by DiAnn Mills
Whitt turned back to his dad in time to dodge a beefy hand. “Stop it. I’m trying to help.”
“How will you explain a black eye to the police?” she said, her tone soft. The voice of truth.
He understood. No point in giving the authorities more ammo to stick him in a foster home. The horn blasted on. He opened the hood and disconnected the battery, his battery. He moved back to where Miss Stacy stood. Dad could get mean. “Where’s Mom?”
“Caught workin’ the street,” his dad slurred. “Jail.”
He sickened. Should have known on Thursday when she told Whitt if he wouldn’t give her any money, she had no choice but to earn it.
“I’m sorry,” Miss Stacy whispered. “I haven’t forgotten the eviction notice. We’ll get your things out of the house tonight after the carnival.”
“Okay.”
Days like this he wanted to escape this miserable life and run so far away no one would ever find him. Miss Stacy cared . . . talked to him like he had sense. Made sure he had decent food, clean clothes, and was given the positive feedback a kid needed. But even if she was awarded custody, the parents would still be across the street playing their addictive games and still sucking the life out of him and dragging Stacy into the consequences of their habits. They’d get someone to pay the rent—they always played on the sympathies of some poor fool. Waiting until high school graduation seemed like forever. Being on his own seemed even longer. What choices were there? Between the laws for the welfare of underage kids and the downhill spiral his parents were taking, he knew where this was headed.
If he could only fix the mess.
Sirens rose in the early morning air. The familiar drill. Closing the car door, he bolted toward Miss Stacy’s home. Cops couldn’t dump him into social services’ lap if he wasn’t around when they arrived.
ALEX SMACKED THE ALARM BUTTON on his phone as though it were a clock. Some called Sunday a day of divine rest, but he hadn’t done the church thing since leaving Louisiana. A round of golf or sleeping until noon suited him better. . . .
Another day. This one had a to-do list a mile long.
Within moments, he’d ground coffee beans. Adrenaline pumped high. The pressure to end this case came the hardest from himself. Always did. The satisfaction kept him alive, excited. His mind whirled with the e-mail notifications that had wakened him in the early morning hours. He, as well as other agents, had received documents regarding domestic terrorist groups and extremists with fingerprints on stealing a drone or taking down public transportation. Of specific interest were militia extremists. Bulletins about the investigation hit law enforcement across the nation, and every airport in the country was on heightened alert.
Last night he requested Todd Howe’s college records and past employment from the FIG. Agents in Dallas had interviewed his sister and learned she’d broken contact with him when he’d sold their deceased parents’ home without her knowledge and invested the funds in the restaurant business. She had an alibi for Saturday morning.
Interviews with Howe’s neighbors had started yesterday afternoon with nothing reported but shock and dismay from those who claimed to know him well. Todd held the man-of-the-year award from everyone the agents talked to, but Alex would reserve his opinion for now. Today and tomorrow agents would meet with his employees and add their testimonies to the mix. By then, they’d have his business and personal financials and his wife’s background. Alex and Ric would take their findings and follow up if necessary.
As he reached for a mug to pour coffee, another e-mail sounded from his phone. Snatching it, he noted the update included the origin of the Army’s missing quadcopter. Fort Benning had an ongoing investigation on the drone’s whereabouts. To date, no one had been charged.
This day wouldn’t start until he took it by the horns, and he hurried to the shower, carrying his mug of coffee.
Alex and Ric had an appointment with the Howes’ rabbi this afternoon, a first for Alex. Would the rabbi stand up for Howe and his wife? He expected no less.
Water from the shower poured over him, hot and therapeutic. Last night the judge okayed an order to secure the Howes’ cell phone records, which had Alex’s attention for later on. Today’s demands focused on the fingerprint sweep and the results of blood samples at the crime scene. And a trip to a carnival. He paused in his thoughts. Was he seizing a moment to see her? A part of him was concerned about the initial media report that claimed she was a witness. And she could have lied about what she knew about the case. Ah, but he didn’t think so.
