CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Sloane had followed Felix Nelsin’s physical and digital footprints as far as they took her, which clearly wasn’t far enough.
Sitting back in her chair, she let out a huge sigh. The last person to have seen the man had been his dry-cleaner. He’d dropped off a bunch of dress shirts at the local place five weeks prior, then never came back for a pickup.
His cell phone hadn’t been used during that period of time, either, and his car had disappeared from every traffic camera in and around the city shortly after the dry-cleaners had been visited. Monitors last had Nelsin driving south, for what Sloane had uncovered via phone records, was an interview with a gaming company on the Cape.
According to the CEO there, Nelsin had never arrived.
Extrapolating from that last bit of intel, it sure sounded like good old Felix had been planning a change in his life; a new job. One that perhaps didn’t sit well with his wife? Is that when she’d taken things into her own hands and employed foul play to get an uncooperative partner out of the picture?
If that were the case, how? And with whose help? And where?
Sloane had studied pictures of Jennifer Nelsin. She couldn’t picture the immaculately coiffed and manicured woman getting her stylish nails dirty, offing her husband. And looking into her movements—albeit not as in depth yet as what she’d done for Mr. Nelsin—there had been nothing out of the ordinary in where she’d gone during the period of time in question. Her trips took her into her office, back to her house, shopping at high-end boutiques, and relaxing at various day spas.
Maybe that’s where the teacher, Mr. Shultz came in. Perhaps he’d been instrumental in making Mr. Nelsin disappear.
Sloane sighed, now she’d have to do a long, arduous search on that man’s activities, which she’d been putting off, hoping to nail the Nelsins.
Taking a short break, she stretched her arms over her head and couldn’t keep her mind from traveling back to three nights ago; the last time she’d seen Perk. After they’d discussed where his part in the case was going next, their eyes had met, and…
Yup. They’d gone at each other with a ravenousness that had defied the cold encroaching inside the barn. Clothes had been thrust askew, skin stroked, nipples pinched, and Sloane had eventually dropped to her knees on the wooden floor and sucked a highly responsive Perk into submission.
Their orchestrations had been frantic. Exhilarating. And the slight naughtiness over the possibility of being caught had lent an air of titillation to their tryst.
Once they’d both been satisfied with intense orgasms, they’d giggled like children, straightened out each other’s clothing, and clucked over swollen lips and a hickey on Sloane’s neck. But they’d walked back into the main house, owning their behavior.
Other than a few sly nudges, nobody had called them out on anything.
****
Sloane hadn’t seen Perk since that night, and yeah. She was pouting.
He’d been spending all his days at school, and all his afternoons and evenings hanging with Jeremy. Nothing new had been uncovered, and Sloane felt like all the operatives on the job were spinning their wheels, but… That’s how most cases went until there was an unexpected breakthrough.
She lamented. It seemed that to solve this, Perk would eventually be required to go back into the Nelsin household wearing a wire when he “returned” from his vacation.
That would suck. Not just for the creepy pedophile behavior of Mrs. Nelsin, which was abhorrent, but because Sloane also hated putting Perk in danger of being discovered.
She also understood it was part of their jobs.
If she and Perk decided that they really had something going on between them, and eventually opted to stay together—something Sloane was still trying to wrap her head around—this wouldn’t be the last time one or both of them faced a sketchy situation. She’d have to get used to it. Another thing to consider when she pondered whether or not to make the leap into entwining her life with his.
Looking at the clock, Sloane noted it was well past quitting time, but with Perk working at the Nelsin’s, what else did she have to do but search the net? Maybe, however…
Sloane picked up her phone and hit Melissa’s number.
“Hey sweetie. What’s up?” Mel answered. “Any news on Kaelyn?”
Sloane figured that would be Mel’s primary concern.
She hated to prevaricate, but… “We’re, uh, getting closer.”
There was a huff.
Screw it.
It wouldn’t hurt to give Mel a little hope. “We do know she’s alive and well, but we still have to, uh, get her back home.” That wasn’t a lie. The girl wasn’t currently at her house, but she would be once they wrapped up the case.
“Oh, my God. That’s awesome news,” Melissa cried.
“Yes, it is. And not for public consumption, got it?” Sloane warned. “We don’t want to put Kaelyn in any more danger than she already is before we move in and make arrests.”
Sloane knew the admonishment would keep her friend from talking.
“My lips are sealed,” Melissa assured her. “But privately, hon, I’m doing a happy dance right now.”
