The Reed Montgomery Series Box Set

by Logan Ryles

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Get me Lieutenant Colonel Jackson, please.”

  “One moment, ma’am.”

  Calm settled over the room, broken only by the occasional click of Yolanda’s pen. The twitch grated on Maggie’s nerves, but she chose not to comment on it. There were bigger fish to fry.

  “Madam Governor.” Jackson’s booming voice carried all the command and directness of a life spent serving the military and then police needs of Louisiana. After twenty-three years in the National Guard, Jackson switched to the LBI and quickly rose in the ranks as one of the chief investigators of the Bureau, and then as their executive director. Maggie didn’t know much about him, but she liked him. He never seemed to have time for bullshit.

  “Lieutenant Colonel, thank you for taking my call. I have Lieutenant Governor Sharp and Chief of Staff Flint in the office with me. I wanted to see if you had an update on the Matthews investigation.”

  Jackson cleared his throat. Maggie could already detect his hesitancy.

  “At this time, Madam Governor, my office is unable to provide a confident determination as to—”

  “Lieutenant Colonel, I’m so sorry to interrupt you, but I’m not a politician. I’m a swamp-raised gator hunter. I will never hold your instincts against you, and I do not expect you to be infallible. All I expect is for you to be direct and honest with me at all times. Tell me what you know, and then tell me what you think.”

  Dead silence hung in the air. Dan raised both eyebrows, and Maggie shrugged—she had to try.

  “Yes, ma’am. Of course. At this time, we know that Matthews was found dead at his lake house yesterday around six forty-five a.m. Initial impressions are that he died of heart failure. There are no apparent wounds on his body, and no one was present at the time of his death.”

  “Did he have any known heart conditions?”

  “We’re securing his medical files at this time and running a full toxicology panel on his body. A complete autopsy could take as long as twenty-four hours.”

  “What are the initial impressions of his manner of death?”

  “Like I said, we believe congestive heart failure—”

  “You know what I’m asking, Lieutenant Colonel.”

  Jackson sighed. “Murder is a distinct possibility, Madam Governor. We found a broken whiskey decanter on the floor beside him. The contents were evaporated, leaving us to believe he died no later than around three a.m. We’re running tests on the residue, also, but initial results indicate the presence of toxic substances. We’ll know more soon.”

  Maggie nodded, then leaned back in her chair. “Very good. I want you to move your investigation in the direction of a homicide, then. If there’s any chance Matthews was murdered, I don’t want a second to be lost. Whatever resources you require will be made immediately available.”

  “Thank you, Madam Governor. If that is all, I’ll get back to work.”

  “That’s all. Thank you so much.”

  Maggie ended the call and turned back to Dan. He cocked his head to one side and pursed his lips, but he didn’t say anything.

  In typical fashion, Yolanda spoke first. “Madam Governor, I think it’s imperative that—”

  Maggie held up an index finger. “Hold that thought, Yolanda. I want to hear what Dan thinks first.”

  Dan took a sip of water, then set it down. “Well, there are only two options. Either he was murdered, or he wasn’t. Jackson will find out soon enough. My initial impressions are that we need to be careful throwing around the ‘M’ word. If it was a natural or accidental death, we don’t need the press storm that will come with accusations of homicide.”

  “I agree,” Yolanda burst in.

  Maggie knew the demon of rationale had possessed her to hire Yolanda, and though Yolanda was the most annoying person in the state, she was also the most organized and the best at managing a staff.

  “Why would you murder an attorney general, Dan?” Maggie drummed her fingers on the desk.

  Dan grunted. “I mean, I guess there could be a lot of reasons. Might be personal. Might be random.”

  “Not if it’s poison. A gunshot wound to the chest with a shattered window and a missing jewelry collection is random. A kitchen knife to the gut is personal. But poison . . . that’s premeditated. That’s assassination.”

  Maggie relaxed back into her chair and enjoyed the silence that followed her comments. Her head pounded, but headaches were such a common part of her daily regimen that she hardly noticed.

