Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
I love the smell of violence in the morning
REED
Nothing like waking up in the middle of the night with a call informing you that your case has taken a bloody turn.
A couple of hours before sunrise, Andrews and I drove across the state to meet with the full ten-person task force in our mobile command center.
It’s basically an oversized RV-type vehicle filled with everything we need to do our jobs, from high-tech communications to weaponry.
Today, it’s parked behind a strip mall near Cocoa Beach.
In this spot, we’re close to the crime scene and to the interstate in case we need to make a quick departure to pursue other leads.
Allison Chase, our SSA—Supervisory Special Agent—clears her throat and prepares to address the squad. We all whip our heads in her direction, some of us looking more sluggish than others at this ungodly hour.
She stands slowly, drifting a few steps away from the long table running down the center of the trailer’s interior. “Listen up, team. This case has been upgraded. We’ve officially got a murder investigation on our hands.”
Despite her small stature, she’s a force to be reckoned with.
This woman is a legend at the bureau, having led the team that caught the Red Carver serial killer in the same year that she tracked down a domestic terrorist cell, preventing them from carrying out an attack at a summer concert festival that would have easily killed thousands.
Getting assigned to Allison Chase’s squad was like winning the lottery for a guy like me.
She throws a thumb over her shoulder toward the wide screen monitor behind her, then eases to the side to give us a view. One half of the screen shows a mugshot, and the other displays an interactive map of the surrounding area.
SSA Chase taps on the mugshot, enlarging it.
“Meet our vic. Troy Hartley. Age twenty-seven. Lengthy record for drugs, theft, and vandalism, hence the mugshot. Prison record suggests gang affiliation, but it doesn’t specify which one.
I’ve put in a call to the gang unit about that.
” She huffs an annoyed sigh. “His girlfriend arrived home from work around half past two this morning.” Pausing, she swipes from the mugshot to a disturbing crime scene photo.
”She found him like this and called 911. As you can see, it’s a little bloody.”
“Understatement of the year,” Romero mutters from behind his coffee cup.
His face screwed in disgust, Andrews chimes in. “Good thing I didn’t eat this morning.”
Fortunately, our SSA doesn’t linger on that gruesome photo, nor does she bother responding to the wisecracks. Her posture stiffens, signaling to everyone that the time for joking is over. Message received.
Moving her finger toward the map portion of the monitor, she directs our attention to a blue dot.
“This is the location of last night’s murder.
” She drags her finger an inch to the right.
“And this red dot is the home invasion on Skinner Street from three weeks ago. Less than a mile between the two scenes. Coincidence? That’s your job to find out. ”
Nobody objects to her challenge. We all know better when she’s in go mode.
Without pausing for more than a quick breath, she marches on with the briefing. “The Cocoa Homicide detective connected these two cases and turned them over to us. Anyone want to guess what tipped him off?”
“Casino affiliation,” I respond definitively.
Right after me, Romero and Andrews answer in unison; however, they phrase it as a question. “Casinos?”
No doubt in my mind, though.
Voice still flat and business-like, SSA Chase deadpans, “Two points for Hayes. Everyone else better keep up, or the new kid will bury you.”
Romero gives me an impish scowl, which I promptly ignore, keeping all my focus on the one who signs our checks.
“The girlfriend of our vic is employed as a cashier supervisor on the Sunset Casino gambling cruise. Same casino as the primary vic of the Skinner Street job. Local PD is at the residence. They started working the scene, but I told them to halt everything until we get there.”
She turns her sharp gaze in my direction, making my spine stiffen on reflex. “Hayes and McBride, I want you two on the scene as soon as we’re done. No mistakes on this one. These bastards are escalating the violence, and we need every last shred of evidence before someone else dies.”
I dip my chin across the table at Special Agent Luke McBride. He flicks the bill of his cowboy hat in my direction, returning the gesture in his own, hillbilly way. I half expect him to say something like much obliged or whatever shit cowboys say.
Luke’s a bit of an enigma to me. Whether he’s in casual dress like we all are today or in a suit at the office, he wears cowboy boots and that damn hat.
It might as well be his uniform. He speaks with a southern drawl that hints at Texas roots.
At times, he’s sarcastic but friendly. Other times, he’s more closed off than I am—which is saying something.
