Chapter 19
NINETEEN
CHIEF TURNER
(Yes, you read that right.)
Of all the asshole rich kids I’ve come across, Sebastian Lockwood is one of the least obnoxious I’ve ever met. But that doesn’t mean that I’m not pissed at having to order one of my officers to come with me to check up on his wife, simply because she’s been out of his sight for fifteen minutes.
I haven’t spoken to the Lockwoods’ security guard that we have in holding personally, but I watched a little of the interrogation, because Sebastian’s parents and their equally obscenely rich friends have all donated a shit ton of money to the Greenacres Police Department in the last ten years.
I’m not saying they own my ass, but if they call and ask for a welfare check, then you can be damn sure I’m going to send someone to do a welfare check.
This situation with the Lockwood kids’ security is a new one.
Right now, the guy is facing multiple felony charges as well as a civil suit that’s going to make sure he can’t even get a library card, let alone a job or a mortgage in the future.
He fucked up, and from what I saw while watching his interview, he knows it too.
What I, and the detectives who interviewed him, don’t get is why he took the pictures and videos in the first place.
According to Tom Underhill, the Lockwoods are great employers.
They pay well, the job is easy, and until a month ago, he’d never even spoken to Starling Lockwood, the woman he’s protecting.
Now I’d assumed she was a trust fund brat who’d never spoken to the guys who are paid to protect her because she was too stuck up to lower herself to talk to the help. But according to Tom Underhill, until recently they’d been covert security, protecting her without her ever knowing who they are.
I don’t understand why this guy would fuck up a cushy job like this with no real endgame in mind. He’s admitted that he took the videos and pictures with the intention of blackmailing the Lockwoods, but we can’t find any attempt by him to extort money from his employers.
My tech guys found proof of him uploading the images and videos to various porn sites, but nothing asking for money.
The whole thing stinks. We know that Underhill isn’t working alone, but he refuses to say who his accomplice is.
The messages we found between the two of them suggest that whoever he’s working with wants to go from blackmail to something a whole lot more dangerous.
But whoever this person is, they know how to hide their tracks, because we can’t figure out who they are.
Opening my cell, I watch as the tracker in Starling Lockwood continues to move farther and farther away from Kingsacre University.
Instead of heading toward the mall or the Lockwoods’ palatial estate, she’s moving toward an industrial area in South Acres that’s full of run-down warehouses and shitty factories.
“Do you know of any boutiques, bars, or restaurants that the wife of a millionaire would want to visit in South Acres?” I ask the officer who is driving.
“In South Acres,” he scoffs. “I can’t think of anywhere I’d want to visit, and I’ve got about twenty-five bucks in my checking account.”
“Yeah, that’s what I figured,” I say, more to myself than to him. “So why would she be going there?” Pursing my lips, I suck in a breath. “Hey, Hank, put your foot down. I’m starting to get a bad feeling about this one,” I tell him.
Eyeing me questioningly, Hank nods, and the cruiser lurches forward.
“It looks like she’s stopped moving,” I tell Hank five minutes later as we hit the edge of one of the most run-down parts of South Acres, where trash is piled in the street and there are more burned-out cars than there are ones with all four wheels still attached.
“Boss, this part of town is sketchy as hell,” Hank says.
“It sure is,” I agree, scanning the streets as we drive forward. Tapping my screen, I find the number I’m looking for, then hit call, lifting my cell to my ear. It’s answered on the second ring.
“Watkins, did you find out what type of car Courtney Ortega drives?” I ask.
“Her name is on the title for a silver Mercedes.”
“A flashy car like that should be pretty easy to spot if they’re together and in her car,” I say quietly to myself. “Thanks, Watkins.”
“No worries, Chief,” he says before ending the call.
“What the fuck is this place?” Hank asks, slowing as we turn a corner, still heading toward the location Starling Lockwood’s tracker has been for the last four minutes.
“Is this a dead end?” I question as we turn off the street and into an enclosed parking lot outside a deserted warehouse. The building is run-down, the roof tiles are hanging precariously loose, and a rusty sliding door is standing half open.
In direct contrast to the dilapidated building, glistening in the afternoon sunlight is a shiny-looking Mercedes.
“Block the car in, we don’t know why they’re here, but do it just in case they decide to make a run for it. I do not want to call Sebastian Lockwood and tell him we lost his runaway wife again,” I say, my skin prickling. “Something about this doesn’t feel right.”
