Make It Out Alive (Quinn & Costa Thrillers #7)

Chapter 1

Matt Costa stood rigid in the cramped observation room of the Flagler County Sheriff’s Department, the air thick with sweat

and adrenaline. Beside him, District Attorney John Anson buzzed with barely contained triumph—nearly two hours in, and he

was still riding high. Garrett Reid had walked straight into a felony: the attempted abduction of two undercover agents. No

resistance, no fighting back. Just a quiet, eerie surrender, like a man who already knew the outcome.

Now, behind the glass, Reid sat pale and dazed under the harsh fluorescent lights, looking from Detective Bianca Fuentes to

FBI Agent Michael Harris. His confusion had to be an act. Why didn’t he ask for a lawyer from the beginning? Reid couldn’t

be this clueless. Yet all he had done for one hour, forty minutes was listen, answer simple questions, repeat that there was

a misunderstanding, and shake his head in disbelief. Eventually, he would clam up. Eventually, he would ask to make a call.

Matt, though pleased Reid had been captured without anyone on his team injured, was not as excited about the arrest as the DA.

There was something scratching at the back of his mind, an itch that it had all happened too easily, too smoothly.

They needed physical evidence or a confession to prove he was the murderer they’d been looking for; if they got the confession, they needed information to lead them to physical evidence.

Until Matt had tangible proof in which to wrap up this case with an unimpeachable bow, he wouldn’t be satisfied.

Reid checked all the boxes of Dr. Catherine Jones’s profile. Single, white, male. He was thirty, right in the sweet spot of

her twenty-five to forty age range. Above average IQ, and had worked at the resort where the newlyweds went missing, in a

position that was below his skill set—Reid was a college graduate who worked in Maintenance at Sapphire Shoals. Attractive,

fit, personable, lived alone. Check, check, check, and check.

Flagler County law enforcement had called the FBI for assistance shortly after the abduction of the third pair of newlyweds

one month ago. At first, they treated the case as missing persons, but when the bodies of Mitch and Sheila Avila washed up

on shore a week later, it became a double homicide—the fifth and sixth murders of what they now knew was a serial killer targeting

honeymooning couples at the large, popular resort.

The idea for Matt and Kara to pose as newlyweds had been Catherine’s—and it was a good one. Kara matched the profile of the

three murdered women: in their thirties, blonde, petite. She and Catherine crafted a convincing backstory, similar enough

to the victims to draw attention but not so exact as to raise suspicion. Kara slipped easily into the undercover role; Matt

didn’t. Every quiet moment felt like a countdown. He couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching, waiting to strike.

But he trusted his team.

Five days into their staged “honeymoon,” Garrett Reid made his move.

He drugged their breakfast. Knowing the victims had been drugged, Matt and Kara had tested each meal for ketamine—when this time the coffee and juice tested positive, they pretended to pass out.

Reid crept into their cottage. As soon as he entered with a laundry cart—perfect for transporting two bodies—Matt’s team swooped in and made the arrest.

In the interview room, Detective Fuentes, a seasoned detective who had been spearheading the investigation locally, had already

gone through preliminary questions. Name, address, place of employment, a timeline of Reid’s morning. Softball questions,

almost friendly. She offered water and soda, tried to make him comfortable, but he maintained that look of confusion.

“I really don’t understand why I’m here,” Reid said, not for the first time.

“We arrested you for assault and kidnapping, do you understand the charges?”

“I understand what you think, but I don’t understand why you think I did anything wrong,” Reid said. “It’s clearly a misunderstanding.” He nodded, as if to emphasize his theory.

“Just a misunderstanding.”

Reid didn’t look like a killer, but after nearly fifteen years in the Bureau, Matt had learned never to judge by appearances.

Not every killer looked the part. Reid was attractive in an unremarkable way—dark, neatly cut hair; suntanned skin from working

outdoors; clear blue eyes; a strong jawline. Fit but not imposing, he looked harmless.

Fuentes said, “At 9:15 this morning, you delivered room service to cottage 14, one of the private beachside suites at the

Sapphire Shoals Resort and Spa, registered to Mathias and Kara Costa. Correct?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Reid said. His demeanor remained polite and confused. That he wasn’t agitated bothered Matt. He should be nervous

by now.

“And you delivered the food through the main door, correct?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And then, fifty minutes later, you entered the cottage from the private beachside entrance.”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah.”

“You had a laundry cart with you.”

