“I’m not sure there is a body,” the man walking towards them said.
“Lawson, what did you find?” Holly turned to face James Lawson, the forensics officer who had caramel skin and short-cropped cornrow hair. On most people, Holly hated that look, but on James, it looked very proper.
“I went through the vehicle.” Lawson walked up to the two detectives. “No trace evidence.”
“So he cleaned it,” Detective Honeywell guessed with a shrug.
“No, he didn’t. There were cat hairs and other hairs that matched the house, but not a trace of blood. And no human hairs anywhere but the front seats, and although I have not run tests on them, I can tell by looking that neither one belongs to Kayci Dewitt. Dewitt is a natural honey-blonde, according to the file. All the hairs in the car were brown.”
“So he vacuumed the back where the body was,” Honeywell surmised.
“But he would have sucked up the cat hairs too, and they’re all over the place,” Lawson touched a knuckle to his chin. “I’ll run more tests, but in my professional opinion there was never a body in that car.”
“What about the blood in the house?” Honeywell leaned in for the answer.
“My best early guess was they were left last night before midnight. We’re still waiting on the labs.” Lawson turned and walked away.
“We got nothing,” Holly murmured, watching her partner stew.
“Dammit,” Honeywell swore. “How long can we hold him on this?”
“He asked for a lawyer. Unless he has his own, we can hold him until the public defender shows up. And of course, they are very, very slow.” Holly smiled.
“Good, because this punk will run if we let him”
The door to the hallway opened, and Holly turned to see her father walking down the narrow passage. “Hey, Pops.”
“My two favorite detectives” Captain Ray Prince patted his daughter on the back.
“How’s it going, Captain?” Holly bumped her hip into her father. “Did you arrest mom for that horrible meatloaf yet?”
“I should. She’s going to kill someone with that concoction eventually. And my cholesterol is through the roof, but she keeps feeding me meat.” He took a short sip from a bottle of cola he carried and pointed to the glass with the mouth. “What’s the deal with this guy? Will he crack?”
“Not likely. He’s sticking to his innocence,” Holly replied.
“Lawyerd up?”
“Yup.”
“The nerve,” Ray responded.
“I know,” Holly said.
“No body?”Ray asked.
Holly shook her head and crossed her arms in front of her.
“What do you think, Honeywell?” Ray looked to the detective who was still peering hard at the subject through the glass.
“Not sure, Cap, this guy is hiding something.”
Just then another officer walked into the staging area, handed a file to Holly, and kept on going.
“Aha, just in time.” Holly flipped open the file. “It’s the background on our boy here, courtesy of the FBI.” She wrinkled her nose in question. “What is this?” She flipped the pages and raised one hand, palm up. “What the hell? Classified?” They all shared a confused look and then looked in at Jordan. The pages were largely blacked out, with only a few lines of text visible.
Holly shook her head in confusion. She turned the file so her father could read the bold print. “Redacted for National Security purposes?”
Her father took hold of the papers. “I think we’d better call your uncle.”
Chapter Ten
Jordan finished playing the song in his head and started to think of another. There was no need for a music player. He had one in his head. Ever since he was a kid, he could play exact and complete songs in his head. Some people had a photographic memory. He had what he liked to call a jukebox memory.
A need to sneeze crept up on him butwent away. The room smelled like sweat, and looked too much like the bathroom from a 1950s sanitarium. He’d never actually been to a 1950s sanitarium, but he’d watched an old movie one night and it looked like this room. The walls were the same gray block, drab and constantly moist looking. There were even odd recesses in the wall that could have held urinals at one time.
The door swung open, and the female cop entered, alone this time, and sat.
“You’ve quite the interesting FBI file, Jordan.” The detective opened the file and glanced at the papers. “You seem to have a grim fascination with death, always in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“What?” Jordan felt like she’d slapped his face with a cold piece of haddock.
“It’s quite interesting. Of course, I can only read about ten percent of it. The rest is blacked out for national security reasons.”
