by Trisha Wolfe
“What the fuck?” Carson says.
My sentiment exactly. I tap the keyboard, trying to figure out the glitch. But my gut says this is no malfunction. “It’s gone. Deleted.”
“Sonofabitch.” Carson slams his hand on the desk. He whips out his phone. “Quinn, we have a problem. The security files at the club have been tampered with. Some footage from last night is missing.” A beat. “All right. I’ll keep you posted.”
He ends the call and says to me, “Make a copy. I’m getting a uni to deliver the original to the techs at the department. They might be able to recover the deleted footage. We’ll keep watching the rest to log any suspects.”
And so that’s what we do. We settle in for the long haul. With hours and hours of surveillance footage to watch, and my goddess too far away.
* * *
My eyes feel like they’re bleeding. Carson isn’t fairing any better.
“I thought this would be awesome,” he says, rubbing his temples. “Hot Dominatrixes working guys over. Nasty sex kittens getting it on with each other… But I gotta tell you, I think I’m scarred for life.” He blinks hard at the screen. “There is such a thing as too much porn.”
I exhale heavily. “It’s not porn. No sex happens on the floor.”
“And off the floor?”
I grit my teeth.
“Whatever,” he says. “You know what I mean. Too much of a freaky thing is just too much of a freaky thing.” He checks the time on his phone. “Why isn’t your brother returning your calls?”
“He’s recently engaged. I’m sure his fiancé is keeping him busy.” Or he left. Sadie’s call to him to obtain a lawyer for me probably scared him off. Julian’s already been through one investigation with Carson; he won’t stick around for another.
“You want to know what I think?” Carson says, propping his booted feet up on the desk. I crane an eyebrow, annoyed. “There was no forced entry. Someone with a key walked right into this club and deleted surveillance files. And now, that someone is nowhere to be found.”
As much as I loathe the guy, he has a point. Julian and I are the only ones with keys to the club. Since I was with Sadie at the department this morning, that leaves the question of my brother. But why? Not to protect me, that’s for sure. And doing something so obvious only implicates him further. There has to be another reason, like high profile members being on those surveillance files. Maybe he’s trying to protect his cash cows.
Or… “Someone could’ve stolen his key,” I say, a sudden fear washing over me. The UNSUB got to me easily; he could’ve just as easily gotten to Julian.
Carson sinks his chin on his hand, his eyes looking glazed and far away as he considers this possibility. “We need to go.” He leaps up, already grabbing his jacket.
“I’m not going anywhere. I’m sticking right here and finding this son of a bitch on this footage. He’s here somewhere, and I’m going to match him to Sadie’s profile.”
“Profile,” he mocks. “I spent time at Quantico. I can tell you the fucking basics of a serial killer, too. And I can tell you he’s not on that footage. He’s smart enough to have us chasing our tails for weeks. You think he’s just going to pop up on the screen? We’re wasting our time here. Besides, the techs are going over the surveillance. They’ll find something before we do.”
“I’m not here for you. I’m here for Sadie. This is how she feels I can help, so it’s where I’m focusing.”
He smirks. “Man, she has you whipped. Not hard to figure out who’s the dominant in your relationship.”
Fire simmers beneath my skin. “I’m not ashamed to admit I serve her. Worship her. If you think you’re insulting me, you’re wrong. I’ll always obey her orders.”
His forehead creases. Then he turns to go. “Fucking freaky shit…” he says under his breath.
“Good luck trying to find Julian on your own.” I have a good idea where my brother took off to, but I’m not letting Carson bring him in without me.
Carson reaches for the doorknob right as the door opens. He steps back as a man in a black trench coat enters. “Who the fuck are you?”
The guy—his face impassive at Carson’s remark—flashes an ID badge. “FBI. Special Agent Proctor.”
“Fucking hell,” Carson says.
I glance at the monitors. Four other FBI agents are on the main level overturning furniture. Shit. I let Carson distract me and didn’t even see them enter.