Two cups of coffee pumped caffeine into his veins, and two frozen sausage breakfast sandwiches warmed to perfection filled his stomach. The clock on the microwave displayed a respectable time, so he phoned the lab for the fingerprint and blood reports.
Moments later he sent the findings to Ric. The only fingerprints on the motorcycle were Todd Howe’s, and the quadcopter had nothing identifying. Howe’s body held dog hair and blood, probably his and the dog’s. What were the chances the dog hair held the other person’s DNA? He pressed in Stacy’s number.
“Good morning, Alex. You caught me before I left for church.”
“Have you bathed Xena?”
“Strange question, but no. I washed the wounded area when I treated her. Why?”
“I need a snip of her fur.”
“I can retrieve some. Put it in a baggie.”
“Perfect. Will you keep it with you? I’ll stop by the carnival and pick it up.” Now he had a professional reason to see her.
“Okay.” She didn’t sound happy, and he’d hoped after last night they could be friends.
The call completed, Alex checked off two items on his list. His phone buzzed with a text from Ric.
What time’s the carnival?
2–6. I’m going @3. Wanna meet me there?
K. Send the address. B nice 2 Stacy.
Alex ignored him. Don’t 4get our appt with Rabbi Feldman after.
K
A lot of hours between now and then. Alex left his apartment, a complex designed for professionals that contained shopping, restaurants, and medical facilities within walking distance. He exited onto Highway 290 and drove southeast to the FBI office. First on his agenda were the cell phone records, comparing numbers and matching them with names. The day stacked up to be a long one.
After an outdoor service in the clinic’s parking lot, Stacy and Whitt helped stack chairs in preparation for the afternoon carnival. The church hour had consisted of a local nondenominational pastor delivering a message on the importance of walking with God, a guitar player who had a decent voice but sang through his nose, and twenty-one of the subdivision’s residents chiming in with amens. Whatever the pastor had said bothered Whitt. She could feel him tuning out the message midway through the sermon. Difficult family situations had a way of pushing faith aside. She should know.
The sound of hammering and laughter surrounded them while booths and banners sprang up announcing games and activities.
“Thanks,” Whitt finally said.
“For what?” But she knew. His intelligence continued to war with his emotions when it came to his parents.
“Are you going to make me say it?”
“What do you think? Express exactly what you’re feeling.” Her methods of raising him might be questioned by a psychologist, but she believed in facing challenges head-on. The sooner he learned how to manage them, the more successful he’d be tomorrow and the next day.
He stacked two chairs atop hers. “I hate my mom and dad, and I have no problem admitting it after church. If Jesus had been forced to endure my parents as His own, He’d have run from the cross. Forgiveness is a concept I can accept for people I don’t know. Everything about the parents, who they are and what they do, is selfish. They never wanted me, per their words, and when I don’t give them money, they are . . .” He stopped.
Stacy peered at him. “Keep going. I can handle it. God can too.”
“He’s going t
o send a bolt of lightning.”
She stared up at the cloudless sky. “Then we’ll both get zapped.” She didn’t agree with his hatred for his parents, but she accepted his feelings considering what they’d done to him. One of the hardest concepts to learn about God was that He understood hurt and grief.
“Every time they’re gone, I hope they never come back.” He blew out a ragged breath. “I want them to overdose, kill themselves. The only reason I tried to get Dad out of the car was so the neighbor kids wouldn’t use it against me.”
“Are you angry with me for calling the police?”
“Nah. Saved me from a punch in the face.”
“Be honest, Whitt.”
His eyes met hers, and she saw the well of hurt for one so young. She ached to see the pain removed.
“You are my real mom,” he said. “Not always my friend ’cause you put my needs first. I might not like the police sirens in the neighborhood telling the world of the parents’ stupidity, but I know it’s because you care. I only hope today is the last time I have to deal with them.” His face grew splotchy, and he hastily swiped beneath his eyes.
