Rod said, “Ambulance is on its way, ETA eight minutes.”
“Find bottled water.”
An agent returned with damp towels and Lucy wrapped them around Cassidy’s wrists and ankles, with another on the back of her neck. Cassidy moaned.
“Cassidy, it’s Lucy Kincaid. Can you hear me?”
“Ya.” Her voice was thick and slurred.
Rod stepped out of the house.
“Okay, that’s good. An ambulance is coming. Can you drink a little water?”
Lucy held the bottle to her lips. Most escaped, but Cassidy swallowed some. She sat with her for five minutes gently feeding her water while another agent kept bringing in wet rags to lower her body temperature.
Rod came back in. “Both suspects in custody, no shots fired.”
“Did you hear that, Cassidy?” Lucy said. “Cortland Clarke and her brother have been arrested. They’re going to prison for a long, long time.”
“They.” She swallowed. “They killed Charlie.”
“We know,” Lucy said. “We know everything now. And when you’re feeling better, you can tell us what you know so that we can keep them behind bars.”
“Nina,” Cassidy said. “She’s in on it.”
Lucy spoke into her com. “Proctor, what’s the status of Nina Okala?”
“Hold.” A minute later, he came back on the line. “She was detained at the Los Angeles International Airport while attempting to board a plane for Japan.”
Lucy relayed the information to Cassidy. “Relax. Everyone who conspired to make Charlie sick is going to prison.” Or they’re dead, but Lucy didn’t say that.
“I’m sorry,” Cassidy muttered and closed her eyes. “I didn’t think anyone would believe me.”
“I would have,” Lucy said quietly.
The situation could have been so much worse; but now, justice would be served. She just felt all-around sad that Charlie McMahon died in the process.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Lucy drove Jack to the airport on Wednesday morning. She was going to miss her brother, and wished he lived closer. She said as much to him.
“I’ll miss you too, kid.” He hugged her. “You can always visit Sacramento.”
“I know. And I will.”
“I love Texas. I miss my spread in Hidalgo, to be honest, but Kane and Siobhan are happy there, and I’m glad. And Megan likes to visit, but I don’t think she wants to live here. She doesn’t mind that I come out, though. She understands family—Megan and her brother are very close, and she respects our relationship.”
“I’m glad. She’s a good woman.”
“No argument from me.”
She hugged Jack again and watched him walk through the airport doors before she drove off.
When Lucy got home, the house was quiet. She looked at the security pad. Kane and Siobhan had locked themselves in the pool house. That was good—Kane hadn’t gotten any rest since the attack because he was taking care of the cleanup and hiring contractors. Lucy couldn’t wait to get the boards down and the windows in. Tomorrow. Tomorrow they would be back to normal.
Sean was in his office, but he wasn’t working. “Can I get you anything?” she said. “I can make lunch.”
He half smiled at her. “Are you mad at me?”
She sat in his lap. “That was mean.”
“I’m fine. Jesse’s sleeping again. Is he sleeping too much?”
“No. He’s sleeping because he needs to sleep. He’s going to be okay, Sean. He has us.”
“I talked to Madison’s father this morning. He’s flying out on Friday. He wants to take Jesse back with him.”
“You are Jesse’s father.”
“He knows. He doesn’t care.”
“What does Jesse want?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t told him.”
“Are you willing to fight for him?”
“Of course, but—”
“No buts, Sean. Just yes, you’re willing to fight for him. Jesse needs to know that. He lost his mother. Everything is going to come out, Sean. Eventually, everything is going to come out. We might want to shelter him, lie to him, tell him this was all Carson, but eventually Jesse is going to learn that Madison was just as involved in lying to the AUSA as Carson was. That she knowingly falsified records. That she knowingly hid assets from the government and in the plea agreement. Money that was illegally obtained.”
“I can’t tell him that.”
“You don’t have to, Sean, but if you lie to him he’ll know. You found that information. That means Dean can find it, too.”
“I don’t know how to fix this, Luce.”
