by Rick Murcer
Braxton nodded, deep in thought.
Josh took another file from his stack. “This next file concerns our cyanide lady who now has a name—Janice Rhodes. The guys in the tech department were able to match up her picture with a secured Army database. Sorry, Manny. We just got that info.”
Manny raised his eyebrows. “What else?” he asked, alert. “Who is she?”
“We’re still digging. And that’s where Braxton comes in. Give him what you have.”
Taking the tracking device out of his pocket, Manny slid it across the table. “We don’t know how this ended up under the bumper of one of our SUVs. We want to know who, how, why, and when.”
Turning the oblong box over in his fingers, Braxton raised his eyebrows. “This is expensive so it wasn’t bein’ done half-assed, ya know. You already send in the serial number?”
“We did,” answered Josh.
“Let me know what you find, but I might dig up something sooner,” said Braxton, standing.
Manny noticed his accent had almost vanished again. Just like in Puerto Rico. One of these days, he’d have to ask him why that happened.
“You sound like you know something,” said Manny.
Braxton’s laugh was more like a roar. “Was it my face or my voice dat gave me away?”
The accent was back. Curious.
“Both,” said Manny.
“I’d love to stay and hear about dis other ting, but let me see what I can do with dese other problems.”
Then he was gone, the only sound was the creaking of the floor as he left the room.
“Thank you for indulging us those few minutes,” said Josh, swiveling back to the captain.
“No problem here, it could be a long night anyway. This is your show. Where do you want to start?”
Tanner looked down to his ringing phone by the legal pad and box of ballpoint pins.
“Shit. I need to take this.”
The captain’s face never changed expression only Manny noticed the color partially drain from his leathered face. He felt his stomach turn upside down.
“I got it. We’ll get some people out there shortly.”
Tanner hung up.
“Remember what I said about a long night? It just got longer.”
“Another victim?” asked Manny.
“Yes. In an old hotel off Oleander.”
“We need to get out there. We can meet after we process the scene,” said Alex as he, Dean, and Dana stood in unison.
Tanner nodded, then hesitated, his face not really recovering from the news the call had brought.
“What?” said Josh.
“It seems she’s thrown another twist into her . . . vocation.”
CHAPTER-32
Reaching across the table in the semi-darkness, Chloe grabbed Jen’s arm. “I want ya to hide under the table and do it now, Lass.”
“O-okay, Chloe. I’m there,” her voice strained, but steady. Just like her old man.
She heard Jen push the chair back along the hardwood floor and scramble under the end of the long oak table nearest the wall.
“What the hell is going on?” demanded Gavin.
She heard leather and metal make love and knew Gavin had pulled his weapon.
“I don’t know, but I didn’t leave my paranoia at the altar,” she answered. Her fierceness surprising her.
Stretching down to her ankle, she pulled her black-handled Smith and Wesson .22. She moved quickly to the front of the house where Sampson was now standing erect, growling in a low guttural quiver that raised the hair on the back of her neck.
“Gavin. Go to the back and see if you can see anything out the patio door. Stay low.”
“Got it. You do the same.”
She heard him drop to his knees and grunt in protest. As he shuffled on hands and knees to the rear of the house, she heard him mutter. “I’m getting way too old for this shit.”
His comment was accompanied by a giggle from Jen. Despite the unknown, the girl had found a light in their situation. Another lesson Chloe could learn.
Reaching the front window, she pulled Sampson away from the silhouetted shadows straining through the large pane. He came grudgingly, but he did move, then sat directly between her and the window, protecting her from getting closer to the shouting that was now more like a chorus as three separate voices were talking and yelling at once.
Chloe had never had a dog in her life. She’d not had time to take care of one when she was young and never mind that option when she’d joined the Bureau. Living out of a small one-bedroom apartment in DC, and being on assignment for weeks on end, was hardly conducive to pet-rearing. But watching Sampson—better yet, feeling what the Big Dog was about—told her she’d missed something.
She stroked him on the neck and bent to his ear. “Stay, Sampson. I’ve got to check this out,” she said.
Sampson grabbed her hand with his mouth and held firmly, then released it, licked it, and sat still. She could feel his gaze. If she didn’t know better, she was sure he was telling her to be careful.
“I will. Now go to Jen.”
The black Lab hesitated, then slunk into the other room. His actions caused her to go from unsettled to grateful back to unsettled. She knew he’d die protecting Jen, but Chloe had no idea what was happening. That wasn’t helped by the abrupt silence surrounding the outside of her home.
Gathering a breath, then releasing it slowly, she turned the brass knob and pulled the door with painstaking deliberation until it reached about a third of the way open. Chloe dropped down to one knee and edged closer to the storm door’s cold glass and peered through, squinting to see anything. Motion, light, heavy breathing, footsteps, anything at all. It appeared that the front lawn, devoid of snow and still on the ugly side of winter brown, was as quiet as a church on Monday morning.
