by James Hunt
She tilted her head away from the joyous sight, and when her eyes fell onto Grant’s, that smile she wore faded.
“We need to talk.”
Sam nodded and then quietly led Grant out of the room and into the viewing side of the one-way glass. The humming of the halogen lights was a far cry from the laughter and happiness next door. “What is it?”
“What was your team looking for at the Dunny house?” Grant asked.
The bluntness of the question threw her off guard, and Grant watched Sam’s hardened exterior crack for only a minute. Once it passed, she crossed her arms.
“You’re not involved in this investigation,” Sam answered.
Grant pointed toward Anna and Bandit through the glass. “That little girl and her family lived down the street from me, and then she and her dog showed up hiding in my closet the morning after her family was abducted, all the while supposedly under your protection.” Grant shifted his finger toward her. “I’m as involved in this investigation as you are.”
“You know, I read up on your file,” Sam said. “You had the most commendations and the highest success rate for cases in the history of the Seattle PD, maybe even the country. And that trafficking ring you exposed helped free hundreds of women and children that had been forced into slavery and prostitution.” She took a step closer. “And I also read how your actions led to the deaths of over a dozen women during that investigation and nearly got your partner killed. So maybe you should tell me why I should let a former detective whose irresponsible behavior nearly got everyone around him killed be a part of my investigation?”
Grant remained quiet for a moment and then fished the glove out of his pocket. “Because I found something your people missed.”
Sam regarded the glove, which dangled between them, and shrugged. “What is it?”
“A cufflink,” Grant answered, handing over the piece of evidence. “Twenty-four-caret gold, slightly worn. I’m betting you could pull a print off of it.”
Sam worked the cufflink to the glove’s hole. “We’ve already identified the attackers.” She examined the gold beneath the white light.
“You identified the attackers based on a five-year-old’s two-day-old memory,” Grant said. “At the very least, you can use the print on there to confirm that it belonged to one of the suspects you’ve identified. She might not have seen someone else that showed up.”
“Maybe,” Sam said, frowning as she examined the cufflink in a better patch of light.
“Look familiar?”
Sam shook her head, dropping the cufflink back into the glove and then setting it on a nearby table. “I appreciate your help and your concern, but what we’re dealing with here goes beyond your capacity.”
The door opened, and Hickem walked inside, stopping abruptly at the sight of Grant. “Didn’t think you’d stick around.”
“He was just on his way out,” Sam said.
Hickem passed a folder toward Sam, his eyes on the glove on the table. “The report on our suspects. We’ve already put out an APB, and the men that Anna identified have worked themselves to the top of the FBI’s most wanted list.” He reached for the glove. “What’s this?”
“Our PI broke into the Dunny house,” Sam answered. “Found something we missed.”
Hickem laughed, shaking his head. “You just never know when to quit, do you, Grant?” He worked the cufflink up to the glove’s opening, and when the gold protruded from the robin’s-egg-blue latex, Hickem frowned, staring at the cufflink with an expression of surprise.
Grant watched the microexpressions flash across Hickem’s face. They only lasted for a half second but were noticeable.
Hickem dropped the cufflink back to the bottom of the glove and then set it on the table. He cleared his throat, the playfulness from before gone. “We’ll be in touch, Grant.” And without another word, Hickem left, a hastened pace to his steps.
“He thinks highly of you,” Sam said.
Grant turned around, finding another crack in that practiced, hardened exterior gone.
“You know, whenever I hear people bring up your name, it’s like they’re talking about a ghost,” Sam said, giving Grant a look up and down then finally settling on his eyes. Her pupils dilated for only a moment before she broke away. “Thank you again.”
“If you need anything, give me a call.” They shook hands, their touch lingering until a harsh yap from Bandit broke them apart. “Tell her goodbye for me?”
“I will,” Sam said.