  Dan’s words were soft but strong. “I think we should be extremely cautious with that line of thinking . . .”

  Maggie sat up. “I agree. Because it’s highly inflammatory. But I want you to consider this. There’s only one reason why you would assassinate an attorney general: because he was in your way. That means somebody out there is up to something that Matthews wasn’t having any part of, and I’m not having any part of it, either. I want to hold a special election for a replacement as soon as possible.”

  Yolanda sat forward. “Madam Governor, I want to advise extreme caution with that proposal. Rushing into a special election doesn’t provide people enough time to grieve, and it could be interpreted as an extremely heavy-handed and insensitive action on your part.”

  “Yolanda, I’m not here to manage public perception. I’m here to lead this state. The attorney general is a vital and critical component of this state’s governance, and without him, we are left wide open to all manner of corruption. I will not leave the state crippled. Dan, assemble a proposal regarding the earliest possible date we can hold a special election, and have that on my desk tomorrow. Thank you.”

  Without another word, Maggie walked out of the office and into the Capitol hallways. She breathed in a deep lungful of musty air and smiled at a couple state representatives. Never had she been so surrounded by people and felt so alone.

  Seven

  7:45 a.m.

  Midtown, Atlanta

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  Reed laid the ID on the counter and spoke quickly, the way he imagined an impatient investigator spoke. “Chris Thomas, Georgia Bureau of Investigation. I’m here to have a look at Senator Holiday’s residence.”

  The clerk behind the front desk gave the ID a glance, and then she shot Reed a wide smile. He was used to that smile. It was the one every nervous girl gave him when he played this impersonation game.

  It’s days like these I don’t completely hate myself.

  “Mr. Thomas, I’ll just need to check with my manager.”

  “Agent.” Reed forced himself to lean on the counter as he subtly replaced the fake state ID into his pocket and shot the clerk a wide grin. “It’s Agent Thomas, actually.”

  The woman—she couldn’t have been more than nineteen—blushed and nodded, then hurried off. Reed kept his head down and his fingers off the counter.

  In the main lobby of the condominium tower were two security cameras in the back corners, and the best he could tell, as long as he kept his face down, they wouldn’t record anything but the top of his head.

  Seconds ticked into minutes, and Reed rubbed his fingers against his sleeve. He misread her, he thought. Maybe she wasn’t as girlish and smitten as she at first seemed.

  “Agent Thomas?”

  Reed straightened and turned, still keeping his face ducked beneath the rim of the nondescript baseball hat he wore.

  A chubby man with a goatee stood behind him, his chest puffed out, and his shoulders thrown back with the air of somebody who wanted to look important and impressive but didn’t feel that way. Reed had seen it so many times before. You rarely had to convince somebody you were an agent, or an investigator, or somebody with governmental authority if you could impress them with the importance of your presence. Self-inflation took over at that point and drowned out the better judgment of your average American.

  Reed shook the manager’s hand and shot him a friendly but serious smile. At least he hoped that’s what i
t looked like.

  “Don Burk. Assistant manager and activities director at this property. Elizabeth tells me you were inquiring about Senator Holiday’s residence. May I see your ID?”

  Reed passed him the card. “That’s right, director.”

  Don’s chubby cheeks flushed at the word director. Reed guessed that to mean he scored, and he accepted the ID back.

  “I’d love to help you,” Don said. “It’s always my pleasure to cooperate with law enforcement. Unfortunately, I cannot allow entrance into a resident’s unit without a warrant. I’m sure you understand.”

  Reed nodded. “Of course. My office faxed you the warrant this morning.”

  Don frowned, then shot Elizabeth a semi-accusatory glare. She shook her head once, then turned to check the printer.

  “I’m afraid we didn’t receive that fax, agent,” Don said. “Are you sure they had the number right?”

