Chapter 50 Dammit, Miss Cleo
FIFTY
Dammit, Miss Cleo
REED
Andrews jolts awake when I tap on the passenger window.
“Sleeping on the job again, old man?”
He jabs his finger on the door lock button. “Morning. Hope you got plenty of rest last night.”
Ha. He must be practicing to be a comedian. A haggard one, judging by the look of him.
“If by plenty of rest, you mean no rest, then yes.” I click my seatbelt into the buckle and grin. “Sleep is overrated, anyhow.”
“Mark my words. You’ll change your tune by the end of the day.”
“Don’t bet on it,” I mutter.
Sleep is far from essential when the alternative involves a naked Lila in my bed.
My partner harrumphs, then clicks his tongue despondently. “I’ve just got that feeling, kid.”
Shit.
He better not fucking say it.
To prevent him from making a grave error, I go for a cheap joke. “Your prostate acting up again?”
He takes the jab in good humor, responding with a groan-laugh combo.
Then does the unthinkable.
“It’s the case. Something tells me this is gonna be a shitty day.”
Feigning outrage, I mockingly pound my fist into the console. “Dammit, Warren. You know better than to challenge fate. You might as well have said it’s quiet today.”
“Whoops.” He rubs one of his bloodshot eyes, sounding nonplussed. “I blame the lack of sleep.”
I shoot a sarcastic glare across the car at him. “Not a valid excuse.”
“Sorry if I jinxed us. But I mean it, man. It feels like we’re on the verge of something big.”
“Are you clairvoyant now? Will you be changing your name to Special Agent Cleo and speaking with a fake Jamaican accent?”
His chest hitches with a laugh. “Aren’t you a bit young to know who Miss Cleo is?”
“Nobody is too young to know anything in the age of the internet.”
When we merge onto the interstate, heading east, we put on our sunglasses simultaneously. They don’t call this the Sunshine State for nothing.
Thirty minutes into the drive, Andrews is fading fast.
After his fifth yawn, I make a life-saving suggestion. “Why don’t you pull over? I’ll drive so you can get a power nap for the last hour.”
His head rears back, and his mouth crimps like he’s shocked by the offer. “Thanks, kid.” He flicks on the blinker, moving into the exit lane. “I need to take a leak anyhow.”
Swatting at the low-hanging fruit, I quip, “See? I knew it was your prostate that you were feeling. Not some shit about the case.”
After a short stop, I’m behind the wheel, and we’re back en route to Cocoa to the scene of a double murder.
Before Andrews nods off, I ask, “Did I miss anything last night after I took Lila home?”
“Actually, yeah. Thanks for reminding me.” His mouth stretches with yet another yawn.
“The guys split into pairs so they could follow a few players when they left the casino. They were hoping somebody would lead them to Silas or whoever is really running the show. Or maybe an STK meetup spot. We figured they had to do something with their winnings.”
“And?”
“They thought it made sense to tail that initial couple who exchanged the signal with Lila. Despite being stuck like glue all night long, the pair went separate ways as soon as they got into the casino parking lot. Hemsley and Fowler tailed the male. McBride and Romero followed the female.”
“Any luck?”
“Unfortunately, the male didn’t make any stops on his way home, which, incidentally, matched the address on his DL. Our guys waited to see if someone would show up. Nada.”
“At least they confirmed his address, which might make executing his arrest easier when we do the big bust.”
“True. McBride and Romero had better luck trailing the redhead. She did make a stop.”
This sounds promising.
“Where?”
“Gas station to buy a soda.”
Less promising.
“Curiously, she brought her purse into the store but returned to her car without it.”
And we’re back into promising territory.
“Must be the money drop location,” I surmise.
“That’s the theory.”
“Did McBride and Romero check the video from inside the gas station?”
“Not yet. The only other person inside was the clerk. So the gal either stashed the money somewhere inside for it to be picked up later, or she gave it to him directly.”
I jump to the point, surmising, “And if the clerk is involved, the FBI asking for surveillance video would tip off the crime ring.”
“Exactly. They snapped a shit load of pictures from the car.”
“McBride and Romero made a good call then. We can’t let these fuckers know we’re getting close until after Lila gets the meeting with Silas.”
He reclines his seat and yawns again. “I think that was about it on the updates. Given how damn late we finished, I bet the team will be as tired as I am.” He arches a suspicious brow at me. “Speaking of which. Why are you so chipper?”
