MYSTERY THRILLER DOUBLE PLAY BOX SET (Two full-length novels)

by Osborne, Jon

  Patton swallowed hard. He didn’t know what to say. All he could manage was a weak, “I’m sorry, sir.”

  The Race Master waved away the insincere apology with a quick sweep of his left hand. “No need to apologize, Richard. I’m sure you only did what you thought the honorable thing.”

  He stared at the younger man evenly. “You may lower the gun from your temple now, Richard.”

  Richard Patton did as he was instructed, exhaling a grateful sigh of relief through his nostrils as he did so. “Will there be anything else, sir?” he asked.

  The Race Master walked back behind his desk and settled down into his huge leather chair before opening up a file and beginning to read. “Is there any news from Cleveland, Richard?”

  Patton shook his head. “No, sir. No word from Trebblehorn yet. He’s not answering his cellphone. I’ve been calling all morning.”

  The Race Master looked up from the file and frowned. “And from O’Reilly and Collins?”

  “No word from them yet either, sir.”

  The Race Master dropped his gaze back down to the file and clucked his tongue in disappointment. “Pity. Good men are so very hard to find these days. Wouldn’t you agree with that assessment, Richard?”

  Patton nodded. “Yes, sir, I certainly would.”

  The Race Master looked up again and held his protégé’s nervous stare. Surprisingly, Patton didn’t blink in face of the enormous pressure. Always a good sign in an underling. Respectful without being an out-and-out coward. “Are you a good man, Richard?”

  “Yes, sir. I am.”

  The Race Master paused for what seemed an eternity then. Finally, he smiled. “You know what, Richard? I think I believe you. Job well done today, my boy. You’ve proven yourself a worthy servant, and as a worthy servant you’ll be rewarded appropriately when the time is right and my brother is freed from his cold prison cell in Germany to take his rightful place at the head of our organization.”

  At the Race Master’s feet, Bane lifted his massive head and growled as Patton exited the room.

  Out in the relative safety of the hallway, Richard Patton exhaled another forceful sigh of relief; infinitely happy he’d made the right decision with the gun.

  Or had he?

  Only time would tell.

  CHAPTER 59

  When Dana and Blankenship’s plane touched down in Sacramento forty minutes later, they rented a car at the Hertz desk and made the half-hour trip to Marjorie Trimble’s house on the outskirts of California’s capital city.

  As they drove, the hot sun blazed down so brightly from the cloudless blue sky above that it necessitated the wearing of dark sunglasses on both agents’ parts. And why not, right? After all, Hollywood wasn’t too far away, so they might as well look the part while they were here in the neighborhood. Besides, who knew? Maybe they’d even run into Brad Pitt and Reese Witherspoon at some upscale, outdoor deli on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills while they were out here “doing” California.

  Then again, maybe not.

  Dana was behind the wheel of a 2009 white Nissan Sentra that still smelled faintly of stale cigarette smoke and ineffective air freshener. She wrinkled up her nose against the smell and pressed down her foot gently against the accelerator to pull onto the freeway as Blankenship brought her up to speed on what he’d discovered about the Brotherhood’s origins while she’d been off doing life-and-death battle with Nathan Stiedowe in her blood-soaked dreamland.

  “Chapters in all fifty states and most provinces of Canada, but it looks like the Brotherhood got its start over in Germany,” Blankenship said. “No known home base here in the US, but pretty heavy pockets of activity going on in Mississippi, Louisiana and Texas. Head of the organization was locked up for murder in Germany a couple decades ago, and the Brotherhood splintered off into several dozen different arms from there. No centralized leadership that I can find, which should only make tracking down whoever is ordering these killings that much harder.”

  Dana shook her head in disappointment at the discouraging news. “Great,” she said, cracking her window to let some fresh air inside the car. She couldn’t stand the smell of cigarette smoke, stale or otherwise. “What about the coroner’s report on Marjorie Trimble? He or she find anything interesting during the autopsy?”

  Blankenship shook his head. “Nope. Not a thing. Trimble’s body received the same special treatment as Betsy Campbell’s. Only DNA recovered belonged to the victim. ME thinks that the body was bathed in a water-hydrogen peroxide mix to wash away the perp’s own DNA.”