Jordan could only laugh, because he didn’t know what else to think. Of course, it made sense in a senseless world. His life had gone from confounding to surreal. “Sure, why wouldn’t the FBI have a file on me…of course, they do.”
“It says here you were suspected in of killing an eighteen-year-old girl named Tina Florentino in Hackensack, New Jersey.”
“I didn’t kill her. I found her.”
“It says she was raped, stabbed twenty-two times. That’s a lot of rage.”
“I was in a parking garage waiting for an elevator. She stumbled out of the elevator right in front of me.”
The detective rolled her lips. “So what happened with Alex Morton Winkle?”
He had answered these questions once before, specifically on the night Alex died while working on the car. Jordan was outside working on his car at his buddy John Fisher’s garage. John had a very large garage and used to let his friends work on their cars there. John was a spoiled rich kid whose father was a big shot for WNBC in New York City. But he was a cool spoiled rich kid.
Alex Winkle was the Fisher’s landscaper and he’d been working on one of his personal vehicles. Jordan had heard the creak, thunk, and scream. He’d ran to the other side of the garage in time to hear the air escaping Winkle’s body.
Jordan jacked up the car, pulled Morton out, and dialed 911 from the phone on the wall near the workbench. The police suspectedJordan pushed the car or somehow caused it to fall. Of course, he did neither. Alex was just an idiot and refused to use jack-stands or blocks under the car.
The investigation confirmed it was an accident, because that’s all it was. But one of the local West Orange cops was sure Jordan did it. He had seen Jordan one too many times at the scene of death. The cop made life unbearable, constantly shadowing Jordan everywhere he went, starting rumors that he was a killer, confronting Jordan, and playing head games. So a few months later, before he could see anyone else die, Jordan told his mother he was leaving. And at eighteen, he set out on his own.
Holly Prince had the same look on her face he had seen before. It was a look of disgust. People were surehis condition could not be random, that he must love death and blood, or worse, that he was guilty in some way.
“I didn’t kill anyone. I’ve never killed anyone,” Jordan said quietly after the long silence.
“Maybe just seeing death wasn’t enough for you anymore.” She flashed a sly smile. “Maybe the aftermath wasn’t doing it for you anymore. Is that it? So you lured some unsuspecting woman to your house and you killed her. Is that about right, Jordan?”
Through clenched teeth, Jordan huffed, “I did not kill anyone.”
The detective nodded and leaned back in her chair. “Okay, okay. Let’s say you’re telling us the truth. Where is this woman who supposedly showed up at your door all bloody?”
“I don’t know.” Jordan met the eyes of his interviewer. “You arrested me before I got in the house.”
“Right, you said you were at work all morning.”
“I was at work. Ask my boss or any of the other three mechanics in the shop. I didn’t even take a coffee break. So how did I dispose of this phantom body?” He shifted his weight in the hard plastic c
hair because his butt was falling asleep. “Didn’t I ask for a lawyer? Are you even supposed to be questioning me? I’m no legal expert, but I’m pretty sure even if I confessed right now, you wouldn’t be able to use it.”
“We’re just talking.”
“Well, talk about the fact I was at work all morning.”
“Yeah, we’re checking on all that. In the meantime, sit here and think about the truth.”
“Right back atya”
He watched the detective slink out the door.
In a way, the people who thought he had a sick fascination were right. He did have one. Only it was not to see people die. It was to understand why this happened to him, what it meant, and where it was leading. There had to be some prosaic explanation for what appeared to be paranormal. He didn’t believe in the paranormal. He’d seen a lot of things traveling around the country, but he had never seen a UFO, a ghost, Bigfoot, a chupacabra, or anything unexplained. He was the only thing he couldn’t explain.
In his desperation to find the truth, he had read countless books, visited churches of every denomination, consulted mystics and supposed psychics, witches and even a self-proclaimed warlock, who for some reason wore a diaper…on the outside of his sparkled purple pants. He even went to a Mayan Indian woman who claimed to be in touch with star people. However, all of those things resulted in nothing but wasted time and wasted money.