I stand. “You can’t be in here without a—”
“Warrant?” Agent Proctor interrupts. He slaps a folded paper against my chest as he passes. “We’re now heading up this investigation. Everything in this club is considered evidence.”
I scan the warrant. I’m not sure what I’m looking for, but it seems legit. Carson snatches it out of my hands and looks it over. “You can’t just come in and take over. We’ve been working this case since the beginning. Who called you in?”
Leaning over the desk, Proctor eyes the computer screen. “You know how this works, detective. The FBI has jurisdiction in any city. Let’s try to work together on this. There’s no call to start a pissing contest.” He glances up at Carson. “You have two options. Work with the FBI to bring in the perp, or use your sick days to take a vacation. Your choice.”
Arms crossed, Carson matches the agent’s stern glare. “I don’t take sick days.”
“Good,” Proctor says. “Your department is being briefed right now. You should probably check in there to get your new assignment, detective.”
Carson’s jaw ticks. As the agent pulls my chair up to the desk and starts scanning the surveillance files, Carson cocks his head toward the door. I follow him into the hallway.
“You have anything incriminating on that computer?” he asks me.
“You’re not using this to interrogate me. I told you. I have nothing to hide.” Which is true. There’s nothing on that computer or in this club that should set off red flags to the Feds. Even Julian’s stash under the floorboard shouldn’t raise too many questions. It’s all just memorabilia of the investigation into Marni—which I’m sure the FBI already knows everything about.
The club has plenty of higher-ups as members—the ACPD captain, for one—but those files aren’t located on the system. They’re safely hidden in Sadie’s car.
There’s still a thick feeling of dread coming over me, however. Having the FBI in my club isn’t good. Not at all. If they deem, they can shut it down until this investigation ends, and the only place we know for sure that the UNSUB has been is in this club. Right now, Carson is more of a comrade than these agents. That’s a fucked up thought.
“You have the addresses of those two suspect members?” Carson asks.
I nod. “It’s better to bring them here rather than go knocking on doors, though. Don’t you think?”
His face hardens. “Yeah. That was the plan before the damn turf invaders showed up. You think anyone’s going to want to come here tonight with the black coats skulking about?”
He just voiced my fear. “Looks like you’re getting your way, Carson.” At his confused expression, I say, “We’re going to my brother.”
6
Pulse
Sadie
We have been invaded.
The stench of leather and fast food and cheap coffee saturates the air of the ACPD. It’s a nauseating smell that seeps past my practicality and triggers my defenses.
The FBI blew in like a hurricane, sweeping the task force up into a funnel of federal ordinances and churning out a well-oiled, bureaucratic command post.
We should’ve known it would come to this. With the extensive news coverage on the killings, and now the abduction of a medical examiner, it was inevitable. Actually, I’m surprised it’s taken as long as it has for the Feds to intervene…or interfere, as that’s how Quinn is seeing this new directive.
Amid the functioning hub of the task force, a showdown is looming. I stealthily slip Quinn’s laptop into my bag as he marches tow
ard the special agent dictating the operations.
“Get your lead agent here now!” Quinn shouts. This agent must’ve drawn the short straw when they were deciding who would inform Quinn of the takeover.
The agent holds his place. “I’m Special Agent Rollins. Agent Proctor will be here directly. Until then, I have all the specifics to fill you in, Detective Quinn.”
Recognition lights Quinn’s eyes right before his gaze sharpens on Agent Rollins. “Proctor sent me a fucking proxy?” He laughs mockingly. “I want to see him. Right now. Get that smug SOB here or—”
“Detective Quinn,” Wexler interrupts. Startled, I turn to see our captain standing fists to hips in his office door. “My office. You, too, Agent Bonds.”
I know what’s coming. Quinn can roar and stomp his feet all he wants, but when the Feds come in, it’s game over for the local guys. For once, I know how Quinn must’ve felt the times I got assigned to his cases when I was with the General Investigation Section.
Wexler closes the door behind us.
