Chapter 6
CHAPTER 6
The Safehouse later that night
“What happened to his face?” Kristopher asked as they watched Patrick stride down the hall to his room.
They had, of course, called Grant Miller immediately. Statements and pictures were taken, and a tow-truck called to take Patrick’s car to the CSI lab after their crew had gone over the crime scene. Kristopher had remained silent in the background and finally driven them back to The Safehouse.
Toeing off her loafers, Danni sank into the depths of one of the room’s oversize sofas. “A guy clobbered him in the face with a heavy-duty plastic tray like the ones school lunchrooms once used,” she said, and went on to explain what took them to St. Nicholas this morning, their meeting with Mrs. Everett and the attempted attack on her.
From the high-back chair beside the sofa, Kristopher stretched out his legs and frowned. “Hank Patterson told me you think you’ve been targeted for writing articles about child trafficking,” he said. “And you also think your goddaughter, who’s missing, has been snatched. What else?”
“Someone poisoned Lieutenant Leo Anderson, Major Crimes, who had volunteered to help on the case, a man I’ve known and loved all my life,” Danni told him, hoping he wouldn’t ask too many questions just now. Standing in front of the church, the cold had seeped through her coat and into her bones. Even now in the warmth of the Safehouse and wearing a heavy sweater and woolly socks, she was still cold.
“I’m sorry,” Kristopher said simply. “How was the case progressing?”
“Not too well,” she said. “There’s been no word from whoever took Sara, and her grandfather wants the police to stop looking for her and leave it to the private investigator he hired. Leo was only killed two days ago, and we–the police, I mean-are all still in a state of shock over that.”
“I know it’s a trite thing to say at a time like this, but if there’s anything I can do to help, just tell me,” Kristopher told her. “Even if it’s something as simple as getting you something to drink?”
“That sounds like a good idea.”
The scent of soap and spice announced a freshly showered Patrick’s bare-footed arrival. Danni turned to greet him, and then had to force herself to withhold another sigh of appreciation. Merciful heavens. We don’t wear a T-shirt, do we?
He was slowly, carefully buttoning up a long-sleeved shirt, as if even this simplest of tasks was painful. Maybe pulling a T-shirt over his head would be too painful for his shoulder. But it gave her enough time to admire the broad planes of his chest and the soft blond hair covering it, and for one insane moment, she imagined teasing her fingers over and through it. Stop it, she ordered herself. Stop it right now.
He cocked his head. “Something wrong?”
“Not a thing,” she said hastily, moving over to give him room to sit beside her. “Stupid question, but how do you feel?”
“My nose looks like a lump of biscuit dough, but I can still smell, and I think I’m going to have two black eyes tomorrow.” He gingerly touched the areas. “My head hurts like hell and so does my shoulder from where I tackled that son-of-an-anteater. Of course, it’s still not quite healed from that bullet I took last month, no matter what I told Father Ryan, but the physical therapist said these things take time.”
“Which means you should rest and let me take care of dinner,” Kristopher announced. “You sit here with Danni.”
Patrick felt his mouth tighten into a frown. “You are not cooking, Kristopher,” he warned. “I’ve heard rumors about your lack of skills in the kitchen. We’ll be lucky if you don’t burn it down while making coffee.”
“Then it’s a good thing there are lots of leftovers in the fridge from last night to put in the warming drawer or the microwave,” Kristopher said cheerfully as he headed for the bar to open a bottle of white wine and fill two glasses. Bringing them back, he added, “I’m reasonably sure that I can heat up stuff without incinerating anything. And as you can see, I can open a bottle of wine with the greatest of ease.”
He left them alone, and Patrick settled against the back of the sofa. “According to Hank Patterson, he’s a good guy,” he told Danni. “Damn good shot and can blend in with a crowd and you’d never notice him. And he can move in the dark like a panther on the prowl. One you’d never see coming until he was in your face.”
Her low chuckle warmed him in a way the hot shower had not. “A handy skill to have but let’s hope he won’t have to use it,” she said. “I know I’m repeating myself but how are you really feeling? That was some tackle you made earlier.”