“Agreed, boss. Rich girls don’t come to this part of town, and they definitely don’t come to abandoned warehouses alone, unless they’re trying to score. Could she or her friend be a junkie? This place looks like a dealer’s paradise.”
“No one has mentioned any drug use,” I tell him.
“But would they tell you? More likely they’d just pack her off to rehab and say it’s for exhaustion. Isn’t that what those rich folk do?”
“I don’t remember the security guard saying anything about her having a habit. If she did, that’d be easier to blackmail her with than the sex tapes.”
“Not saying I watched any of those, but whew, I didn’t know married sex was that hot,” Hank says.
Flashing him a withering look, I unfasten my seat belt and open the door, climbing out and into the balmy midday sun. Motioning for Hank to follow me, I lift my finger to my lips, telling him to be quiet as I slowly approach the Mercedes.
Leaning down, I look through the windows and find the car empty, except for some fast-food wrappers and empty Starbucks cups. Continuing toward the partially open warehouse door, I unclip my gun from its holster, gripping it in my hands as I slowly step into the dark warehouse.
The glass on the windows has long since become filthy with grime, barely allowing enough light through to illuminate the dark space.
At first glance, the place seems empty, but not as run-down as it appears from the outside.
The floor is grease-stained concrete, but it wouldn’t take much to make it usable again.
The small entryway forks off in three directions, and I walk cautiously ahead, heading in the direction of the sound of a female voice.
“Where the hell are you? I’m here, and god, this place is a dump,” the woman says, her tone clearly annoyed.
Motioning to Hank, I tell him to check the room to the right, and he pulls out his own gun before cautiously opening the door.
Staying behind him, I exhale when he mouths “clear” to me, taking up the position behind me again as I keep my gun aimed at the floor and start to push open the door straight ahead of me.
“Who the fuck are you?” a short woman yells, her hand still on the door she was in the process of pulling open.
“Green Acres Police. Please state your name,” I say loudly.
“I’m not telling you my name,” she huffs.
“Is that your car in the lot?” I question.
“Yes.”
“Are you Courtney Ortega?” I ask.
“How do you know my name? Did that jerk call the cops?”
“Ms. Ortega, I’m Chief Turner with the Green Acres Police Department. Could you come outside with me?” I ask, keeping my tone calm.
“What for?” she questions haughtily.
“Outside, please, Ms. Ortega,” I say, slipping my gun back into the holster.
Huffing, like I’m inconveniencing her, she barges past me and toward the entrance.
“Check out the rest of the building, see if you can locate Mrs. Lockwood, and I’ll find out what they’re doing here,” I tell Hank quietly as I follow the other woman back into the bright daylight.
“You can’t question me without my lawyer,” Ms. Ortega quips, her arms crossed across her chest, her lips pursed in a strange pout.
“Did you know this is private property, Ms. Ortega? Are you here alone? Were you meeting someone?” I ask.
Staring at me defiantly, she blinks in the way that children do when they’re about to start stamping their feet.
Striding quickly out of the building, Hank gestures for me to go to him, and I step forward, keeping half of my attention on Ms. Ortega.
“Chief, I don’t know what the fuck she’s doing here, but in that other room, there’s a fucking cage with a big-ass lock on it, a gurney, rope, tape, and a bunch of other stuff, including scalpels, knives, and hammers.”
Blinking, I turn to look at the woman behind me. “Any sign of Mrs. Lockwood?” I ask quietly.
“I didn’t see her inside, and other than the rooms we just checked out, the rest of the place is just one big empty space.”
Nodding, I return to the woman who is now scrolling through TikTok on her cell, like she doesn’t have a care in the world.
“Ms. Ortega, we’re looking for Starling Lockwood. Have you seen her?”
Rolling her eyes, she scoffs. “No, the stupid bitch was supposed to meet me, but she never showed up.”
“So, you haven’t seen her today?” I ask.
“I said she didn’t show up, didn’t I?”
Slipping my cell from my pocket, I open the link Sebastian sent me and check the location. It’s here, the dot flashing exactly where we’re standing.
“Ms. Ortega, are you aware that after some kidnapping attempts, the entire Lockwood family all had tracking chips fitted beneath their skin, so should there ever be a situation where they went missing, law enforcement could find them?”
