“That explains the damage to Mrs. Franklin’s skull,” Grey said.
Porky straightened. “Did you finish the autopsies?”
“Almost. Cass helped, but Kado needs her for forensic work. Can you help me finish?”
“No problem. What did you find?”
“Not much more than we saw at the scene. Martha Franklin suffered one gunshot wound to the head, and Joseph one to the chest. Both shots went through the bodies.”
“If Moses is right that he’s the target, the killer could’ve shot the other two in error,” Cass said.
“You think he’s in danger?” Porky asked.
“Until we know better.”
“Can you get protection for him?”
She gave him a small smile. “In my official capacity with the Medical Examiner’s office, I can’t do anything. But I’ll call Detective Martinez and see what he can do.” She paused. “Porky, is Moses going to give us trouble?”
He frowned as he considered her question. “You mean with the investigation?”
Cass nodded.
“I don’t think so, but y’all better talk to him. Moses is a good guy. If you lay it out for him, the rules or whatever, he’ll abide by them.”
“How do you know the Franklins?” Grey asked.
“Same church. We sing in the choir. Joseph sings bass and Moses sings tenor.” His smile was wistful. “That’s about the only difference I ever saw in those two. I can’t believe I’ll never hear Joseph’s voice again.”
CHAPTER 13
JOSEPH FRANKLIN LAY PERFECTLY still in Porky River’s guest bedroom. The sheets were so crisp they had practically crackled when he slipped between them, but they were incredibly cool and smooth against his skin. Light from the parking lot snuck between the blinds and slashed the ceiling with thin white stripes. Joseph focused his attention on the void between two bright bars and allowed his thoughts to roam free.
The murders were his fault, no doubt. Joseph Franklin was a master of the computer break-in, the type of nefarious hacking wizard they dubbed a cracker. His first intrusion into a protected system came when he was still a teenager. Joseph had decided to take a look at the payroll for the college where he was enrolled, and found that worming his way through the network of systems was ridiculously simple. He took a peek, found the salary details he wanted, and then waited to see if anyone would notice. They didn’t. So he checked out the accounting and finance systems, and finally hacked the database that housed information on the students and their class schedules. He discovered more than he’d bargained for: Social Security numbers, home addresses, phone numbers, and birth dates. And that was when the seed was planted. Joseph realized that the potential for identity theft was virtually unlimited, but also recognized that their lack of credit history made his fellow students extremely poor targets. He considered dipping back in to the payroll database to purloin a better quality of information, but questioned the wisdom of stealing from his own backyard. Instead, Joseph pushed that germinating idea to a remote section of his brain, and then finished his studies and graduated with honors.
He worked for years as a respected programmer for an international bank based in New York, but in spite of his academic and professional achievements, had been unable to find work when his job was outsourced to India ten years ago. Joseph was nearing the end of his emergency cash stash when the seed planted those many years ago sprouted in the fertile soil of his brain. From it grew a black market business in which Joseph traded in identities and, in some cases, blocks of credit card data. It was lucrative work and competitors were few. In fact, Joseph knew of only three other crackers who could supply the same quantity and quality of data. The hacking community itself provided few threats. It was the people who purchased the data who were dangerous. Although they rarely met, the buyers were shady characters; some simple entrepreneurs, others with links to organized crime.
And that’s why the murders were Joseph’s fault.
Greasy Lou Spitano, a front man for the big players in the information game, put down a deposit on a credit card database. And while the job was simple enough for someone with Joseph’s talents, he put it off for one day too long. The police came for him in broad daylight, and to this day he didn’t know how they found him. They’d charged him with a list of cyber crimes as long as his very long leg. While Joseph recognized some of the jobs as his, he also realized the prosecutor was fishing to try and clear his case backlog. It was only thanks to his mother and the money she raised from mortgaging her house that Joseph had been represented by such a powerful lawyer.