He took a sip of his wine and shrugged. “I’m okay. I’ve tackled people before but not since high school.”
“Fullback?” she guessed.
“Yeah. You like football?”
Her chuckle became a soft laugh. “You can’t grow up in East Tennessee and not like football,” she said. “Even when we’re not having our best season, most folks root for the young men on the field ‘cause they’re playing their hearts out. You gotta love that.”
“You got that right,” Patrick affirmed. “There’s something special about watching it in a stadium. You catch the fever, the excitement and enthusiasm you don’t always get from watching it on TV.”
“Did you ever hear the crowd screaming when you played?”
He shook his head. “It’s like being in your own world,” he described. “Just you and your teammates and the other team in a soundproof bubble. You really don’t hear anything else.”
“Except for the coach yelling at you?” she teased. “Did you hear that?”
“Oh yeah,” he said. “We always heard that.”
They lapsed into a comfortable silence, punctuated by Kristopher’s soft movements in the kitchen and coming to the dining table to set it.
“Son-of-an-anteater?” she ventured to ask.
“Yes ma’am,” he responded. “One of the first lessons in etiquette I learned from my mother. Never swear in front of lady if you can. Old-fashioned I know, and some of my fellow solders–the females–could out cuss a fleet of sailors.”
“I’d supply you with some of the vocabulary I learned at the precinct when my dad would sometimes take me to work,” she shared. “But–”
They both laughed and she said, “You mentioned a sister?”
It was as if someone had snapped off a lamp or brought down a shade in a darkened room, closing it off from any light or warmth. He stared into his wine glass for a long moment before saying, “I’d rather not talk about that, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course,” she said, hastily. “Would you mind very much if after dinner I went to the office? I want to do some more research before I write my next article. If I can get it finished tonight and e-mail it to him, Stanley Harris might run it in Excelsior tomorrow morning.”
“Sure,” Patrick agreed, his features relaxing. “I’ll probably turn in early myself. Or I might see if I can beat Kristopher at chess. He beat me the last time we played online. I’d like to see how well he does in a face-to-face match.”
A sparkle brightened her eyes, making the amber glints glow with a golden light. “Do you need to be worried?”
“Not a chance,” he said, taking her hand and pulling them both up. “I just heard the timer, so let’s eat before Kristopher’s luck runs out and something spontaneously combusts.”
After an excellent meal–leftovers really do taste better on the second day they decided–and two games of chess, with each man winning once, Patrick excused himself, leaving his comrade to clean the kitchen. An easy enough task because the room had been nearly spotless when they’d carried their dinnerware to the sink. Kristopher and I must, Patrick thought, share the same kitchens-must-be-clean-before-bed gene because the room was spotless. He wished his comrade a good night and headed for the office to tell Danni good night.
He found her once again seated at the desk, staring at the screen, and then writing in an old-fashioned spiral-bound notebook. He came to stand behind her and saw she’d pulled up the article Anne Hamilton had written, Not in My Backyard, about child-trafficking in Gainesville, Florida that had exposed The Cadre’s work.
She made a few more notes and then moved the mouse to pull up another article about a teen trafficking case in Chattanooga, Tennessee from two years ago. Just a quick look at the facts on the screen were the stuff of nightmares, and he said, “Not exactly what I’d call bedtime reading.”
“Hardly,” she said, moving the page forward. “It says that Chattanooga gets a lot of trafficked kids coming through there because of its proximity to Atlanta and Knoxville. Sort of like the Oxyhighway when the opiate trade erupted. It’s a short distance between both Knoxville and Atlanta.”
“I’d never considered that.” He sat in the chair next to her. “Do you do research on all of your articles before your start to write.”
“You betcha.” She sat back and rubbed her temples. “One of the first things I learned when I began my degree in journalism was that you must get your facts straight before you start writing or investigating. Learned it from my dad too.”
“Sounds like he was a good teacher.”
“He was,” she agreed. “And a good father too.”
“There’s something I want you to do for me,” he said abruptly.
She regarded him, as if trying to guess his thoughts. “Okay,” she said. “What is it?”
“I want you to tell me about Sara and Ed Turner.”