The roadside psychics were especially useless. They charged him twenty or forty bucks to tell him absolutely nothing of any value. In most cases, they were so far off, it made him laugh.
He had all but given up any hope of ever understanding. And after the last two days, locking himself away in some cave in the desert looked like a damn good idea. Yesterday at the bank and now this. He was on the edge of breaking apart. He could feel something inside him shifting, and not in a good way.
If they didn’t take his phone, he’d text his mother.
Chapter Eleven
Lightning flared across the sky, and a chorus of thunder rolled through the symphony of rain. Kayci crossed James Street and shuffled into the alley between the three-story brick tenements.
This was not a good neighborhood to be in at night unarmed. Not even a recently former NSA agent was safe from the random violence of Syracuse’s south side. She knew the area, and it was rife with gang violence.
Calling herself a former agent was hard. The spy life was all she’d known for six years. She’d let it define her perhaps more than other people did, because she had no other identity. She had searched all her life for a place to belong. The NSA game gave her a home.
Evading detection and watching others from the outside can paint some people into a corner that is hard to escape. But Kayci never wanted to escape. She wanted to stay forever. The thought of being anything but an agent was the only thing that brought her anxiety. She’d rather be crouched in a corner with a pistol in her hand than dropping off some brat at preschool and heading off to some office job where kissing ass was on the top line of her job description.
The rain had turned the air colder than it had been all day. She was not surprised at how quick the weather changed. A slight peck of guilt over what she’d done to Jordan Callahan touched her, but it had been an opportunity too good to pass.
She was not proud of framing an innocent man for her murder, but it would buy her some time. She had no choice but to fight back as dirty as possible. DNA would prove the body she dumped in the woods was not hers, and eventually whoever wanted her dead would be on the hunt again.
The wind picked up, and the rain started to teem. She turned the corner, stepping over a stream of water and onto the font steps of the two-story white house. A twinge of pain from her ankle shot up her leg and made her leg buckle, but she did not stumble.
The house was pristine compared to those around it. She wiped the rain from her face once under the cover of the spanning porch and knocked on the door.
“Who is it?” a deep voice rumbled from behind the thick wooden door.
“I’m a friend of Marco Pimp.” Kayci stepped back.
The door opened inward, a thin, pretty, mocha-skinned teenage girl stood behind it. Obviously, this was not the source of the voice. The girl stepped aside and motioned for Kayci to enter.
Kayci watched a large black man walk up to close off the doorway that appeared to lead to the kitchen area. His narrow eyes regarded her angrily. He was a large man with a shaved head and dark tattoos from wrist to skull. He was obviously not afraid to use his size to intimidate. And he made sure there was no gray area in that by casting a wicked scowl.
“I’m here to see Devon.” Kayci met the large man’s eyes. She showed no fear. She didn’t get into an elite group of the NSA without proving herself in situations like these.
The man stared her down then finally said, “Follow me.” He turned, and she followed down a hallway.
“Devon’s through here.” The large man stopped and pushed open a red door. As she tried to pass, he grabbed her by the arm and twisted her face-first into the wall. He began an aggressive pat down, even forcefully running his hand over her crotch, pressing uncomfortably through the too-tight jeans and running it up the crack of her ass. She did not react and took it in stride through gritted teeth. Finally, the man stood upright and motioned her into the doorway.
Kayci walked into the room, shaking off the urge to punch the man in the balls. She was immediately impressed with the décor. The walls were a dark blue with light colored wood.
A well-built man sat behind the desk. Kayci eyed him as she walked in. She’d trained to read faces, but this man’s face told her nothing at first glance. He was so hard-edgedKayci almost didn’t notice the wheelchair he sat in.
“Have a seat,” the man invited with an open hand. He looked her over, and a smile curled up on one side of his thick lips.
She said, “Call Marco. Tell him Kayci is in town.” It caught him off guard.
