The Garbage Man

by Candace Irving

  The seconds continued to tick.

  Tired of waiting, Kate shifted her face far enough to the right to sever that critical, visual connection.

  The woman flinched. Swallowed. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize you were with the...the..."

  "Police." Why not? She was in an accommodating mood. For now. "Deputy Holland, Braxton PD." She lowered her credentials, but kept them at the ready. "Ma'am, I understand your CEO is in this morning? I'd like to speak with him."

  "May I ask why?"

  "No."

  Annoyance rippled through those perfect features, leaving a pinched smile in its wake. "Just a moment."

  Ms. Model spun around, her spiked heels digging into the carpet with more force than they had earlier, as they ferried their owner back up the hall. Kate returned her attention to the logo as she waited. The same strange sensation of déjà vu returned.

  She was certain she'd seen that red and white oval before. But where? In a magazine? A billboard across town?

  Possibly.

  "Deputy Holland?"

  Kate turned as another polished brunette entered the room. Though this one was male, suited up in crisp white and hand-tailored navy blue—and had a good twenty years on the previous, feminine version. Unlike Ms. Model, he also came with an outstretched hand, a welcoming smile and a decided lack of interest in the mottled section of her face.

  It was a serious miscalculation.

  Especially his smile. That confident curve had ushered in much more than the studied avoidance of her cheek. She'd seen that same smooth smile slide onto the lips of far too many suspects as they'd prepped themselves for the coming interrogation, in the Army and out. Damned near all had turned out to be guilty.

  So what was this man hiding?

  Kate shifted her credentials to her left hand as her right met the solid grip of his. "Good morning, sir. Deputy Holland. I'm with the Braxton PD. I apologize for showing up unannounced, but I was in town and thought a quick detour worth the risk of a shuttered door. Fortunately, it paid off. Are you the CEO?"

  "No. I'm Robert Stern, Mr. Kessler's legal advisor. Unfortunately, Mr. Kessler is on a conference call. Perhaps I can be of assistance?"

  A lawyer? Peachy. Shysters ranked up there with practicing shrinks in her book. Make that, down there.

  "Mr. Stern—"

  "Robert—" another brief, easy smile, "—please."

  "Mr. Stern. I appreciate the offer, but I'd prefer to wait for Mr. Kessler." She headed for the grouping of taupe leather chairs. "I'll just make myself comfortable."

  She stopped beside a glass accent table as the lawyer sighed. "I'm sorry, Deputy, but Mr. Kessler is dealing with a critical situation whilst straddling incongruous time zones. The call is bound to take a while. And others will need to follow. However, I'm certain I can assist if you'll but share your concerns. What can a Braxton PD deputy possibly want with Madrigal's CEO?"

  "Murder."

  The word hadn't warranted so much as a blink. Impressive.

  And even more telling.

  "Mr. Stern, I appreciate your wanting to limit my idle time. I confess—lately I haven't had much to spare. I've spent the past few days examining the heinously sectioned bodies of three VA healthcare professionals, and I've been told at least two were contracted out via Madrigal Medical."

  That earned her a blink. Unfortunately, the model's had been more sincere. "Good lord, Deputy. The bodies were cut up? That's—"

  She plucked the worn newspaper off the table and brandished it. "—right here in this morning's edition." The edition he or the CEO had carried up less than an hour ago...and promptly forgotten about. Though how anyone could with a charmingly insensitive headline like "Garbage Man Bags Third Victim" she'd never know. "Damned if we can't seem to keep the ten-toed vultures from circling those dump sites and scavenging for clues." She closed in on the shyster and dropped the paper into his equally suspect hands. "The names are all there, should you need refreshing. Just below the photo of those goddamned paper bags. And, yes, I did find the bodies of Ian Kusić, Jason Dunne and Andrea Silva drained of their life's blood, hacked up and sealed inside tidy little vacuum pouches."

  A hard swallow followed. But, again, the model's had been more sincere. And, worse, sympathetic.

  Bastard.

  "And I assume you'd like—"

  "—to know if any of them were contracted out to the VA healthcare system through your company. Now."

