

  I let myself fall back toward the middle of the crowd and Kenny follows me.

  “It’s Detective Grant working the case?” He chortles. “Why didn’t they just find any old drunk at the bar?”

  “It must be those lucky pennies you picked up,” I tell him, smirking. “This will be even easier than I thought. All we have to do is go collect our money tonight and they’ll talk about us for generations. The two kidnappers who got away without a single clue pointing to who they could be. We should have asked for more money. We could have at least gotten five thousand.”

  “Maybe we should go somewhere else and kidnap someone,” Kenny says. “We’ll be national criminals. We’ll rack up money like it’s nothing.”

  I laugh. Some of the people around us give us strange looks, but I don’t care about their opinions right now. I’m on top of the world. I’m the person they’re most frightened of right now and they have no idea. I’m just a ghost to them—harmless until its true form is seen.

  12

  Aaron, 2015 (Early Saturday afternoon)

  ALEXIS SIMMONS APPEARS TO be in her midtwenties with dark red hair, a curvy body, and eyeliner that draws attention to her light brown eyes, which is fortunate because her low-cut shirt is extremely distracting. Since she can’t be older than eighteen years old, and Lisa would be around the same age if she were alive, I just want to put a sweater on her or wrap her in a blanket.

  “So, you were the one who called Sarah?” I ask.

  “No,” she says, chewing a piece of gum. She snaps it in her mouth. “I mean, I called her first, but she was working, so she didn’t answer. When she finished her shift, she called me.”

  “What did you call her about?” I ask.

  She frowns. “Am I being interrogated?”

  “No.” I reassure her. “I just want to make sure I don’t miss any of what you two talked about. She could have dropped a hint about what happened to her or who the guy was that you heard.”

  “It was just some guy asking for help,” she says. “I have no idea. I really didn’t hear much of the conversation. I think he mentioned something about his car. I think Sarah was covering the mouthpiece with her thumb. It all sounded mumbled. He had a deeper voice, so I know he at least hit puberty.”

  “Okay, okay,” I say. “So, that’s all you have? Do you know if she was having trouble with anyone?”

  She shakes her head. “Sarah is a sweetheart. I don’t think she’s ever upset anyone.”

  “So, you remember nothing else?” I rap my fingers against her parents’ table.

  “I don’t know. I think Sarah may have known who she was talking to.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “When she told me she had to go, she sounded…annoyed…and like I said, she’s a sweetheart. She wouldn’t get annoyed at a stranger asking for help.”

  I jot down onto my notepad, Sarah knew kidnapper? That essentially still leaves the whole town, but at least I probably wouldn’t have to canvas Anchorage or any other place. “But you have no idea who she would have been annoyed at?”

  “No.”

  “Well, thank you, Miss Simmons, this has been…”

  “Unhelpful?” she asks.

  I shrug. “Something you said could turn out to be important. You never know.” I pull out my business card. “If you think of anything else, call me.”

  She crosses her legs and twirls a strand of her hair around her finger. “What if I just want to call you because I’m thinking about you?”

  “Well, I would suggest that you find someone else your age,” I say, my finger instinctively reaching for my wedding ring.

  She notices the gesture, shrugs, and then stands up. “Don’t worry, I will, but maybe you should think about finding someone your age, too. I remember seeing your family. You were always happy together. I was envious. But they wouldn’t want you to be mourning for this long.”

  “You’re just a kid. You don’t understand.”

  “My friend was just kidnapped, and I was the last one to talk to her. I understand more than you think.”

  She walks away from me, leaving me alone in her family’s kitchen. I spin my ring around my finger, knowing it will cause so much friction on my skin that my finger will swell and I may never be able to take it off. I’m not sure if this is a blessing or a curse.

  13

  Aaron, 2015 (Saturday afternoon)

  JUDGE LATHAM HAS PRESIDED over hundreds of cases in the last year, most of them ending with the defendant being punished with prison time, fines, or community service. Most of them are for people who live in Anchorage, but it always baffles me on how many criminals there truly are. Granted, a handful of people don’t move to Alaska because they have shiny, clean records, but who beats another guy with an icicle? What kind of sixteen-year-old bites his friend’s ear off? Why would a wife steal all of her husband’s and her parents’ money, then try to slip into Canada?

  I look up, rubbing my eyes from staring at all of these records, when I see her.

  The FBI agent from the bar.