“Uh-huh,” he said.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you enter the cottage with a laundry cart?”

He frowned, as if thinking. “I saw them, the Costas? I saw them on the floor. I thought they were hurt.”

“Why didn’t you call security? Or your manager?” Michael interjected. He played the part of the stern, disapproving cop. It

wasn’t an act.

“I wanted to confirm. You know, it was weird, and I was just walking by—”

“You were walking by with a laundry cart on the beach,” Fuentes said.

“Not the beach—I was on the path,” he said. “The cart was there, but the housekeeping staff wasn’t around, and it was a hazard,

so I was taking it back to the storage room, and that path is faster. Like I said, just a misunderstanding. I’m sorry. Can

I go now?”

“No,” Michael said. “Why did you take the cart into the cottage?”

Reid shrugged. “I don’t really know. I didn’t think about it.”

“Do you make it a habit to walk into guest rooms without being invited?” Michael said.

“I told you,” Reid said, showing the first sign of exasperation, “I thought they were in distress. I didn’t—I guess I didn’t

really think much, I wanted to help, so I went in.”

Fuentes changed the subject. A good way to throw him off, Matt knew. He used the tactic himself at times.

“Do you know Josh and Emily Henderson?”

“No.”

“They were guests at the resort last fall, two months after you started working there.”

“I don’t remember most of the guests.”

“What about Kevin and Jenny Blair?”

“No,” he said in a polite but firm tone. “I said I don’t remember most of the guests, and I don’t even handle room service. I only took room service to that cottage because

Ginger—she works the kitchen—was busy. I was going on my break in that direction and offered to take it for her.”

Reid had strong evaluations from his supervisor. Staff liked him because he was always willing to help out, thus his excuse

that he was helping Ginger was believable.

They’d already confirmed with Ginger that this was true; however, it was unusual.

Matt believed Garrett on this point, because it would give him a partial alibi. It wasn’t his job, he didn’t know what was

under the domes, he just delivered the food, he had no idea who could have added the ketamine to the orange juice and coffee.

A plausible excuse.

“Mitch and Sheila Avila. They stayed in the cottage next door to the Costa suite one month ago. You repaired their leaky shower.”

Reid shrugged. “I do a lot of repairs, so I probably did. But I don’t remember them.”

“You’re telling me that you—as an employee—don’t remember the six guests who were murdered over the course of the last seven

months? No one on staff talked about it? Management didn’t have a staff meeting to discuss how six people went missing from the resort and were later found dead?”

Reid hesitated. This was a mistake. Matt could practically see him quickly calculating the situation.

At that moment, Matt had no doubt of Garrett Reid’s guilt. He was almost positive when they arrested him in their cottage, but this hesitation, the shrewdness behind his eyes, and Matt was certain.

But everything they had was circumstantial. A good lawyer would get this guy off. They needed physical evidence that tied

Garrett Reid to at least one of the victims.

“Of course I heard about the people who disappeared from the resort, but I don’t remember their names. It didn’t have anything

to do with me. Alena—Alena Porter, the manager—she said that if we saw anything unusual, or anyone hanging around where they

shouldn’t be, to call security. And, um, they added a couple security officers I heard?” He shrugged. “I just fix stuff. I

do good work, ask my boss.”

Michael asked, “Take us through today. When you clocked in, what you did, when Ginger asked you to take the tray to cottage

14, and go from there.”

“I already told you,” Reid whined.

“Tell us again. We need to document every minute of your day from when you arrived at work until you were arrested.”

“And then I can go?”

Fuentes said, “You are under arrest, Mr. Reid. You’re not going anywhere. You’ll be arraigned on Monday and the judge will

decide whether you are released on bail or remanded into custody.”

Matt winced. That was exactly the wrong thing to say. She should have just repeated Michael’s question, not answered his.

Reid stared at her. “I, uh, well, I think—dammit. I didn’t do anything. I’m innocent. But you think I’m guilty.”

“Convince me that you’re not,” Fuentes said.

“I didn’t do anything!” He now sounded like any criminal proclaiming his innocence. “I swear, it’s a misunderstanding, and

I didn’t mean harm to anyone.” He took a deep breath. “I think I need a lawyer now.”

Well, shit.

Anson scowled and tapped on the window. Interview over.

“We’ll contact the public defender’s office,” Fuentes began.

“No, I’d like to make a call,” he said. “I know a lawyer who’ll help me.”