She told herself not to get her hopes up.
“Are you sure that this is him?” Riley asked the two cops, pointing to the picture.
Goodner shrugged.
“It sure looks like him to me,” he said.
Bryant tilted his head, looking less certain.
“Could be,” he said. “I remember him as having a bigger chin. Otherwise, it’s pretty close.”
“Pretty close,” Riley thought.
Those were words she’d rather not hear right now. But of course, sketches made from eyewitness accounts were seldom accurate portraits. They usually just provided a general idea of what to look for.
She walked toward the picture for a closer look. The truth was, this one wasn’t much of a sketch. Or maybe the suspect just didn’t have a very interesting face. The man pictured here looked extremely plain and ordinary, with short dark hair and no distinguishing features. She could actually think of several guys who looked a little like that.
Riley asked Chief Belt, “Is the witness still in the building? The woman who gave the description, I mean?”
Chief Belt shook his head.
“We sent her home. She told us everything she could remember.”
Riley was tempted to say …
“I wish you hadn’t done that.”
Instead she suggested, “Maybe the witness would recognize your mug shot of Carson.”
Belt seemed to hesitate. Then he told Goodner, “Just get Ms. Reitman on the phone. Show her the mug shot and see what she thinks.”
Goodner went to his desk and started working at his computer.
Riley asked Belt, “How close was the witness to the suspect when she saw him?”
“She said about twenty feet,” Belt said.
Riley asked, “And where was she in relation to him? Between him and the water, or farther up the beach?”
Belt looked slightly puzzled.
He said, “I don’t know why it matters. But she said she was coming from the beach road, passing near the wigwam to get to the harder sand where she could run more easily. She saw him put the hourglass down and then jog away along the beach.”
In her mind’s eye, Riley tried to recreate the scene near Rags Tucker’s wigwam and the clutter around it. It was high on the beach, above where any high tide would reach.
At around six in the morning, the sun wouldn’t have been up yet, but there would have been traces of light to the east over the water.
It sounded like the suspect must have been between the woman and the light.
From twenty feet away at that time of morning, could she have made out more than his silhouette?
Perhaps.
After all, she’d seemed sure enough of what she’d seen to come in and give a description. But Riley would have felt more confident if the woman had seen the suspect from closer up or in brighter light.
Goodner returned with a grin on his face. “She says it looks like him,” he reported.
“She’s sure?” Belt asked.
“She wasn’t sure at first, but then she said ‘Oh yes, I remember now. That’s the man I saw.’”
Riley said, “Then we need to talk to Grant Carson.”
“I agree,” Chief Belt said. “Let’s try to find out where he is.”
He picked up the phone on the table in front of him, dialed a number, and put the call on speakerphone so that everyone present could hear.
A man’s voice answered.
“Droullard Building Company. Quincy Droullard speaking.”
Chief Belt spoke in a friendly tone.
“Hey, Quincy. This is Parker Belt. How’re things going?”
“Could be better, could be worse,” the man said in what sounded like a chronically sour voice.
Belt leaned back in his chair.
“Listen, this is a conference call, Quincy. I need your help with something. Does a guy named Grant Carson work for you?”
Quincy Droullard let out a gruff laugh.
“In a manner of speaking, I guess you could say that. He’s not been much good to me lately. I don’t know what’s with him these days.”
Glances were exchanged all around the table.
“What do you mean?” Belt asked.
“Well, his work has gotten erratic. So has his attitude. When he’s not apathetic, he’s got a bad temper. It’s the last time I hire a parolee, I can tell you that. Has he done something wrong?”
“We just want to talk to him,” Belt said. “If he’s at work today, maybe we could stop by and ask him a few questions.”
Droullard grunted.
“Sorry, he called in sick today. He’s been doing that a lot lately.”
“Have you got a home address for him?” Belt asked.
“Sure,” Droullard said.
There was a sound of shuffling papers.
Then Droullard said, “He lives right here in Sattler, at 14 Hale Street.”
Belt thanked Droullard and ended the call.
He said, “The address is only a few blocks from the beach. I’ve got a feeling Grant Carson is our guy.”
Riley said, “Let’s stop by his house and pay him a visit.”
Belt shook his head.
“Not so fast,” he said. “This guy could be dangerous. If we show up at his house and politely knock at the door, it might give him a chance to arm himself. Somebody could get killed. I say we get a no-knock warrant.”
Riley felt uneasy. She couldn’t deny that a no-knock warrant might be a good idea. It would allow a team to storm Grant Carson’s house without taking time for a prior warning or announcement. But was it really feasible?
She asked Belt, “How are you going to get a warrant?”
“That shouldn’t be any trouble,” Belt said.
As he spoke, he was already dialing another phone number. In a few moments, he had a local judge on the phone. The judge sounded eager to send the warrant. All Belt had to do was fax him an affidavit, and the judge would fax a warrant back to Belt right away.
Riley had to admire the man’s ability to speed through paperwork.
Belt ended the call and looked around at the officers and agents seated at the table.
