All Things Hidden

by Judy Candis

  The person on the other end did not wait for her to speak.

  “Hello, Detective Reynolds?”

  “Yes?”

  “Gwen Hayes, from the Florida Sentinel.”

  Jael exhaled a sigh of relief. She settled on the bed and slid back against the queen-size headboard. Gwen was a reporter for the local black newspaper, an honest journalist with a smart head on her shoulders. Jael had liked the woman ever since they’d met six years ago at a drug-related crime scene. Gwen had even gotten the scoop on Jael’s unpublicized leave of absence from the force two years ago, yet had never printed a word of what she’d learned. Though Jael had let Gwen know that she would be forever grateful for that, the young woman never acted as if she was owed a favor.

  “Hey, Gwen, what’s up?”

  “Hoped you could tell me. About what’s going on with the street dealers, I mean.”

  “Yeah, well, we haven’t got much to go on right now, Gwen. You know you’ll get the exclusive from me when anything turns up.”

  “I understand there was a witness to the last murder?”

  Boy, did this gal work fast. Jael wouldn’t waste breath asking how she’d found out.

  “I can’t give you his name, but the witness did see a rusty old white Ford sedan speed from the scene of the crime, seconds after the shooting.”

  “Can I print that?”

  “It’s all yours, and you can add that the police department is also looking into written threats to certain members of MAD DADS and will enforce the law to the fullest degree.”

  “Wow, now this is all beginning to make sense.”

  Jael frowned, not sure she understood Gwen. “How so?” “Well, I heard through the grapevine that Daniel Foster, a relatively new member of MAD DADS, was sending out feelers for someone who would accept a contract hit.” Jael sat straight up. “What?”

  “Of course, I have no proof of this, only stuff I picked up along the way, but from what you’re telling me, it seems to add up.”

  “Why would he do something like that?”

  “Payback, from what I hear. His own son is strung out, stole everything out of the house that wasn’t nailed down, then jumped Foster’s wife when she wouldn’t give him money out of her purse. The rumor goes, Foster put a gun in his son’s face and dared him to step foot on the property again, but the boy’s been back twice. Foster told a friend he was going to have his son put out of his misery.”

  “My God!” Jael was dumbfounded. None of her CIs had even hinted at this. Could all this madness be occurring because a father had gone loony? Was this what Big Jake was hinting at? Drugs always affected more than just the user, and oftentimes an enabler or other family members suffered to great extremes. But to put a hit out on your own son and those you felt were responsible for his deterioration was too much.

  In her line of work, strange things happened every day. For many law enforcement personnel, it was easy to become a skeptic about spiritual intervention. For her, it had been the grounding rod of her life. The confirmation that even amid the hatred, abuse, death and horrors man could inflict on his brother, there were beacons of kindness, and salvation, and moments of bravery and unselfish giving; and awe at the mercy of God when, say, an infant could fall from a sixth-floor building and land safely with only a few scars. When there were beams of light in the darkness that others couldn’t explain, her heart soared, reaffirmed in its faith in the greater force that reached into the madness to leave behind a ray of hope.

  Yet, even Jael had to admit it was difficult to see any good in this kind of craziness. The murders were having a domino effect already. How many more had to die? When would it end? Most important, why did it all frighten her so much, and so personally?

  Chapter

  14

  Not having time to keep her vow to have a little talk with Tammy, Jael threw up a quick “Hey, girl” at the receptionist as she passed, before pushing through the glass double doors of the squad room. Sills was at his desk, leaning back dangerously in his swivel chair, his back to her with the phone to his ear. Jael didn’t bat an eye. That was Sills, living life on the edge.

  Hearing her approach, he turned and held up a “give me a second” finger before Jael was even seated. She tilted her head, rolled her eyes and waited as he continued with his phone conversation.

  “Yeah . . . right, sir . . . got it, sir.” Sills replaced the phone with a look that was not, by any stretch of the imagination, encouraging. “That was the Captain. What do you want first, the good news or the bad news?”

  Jael tossed her purse on the desk. “Too early in the morning for bad. You’d better give me the good news first so I can at least pretend to start the day out right.” She sat in her seat, gripped the side of her chair and leaned safely back.

  “For our two victims, the bullets were all the same make. Both dealers went down from an Intertec 9 semiautomatic, including the slugs retrieved from the body found by the railroad tracks.”

  “And . . . ?” Jael rolled her hand in a circular motion to indicate she expected more to the statement.

  “Aaand, if the report I’m getting is confirmed, all were fired from the same gun. Each caliber seems to have a particular groove that came from the barrel of the weapon, which would indicate same gun, same guy.”

  “Well, that’s something. It eliminates the possibility that we’re dealing with more than one shooter. Unless . . .”

  It was now time for the word game she and Sills often played, tossing thoughts back and forth to review a case situation from all possible angles. It helped to clear the fog and make sure they were on the same wavelength. Sills continued her sentence with, “. . . Unless the same gun is being passed around to make it look as if there’s only one killer. But then again . . .”

  “Then again, it doesn’t seem likely that our drug boys on the street would go that far to cover their deeds, and even if . . .”