  Dana lifted her eyebrows thoughtfully. Seemed that Agent John Olokawandi – the Seattle fed who’d yearned for his own personal crack at the Brotherhood – hadn’t been too far off base with his whitewashing theory. “That would mean Betsy Campbell’s body could’ve been transported somewhere else before being returned to the Subaru,” she said, then paused while the idea developed more fully in her brain. “Seems to me that these assholes have all the time in the world to commit their crimes, and they fucking well know it, too. That might point to the killings not being random in nature. A lot of thought is obviously going into the selection process of the victims here. Anyway, what do we know about the father of Trimble’s baby?”

  Blankenship reached into the briefcase that was sitting on the floorboard at his feet and extracted a flimsy file. Flipping it open, he ran his gaze across the page on top and cleared his throat. “Reginald Craft III; president of Sacramento Mutual Bank; forty-two years old; a legacy. Graduated from the University of Southern California with an MBA back in 1992, then took over Sac Mutual from his father, Reginald Craft II, who traveled the same educational route before taking over the bank from his own father, the original Reginald Craft – another USC alum. Anyway, Craft’s alibi is tighter than a snare drum, just like Michael Timmons’s was back in New York City. At the time the Trimble murder was happening, Craft was serving as the keynote speaker at some hoity-toity finance conference out in Vegas. Seven hundred fat cats in attendance there to serve as well-heeled witnesses to his presence. Also like Michael Timmons, Craft’s got no known connection whatsover to the white-power set. Not that I expected to find one, of course. After all, he was boinking a black chick, you know.”

  Dana rolled her eyes at Blankenship’s awkward use of frat-boy lingo – and also at the mention of Reginald Craft III’s lofty position, a cushy job that had clearly been facilitated through the not-so-subtle application of nepotism, according to Blankenship’s report. Must’ve been nice. The corollary would’ve been her taking over Bill Krugman’s top slot at the Bureau directly after graduating from the Academy. Not a bad place to start off. “Tough life, huh?” Dana asked.

  Blankenship laughed without humor. “Yeah, tell me about it. The only thing my father ever gave me was two semi-permanent black eyes and about fourteen different bloody noses.” He paused and looked thoughtful for a moment. “Only got violent with us when he was drinking, though. Sadly for us, however, that just so happened to be most of the time with him. The man did so love his drink. Johnny Walker, neat, if memory serves. Loved that shit more than he loved his own family.”

  Dana looked over at her new partner and frowned. Besides what he’d told her about his wife and children, he hadn’t shared too much with her about his personal life yet. She wanted to know more, but she also didn’t want to push it. She knew all too well for herself how being pushed felt. Wasn’t a pleasant sensation. Treading carefully, she asked, “Real winner, huh?”

  Blankenship stretched his neck and adjusted the sunglasses on his face. “Yeah, but I’m not sweating it. Larry Blankenship spread the wealth around. My older brother and mother got their fair share of bumps and bruises along the way, too. The old man died of lung cancer in 1988. Probably smoking an unfiltered Pall Mall with Satan in the ninth circle of hell right now as we speak. Would’ve had to bum the smoke, though. Never had two nickels of his own to rub together.”

  Dana pressed her lips into a sympathetic line. “W
ow. I’m really sorry to hear that, Bruce. Sounds rough.”

  He waved a hand in the air. “Yeah, it was rough. But we’ve all got our own personal crosses to bear, right? I’m no different than anyone else in the world. Nothing special about my sob story.”

  Dana focused on the road in front of them, not knowing what to say. She knew that Blankenship was underplaying the misery of his childhood, but he’d also hit the nail on the head about most people in the world having their own long rows to hoe. God knew she had plenty of personal crosses to bear. Heavy ones. Always had ever since she’d been four years old. Probably always would, too, thanks to Nathan Stiedowe and his murderous little games. “I just don’t see how anyone could hurt their own children,” Dana said, shaking her head in irritation as her thoughts flashed to Bradley and the traffic-court judge who’d whipped him so mercilessly with a thick leather belt before a video of the incident had found its way to YouTube. “It’s just sick.”