Just as she reached for the latch to open the outside door, a strong, rough hand grabbed her shoulder and pulled her to the seat of her pants. Panic rose as she tried to bring her weapon around, then it dissipated as she heard the gruff hiss.
“What the hell you doing, Agent? Going out that door alone ain’t no procedure any cop ever learned from any training I’ve seen or done. You don’t go out that door without backup. Got it?”
Gavin’s voice sounded more like a parent that a police commissioner and he was right, usually.
“I know, but you’re supposed to be watching the back and Jen won’t be coming with me just yet, don’t ya know?” she answered softly.
“I can’t see shit out there, and the door’s got a double lock. Besides, I gave her my backup revolver.”
Chloe wanted to respond to the idea of a seventeen-year-old having a loaded .38 in her hand but the shouting had begun again, and this time, she felt like she could reach out and touch the man who had just yelled. She snapped her head around and saw three shadows enter the yard from the west side of the house. Two were a step behind the third, all running full bore, and yelling for the third figure to stop. Chloe switched on the porch light just in time to see the chasers pounce on the third, sending the three into a tangled heap of arms and legs in the cold, wet grass.
“Get the hell off me, ya buffoons,” came the stern order from the person on the bottom of the heap.
Standing, her mouth open with the utter shock of hearing that voice, Chloe ran out the door and reached the three just as the two blues were bringing the intruder to an upright, sitting position. Then they jerked the last person in the world Chloe expected to see on this side of the planet, let alone in her front yard, to a full standing posture.
“Wha-what the hell is going on? What are ya doing here? You’re supposed to be—”
The fiery eyes of the intruder caused her to stop.
“Now where else on God’s green earth would I be? And that’s the worst damn greetin’ I ever got.”
Then Haley Rose Franson broke loose from the two cops and wrapped her daughter in her strong arms.
CHAPTER-33
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nbsp; “Ya can lock the door now darlin’. We ain’t getting no more customers today and I don’t want none either, not after eight o’clock,” urged J.R., pointing at Lily with the greasy black spatula that must have been a hundred years old. “And I appreciate you coming back in at four to help out. I’m gonna fire that other wench for callin’ in sick two of the last four days.”
He didn’t have to tell her twice. It had been a long afternoon and not just because of the busy schedule but because of the fire that was now burning bright inside her. It had only been a little more than six hours since she’d left the Scarecrow Man in that hotel room. He’d gone from the delusion that he was in control to the reality that everyone comes to grips with eventually; he was going to die, and die he did. But now she wanted more, more of what made her feel truly alive. That desire was going to be fulfilled because she had already picked out her next lover. In a couple of hours, he’d answer the door and they’d play. She closed her eyes as her heart jumped in her chest. This must be what kids experienced before opening gifts on Christmas morning. That incomprehensible excitement was something she’d never understood, until now.
“You daydreamin', Lily? If ya are, do it on your own damn time. I’m fixing to get out of here and I can’t leave some rookie-ass waitress to close up.”
“Yep. Daydreaming about what happens when I get out of here—and when you’ll treat me like an adult, you old bastard.”
The quick, genuine smile left his gray-stubbled face as fast as it had come, replaced by the constant frown of an universal ex-military man who’d grown to old-fart status.
“Watch who in the hell you’re calling an old bastard. I can still kick your round ass, and you ain’t earned no damn adult status in this here establishment. You work hard enough and that hitch in your cute little get-along has gotten better since ya started, ‘cept that don’t mean shit.”
“Really? What the hell does that mean? Earning adult status, I mean. Particularly in a greasy diner in a sleepy beach town like Kure Beach.”
“It can mean a lot of things, smartass, but the main meanin’ here has to do with you stayin. You ain’t been workin’ in this old diner long enough for me to count on ya lockin up and such.”
Cocking her head, she stared at J.R. He was far more in tune with her than she’d suspected. She’d have to be more careful. Of course, she couldn’t stay here forever. She was taken up with her new-found passion, but she wasn’t stupid. She would be a moron to think that Aphrodite wouldn’t eventually be caught, if she didn’t watch her Ps and Qs, that is. If she’d learned anything from her dad’s upbringing, it was that complacency breeds mistakes, and mistakes will paint one into an inescapable corner. She understood murder. She understood that people who did what she did, no matter the reason, were high on law enforcement agencies’ catch-them lists. In fact, she was surprised she hadn’t seen any real rumblings regarding her new hobby, especially given what Carl’s wife did for a living.
“I never said I was staying until I could draw social security, but I’m not walking out the door tonight, either.”
J.R. looked to the floor, scratched his crotch, and looked back at her. “No, I reckon you didn’t say either one of those things. I was just kind of hoping . . . well, hope, sometimes, is like water: you can hold it in your hand for a while, but unless ya put it someplace better, it’ll go right through your fingers.”
“Wow, now you’re turning philosopher, or something. You needed a waitress, I needed a job. We both got that, right?”
“Yep, we did.”
J.R. Saylor stood a little straighter and then hobbled to the kitchen to finish his routine while she finished hers, wiping down tables and sweeping the floor.