Hands in his pockets, Grant walked out to his car, forcing his head to remain on the path in front of him. But he kept hearing Mocks’s voice, yelling at him to turn around and ask for her number. He didn’t deny the connection and the spark that he felt, but now wasn’t the right time to ask.
Grant’s rust bucket was one of only a handful of cars left in the parking lot, and the Buick sat isolated as he fished out his keys. He sat in his car for a moment, staring at the building. A few windows still had lights on, which totaled the same as the number of cars that were still in the parking lot. He checked his watch, finding that it was ten thirty, which would put Grant back at his house somewhere around one o’clock in the morning.
With a heavy sigh, Grant put the keys in the ignition and then cranked it, and instead of the sputtering sounds of life heaving into the engine, there was only the dead click of the keys turning. Grant shut his eyes, shaking his head. He tried three more times, but each effort only ended with the same click.
Grant popped the hood and used the light on his cell phone to examine the engine. He thought it might be the starter, but he couldn’t be sure without taking it apart. And he didn’t have the tools to try.
With only a single bar of service, Grant searched for a local towing company and found one that would be there in less than an hour. They would drop it off at a local shop where they could fix it in the morning. He thanked them for their help and then returned to his car and sat down.
Stranded, he thought about calling Mocks, asking her to come and pick him up, but he wasn’t in the mood to explain why he was here so late. He went so far as to pull up her number, his thumb hovering over the call button, but then he exited out of his contacts list and shoveled the phone into his pocket. She’d told him to lay off the investigation. He knew she was right. She usually was, despite his chagrin.
A few more employees walked out of the building, getting in their cars and leaving, but not before giving Grant the stink-eye. Grant just smiled and waved, and by the time the tow truck arrived, there were only two other cars left in the lot.
“You’re the one needing the tow?” A skinny man hopped from the cab of the truck, a Mariners cap pushed halfway up his head, exposing a forehead that was smeared with black grease.
Grant looked around, finding himself alone in the parking lot. “Yeah. I’m the one.”
“Okay, let me get hooked up, and we’ll get you out of here.” He disappeared back into the truck cab, and a rhythmic beep sounded as he lined up the wrecker with his broken-down car.
“Trouble?”
Grant turned around and found one of Hickem’s men behind him. It was the same agent that was at Grant’s door when he walked away. He was dressed in the same dark suit and tie, though the earpiece was gone.
“A little,” Grant said.
“Matt Kover.” The agent extended his hand, and when Grant grabbed hold, it was as if his bones were being squeezed by a motorized vise. “I heard you brought the girl’s dog back.” He smiled, releasing Grant’s hand. “I bet the marshals are going to love having that mongrel around.”
Grant flexed his fingers, letting the blood flow return to his appendage. “Can’t be worse than dealing with the FBI.”
“Grant!” Hickem said, yelling from the steps on his way over. “Why are you still sticking around here?”
“Car trouble,” Matt said.
“You need a ride?” Hickem asked.
“No, I’ll manage,” Grant answered.
“Don’t be stubborn.” Hickem nudged Matt with this elbow, knocking him forward a step. “Take him where he needs to go.” Hickem flipped his keys around his fingers and walked toward his car. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Once Hickem was out of earshot, Grant leaned over to Matt as the tow-trucker hooked up his car and started pulling it forward on the platform. “It’s fine. You can just leave.”
“And risk getting an earful from him in the morning?” Matt asked. “No, thanks. I’ll pull my car over. Just figure out where I need to drop you off.”
Before Grant could protest, Matt was gone, and the trucker was already handing over a clipboard with some paperwork for him to sign. The trucker then gave Grant a card for the name of the auto shop where he was dropping the vehicle off. Grant fished out his phone and decided to call Mocks to stay at her place for the night. With his expenses starting to add up, he wasn’t sure he had any money left on his credit card for a hotel.
8
Grant sat low in the bucket seats of Matt’s BMW, and while he knew the model he was currently riding in could hit zero to sixty in six seconds, he was pretty sure they didn’t go above fifty, even when they got on the highway.