“Now we need to pick a team for the raid. From my guys, I want Goodner, Bryant, Moon, and Robinson. Agent Paige, who do you want to take—aside from Jeffreys and Roston?”
Riley looked around at the faces of the FBI people in the room.
She said, “Give me Huang, Whittington, Craft, and Ridge.”
Belt nodded and got up from his desk and added, “I’m going to my office to get the paperwork ready for the judge. The rest of you, get ready. We’re headed to Grant Carson’s house as soon as I have that warrant in my hands.”
Belt headed for his office, and the meeting broke up.
Riley, Jenn, and Bill stood looking at each other. Jenn had an expectant expression on her face.
“This could be it,” Jenn said.
Bill nodded slightly, not looking quite so sure.
As for Riley, her instincts hadn’t clicked in, and she had no feeling one way or the other. She wasn’t really comfortable going ahead without some sense that this was the right thing to be doing with their time.
But right now, they had no other possibilities.
She looked at the clock on the wall and saw its second hand sweeping mercilessly around the dial.
Again, she couldn’t help but hear Otis Redlich perversely philosophizing about time …
“No clock can tell us what’s going to happen tomorrow, or an hour from now, or a minute … or a second!”
She shuddered deeply. She knew this case was wearing on her nerves in a way that few other cases ever had.
She wondered …
Am I really at my best? Am I up to this?
But what choice did she have?
“Come on,” she said to her colleagues. “This had better be it.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Bill eyed Riley uneasily as the group of FBI
agents headed to their SUV. Besides Riley and Jenn, four other agents had joined the team for the raid. He was glad to have the extra support.
As the frustrations of the day had mounted, Bill thought Riley had been looking more and more stressed out. Now he moved up beside her and asked softly, “Are you doing OK?”
Riley looked at him with a defensive expression.
“Why do you keep asking me that?” she said.
“I just wondered,” Bill said.
“Well, stop wondering. Get your head in the game.”
Bill felt stung. Riley didn’t snap at him like this often.
Still, it’s not bad advice, he thought.
The truth was, Bill didn’t think he was at his best either. He’d been feeling strangely displaced all day, ever since this morning when he’d made the sudden decision to work on this case.
At first he’d been concerned that his own PTSD might kick back in. He still had occasional flashbacks of Lucy’s death and of his own shots bringing down that poor innocent kid back in California. But that hadn’t happened, at least not so far.
He felt more than eager to get back to work.
So what was the problem?
He had to admit that it was something new. He felt strangely unsure of where he stood with Riley and her new partner, Agent Roston.
Jenn, she calls her, he reminded himself. He had been taken aback to find out that they were on a mutual first-name basis.
He didn’t like to think that he was feeling jealous or resentful. But after so many years of working with Riley as a partner and a friend, of trusting her with his very life and much, much more, how could he help feeling strange about such changes?
The situation had been different when he and Riley had been working as a team with Lucy Vargas. They both had liked Lucy immensely, and Lucy had fit in with them perfectly. The three of them had shared a wonderful chemistry together.
But that didn’t seem to be happening right now, at least not yet.
For one thing, Bill had an odd feeling that something wasn’t entirely right with Jenn Roston. She struck him as downright secretive. Even worse, sometimes she seemed to be unfocused.
More than once, he’d noticed that her mind seemed to be elsewhere when she needed to be concentrating on the case. Something was on her mind, and Bill had a feeling that it wasn’t something good.
That kind of thing could get an agent killed. And it could be equally dangerous for anyone working with her.
And as for Riley, he could see that she was letting the unique pressures of this case get to her.
And that wasn’t like her at all.
When Bill, Riley, Jenn, and the four other FBI agents arrived at the van, they put on their Kevlar jackets. They prepared themselves for the impending raid on Grant Carson’s house, and waited for Chief Belt to get his no-knock warrant from the local judge.
After a while, Chief Belt and his four cops came out and climbed into their own vehicles. Riley got behind the wheel of the SUV and followed them to Grant Carson’s address.
It was a short drive that took them into an older community of small, weathered houses. The neighborhood was close to the beach, and the soil was visibly sandy. It reminded Bill of Jenn Roston’s observation earlier.
“Our killer has some kind of obsession with sand.”
Bill’s nerves quickened.
This really could be it, he thought.
Carson’s address, 14 Hale Street, was a house like any other in that modest neighborhood—a small white cottage with a picket fence.
Right away, Bill noticed signs of activity. Parked in the driveway was a battered little hatchback car with its doors and back open.
As the vehicles parked, Bill said, “Looks like somebody’s getting ready to go on a little trip.”
“Not if we can help it,” Riley said.
Everybody got out of their vehicles and gathered around Riley. She quietly gave commands for some of the local cops and agents to head around the sides and back of the house, and for others to cover the house from the front. The group moved into their positions with their weapons drawn, surrounding the house and watching all of its possible exits.
Bill was starting to worry a little.
Surely Grant Carson must have noticed their arrival.
