Chapter Thirteen
On Wednesday morning, Landon was pouring himself a cup of coffee in the break room at the field office. Katie had just made herself a cup of green tea, and both of them sat on black stack chairs at a round teak table.
The unsub who went after Raquelle was still on the loose, and Eddie had yet to surface, dead or not.
To say that both situations were stressing Landon out would be an understatement. Compounding this was the fact that the investigation at the center of it all had yet to be completed—leaving the Art Crime Team still on the hook for solving it.
“Your ex is gorgeous,” Katie remarked over her disposable paper cup.
Landon grinned. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
She smiled thoughtfully. “I’m glad her attacker—and alleged bomber of Eddie’s boat—didn’t hurt Raquelle seriously.”
“So am I,” he said. “But the fact that he could have—and remains a threat till we find him—still concerns me.”
“As it should.” Katie tasted the tea. “We’ll protect her as long as the unsub remains at large. And beyond, if deemed necessary.”
“I know.” Landon was comforted by the words, realizing that the Bureau had his back in not wanting a suspected killer putting the family members—or even ex-wives—at undue risk while an investigation was ongoing.
“We just need to find the perp. And tie him more definitively to Ivan Pimentel and his crime syndicate.”
Katie met his eyes and said confidently, “We will.” She drank more tea and waited a beat. “So, is there a real chance you and Raquelle could get back together?”
He stared at the question, giving it all the seriousness it deserved before responding hopefully, “I’d like to think so.”
“Good,” she said, finishing her tea. “You deserve a second shot at happiness.”
“Thanks.” Landon couldn’t agree more with her assessment.
Still, he lowered his own expectations as a defense mechanism toward an alternate result.
What he wanted and how Raquelle saw things wasn’t necessarily symmetrical.
Even if he believed they both wanted to get past his current case and the Eddie factor to see where things stood between them. And beyond that.
* * *
IN THE CONFERENCE ROOM, the Art Crime Team assembled with a major development in the case.
Appearing on the large monitor from the FBI Laboratory’s Terrorist Explosive Device Analytical Center was bomb expert Joelle Freitas.
Thirtysomething, slender, and green-eyed with brunette hair in a ballerina bun, she said measuredly, “Having examined the fragments of the IED that was planted on Eddie Jernigan’s Crest Savannah 250 SLSC pontoon, we’ve learned that the perp constructed a fairly large pipe bomb that was detonated by remote control.
We uncovered bomb-making chemicals and components from the boat’s remnants, including hexamethylene triperoxide diamine, or HMTD—a highly explosive organic compound—and ammonium nitrate.
The bomber clearly meant to destroy the pontoon—and kill anyone on board… ”
Landon took note of this and asked, while standing by the screen, “What about DNA? Were you able to collect any from the bomb materials?”
Joelle nodded, pushing up her square eyeglasses. “Yes, DNA, in low levels, was recovered and analyzed,” she told him matter-of-factly. “We submitted it to CODIS…and got a hit.”
Landon glanced at Zach and Katie. All were eager to hear more with respect to this apparent breakthrough in using the FBI’s Combined DNA Index System of criminal justice DNA databases around the country to match an unknown forensic profile from a crime scene to the DNA profile of an arrestee or convicted offender.
Turning back to the criminological scientist, Landon asked anxiously, “So, who are we talking about?”
“His name is Fred Davenport,” she replied succinctly. “He’s thirty-five and has spent time behind bars for making a school bomb threat and for weapons-related charges.”
“Fred Davenport…” Landon muttered to himself.
“He’s obviously upped his game in going beyond threats to making an actual bomb that he detonated in an attempt to commit murder.
” And very likely was also responsible for shooting to death a drifter, he thought.
Along with assaulting and threatening Raquelle.
“Looks that way,” Joelle said.
“We’ll take it from here,” Landon told her then thanked her for the TEDAC’s work in giving them something that represented a turning point in the investigation.
After the video chat ended, Zach, who had a laptop in front of him at the table, said, “I’ve pulled up Davenport’s rap sheet and mug shot.”
Katie, seated next to him with her own laptop, stated, “Here’s a surveillance camera still photograph of the unsub who accosted Raquelle—and the digital sketch of the suspect that she gave us.”