“So how long were you a detective?” Matt asked, left hand on the wheel as he leaned onto the central console, his tone as casual as his stance.
“Ten as a detective, fifteen in law enforcement,” Grant answered, trying to get comfortable in the sports-car-style seats. They’d been driving for less than ten minutes, and his ass was already numb.
“Is it true you had the highest recovery rate of any detective with missing persons?” Matt cast him a side eye, his expression skeptical.
“It’s true.”
Headlights flashed behind them, and Grant grimaced from the light. The car sped up on their right side, giving a quick honk and an angry glare from the driver as he passed.
“Yeah, fuck you too, buddy!” Matt leaned forward in his seat then slammed back, shifting in annoyance. “God, sometimes I wish we could skirt around the law, you know what I mean?” He nudged Grant’s arm. “I mean that guy has no idea who we are.” He shook his head. “We could do whatever we want and just cover it up.”
Grant kept quiet, a light twitch in his jaw muscle. The past two days had caught up with him, and he was irritable.
“I bet it felt good to go rogue when you did it, huh?”
Grant pumped his hand into a fist and fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat. “That’s not what I would call it.”
“No?” Matt asked, a mockingly surprised tone in his voice. He smiled, a slow chuckle rolling off his tongue. “You know, you remind me of some of the guys I went through the academy with. Straight-laced, hard motherfuckers. Didn’t talk much, but then they were always men of action.”
“Enjoy the showers too?” Grant tossed a glare toward the young buck to match his tone.
Matt threw up his hand. “Sorry, didn’t mean to get you all riled up. Just trying to make conversation.”
Another car passed, and the headlights shone through their car windows, and Grant saw a shimmer of gold to his left. He turned at the sight, squinting, but didn’t see it until the car passed. It was on the sleeve of Matt’s arm. It was a gold cufflink.
Grant quickly cast his eyes in front of him and straightened out in his seat. He would have taken his seat belt off to make him more mobile, but he didn’t want to make the FBI agent jumpy.
Matt flicked his turn signal, turning off the highway. “I just have to stop and get gas.” He kept his attention focused on the turn. “Shouldn’t take long.”
“Yeah,” Grant said, getting a quick eyeful of the quarter tank that was showing on the indicator. “No problem.”
The exit turned into a less-populated area on Seattle’s northeast side. It had the reputation for housing drug dealers, pimps, and other unsavory characters. He’d visited a few times during his beat with Mocks.
Hundreds of thoughts sped through Grant’s mind as Matt turned off the main road and down a two-lane stretch. Abandoned warehouses and storefronts lined both sides of the road. Even the streetlights had burned out.
The cufflinks could just be a coincidence, and Grant wasn’t even sure if it was the same shape and size. But the more glances he took, the more the pieces fell into place. Matt kept a limp grip with this left hand, and as Grant retraced their interaction in the parking lot, he noticed that he didn’t move the arm much. Which could mean it was injured.
“God, you could dump a body out here, right?” Matt laughed, exposing those pointed canines, which offered an even more sinister feel than before. And the longer the pair held their gaze, Grant noticed that while Matt kept the smile plastered to his face, the laughter was removed from his eyes. They were focused. They were alert.
The car slowed, and Grant tensed, unsure of how quickly he could move, unsure if he could overpower the young agent. The car stopped. The engine idled. Matt kept his left hand on the wheel, and when he turned to face Grant, Grant got a good look at the .45 tucked beneath his jacket.
“I was told that you found something of mine,” Matt said.
Grant remained still, his eyes locked onto Matt’s gaze. “The average pull time from holster to hand and into a firing position for a federal agent is less than a second. It’ll only take me half a second to stop you.”
The skin around Matt’s mouth creased as he smiled. “You older guys sure are full of yourself. I bet you even thought you had a chance with her, but let me tell you from experience.” The leather seat groaned as he tilted a half-inch forward. “She’s not worth the time.”