  “And even if it’s not the boys, what would be the purpose?”

  Jael nodded in agreement but had no comeback. They both sat in deep concentration, mulling over their thoughts.

  “I received a call last night from the president of MAD DADS. He says he’s being threatened by someone who thinks he knows what’s going on but not telling. I also got a note in a weird way while I was at Brenda’s house yesterday.” Jael reached into her purse and tossed Sills the plastic bag with the bold writing. He caught it with one hand.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about this earlier?” He frowned, turning the bag over to inspect exactly what he was holding.

  “Bad timing. Too many folks around with big ears.”

  Sills examined the evidence. “This is bad.”

  “Tell me about it. I also received a very enlightening call from Gwen Hayes, a reporter at the Florida Sentinel. Seems she picked up a rumor about one of the MAD DADS members on his own personal revenge crusade. His son’s an addict and he’s looking for someone to take up a hit contract. On who, she’s not sure.”

  “Man, oh man, this is getting worse by the second.”

  “You got that right. Big Jake has given me an ultimatum. Either keep this madman from offing any more of his dealers quick, or his boys will consider themselves unofficial deputies and do the job for us.”

  Sills smiled and leaned even farther back in his seat. “Hey, that might work in our favor.”

  Just another micro-inch, Jael thought, and I’ll be picking my friend up off the floor. “So what’s your bad news?”

  “Don’t think I can top yours, but that was the Captain on the phone earlier—bypassed protocol looking for you, but I took the call.” Sills lifted slightly forward in his chair, easing Jael’s tension. “You owe me for saving your butt. He was in an ugly mood, demanding we bring in some results and quit with the sloppy police work.”

  “Sloppy police work?”

  “He’s calling a press conference at noon, wants you by his side, wants you to make his department look competent and wants you in his of
fice at least twenty minutes before the conference.”

  “Ugggh.” Jael leaned back and studied the paint-chipped ceiling. “Okay . . . how does this sound? I tell the press we’ve got a make on the car, so we give that description; we also tell them we have reason to believe we’re searching for a single perpetrator, and that we have increased patrols of all known drug areas. I won’t mention the rumor, or that I’ve already told Gwen to run with the threat on Harold Watson, but . . . I throw the ball back into the media’s court, suggesting they encourage the community to keep a sharp eye out and report any suspicious activity to our hot line.” Jael gave Sills a “whadda ya think?” look.

  “Sounds good to me. That’s why you’re the boss—you’re quick on your feet. So, we got a hot line already?”

  “No, but you’ll have that for me before noon, right?”

  “Right.”

  Two hours later, as Jael stood at the Captain’s dark oak door, her nerve ends were doing a tap dance just beneath her skin. A praying woman first and always, she certainly knew when prayer should precede a confrontation. She preceded this one with an extensive line of prayer now. Let us run with patience the race that is set before us—Hebrews 12:1. The Lord is my strength and my shield—Psalms 28:7. Be wise in all things.

  “Don’t lollygag outside my door! Come in or go away!” came the bark from the other side of the entrance. Nothing less than the typical “welcome” from the Dadesville police captain.

  Jael stepped into the Captain’s office and immediately realized she was in for more than the average snarling and barking. Today, he wore an ugly, ill-tempered, pit-bull, “waiting for someone to bite” expression. She’d have to throw him a bone or two if she didn’t want that someone to be her.

  “It’s about time you got here. The press conference is in less than thirty minutes.”

  Comparing her boss to a pit bull wasn’t far off. He had a large head covered with thin layers of reddish-blond hair, slightly bulging eyes and thick sagging cheeks. Though he was a big man, he tended to stoop, and even while sitting, he looked like someone had stuffed him into his chair. He was wearing his uniform of dark pants, a loud tie and a dark suit jacket that was a bit too tight.

  Straightening her spine, Jael moved toward his desk but didn’t take a seat in the scarred mahogany chair before him. “I knew you’d want me to take advantage of every available minute to ensure we had as much information as possible.”

  Captain Slater looked at her from beneath bushy eyebrows and gruffed, “Okay, so get to it. What do we have?”

  “If you’ve had a chance to review the earlier reports, you—”

  “Don’t give me that! Spit it out! Where does this case stand?”

  “‘Stand’ is hardly the right word. As a matter of fact, we’re not even wobbling.”

  “You’d better have something, Reynolds. I’m not going in front of that press mob without some concrete leads.”

  Jael wanted to remind him he’d asked for the conference, not her. A conference which was a tad premature, she thought. Under normal situations, the Captain would have the Homicide team brief him, then they would toss possible scenarios back and forth before finally calling a press conference.

  Instead, she counted to ten as she glanced just beyond his head at the white-oak bookshelf filled with personal photos, underwatered plants, dog-eared paperbacks and an ugly crimson, fur-covered dog with a bobbing head that looked a lot like the Captain.

  “We believe we’re dealing with one perpetrator. The bullets all came from the same gun, which means we can dis-pense with the premise that this is a drug war. The dealers are scared out of their minds. They’re looking for the guy too.”