  “Son of a bitch,” I mutter. Some of my fellow policemen glance up at me, but quickly return to their paperwork or whatever they’re wasting their time on at their computers. They’re used to the chief’s drunken son, so I suppose I could strip naked and they wouldn’t react.

  She’s talking to Dad, which isn’t good. This is business, not her checking up on me—which I wouldn’t want either. How can the FBI be involved already? It must be because it involves Judge Latham. Shit.

  I stare at her. She’s an African-American, a few inches shorter than Dad, so maybe five eight or five nine. She looks like she's a few years younger than me—somewhere in her midthirties. While her black hair is braided, it still falls all the way to the small of her back.

  She is stunning, but annoying as hell.

  She turns to me, too fast for me to look away. I glance back down at my desk, scrambling to get a pen and paper. I begin to jot down the first thing I can think of: the Law Enforcement Oath of Honor. “On my honor, I will never betray my badge, my integrity, my character, or the public trust. I will always have the courage to hold myself and others accountable for our actions. I
will always uphold the Constitution, my community, and the agency I serve.”

  I hear her heels approach before I see the tips of her short, black leather boots near the edge of my desk. I glance up to see her standing right beside me.

  “How many drinks have you had today?” she asks.

  I frown. “None today. Not that it’s any of your business.”

  “A young girl has been taken. A ransom has been demanded. It is my business if your alcoholism screws this up.”

  I raise an eyebrow. She may be a bitch, but she seems to be taking this case to heart…which is more than I can say for myself and I’ve known Sarah all of her life.

  “Have you found any cases that could be tied to the kidnapping?” she asks.

  “No. And there’s too many to even slim down the suspect list.”

  “The kidnapper had to have known Sarah…or at least well enough to know when she finished work. I would ignore all cases that happened outside of Wyatt. How many does that leave?” she asks.

  I glance over at the pile of folders. Why hadn’t I thought of that? I flip open the first folder as she lifts up her computer bag and places it on my desk. I try to ignore the invasion of space, but I can’t help the scowl that I know is contorting my whole face.

  “Remember, we’re trying to save a girl, so save your FBI prejudice for another day,” she says, taking out a laptop.

  “As soon as you save your police prejudice for another day.”

  “I don’t hate the police. I hate specific policemen who put their egos in front of their jobs.”

  “I don’t do that.”

  “Prove it.” She types something into her laptop.

  “You know, you could help look through these cases,” I say.

  She turns her laptop around. A list has appeared.

  JOHNSON v. ALASKA

  FRANKEL v. WEAVER

  KOCH v. MILIAN

  MOORE v. TAYLOR

  BROOKS v. ALASKA

  LYDON v. GREENFIELD

  “These are cases from the past year, which Latham presided over and involved individuals from Wyatt. It includes criminal cases and excludes civil cases.”

  “Wow, the FBI has the tools for everything, don’t they?” I ask. “Okay. I remember the Brooks case was a bank robbery and Johnson was a counterfeit thing. Frankel and Weaver was a domestic violence case, and Koch and Milian was a home robbery. Moore and Taylor was an attempted rape, and Lydon versus Greenfield was attempted murder.”

  “It sounds like nobody here is good at completing a violent crime,” she comments. “How did you remember all of that?”

  “They were all important to me. Bad guys locked up, victims feel safer…it’s why I became a policeman.”

  She glances down at the laptop. “Are we sure this isn’t more personal to the family? Has Judge Latham had any personal issues that you know of?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, does he have any enemies? Does Sarah have any enemies? His wife? He has a son too, right? And he used to have another daughter?”

  I nod. “Sarah definitely doesn’t have enemies. She’s loved by everybody. I don’t know much about his wife. As for Latham…I don’t know…he’s kind of a harsh guy. Unsympathetic. I’ve heard he was abusive to his ex-wife and his son, but…neither of them ever wanted to press charges. That attitude carried over to the courtroom. If Latham decided someone was guilty…he would make it quite clear during the case, and the defense attorney would leave the courtroom with his tail between his legs. And even the prosecutors weren’t safe, because if you pissed him off…you would never get your way in court again.”

  “That would be enough to piss off any defendant and their families. There’s no kidnappings in Wyatt in the last year, but we should look into the violent cases first.”

  “Well, we should hurry then, because Latham wants me to go see the kidnapper tonight.”

  “Do you have back up?” she asks.

  “No, and I don’t need any. It’s one guy and he should have his hands full with Sarah. Besides it’s in the woods—a very specific part of the woods—and I have a feeling that the kidnapper knows the area well. I’m sure he will check to see if I’m alone, and he said Latham would die if he didn’t come alone…but of course, we couldn’t let Latham go into a possible ambush, so I’m going. Alone.”

