The Black Directive (P.I. Jude Wyland Thrillers Book 1)

by Blake Dixon

  There was a sea of scrambled, erratic traffic between Jude and the target. No way he’d get there in time. And no way he’d fire on anyone in the middle of this crowd.

  Cursing louder this time, he darted between slow-moving cars in the two closest lanes and scrambled onto the hood of a big white Lincoln stopped in the third. The horn blared immediately, and the window hummed its way down.

  Jude kept his gaze on the sedan, already peeling away from the curb. Looking for the license plate. The driver of the Lincoln started spewing obscenities through the window.

  He raised the gun toward the speaker without looking back, a casual gesture. “Shut the fuck up,” he growled.

  The driver shut up.

  He could just make out the plate, but the sedan was already too far away where it’d been parked. First five was all he could get. Still, he watched until the vehicle screamed a right at the next block, and then climbed off the Lincoln, fuming.

  The voice recorder app was still open on his phone. He swiped over to it and started recording a new file as he hustled back toward the café. “Dark blue Ford Crown Vic, Virginia tags, A-W-L-6-2-fuck, didn’t get the rest. Maybe 3 or 8, then maybe 4 or 7, I don’t know. Shit.” He jabbed stop and shoved the phone in his pocket.

  A crowd of onlookers still clustered in front of the restaurant. Most of them moved away when he approached, and he spotted the ones he was looking for right away. The couple who’d been recording the chase. Both twenty-something, slender and tanned, and reeking of privilege. The male had still had the phone in his hand.

  With the camera pointed right at him.

  Jude stalked toward them. The kid blinked, lowered the phone slowly and kind of smiled. “That was crazy, dude,” he said. “You ran on the tables.”

  He held a hand out. “Give it to me.”

  “What, my phone? No way.”

  “I won’t ask again.”

  The kid snorted. “You a cop or something?”

  “No, I’m not.” Jude flashed an expression that was all teeth, zero smile. “I’m a very unhappy man with a gun.”

  “Brad, just give it to him!” his girlfriend whispered shrilly, trying to shuffle behind him.

  Swallowing once, Brad held the phone out. “It’s not illegal,” he said. “If it’s in public, anybody can—”

  “Shut it, Brad.” Jude snatched the device and looked at the screen. The camera was still running. He tapped stop, swiped back and ran the video from the beginning.

  It opened with the assailant already in the street, his back to the camera.

  “Goddamn it.” Still, he watched the entire useless video. Three minutes of blurred, jumpy mayhem with snatches of the target and the pursuit, until finally he reached the shot of himself approaching the camera. He stopped the playback and looked at the kid. “This is all you got?”

  Brad rolled his eyes. “I didn’t come here looking for morons with guns running around,” he said, right before his girlfriend gave him a sharp elbow to the side. “Knock it off, Vickie,” he muttered.

  “Just stop talking,” she shot back.

  “I’d listen to your girlfriend.” Jude glared at the kid for a minute, found the Share option on the video and texted it to his own number.

  Then he deleted both the message and the video.

  “Hey,” Brad sputtered. “You can’t do that!”

  “And yet I did.” Jude slammed the phone against the kid’s chest. “Have a nice day,” he said. “Brad.”

  Without waiting for a reaction, he pivoted and strode back into the restaurant. Now he’d have to talk to the waitress, check the area where the guy had been sitting, and see if the place had security cameras. He wouldn’t have long before the local cops arrived. Whoever it was, Jude suspected the guy had been smart enough to keep himself completely unidentified — but that wasn’t going to stop him from investigating anyway.

  He did not take kindly to being threatened.

  Chapter Seven

  It hadn’t taken many questions to find out the best description of the assailant Jude could get from the distraught waitress amounted to ‘a guy with a face and a gun.’ There was nothing at the bar where she said the man had been sitting, and the restaurant had no interior security cameras.

  Jude made arrangements for an acquaintance of his, a sketch artist who worked for the county sheriff’s office, to come by within the hour while her memory was fresh and work up a profile. Expensive as hell to get a rush job like that, but the fee was going on the CIA’s tab anyway.