  Just then, Blankenship’s phone sounded from inside his blazer, cutting short the uncomfortable conversation. He looked over apologetically and dug out the phone before glancing down at the caller ID. “Anyway,” he said, “no big deal, right? My family life these days is a hell of a lot better than it used to be, that’s for sure. And I’m sure yours will be too very soon, Dana.”

  He glanced down again at the phone still ringing in his hand, then back up at her. “Anyway, I’d really like to take this call, if you don’t mind. It’s my wife.”

  Dana waved a hand in the air, happy to end the previous conversation. And why wouldn’t she be? Thinking about the past hurt. “Take it,” she said. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not even here.”

  Blankenship nodded and slid the digital green answer-bar across the bottom of his iPhone before hitting the speakerphone feature on the keypad. “Madison!” he boomed. “What’s the good word, my dear? How are my two little angels doing?”

  A woman’s voice sounded over the speaker of Blankenship’s iPhone. “Don’t you mean your three little angels, Bruce?”

  “Of course I do. That’s what I just said.”

  The woman snorted. “Like hell you did. Anyway, your two little angels are just fine. Sitting here on my lap right now.”

  Behind the wheel of the Sentra, Dana smiled at the image of Madison Blankenship balancing the adorable twin toddlers on her legs. She couldn’t wait to experience that sort of thing for herself with Bradley. The sooner, the better.

  “You on speakerphone?” Blankenship asked his wife.

  “Yep, and Olivia and Sydney are just dying to say hello to their Daddy. Wouldn’t stop bugging me about it until I finally broke down and called you. They miss their Daddy with all their hearts – and so does their Mommy.”

  Blankenship widened the smile on his face. “Well now, you don’t say. That a fact?”

  “Yeah, it is. Anyway, go ahead and say hello to them already. They’re waiting for you.”

  Blankenship cleared his throat and cut his stare over to Dana. Raising his voice two octaves, he said, “Hey there, girls! How are my little babies doing? Hi, little Olivia. Hi, little Sydney. It’s your Daddy and I love you very much. I love you to pieces and pieces and pieces and forever and ever and ever.”

  Dana stifled a laugh as she listened Blankenship talk to his daughters. She could already that he was a great dad, but where was the surprise in that? She hadn’t expected anything less from him.

  A loud crackle of static sounded over the speakers. A moment or two later, Madison Blankenship came back on the line. “Well, that went just about how I expected it might. Olivia kissed the phone and Sydney tried to eat it. I guess that’s their way of saying hello. We’re really going to have to work on that.”

  Blankenship laughed. “Hey, I’ll take it. No complaints over here. Anyway, how are you doing, sweetheart? Miss me yet?”

  “Of course. How could I not, right?”

  Blankenship pursed his lips modestly. “Good point. I guess I’m quite the miss-able fella, now ain’t I? And before you ask – yes, honey, I miss you too.”

  “Yeah, but do you love me to pieces and pieces and pieces and forever and ever and ever?”

  Blankenship’s face reddened. “You know it, girlfriend.”

  Madison Blankenship snorted again. “You’d better, buster. Anyway, I’ve got some good news for you, if you’re feeling up to hearing it.”

  Blankenship lifted his eyebrows. “Of course. What’s going on?”

  “I think I’ve found a place for us to live in Ohio. Is your new partner around? I’d like to speak with her for a minute.”

  Blankenship cut his gaze over to Dana, who nodded back. “Yep, she sure is. Sitting right here next to now.”

  “Am I on speakerphone, too?” Madison Blankenship asked.

  “Yep.”

  “Good,” the woman said. She paused and cleared her throat. “Dana?”

  Dana turned toward the phone. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Hey there! How are you doing? First things first: I’ve heard nothing but great things about you and it’s awesome to finally sort-of meet you – if only on the phone for right now. Anyway, I really hate to put you on the spot like this, but I think I might have found a house for us in Avon and I wanted to ask if you were familiar with the area.”

  Dana took the iPhone from Blankenship’s hand and spoke more directly into the mouthpiece. “Yep, I sure am,” she said in response to Madison Blankenship’s inquiry about the sleepy little hamlet thirty miles west of Cleveland.