He spoke like an adult, yet his heart and soul needed to heal. “My lawyer believes we have a solid case,” she said. “Before the court hearing, he’ll need to ask you questions, and a caseworker from social services will be involved. The same woman you’ve dealt with before.”
“She makes me want to throw up. I’m changing the conversation here. Nothing I can do about what I was stuck with anyway.”
“What do you want to talk about?”
“I did some online searches last night about drone operators using laser beams to blind pilots,” he said.
“How late were you up?” She shook her head. “Never mind. What have you learned?”
“According to the Associated Press, it’s not unusual. The guys doing it think it’s a joke. Arrests and fines haven’t stopped them. The AP says they weren’t terrorism actions, but you know me. I believe the stats are more on the other side. I’ll send you my research sites.”
“Okay. And we’ll discuss this after I’ve analyzed the reports.”
He grinned. “Let’s get this carnival thing going, or we’ll both still be here trying to figure out what happened yesterday.”
Shortly before two, families trickled into the parking lot, now transformed into a carnival. A rental company erected a blow-up jump event for the kids. Pony rides were a new addition as well as the volunteer petting zoo. Animal owners were asked to stay with their pets for others to admire and touch. Whitt never moved from Xena’s side. He demonstrated to families how to approach the dog, and they listened. Stacy’s favorite twin girls imitated his careful instruction while taking turns holding their cocker spaniel’s leash. Such cute little blondes. They’d be at the clinic this week. Meanwhile Stacy handed out the plastic bags and attempted to push aside the weekend’s tragedies.
Mr. Parson limped her way. He offered a full-toothed smile, an updated version from the previous year’s carnival. Dear man, loved kids and animals. Those traits made him a near-perfect human being.
“Afternoon, Dr. Stacy,” he said, removing his ball cap. “Got ourselves a scorcher today.”
“Sure do. Have you been keeping hydrated? Are you over the pneumonia? It’s only been two weeks.”
He patted his cap. “Yes, ma’am, to both questions. The heat will sweat out any that’s left. I’m gonna mosey on over to Whitt. I see you have a new patient.”
“Yes, a sweet Lab. They’ll both want to see you.” She handed him two bottles of water. “One for you and one for Whitt.”
“I’ll be here in the morning, the highlight of my day. Is the little tabby doing okay after his surgery?”
“He is.”
“I’ll bring your favorite blueberry muffins.”
“Oh, thank you.” She hooked her arm through his. “Let me introduce you to Xena.”
Together they walked to the petting zoo. He went through the getting-to-know-you routine with Xena. The dog reached up and licked him on the mouth. Stacy laughed. This had turned out to be a memorable day, even with the obnoxious McMann using every foul word known to man when the police arrested him.
Then she saw Special Agents Alex LeBlanc and Ric Price walking her way. Why did one irritating man have to look so good?
ALEX FAILED TO CATCH A WELCOMING SMILE from Stacy, and it bothered him. A twinge of rejection poked at his ego. He thought they were friends.
“She’s not happy to see you, bro,” Ric said. “Maybe she goes for the tall, dark, and handsome type. Non-Cajun. Or the older man keeping her company.”
“I’m not here to impress.” He donned his sunglasses in the glaring sun, but he hadn’t missed the woman wearing boots and jeans.
“Ah, spoken by a man who’s been rejected by a beautiful woman. Shall I show you how to win her over?”
“No thanks. I can handle Stacy on my own.”
Their phones alerted them to an incoming text. Early interviews with four of Howe’s restaurant managers indicated their boss insisted upon long hours without pay. In the past three years, each Green-to-Go had seen a new manager every eleven months or less. No stats were available yet on nonmanagement employee turnover.
“Conflicts lead to motive,” Alex said, dropping his phone back into the pocket of his khakis. “How many of them hated Todd Howe’s guts and wanted to bring down an aircraft?”
“That’s a slim list. His managers despised him, but potential terrorism is a stretch. I’ll make sure there’s a priority on personnel backgrounds.”
