Chapter 1
There was very little left of the body.
Shelly Mahoney had been on many crime scenes before; this one was strange in the extreme.
The remains were little more than ash; it almost appeared like a human form crafted out of black sand by kids at a beach.
Even the medical examiner and his assistant appeared perplexed as they hunkered down next to what remained of the body, trying to determine the best way to move what remained of what had once been a man.
Evidence was sadly lacking.
“Anything?”
Special Agent Perry Banyan, the young investigator from the Florida Department of Law Enforcement who was lead investigator on the case, looked hopefully at Shelly.
“So far?” she murmured. “This is truly horrible, and the killer must be found. I believe with my heart that we will not stop this until we find the killer—or we’re all dead ourselves.”
Maybe she shouldn’t have spoken so boldly. They were taught not to make promises; there were cases out there that had never been solved.
But she knew about George Maynard. And she knew that she would never stop looking for his killer.
She had never seen a journalist with such an amazing ability to discover the truth of a situation and to present his findings clearly.
He never skewed a situation one way or the other; it was the facts and just the facts.
She, in turn, looked up at Jackson Crow, the respected and somewhat mysterious head of a branch of the FBI known as the Krewe of Hunters, so called since the unit’s first case had been in the city of New Orleans, a place known for its krewes, or clubs dedicated to the celebration of the Mardi Gras carnivals.
Of course, each krewe was unique, and Jackson’s unit was known to be unique.
Jackson looked back at her. He had called her in on the case specifically, because, as he had told her, he was in the process of creating an auxiliary unit of the Krewe for more, slightly different situations.
Different? More different? Was there such a thing?
How?
She didn’t understand what he was doing. The Krewe of Hunters already dealt with different or special cases.
The unusual.
So. That made her wonder, worry a bit about things she’d been taught her entire life that she needed to keep hidden.
Just exactly what did he know about her?
Jackson had come to St. Augustine, Florida, because of the importance of this case, but also to meet with her.
But they were supposed to meet with another agent, a man named Grant Markham, who was from the local Florida office of the Bureau and had worked not just with Perry but with Jackson previously, too.
And with the Florida Department of Law Enforcement, as the case had fallen into their hands and therefore into Perry Banyan’s hands.
Shelly hadn’t expected to find herself in the old Florida city, since she had begun her career working in the LA office and usually worked in the western arena of the country.
But there were personalities at play here.
She had learned that Special Agent Grant Markham had been friends with FDLE Agent Perry Banyan, the man who had been called in by the state and was handling the case as the lead investigator.
Perry Banyan had, therefore, called Grant Mark ham, his friend who was in the Bureau and thus had all the federal tools in existence available for the investigation.
While it was a single murder that had been committed—and might have been handled as a local matter—the victim’s status had demanded that big guns come in and come in fast.
So, here she was, because she’d already been summoned by Jackson Crow via her supervisor for a transfer into one of Jackson’s units. She was a well-trained and experienced agent, and still …
She hadn’t expected to be part of this kind of “big guns” case. And again, she had to wonder …
Just what did Jackson Crow know about her?
She felt the pressure of the situation. The victim’s death was shattering news sites across the country. She also felt an absolute determination. They would discover the truth.
And they would stop this and find justice for an incredible human being.
Because this was a truly horrific event for the state and for the nation.
The dead man had been admired by people across the country.
There had never been a man, woman, business, or political or national entity that the man had been afraid to tackle.
He defended the “little men,” those who didn’t have the income for the legal fees that might be incurred while protecting their rights.
He had, in short, been something of a national hero.
But the man was gone. His life had been stolen from him and from so many who believed so passionately in his fight for the truth of any given situation.
“He was so admired. Loved by everyone,” Perry Banyan said.
“Not, apparently, by everyone,” a new voice, deep and authoritative, noted.
Shelly stood and turned to look at the newcomer, a man she assumed to be Grant Markham.
He had the look of someone between a professional law enforcement official—dressed in dark blue suit with a light cotton shirt beneath but no tie—and a Florida beach boy.
His hair was a sandy blond, and not as rigid a cut as she had often seen on her coworkers, other than those working undercover.
His eyes were dark, almost black, a startling contrast with the lightness of his hair.
She thought he couldn’t be forgotten easily, as she imagined that he had to be at least six foot four or five.
“Grant. You’ve made it,” Perry said. His words were spoken dryly, but he had a small, twisted smile on his face. It was evident the two men knew one another. More importantly, they trusted one another.
“You knew I’d come as soon as possible,” Grant Markham told him, nodding and then turning to Jackson to give him a similar acknowledgment.
“Good. You’re here. Back to the situation, to this man.
So. Most apparently, he was not loved by everyone,” Jackson said.
“Of course, it’s easy to understand since he put many people and organizations into the bright light, where their illegal activities brought about repercussions.
He was loved by the average human being, those who just want to live their lives, work, play with their kids, go about their lives.
At this moment, and as to this scene, I assume we’re all seeing the same factors,” he added gravely, looking at them all in turn and ending with Shelly.
“So, yes, as to the here and now, I believe we’re seeing the event in the same manner,” Shelly said.
“There are certain factors that seem to be obvious but not terribly helpful, I’m afraid.
It appears that whoever did this was in the house when George Maynard came home.
There was no sign of forced entry. Your people have checked the entire house, and our people have checked the entire house—two amazingly competent forensic teams. Someone found a way to get a key.
And, possibly, a code. While the door still requires a key for entry, the house did have an alarm system.
It did not go off. We can still hope that forensics can find a clue.
But it is my belief that whoever did this had it well planned, and they know something about forensic investigation, either through a form of law enforcement or the internet.
The person was smart enough to be wearing gloves, but you would think anyone committing such a murder would be that smart these days. ”
“There’s got to be something!” Perry said, shaking his head.
“This … you can only imagine the pressure on this. The man was loved; his speeches were … he’s what we need in the world.
He was such a proponent of simple and common decency, determined on right and fairness.
And even when he went after someone—a politician, a business, a celebrity—he was willing to listen, to seek out a defense for a reported wrong.
And,” he added with a pained shrug, “he was Florida’s own.
We haven’t always been known for such a passion for everything that was right, fair, and equal.
St. Augustine was his home, his lifelong home, and when he was here, he acted like just any other guy.
Oh! He played guitar, and he’d sit in with local bands! ”
Shelly understood completely why the case had been so incredibly important to Perry. She was certain, from his words, that he had known the dead man. He had admired the man, but there had been more. They had been friends, even if casually so.
She was hunkered down near the body, studying the remains and the ground nearby. Yes. It was Florida. It had rained recently. Footprints were easily left behind, except it seemed that this killer had known that.
The ground had been swept with a branch in the wake of the killer’s movements.
She gave herself a mental shake, rose, and looked at the new arrival, the man Jackson had chosen, along with her, to work the case. He was studying her. She gave him a barely perceptible nod; he returned it.
“The body was dragged out here, but the trail has been brushed by branches, I assume to hide the fact. We’re off to the side of the house, where there are plenty of trees. I guess the murder wasn’t supposed to be discovered too quickly,” she said.
“Perry,” Grant Markham said, “you found the body?”
Perry nodded. “George is—was—engaged to Ainsley Drake. Because of his latest fight against that tech company—and a press conference he was supposed to have today—he wasn’t having her live here with him.
He was in good condition himself—took karate lessons, knew other means of self-defense—and didn’t like the idea of worrying about security. And he didn’t, but …”
“He was smart enough to know that he could be in danger and didn’t want it visited on her,” Grant said. “Seems to have been a good plan. Did Ainsley call you, Perry?”