DISCONNECT (The Bening Files Book 2)

by Rachel Trautmiller

  A retired sergeant stepped forward and laid a folded American flag on the coffin's shiny surface. “Radio Blaney five-three. No answer Blaney five-three. Blaney five-three out of service. Gone, but not forgotten.”

  The pastor said a short prayer and then people started dispersing.

  “Eric,” she said.

  He turned toward her.

  “Get Jordan. Now.”

  His gaze flicked to McKenna and then back, understanding there. A few people had stopped to talk with Jordan. He shook each of his fellow pallbearer’s hands.

  “How are you doing?” She asked McKenna.

  “Fantastic.” Pain lined her face.

  Amanda guided her friend toward her husband with the pace of a snail. “Just don’t think about zoo animals and lady parts.”

  A half laugh-sob came from McKenna’s mouth. “You’re not helping.”

  Jordan turned as Eric reached him, his eyes connecting with his wife. Forgoing pleasantries, he was at McKenna's side in seconds. He scooped her into his arms before she could protest and headed toward his SUV parked inside the cemetery. Amanda hurried alongside them.

  “I could walk,” McKenna said against his neck as she held on.

  “Save it, Slick. How far apart are they?”

  “Six minutes.”

  Amanda opened the passenger door, set McKenna inside and pressed a kiss to her temple. “Hang in there, okay?”

  She nodded as he closed the door.

  Her friends were having a baby. One chapter of their lives over and another beginning. Swallowing back the tightness in her throat, she hugged Jordan. “Call me, okay?”

  An expression of concern covered his face as he held her at arm’s length. “You're not coming?”

  “This is your moment.”

  McKenna rolled down her window. “Get in the car already. Both of you.”

  Jordan ran around the front of the vehicle and got inside. She moved toward the rear passenger door, but stopped. Eric stood by, hands in his pockets and a foreign look on his face. A few weeks of little communication had turned a face she knew so well, into a stranger's.

  “Eric...”

  “You better get going. I'll catch up with you later.”

  Before she could say anything, he turned and walked from the cemetery.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  They were looking for a ghost.

  One week after Robinson and Amanda had gone to Home Depot and come up empty-handed, he wasn't any closer to new leads. Instead of visiting his niece or sister, or enjoying a date with a pretty woman, Robinson skimmed over Amanda’s file. Again. Director Stotts was convinced they were missing something.

  No kidding.

  He'd made it pretty clear earlier that morning, if Robinson didn't figure out what, he wouldn't like the consequences.

  It had taken all of his will to stop from pointing out the fact that he couldn't pull information from his rear end. Did he want another disastrous event to occur? No, but just because he wanted this guy caught, didn't mean they had an immediate door to bust down.

  The only thing he and Director Stotts agreed on was, you didn't blow up the stadium, break into people's homes and know the whereabouts of another person twenty-four-seven without being seen. Even with GPS tracking devices. Unless you and that person—a.k.a. Amanda—were the same.

  Robinson ran a hand through his hair. Somebody besides Renee and Willow Stanley had seen this guy or girl, they just didn't know it. Other than height, build and hair color, neither woman had described the same person. Or settled their gender debate.

  Renee’s encounter could likely be a random event.

  It didn’t help that no one at Home Depot could identify the man Renee had described. Since it had occurred almost three months ago, he wasn’t surprised. Which meant this guy wasn’t an actual employee or Renee was lying. The latter didn’t seem to fit.

  If there was a direct correlation between that guy and the person responsible for so many deaths, it meant he’d been planning everything for at least three months.

  Figure it out, Robinson. I expect better than this from you.

  The icing on the cake, was an undercover SBI agent working the whole series of events, from a different angle. Robinson had known better than to ask why he'd not been informed of the fact six months ago, when the op had begun. It meant there had been some type of warning.

  One, no one had been able to heed, for reasons he didn’t understand. Yet. Whatever it was, had led the SBI to approve the manpower, however small.

