Chapter 11
ELEVEN
Morgan Freeman has entered the chat
REED
Two days later, and once again, Andrews is incessantly tapping his fucking wedding ring on the steering wheel. Suspicion confirmed—he has a death wish. Or at minimum, a dismemberment wish.
“You good with the plan?” he asks.
Inhaling slowly, I fill my lungs with oxygen, then wait a few seconds before exhaling.
My delay has nothing to do with the question he asked.
It’s merely so that I don’t snap at him for the eightieth time today.
He’s bound and fucking determined to get under my skin about Lila. My sister. My personal life.
All of it.
Plus, I really don’t want to strike an old man when I’m this close to the end of my quasi-training in the Violent Crimes unit.
Patience in check, I finally answer, recapping the oh-so-complicated plan. Eye roll. “Yeah. Spend time with her. Earn her trust. Find out what she’s hiding so we can either help her or bust her, whichever it may be.”
And try not to fuck her in the process because I’ll be the one who ends up fucked in the long run.
After Andrews spoke with Lila the other day at her blackjack table, he quickly got on board with my little casino conspiracy theory.
He thought she was hiding something too.
Same with Dana. When you add in the fact that every case our team is working on has some connection to a casino, it’s a no-brainer.
Now my hunch has turned into a full-blown part of the investigation.
Lila is our way in. She’s the weak spot, and I’m the lucky one who gets to put the screws to her.
Annnd now I’m thinking about screwing her.
Fuck.
Considering Elliot Riddick matches the approximate height and weight of the male home invasion unsub, we put him under surveillance. It’s only a matter of time until he does something that confirms he’s involved.
As for Lila’s ex, he’s in the wind, which only furthers our suspicion of him.
After exhaustive searches, we concluded Silas Everson is an alias.
In all the systems the bureau has access to, nobody by that name matches his physical description and approximate age.
There were no bank or credit card accounts that we could link to him.
No property. No vehicle registration. Not even a cell phone account.
In this day and age, the idea of him not having a cell is laughable.
Despite the lack of identification, we have found him in more surveillance photos around town. He spent substantial time at the casino several months ago. Far less since then.
Andrews is certain that I can get Lila to talk about whatever is happening at the casino if I apply a little pressure. I guess he’s a fucking fortune teller now or some shit.
The problem with his assertion is that he doesn’t know her like I do. Or rather, know her effect on me and how all my training and investigative skills evaporate at the first sniff of her pheromones.
Although I’m no Superman, Lila Kent is my fucking kryptonite.
Suffice it to say, I’m less confident in my ability to turn her.
However, I’ll give it my best try because I’m no fucking quitter.
I’m choosing to view spending time with her as exposure therapy.
The more I force myself to be in her orbit, the better I’ll be able to resist her.
It worked for the gambling, so it’ll work on my addiction to her too.
Probably.
Maybe.
My partner’s heavy sigh reverberates around the car’s interior. “You sure?”
I spear my fingers through my hair in frustration. “Yeah. I got it, man. It’s not a complicated plan. What’s with the third degree?”
“I’m not asking if you understand the plan, Reed.
I’m simply ensuring you’re on board before we go inside and pitch it to the team.
” His wrinkled cheek quivers, thanks to his shit-eating grin.
“I’d hate to be accused of forcing you into an uncomfortable situation.
Hanging around a beautiful woman and all. I know how much you hate people.”
An agitated groan escapes me. “Argh. Thanks for your concern, dick. Let’s go fucking talk to the team.”
After the last few days of fact-finding, interviews, and chasing leads, the full task force is convening to review details from all the home invasion investigations to ensure we’re on the same page.
In total, eight homes were hit, which we believe were committed by the same perps.
Four homes in Florida, two in Louisiana, one in Missouri, and one in North Carolina.
In each case, a pair of individuals entered the house, assaulted and restrained the occupants, then proceeded to trash the home.
Nothing was stolen from any of the scenes.
It seems to be violence and vandalism for the sake of intimidation.
Most notably, at each scene, the perps fired a series of bullets into a wall. If the home had family photos, those were hit. Otherwise, it was the bedroom wall of the homeowner’s child. Mrs. Ross’ assumption that they were threatening to harm her family if they had to return was spot on.