The State of New York was hungry to make an example of Joseph and wanted a high-profile case that would garner media attention. But his attorney managed to avoid a legal circus and instead wrangled a three-year stay for Joseph in a minimum security facility, along with a $10,000 fine, long-term restrictions on his computer usage, and a whopping $2.5 million in restitution to the various banks he had invaded. The sum still boggled him. In return, Joseph confessed to the hacks on the district attorney’s list that were his, but refused to roll over on anyone else.
That left Greasy Lou Spitano and his shadowy associates. Was it possible that they knew Joseph was out of prison, and wanted a refund?
The mantle of guilt lay heavy on his chest, threatening to smother him into paralysis. His bottom lip trembled, and Joseph gave in, letting tears roll down his temples and onto the pillow. He cried for the loss of his family, the choices he had made, and perhaps even more for the possibility that he had brought this brutal end on them. In truth, he knew the punishment for his hacking crimes was light, but he was shamefully grateful to be free. He also recognized that whoever had murdered his mother and brother might not receive a full measure of justice under the law. And that thought burned him.
By the time his reservoir of tears was exhausted, Joseph was resolved to his new life as Moses. Not only would he have full run of the law enforcement systems, but a new identity solved a world of problems for Joseph. The struggle he faced as an ex-con trying to find work would be over. Parole would end. Restitution? The court couldn’t collect money from a dead man. As a cop, Joseph would have a steady source of income, something he hadn’t experienced in years. And most importantly, he could begin the search.
Joseph was ready to find whoever had killed his mother and brother, even if it was Greasy Lou Spitano and his network. And from that knowledge would spring a plan for vengeance. The details will come, he thought as he drifted into sleep.
In Joseph’s logical mind, they always did.
THURSDAY
CHAPTER 14
OFFICER SCOTT TRUMAN STUDIED Calvin Whitehead’s cash register. He pushed a button and the drawer popped open with a bang, exposing stacks of bills resting undisturbed in their slots. Martinez was crouched by the stockroom doors taking photographs of the mess within.
“No robbery,” Truman called. He had wrapped a bandanna over his nose and mouth and his words were muffled. “Money’s still in the register and everything is orderly.”
“Balance it with the tape,” Martinez replied.
Truman took photographs and then balanced the drawer. “Checks, cash, and credit card receipts all add up.”
He slipped the money into an evidence bag, snapped his latex gloves off, ran his hands over his blond crew cut, and yawned. It was past midnight and his hazel eyes were red rimmed and his fair skin paler than normal. He had worked the day shift but was still in uniform and having dinner at home with his parents when the call went out about the murder at The Whitehead Store. He hopped in his patrol car and headed over to the remote little gas station, and although he’d been here for over six hours and could feel exhaustion clawing at his brain, was glad he had responded.
Martinez stood and stretched his burly arms over his head. “Well, that’s one motive gone.” He examined the frames hanging on the wall behind the counter. A photograph of Calvin Whitehead, standing in front of his store on the day of its grand opening. A certificate of
appreciation from the Boy Scout Troop. A note of thanks from the Little League. And a crucifix. He fingered the smaller version hanging on a chain around his neck. “I didn’t know Whitehead was Catholic.”
“He didn’t go to church?” Truman asked.
“I’m not at mass regularly, but I’ve never seen him.”
“Maybe he backslid.”
“Yeah, maybe. Seems strange that he’d keep a crucifix on the wall to remind him, but to each his own.”
Truman glanced around the tidy store. “You’d never even know a crime was committed here.”
“What do you mean?”
Truman shrugged and yawned again. “Calvin Whitehead keeps a really clean store. There’s no dust on the shelves, the glass doors to the refrigeration units are clean, and the floor mostly sparkles. Except for that little puddle of gas by the door this afternoon, nothing was disturbed in here.”
“Unlike the storeroom,” Martinez said.
“Yeah. Whoever did this either caught him off guard back there, or he knew them and was comfortable going to the storeroom with them.”
“Makes sense.”
“What now?”
“We dust for prints and collect evidence from the courtyard.” He glanced around the small grocery store. “Let’s wrap up and get out here in the morning when Kado’s available.”