He sat for a moment, looking her over. Then he picked up the bright red phone on the desk and punched some buttons. “Yeah, ‘dis Devon. Where Marco at?” He watched Kayci intently. “Hey, Pimp, what’s shakin’…? Yeah, I got ‘dis honey-pop, Kayci, says she know you... Yeah, dat sounds ‘bout straight. Yeah, yeah, a’right, yeah, we straight.” He set the phone down and looked her over, up and down again, smiling at what he saw.
“Are you done checking the package?” She faked a sarcastic smile.
He nodded and grinned. “Had to be done. Damn, you is tight. Pimp said you was a piece of work, didn’t mention you was a piece of ass too.” He laughed.
“Can you help me out or what?” Kayci didn’t want to spend a minute more than she had to here.
“You got dough?”
She reached into her pocket and took out the wad of cash she’d stolen from Jordan. She felt almost as bad about cleaning him out as she did about getting him thrown in jail. But, she planned on paying him back, and she certainly didn’t plan on letting him rot in jail. She just needed some time. Once she was safe she’d make sure Jordan was cleared.
“Okay, what’chya need?”
“I want two identical nine millimeters, preferably Glock or Smith & Wesson MPs, a shoulder rig, extra clips, and about five hundred rounds FMJ, no hollow points. I want some Kevlar if you can get it and two tactical flashlights either mounted on the rails or handhelds are fine.”
Devon slumped back in his chair and folded his hands into a steeple, resting them under his chin. He just shook his head and said nothing for a long stretch. Then he leaned back into the desk. “I can do most of that,” he said. “I’m assuming you need it all right now? Well, if you need that, I need fifteen hundy.”
“I’ve got twelve, and this titanium LumiNox Navy Seal watch.” She took the watch off and tossed it on the desk.
He picked it up and turned it in his hands, pushed out his bottom lip. “Okay. Wait out in the main room by the front door, and I’ll have Remo bring everything I got. But I ain’t g
ot no Kevlar.”
“Fine, then give me back my watch.”
He laughed. “No, I think I’m keeping the watch anyway.”
“Then I want two hundred back. Without the Kevlar, it’s only worth a grand.”
He looked at her and dropped his glare down over her breasts. Then he looked back at her face. He curled his lips. “People don’t usually haggle wit’ me. You drive a hard bargain, girl. I’ll hook you up but only half the ammo for a cool G.”
He tossed the watch back, and she caught it midair before it hit the desk. Then slipped it over her left wrist and stood. “Thanks for your help.”
Kayci walked out to the main room and stood in the foyer near the front door. The young girl who had let her in stood near, watching her.
Kayci nodded and smiled.
The girl smiled back. “You’re really pretty.”
“Thank you. You’re very pretty yourself.”
The girl looked at her, pursed her lips. “Are you a cop?”
Kayci moved her head back in surprise. “What makes you say that?”
“You carry yourself like you’re someone who has been in a position of authority. You move like a cop.”
“How old are you?”
“I’m thirteen.”
“You’re very perceptive.”
“So you are a cop.”
“No, I’m not a cop.”
“Hmmm.” The girl moved her lips to the side. “Well, you’re something.”
“So are you.”
Just then, the large man who’d felt her up came in with a green backpack. She was amazed at how quick and easy it was to get illegal guns and ammunition. It made one realize how useless anti-gun legislation really was. Criminals didn’t need to worry about permits and registration.
The man handed her the backpack. “Check it if you want.” He opened the front door.
She slipped the pack over her shoulder, nodded to the large man, and rushed out into the rain. The cold seemed a little less biting, but perhaps that was just because she was used to it now.
The guns made her feel better. Being a spy had its privileges. She knew just about every underground arms dealer on the east coast. Devon Briggs was a small arms dealer in the greater Syracuse area. He sold pistols and ammo but nothing bigger. And Marco Pimp was exactly what he sounded like, a local pimp who Kayci had used in the past during an investigation. She’d needed some girls to seduce a diplomat from Russia, and he’d provided them after some persuading.
Savior Frequency (Frequency Series Book 1) Page 4