  Reed made a show of running his hand over his face and sighing. “I’m sorry. It’s been a hell of a week. Been trying to get to the bottom of this, and it’s just one roadblock after another. You’d think something as important as the assassination of one of our own senators would garner a little more support from downtown, but every time I turn around, there are more delays. Don’t worry, Don. I know you’d help me if you had the power.”

  Reed smiled and started to turn.

  And three, two . . .

  “Wait!” Don snapped his fingers, then motioned Reed toward the hallway. “Step this way, Agent.”

  Reed followed the chubby manager into the hallway.

  Don spoke in a conspiratorial whisper, his cheeks giggling with every step of his stubby feet. “Strictly speaking, this is against corporate policy. But as the manager on-site, of course I have the power to make emergency exceptions in the name of public security. Can that be our little secret?”

  Reed winked and patted Don on the back. “You got it, director. Can’t say how much I appreciate this.”

  “No problem. Anything for the GBI. Just get me a copy of that warrant, ASAP.”

  Don led the way into the elevator and mashed the button for the fourteenth floor. Reed crossed his arms and waited as the elevator groaned and began to rise.

  Don wiped the sweat from his forehead and adjusted his vest in the way only a self-conscious man would. “You know . . . I know the senator. Used to say hello every time he came in.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Oh, yes. Me and the senator were on a first-name basis. I was pretty messed up when he passed. Seemed like a good man.”

  “He was.” As the words escaped his lips, Reed wondered if he meant them. He thought back to the cabin and Holiday’s words on the front porch while they shared cigars. How broken the senator sounded, speaking of his mistakes. Maybe Holiday wasn’t a good man at all. Maybe he was conflicted and war-torn. Certainly there were redeemable things about him. He treated Banks well, at least.

  The elevator ground to a halt, and the doors rolled back. The hallway that stretched out ahead of them was pretty much what Reed expected for a building of this class—smooth hardwood floors with clean walls, painted in a soft cream. Gold knobs and locks adorned every door, with golden light fixtures mounted overhead. It smelled clean, too.

  Reed followed Don down the hallway and around a corner to a doorway mounted in the far wall. The numbers “1409” hung on the door—also in gold. Don fished a key from his pocket and pressed it into the lock. The door opened without a sound, exposing a dark room on the other side.

  “Here you are. Senator Holiday’s residence.”

  Don made no move to leave, and Reed smiled at him. “Thank you so much. If I could have the room, please.”

  The chubby manager nodded and cleared his throat. “Of course. Let me know when you’re finished.”

  He disappeared back toward the elevator, and Reed stepped inside the condominium. He pushed the door shut with the toe of his boot, then tugged a pair of surgical gloves from his pocket. They snapped around his wrists as he pulled them on, sucking tight against his big hands.

  The metal switch on the wall snapped with surprising aggression as Reed flipped it on, flooding the kitchen with white light. A thin layer of dust already clung to the surface of the counters and appliances, but nothing was left out of place. The room was orderly, right down to the neat row of coffee mugs next to the sink.

  Reed moved into the adjoining living room. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, he looked out over the Millennium Gate Museum, the duck pond that sat beside it, and the park beyond that. In the far distance, over seven hundred yards away, the outline of Ikea sat amid the low hills and thick trees of North Atlanta. Reed remembered lying on top of that Ikea only a month prior, staring through the scope of a high-powered rifle as he aligned the crosshairs with this very living room. He remembered watching Holiday laugh and talk on his cell phone as he walked back and forth across the room, drinking wine. The senator looked relaxed as Banks walked through the door.

  Banks.

  Reed closed his eyes and again saw her walk into the kitchen through the magnification of his rifle scope. He saw her embrace her godfather and accept a glass of wine. That was the moment his whole universe turned upside down—the moment worlds collided and he made the decision not to press the trigger.

  I didn’t know. I had no clue what I was stepping into.

  No, he hadn’t known. He had no way of knowing. But even now, in the middle of it all, the reality of his decision paradigm hadn’t changed a bit.

  I’d do it again.