  "I'll need a moment to have Marilee access our records."

  "I'll be right here, Mr. Stern."

  Within seconds, the lawyer wasn't.

  Too bad he'd taken the paper with him. She was curious to read the rest of the story he'd worked so hard to convince her that he and his boss hadn't. With no other reading material lying around, Kate returned to that captivating logo. She'd seen it somewhere, all right. And not up on a billboard.

  Somewhere close. Personal.

  Intimate.

  But where?

  Her musings were interrupted sooner than she'd expected.

  That didn't bode well. Damage control must truly be in full swing because, despite his professed ignorance and subsequent request for time, Stern had been ready for the police, complete with a crisp, anorexic manila folder.

  Just what was being discussed at the other end of that hall?

  Unfortunately, short of ignoring the law she'd sworn to uphold, she couldn't barge in and demand to know.

  Damn.

  "Here you go, Deputy. Everything I'm legally able to provide."

  Kate accepted the folder. A single sheet of paper lay inside. Printed upon it were the names of Ian Kusić and Andrea Silva. The starting date of Kusić's employment—three years earlier—had been typed beside his name. Silva's had two dates separated by as many years and a dash.

  Kate glanced up. "Andrea Silva left Fort Leaves?"

  Stern nodded. "Miss Silva quit six months ago. She refused to say why, or leave a forwarding address. As you may know, Mr. Kusić was employed by the VA until...recently."

  The Silva information did fit with Grant's comment that he hadn't seen the nurse in a while.

  "What about checks? Is it possible Ms. Silva stopped by your offices since, possibly to pick up overdue severance?"

  Say, last Tuesday morning around six?

  "No. Miss Silva has had zero contact with Madrigal since the morning she quit." It was firm. Unequivocal.

  Kate might've bought it too, were it not for the fact that one of the Baymont's own security guards and another Madrigal VA hire claimed differently.

  "And Jason Dunne? I don't see his name listed."

  "That's because Jason never dealt with this company."

  Jason?

  She decided not to follow up on the potential Freudian slip—for now. A sound decision, given the slight tic that had begun to flag at the side of Stern's jaw. Lawyer or not, the man's patience had been exceeded.

  As had her tolerance for nodding politely in the face of copious lies.

  "If you'll excuse me, Deputy, the CEO requires my expertise."

  She didn't doubt it. "Thank you, Mr. Stern. I appreciate your assistance."

  "Then you have everything you need?"

  Not by a long shot. But it was plain the rest would require a warrant, and there was no sense tipping him off. As a lawyer, Stern was certain to know how to operate a shredder. If not, the charming and capable Marilee would undoubtedly teach him.

  Kate offered her card in lieu of her own honest response. "If you think of anything else, please don't hesitate to call. I'll see myself out."

  She could feel the man's glare heating her back as she made her way out of the reception area. Kate took a chance on phoning her boss on her way to the elevator.

  Lou picked up as she stepped inside. "You get anythin'?"

  She had indeed. She filled the sheriff in on her stunted but telling Q&A with Stern, pleased when her phone's reception held as the elevator continued to plummet. Kate finished
with the lawyer's denial regarding Silva's numerous visits after the woman had quit, and the argument both Cal Burgess and the VA receptionist had witnessed.

  "And this ambulance-chaser called Dunne by his first name, but not the others?"

  "Yup."

  "Well, don't that just suggest all?"

  Indeed it did. Dunne might very well have obtained his position at Fort Leaves without Madrigal's involvement, but the staffing company's chief counsel knew the man—and well.

  "Boss, I need a favor."

  "You want Seth to poke through the lawyer's life."

  "Yes." The lift slowed to a stop. "Just a minute."

  Kate lowered the phone as the doors opened. Sound echoed easily in the lobby, and Cal was no longer manning that security desk. She nodded to his replacement as she passed.

  She brought the phone back to her mouth as the Baymont's main doors closed behind her. "We need to know if Robert Stern worked for Madrigal Medical, or was in private practice somewhere around Fayetteville. And have Seth run the man's name past Dunne's folks to see if it rings a bell." The connection could be as simple—and deadly—as a friend of the family.

