Ends and Beginnings
Riley Reid Mysteries #3
Jamie Garrett
PUBLISHED BY:
Wild Owl Press
Copyright © 2014 by Kids n More Pty Ltd – All Rights Reserved
jamiegarrett.com
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and locations portrayed in this book and the names herein are fictitious. Any similarity to or identification with the locations, names, characters or history of any person, product or entity is entirely coincidental and unintentional.
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Chapters
Prologue: The Funeral
Cracking
Dining with the Dead
Planning
Dinner with the Family
Sunny View
Roanoke
Q & A
The Second Man
Call from a Friend
Big Sandy
Abduction
The Way Home
Hard Truths
Valentine
A Beginning
About the Author
Prologue: The Funeral
Troy Reid had grown used to spending his nights in the back seat of his car. He’d been doing so for weeks. Ever since he and his late wife Dana were found, sleeping anywhere else would have been too risky.
It wasn’t that Troy was afraid of being caught. The second he ran from the Crescent Moon Motel, he knew his life was over. She died in that grungy room. All he wanted was to live and be free long enough to see her put to rest, six feet under the soil.
Troy had already said his goodbyes to his daughter. He may not have done it face- to- face or over the phone. But with a chain link fence and soccer field between them, he had whispered his apologies and hoped that her soul heard them.
The late August sun peeked through grey clouds and onto Troy’s unshaven face. It was enough to wake him. And it was a reminder of the reality that awaited him that day. He wasn’t eager to get started.
There was a rest stop on the George Washington Highway that was tolerant of commuters stopping for some rest. That was where Troy decided to stay the night. Now that morning had broken, he didn’t feel as safe.
Troy’s car was alone in the parking lot. He stood out. The last thing he wanted was to stand out. As soon as he cleaned up, he’d leave.
All the joints in Troy’s body were sore. His back was stiff. That was the price of sleeping in the back seat of a small vehicle. Upon emerging, he spent a minute stretching. Then he made his way towards the sole building of the rest area.
There weren’t many people there. A few janitors were mopping the floors and cleaning the bathrooms. Fast food employees prepared for the first customers of the day. The lady who sat behind the register at the newsstand counted the money inside. None of them paid any attention to the scruffy-looking fugitive.
Troy entered the rest area bathrooms. They smelled of urine and strong cleaning solutions. He emptied his bladder at one of the urinals, then went to the sinks.
Looking at himself in the mirror, Troy was disgusted. He didn’t see the unwashed sandy blonde hair or graying beard. No, he saw a coward. He saw something less than a man. What kind of wretch would leave his own wife to die and daughter an orphan?
When Troy was a boy, he never saw much of his father, but on his thirteenth birthday he gave him a straight razor. His father said it was a gift for a man. And men needed to shave.
Troy took out the straight razor he got from his father. It had a handle made of fake ivory and mahogany. No doubt his old man thought it looked elegant. In reality, it looked tacky and cheap. And the razor was dull.
The razor drew blood as Troy started to dry shave. His pain felt like a penance. He didn’t fool himself into thinking it was enough, but it was punishment. Luckily, no one was around to hear his winces and groans.
When he was done, Troy’s face was patch-worked with blood spotted pieces of tissue paper. Next, he washed his hair with the pink, generic industrial liquid soap he found next to the sink. It wasn’t ideal, but beggars can’t be choosers.
Cleaned up as well as could be expected, Troy exited the rest area building and went back to his car. His head was constantly turning, his eyes scanning the parking lot for any suspicious new arrivals. Anything or anyone could be a spy for Harlan Greene and the syndicate.
Once he felt that the coast was clear, Troy got in his car and drove away, towards Charleston, West Virginia. That’s where his wife was from. And there she would be buried in a couple of hours.
Troy chose to take the highways to Virginia’s sister state. It would be harder to tell if someone was following him, but it was the quickest route. Plus, if he was being followed, his car would be lost in the sea of commuters during the morning rush hour.
By the time Troy arrived in Charleston, the procession of cars had already started. His wife’s body was en route. All he had to do was find Ravenswood Cemetery, which was located on the outskirts of the capitol.
Troy parked across the street from Ravenswood. He watched as the last stragglers made their way through the cemetery gates. It was time.
Among all the attendees at Dana’s funeral, he recognized none. Even so, he intended to stay as far away as possible. In his car, he changed into the only suit he owned. It was bought on the cheap from a thrift store.
Dressed all in black, Troy got out of his car. He took nothing with him. It was clear to him that he’d never go back to the vehicle. In all likelihood, he’d be taken right there in the cemetery.