Truman followed Martinez outside, removed the bandanna, and tested the air before breathing deeply. “What happened at the Franklin’s house?”
“Sounds like the shooter was in the woods behind the house. Probably used a rifle.”
“Was it Moses or Joseph?”
“Joseph. Cass called to confirm.”
“Rumor says John Grey hired her tonight.”
“Yup,” Martinez answered. “I figure the sheriff will stroke out when he hears, but I’ll lay odds that Grey will win this round. You want to put some money on it?”
A sly grin crossed Truman’s weary face. “No way. But I’d like to be a fly on the wall when Sheriff Hoffner hears that Cass is back at work. That’s one stroke that would be worth seeing.”
CHAPTER 15
CASS, KADO, ROBERT GROVE, and two uniformed officers followed the Grove twins into Deadwood Hollow and listened as the two bickered over where they’d been when the shooter ran past. When Cass had called their house at eleven-thirty, Evelyn Grove was reluctant to allow the boys to assist with the investigation but relented after her husband volunteered to take the boys out and bring them home.
Deadwood Hollow was a maze of trails worn over the years by students in the athletic programs and citizens who preferred to jog on dirt rather than concrete. The trails themselves were maintained by the City of Arcadia who owned this sixty acre section of woodland. Beyond the boundaries of each path, however, the woods closed in quickly. The space between the tall pines, massive oaks, elms, and the occasional willow were almost impassible due to thick brush growth. During the day, the Hollow was too busy to tolerate much nefarious activity, but at night, drug dealers and their clients were known to frequent the area to exchange cash and product.
It was almost twelve-thirty and the boys were using fresh flashlights provided by Kado to scan the brush beside the narrow path, looking for spots crushed while they had searched for the missing cell phone. Up ahead, both lights stopped moving.
“Here,” the brother with the scraggly facial hair said.
Mark is the one with that sad beard, Cass remembered.
“Are you sure?” their father asked, shining his own flashlight off the trail.
Mark squatted and peered into the brush. “Yeah, I scratched my head on that honey locust tree when I was bent over looking for my phone. The one my idiot brother lost,” he added, looking up at Matt who opened his mouth to protest.
“Tell us how it happened,” Kado interrupted, handing his forensic case to one of the officers and crouching to look farther along the path.
“I was over here,” Mark said, pointing down into the shadows.
“And I was over here,” Matt added, pushing aside brush on the opposite side of the trail. “We were looking for the phone when there were two shots.”
“How close together?”
The boys looked at each other. “Seconds,” Matt answered. “Four, maybe five.”
Mark nodded.
“And then?” Kado asked.
“And then we ducked our happy asses –”
“Mark,” Robert Grove warned.
“– down in the brush. I laid flat but was looking up at the trail.”
“I was looking that way,” Matt added, pointing deeper into Deadwood Hollow. “I saw him coming.”
“What did you see?” Cass asked.
“This dude. He was carrying a rifle, like this.” Matt crossed his arms as if to hold a baby. “He wore dark clothes, maybe a track suit, maybe jeans and a hoodie. His hood was up and I barely got a glimpse of his face.”
“Eyes, nose?”
“Chin and neck.”
“How do you know it was a guy?”
Matt tilted his head to one side. “Adam’s apple. And he had broad shoulders and narrow hips, like a guy. But it could’ve been a butch chick with no boobs.”
“Matt,” Robert Grove growled.
“Sorry, ma’am. Breasts.”
Cass hid a grin. “Did he have a beard?”
“There was nothing obvious like a full beard, goatee, chin puff, or curtain. But he could’ve had a chinstache or soul patch.”
“You are such a dweeb,” Mark muttered.
Kado cleared his throat. “How do you know so much about beards?”
“I did some research before I grew mine. It was too itchy, so I shaved it off.”
“Thorough. Did you notice anything else about the guy?”
“His hands were really white.”
Kado held his hands out and motioned for Cass, Robert, and the two officers to do the same.