Sloane laughed. “What would it take to interrupt you mid-cha-cha, and get you to meet me for food? I know we haven’t been able to stick to it lately, but it is our standing Thursday night date. I’m just finishing up at work and realize I’m starving.”
“What? No epic orgasms from Mr. Studly tonight?” Mel teased, clearly in a stellar mood now that she had good news.
“Nope. Perk is working, so I’m on my own.” Sloane sighed. “I actually haven’t seen him for three days, and I’m tired of putting in overtime to fill my lonely hours.”
“So, I’m a fill -in then?” Melissa teased.
“You know you’re not,” Sloane corrected. “You’re my best friend, and,” she dangled a metaphorical carrot, “you’ll want to hear all about what I got up to with Perk in his friend’s barn Monday night.”
“Ooh, you’re damned right I will. Where and when do we meet?”
Sloane named a place they often frequented, then glanced at the clock. “How about half an hour?”
“Works for me. See you soon.”
****
Sloane was driving south when her business phone buzzed. It was her director.
“Vessers?” Baskins barked. “Where are you?”
“Driving through South Boston, headed to the Pike.”
“Change of plan. Jump on 93 south,” he ordered. “I just got word from the local police in Plymouth. A car’s been found under the ice in a pond in Myles Standish State Forest. They’ve got crews coming in and are planning an extraction. Checking their BOLO, they noted we had an all points out for Nelsin’s Mercedes. From what the detective in charge says, it sounds like this is our missing person’s vehicle.”
“That’s good news. Just the breakthrough we’ve been waiting for.” Sloane pumped a fist in the air and headed for the ramp south.
Baskins gave her directions as she immediately switched back into agent mode.
“Copy that, Chief. My drive time, observing speed limits, is fifty-three minutes. Which puts my ETA at seven-forty-two.” Luckily, commuter traffic had pretty much wound down, but Sloane didn’t know if the boss wanted her coming in hot, or under the radar.
“No need to be quiet about things.” He’d read her mind. “I’m sure the PPD has lights and sirens all over the scene. Step on it, Vessers. I want you there ASAP. The minute that car is pulled out of the water, depending on if it’s the correct one, I want you to immediately set the Bureau wheels in motion.”
“You got it.” Sloane signed off, turned on her blues, and hit the gas. At this speed, and with the bonus of being able to circumnavigate any evening traffic slow-downs, she’d make the trip in just over half an hour.
Her only regret was having to call off supper with Melissa, but her bestie took it in stride. Mel was used to work pulling Sloane away from fun time, and all she’d asked for was a raincheck, which Sloane gave her without blinking because…
If she couldn’t talk blow jobs with Melissa, who could she unload to?
****
Even if Sloane hadn’t been given exact coordinates for the crime scene, once she pulled into the State Forest and drove toward her destination which was College Pond, she would have been able to find the spot almost blindfolded. Huge utility lights had been set up, illuminating the area and the night sky all around, and the number of emergency vehicles on site was crazy. Sloane supposed this might be the most exciting thing that had happened in America’s Home Town in ages.
Or maybe not. She knew very little about Plymouth.
Sloane pulled up to a cruiser which blocked access to the pond.
Rolling down her window, she pulled out her ID. “Agent Vessers here to see Detective Blankenship.”
The officer glanced at her folder, then stepped back. “Yes, Ma’am. He’s the one talking to the tow-truck driver.” He pointed.
“Thanks.” Sloane tipped her head and drove slowly through the parking lot, nearing to where all the action was taking place.
Parking where no one would accidently hit her regulation fed-mobile, Sloane got out and approached where a conversation was being held beside a large tow vehicle. Her breath immediately condensed in the frigid air.
Damn. It was as cold as a meat-locker, here tonight.
“Detective Blankenship?” she called out as she approached.
A middle-aged man turned and nodded. “That’s me.”
“Agent Vessers,” she apprised. “FBI.”
Once again, she withdrew her credentials and handed them over. Blankenship did a quick perusal, then stuck out a gloved hand. “Nice to meet you. I wish it was under better circumstances.”
“Same,” she agreed. “Can you tell me what happened? How did you find the car?”
He launched into his story. “A couple of local kids decided to do some late-evening ice fishing,” the man gave a wry laugh. “They didn’t know that this isn’t exactly the best pond for any kind of decent angling, but they were attempting it anyway, and clearly caught more than they bargained for.”
Sloane chuckled and waited patiently.
“They had some big-ass flashlights with them, and when they got about ten feet out onto the pond, one of them saw something glinting under the ice. The kids stopped to take a better look, and determined that what was submerged, was a car. That’s when they called us.”