“First, you have to stop blaming yourself.”
“I think you, Kane, and Jack all conspired to gang up on me. At least you’re nice about it. Kane told me to get the fuck over it, and Jack told me to grow a pair.”
She kissed him, then held his face in her hands. “We all love you. This will pass, but I know it’s hard. Kane and Jack both have their own guilt to deal with, they just do it in a different way. And none of you have anything to feel guilty about. One day at a time, okay?”
“One day.” He rested his forehead on hers. “I love you, Lucy.”
“I love you. Always.”
* * *
To make Lucy happy, Sean went to the kitchen and made grilled ham and cheese sandwiches for lunch. He wasn’t hungry, but he ate half a sandwich with her. “I’m going to bring a plate up to Jess, see if he wants to eat.”
“Good idea. Talk to him, Sean. Just—be yourself, okay?”
Jesse had been sleeping a lot, which was no surprise, and he hadn’t wanted to talk. Sean walked upstairs with the sandwich and stared at his son, who was lying in bed with his back to him. The poor kid had lost so much. His mother. His innocence. But hadn’t all that started last year when Carson took him down to Guadalajara in the first place? Exposed him to the business of the drug cartel and human trafficking? All Sean wanted to do was protect his family.
Bandit was on the bed and looked at Sean as if to say, Don’t make me get down. Jesse needs me.
Sean sat on the edge of the bed, put the plate on the nightstand, and scratched Bandit behind the ears. When Nate told him that Bandit had tracked one of the vans, Sean was brought to tears. It had been an emotional week.
Jesse rolled over and looked at Sean. “I’m not sleeping.”
“I know.”
“What’s going to happen to me?”
“I want you to stay here. But I’ll understand if you want to live with your grandfather.”
Tears ran down Jesse’s face. “W-why?”
“You know him. He’s your grandfather.”
“Why don’t you want me?”
“Didn’t you hear me? I want you! I want you here, with me. God, Jess, I love you so much. But I nearly lost you. I couldn’t protect you or your mom. I’ll never forgive myself for … for telling you you were safe. You weren’t. I failed in the worst way, and I can’t fix it.”
“You don’t believe that.”
“Jess—”
“You can’t believe that. Carson sent those men here.”
“He didn’t.”
“Yes! He may not have wanted me and Mom to be kidnapped, but he wanted to kill you. Not just a figure of speech, but really, honest and truly wanted Mr. Robertson to kill you. And then Mr. Robertson wanted more money because Carson lied about how much money he had hidden away, so he took me and Mom.”
“But you should have been safe here.”
“Am I going to be safe anywhere? Are any of us really safe, anyway? What about the boys at Saint Catherine’s? When their dads get out of prison, are they going to be safe? Are you going to send them away, too?”
“That’s not the same.”
“It is. Is it because of my grandfather? Because he’ll fight you? I’ll make sure he doesn’t.”
“I would fight to the ends of the earth for you, Jesse.”
“Then I’m staying. You’r
e my dad. My real dad. There’s no other place I want to be. I love you. I love Lucy. I want a family I can trust. I can’t trust anyone else.”
Tears fell from Jesse’s eyes, and Sean couldn’t stop his own tears from falling. He squeezed his eyes closed.
“Then you’ll stay,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t—there’s no thanks. You’re my son, you’re my family. But your grandfather will be here on Friday. He wants to bury your mom in Orange County. You need to go to her funeral.”
“I know. But…” He bit his lip.
“What?”
“Will you come, too? Please? I don’t want to go alone.”
“You want me to come?”
Jesse nodded. “I need you, Dad. And we can fight my grandfather together. Maybe he won’t object.”
“Do you believe that?”
Jesse shook his head, but then he smiled. It was a small smile, but it was there. “But we’re Rogans and we’re stubborn. He can’t beat us, if we’re fighting on the same side.”
Sean hugged his son tightly. “I love you so much, kid.”
Bandit maneuvered his head in between Sean and Jesse and licked them both.
