Blood Ledger (Jane Cannon #3)

Chapter 1

AUGUST, QUEEN ANNE (SEATTLE)

“You know, at this point I’d pay the guy to just get on with it,” a gruff cop muttered to his friend. “Shoot up or shut up, you know?”

FBI Special Agent Jane Cannon secretly agreed with the sentiment. She preferred action to reaction, and all this standing around bored her. At the rate the morning continued to progress, she’d soon turn from baking to burning under the summer sun.

A break in the clouds allowed golden beams to sear the top of her head and everyone around her, like a spotlight over trouble.

The past week had been wet and miserable.

Typical for the Pacific Northwest. So at least a break in the rain was something new.

Although the added humidity made her FBI windbreaker oppressive, she did her best to ignore her discomfort as she stood with the other Law Enforcement Officers, taking in the scene, sequestered behind a bastion of police vehicles cordoning off the area.

The LEOs spoke amongst themselves, the lead detective casting her suspicious glances, prepared to defend his territory. She’d introduced herself upon arrival but stood back to show she had no intention of taking charge.

She kept looking for some clue, a hint that this home invasion tied into the two she’d been asked to help investigate. Part of it fit. A seven-figure-dollar house. Expensive cars in the driveway. A professionally landscaped lawn and garden in an upper-class neighborhood.

Yet, she didn’t feel it.

The first home invasion had occurred a month ago in Montlake at a mansion owned by a manufacturing CEO.

No one had been left alive, and nothing appeared to have been taken.

Discovered two days after they’d died by a pet sitter, the entire family had been brutally stabbed and seated around the dining table, propped to hold utensils while tropical fish watched from their massive tank. The dog had not been found.

The second home invasion occurred two weeks ago.

The owner’s mother, invited to dessert, had found death instead.

The tech millionaire, his new wife, and his two children, ages six and seven, had all been suffocated.

Like the previous family, the group had been positioned around the dining table to share the meal the wife had prepared, presumably before dying. Once again, the dog had not been found.

Which brought Jane to today.

A neighbor had called in suspicious activity—a heated argument between the father and a stranger in the backyard, which had moved inside the house, right before the neighbor heard gunshots. After arriving at the scene, the police contacted the suspect via the teenage daughter’s cell phone.

The family remained alive.

As did their cat.

None of the details matched her previous cases, with the exception of a growing spectacle. Blue and red lights flashed while curious neighbors stood behind barricade tape, their cellphones prepared to capture the action.

“What did I miss?” Agent Greg Minton asked as he joined her. He was working on a series of robberies committed in this neighborhood, where the offenders violently stole from millionaires.

“Family of five. Father, mother, and three girls, ages six, eight, and sixteen. They’re being held inside by an unknown assailant. Neighbor called it in after hearing shouting and gunshots. Suspect has yet to identify himself.”

“Just one suspect?” Greg pulled his windbreaker on and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. A few years older than Jane, married with one child and one on the way, Greg was steady and had a dry sense of humor. He’d been in Seattle for the past seven years.

“Yeah. And the family has a cat.”

He blinked. “This is relevant because…?”

“Because my two home invasions both had dogs.” Jane thought about a few details she’d overheard earlier and tried to share with the lead detective, who’d been too busy to hear her out. “Hold on.”

She left Greg and walked to the neighbor who’d called in the tip. After a short conversation with the neighbor’s teenage daughter, Jane made a phone call then returned to the detective in charge. “Detective, could I have a word?”

He stepped aside with her and Greg. “This is my scene, Agent Cannon. I need to get back to it.”

“Right. But you might want to call the suspect back. Let him know his mother’s on the way, and that if he wants to see his girlfriend again after this is all over, he’d better stop with all the nonsense and straighten himself out.”

“What?”

“Moira Reynolds next door mentioned that the Mustang parked in front of her house is there almost every other day. Mostly when the parents aren’t around.

Her daughter added that the boy who drives it often has lengthy make-out sessions in said car with their neighbor—the teen inside the house.

The kid has also been known to gripe—loudly—with the girl about her dad and how they need to do something about him.

I think this is less a home invasion and more a plot between two star-crossed teenagers making some really bad decisions. ”

The detective grumbled a thanks before storming back to his team. He barked orders, and people started moving.

“Greg, I’m leaving you here.” Jane removed her jacket with relief. “Man, it’s hot out.”

“Tell me about it.” Greg studied her. “You’re not going to stick around to see how it ends? Just because they have a cat doesn’t mean you’re off the hook.”

“I’m less interested in teen drama and more invested in finding out who’s targeting mega-millionaires and their families.”

“And their dogs,” he added helpfully.

“And their dogs.”

* * *

Seven miles away, the killer positioned Father’s head so that it tilted toward his lovely daughter, interested in what she had to say.

Unfortunately, Sister didn’t know when to shut the hell up, so he’d had to take her tongue. But it was all for a good cause. He patted his breast pocket, pleased that while bagged, the bloody flesh wouldn’t seep through to his dress shirt.

Mother scolded Brother, because he’d been late to the table. Not the boy’s fault, really. He’d had trouble walking without feet.

The killer laughed to himself, giddy with this recent plunder despite the fact he’d gotten the codes too quickly and easily. Sadly, the torture had occurred after he’d gotten his information, more for himself than the family.

Who knew Father Millionaire had a heart? Or that he’d sacrifice himself without question for those he loved, considering what he did on his so-called golf trips?

Pausing a moment, locked in the rare beauty of so much togetherness, the killer glanced at the small urn of the Yorkie who’d passed two days ago. They’d really loved the tiny dog, and it showed in the collar they had put under glass and kept on their mantle.

How sweet. And how appropriate that the pooch came back to be with her loved ones at the very end, her dust in a small pile near her old food bowl.

After moving Brother to better accept Mother’s hand on his shoulder—which proved a feat since rigor had set in—the killer moved back to study the picture he wanted to make.

A phone call jarred him from his musings. Irritated, he answered with a curt, “Yes?”

“I need the info.”

“I’ll bring it by.”

“Just send it now.”

The killer scowled. “I said I’ll bring it by.” He didn’t like sending information via phones and computers, little packets of data going to and fro. Who knew where it really ended up? Inside some toddler’s brain, maybe? Or in a poor puppy’s mind, rotting it from the inside out?

“Fine. But you better not have killed this one. You know how he gets. Hurry up.” The caller disconnected.

The mood, previously jovial, shattered.

Incensed when he should have been ecstatic to continue his play, the killer moved back through the kitchen and paused when he noticed a crack in a doorway that hadn’t been there before.

“Oh, ho. What’s this?” Excited, he stalked closer until he heard faint sobs coming from inside the pantry.

He ripped the door open, and an older woman in a maid’s uniform shrieked.

Laughing, he yanked her out by her hair and shoved her belly down onto the kitchen island.

Then he spotted the gleam of a butcher’s knife next to the prep sink.

“You, my dear, are perfection. Or you will be.”

He cut into her inch by inch, taking his time to make it last.

His cousin could wait.

The killer had his own part to play in their grand mission.

And one should never hurry perfection.