“Sure,” she said, and her shoulders visibly relaxed. “I can do that. Maybe over a glass of wine?”
“I can do that,” he echoed, heading for the bar in the corner to pour two glasses of Hank Patterson’s favorite red blend. He returned to find her on the sofa, legs curled up under her. He sat, offered her a glass and asked, “Sara and Ed Turner?”
“Ed Turner never approved of Levi, his only child marrying Lacey, Sara’s mother,” she began. “The Turners are very wealthy and had grand ideas about the kind of woman Levi should marry. Lacey’s family was middle-class. Levi and Lacey met in college, and they both became teachers, which infuriated Ed, who had big plans and ideas about Levi joining him in the world of business and high finance. After Levi died when Sara was four, Ed hardly spoke to them. The fact that Lacey was Roman Catholic, didn’t set well with him either.”
“Jeez, what a prick.” Patrick studied her beautiful, sad face. “What happened to Levi?”
“He was hit by a car when he was out bicycling,” Danni said. “He often took Sara with him in one of those little seats you can put in the back, but not that day, thank God. Lacey and Sara were devastated. Ed came to the funeral, but over the next four years, seldom visited and then only on holidays. Sara never could understand why her grandfather didn’t like them.”
Recalling Sara’s smiling website photo, Patrick took a long sip of his wine. “Why do I have a feeling I’m not going to like the answer to my next question. What happened?”
He watched her brown eyes darken. “Lacey died is what happened. Not long after Sara’s eighth birthday on Christmas Eve. It will be three years next January.”
Swallowing the curse of exasperation rising to his lips, Patrick repeated, “What happened?”
It was her turn to sip her wine. When she’d finished, she set her glass on the table and said, “Lacey had juvenile diabetes growing up, so of course she became diabetic as an adult. She was meticulous with her diet, watching her sugar like a hawk. Sara probably had the healthiest diet of any kid I know, and Lacey always had insulin with her. She’d even taught Sara how to inject her if something happened.”
At her description, a glimmer of realization occurred to Patrick, and a heaviness began to spread through his chest. “Did Lacey miss a dose?”
Sadness tugged at the corners of Danni’s mouth. “Good guess, Lieutenant. Yeah. She’d taken a nap but left her phone in her purse, so she didn’t hear the alarm on it go off. When she woke up, she was so disoriented, she couldn’t find or get to her insulin. A friend came by and found Lacey unconscious on the bedroom floor and called 911, but it was too late.”
“Where was Sara?” He pointed at the bottle on the bar, but she shook her head and picked up her glass again.
“Sara was with me at The Museum at 4 th and Main to see an exhibit on Horses and Art in the Children’s Wing,” she said. “Thank God because she didn’t see her mother just after she died.”
“Thank God,” Patrick echoed.
“After my dad dying, that was the worst day of my life,” Danni added. “Sara was heartbroken, especially when Ed didn’t even come to the funeral. She was smart enough to notice that he wasn’t there.”
“I think I’m starting to hate that SOB Ed Turner.” Patrick said. “Sara had no other family?”
“Lacey’s parents died years ago, and she had no siblings,” Danni explained. “Ed, like Levi and Lacey was an only child and his wife died twenty years ago, so there was no one else to take custody of Sara. She’s lived with him since Lacey died, but he’s left the childcare to his live-in housekeeper Mrs. M. who adores Sara. I try to see her every weekend.”
“Is Sara diabetic?”
“No,” and this time her sigh was one of relief. “No one on either side of Levi or Lacey’s family ever had diabetes. Lacey’s was just a genetic fluke.”
“Wow,” Patrick said softly. “I’m glad Sara has you in her corner. Especially since ‘grandaddy’ is so non-involved.”
“You know, when I think about Sara being out there somewhere, and that we might have found her by now if not for Mrs. Everett–” Fury blazed in Danni’s eyes and curled her hands into fists. “She must be terrified. What if she’s alone and no one is taking care of her, being sure she has enough to eat or keeping her warm? What if she thinks no one is looking for her.”
“But she won’t,” Patrick said. “If anything, she’ll know you’re looking for her and you won’t stop until you find her.”
“Thanks,” she said.
