by Dani Pettrey
He nearly choked. Haywood, murder? “You can’t be serious.”
Tanner rested her hand on his arm, and her comforting touch felt soothing in a moment of utter shock and chaos.
“Have you found the Markums?”
“Griffin is in their room now and has called in a team to start searching for them.”
“This is unbelievable.”
“You’re telling me. I see it with my own eyes, but I can’t fathom it.”
“Keep me posted.”
“Will do.”
Declan hung up and stared into the blankness before him. Haywood was dead. Had he stolen from clients, murdered two people, and committed suicide? His gut said no way, but what if it was true?
“What’s wrong?” Tanner asked slowly.
“My first Little League coach, the one who’s now my financial planner, just committed suicide.”
“Oh no. At the retreat?”
Declan nodded, half thankful he wasn’t there to see that, and half wishing he could be there to help. He never would have pictured Haywood capable of any of those crimes, let alone as a man who’d take his own life. Haywood was a Christian, and Declan had never seen the man depressed. Their relationship was strictly business, but he met with him regularly and saw him every year at the retreat.
This was going to burrow into his head and follow him throughout the coming days and weeks. That always happened when he couldn’t wrap his mind around something. When a case didn’t make sense—when life didn’t make sense. He knew God was in control, but until he got to heaven, he’d carry a lot of questions. But he trusted God was good and one day it would all make sense, or he’d be so at peace that concerns of this world would simply fade away.
Tanner reached over, clasping his right hand, hers feeling soft and small against his palm. “I’m so sorry.”
“I just can’t believe it. It doesn’t make sense.”
“A lot of things in this world don’t. I know it doesn’t make it any easier, but I take solace that one day injustice, pain, poverty, sadness, and heartache won’t exist. I know that to many people that can sound super trite, but it is what God’s Word says, and I trust Him through it all. Even when I don’t understand—like with Mira.”
He brushed the back of her hand with the pad of his thumb. “I do too.”
“Do you want to fly back?”
“Yes . . . but I also know Burke plays a key role in our terrorism case, and I can’t just walk away from it.”
She looked up at the apartment building towering over them. “Shall we?”
Luke watched through binoculars from his rental car parked on the far end of the lot. He’d known that Declan was in danger, had heard as much from Sayid and Jose’s conversation back in Malaysia, but now that Declan was in Houston, digging deeper into Burke, the threat against him had skyrocketed.
Clearly Declan understood Burke played an important role, but once he discovered the true depth of it—and Luke had no doubt he would—Ebeid’s Houston cell leader, Stan Stovall, would report it, and then Declan and that woman would be bumped to the top of Ebeid’s kill list. They’d no longer be classified as targets but rather as priority assets, needing to be destroyed.
Luke needed to warn them, but he couldn’t reveal himself. Not yet. It would jeopardize everything. He’d have to find another way to warn his friend of the extreme level of danger he had just walked into.
14
Griffin knew he had his work cut out for him—the investigation of Haywood’s death and what was definitely looking like the Markums’ murder, and then, of course, attempting to contain the frenzy the news would incite among the retreat guests when it began to spread. So far they’d been able to contain it to the owner, Ann, and the distraught maid, but as soon as Jason and the squad cars arrived, all bets were off.
He’d sent Ann to locate Lowell Brentwood, in the hope that together he and Lowell could reassure the guests they were in no danger. As soon as possible they needed to account for all the guests and question those who might have pertinent information.
Unfortunately, Miss Ann was old school and had no video cameras in her inn—not one. She did, however, have an alarm system, which monitored the opening and closing of doors and provided an alarm button in case of emergency, so they could at least track when doors opened and closed—if that helped any.
The Markums’ cell phones were in their room, along with all their belongings, which was not a good sign, and as far as he could tell, the only things missing from the room were the blankets off the bed. Had Haywood murdered them, wrapped them in blankets, carried them to his car, and transported the bodies someplace? He’d taken a big risk carrying them out, if that’s what he had in fact done, but the Markums’ being the last room in the hall, next to the exit door, would have worked in his favor.
There’d been a towel cart in the alcove where Griffin had stood last night when the Markums walked by; he checked, and it was still there. Perhaps Haywood had used it to transport the bodies to his car. He’d have Parker run it for any traces of evidence.
The question bugging Griffin was, how did Haywood kill them and move them from their room without someone hearing at least some scuffle? Haywood’s firm had booked the entire inn for the retreat, but they didn’t need all the rooms, so they had placed the guests in alternating rooms for optimal privacy. Because of that, the room next door was empty, and there were no guest rooms on the other side of the hall, but it was still hard to imagine no one heard anything.
Perhaps Haywood had threatened Elizabeth to keep John silent, but how had he killed them? So far no murder weapon had been found. Just the blood, heel marks like a body had been dragged across the carpet, and various signs of disruption. He would talk with whoever was staying two doors down as soon as Jason arrived and he could leave the Markums’ room secure.
The blood in the carpet was still tacky, so the murders couldn’t have occurred too long ago. He’d seen the Markums at ten, and guests had still been milling around the inn well past midnight. Miss Ann said she had been up working by five thirty, so the murders and removal of the bodies most likely had occurred between one and five.