So much for a no-knock tactic, he thought. They didn’t have to give the resident any warning, but they were making themselves pretty obvious.
Bill, Riley, Jenn, and Chief Belt walked up to the front door. A local cop with a battering ram followed behind them.
Standing slightly to the side of the door in case someone fired through it, Riley rapped on the door and called out, “Grant Carson?”
No reply came.
Riley called out again, “This is the FBI. Come out with your hands up.”
Again there was no reply.
Riley gestured to the cop with the ram. He stepped forward and swung the heavy metal form against the door, which popped open easily.
Overkill, Bill thought. A good kick would have done the job.
With Riley in the lead, the four of them stepped inside the house. The snug interior was cluttered with bags and other signs that the occupant was getting ready to leave. The sparse furnishings looked like they’d been bought at a thrift shop.
Riley called out, “Grant Carson, we know you’re here. Show yourself. Keep your hands up.”
A voice replied from an adjoining room.
“OK, OK. Jesus, what’s the big deal, anyway?”
Grant Carson stepped into the room with his hands above his head. He was a vigorous-looking but nondescript guy. Bill thought he looked at least somewhat like the man in the composite sketch. But then, so could lots of men his age.
Carson had a smirk on his face. He looked anything but surprised.
He said, “Hey, Chief Belt. It’s been a long time, it’s good to see you. I see you brought along the whole gang. It’s a good thing I’m naturally humble. All this attention could go to my head. What’s up?”
“You tell me,” Belt said. “It looks like you’re getting ready for a little trip.”
“Yeah, I’m taking a little vacation leave from work,” Carson replied.
Belt shook his head.
“That’s not what Quincy Droullard told me,” he said. “He said you called in sick.”
“Did he, now? Sounds like we had a genuine communication problem.”
Carson’s smirk broadened.
He said, “What else did old man Droullard happen to tell you?”
Belt pulled out a pair of handcuffs as he said, “Grant Carson, you’re under arrest for—”
Carson interrupted him with a chuckle.
“Yeah, I kind of get that. Relax, I’ll come along quietly.”
Bill’s nerves suddenly tingled as Belt took a couple of casual steps toward Carson.
Something’s about to go wrong, he realized.
He opened his mouth to warn Belt to stay back from Carson. But before he could speak, there was a blur of motion.
Carson reached downward with one hand and out toward Chief Belt with the other.
Suddenly, Carson was holding Chief Belt with a knife to his throat.
It took Bill a couple of seconds to grasp what had just happened.
Carson had drawn a hunting knife from an ankle sheaf while simultaneously grabbing Chief Belt.
It had been an incredibly deft maneuver. The man was both swift and strong.
Bill guessed Carson’s reflexes had been sharpened for survival when he was in prison.
Belt’s eyes bulged with shock and terror.
Carson chuckled grimly and said, “And now, if y’all don’t mind. I’m going to take that little vacation I had planned. And I’m taking this nice police chief along with me. Maybe we’ll do some fishing together.”
Bill’s teeth clenched. He deeply hated hostage situations.
And at the moment, he couldn’t see any way to separate Carson from his victim without Belt
getting badly hurt—perhaps fatally.
Then Bill heard Riley’s voice.
“Grant—may I call you Grant?”
Carson looked at Riley with a perplexed expression.
“You don’t want to do this,” she said. “You’re just making things worse for yourself.”
She held out her hand.
“Just give me the knife,” she said.
Carson drew sharply back.
“Stay away from me, bitch,” he said.
Riley smiled uneasily and took a step toward him.
“Surely we can work something out,” she said.
Bill heard a fearful tremor in Riley’s voice.
He saw her hand shake as she holstered her weapon.
Was she scared?
This didn’t seem like Riley at all.
Then Bill realized …
It’s an act.
She was acting as if she was desperately afraid but naïvely trying to do something brave despite her fear.
She was pretending to be a green rookie who had no idea what she might be getting into.
She was trying to bait Carson into something.
Bill looked at Jenn. Would the actual rookie realize what was going on? If she tried to step in and help, she’d be sure to ruin whatever Riley had in mind.
Jenn met his gaze. She raised a questioning eyebrow.
Bill shook his head slightly. He was relieved to see the younger agent take a step back. He had stopped her just in time.
Then he realized what Riley was doing. She wanted Carson to take her hostage in Chief Belt’s place.
Bill saw Carson’s expression turn into a sneer.
Riley’s gambit was working!
Carson said, “Why sure, little lady, we can work something out. Just come over here so we can talk better.”
Still looking terrified, Riley moved closer to him.
And in another blur of movement, Carson let go of Belt and grabbed Riley.
Now he held the knife to her throat.
As Belt staggered across the room to safety, Riley’s terrified expression changed to one of smug satisfaction.
“I was hoping you’d do that,” she said.
Bill almost smiled.
From his own training, he now knew exactly what to expect, move for move.
Riley threw her upper body backward, striking Carson sharply in the chin with her head.
Riley Paige 11-Once Buried Page 9