  She didn’t mention that she had only twenty-four hours to come up with some concrete answers or they’d have more problems on their hands from Big Jake. She’d report that only if she didn’t have a strong handle on things within the next twenty-four hours.

  “Well, that’s something,” the Captain responded slowly. “This appears to give us an inside view and changes the spin the press has, that this is a battle between the dealers.” He leaned forward in his chair, placing his palms on the desktop, his head bowed down.

  Jael knew she had scored a point in the intimidation battle with him. Her nerves started to settle, and she whispered, “Thank you, Lord.” But the battle was far from over. The Captain raised his head and fixed her with a glare.

  “What do you have to confirm this?”

  “Big Jake’s sweat. He’s scared, and so are his boys.”

  “I can’t tell the press these are vigilante slayings!”

  “And I hope you won’t do so.” Jael ignored the scowl that quickly etched his face.

  “Just be sure you don’t bring God and angels and all that stuff into this conference.” The Captain twirled his hand around in the air. “We don’t want the public thinking we move only on heavenly intervention.”

  Jael resented the cheap shot alluding to their last press conference, held two years ago after the vandalism of several churches. During a heated interview about her zeal to capture the culprit, she’d answered one reporter’s question of whether it was an attack on religion by saying God would not allow this to go unsolved and that He was on their side. The headline the next day read: POLICE DEPARTMENT WAITS FOR GOD TO AVENGE HIS CHURCH. She’d been called on the carpet like never before over that one, though the case was solved almost the next day. She’d proudly framed two copies of the article. One hung on the wall in her den beside Ramon’s photo, the other at her desk. For her, God was the victor in that one, through and through.

  “I’ve just met with four homicide detectives to set up a task force,” Jael said. “We all agree this has all the elements of a serial killer. Not your norm, of course—no visible tags left behind as his personal brag. With our heads together, we should have a definite plan in place soon.”

  Captain Slater screwed his lips together and leaned his big head sideways. “Soon . . . as in the next couple of hours, or soon as in the next couple of days?”

  Jael took a deep breath and released it sharply. “Captain, you know as well as I do that we have very little to go on right now. It would be premature to speculate without more concrete evidence. We don’t want to look like fools with a lot of guessing that might cause the citizens of this community any needless worries. We do want to ensure them their safety takes precedence over anything else and that the city is confident that this case will come to justice swiftly. Now, you called this press conference, and I’ll do all I can to make you look good. But I can’t give what I don’t have.”

  For a moment, Jael was sure she had stepped over the line. The look that crossed the Captain’s face was one she hoped not to see again soon.

  The Captain leaned back in his seat as foul, angry words swirled through his brain. He cleared his throat. “Well, expand on what you can, and you’d better have some persuasive ways today, Detective. I was told that someone from CNN was already here. Our little town will be scrutinized in its handling of this case. You won’t want to have me at your door if this case isn’t wrapped up soon. Think of me as the thorn in your side, or better yet, the ‘devil in the flesh,’ if that works better for you.”

  Chapter

  15

  Immediately following the press conference, the exhaustion of the past fourteen hours draped her from head to toe, and she was only half into the day. After all the badgering questions from the press and the glaring looks from Captain Slater as he stood beside her, the muscles in her neck were as taut as if a coarse rope were being pulled around it. The tentacles of a headache teased the nerves just behind her eyes, with the promise of a real whopper soon.

  Pushing the glass double doors of the squad room open, Jael halted abruptly in mid-stride. The Rock, or at least a dead ringer for the handsome wrestling hunk, now action hero, was sitting on her desk in living color. He was propped on the edge of it, one long leg swinging back and forth, while in his hand he c
asually inspected her precious “WORLD’S GREATEST MOM” cup. Whoever he was, he was making himself right at home.

  “Uh, excuse me, may I help you?” she inquired, allowing the indignation to saturate her voice.

  When the man looked up, Jael could tell it was not the real Rock but a close look-alike. Her stomach took a leap. The man simply smiled, gorgeously, and placed her cup back on the desk, but didn’t move. His reaction fueled her irritation.

  Drawing her eyebrows together, Jael stepped up to her desk and pulled out her chair. “Do you mind?”

  “Not at all,” the stranger said, still smiling, as all six feet and approximately 280 pounds of him rose from her desk. He moved to the side, placing both his huge hands on the client chair. “I’m at your service.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Reaching inside his double-breasted jacket, which Jael noticed seemed to fit him like the clothing was designed for the sole purpose of showing the world how men’s clothes should fit, he pulled out a black wallet and flipped it open. “Special Agent Eric Grant, Federal Bureau of Investigation.” He placed the wallet on the table before her.

  The photo on the official card didn’t do the man justice. His serious and stern look appeared average in the photo. Jael glanced up at him. No, sir, there was nothing average about this guy, not by a long shot.

  “Is there a reason this should somehow make my day?” Jael asked, hoping to establish at least some authority in her voice.

  Extending his hand, he said, “Only that I’m here to assist you in bringing in your man.”

  Well, he’d certainly said the right words to knock the wind out of her sail. Jael took the outstretched hand and gave it a firm, but reluctant shake before sitting down.

  “Who authorized your involvement? No one told me about the FBI’s interest in this case.”