Troy heard thunder as he walked amongst the gravestones. Then came a light drizzle. They must’ve been an omen. And for the first time since he stole Harlan Greene’s money, he was regretful.
Ravenswood was a nice burial site. Landscapers kept the grass green and well trimmed. There were large oak trees strategically placed for shade. Troy stood under one of those oaks and looked on as his wife was lowered into the ground.
A priest started saying words that Troy couldn’t hear. From his distance, nothing occurring there was audible. Instead, he heard the peaceful sound of rain and wind against leaves. He took out and lit a cigarette.
The priest stopped talking, and people took turns
throwing flowers on the coffin. And that was it. His wife was officially dead and buried. There was a finality to it that made Troy a little sad.
Everyone has felt that animal-like instinct that tells you that somebody is behind you. You don’t have to hear or smell them. You feel them. And Troy experienced exactly that.
When Troy turned around, he saw two large men in black suits. Their arms were folded in front of them. Troy had never seen such fearsome white guys outside of prison. Under those finely pressed clothes were probably all manner of Aryan nation tattoos and other prison ink. There were probably a few scars from shanks or bullets peppered in.
Troy sighed. He had reached the end of the road. There was no getting away. Behind the two large men, he saw a black limousine. Only one person could’ve been inside.
People said that Troy Reid was the one man that Harlan Greene would come for himself. It wasn’t that fact Troy had stolen hundreds of thousands of dollars that made the crime lord obsessed with catching him. It was the disrespect that it showed. It made Harlan look weak. And that was unacceptable.
Neither of the suit-clad men had to say anything to Troy. He knew the score. Troy took one last look at his wife’s tomb. He threw down his cigarette and walked towards the men and Harlan’s limo.
One of the men opened up one of the back doors. A cloud of smoke came out and Troy went in. Once inside, he found himself sitting across from a man in his late forties. He had on a white suit with a black shirt underneath and a red tie. Both of his eyes were hidden by dark aviator sunglasses. The hair on his head was balding and brown. Up his neck and exposed hands were tattoos. And in his mouth was a cigar. Troy knew the man. It was Harlan Greene.
“Hello, Troy,” said Harlan. His voice was a mix of hardened sailor and an older black man, which was strange because he was Irish.
Troy nodded. “Harlan.”
“Do I really have to ask?”
“I don’t have it.”
Harlan laughed. He coughed violently, then instantly put back on a serious face. “Is that so? Well, where is it?”
Troy didn’t answer. Instead he shrugged.
“You don’t know where the seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars you stole from me is? For some reason, I don’t believe you. But since it’s your wife’s funeral and all, I’ll give you another chance to give me an answer I want to hear.” Harlan took off his sunglasses revealing cold, steely grey eyes. “Where is my money?”
Long before Harlan caught up with him, Troy had decided that he would take whatever punishment was coming his way. No matter how much he was tortured or threatened, he wouldn’t reveal where he had hidden the money. He wouldn’t let all he went through be for nothing.
“Like I said … I got no idea.” Troy swallowed hard after lying.
Harlan leaned forward and stared into Troy’s eyes. Then he took out his cigar and put it out against the side of Troy’s neck, inducing a string of loud expletives. The drug lord leaned back into his seat.
Troy touched the new burn on his neck. It was still raw and stung. That would just be the beginning of his torture. He knew there was a lot more on the way.
“Where is my money?”
Troy didn’t answer.
“Okay. Well, you stole from me, Troy. And I’m going to be paid back. If I can’t get it in cash, I’ll settle for flesh.” Harlan knocked on the window next to him.
The two large black-suited men opened the doors on either side of Troy. They sat down next to him, trapping the thief in the middle. Harlan told his chauffeur to start driving. And they left Ravenswood.
Cracking
Pastor Thomas Pritchard was being held at Fairfax County Prison, about an hour’s drive away from Stone Harbor. He had been charged with two counts of murder. As hard as Detective Sam Greyson tried to get him to confess to the arsons that exploded across the town months earlier, the pastor still professed his innocence, on setting the fires, at least. His trial was set for near the end of the year.
My name is Riley Reid and I am a private investigator. I own and run my own PI agency out of an abandoned store downtown. And I sat next to Sam in his car as he drove down to Fairfax County Prison on October 15.
We didn’t have long left before we got to the prison. We’d already been in the car for more than forty-five minutes. During our little trip, we discussed the particulars of Pastor Pritchard’s case. Neither of us could figure out if he was lying about not knowing who had set the fires, and who was behind the Stone Harbor drug ring.