  “That could be the dumbest plan the police have ever come up with,” she says, tossing one of her braids behind her shoulder.

  “Hey, no prejudice, remember? Don’t worry. I have a feeling this guy is an amateur. He wants to make a quick buck, which is why he demanded the ransom by tonight. I mean, he’s not even asking for that much money. Twelve hundred dollars is really specific, too. Maybe he owes a loan shark or needs to pay a bill. I don’t know, but a professional would have asked for as much as Latham could afford.”

  “Yes, amateur means stupidity,” she says. “Which makes him unpredictable. Unpredictable means dangerous.”

  “Are you worried about me? Is that what makes you a special agent?”

  She snorts, closing her laptop. “Obviously, you’re not going to take this seriously, so I’m going to find out who’s behind this before you have to go see the kidnapper.”

  I glance at the clock. “I’m supposed to meet him at nine tonight, so good luck with that.”

  She leans in closer to me. “I don’t need luck. I need you to give a damn about a girl that is likely tied up in some pervert’s or felon’s basement.”

  I can smell warm vanilla and jasmine wafting off her skin. It’s starkly different from Becky’s lemon and strawberry scent, but something about it makes me think of the intimacy Becky and I used to have, except it’s more…intense and intoxicating. I rub my nose. “I give a damn,” I mutter.

  She stands up and walks over to an empty desk—one that has been unoccupied for years. I wonder how that happens—something goes missing in your life and it doesn’t get filled until something forces its way in. The universe has a strange way of communicating, but it gets its point across quite blatantly.

  14

  Aaron, 2015 (Saturday night)

  DAD STOPS THE CAR on the road near a walking trail, which eventually leads to the waterfall the kidnapper wants me to meet him at. He grips the steering wheel.

  “You have your gun?” he asks.

  “Yes, Dad. I’m not going to let him get the jump on me.”

  “Make sure it stays hidden. If he sees it—”

  “I know. This isn’t my first time dealing with dangerous people, Dad.”

  “Just be careful. If Sarah isn’t with him and he becomes violent…try not to kill him. We need him alive to figure out where she is.”

  “I got it, Dad.” I open up the passenger door and step out. I poke my head back into the car.

  “Do you remember how Mom used to make those star-shaped cookies right before Christmas? And I’d set them near the tree, so Santa could eat them all?”

  “Yeah?”

  “We’re going to make some this year. So, neither of us is allowed to die.”

  He smirks. “Deal. You better get down there. We don’t want him to think we bailed.”

  He hands me the suitcase full of money. I close the car door then begin walking down into the woods.

  The woods near Wyatt are mostly made up of red cedar, spruce, and hemlock trees. I keep my eyes open and search through the thick forest, knowing that black bears love this area. Or, more accurately, they love all of Wyatt.

  After fifteen minutes, I’m close enough to the waterfall that I can hear the cascades. Usually the sound of the water crashing into the small pool is relaxing, but I am itching to wrap my fingers around my Glock. I glance up around me. The kidnapper could be anywhere, watching me, waiting to see if I do something stupid. I can’t do anything that would put Sarah’s life in danger.

  When I reach the cascades, there’s a man—maybe not quite a full-grown man, but close enough—with a ski mask on—waiting near the edge of
the water. There’s a gun in his hand. A twig snaps beneath my footsteps. He pivots on his heel and points the gun at me. I raise my hands to show I’m not carrying a weapon.

  “You’re not Judge Latham,” he says.

  “No, I’m not. Judge Latham was emotionally unstable, considering his daughter is in your custody, so the police sent me.”

  “You are the police.”

  So, the kidnapper knows me. He must be a resident of Wyatt. I could understand if the kidnapper did research to find out about the chief of police, but they wouldn’t dig deep enough to recognize my face.

  “I am,” I concede. Lying won’t help Sarah at this point.

  “Hand over your gun.”

  “I don’t have a gun.”

  “Bullshit,” he spits out.

  Movement catches my eye. Another man in a ski mask jumps down from a massive Sitka spruce.

  “Hand over the gun, or the girl dies.” The second man growls.

  Using my index finger and thumb, I carefully take the gun out of my waistband and set it on the ground.

  “Back away from it.”

  I take a few steps back, my hands still raised. The man without a gun hustles over toward me then grabs my gun. Apparently, these amateurs were better prepared than I thought.