“You sure know how to pick interesting retreats,” Jason Cavanaugh said in his southern drawl as he slipped booties over his shoes and stepped in the room.
Griffin stood from his crouching position. Understatement of the year.
“Sorry about your coach.”
“Thanks.” He nodded, still in shock.
Jason glanced around the room and released a long exhale. “So catch me up to speed.”
“Rest of the team here?”
“Yep.” His partner nodded. “Corporal Howe and his K9 just arrived, a second K9 unit is on the way. But I’m a little confused. Parker is in a room four doors down, working a crime scene.”
“Haywood’s body.”
“So . . . the dogs are for?”
“Haywood’s suicide note said he killed John and Elizabeth Markum.”
“Who are, I’m assuming, the couple that was staying in this room?”
“Yes.”
“No sign of them?”
“I have the owner searching for Haywood’s business partner and Finley casually asking the guests who are up and about if they’ve seen the Markums, while looking for them herself. But we’re trying to keep this under wraps for as long as possible. Though I’m sure people have figured out something is going on now that you all have arrived. As soon as Haywood’s partner shows, we can put him in charge of calming his clients. Assign Jax to taking down everyone’s name and contact information so we can get in touch with them as we need to.”
“Sounds like a plan. And the Markums?”
“I don’t believe they’ll be found alive. But I’m hoping we can find their bodies so autopsies can be done and the case run fully through. Have Howe and his dog search the property starting from the east, and the second unit from the west, but since the Markums’ bed blankets are missing and there a
re drag marks on the floor, I have a feeling the bodies were moved off site. After we work the room, we need to check Haywood’s and the Markums’ vehicles, which Finley said are both still in the lot. See if there’s any evidence that Haywood transported the bodies.” He couldn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth—Haywood and bodies. It was all wrong.
“Sounds like a plan.”
“Since you’re here to keep an eye on the room, I’m going to check in with Parker.” He’d been dying to see what Parker had learned thus far but wasn’t about to leave a crime scene unmanned.
“Go ahead. I’ll do a run-through while you’re gone, and when you finish with Parker, we can head for the vehicles.”
Griffin nodded and moved for Haywood’s room at the other end of the short hall.
Avery’s flash bounced off the burgundy walls of the colonial-style bathroom, Haywood’s body in the drained claw-foot tub, the slashes on his body now even more apparent and gruesome.
He eyed the straight shaving razor open on the floor beside the tub.
Parker looked up at him, a grim expression on his face. This was hitting them all hard.
“I let Declan know,” Parker said, slipping a vial of what Griffin could only assume contained the liquid contents of the tub into his evidence case.
“How’d he react?”
“The same as us—shock.”
Griffin surveyed the body once more, as well as the room. “Anything stand out?”
“Other than the fact that the suicide was staged? No.”
Griffin’s jaw went slack, his eyes widening as that blow landed. “What?”
Tanner and Declan walked across the parking lot of Steven Burke’s apartment building. It was only a half hour from the federal building where Steven had worked, which would make for convenient travel if Steven’s ex-partner agreed to meet with them. Griffin wasn’t holding his breath, as yesterday’s conversation with Chuck Franco hadn’t gone well, but he still held out a slim hope.
Despite being early in the day, Houston was already a sunny eighty degrees, and Declan loved it. Griff was all about fall; Parker loved both summer and winter, which seemed a great contradiction; and Luke had preferred spring; but Declan was all about summer. Summer meant board shorts, flip-flops, and going out in the boat with his dad on the weekends he was home visiting his folks.
As they entered the generously sized lobby, he wondered about Steven Burke. About his home, his parents. How were they taking his death? Losing a parent was one thing, a friend another, but a child, no matter the age . . . beyond horrific.
They stepped to the chest-high marble counter and greeted a gentleman wearing a navy-blue suit. He was working the desk and also clearly monitoring access to the building’s elevators, which were to their right.
“Hi. Special Agent Declan Grey.” He showed his badge. “And my federal associate, Ms. Shaw.”
“How may I be of assistance?” The man was mid-twenties, well-groomed, and professional. He’d been trained well.
“We have a warrant to search Steven Burke’s apartment.” During yesterday’s phone conversation, Chuck Franco had said Burke’s apartment was still vacant. Declan hadn’t gotten much more out of the man because Chuck claimed his and Steven’s superior, Tony Henshaw, had no patience for conversations and speculation about what Burke had been doing aboard the Hiram. But he vehemently insisted that it had not been an FBI-sanctioned operation. Had Burke really gone rogue? If so, why?
“Just a moment,” the young man behind the counter said, turning his back to them as he placed a phone call. He kept his voice low, but Declan was able to make out federal agents . . . search . . . Stevie’s place . . . now.
The man hung up and turned back to face them. “The owner will be down to escort you to Mr. Burke’s apartment.”
“Thank you,” Declan said, certain they could locate Burke’s apartment on their own, but without a key, they’d have to kick in the door, and there was no sense in that when the owner was willing to let them in.