Shooting at a wall is a bizarre calling card, but it’s odd enough to stand out and will help with prosecution once the time comes. Ballistics on the bullets and casings found at the scenes show the same gun was used for all instances.
Unfortunately, not all the victims were as lucky as Mrs. Ross.
During the Mississippi home invasion, the homeowner was shot when he pulled his gun on the intruders. He’s still in the ICU nearly two weeks later. His spouse works as a craps dealer at a riverboat casino.
In one of the South Florida cases, the victim took a rough hit to the head. Last we heard, she has only a twenty-five percent chance of surviving. Her husband works as a floorman—sort of a step down from the Pit Boss—at a casino on a tribal reservation.
Those who fought back got it far worse than those who were relatively compliant, like Mrs. Ross. That isn’t always true of violent crime. Sometimes fighting back is the only thing that saves your life.
Sadly, there isn’t a magic formula for knowing which approach is best when something horrific like this happens.
Most criminals don’t play by any rules.
With the first wave of investigation complete, we need time to pool our clues so we can identify the path to the bad guys.
Since in all cases, someone in the home worked at a casino, we’re operating under the assumption that these acts of violence were committed to force them into complying with an unknown crime involving the casinos—theft, intel gathering for a heist, or flat-out cheating.
Given how shaken up some of the victims have been, I’d say it’s working.
Lila’s potential involvement is still dangling in the back of my mind, rattling like a fucking wind chime in a hurricane.
The only thing is, there was no evidence of a home invasion at her place.
I saw no signs of violence. No bullet holes in a wall.
And she never called the cops to report anything.
While I’m relieved she wasn’t attacked, suspicion floods through my veins.
If Lila isn’t a victim, could she be a perpetrator?
Is that why she jumped when Silas called on the night of the key swipe dick grab?
It’s one possible explanation.
A few years ago, that thought would never have crossed my mind. But now? Things have changed.
And not for the better.
Lila Kent isn’t the sweet, innocent woman I once believed her to be. She’s just like everyone else.
With the right motivation, anyone is capable of horrific things—even her.
Andrews turns off the ignition and reaches for the door handle. “Okay. Let’s roll.”
We head into the regional FBI office in relative silence.
Before entering the briefing room, he pauses in front of the door.
“Assuming this goes as we plan, try not to fall in love with the person of interest. You’ll end up the laughingstock of the division, which will reflect poorly on me.
I don’t need that in my life this close to retirement. ”
I flip him off.
Mentally.
“Very funny.”
“I feel responsible for you, kid. Like my little peacock, growing his feathers and learning to strut.”
I blow right past him and quip, “If you’re trying to get me to call you Dad, you’re gonna be sorely disappointed.”
Unbidden, a memory from the movie The Other Guys pops into my head when Mark Wahlberg’s character yells, “I am a peacock. You got to let me fly.”
Iconic.
Unlike in the movie, I won’t be yelling that across a police station. And I probably won’t kick over a water cooler.
Unless Andrews starts badgering me about my brother again. Then all bets are off.
There she is.
And she already looks happy to see me. Nice. Tonight’s plan is already off and running.
Out of nowhere, Morgan Freeman’s voice pops into my head, taking on the role of my life’s narrator. In actuality, Lila was not happy to see him. And our hero’s plan was stalling at the gates.
Well, that’s new.
Shaking off the temporary bout of insanity, I swagger toward Lila’s car as she closes the door. “What brings a lovely lady like you to a place like this?”
Her mahogany eyes sparkle with the irritation I’ve come to expect when she sees me. It’s oddly comforting. “Where’s the opt-out button for this interaction?”
She schleps a giant bag of black sunflower seeds over her shoulder and storms toward her apartment, effectively dismissing me.
Huh. I’m starting to suspect she’s not happy to see me.
Maybe Morgan Freeman was right.
“Let me carry that for you,” I offer as I fall in step with her.
She tightens her grip on the bag of seeds and glares at me. “I can manage just fine on my own. Now tell me why you’re here and how quickly you’re leaving.”
I raise my hands in an I-give-up gesture, letting her carry the load on her own. “I was hoping I could take you out for a drink. Or dinner.” I shrug, adding, “Since you’re off early tonight.”