  "I'm on it."

  Kate checked the tires on two vehicles that hadn't been in the lot earlier as she headed for her Durango. Neither matched the casts they had at the lab. She was about to hang up when she felt the vibe in their conversation shift.

  And then, "How you holdin' up, kiddo?"

  Great. She should've guessed Lou would take the opportunity to check on her psyche. It wasn't as though he could've broached the topic of that stone marker and the third body's proximity to it during their earlier briefing with Joe and Agent Walker.

  Kate paused beside her Durango and turned to lean her back against the driver's door, needing the crisp morning air and the wide openness of the lot as last night and this morning came crashing in.

  That blasted Silver Star pinned to her pillow.

  The complete lack of prints.

  Waking up from yet another hazy night terror in a clammy, sweat-slicked ball in the corner of her closet.

  "I'm fine, boss."

  "Possum shit. I can hear it in your voice."

  Yeah, well, what had he expected?

  "Yikes. Got another call coming through. Need to go." She hung up before Lou could nail her on that too.

  Kate closed her eyes as the lingering adrenaline of a promising lead sank into the smothering sludge that, once again, had begun to bubble up and churn.

  Damn it. She could not do this. Not here. Not now.

  She had a job to do. A murderer to catch.

  She spun around and grabbed the handle to her driver's door, tugging firmly before she realized she'd forgotten to use her remote to pop the SUV's locks.

  The door opened anyway.

  Gooseflesh prickled up her spine as she bent down to scan the Durango's cargo area and back seat through the tempered glass. Both were exactly as she'd left them.

  The front seat was not.

  11

  Shock gave way to suspicion, certainty—and, yes, relief—as Kate stared at the pair of military ID tags dangling from the Durango's rearview mirror as she slid into the driver's seat. Though her grip on sanity might be tenuous at times, it was holding. Ruger was right. Someone had been in their house. Someone who, despite Ruger's snarlingly determined presence, had deftly retrieved that Silver Star from her trunk, wiped it free of prints and pinned it to her pillow.

  She was not stalking herself.

  But someone was.

  The proof was in the name, social security number, blood type and lapsed religious preference stamped into those twin, seemingly innocuous slivers of stainless steel.

  They were anything but. Like the watch she'd automatically begun to twist, those tags belonged to Max.

  They shouldn't exist. Not here, in Arkansas.

  Hell, not even in the States.

  Unlike Max's watch and body, those tags had never made it home. She knew, because she'd asked. Begged. According to the fellow CID agent who'd interviewed her following her escape from that compound, the tags had disappeared before the crime scene unit had arrived. Only that hadn't made sense even then, while she was still curled up in the fetal position on that hospital cot. She could understand Max's murder, but why strip him of his tags?

  The bodies of the two other soldiers who'd made it as far as the compound had still had theirs around their necks. Hell, the bastards had even left hers in place. How had singling Max out for special treatment fit into his killers' collective jihad? Especially since she'd been successful in sending the entire bunch to Paradise earlier than those assholes had planned.

  But these were Max's tags.

  Any suspicion that they were fake disappeared as Kate spotted the pair of tiny dents along the edge of the tag missing its bumper. She'd created them herself during a friendly tussle in Max's tent the night before they'd left on that last, fateful mission. No one else knew that.

  So how had these tags made it from that Afghan terror hold to her Durango's stateside rearview mirror?

  Who had strung them up?

  And why?

  Ruger. Lord, she needed his thick fur and solid hugs. Desperately. Before she ended up twisting Max's watch right through her wrist. The skin beneath had been scraped raw, but she couldn't stop.

  Until her phone rang.

  The lilting notes pierced the panic long enough for her to retrieve her phone and check the caller ID. It was from Saint Clare's.

  Sergeant Fremont.

  For some reason, the interruption was enough to reset her brain. She didn't question it; she simply connected the call before her nerves had a chance to betray her again. "Good morning, Sergeant."

  "Steve. And it is a good morning, isn't it? Because we both made it home to see it."