  So, the files on his desk had grown. He had nothing to show for his work, except tired eyes and a growling stomach. He flipped through the papers again. School records, college transcripts and academy scores didn't produce anything scandal-worthy.

  Amanda had grown up in the house her parents still lived in, within Byron-Hill Estates. Walter Nettles had married his college sweetheart, Eileen, in December of nineteen-seventy-two.

  Eight months later, in August, Amanda had arrived. She could have been early. Even so, the date of her conception could hardly be anything to care about. Not on such a large scale.

  He shuffled through everything, until he found her birth certificate. Amanda Jeanette Nettles. Born August twentieth, nineteen-seventy-three. Judge Nettles’ bold handwriting was clearly legible, but Eileen’s wasn’t. In fact, the only information, completely clear, on the entire thing was Amanda and Walter’s names, the date, and the hospital.

  Strange.

  He picked up his phone and dialed his contact in records administration, at the courthouse.

  “Well, well, well,” Ken Johnson said when he picked up the phone. “To what do I owe the pleasure of speaking to the great Agent Robinson? And at six-thirty at night, no less.”

  “You’re working late yourself, Ken.”

  “I was about to call it a night.” He could imagine the white-haired, robust man sitting at his desk, surrounded by pictures of family. “Haven’t seen your detective around here lately.”

  Robinson grabbed his pen and clicked it on and off. Then repeated the motion. Moron didn't do him justice. He'd almost spilled his guts to Amanda last week and only a shred of good sense had stopped him. Instead, he sounded like a babbling dope who'd had too much caffeine. He'd never been more thankful Amanda's sassiness had shown up, right on time. “She’s hardly mine, Ken.”

  He heard the squeak of what had to be the other man's chair. “What’d you do?”

  Robinson dropped his pen. It slid across his desk and over the edge, to the floor. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, the way I figure it, if you were on speaking terms, I’d be having this conversation with her, wouldn’t I? So, what’d you do?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. This was why he asked Amanda to handle this stuff in the first place. He didn’t have time for meddlesome seniors. The detective may ask questions, but usually got him the information without a lot of fuss.

  No, that wasn’t true. He just enjoyed all her little quirks. Right from the beginning, he’d enjoyed everything with her.

  A whistle came over the line. “That bad, huh?”

  “What? No.”

  “Well, here’s what you do,” he said as if Robinson hadn’t spoken. “There’s a great little shop on Tyron Street that sells the best flowers in town. Buy a couple dozen, take her out to dinner and apologize. Always worked with my wife.”

  “While I appreciate the advice—”

  “More than happy to give it. I’ve known that girl all her life. I remember the day they brought her home from the hospital. Never seen a happier couple or one that deserved it more. Eileen always hated that she couldn’t have children.”

  He sat up straighter. “You mean after they had Amanda?”

  “They kept the whole thing hush-hush. Barely finished those treatments when they brought Amanda home. But that’s a story for another time. What was it you needed?”

  A string of expletives ran through his mind. Did Amanda kn
ow that she wasn’t Eileen’s biological daughter? Did their perp know?

  He took a breath and blew it out. “I’d actually like to get a clearer copy of Amanda’s birth certificate.”

  Silence stretched the line thin. “This part of an official case?”

  “Strictly informational, at this point.”

  “Don’t suppose you could tell me if she were in trouble?”

  “Sorry, Ken, you know the rules.”

  “I could make you get a subpoena.” The other man’s voice came out in a protective snarl. Robinson couldn’t help but respect him for it.

  “You could. It would make her name a little more visible than I’d like.”

  More silence clogged the line. He’d lost his chance to do things the easy way. “The Nettles’ are like family to me. Amanda trusts you.”

  “She said that?”

  “Didn’t have to. You really think she’d work so much unpaid overtime for someone she didn’t trust or respect?” The creak of a chair came, again. “I’ll see what I can dig up and fax it over.”

  The line went dead before he could thank the other man.

