The Scarlett Bell FBI Series

by Dan Padavona

  “You know that guy?”

  Gardy’s voice pulled Bell out of her thoughts.

  “No…I thought I recognized him from somewhere, but I don’t think so.”

  “Really? Because you were checking him out.”

  Her cheeks bloomed.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Nothing to be ashamed of. He’s a young, good looking guy.”

  “Sounds like you’re the interested one.”

  A laugh crept to her chest and died there. Something was wrong about the man, something that raised a red flag in the back of her mind.

  She considered following them. Then the reality of a long, late night reared its ugly head, and she put the man and woman out of her mind.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED SEVEN

  The water is bloody with the coming sunset. Waves slam against the shore and tear chunks of sand from the beach, pulling the grains out to the dark and deep sea.

  From inside the cool, shadowed parking garage, he can see the surf. The boardwalk is busy as it always is near sunset, but the garage is empty except for them.

  He clicks the key fob, and the car flashes its lights in response. Weaving with the erratic gait of the inebriated, Jennie Reyser stumbles against his car and leans on the hood, laughing.

  “You won’t get me drunk and take advantage of me, will you, Detective Hilliard?”

  He hides his initial confusion, having forgotten the name he fed her. They’d spent the last few hours at a seaside tiki bar. Reyser accepted his offer to buy her margaritas. He didn’t drink, for he was the designated driver.

  “Now, why would you think that of me? An officer of the law must uphold an image.”

  Her eyes are slitted, glassy. A perpetual smirk twists her lips. The slit in her skirt reveals tanned, bare leg. His mouth waters.

  “You sound like a boy scout.”

  The words come out slurred, and she bursts into laughter and almost topples before he catches her. He smells the sweet perfume on the nape of her neck.

  Reyser jiggles with new bouts of laughter. As he supports her limp body, he grabs hold of the handle and pulls the door open. She slumps into the car and watches him hungrily as one eye peeks out from behind a forest of mussed hair.

  “Take me to your leader,” she says, laughing again.

  He closes the door. Locks her inside. He can’t hear her over the distant surf. Rounding the car, he slides into the front seat and starts the engine. An old Van Halen song is on the radio, the line about junior’s grades accentuating the classic guitar riff as she sags between the seat and door with growing incognizance to the world.

  He shoots one look over his shoulder and backs up the car. Nobody watches. Good, very good.

  Before he shifts into drive, he places his hand on top of her head and shoves down, causing Reyser to slump between the dash and seat. When he turns out of the garage, he appears to be alone in the car.

  She doesn’t awaken during the half-hour drive into the tropical wilderness. He knows this glade well. Cypress trees cloak a deep pond. The waters teem with mosquitoes and dragonflies. And gators. The largest he’s seen outside of a zoo.

  When he opens the passenger door, she spills onto the soft shoulder. The jolt sobers Reyser, shifts her eyes from lurid to confused.

  “Where…where are we?”

  She shields her eyes and looks up at him. The dying sun is at his back, rendering him as a black shadow.

  “Detective Hilliard? Is something wrong with the car?”

  He doesn’t speak. Reality and fear haven’t set in yet for Reyser, but they will. Soon.

  “I don’t understand. Why won’t you answer me?”

  The first spidery sensations of danger touch the back of her mind. He can see it in the rigidness of her spine, the way she draws her legs protectively inward. The doubt spreads to her eyes, and he can smell her fear the way the wolf does a rabbit’s.

  He steps forward.

  “No. Stay away from me.”

  She scrambles along the car to the rear wheels. He follows, ears attuned to the road. They are alone here, a full mile from the main route on a lonely access road once used by hikers and nature enthusiasts before disuse allowed nature to swallow the trails whole.

  Reyser grasps the gravity of her predicament, and her breath comes in stilted pants.

  “Oh, God. Don’t touch me or I’ll scream.”

