Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Javi pulled up in front of the drive and got out of the car.
He absently checked his shirt still covered his gun as he closed the door and turned to scan the street.
Most of the drives were empty, cars gone for the day.
There were a few with minivans and people-movers parked outside and residents stationed in the windows as they craned their necks for a better view of what was going on.
Javi would put money on there being a “Neighborhood Watch” sign displayed prominently on the property somewhere.
Cloister got out on the passenger side. He left Bourneville stationed inside the car as he closed the door and walked around the front. He nodded toward the garage, the gray door raised enough to expose the tires and undercarriage of a Chevy Tahoe in aggressively nondescript navy.
“Car’s still here.”
“I see that,” Javi said. He pointed with his chin to the weathered gate at the side of the garage. “You clear the back.”
“Got it.”
While Cloister got Bourneville out of the back of the car, Javi headed up the front path at a leisurely pace.
Mindful of the watching residents, he kept his hand off the butt of his gun for now, but the restraint made his palm itch.
He paused in front of the low, worn step out onto the porch and looked over to check on Cloister.
As he watched, Cloister casually boosted Bourneville over the six-foot gate, then grabbed the top of it with one hand and scrambled up and over after her. The way the thrifted cotton of his T-shirt pulled tight over lean shoulders and worn denim clung to his lean thighs made Javi’s mouth go dry.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Held it for a moment.
His grandmother had said that pride went before a fall, and here the trip-hazard was.
All his superiority—mostly internal—from earlier about Cloister’s lack of interest in political maneuvering, and yet all it took was a pair of tight jeans to yank any thought of “mission parameters” out of his brain.
He was no better than a cartoon skunk.
Javi shoved the lingering image of Cloister’s ass—and the knowledge that it was splattered with freckles—out of his head as he stepped up to Joel’s front door.
There was an box set squarely in front of the door. Javi left it there as he leaned over to give the door a pro-forma rap with his knuckles before he tried the handle.
It was locked.
Javi ran his thumb down the seam between the door and the frame.
It was smooth to the touch, no splinters or cracks that would suggest a forced entry.
Javi left it untouched for now as he stepped to the side and leaned over the railing so he could peer in the window.
The glass felt gritty against the side of his hand as he cupped it around his eye.
The living room was idiosyncratic in a way that Javi associated with professional Airbnbers.
With just enough flair to lift it out of corporate decor, but not enough to make upkeep more difficult.
A single massive cuddle chair in a patchwork raspberry and mint green commanded the eye from the corner of the main room, angled so whoever sat in it could see the nearly wall-to-wall TV.
It had been left on, cycling through a selection of images as a mute screen saver.
No sign of Joel.
No clear sign of any distress either.
Javi took a moment to weigh his options, rubbing the bridge of his nose in thought as he stepped back from the door. He could play it safe. It wouldn’t be unmerited; his position in Plenty was borderline precarious as it was without overstepping at his superior’s residence.
On the other hand, they had an SSA who had missed mandatory check-ins and was currently somewhere without her official vehicle. If anyone wanted to challenge him on whether that counted as exigent circumstances, they could try.
He pushed the package to the side with his foot.
It was lighter than he expected from the size of the box.
His tap sent it skidding into the railing, denting the side of the box.
It made a brittle sound, and Javi held his breath.
When it didn’t explode—or tick, or slowly slip ominously colored smoke—he exhaled and hit the door again. This time with the flat of his hand.
“SSA Joel,” he said, voice pitched to carry. “If you don’t respond, I’m going to need to come in.”
Javi didn’t expect an answer, but to be fair, he didn’t really wait for one either. He pushed his shirt back from his gun—at this point, it was safest for the neighbors to be scandalized from indoors—and gripped the handle of the door with one hand as he slammed his shoulder into it.
One hit ripped the lock out of the jamb, but the bolt caught with a jolt. Javi hit it again, and the metal snapped in half. The sound of ripped-free screws rattling over the polished wooden floor was very loud.
Javi pushed the door the rest of the way open, the broken lock mechanism dangling, and stepped into the house onto the thick doormat.
It said WELCOME.
That probably would have been lifted if Joel had expected him. The interior of the house smelled of floor polish—orange rind and vanilla—and burnt coffee.