Read on for an excerpt from Allison Brennan’s next book
NOTHING TO HIDE
Coming soon from Minotaur Books
CHAPTER ONE
FBI Agent Lucy Kincaid squatted next to the latest victim of a possible serial killer. The victim had been identified as thirty-four-year-old Julio Garcia, the head chef of a convention hotel in downtown San Antonio.
Tortured then shot in the face. Fast, efficient, brutal. It was a gruesome sight, but Lucy was used to violence.
“I can give you five minutes,” senior crime scene investigator Ash Dominguez said. “Until Detective Walker gives me the thumbs up, this is still his crime scene.”
Lucy bristled. Ash was doing her a big favor, but the entire situation would have been a whole lot easier if Walker didn’t have a chip on his shoulder about the FBI. The Bexar County Sheriff’s lead detective knew she was coming to the scene, it had already been cleared by their mutual bosses. That he had slipped away irritated her, but she wasn’t surprised. The FBI offered to assist after the second murder four weeks ago, but Walker pushed back. He didn’t like working with federal agents, that much was clear, but now he didn’t have a choice. Three dead with the same M.O. put the murders in a whole new category.
Don’t blow it.
Her boss, SSA Rachel Vaughn, hadn’t actually said those exact words, but she had lamented that there was no one else she could send out to the crime scene, which was now a joint investigation.
“It’s not that you aren’t capable of running solo with this, Lucy, but you’re still a rookie and it’s a touchy situation.”
Lucy visually inspected Garcia’s body. The smashed hands. The gunshot to his face. If the M.O. from the previous two held, the autopsy would reveal that he’d been hit in the stomach and groin by the same object that shattered the bones in his hands—likely a large hammer. There were conflicting interpretations of the three murders and Lucy couldn’t say exactly what they were looking at. On the one hand it seemed personal; on the other, sexual. Yet again, an act of revenge or retribution. The attention to the hands suggested a thief, that the victims had taken something from the killer. But so far—at least between the first two victims—there was absolutely no connection that law enforcement could find.
The Bexar County Sheriff’s department didn’t want to give up their investigation, and the FBI tried not to flex their jurisdictional muscle unless absolutely necessary. So Lucy had to work with Detective Walker, who hadn’t given her the time of day or answered any of her calls over the last month. She’d wanted to keep up to date with the status of the investigation, but he was avoiding her. Now he didn’t have a choice—and clearly he was so angry he disappeared from the crime scene before she arrived.
This was the type of crime Lucy had the most experience with: violent. What that said about her, she didn’t know—other than she was good at getting into the heads of both killers and victims.
Ash said, “It’s not pretty.”
“I read your other reports,” she said. “Does this victim present the same way?”
“Damn near identical. The killer got up close and personal—most likely used a stun gun, not a Taser.”
Virtually all personal Tasers now had AFID confetti to track to the owner. That put the killer in the smart category. Smart and bold, because stun guns were close contact weapons.
“I can’t say for certain that a stun gun was used here, but that was the conclusion in the first two autopsies so I reason it was used again. Seems that he was stunned in his car, then the body was dragged here.” Ash gestured to faint marks on the hard ground. “I’m sure the ME will find bruising consistent with being dragged. Then whack, whack, whack, the killer used some sort of blunt object—metal, like a large hammer or steel pipe. I’m still working on it, I can’t tell you exactly what yet. Hands mutilated, stomach and groin hit once or twice.”
“It’s unusual that the focus was on his hands,” Lucy said. Extremely odd. “The groin suggests sexual, but the victims were all fully clothed, and the genitals weren’t mutilated.”
Ash shivered. “I don’t know about you, but getting hit in the balls with a hammer would hurt like hell.” He squatted across the body from Lucy. “There just doesn’t seem to be any reason. Nothing taken, no message, no purpose.”
“You sound like a cop now,” Lucy said.