  He pounces on her, drives the air from her lungs. She pushes and struggles against him, but he is a mountain of strength, she an insignificant, wilted flower dying in his shadow.

  As she opens her lips to scream, he clamps a powerful hand over her mouth. From his back pocket, he removes the knife.

  Her eyes are full moons of panic, body thrashing helplessly beneath him.

  And as he glares at Reyser, he sees the face of Scarlett Bell.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED EIGHT

  The monster ran amok in her dreams again. Scarlett Bell was nine-years-old, alone and frightened as she fled along the neighborhood creek with Jillian’s murderer somewhere behind her in the fog. Always just out of sight, yet close enough that she could hear the breath huff out of his chest like the big bad wolf roaring out of a storybook nightmare. He grabbed her shoulder and spun her around, and in the throes of panic she saw the killer was faceless. A smooth patch of skin where the nose and mouth should be.

  The scream pulled her out of the dream. Had she yelled inside the hotel room? No reaction came from the neighboring rooms.

  The lateness of the day surprised Bell when her eyes focused. The shower babbled. Gardy banged around in the tub and spilled the gratis bottles of soap and shampoo. She suppressed a laugh and checked the clock. It was after 5:30, the curtains drawn and the room dark. A red trickle of late day sun purled through the split.

  Gardy’s bed was a jumble of blankets, and she felt guilty again for taking the bed. The remorse lasted until the shock of forgetting to write Lucas slammed her. She fumbled in the dark for the lamp and knocked her phone off the table. Cursing, she pulled up yesterday’s messages and wrote a hurried, apologetic response.

  Sorry. Got caught up in this insane case and forgot to write.

  She waited for a response. Lucas wasn’t the type to keep his phone close at all hours of the day. Still, her anxiety ratcheted up when no reply came.

  Miss you and walks on the beach. Will send you a picture of the gulf. We should come here together.

  He was away from his phone. Or at least she hoped that was the case. Before she blew off another promise, she pulled on her clothes and padded to the balcony doors and pulled open the curtains. The sun kissed the water, and the brightness blinded her. When her eyes adjusted, she stepped out to the cool, salty breeze. Focused the camera phone on the red orb falling toward its watery grave. Clicked the shutter and admired the colorful image on the screen.

  Lucas would want to see the boardwalk, she thought, as she changed the angle to capture the boardwalk and sandy beach. She pictured a warm spring night, no FBI case hanging over her head, just the two of them walking hand-in-hand along the boardwalk and stopping for candy apples or ice cream.

  She froze.

  Almost fumbled the phone over the rail.

  Bell scanned the walkway for familiar faces and recognized no one. Families. Roller skaters. Bicyclists.

  She knew where she’d seen the man on the reporter’s arm. He’d sat kitty corner to them on a bench last evening.

  The killer. It had to be.

  The cold truth coursed through her veins. The bump on his head wasn’t an injury. Why hadn’t she noticed before? It was an insect sting. A wasp sting. She called Gardy’s name as she stumbled through the curtains.

  It didn’t take long before the skepticism on her partner’s face melted away. He’d learned to trust her intuition. Gardy checked his Glock-22 and ensured the weapon was ready, and Bell did the same.

  They rode the elevator to the lobby. The killer’s face was burned into her memory now. It see
med impossible the killer had been here. This was a well-lit, highly trafficked vacation paradise. If he dared to stalk her here, he knew no fear, no boundaries.

  Bell didn’t pocket her Glock until they entered the rental, and even then she checked the backseat and trunk before they pulled away. Halfway to Tannehill’s house, they lost the sun.

  Parked at a red light, Gardy glanced over at her.

  “Look, I can call Rimmer and put a uniform in your place.”

  “Don’t. I’m not afraid of him, Gardy.”

  A boy wearing headphones crossed in front of the vehicle, distracting them. Dusk painted the sky and spread a chill over the land as he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.

  “Maybe you should be. He’s targeting you now, Bell. It wouldn’t hurt to spend the shift at dispatch surrounded by police.”