  “What’s it like?”

  Dana thumbed on the cruise control. “Well, from all reports, it’s a great place to raise a family,” she said. “Usually makes Cleveland Magazine’s Best Places to Live issue. About thirty-thousand residents. Used to be mostly farmland, but they’ve built it up like crazy over the past fifteen years or so. Quiet streets, a great public school system and pretty good shopping, too, if memory serves. At least three malls within driving distance that I can think of off the top of my head. Anyway, when were you thinking about coming to Ohio to check things out?”

  “As soon as humanly possible,’ Madison Blankenship said. “Just as soon as you and Bruce can wrap up this case you’re working on right now, I guess. Anyway, while I’ve still got you here on the phone, I also wanted to ask a quick favor.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Take care of my husband, would you? He might not like to admit it, but he’s got two left feet. Gets himself into trouble with his own clumsiness if you don’t watch out for him. One time he even broke his left ankle in three different places while he was getting out of the car. Don’t ask me how he did it, he just did.”

  Blankenship rolled his eyes in the passenger seat of the car. “Hey, honey,” he cut in. “I heard that. No fair telling tales out of school.”

  His wife laughed. “I know you heard me, Bruce. That’s exactly why I said it. Anyway, I know that you two superheroes are busy chasing down villains right now so I’ll give you a call later on tonight, OK? The girls just wanted to say hello to their Daddy and I just wanted to tell you the good news about the house.”

  Madison Blankenship paused. “It was a real pleasure speaking with you, Dana,” she said. “I can’t wait to finally meet you in person. From everything Bruce has told me about you, I love you already.”

  Dana smiled. “Same here, Madison,” she said, handing the phone back to Blankenship. “Anyway, here’s your husband again. I’ll keep an eye on him for you while he’s entering and exiting cars.”

  Madison Blankenship laughed again. “Thanks. I appreciate that. It’s a load off.”

  For the next thirty seconds, Dana listened to Blankenship wrap up the phone conversation with his wife. When her new partner had finally signed off and tucked his iPhone back into his blazer, she turned to him and smiled. “She sounds like an absolutely incredible woman, Bruce.”

  Blankenship nodded. “She is. Thanks for saying so. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

&nb
sp; Ten minutes of easy conversation later, Dana finally wheeled the Sentra through the gates of Marjorie Trimble’s exclusive gated housing complex thirty miles south of the airport, flashing her FBI ID at the security guard out front before heading deeper into the development. With the help of the GPS sitting on the dashboard, they found the murdered banker’s impressive mansion tucked away at the end of a tranquil suburban street less than five minutes later.

  She pulled into the long, winding driveway and switched off the ignition before turning in her seat to face Blankenship. “Ready to get back to work?” she asked.

  Blankenship put on his game-face. “Damn right, I am,” he said. “The faster we can track down these white-power assholes, the better, as far as I’m concerned. I’ve got a house to move into.”

  Dana put on her own game face next to him and steeled herself for what would come next. More blood. More dead women. More brutally murdered babies. “Great,” she said. “So let’s go do this.”

  Blankenship smiled grimly at her as he unfastened his safety belt and exited the car without incident. “Right behind you, my dear Holmes,” he said. “Right behind you.”

  CHAPTER 60

  Angel had made it halfway home to the west side of Cleveland when her cellphone rang in her purse.

  She dug it out while simultaneously trying to keep her attention focused on the two-lane road in front of her and the traffic whizzing by in the opposite direction. Flipping open the phone, she wedged it between her cheek and left shoulder so as to keep both her hands on the steering wheel. “Hello?”

  “Angel, it’s Stosh. I need to see you right away.”

  Stosh’s voice sounded worried, like he was holding something back, and for some reason or another that irritated the living shit out of Angel.

  Hell, what didn’t irritate the living shit out of her these days?

  But it was obvious that Stosh had something to say, something he didn’t want to tell her over the phone, and that marked exactly the kind of cloak-and-dagger shit that Angel wasn’t in the mood to deal with right now. “What is it, Stosh?” she asked, feeling the start of a world-class headache begin to crack away at her temples. “Is it something about Razor? A break in the case? A confession?”