His mind raced as they waited. He still couldn’t believe Coach Grant was dead.
Moments later, a couple he guessed to be in their late sixties stepped off the elevators and approached them. The man, tall and slender with wispy gray hair and steely blue eyes, spoke first. “I assume you are the federal agents.”
Declan stepped forward. “Special Agent Declan Grey, and this is my associate, Ms. Shaw.”
“And Eric said you have a warrant?”
“Yes, sir.” He handed him the piece of paper.
“Very well. This way.” He gestured toward the elevators.
“That’s it?” The woman strode behind him—five-four, one-thirty, curly brown hair that bounced just above her shoulders. There was something familiar about her profile and also about the man’s blue eyes. He’d seen that color before. They were the same as Steven Burke’s.
Were these his parents? Is that why the apartment was still unoccupied?
“They have a warrant, Muriel. They’re here to help.”
“Sure they are. Just like the agents who took my Stevie’s things.”
That shook Declan. He looked to Tanner. “Someone took Steven’s belongings?”
“We don’t know it was them,” the man said, turning to Declan. “We had a break-in right before the FBI came to search Stevie’s apartment.”
“It was them. I just know it,” Muriel protested. “I’m his mother. You think I don’t know these things?”
So, yes, the building owners were Steven Burke’s parents. No wonder his apartment had been kept as-is. Well, as close to as-is as possible, given the apparent break-in and theft, which Chuck Franco curiously enough had neglected to mention.
“What was taken during the break-in?” Declan asked as the elevator doors opened and they all stepped in.
“Stevie’s external hard drive—and his computer was wiped clean. All his pictures were on there. So many of us and the family . . .” Muriel’s brown eyes welled with tears.
“Now, Mar.” The man enveloped her with his right arm, pulling her to his chest.
Muriel dabbed her eyes on the handkerchief he offered.
He exhaled. “I’m Jacob Burke, and this is my wife, Muriel. If you haven’t guessed already, we are Steven’s parents.”
“And you own this building?”
“Yes. Both our children live—well, lived—in it.”
“Samantha still does,” Muriel whispered. “At least God left me one child.”
“Come now, Mar, these agents don’t need to hear about our life. We can talk upstairs.”
“Why? You think I care what they think? They’re probably no better than the crooks from Stevie’s office who got him killed and took his things. Do they take an ounce of responsibility for my Stevie’s death? No. Zero responsibility. Said Stevie left without their permission, but I don’t buy it. I think they put him undercover on that ship and it got him killed and now they want no part of it.”
“As you can imagine this is a trying time for our family,” Jacob Burke said at his wife’s heated emotions, which given the circumstances were understandable. She’d lost her child, and there appeared to be no clear answers for anyone’s questions.
“Of course. We’ll do our best to get our job done as quickly as possible and with as little stress to you as we can manage,” Tanner said.
“Humph.” Muriel expelled a burst of air as the elevator stopped on the fifteenth floor—second to the top. They stepped off and followed Mr. Burke to apartment 1510. He produced the key while Muriel clutched the large pendant necklace around her neck. Jacob opened the door and stepped in, gesturing for them to follow.
A Baylor sweatshirt lay across the back of a lounge chair, a daily paper opened to the sports section lay next to a coffee cup.
It begged the question: How long before Steven left for the ship did he know he was going? It looked as if he’d run out for milk and anticipated returning home straight after, not like the apartment of a
man who planned to be away from home for months.
“Did Steven leave everything like this or has someone else used the apartment since he left?”
“No. This is how he left it.” Muriel’s eyes welled with tears. “We cleaned out the refrigerator, but otherwise, I didn’t have the heart to change anything. Not yet.”
“He left perishables in the refrigerator?”
She looked at him as if she thought he had a screw loose. “Yes.”
“And he didn’t tell you he was leaving to go on a merchant ship?”
“No.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, where did you think he was?”
“A day after he left, he sent a postcard stamped in Galveston, saying he’d been invited last minute to join a friend on a cruise and that he’d be back in a few weeks.”
“Did he say where the cruise was going?”
“No, but I assumed the Caribbean. That’s where the cruise ships heading out of Galveston’s port go.”
“And a few weeks later . . . ?”
“We got a postcard from someplace in Asia. Said he and his friend were traveling. I started thinking his friend was a female friend and the two were off on some whirlwind romance. That is, until a month later. Chuck, his partner at the FBI, showed up at our door with the news of Stevie’s death on a merchant ship. I don’t care what he says, I prefer to think of him on that whirlwind romance.”
“Please, Ma,” a woman said from the doorway. A younger version of her mother, curly brown hair and all. “You don’t still believe that.”
15
You want to run that one by me again?” Griffin swallowed, the sensation of knives jagging down his throat.
Parker stood and pulled the bathroom door shut, closing them in. No one else needed to hear this. At least not yet. “I’ve finished my examination of the body, and I don’t believe Haywood committed suicide. It’s my professional opinion that Haywood was murdered.”
“Murdered?” Griffin gaped.
Parker nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
“The evidence?” If Parker made such a statement, Griffin trusted he had the evidence to back it up.