  How was he supposed to tell Amanda? This had the potential to destroy all those happy memories she had. The ones he relived alongside her, whenever they came up in topic.

  This bad day was quickly moving south to worse, with a giant tornado making a wide path for him.

  The event map he'd been toying with since the morning he and Amanda had discovered the dud in his bathroom, stared at him from his computer screen. Nine names, including Amanda's, connected to lines, indicating which incident had happened after what event, in the last two and a half weeks.

  This guy hoped to facilitate every encounter with Amanda. That much was obvious. He was guiding her in a specific direction. In a game that had no clear rules.

  Amanda had stayed out of sight for a few days and nothing had gone amiss. One trip to his apartment had brought this guy right back into action. Same with her lunch with Beth.

  What did he want? Why had Amanda been targeted? Or was she merely a means to an end? Figuring out what made this guy tick, and just how long he'd had the detective in his sights, was the only key to solving this thing. Except, he didn't have answers to any of those questions. He'd come to a giant wall, blocking his progress.

  He rubbed his face, then clasped his hands behind his head. A picture of himself and Ariana sitting on his Harley Softail, sat on the corner of his desk. At the time, she’d been nine, a gleam in her eye as she held the motocross handlebars in her grip. He sat behind her, one booted foot beside the matte black paint, silver flake trim and gold-plated pipes. The Harley emblem sent a glare into the camera, but his initials, trimmed in matching gold, still stood out.

  Lilly had snapped the picture as Ariana had begged for a ride. And he’d said no because he knew how Lilly felt about motorcycles. If he’d known his favorite bike would end up a wrecked heap, two weeks later, he might have caved and given her the ride she desired.

  There had been no way to foresee his final ride on the beauty. After closing a case, with crimes spanning almost a decade, he’d jumped on and headed down the interstate. Reveled in the feel of the wind around him. The miles hadn’t mattered.

  He needed to clear his head of the images of twelve missing girls, found in a shallow grave and the massive manhunt that had followed. The governor’s niece had been among them, and had the whole thing gaining the spotlight quicker than normal.

  After those girls had been discovered, he and his team had spent forty-two days tracking down the serial killer. Days of little sleep, too much coffee and take out. The ride was to release all the stress he’d kept at bay. He hadn’t even told his girlfriend where he was going. He’d just gotten on his bike and hit the road.

  The flashing blue and red lights filled his mirrors. He looked at his speedometer. Eighty-five. Damn. After pulling to the side of the road, he kicked out his stand, removed his helmet and vest and set them alongside his bike. Then he dug out his license. Maybe he'd run into someone he knew and be able to avoid a ticket.

  The female officer emerged from her car, not one crease lining her uniform. Medium length, dark hair was tied at the nap of her neck. Confident steps ate up the path between her cruiser and where he sat, on his bike. Even in the unflattering slacks and button up, he could tell she had long legs that led to a trim waist.

  No doubt about it. His driving record and wallet were about to take a direct hit.

  Her gaze flicked to his helmet and vest. “License and registration, please.”

  The sun highlighted the color of her eyes, an aged scotch with tiny flecks of gold. Those eyes scanned over him and his bike, all business.

  “I'm carrying concealed. Left ankle.” He didn't move his hand toward the wallet in his back pocket. Didn't feel like getting shot by an overzealous rookie.

  “Got a permit?”

  “In my wallet.” He should have remembered to grab it with his license.

  “Alright.” Her right hand glided toward the service weapon on her hip, a slow and controlled movement he might not have noticed if he weren't in law enforcement, himself. “Go ahead. Let's have a look.”

  Okay, not a rookie.

  Just as slow, he dug out the items and handed them over.

  She glanced at them. “Any need to be going eighty-six in a sixty-five, Mr. Robinson?”

  A million smart-mouthed comments floated around in his brain. Like the fact that he hadn’t been paying attention to his speed. “Just enjoying the ride, Officer.”

  “Okay. Stay put.” She flicked a glance at him. “This will just take a moment.”