She swatted flies away from the body and looked closely at the mouth, unable to avoid seeing the brain matter and blood from the close-range shot in the face. In the previous murders, duct-tape residue had been found on and around the victim’s mouth, but no tape was found at the scene. The killer had taken it with him, likely to avoid it being traced back to him. Tape was a terrific medium to obtain prints, trace evidence, or DNA. She could make out the rawness on his skin from the tape being pulled off. If they could find the tape—was it a souvenir? Did the killer dispose of it between the crime scene and his home? Destroy it?
The killer was smart. Ruthless. Purposeful. Because even though these victims all appeared random, there was a reason.
Once Lucy figured out how the victims connected, the reason would be clear, she was certain of it. And if the killer was truly a serial murderer, there would be a connection. While the victims might seem random, there would be a commonality that made sense to the killer. She couldn’t shake the feeling that this was retribution, which meant the killer might be done when he finished with his list. Who was on it? People who had done him wrong? Hurt him emotionally or physically? If that was case, these three men would be connected—even if it was long ago. Even if they hadn’t communicated in years.
Ash jumped up. “Hey, Jerry.”
Jerry said in a deep Southern baritone, “Far as I know, this is still my crime scene.”
Lucy slowly rose from her squat and turned to face Detective Jerry Walker. They hadn’t met—because he had been avoiding her calls—and she assessed him. Tall, broad-shouldered, large all around though not overweight. In his late forties, maybe a bit older. He wore jeans and a white polo shirt with a sheriff’s patch on the breast, his badge clipped to his belt next to his side arm. But it was his well-worn black hat that stood out. He looked like he came from another era. The era of cops who hated feds.
“Detective Walker,” Lucy said. “I’ve been trying to reach you for weeks. I’m Special Agent Lucy Kincaid.”
“I’ve been working, ma’am. No time for chit-chat.”
She bit back a response that would have gotten her in trouble. Before she could form a more diplomatic comment, Walker continued. “Ashley, the coroner said he was ready to move the body twenty minutes ago but you told him to wait. It’s not getting any cooler out here.”
“Jeez, Jerry, call me Ash,” he said.
“Nothing wrong with Ashley. Good Southe
rn name.”
Ash rolled his eyes. “Maybe during the Civil War,” he mumbled. He glanced at Lucy.
“It’s not her call, not yet at any rate,” Walker said. “Agent Kincaid is simply assisting in this investigation.”
It was more than an assist, but she didn’t comment.
Ash glanced at Lucy and she could see his wheels turning. He probably regretted letting her get up close and personal with the victim—except that she was authorized to work this case.
“Now, ma’am,” Walker continued, “let’s let the good folks from our crime scene unit take care of this poor guy, and we’ll establish some ground rules.”
She wanted to play nice—she had to play nice—and though Detective Walker’s tone was easygoing, his words were not. She had been lucky in her career that most local law enforcement she worked with didn’t have a problem with the FBI. She’d learned from her sister-in-law who’d been an agent for nearly twenty years that such camaraderie hadn’t always been the case, but in her time both working with her training partner in Washington, D.C., and then here in San Antonio, she’d made many friends among local police. She really hoped she was wrong about Walker, but she felt like she was under a microscope.
She nodded curtly and forced a smile. “Ground rules.”
He grinned back, but it didn’t reach his eyes, then motioned for her to walk in front of him toward the staging area. She took one last glance at the deceased. Julio Garcia. No kids. Early thirties, married, had his life ahead of him. She would find out why his life was cut short so tragically. While Walker flexed his authority, she wouldn’t be put off or chased away.
Though it was late September and the worst of the summer heat was over, it was still uncomfortable at ten in the morning. She walked to the staging area with Detective Walker.
“Deputies,” he said to the two first responders, “if you’d be so kind as to finish the canvass. Check for surveillance videos on the highway, if anyone heard or saw anything. I’m right sure the gas station a quarter mile down has one, though it would be sheer luck if it caught cars passing on the street, or if our killer or victim stopped there. No neighbors in the area, but check the closest homes for what they saw and heard last night between midnight and three in the morning.”
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