Standing over them, Landon studied the mug shot in comparison with the still pic and sketch. “I’d say they are one and the same,” he deduced.
Zach concurred. “Yeah, Fred Davenport seems to be the bomber.”
“And obviously still a danger to Raquelle—and likely Eddie as well,” Katie said.
“I couldn’t agree more,” Landon told them, not wanting to give the suspect another opportunity to come after Raquelle, even with an armed marshal staying close to her. “Let’s find out where Davenport is living, what he’s driving, and anything else pertinent to bringing him in.”
* * *
RAQUELLE GAZED AT the mug shot of Fred Davenport, the man Landon believed had accosted her. Even in seeing him minus the hood—with dark wavy hair—it was clear to her that this was indeed the person who tried to extract information from her on campus about Eddie. And made threats against her life.
When she texted Landon back, confirming this, he sent her another text stating that Davenport’s DNA had been discovered from the bomb materials that crime scene technicians had retrieved from Eddie’s pontoon. An arrest of the suspect was said to be imminent.
Thank goodness for that, Raquelle told herself as she sat at the piano.
She’d been made to practically feel like a prisoner in her own home, comfortable as it was.
Now that appeared to be short-lived. Unless, of course, Fred Davenport somehow managed to circumvent being taken into custody and remained at large.
Then there was still the question of Eddie’s whereabouts.
Raquelle pushed back the thought that her brother could already be dead—rotting away in a shallow or deep grave somewhere.
In the spirit of the Catawbas who had come before her, she had to trust in him that he had found a way to dodge death and would resurface sooner or later.
Until such time, she needed to allow things to play out. Including Landon’s art-crimes investigation.
And whatever happened now that their relationship had started to heat up again.
She began to play the piano and glanced at the slender US marshal assigned to her, Julia Ellicott. Pretty and in her late thirties, with blond hair in a short ponytail and blue eyes, she was in uniform and had a weapon in her holster while standing in the great room by the window.
Julia smiled at her and said, “You play beautifully.”
“Thank you.” Raquelle grinned. “Do you play an instrument?”
“I played the violin in high school—but have been out of practice since then. Maybe I’ll take it up again sometime.”
“You should,” Raquelle encouraged her, believing that everyone should make use of their talents.
As opposed to losing them altogether. She thought about Landon’s guitar playing and pictured them jamming together—before her thoughts returned to his pursuit of the man who attempted to take her brother’s life away at the behest of others.
* * *
A WARRANT WAS issued for the arrest of bombing suspect, Fred Davenport, who was considered armed and dangerous—and a BOLO alert for the brown Toyota Tundra pickup truck registered in his name.
While wearing bulletproof vests, Landon and the other armed special agents on the Art Crime Team, along with a SWAT unit, ATF-trained Explosives Detection Canines, and officers from the Columbia Police Department’s Fugitive Team, converged on the Sparrow Apartments complex on Platt Springs Road in West Columbia.
After spotting the suspect’s truck in the parking lot, they wasted little time before Landon directed them to move in on Davenport’s second-story unit.
A battering ram was used to enter the two-bedroom apartment.
It was sparsely furnished with evidence of weapons, drugs and drug paraphernalia, bomb-making materials—with the K-9s reacting accordingly—on full display.
Once deemed safe enough to move about, they fanned out in search of the suspect.
Landon bypassed the primary bedroom when his periphery spotted something in a bathroom.
With his gun drawn, he entered and spotted a fully clothed man lying on the floor in his own blood.
A bullet wound in his temple oozed more blood.
Landon recognized him as Fred Davenport, while taking note of the firearm that was lying on the tile floor beside the bathtub. He recognized it as a Korth 2.75-inch Carry Special .357 Magnum handgun—the type of weapon used to shoot to death drifter Lim Ramírez.
When Katie and Zach stepped inside the bathroom, Landon had already determined that the suspect was dead and told them at first glance, “Looks as though Davenport, sensing the walls were closing in on him, decided to take his own life—”
“Too bad,” Katie said, frowning. “Would have loved to get him in an interrogation room to hear what he had to say about Ivan Pimentel.”
“Unfortunately, dead men can’t talk,” Zach remarked suspiciously. “A bit too convenient, don’t you think?”