  The boy reached the other curb. The crosswalk counted the final seconds before the light turned.

  “I don’t think I’m wanted at the police department, and I’m not running away from this guy.”

  Gardy sighed.

  “I didn’t expect you would.”

  “I know his face. He’s coming tonight, Gardy. And when he does, we’ll take him down.”

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED NINE

  Drew Sowell’s powder-blue colonial, a massive residential home with 7000-square feet of living space, butted up against Tannehill’s property like a castle guarding its kingdom. Five arched windows on the first and second floors offered ample views of Tannehill’s bungalow, as did the humongous den and recreation rooms set off to either side of the main floor. Twin chimneys sprung up from opposite sides of the colonial though Bell didn’t think there was much need for fireplaces along coastal Florida.

  Gardy finished his phone conversation with Detective Phalen as he climbed the front steps. They’d experienced a sudden break in the case. A cameraman for the Channel 8 News team had called to report a missing reporter, Jennie Reyser. She’d last been seen across the street from the Palm Dunes Police Department with a man who claimed to be a police detective but didn’t fit the description of anyone in the department, and the man’s physical description matched that of the man Bell had seen at the park and on the boardwalk, including the welt above his brow.

  “Yeah. Dark hair, cut short. Male, between twenty-five and thirty-five, athletic build.” He nodded as he fitted the key into the lock. “That’s right. Insect sting on his forehead.”

  The door swung open and released a puff of cool wind. The air conditioning ran.

  “Ask him what they found in the phones,” Bell said, glad she wasn’t on the phone with the detective.

  Gardy asked. After a moment’s hesitation, he shook his head at Bell.

  “They examined over five hundred photographs,” Gardy said after he hung up with Phalen. “Nobody who fit the killer’s description, no common people show up on both phones.”

  “Dammit, Gardy. Seems like everybody has seen this guy in the last few days, and nobody knows who he is.”

  Though Bell wanted to flick the wall switch and throw light across the room, they kept the downstairs dark. They’d risked giving themselves away when they entered the colonial and couldn’t afford to advertise their presence.

  Despite the window coverage on the lower floors, Gardy was more interested in the finished attic. They climbed the wooden staircase, the shoes making hollow, lonely thuds in the vacant home. The next riser ended at the attic door.

  Windows on all four sides of the attic gained them bird’s-eye views of the front, back, and side of the bungalow. Only the far side of Tannehill’s house hid from view, and Officers Adames and Haggleston, plain-clothed and hidden in the back of a nondescript van, covered that angle. Black, tinted windows concealed the officers from prying eyes.

  Had she not been scanning the shadowed yards for a psychopathic killer, Bell might have marveled at Sowell’s attic. New white oak hardwood covered the floor. A red leather couch sat in the corner near the stairs, and a made guest bed took up the left side of the room. A desk with a computer overlooked the street.

  Gardy pulled the chair out from the desk and carried it to a side window overlooking the Bungalow. He put his hand out, a gesture for Bell to settle beside him in the neighboring chair. She accepted his offer with reservation. Her body trembled with tension and wanted to move. Although they could see the neighborhood, the dark attic hid them from sight. Nobody knew they were up here. A touch of voyeuristic excitement raised goosebumps on her skin.

  “So this is how the other side lives,” Gardy said, crossing his extended legs at the ankles. “I’ve stayed in apartments half the size of this attic.”

  He snickered, and the strain left her body.

  “Now what do we do?”

  “We wait. Hungry?” He unraveled a plastic grocery bag of snacks. “Caramel corn, Doritos, and Sun Chips. Take your pick.”

  “More like pick your poison.”

  “Would you prefer sushi?”

  “Actually, yes.”

  She reached for the Sun Chips. At least they were whole grain.

  The crunching sounds were loud inside the attic. On the sidewalk, a man and woman walked hand-in-hand under a stand of palms. Gardy picked up the two-way radio.