  Kate pulled a fortifying breath of that same morning air deep into her lungs and smiled despite herself. "What's up?"

  "Information. Can you make it into Little Rock today? We need to meet. I came across something you should know."

  "I'm already here. But please tell me you haven't been poking around, asking about missing blood."

  "Okay. I haven't."

  Yes, he had.

  But had she honestly believed he'd comply with her order to stand down? The man had been Special Forces. A notoriously tenacious branch, down to the last soldier. And something told her this soldier was more tenacious than most. He'd have to be, given how generous he was with his fellow vets, despite the karmic shit that had rained down on his own body and soul over there.

  The man was also homeless. And, since she suspected he tended to reserve whatever meager benefits Uncle Sam had deigned to cough up to ease the plight of his fellow vets, most likely hungry.

  Kate grabbed the Durango's door and closed it. "I've got a search I need to check on before I head back to Braxton, but I could do with a quick bite." A bit of distracting company wouldn't hurt either.

  She stared at the dog tags still dangling six inches from her face. The more distracting the better.

  "There's a twenty-four hour diner across the street from Saint Clare's. It's shaped like one of those old metallic Airstream campers. It's called the Silver Bullet."

  "I know the place."

  "Great. I'm still at the shelter, but I can be there in ten minutes."

  Kate unhooked the beaded, stainless-steel chain from the Durango's mirror and rode out a shudder as she slipped the tags into her jacket pocket. "I'm on the other side of Little Rock. Grab a table. I'll be there in twenty."

  Between the relatively early hour and the sparse Sunday traffic, she made it in eighteen.

  Kate passed the church's crowded lot and pulled into the first in a row of parking slots in front of the diner. As soon as mass let out, the vehicular tide would shift and the entire row and restaurant beyond would be packed with hungry parishioners. But for now, nearly all the Silver Bullet's spots were up for grabs.

  So why, as she bailed ou
t of her SUV, did she feel as though someone was nearby, watching?

  The sensation was faint, but palpable enough for her to slow her pace as she made her way toward the diner's door, so she could discreetly scan the sidewalk and street beyond.

  She was alone. And clearly paranoid.

  Hell, after those tags, who wouldn't be?

  She shrugged off the sensation and stepped inside the Silver Bullet. The diner's tables were mostly deserted, save for two elderly couples and Sergeant Fremont. He'd staked out a spot to the right of the entrance and swapped out the facing chair with his wheels, leaving the closer seat for her. A slightly pregnant teenaged waitress stood beside him, setting out a pair of black coffees as Kate approached.

  "Good morning, officer. Cream and sugar?"

  "No, thanks."

  "Okay." She smiled at Fremont. "Well, breakfast will be out shortly."

  As the waitress left, the vet leaned forward to tilt the spare chair out. Kate removed her Braxton PD jacket and hooked it across the metal shoulders of the proffered seat.

  "Thanks."

  "I hope you don't mind, but I already ordered. Bountiful Breakfast, times two. Figured it would shave off a few minutes of the wait; plus the spread comes with enough eggs, bacon and toast to feed a squad."

  "Sounds perfect." Kate flushed as her stomach underscored the sentiment with a series of gurgles.

  "Let me guess: long night, followed by a longer morning."

  "Correct on both counts. I imagine you saw this morning's headlines?"

  "About the third body? Yeah."

  She leaned into the table. "Then you know why I wish you wouldn't go poking around right now. Steve, this guy isn't playing. Not to mention that both men he's taken down should've been able to defend themselves—mentally and physically—but couldn't."

  "Trust me, I appreciate the concern. But I also know you'll change your mind when I share what I've discovered."

  "Then you've spoken to the vets who claimed Kusić took their blood without permission?"

  "Can't. They're gone."

  Kate straightened. "All three of them?" Fremont had said the men were homeless. "Did they move on?"

  "In a manner of speaking. They vanished. As in, not a trace left to track. Not a one said where he was going, let alone that he'd planned on leaving—and before you ask, none of these guys had family. Not any that cared. There was no one to 'go home' to. That's why they were on the street."