Since the spring, it had become apparent that there was a substantial criminal enterprise running out of our small town. I stumbled upon it when I was hired by a grieving mother to find out what happened to her son. That case almost got me and my best friend, Lisa, killed, and it exposed a nearby rehabilitation center called Fresh Horizons as a drug smuggling operation.
Fresh Horizons had a scheme going on where they not only provided treatment for addicts, but also the very illicit substances they were slaves to. Sam and the Stone Harbor Police raided the place, seized large amounts of drugs and arrested staff members. None of them broke under interrogation.
Someone had to be behind the criminal activity at the rehabilitation facility. There had to be a money man. They would have to have connections that would give Fresh Horizon access to the drugs they ran. And that someone thought it was a good idea to send people to try and kill me.
First, they tried to take me out at the abandoned marina on the Rappahannock River. Then, they came to my offices armed and with faces covered by white plastic rabbit masks. Later, they’d tried to strangle me to death and run me off the road. Turns out I’m not that easy to kill.
Apparently, trying to kill me didn’t keep them busy enough. The mastermind behind the drug ring sent someone to burn any evidence. That summer, they started setting fires in and around Stone Harbor. They’d started with Sister Mary’s Church in town. Then the marina was burned down, followed by Fresh Horizons, and an attempt on Roxy Theatre. That was saved by Sam, but only just.
Between the attempted murders and arsons, the mystery got out of hand and dangerous. But I wasn’t worried. I was angry. And I wanted to know who was responsible. Ten miles away in a small concrete room was a man who might be able to provide Sam and me with answers.
“What if he doesn’t talk?” I asked, as I stared out the car window at the passing trees. They were bereft of leaves and instead stood as scraggily wooden skeletons.
“He will,” answered Sam, careful not to take his eyes off the road.
“But what if he doesn’t?”
“You can’t go in there with that attitude, Riley. You have to believe that he’ll break. He has to break. We’re quickly running out of leads.”
Sam was right about one thing. We were short on leads. If the pastor didn’t tell us something new, I had no idea how to proceed. Every other promising clue had led to nothing but dead ends.
The surrounding woods cleared out ahead. I could see buildings behind rows of chain link fence. On top of the fences was razor wire. Then we saw the sign that had an arrow that pointed forward. It read, “Fairfax County Prison.”
Fairfax County Prison was huge. There must’ve been a dozen miles of fence and wire around fields at least one hundred yards wide. Apart from guard towers and what look like some manner of storage shacks, there were three large, beige colored buildings. Each of them were connected by enclosed walkways.
Sam pulled up to a security booth near the only entrance in the fences. A large, red-faced man came out of it dressed in an olive colored uniform, clipboard in his hand and an M-16 assault rifle slung on his back. He walked up to the driver’s side as another security officer walked up to the passenger side.
The red-faced security guard motioned with his finger for Sam to roll down his window. Sam complied.
“State your business,” said the man with a heavy southern drawl.
“We’re here to visit a prisoner, Thomas Pritchard,” answered Sam.
The security guard checked his clipboard. Then he looked up at us. “Identification, please.”
Sam showed the man his badge. I rolled down my window and handed the guard on my side my driver’s license. He took it, looked down at it, then at me. In his shiny sunglasses, I could see my distorted reflection.
“Thank you, Detective,” said the security guard as he waved us through. The chain link fence sliding gate opened up. Sam slowly drove through.
As we got closer, I could see silhouettes in orange out in one of the yards. It must have been rec time for the prisoners. My heart rate accelerated. I was nervous. There was little risk that any of them could or would do me any harm during our visit. But nervousness isn’t always rational.
When we got to the main parking lot, the prisoners were gone. Instead, we were met with the sight of a goliath beige building. It had no personality or appealing design features. Clearly, it was built solely for function.
Half of the front of the main building had thick, tinted windows. Through them, you could see inside. There were staircases on both sides that led down from the fourth and top floor to the ground floor. We could also see various administrators in their offices.
Upon entering, Sam and I had to check in with the front desk. A prison guard dressed in dark blue escorted us down a long hallway with white walls and a scuffed up white linoleum floor. He was leading us to the visitor’s reception area.
In the reception area, there was an odd mix of people. There were mothers and fathers of prisoners. Other were girlfriends and wives. And there were even a few children.
Another prison guard came into the room and explained to us the rules and what was going to happen. There would be no passing of outside goods to prisoners. Everyone will be searched before going any further. Physical contact was strictly forbidden. Anyone who broke those rules would be immediately ejected.
Jamie Garrett - Riley Reid 03 - Ends and Beginnings Page 1