Anger twitched Grant’s lip upward, the snarl almost as quick as Matt’s hand as he reached for the pistol. Grant lunged, still strapped in his seat belt. Matt was already unbuckled.
With his left hand, Grant caught Matt’s right elbow before he could completely remove the pistol, and then thrust his fist toward his throat, which missed when Matt lunged forward, slamming his body against the steering wheel.
Matt’s foot came off the brake, and the car rolled forward, Matt and Grant locked in close combat. But any time Grant tried to lunge forward, the seat belt pinned him back. But he had enough reach to keep himself close enough to force Matt to forgo the weapon, but the freed hand threw two quick jabs to Grant’s nose, and a bright flash blinded him, and then he tasted blood.
Matt’s hands gripped his throat and pinned him up against the window of the passenger-side door. The car was still in drive, and with Matt’s foot off the brake, it slowly rolled forward.
With his left hand free, Grant fumbled for the seat belt. His fingers prodded for the button to release him, but with the life being choked from him, he couldn’t find it. He pressed his fingers down wildly, and just before he was about to pass out, he felt the button.
One click, and the belt loosened, freeing up Grant’s mobility. He reached for the door handle and rolled out of the car and smacked hard onto the asphalt, with Matt dangling over the seats.
Grant thrust the heel of his boot into Matt’s chin, the contact eliciting a crack and whipping Matt’s head back. He scrambled to his hands and knees and sprinted from the still-rolling car.
“Come back here, you fucker!”
Grant beelined it for the nearest alley, and just before he ducked down the dark path, a gunshot shattered glass to his left. He jumped at the noise but didn’t slow his pace.
Grant skidded to a stop once he was behind the building, and looked for anything he could use as a weapon but found an exit instead. The back door to the building was unlocked, and he ducked inside to hide.
Darkness greeted Grant upon entry, and he moved carefully and quietly over a floor littered with broken glass, tools, and discarded boxes. Through the dirty front windows of the building, he saw the car had stopped, left parked in the middle of the street.
Matt’s footsteps echoed down the same alley, and Grant gently leaned against the wall, trying to hear what the FBI agent would
do. Muttered curses drifted through the back door, and Grant remained quiet and still, hoping he’d managed to give the bastard the slip.
But to Grant’s displeasure, the back door of the building groaned as it was slowly opened, and he quickly ducked behind a stack of chairs and tables as moonlight flooded inside.
One step. Then another. The agent kept close to the exit, waiting for movement, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.
Grant’s vision had already started to make out the objects inside more clearly, and he scanned the floor and found the sharpest shard of glass that he could get his hands on.
Three more steps brought the agent deeper inside, their rhythm more purposeful than when he first entered. But aside from the steps, the agent was silent. He was well trained. Good ol’ Matt the Rat who sold the family out to the people that were after them. The only question left to answer was why. What was in it for him? Money? Power? Revenge?
The footsteps ended, and the room grew so silent that Grant thought the hammer of his heart would give his position away. The silence lingered, stretching ten, twenty, forty seconds. Grant fought the impulse to move, to check, to give any sign that he was in the room. It was a waiting game for the rat now, and when the silence passed to well over a minute, Grant knew the rat was well practiced.
Another footstep, and Grant felt himself release a breath, which he quickly ended as another footstep sounded even closer. His body was coiled, his hand gripped around the serrated edge of the broken glass, poised to strike. Another step, and the sole of Matt’s shoe scraped gently across the cement floor. He was close, probably on the other side of the stacked chairs. Grant would only get one shot at him before the bullets started flying. He had to make it count.
Silence.
It lingered like before, Grant not breathing, the world still and motionless. And then it happened all at once.
The chairs crashed down over Grant, steel legs and wooden seats cracking against his arms, shoulders, and back. But despite the avalanche of furniture, Grant kept his eyes locked on Matt’s movement as he spun around the chairs, leading with the pistol in his hand.