I’ve never been assigned to work closely with him, so this will be a nice change of pace. As a bonus, he’ll likely be less chatty than my mentor. I don’t see the downside here.
Our SSA doesn’t miss a beat, plowing forward with another assignment.
“Andrews, tag along with them. However, your primary focus is on questioning the girlfriend. Apparently, she’s a wreck.
” Chase waves a dismissive hand at my mentor and crinkles her nose like she’s irritated by the idea of someone having emotions.
Relatable. “Do your special thing with her. She can’t help us if she’s too upset to talk, and we need to know everything she knows .
. . like yesterday. Given her place of employment, she’s gotta be involved, one way or another. ”
And here I was foolish enough to think I would get a break from Andrews. No doubt he’ll find a way to turn this murder investigation into a life lesson on some bullshit I don’t care about. I can hear it now. Reed, if you died tomorrow, would you have anyone to cry for you like that?
Whatever.
Then again, if the victim’s girlfriend is considerably distressed, I’ll gladly take the old man's help. Consoling crying witnesses isn’t in my wheelhouse on my best days. Let alone when I’ve barely slept.
Andrews has a gentle way about him when he interacts with the public. He can calm even the most panicked witness with his soothing presence. That’s probably why he was assigned to be my mentor, considering my admittedly lackluster people skills.
SSA Chase angles her body back to the screen and gestures at another image.
“This is our suspect. Take a good look because this is all we have to go on thus far. Three seconds of doorbell cam footage of him crossing the front yard in the dark. This was taken from the house across the street to the victim’s. ”
At least this camera had a higher resolution than the others. Regrettably, like the majority of prior cases, there’s nothing we can run through facial rec. Not only is he facing away from the camera, but he’s hidden by a hoodie.
Romero lifts his coffee cup toward the monitor. “This guy has the same big build as Riddick. But he’s still under surveillance, right?”
“I haven’t heard otherwise. So he’s ruled out of this one, which could mean he isn’t the perp from the other hits, but I’m not going there yet.
He’s also too large to be Silas.” The SSA puts her hands on her hips, her intelligent eyes picking apart the photo.
“If we’re lucky, someone else on that block has cameras with some semblance of night vision so we can get a look at his face. Maybe a better angle will help us.”
She turns to Special Agent Grant Hemsley. “You’ll be on that for us. By noon, I want to know everything there is to know about this guy.”
“Dark footage with no visible features of the perp? Piece of cake,” Grant jokingly retorts. “We’ll be knocking down his front door by noon.”
SSA Chase side eyes him, and it makes my balls shrivel a little.
My head quirks to the side, and I creep closer to the monitor. “Do we think he was alone this time? None of the others have been solo jobs.”
Chase crosses her arms, scowling at the photo like it pissed in her cereal. “Since we don’t have a witness yet, your guess is as good as mine.”
Something catches my notice at the bottom edge of the screen. “Is that his shadow?”
In the lower left corner of the photo, there’s an inky spot resembling a silhouette. Despite the dark of night, muted light shines from inside the house onto the porch.
A few agents gather behind me, all of us scrutinizing the image.
With a few taps of the screen, SSA Chase pulls up the video footage to replace the still shot. We watch it a few times. It seems the silhouette is in motion, similar to the perp.
McBride offers his thoughts. “If that’s a shadow, it ain’t his. That’s for dang sure. The angle is all wrong. The light would need to be aiming toward the house for his shadow to fall that way.”
From behind me, Romero poses a theory. “Maybe someone over there is shining a flashlight toward him. An accomplice following him or coming into the yard from a different location.”
With a roll of my eyes, I quip, “Nothing says stealthily approaching a home where you’re about to murder someone like shining a fucking bright flashlight at your partner.”
“Fair,” Romero concedes. “I blame this ungodly hour for that remark. I want it stricken from the record.”
That gets a laugh out of me. On the inside.
Outwardly, I keep my focus on the screen. “Considering the bulk of hoodie guy, I seriously doubt this is his shadow.”
“Could be the female unsub instead of a shadow,” Chase suggests, her eyes narrowed to slits. “Or a smaller male.”
She only lets us sit with our musings for a beat, then she’s back at it. “Hemsley and Carson, you’re staying here in the rig to work the tech angle while the rest of us hit the field to hunt for leads. Myself included.”