From the back of the house, he heard glass break. Cloister had waited for him to make the call before he entered.
“FBI,” Javi said, voice pitched to carry. “SssA Merlo.”
There was that slip again. Javi bit his tongue in annoyance. Being in charge was making him backslide. It didn’t really matter to anyone but Javi, but that was the point. If his demotion bothered him—and it did—then Kincaid got a tick in his win column.
Another one.
Kincaid didn’t need the help. He was already in the lead.
Javi left the door open as he headed into the house.
He did the sweep on autopilot, body angled to give a low profile, gun held down low at his hip.
His feet scuffed over the shiny floors as he moved quickly through the living room.
He used the barrel of his gun to flick the curtains out, confirming there was nothing hidden behind the heavy beige lengths, then nudged the oversized cuddle chair to the side with his foot to check behind it.
The cork coaster, balanced precariously on the rounded arm, toppled off. It clattered noisily against the floor until he put his foot on it to flatten it to the boards. He could feel the outline of it through the flexible sole of his boot.
“Main room clear,” he announced.
“Utility clear,” Cloister shouted back.
A hinge creaked and, a second later, Bourneville gave a sharp, alert woof that made Javi’s ears hurt. That was not clear, Javi registered. He kept his weight on the ball of his foot as he turned his head in that direction and waited for Cloister’s cue.
There was a distinct click as Cloister flicked a switch on something.
“We have blood in the kitchen,” Cloister said, his voice clipped but steady. “It’s minimal.”
Still blood.
“Acknowledged,” Javi said. “Finish the sweep.”
He padded over to the hall cupboard and pulled it open.
The muzzle of his gun tracked with his eyes as he searched the small, dark space.
It was the usual clutter that migrated to any space that could be shut off from view—coats, a vacuum cleaner, brush and pan, matched hiking boots pushed to the back as reality outpaced good intentions.
“Closet clear,” he said.
His voice overlapped with Cloister’s steady, “Kitchen clear.”
The kitchen door opened, and Bourneville shot out. Her nose was to the ground as she cast back and forth down the hall, then lifted briefly as she glanced around and headed toward the hall.
Cloister followed behind her, gun held up close to his chest.
“Garden’s clear,” he said. “No sign of forced entry, but she left her phone in there.”
Javi pushed a door open into an office and gave it a quick once-over before he declared it…
“Clear,” he said. “Could it be her personal phone?”
Cloister shrugged. “Looked like yours,” he said. “It had missed calls from your office.”
Javi filed that away to deal with later. Bourneville suddenly stopped outside a door and barked. She raked at the door with one foot, then dropped her head to snuffle at the crack along the bottom while her tail wagged enthusiastically.
“Hier,” Cloister said.
Bourneville backed up from the door reluctantly and then turned back on herself to lope back to Cloister’s side. She tucked herself into his shadow, her paws coming down in time with his feet as they approached the door.
Javi let them take point. There was a glory-hound part of him that chafed at that, but you didn’t bring a K-9 to sweep and not utilize the shock and awe factor of an agitated dog on any possible intruder. He held up his fingers in a mute count for Cloister as he reached for the door.
Three. He closed his hand around the handle. Two. The catch clicked softly as he gently pressed down.
“Go.”
He pushed the door open to a dark, close cave of a room.
Cloister went in in that familiar, relaxed knee prowl, his gun tracking back and forth across the room.
He stopped mid-turn, weight balanced on the balls of his feet, and dropped one hand to tap Bourneville on the shoulders.
She folded herself down to the ground, her nose on her paws, and still visibly strung wire-tight.
“We have a juvenile on site,” Cloister said, his voice still steady despite the undercurrent of tension. “Unresponsive but breathing.”
Javi felt his stomach clench.
So the boyfriend-now-husband had come with a child. Not a dog.
Javi followed Cloister into the room. The dim light that filtered in from the hall picked out piles of mostly folded clothes, a stack of plushies shoved behind a chair, and a twin bed with a stack of blankets dumped on top of it.
One skinny, freckled arm hung out over the side of the mattress.
Fingers stained with something dark brushed the floor.
They were breathing, ragged and labored.
Javi crossed the room quickly to put his hand on the kid’s shoulder through the blanket.