“Captain, you know what this means—”
“Save it, Quinn. Maybe if this were any other case, we’d get into a jurisdictional pissing war with the Feds, but not now. Not with our M.E.’s life on the line.” He crosses his arms. “I’m the one who brought them in.”
Betrayal colors Quinn’s face, and I feel the resounding burn.
Wexler rubs the back of his neck and sighs. “Nothing changes. You and Sadie keep the task force on point. But let the Feds take the reins.”
A muscle feathers along Quinn’s jaw. “This is a slap in the face, Captain.”
“No, it’s an order.” Wexler holds Quinn’s gaze a second longer before he looks at me. “Agent Bonds doesn’t seem to have an issue. Do you?”
I press my lips together as I try to subdue my anger. It doesn’t work. “Actually, I do.” Quinn turns my way, eyebrows reaching toward his hairline. “The FBI’s main focus will be on apprehending the UNSUB—not on bringing Avery back alive. I take every offense to this method. Especially since Quinn and I weren’t informed beforehand.”
Wexler releases another heavy breath. “Point taken. But that’s where I’m depending on you two. Let the Feds have the glory of capturing the bad guy. You two make sure Avery stays safe. That’s it. Not another word. Dismissed.”
As Quinn and I leave Wexler’s office, he says to me, “This feels like some bureaucratic bullshit. Something tells me this wasn’t Wexler’s call at all.”
“Possibly,” I say. “And I don’t like it any more than you do, for Avery’s sake…but regardless, he’s right, Quinn.”
“How?”
“Because, now we can put our full attention on tracking down Avery. Let the Feds investigate the UNSUB. They can bring him down, dead or alive. I don’t care how or with what means.”
“You sure about that?” He glances over at me, concern etched on his features.
No. Not at all. The FBI will scrutinize every detail about Lyle Connelly. Which will inevitably link back to me. But I already decided to face my consequences when this ends. As long as it ends with Avery alive and safe, it will be worth the sacrifice.
“Let’s just get back to work,” I say. “Every fucking second that we deal with some setback, that’s another second Avery suffers.”
As Quinn addresses Kyle, his first in command on the task force, I give Agent Rollins the update on the profile. His keen observation about the connection between the Roanoke killings and the current killing spree puts me on edge. Obviously, the Feds have been conducting their own investigation. Whereas they now have access to all our data, we don’t have any insight into theirs.
That barrier presents a blind spot I can’t see around.
I’ve lost the advantage to anticipate what’s coming.
As we start out of the bullpen, I’m impressed with Quinn’s ability to suppress his urge to punch one of the agents going through his office.
I can hear the restraint in his voice. “What’s your thoughts on how the UNSUB will handle the FBI taking over?”
“Honestly. He’ll enjoy the attention. This might actually buy Avery more time.” The downside? If the FBI decides to seize communication with the UNSUB. That could trigger a volatile reaction.
I clutch my phone, reassured by the fact that the Feds didn’t confiscate it or the burner in my pocket. I’m sure that’s coming, but right now, I have two communication links to Avery. Two lifelines that the FBI will have to pry out of my hands before I give them up.
* * *
Quinn knocks on the door for a second time. “You sure this is the right address?”
I check Carmen Moore’s info on my phone. “It was logged by Avery herself. She keeps tight records.” Even in her personal, handwritten notes.
On the way here, I read through her journal. Her last log was on the missing evidence—the rope from the suspended vic crime scene. She noted the discovery of epithelial cells within the fiber. Possible DNA from the perpetrator.
In her mention, she theorized that although the offender wore gloves (the presence of synthetic polymers were also found on the rope), if he had wrapped the rope around his arm to hoist the body, the rope could’ve picked up transfer skin cells.
It’s such a simple, logical but ultimately brilliant finding.
My only misgiving is accepting that the UNSUB would make such an obvious oversight.
But everyone—no matter how well they plan—makes a mistake eventually.