  “Adames, Haggleston. You guys got anything?”

  The radio was quiet, then the older officer answered.

  “Two kids throwing a football in the dark. Ball banged off the back of the van and scared the shit out of Adames.”

  Adames’s colorful protest made it clear Haggleston had exaggerated the reaction.

  “Do your best to stay alert. Could be a long night.”

  “Not my first rodeo, Agent Gardy. I’ll let you know when the bad guy shows up. You two relax and try to behave up there.”

  Gardy smiled through a wince and set the radio in his lap. Bell reached for another chip, a mechanical, involuntary action to thwart the uncomfortable silence.

  “I almost became a cop,” he said, adjusting the volume knob.

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “The FBI called first. It’s like a major league team offering a contract when you’re hoping to break into the minors. Not that I consider police departments to be minor leagues. It’s a different job.” He gestured toward the van, a rectangular silhouette at the end of the block. “I hope they appreciate what they have. There’s camaraderie. Stakeouts together. A place in the community you’re defending. We’re like ghosts, here one day and gone the next.”

  “I don’t know. I’d say there’s camaraderie in what we do.”

  He studied her in the dark.

  “Yeah, there is. Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  The backyards were pitch black. Night had settled over the neighborhood. A white picket fence glowed behind the bungalow. Large flowering plants groped at the fence and appeared as people from this distance. Bell glanced at the vacant macadam between the bungalow’s front steps and the surveillance van. The night was quiet with its secrets.

  Her phone buzzed. Lucas? She reached into her pocket and bobbled the phone onto the floor. It smacked hard, enough to dislodge the protective case. Retrieving the phone, she swiped the screen and felt relieved it functioned.

  “Thank goodness for the case—”

  Movement in the dark caught her eye. Subtle, yet she’d seen it.

  “What?”

  Bell didn’t speak. She pointed toward a southern live oak behind Sowell’s colonial. The branches sprouted from a low spot on the trunk and lent shelter from spying eyes. Together, Gardy and Bell shifted to a window overlooking the backyard. Anxious to determine who was out there, she moved too close to the glass. Gardy pulled her back into the shadows.

  He squinted at the tree, then shook his head to indicate he saw nothing.

  Bell pointed again, and a dark form moved between the branches.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TEN

  Every nerve in Bell’s body stood on high alert. The shadow shape behind Drew Sowell’s h
ouse stalked closer, clinging to the dark. The figure made a beeline toward the colonial’s back door. As if it was coming after them.

  Gardy brought the radio to his mouth.

  “Haggleston, come in.”

  A burst of static.

  “Haggleston here. The two of you want me to order a pizza?”

  “I got movement in the backyard. Behind Sowell’s house.”

  The officer’s tone shifted to serious. Bell imagined Haggleston and Adames shifting toward the front of the van to gain a better angle. She didn’t think they could see behind the Colonial from their position.

  “You want one of us to check it out?”

  “Negative. Stay put for now.”

  Gardy raised his binoculars. Too dark. He handed the binoculars to Bell.

  The shape was closer now. Past the flower garden and halfway to the back door.

  As Gardy picked up the radio, ready to call for backup, the man in the backyard passed through a sliver of moonlight.

  Gardy cursed.

  “Stand by, Haggleston. It’s Gavin Hayward.”

  “Shit…okay. You want me to radio another cruiser to the scene? We’ve got a pair of officers two blocks away.”

  “No. Sit tight for a second. If our target is nearby, we’ll lose him for sure.”

  “Copied.”

  Revealed by the moon, the reporter hid beside a shrub. Gardy lowered the radio and cursed again. He raised himself out of a crouch and started for the door. Bell swung around.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Hayward will blow our cover. I’ll take him.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “Don’t. Stay here and keep an eye on the bungalow. I’ll be right back.”

  She heard him quietly move down the stairs. His footsteps shifted to a higher pitch when he reached the first floor. Then she heard nothing except the night breeze riding over the roof.