  Reed turned away from the window and stepped back into the kitchen. A quick search of the cabinets revealed nothing but a sparse collection of dishes and a few canned goods. Past the bare living room, a single door blocked off the bedroom. Reed tried the knob and found it locked.

  Who locks their bedroom when they leave?

  A quick manipulation of the keyhole with his lock pick produced a satisfying click, and the door opened. If the living room and kitchen were sparse and clean, the bedroom that opened beyond the door was anything but. Mounds of dirty laundry, books, newspapers, and every manner of trivial trash were heaped against every wall, barely leaving room for the twin-size bed in the middle. The reek of unwashed clothes, stale food, and God knew what else filled his nostrils.

  Reed took a step back and held his hand over his nose. “Holy shit.”

  As his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light of the room, he surveyed the mountains of trash. In one corner, a stack of six file boxes leaned to one side with sheaves of paper falling out. Bold black letters were written on the boxes, labeling them as case files from Georgia’s third state senate district. The piles of newspapers were wadded up beneath stacks of old, dusty books—everything from murder mystery novels to medical research textbooks. Reed retrieved his flashlight and clicked it on. The pale pool of light spilling over the room illuminated more dust and dirt. Reed sighed and began to sift through the books.

  “What happened, Senator? Who broke you?”

  He thought about the carefully manicured, calm, and poised individual he confronted at the cabin in North Carolina. Even the slobbering, terrified version of Mitch Holiday that he kidnapped in Atlanta was more collected and mentally refined than the bedroom indicated. Senator Holiday was a man of deep and dark secrets, and Reed wondered if his mental state was less stable than it appeared.

  Also piled with books and case files was a nightstand next to the bed, from which a small brown notebook stuck out. Reed pried it free and sat down on the bed, flipping open the worn leather cover. Dust ballooned into the air as he flipped the crinkled, water-damaged pages. Most were empty, but as he thumbed toward the back of the book, a short scrawling of black ink in strained handwriting filled the pages.

  September 3

  Agents from the FBI have contacted me regarding the investigation. I’m working with a man named Matt Rollick. I don’t know what he knows. I’m afraid to talk to him. I’m afraid of what will happen to
Banks, or what they’ll say about Frank. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen—I just wanted to make things better. I won’t talk to the FBI. I won’t do a damn thing until they can promise Banks will be protected. I’ll take my secrets to the grave if I have to. Oh, God . . . I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.

  Reed flipped the page, exposing a crude drawing of a farmhouse in the mountains, surrounded by apple trees. The next several pages were sketches of farms, empty roads, and valleys between the mountains. Reed flipped through the notebook, searching for more diary entries. He stopped over an entirely black page colored in with pen. He froze over the drawing, maneuvering the flashlight until it illuminated the whole page. A black hole was surrounded by more darkness. In the middle of the hole, wreathed in shadows, was the face of a devil, with sharp, glaring eyes, horns, and vicious fangs. At the bottom of the page, written in shaky letters, were two words: They know.

  His blood turned to ice as the demonic face watched him, judged him. He slapped the journal shut and dropped it clumsily on the nightstand, his hands suddenly sticky and numb. The notebook slipped off the table, and as it hit the floor, a dull clunk echoed from beneath the bed. Reed dropped to his knees and ran his hand beneath the bed skirt. His fingers collided with something hard and metallic, and he dragged it out, exposing a small black box with a key lock.

  Dust hung in the air as Reed settled on the floor and pulled out his lock pick again. His chest was tight with tension, and his fingers dripped sweat onto the box. The lock stuck and resisted his attempts to defeat it. He continued twisting and manipulating the tool, working the tiny keyhole until he felt the latch slide open from the inside of the box.

  The lid fell to the floor in a poof of dust, exposing a single blank, white envelope. Reed tore it open and shook it until a wallet-size photograph spilled out into his hands. It was printed in color but was worn and faded, as though it had spent the majority of its life in an actual wallet or on the dash of somebody’s car.