  He needed to move on to the mother.

  The Noakes family lived in a house that wasn’t quite large enough to be a mansion, but was too big and fancy to be deemed average. Rolling front lawn and circular drive, wraparound pillared porch in front, manicured back yard with an in-ground pool and a wide, sloped expanse that looked over the back nine of some golf course or another.

  And on the front porch, flanking the elaborate arched entrance door, two more stern-faced Vault security men.

  Jude had a story prepared. The dossier he’d studied said that the family occasionally attended services at First United Methodist Church — Mr. Noakes on far fewer occasions than his wife and daughter, since Sundays were good golfing days. And what could be more harmless than a concerned visitor from the church?

  He parked the Camry on the far side of the turnaround, got out and headed for the house at a casual stroll, shielding his eyes with one hand as he offered a casual wave with the other. The men at the door didn’t wave in return. By the time he reached the porch, he’d arranged a friendly, sympathy-tinged smile on his face. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said as he climbed the porch steps. “Are you friends of the family?”

  The security guards exchanged looks, and the one on the right took a half-step forward. The motion revealed the holstered gun at his side. “I wouldn’t exactly say that,” he said.

  “Oh. Well.” Jude made himself sound suitably flustered, though he wasn’t worried about this guy. It was the other one, the guy with his eyes open and his mouth shut, who could pose a problem. “You must be with the police?” he said. “It’s just terrible what happened to that poor child. Has there been any news about her?”

  “We’re not police,” the guard said. “And unless you’re on the list, you can’t be here.”

  Jude blinked. “Am I on the list?”

  “I don’t know. Who the hell are you?”

  “Er.” He cleared his throat and went for the prissy side of stern. “Cassidy,” he said. “Reverend Walt Cassidy. I’m here to offer comfort to Mrs. Noakes.”

  The guard snorted. “You’re a preacher? So where’s your collar and Bible?”

  “Actually, I’m a minister. Methodist,” he said. “We don’t wear collars, son.”

  “Don’t ‘son’ me, preacher.”

  “All right, Bremner. Enough.” The second guard shot his partner a look, and then turned a calculating gaze on Jude. “Does Mrs. Noakes know you?” he said.

  “Not yet, unfortunately,” he replied. “I’ve only been with First United a few weeks, but Reverend Elliot thought I might be able to help. I worked as a trauma counselor before I moved here from Florida.”

  The second guard paused, as if he were considering something, and then nodded. “You’ll have to ask the housekeeper if Mrs. Noakes is able to receive visitors. She’ll come out to greet you. But go on in,” he said. “Bremner, open the door for the man.”

  “Thank you, son. It’s much appreciated.”

  Bremner grumbled something under his breath, but he opened the door.

  A blast of cool air washed over Jude as he stepped into a large, bright foyer. Nothing like central A/C to make you forget the heat. As he waited for the housekeeper, he looked around and saw signs of a family interrupted, but trying to soldier on. Dying flowers in a vase on a side table. A messy stack of unopened mail piled on a credenza, one buff-colored envelope half-lodged behind the sideboard with the return address showing. Pathway Labs. Se
emed like that might be important, whatever it was.

  The heartbreaking sight of a well-worn pair of child’s sneakers tucked beneath a wooden bench, waiting for an owner who might never come home.

  An older woman with dark curls frosting to gray, a solid build, and a harried smile came around the corner and hailed him. “So sorry to keep you waiting, Reverend,” she said. “Mr. Radford just called from outside to tell me you were here.”

  He smiled. “Since I only stepped in a second ago, it’s no trouble at all. Mrs. …?”

  “Harper. Sophie Harper,” she said, and held a hand out. He took it. Her grip was dry and pleasantly firm. “Thank you for coming,” she said. “We weren’t expecting anyone from the church today, but Mrs. Noakes … well, I believe she’ll appreciate the company.”

  “I hope I can help, in some small way,” he said.

  Mrs. Harper smiled and arched an eyebrow. “You’re young for a minister.”