“Appreciate it. We need evidence to clear up this case. We’ll need to talk to some of the employees.”
“Right. I’ll request the interviews, and we’ll look at them later.”
“I think our talk with the rabbi will be . . . interesting.”
Ric nodded toward Stacy. “She’s meeting us head-on.”
“Stubborn Cajun,” he muttered. But cute.
Ric snickered and held out his hand to her. She took it and smiled. So she had a favorite.
“Agent Price and Agent LeBlanc, this is a dear friend, Mr. Parson,” she said. “He helps me out at the clinic.”
“My pleasure, gentlemen.” White hair peeked out from under a ball cap. “I’ll mosey on over to the snow cones.”
The older man limped away. Had to be in his nineties.
“What brings you here?” she said. “Gumbo? Oh, that’s right. You want a sample of Xena’s fur.” She pulled a small plastic bag from her jean pocket and handed it to him.
“Thanks. Your carnival has drawn a crowd,” Alex said.
“It’s the subdivision’s event, not mine.” She gestured around the parking lot. “Volunteers work hard to ensure the families have a great time.”
Alex refused to state the obvious—the small subdivision hit the bottom rung of lower middle class with more than its fair share of abandoned properties and foreclosures. Keeping the residents united contributed to a slash in the crime rate. At least on paper it looked doable.
When had he gotten so cynical? This afternoon families were supporting each other, an admirable trait.
“Would you like your face painted, Alex? Mickey Mouse or a dragon?” she said. “How about taking a seat on the dunking board?”
“Ma’am, he doesn’t know how to swim unless a gator’s after him,” Ric said.
She leveled her sights on Alex, more like a challenge, but he caught a playful smile. “So why are you here?”
“Update on the case. Thought you’d be interested.”
“You caught the killer?”
“We wish. Haven’t made an arrest regarding the drone either. But we have the fingerprint and blood spatter results. Thought you might like to hear firsthand.”
“You could have called or e-mailed, but I appreciate the personal touch.”
Not a trace of sarcasm. He must have gained a point. “The only prints at the scene are Todd Howe’s, and the blood bel
onged to him or the Lab. The DNA report takes longer, but I doubt if we have further questions for you.”
“Perfect, since I’ve answered the same ones a half-dozen times. Xena will be happy to hear that she’s been exonerated from the crime.” The sun glistened off her lightly tanned face. “Last night’s press release from the FBI helped me to sleep easier. Thanks.”
Alex’s sunglasses hid his burst in ego. “Glad I’m back in your good graces.”
She lifted a brow. “I said ‘the FBI.’ Haven’t figured you out yet. By the way, next Saturday I’ll be riding the trails again and hoping all I find is a beer can. Airport rangers and the manager of the stables have promised to take a switch to me if I ever attempt a solo ride again.”
“Smart friends. How’s Xena?”
She whirled to where a crowd of children encircled a pen. “Very well. Bouncing back like a princess warrior. Whitt has her with the kids if you’d like to see for yourself.”
“Sure,” Alex said. “She’s our only witness. Don’t imagine you’re a dog whisperer?”
“Not yet.” She turned to Ric. “Why does your partner do all the talking?”
Ric lifted a brow. “Because I’m the brains. Can’t have both.”
She laughed and searched Alex’s face. “So Ric communicates like Whitt?”
“Ric doesn’t send me to the dictionary. The kid’s brilliant.” His dealings with the kid flashed across his mind. “Let me say hello to him and Xena before we leave.”
“Stay the afternoon. We’re having a softball game later. Plenty of food and drinks.”
Crazy, but he actually wanted to hang around. “We have interviews, but thanks.”
After checking in on Xena and having Whitt ignore him, Alex and Ric walked through the crowd before leaving.
Next stop was the temple, where Rabbi Feldman awaited them. A young woman led them to his office. The man wore a skullcap over graying hair, but he was minus the black hat and suit Alex believed was the general dress. He escorted Alex and Ric to his darkened office and opened the blinds to reveal one ancient artifact after another.