Smirking, I respond, “One day closer to catching these fuckers and saving my girl.”
Andrews sleepily pats my upper arm twice. “Glad to see you happy. You deserve a good woman like her.”
I’m glad his eyes are likely closed so he can’t see how big my damn smile is. Whether deserving or not, I’m never letting Lila go.
When we arrive at the jetty, I park behind a row of police squad cars. “This must be the place.” After I toss the keys back to Andrews, I jump out of the car.
He exits a few seconds after me, languidly stretching his arms over his head. While he does that, I mentally prepare for whatever I’m about to see.
Tugging a swell of salty sea air into my lungs, I visualize that protective vapor brushing through me. Same as always, when I open my eyes, I feel lighter.
Falling in step with me, Andrews points out two FBI vans among the cluster of law enforcement vehicles. “ERT beat us here.”
“Cowboy did too,” I add, my eyes catching on Agent McBride standing with his back to us, hat and all.
A uniformed officer lifts the yellow caution tape, allowing us to pass. “Morning, gentlemen.”
As I bend under the tape, I smile and thank her, drawing a bemused look from Andrews.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing at all,” he says through a knowing grin.
McBride sees our approach and waves us over. “It’s ‘bout damn time.”
“We had to wait for a protection detail for Lila,” Andrews explains.
I’m such a shit. He’s covering for me while I was about to blame his old man bladder for the two additional stops we made on the drive across the state.
Luke casts a smirk at me. “You still smilin’ today, rook?”
“Fuck off,” I toss without venom.
With the obligatory bullshitting out of the way, Luke gets us up to speed. “911 call came in around three this morning. Some lovers taking a moonlit stroll found a body washed up on the beach. When the cops arrived, they fanned out and found a second victim.”
I survey the area, noting a group of ERT techs erecting a pop-up tent at the base of the fishing pier. “I take it one of the bodies is over there.”
“That’s the one the cops found when they arrived. Caucasian female washed up on the rocks. Throat was slit. ”
“Where’s the other vic?” Andrews asks, head on a swivel.
McBride fans his hand in the opposite direction like he’s swatting flies. “About five hundred feet over yonder. Hemsley’s there with the second ERT squad.”
As we edge under the pier to approach the rocks, I ask Luke, “How do we know these murders are related to our case?”
He clicks his tongue impishly. “Oh, you’ll see.”
The body comes into view, instantly proving his point. Not only is the connection obvious, it’s also nauseating.
The victim is dressed in a black and white casino dealer’s uniform, uncomfortably similar to what Lila wears to work.
Despite my little protection ritual, I’m peppered with tiny tendrils of fear that refuse to be contained in the mist.
Andrews stops at the edge of the rock wall. “You two tough guys got this. I’m too close to retirement for a morning stroll on slippery rocks. I’ll hunt down the medical examiner.”
I roll my eyes at him and carefully navigate a path along the jagged rocks. McBride trails me, risking his life in those cowboy boots.
Lowering to one knee, I study the victim’s face, attire, and body.
Other than her throat, I don’t see any other injuries, cuts, or bruises.
Wrists and ankles don’t show any signs of restraint.
Her neck wound is deep and cleanly sliced.
I’m not a doctor, but I can’t imagine anyone surviving that type of wound.
Her soaked clothing clings to her thin frame, making it easy to see her front pockets are empty. The chest area of her solid white uniform shirt is tinged pink in a few spots.
Although her face is a bluish-white and bloated from the saltwater bath she had in the Atlantic, she looks familiar.
Arching a brow at Luke, I ask, “Doesn’t she resemble the wife from the Skinner Street home invasion?”
McBride squats beside me, removing his hat and placing it over his heart in a silent show of respect for the deceased. “Looks like her. Poor thing.”
I examine the rocks surrounding the body for clues or anything else that might have washed up with her. Nothing. ERT will go over the area with a fine-tooth comb and let us know if they find something.
Luke puts his cowboy hat on. “SSA Chase was right,” he grumbles, disgust stiffening his jawline. “The gang is pruning the dead ends. Must be getting ready to run.”
“Rather than running, I suspect they’re closing shop so they can move on to the next grift. They don’t want to press their luck. Just like any other robbery, you need to get in and out swiftly. Otherwise, you risk getting caught.”
“Then why the hell did they kill Troy Hartley to get the dye? I figured they needed it to keep this scam going. Maybe they’re taking the act on the road to yet another state.”