  A few minutes passed and then she returned, paperwork in hand.

  “That's a Harley Softail, right?”

  What? He laughed. “Um, yeah.”

  “Nice.” She handed back his things, along with her paperwork.

  When he glanced down, he expected to see a fine—a hefty one. Instead, he held a warning.

  A small smile lit up her face. “Slow it down. Don’t make me regret helping you protect that pristine driving record, Mr. Robinson.”

  Relief poured through him. “Thanks, Officer…” He glanced at her name badge. “Nettles.”

  She nodded and started walking away, but then stopped and looked over her shoulder. The motion seemed seductive, her cheeks pink from the sun. “Remember, slow down. Responding to motorcycle accidents are my least favorite part of the job.”

  Alright, not seductive.

  He should have left it at that, but couldn’t. “And your favorite?”

  “Anytime a routine traffic stop stays that way, is pretty good in my book.”

  Before he could come up with a response, the sound of squealing tires caught his attention. The piercing tone of metal on metal split the air, as a red Chevy Corsica scraped the edge of her cruiser and headed straight for them.

  He grabbed her around the waist, hauling them both into the ditch. The car swerved, tried to correct and ended up nose first in the guard rail, taking his bike along with it.

  Several cars veered into the other lane, to miss the new pile up. The faint squeal of brakes, a few cars behind them, echoed.

  “Damn,” she said. Then she looked at him. “You okay?”

  “So much for routine.” He released her and shook his head at the crumpled metal under the Chevy.

  “The bike's replaceable. You aren't.”

  The other driver opened his door. She quickly headed in his direction. “Dispatch, this is twenty-eight. I’ve got an eleven-seventy-nine on I-85. Requesting backup.”

  A knock sounded at Robinson’s door and brought him back to the present. Away from his very first meeting with Amanda. A crazy accident and a bike his insurance had totaled. The bike now resided at the bottom of a junk yard heap. He’d never replaced it.

  Jordan poked his head through the opening. “This a good time?”

  Robinson shifted in his seat. “What's up?”

  H
e stepped into the office and closed the door tight. “You know what time it is?”

  “Six-forty-five.”

  Jordan shook his head. “You’re gonna work yourself into the ground. Every day for the last two weeks, you’ve been here well past eight, Robinson.”

  “I'm leaving soon.” To follow up on few leads.

  The other man glanced at his trash bin and shook his head. “No take out boxes, either.”

  Irritation hummed up Robinson's spine. “Shouldn't you be at home with your wife and newborn baby?”

  “McKenna's parents are at the house, fussing over both of them.”

  “You're entitled to more than a few days of paternity leave.”

  “With what's going on, McKenna and I both agree I should be here.”

  Fine. He wasn't going to force the other man to take time off. “Did you come in here just to remind me to eat?”

  Hadn't he done the same thing to Amanda a week ago?

  Jordan's lips compressed and he squinted as if he couldn’t decide what to make of his boss. “Amanda’s like a sister to me, Robinson, so be straight with me. How much trouble is she in?”

  A definitive answer to that would be the highlight of his life right now. “We’ve got a job to do, Bening. If you can’t stay objective, I’ll be forced to find someone who can.” Even to his own ears, the words sounded harsher than they needed to, but he couldn’t pull them back.

  “You really want to talk about objectivity? I know you had a long conversation with the Director this morning. He's probably riding your backside like he does about everything. But this time you can't shake it off, can you?”

  Such an understatement. “Make your point.”

  “I heard you defending her. It's only a matter of time before he decides to take this out of our hands.”

  Robinson couldn't let that happen. The thought of someone else putting her through the ringer made his stomach heave.

  “This isn't just about Amanda. Something big is coming and there's going to be a lot of unnecessary deaths, if we don't stop this guy.” Robinson turned his monitor toward the other man.

  Jordan scanned it, but didn't say anything. Then he stepped around the desk and came to stand next to him. “Move out of the way a second.”