Fifteen minutes later, she stood at the door, waiting for him to walk out with her, which was his take on protective chivalry. If he only knew who really needed the protection. But still, she was struck with a certain appreciation for him. Lily frowned. It was odd to admit that. She shook it off as “taught” behavior.
Finally, J.R. emerged from the kitchen, his smartphone stuck between his chin and ear, listening. J.R. wasn’t one of the older generations that fought the inevitable embrace of technology; in fact, he’d shown her a thing or two about her own phone.
He was reaching to put his other arm in his teal windbreaker, then he stopped and grabbed the phone with his hand.
“Y’all sure? I mean you’d better be if yer calling me with that sort of junk. That kind of news ain’t no damn game. Now. Tell me that again.”
Lily sensed his tension ascend as she waited for her boss to hear the repeated message. This time, his face turned a new shade of gray, and he let his arm drop to his side.
Not truly caring about his emotional state, but curious at what could turn a man’s face that color, she stepped close, acting out her best concerned countenance.
“What’s wrong, J.R.?”
Blinking glassy eyes, he suddenly appeared as though he bore the weight of the whole free world on his sloping shoulders.
“That was my cop friend from the New Hanover Sheriff’s Department,” he whispered. “You know that kid that comes in here that looks like a scarecrow, sorta?”
She nodded, feeling excitement grip her insides. Her newest escapade had gone public. Not that she cared, and the emotion J.R. was rolling through piqued her interest. She found his perceived misery a type of tonic.
There was more than one fruit to this tree.
“I waited on him a couple of days ago. So?” she answered with just the right amount of concern.
Shaking his head, J.R. spoke ever so quietly, his hands trembling as he gripped his phone. “His name is . . . was . . . Daryl Winters. They found him dead in a hotel room on the south end of Wilmington. He was my grand—my grandson.”
CHAPTER-34
Exiting the SUV, Manny ran his hand through his hair, shaking his head. The amount of overkill local law enforcement exhibited when discovering and, then consequently, arriving at a crime scene never ceased to amaze him. Six squad cars, lights flashing, fifteen blues, and various other CSU units, along with off-duty detectives, made the landscape in front of the Trundle Motel resemble a midway at the county fair. Granted, this killer, this woman, was as high profile as any single case that had hit North Carolina since Blackbeard the Pirate. Then again, it hadn’t been all that long ago that he’d been part of the local cop world, and he still possessed lingering recollections of being part of the same kind of circus.
“Damn. Where do I get the cotton candy?” asked Alex, moving up beside him.
“You don’t need no cotton candy, Dough Boy,” answered Sophie, winking.
“Maybe, but what I really don’t need is you winking at me. That’s the stuff that’ll send me back to therapy.”
“You can wink at me," said Dean, smiling.
“I don’t suppose we could concentrate on the crime scene, could we?” asked Manny, amused nonetheless.
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll grab that good-looking cop, Garcia, and we’ll do some door-to-door and get the other nine thousand cops organized. Meet you back at the room,” said Sophie.
“Good thinking. I’ll go with Alex and Dean and see what we can see. Josh said he’ll be along later, maybe. He wanted to talk to Tanner and Ginny about a couple of things to do with the other cases,” said Manny.
“She going to show up here?” asked Dean.
“No. I don’t think so. I think she’s had all of this that she can stand, except for catching the woman responsible for taking her husband out.”
“That’d be a hell of a way to see your husband for the last time,” said Alex, picking up his CSI kit from the concrete.
“Not to mention she has to be questioning how he became a victim,” said Manny, as they walked toward room sixteen.
“Oh shit. I hadn’t thought about that,” said Dean. “You mean maybe he was getting a little on the side?”
“Could be. In her own bed, no less. If it were me, I’d have too many fee
lings to sort out over a few days, or maybe even a few years, so I just wouldn’t. I’d run from them as fast as I could and find something else to think about. I believe that’s why she’s so willing to help. If she can focus on the details of what’s happening in these cases, she doesn’t have to dance with the emotions and possibilities.”
“Tough set of circumstances for her. Let’s see if we can help find what makes our Goddess of Love tick,” said Alex, rubber gloves in hand.
“Ah, boss? You gonna need both of those?” asked Dean.
Alex looked at the gloves and shook his head. “This is going to take some getting used to,” he smiled. “Snap this puppy on for me.”
Never hesitating, Dean pulled Alex’s glove over his good hand, then reached into his back pocket and pulled something out.
“What’s that?” asked Alex.
“I took the liberty of picking up some super-sized polyethylene gloves that fit over the black mitt you got covering your left hand. If that’s okay with you?”
Sophie gasped. “You’re kidding me. Well, Dough Boy, you got your wish. That’s the mother lode of rubber gloves. Don’t pee your pants.”
“Bite me, and don’t call me Dough Boy.” Alex turned his head, gave Dean a curious glance, and then broke into a grin that showed something in relation to the respect and friendship he and Dean were developing.