“For what?”
“For asking me about Sara.” A weariness was growing in her eyes and staining her face. “What’s the plan for tomorrow?”
“To put together a plan?” he suggested and winced when she gently thumped his shoulder.
“Sorry!” But a hovering smile threatened to turn the corners of her mouth. “See you then.”
And after a quick kiss on his cheek, and picking up her shoes, she was gone.
Daybreak. Thursday morning South Knoxville
The Man parked the none descript car near the appointed spot in Talbot Park. It was a place well-known to hikers and cyclists but was seldom used at this time of year. Too dark and too cold, which made it perfect for what he was going to do. Before exiting the car, he covered his shoes with house shoe like covering and donned a pair of latex gloves.
Outside, he met a blast of frigid air that frosted his breathing and burned his tobacco scarred lungs. He shrugged deeper into his coat and pulled down his hat before heading to the picnic tables near the bluff overlooking the river. He’d chosen the spot with care; confident no one would appear at this time of day.
His appointment, Frank Sullivan, was waiting by the tables, his features tight with cold and anger. “You’re here,” he grumbled. “What the hell was so important you had to drag my ass out of bed at this hour to the middle of nowhere?”
“I paid you to do a job,” The Man said. “And paid you very well, so you come when you’re called.”
“Alright,” Frank grumbled, but his feet were restless.
“You have failed twice to kill Danni Blake,” The Man said. “You were paid very well to carry out the task, so what’s the problem?”
“That guy with her moved,” Frank clipped off his words as though he, The Man, were at fault. “Had a clear eye on her as I approached, but he moved at the last minute when I fired.”
“That ‘guy’ was a decorated police officer, you idiot,” The Man snarled.
“How was I supposed to know that?” Frank asked. “He was wearing civilian clothing as far as I could tell.”
“Another failure on your part. As soon as the police analyze the contents of that needle you used, they’ll have every available officer trying to track down his killer.”
“Haven’t heard anything about that,” Frank responded. “And I’ve got street informants all over Knoxville. Using a recorder like it was a blow gun was damn clever. You said to make it clean and quiet, and that’s what you got.”
“I’m not interested in your cleverness,” The Man snapped. “I pay for results, not failures. And the second time? What’s your excuse for that?”
“That damn guy yelled something at her just as I was about to stab her with the syringe, and she hit the ground, rolling away like a dog.” Frank described. “Then the bastard tackled me like a f’ing freight train. I hope like hell I broke his nose with that tray ‘cause he had blood running down his face like a slaughtered hog. Then the bitch gets up and pulls out a gun and just as I take off like a bat out of hell, she starts firing at me.”
“And of course you lost the syringe,” The Man accused. “You idiot! Did you at least remember to wear gloves?”
“Of course I did,” Frank snapped, running his hands through his hair. “I always wear gloves. There’s no fingerprints on that syringe. And why do you want that woman killed anyway? She’s just a reporter, right? What’s she done that she deserves to be killed?”
“You’re an assassin for hire,” The Man said, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets. “And obviously not a very good one. You’re supposed to do what you’re hired to do without asking questions. Failing in your assignment to kill Danni Blake not once, but twice was your first mistake. “Questioning the why of your mission was your second and last.”
“Listen,” Frank argued. “She hangs out with cops, so I’m watching her closely. Next time–”
“There won’t be a next time,” The Man said. Taking the snub-nosed revolver with the specially fitted designer silencer, he fired twice into Frank’s chest and watched him fall to the ground. Hard to miss at point-blank range.
The Man leaned over, checked for a pulse and found none. He’d wasted good money on Frank, and he had no one to blame but himself. He should have remembered the two lessons his grandfather had taught him. Trust no one and never get anyone to do something you can do yourself. No mistakes that way. Frank Sullivan had been a mistake.
Now he needed to find another assassin for hire and soon to get rid of Danni Blake. Before Soli Deo Gloria found out what he’d done.
And so, with the sun’s rays beginning to break through the bank of clouds, he picked up Frank Sullivan’s body, carried it over to the bushes overlooking the bluff and tossed it in. Then he returned to his car and drove away.