The woman’s expression never changes from bored disinterest as she shrugs. “Okay.”
“Ms. Ortega, can I show you something?”
Sighing like I’m the most annoying person in the world. Her shoulders slump and she drops her hand that’s still holding her cell to her side. “Will this be over soon if I agree?”
Stepping toward her, I hold my cell out in front of her.
“What am I looking at right now?” she asks.
“That flashing dot is the current location of Starling Lockwood.”
“So, if you know where she is, why are you asking me?” she says dismissively.
“Because, Ms. Ortega, that dot is here.”
“Here?” she repeats.
“Can you open the trunk of your car, please, Ms. Ortega?”
“What? No, I can’t.”
“Is there something in there that you don’t want us to find?”
“No. But I know my rights. I don’t have to open it unless you have a warrant. Do you have a warrant?”
“Not yet. But I am willing to get one,” I advise her.
“While you’re wasting police time and funds, I’m leaving. If you want to talk to me again, you can contact my lawyers, Ortega, Ortega, and Beech.”
“Chief, I think I see a syringe,” Hank says, his hands shielding his eyes as he looks through the Mercedes window and into the driver’s door pocket.
“Are you serious right now?” Courtney snarls.
“There isn’t a syringe in my fucking car.
This is bullshit. I’m recording you, this is police corruption,” she says, spinning her cell phone around to face her and talking into the camera.
“My name is Courtney Ortega, and I’m being victimized by the Green Acres police right now.
I refused their request to see inside my trunk, and now they’re trying to say that I have syringes in my car so they can use it as an excuse to search the rest of my vehicle.
This is bullshit, and I’ll prove it.” Flipping the cell phone around so it’s facing us, she arches her eyebrow and purses her lips, her expression triumphant.
Shielding my own eyes, I press my face against the window.
“It’s just there, I almost missed it, but you can see the plunger part underneath what looks like gloves,” Hank says.
“Ms. Ortega, if you and your camera would like to come here, I’m sure your audience would be happy to see this,” I say, motioning for her to come forward. “If you’d like to look through the window and down into the pocket on the inside of your door, we believe that to be a syringe.”
Spinning her cell around to face her again, she talks into the camera.
“I want this recorded so that there’s evidence of this.
I am not consenting to the police searching my vehicle.
I’m going to personally open my door and prove that what they believe is a syringe is probably a pen or some shit.
Again, I am not giving consent for the Green Acres police to search my vehicle. ”
Turning the camera to face the car, she pulls her keys from her pocket, then unlocks the car and throws open the driver’s door. With the door open, it’s clear to see sitting in her door pocket is most definitely a syringe, with a hypodermic needle still attached to the end.
Immediately pulling his gun from his holster, Hank lifts it and aims it at Ms. Ortega.
“Police, step away from the vehicle,” Hank shouts clearly.
“No,” she shrieks. “You planted this. You’re setting me up.”
“Ms. Ortega, you just recorded yourself unlocking your car and opening the door. Now do as Officer Moorhouse has requested. Step away from the vehicle and slowly put your hands on your head.”
“I’m going to sue you and the entire police department for this,” she hisses, reluctantly taking a step to the side and putting her hands on her head.
“Walk slowly to the hood of the car, turn and face it,” Hank orders her, and she reluctantly does as he asks.
“Millions, I’m going to sue the police department for millions. You’ll all be working for me by the time I’m done with you,” she spits as Hank brings her hands behind her back and secures them with his cuffs.
Pulling my own gun from the holster again, I cautiously make my way to the back of the vehicle, then hit the trunk release button, keeping my gun aimed at the trunk as it lifts and reveals a bound, gagged, and unconscious Starling Lockwood.
“Holy fuck,” I say to myself, quickly re-holstering my gun before I reach in and press my finger to the pulse point in her neck, praying she’s still alive. The moment I feel the reassuring thud against my finger, I almost sag with relief.
“What’s in there, Chief?” Hank calls from his position guarding Ms. Ortega.
“We need an ambulance. She’s alive, but she’s unconscious,” I shout, just as the sound of tires screeching heralds the arrival of a black SUV.
Grabbing my gun again, I swing it around and find myself face-to-face with a frantic-looking Sebastian Lockwood, his feral gaze fixed on the lifeless body of his wife.