  “Not that young, I assure you.” He gave a self-effacing smirk. “Methodists like to get an early start in the field, so to speak. We’re no Catholics.”

  The woman laughed. “We sure aren’t. This way, please.”

  He followed the housekeeper through an elegantly appointed living room, down a short corridor and into a large sunroom with three walls of windows, white wicker furniture and plush area rugs on a hardwood floor. The sole occupant of the room sat on a loveseat facing the windows, her back to the door. Dark red hair, clean and brushed but not styled, fell limp to thin shoulders draped in a pale yellow, natty terrycloth robe. She didn’t move when they walked in. Presumably, this was Dorothy Noakes.

  “Dottie, honey.” Mrs. Harper walked over, circled in front of the loveseat and plucked the woman’s hand in both of hers. There was no resistance. “There’s a man from the church here to visit with you,” she said in gentle tones, as if she were soothing a crying child. “His name is Reverend Cassidy. Would you like him to sit with you for a while?”

  The woman’s head turned toward him with excruciating slowness. When her face came into view, a knot clenched in Jude’s throat. He’d seen Mrs. Noakes on the news with her husband from time to time — the smiling, all-American standard marital support unit behind the politician, vivacious and enthusiastic with an earnest, down-home manner.

  Gary Noakes had seemed frayed at the edges. But this woman was utterly destroyed.

  She looked ten years older than her actual age, when before she’d seemed at least five years younger. No makeup, blue-black shadows of exhaustion beneath sunken eyes, and a dull, glossy stare that said she already had company today. Prince Valium, or one of his cousins, was here for a visit. But apparently even whatever sedative she’d taken wasn’t enough to grant her sleep.

  Jude knew that look. He’d seen the same agony of shock and loss in his mother’s face, countless times during the nightmare that followed Amy’s disappearance. Maybe she would’ve recovered eventually. But he’d never know that now.

  “Reverend … I’m so sorry. I’ve forgotten your name.” The woman’s voice was a reedy slur, painful to hear. “Please, come and sit down.”

  At the housekeeper’s nod, Jude approached the semi-circle of furniture and sat in a cushioned chair to the left of the distraught woman. There were faint stains on her robe, which she wore over a plain tank top and cotton pajama pants. A thick photo album lay open on her lap, and a box of tissues rested crookedly on the cushion beside her.

  “Can I get you something to drink, Reverend?” Mrs. Harper said.

  He looked at her. “No, thank you.”

  “All right, then. I’ve got something going in the kitchen, but there’s an intercom by the door if you need anything.”

  When the housekeeper left the room, Jude leaned forward and gave a reassuring smile. “Mrs. Noakes,” he said. “Do you feel up to talking about your daughter?”

  “Vallie,” she whispered. A bit of light eased into her haunted expression as her gaze fell on the open album, the five-by-seven portrait centered on the right-hand page. It was the same photo they kept running in the media — an adorable girl with red-brown ringlet curls, big green eyes and a beaming, dimpled smile, dressed in a lacy baby-doll pinafore. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she? My baby girl.”

  “Yes, she is.” Jude found himself wondering where the girl’s green eyes had come from. Her father’s were brown, her mother’s hazel. Must’ve been a green-eyed grandparent somewhere. “Mrs. Noakes…”

  “Please. Call me Dottie.” She met his eyes, and something in hers shifted. A new, painful awareness. “I know,” she rasped. “I know she’s gone. Gone forever. I just … I can’t face it yet, Reverend. I don’t want to face it.”

  He’d been debating whether to tell her the truth about why he was here. Even if he did, there was a good chance she wouldn’t remember. But now, in this moment of lucid torment, he wanted her to know that not everyone had given up on her daughter.

  “All right. Dottie,” he said. “The thing is, I’m not a minister. I’m a private investigator, and I’m going to find Valerie. Alive.”

  Chapter Eight

  Jude wasn’t surprised to find that despite her condition, Dottie Noakes had a steel streak. At least when it came to her daughter. She’d pulled herself together, answered his questions clearly. Now she was offering information that her husband hadn’t given.