Matt and Mark squinted. Mark pointed at Cass’s hands and those of a fair skinned officer. “Dad’s hands and the other officer’s are too hairy, and your skin is darker than his.”
“Good. You said you were looking up, Mark. What did you see?”
“Same thing as Matt. Tall dude, dark clothes and shoes, rifle in his arms, almost no skin except his chin and hands.”
“How do you know he was tall?”
Mark shrugged. “He looked tall, but not as tall as us.”
“You’re what, six foot five or six?”
“Five.”
Kado looked at Cass and asked a question with his eyes. She coughed a small laugh and said, “We need to know.”
“Let’s try something,” Kado said, turning to Mark. “Get down in the brush, where you were.”
Mark’s mouth fell open. “You’re kidding, right? There are brambles down there, not to mention a honey locust tree, mosquitoes, and probably ticks.”
“Stop whining, you weenie,” Matt said. “We could catch a killer.”
Mark continued grumbling but folded his long frame in on itself and slipped down the side of the trail, scooting deeper until he found the right position. He craned his neck to look up at the group. “Now what?”
“Twist your head at the same angle you held it when the shooter ran past.” Kado had Matt, Robert, Cass, and each officer stand where Mark could see them. “Anybody the right height?”
“Dad is close. Maybe a little taller than the killer.”
Kado turned to Robert Grove. “How tall are you?”
“Six foot one.”
Mark started to crawl to the path but stopped, groped deeper in the brush, and gave a triumphant yelp as he held up a cell phone. “Found it.”
“O brother of mine,” Matt said as Mark brushed debris from his track suit. “You rock.”
“And you owe me,” Mark stated. He turned to Kado. “That’ll help you catch him?”
“It will,” Kado said. “I know it’s late, but thanks for coming. Can you get back to the cars by yourselves?”
Robert Grove held up his flashlight. “As long as we can keep these. I’ll drop them by the courthouse tomorrow, if that’s all right.”
“Perfect. Would you bring the boy’s shoes with you? We need them for exclusion purposes.”
“No problem. We’ll stop by before school.”
“School? Seriously? Come on Dad, it’s past midnight. Matt needs his beauty sleep.”
“So do you, Mark, but you’ll both be in school by eight.”
The three Grove men started through the woods, the boys arguing quietly.
“That’s another dollar for the cuss bucket.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You said ‘ass’.”
“Ten second rule.”
“There’s no time limit on the cuss bucket.”
“I found the phone. So now we have a time limit. Dig?”
CHAPTER 16
THE MIDNIGHT SKY WAS free of clouds and the pale moon shimmered in a velvety sky sprinkled with bright stars. The shooter parked on the tiny dirt road and sat in the truck, watching the dark house across a freshly planted field and keeping an eye on the silent road. When nothing changed – no lights, no vehicles – he slipped on his shooting glove and grabbed his rifle, closed the driver’s door with a soft click, and walked beneath the moonlight across the field.
The expansive farmland around the house was owned by one of Forney County’s wealthiest families and worked by a crew of Hispanics. Illegal, no doubt. At night, the fields were vacant except for the silent husks of the tractors used to plow, spray, and harvest during the day. The hills and furrows in the freshly planted field slowed him, as did the slippery clay that caked his shoes. No matter. He would dispose of them later and no one in Forney County would look twice at a muddy pair of old boots. He stepped over a low stone wall and into her backyard. It was covered in thick St. Augustine that needed mowing. He scraped the muck from his boots, and then crept toward the house.
If her nighttime routine remained consistent with what he had observed over the last few weeks, she would be sound asleep in the master bedroom at the rear of the house. Her bed was a massive four poster with a pale headboard that looked as if it were covered in fabric. She slept propped up on pillows, almost in a sitting position, which he found unusual. Her bed faced uncurtained floor-to-ceiling windows and as he eased closer, he realized that the moonlight had penetrated deeply enough into the room to illuminate her doll-like form. This was easier than he’d dare hope.
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