The computer analyst confirmed that it was the last entry made on her computer. That coupled with the call she made to Quinn shortly after, requesting his help with building a physical profile of the UNSUB with a simulation, gives us a close approximation of the abduction time.
At 10:35 PM, Avery’s file was deleted from her computer.
Quinn has the task force techs trying to recover surveillance footage of the M.E. lab from that night. Our mission: to investigate if the missing lab tech knows about the discovery of the epithelial cells.
“Avery had to create a sample when she found the skin cells,” I say, anxiousness clawing at me.
Quinn adjusts his stance, his growing impatience as evident as mine. “If she had, why wouldn’t she run it through CODIS?”
“Maybe she didn’t have time.” Or maybe she did run it through the database and got a hit on someone within the department. It’s possible that’s why she called Quinn to meet her the next day, feeling unable or unsafe to mention her findings over the phone.
I run my hand over my face, as if I can physically organize my wandering thoughts into a straight timeline. I’m making leaps without facts; we need this tech to have the answers.
I angle my phone away from Quinn and toggle to the GPS app. Colton and Carson are on the move away from The Lair. Knowing that Special Agent Proctor and his team infiltrated the club, I’m relieved. I send Colton a quick update, then close the screen.
“How do you know Proctor?” I ask.
Rolling his shoulders, Quinn works out his neck. “I don’t. Not really. But he’s stepped on my toes before on a couple of cases in the past.” He raises his hand to knock, then changes his mind and rings the doorbell. “You surprised me back there.”
“How?”
“I figured you’d be all about the FBI coming in. Isn’t Quantico like, the profiler mother planet?”
I bite down on my lip. “With my past cases—” I avoid his eyes “—I don’t want the FBI looking too closely.” And there it is. The reason why I never applied to the FBI. Now Quinn’s question—the one he’s wondered since I first transferred to the ACPD—has been answered.
He gives me a sideways look, his gaze probing. But he doesn’t push. It’s safer to leave things unsaid until we reach that point of no return.
It will come soon enough.
Quinn checks the handle and it turns. He glances at me. “It’s open.”
I have the sudden impulse to remark on Quinn disregarding his own by-the-book proto
col, but I resist the urge. If the lab tech who lives here has the information we need to help Avery, I will back him one-hundred-percent on breaking all the rules.
I follow Quinn inside the foyer. The sound of loud voices comes from the direction of the living room, and Quinn places his hand on his piece inside his coat.
“Carmen,” he shouts. “It’s Detective Quinn with the ACPD.” He nods to the hallway as he continues toward the living room. “I’m here to ask you some questions. Are you home?”
I check the short hall, nodding once to let him know it’s clear.
“We need your help in a matter involving—” He breaks off at the sight of the woman sprawled on the floor. “Sadie, radio in a bus.”
The amount of red soaking the gray carpet around her head gives me pause, just for a second, before I unclip my radio. I fumble with the hem of my shirt, using it to grab the remote on a table and mute the TV, then radio for an ambulance.
“Be careful of the blood pool,” I say as Quinn kneels beside her. He reaches into his pocket and yanks out a glove, using it as a barrier between himself and the blood coating her neck.
“I got a pulse. But it’s weak. She’s unresponsive.” He stands and looks over the scene. “Jesus.”
I get closer to inspect. The laceration on her neck is severe, but the carotid was missed. On purpose? The UNSUB wouldn’t make this mistake, unless he wanted her to bleed out slowly. Only…why? It doesn’t work for me.
As Quinn locates a hand towel from the kitchen to staunch the bleeding, I calm my racing heart enough to examine the scene: her pants are unzipped and pushed down around her calves, but her underwear is in place. Not torn or stretched. Her chest is bare, and her wrists are bound with rope and pulled up over her head. But her skin is clear of marks. No contusions or cuts. No burns. No wax. Other than her arms being bound during the attack, there’s no evidence that she was tortured beforehand.
I remove a pen from my notebook and lift the hem of her jeans. There’s no discerning ligature marks. Her ankles weren’t bound. This whole attack feels…off.