  “I stayed in Vallie’s room while Gary called the police,” she said, absently plucking a tissue from the box beside her and twisting it in her hands. “I was in denial, thinking there had to be some mistake. The broken window, the lamp knocked over, the … drops of blood on the sheets. It was just unthinkable.” She shuddered and closed her eyes. “I tried to tell myself she was playing a game. Not that she’d ever do such a thing, but I kept looking for her in there. I had to. I checked the closet, the toy chest, even the dresser drawers. And under the bed. That’s where I found it.”

  “Found what, ma’am?”

  She smiled a little. “You were in the military, weren’t you?”

  He nodded, slightly surprised. “I was. Marines, four years.”

  “Well, thank you for your service,” she said, almost by rote. “It was the ‘ma’am’ that gave you away, in case you’re wondering. And your posture. My husband was in the Army before he went to law school. That’s where we met. Law school, not the Army. He and Sam…” She blinked, refocused. “Anyway, I was telling you what I found. The wire.”

  “Wire?” he echoed.

  “I didn’t know what it was at first. But I figured it out.” Another shudder. “It was a thin cable, like a guitar string, attached to wooden dowels at both ends. The whole thing painted black. The police said it was—”

  “A garrote.” Jude’s jaw clenched. The Black Strings. The mercenary group who kept evading the CIA, the ones responsible for his partner’s death, had a name with multiple meanings. One referred to the unseen political strings their operations tended to pull. Another, their assassination weapon of choice. They preferred to kill up close and personal. Death by horrific strangulation.

  But that didn’t make sense. Leaving such a highly recognizable weapon at a crime scene was damned sloppy — and these mercs were anything but.

  There’d been no mention of a garrote in the police reports, either.

  “Yes, that’s right,” Mrs. Noakes said. “They tested it, but it hadn’t been … used for anything. Thank God.”

  Jude took a moment to process everything. It was possible the police hadn’t mentioned the garrote because it was considered evidence rather than a weapon. Possible, but not likely. He suspected Ray had left that bit of information out of the packet he’d been given deliberately. Also interesting was the district attorney’s ex-military status. It meant Noakes could’ve hired Vault Securities himself — maybe there was a connection, an old Army buddy in the company.

  He’d look into that after he drilled Ray a new asshole.

  Right now he wanted clarification for one more thing. �
��Mrs. Noakes, you mentioned someone else when you were talking about the law school you and your husband attended,” he said. “Who’s Sam?”

  “Sam Bromwell,” she said. “He’s a senator now.”

  He smirked. “Yes, ma’am, I recognize him with the last name. I’m just wondering why you brought him up.”

  “I’m not sure that matters in any of this,” she said.

  “You never know what’s going to matter.”

  “No, I suppose not.” She sighed and clasped her hands together, resting them on the open photo album. “We all went to George Mason together,” she said. “We were friends, the three of us. Gary and Sam knew each other before I met. And we stayed close for quite a while, even after graduation. In fact, Sam was Vallie’s godfather. Until—”

  When she didn’t continue, Jude prodded gently. “Until?”

  “The two of them had a falling out.” The set of her jaw suggested she didn’t approve of whatever had come between her husband and Senator Bromwell. “They stopped speaking. And now they’re both … running for the same office,” she finished slowly. “My God. Sam is a suspect, isn’t he?”

  Jude chose his words carefully. “Everyone has to be considered.”

  “No. Absolutely not,” she said. “Sam Bromwell would never hurt Vallie. Never.”

  “All right. For what it’s worth, I don’t think he’s responsible either.” It was the truth. The Bromwell-Black Strings angle looked shakier by the minute. For one thing, it was obvious — far too obvious. “But I have to make sure of that,” he said.

  Mrs. Noakes gave a curt nod, and her hands clenched tighter. “I understand,” she said. “Just don’t waste too much time looking into Sam. Please … find my daughter.”

  He planned on that. No matter what it took, he was going to save this little girl. Bring her home alive and well.

  And maybe then, he could start forgiving himself for Amy.