“And what makes you think it’s our BOLO?” she asked, her head on a swivel, taking in the operation getting underway.
“We cut a preliminary hole in the ice cover,” he stated, “and had one of our divers go down in a drysuit. He ID’d the car as a Mercedes, and ran the tags. It’s definitely the one you’re looking for,” the detective told her with surety.
“Nice work,” Sloane lauded. “I don’t suppose…?”
She didn’t have to say more.
“Yeah. The diver let us know there’s a body inside.” Detective Blankenship answered her question.
“He didn’t try to extract the vic, did he?” Sloane wanted the scene kept as pristine as possible for evidence. The area next to the pond was already compromised for clues due to the concentration of emergency vehicles and personnel churning up the now muddied shoreline.
“No. Once we determined this was your jurisdiction,” he told her, “we didn’t touch anything, but called it in right away.”
“Thanks for that,” Sloane nodded.
“We play by the book,” the detective added.
Sloane gave him a smile. “Give me a minute to call and get my forensics team headed this way, then you can tell me how you plan to get that baby out of the frozen drink.”
Blankenship nodded as she walked away.
Sloane, once assured that the proper agents would arrive on scene as quickly as possible, hung up and walked back to the detective. “So, how are you going to approach this?” she asked curiously.
“As soon as we have a large enough hole cut in the ice…”
Sloane noted people were already on the frozen surface with gas-powered augers. She assumed they’d make a bunch of holes, then connect the dots—so to speak—with a saw of some type.
“…we’ll use chainsaws to cut a large opening.”
Bingo.
“Then we’ll have the tow truck back up as close to the hole as possible, but not onto the ice. The freeze is only about seven inches thick; safe enough for our people to walk on, but no way will it support this thirty-five-ton baby.” Blankenship patted the large, red vehicle next to which they stood.
Sloane gave a chin-lift of understanding.
“Our dive team will then go back in and make sure the path from the vehicle to the shore is clear of any large impediments such as rocks or logs. Once they’re assured there’s a clean egress, they’ll come back up, run a line off the back of the tow truck in what they call a long winch-out, then go down and secure the submerged vehicle.”
The detective continued. “As soon as our dive team is clear and out of the water, the tow truck driver will slowly bring the car up.”
“Aren’t there floats of some kind you normally put underneath a car to make a job like this easier?” Sloane had seen a few water extractions of various sized vehicles, and was aware there were inflatable airbags for tasks like these.
“Too unstable in the freezing water, especially if they hit on the edges of the ice coming up,” the detective told her. “And because the bags would have to be closely monitored for unpredictable slippage, it would make things for our guys too dangerous. The last thing we want is the car making an unplanned shift that would injure our team.”
That made a lot of sense. If something went wrong, there could be collateral damage. With the winching process, however, the divers could watch from afar, then if things didn’t go as planned, they could always regroup, go back in, and start over with the tow-line.
Sloane stood and watched in fascination as the round auger-holes were connected, and the ice cut out. Large pieces were subsequently smashed and removed with a net that looked like it was designed for just such a process.
Once the water was clear, the divers dragged the large cable from the wrecker out across the icy expanse, then dove under with it.
Sloane didn’t realize she was holding her breath until the divers came topside one by one, signaling with thumbs-up that the job had been done.
“Now, we hope the attachment holds,” Blankenship told her, but chuckled. “I’m assuming it will. Our guys are the best.”
Gears slowly started turning, the line grew taut, and little by little the big metal fish was hauled toward shore.
****
Fifteen minutes later, Sloane and the detective stood next to the dripping vehicle, not touching, but taking as good a look inside as they could with the windows quickly frosting over.
“Is that your man?” Blankenship asked, his breath coming out in short puffs.
“It is,” Sloane affirmed. She’d studied Nelsin’s picture enough, and was certain this was him. “The cold water has preserved him nicely,” she pondered. “If he wasn’t so pale, I’d say he was taking a nap.”
A laugh barked out of Blankenship. “A nap with the fishes.”
At that moment, the FBI’s local forensics team arrived, and excusing herself from the detective, Sloane walked over to greet them and let them know what they were up against. None of them even blinked.
They’d seen it all.
As they suited up and prepared their evidence kits, Sloane walked back to Blankenship.
“I want to thank you for all your help, and a job well done,” she said sincerely. “You orchestrated that like a champ.”
He snorted. “I’m just glad you’re the one taking things from here. This looks like it could be a huge mess.”
Sloane bit back a sigh.
The detective had no idea.