DESPERATE CREED: (Book 5 Ryder Creed K-9 Mystery Series) Page 9

  “I’ve never heard Frankie so scared,” Hannah had told her about her friend.

  Maggie listened, taking mental notes and even writing down names on the back of a notepad that Gwen had quickly found in her handbag and handed to Maggie back at the restaurant.

  In her file cabinet, Maggie found the Chicago detective’s business card in the folder. A personal cell phone number was scrawled on the flipside. Maggie had met Detective Lexington “Lexi” Jacks last year. If she remembered correctly it was also in March. An unexpected snowstorm had greeted her at O’Hare International. Jacks picked her up. It was the first time the two women had met, and yet, Jacks had been concerned that Maggie didn’t have a coat. Actually, Maggie didn’t believe it was concern as much as impatience. But the two had bonded over the fact that both of them had even less patience for bureaucracy. She was hoping Jacks still harbored that particular impatience.

  Chicago was an hour behind Virginia, but Maggie was still surprised when the woman answered on the third ring.

  “This is Jacks.”

  “Detective, it’s Agent Maggie O’Dell.”

  There was only a slight pause.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, O’Dell, but it’s a gorgeous spring day here. I hope you’re not about to screw that up and tell me the FBI is interested in another of my cases.”

  “It’s good to talk to you again, too.” Maggie smiled.

  “Sorry, I guess I should ask how you are. The last I heard you were in an isolation ward.”

  “It was just a precaution.”

  Ryder, Grace and Maggie had been exposed to the bird flu in the same case that Jacks referred to. It had gotten the FBI’s attention and also prompted the CDC into cordoning off an entire floor of a luxury hotel on Michigan Avenue. Jacks had not been happy that her team of detectives and officers had been reduced to security guards while the federal agency figured out if Chicago had been exposed to a deadly virus. Truthfully, Ryder, Grace and Maggie had been lucky. Very lucky.

  “Actually,” she told Jacks, “I am calling about a couple of homicides that may have happened in Chicago this morning.”

  “Really? A couple? You’re gonna need to narrow it down for me, because as I understand it we’ve had four and the sun hasn’t gone down yet.”

  “These would have been early this morning,” Maggie said, not wasting the detective’s time. “Two young men. One looked like a home invasion.”

  “Wicker Park.”

  “Your department called it a home invasion, but I’m betting there’s something about it that isn’t that simple.”

  “What’s the FBI’s interest?” Jacks wanted to know. She was making this more difficult than Maggie liked. Maybe they hadn’t bonded quite as much as she thought they had.

  “The computer was stolen,” she told Jacks. “I’m guessing his cell phone and any other electronic devices are gone, too.”

  “Okay, how do you know that? Or is it a lucky guess?”

  “Lucky guess. What do you know about the victim?”

  “Computer analyst for Park House Labs. Mid-level entry position, from what I can tell. Lived alone. His sister lives a few blocks away. She IDed him. Said he was mostly a computer geek. Not into drugs. Doesn’t even drink.”

  “I need to know if you had a second homicide. On the street. Not far from the home invasion. Might have looked like an armed robbery gone bad.”

  “Another lucky guess?”

  Maggie could hear in Jacks’ voice that she was growing impatient, but the detective’s lack of denial meant Maggie was right, and Hannah’s friend wasn’t just paranoid.

  “If you were able to ID him, his name is Tyler Gates.”

  She heard a hiss of air. Jacks was clearly not happy.

  “How the hell do you know this? We haven’t released anything about the second hit.”

  “You already suspect the two are connected?”

  “That neighborhood is not exactly known for random execution-style murders. But we haven’t been able to connect the dots yet. You care to fill me in?”

  Execution-style.

  Hannah had told Maggie that Frankie Russo was still hoping her friend and co-worker had been injured. That maybe he was unconscious and in an emergency room somewhere. Or in surgery.

  “How did you ID Gates?”

  “Wallet was still in his jacket pocket. Cell phone is missing. We’re still trying to see if any cameras in the area might have captured it or caught an image of the perpetrators.”

  Maggie sat forward, elbows on her desk. Frankie Russo had told Hannah that she and Tyler were video-chatting when two men approached him. She got a look at one, but feared that he also got a good look at her. Maggie now realized it didn’t matter whether or not the man saw her. He had something even better to identify her than a quick peek over the device’s small screen. As long as he had Gate’s phone, he had access to much more, including her home address and possibly her texts and emails.

  “So what gives, O’Dell?”

  She’d almost forgotten about Jacks.

  “The two men were friends,” Maggie told her. “They might have hacked into a computer system and found something they weren’t supposed to find.”

  There was a long pause.

  “Okay,” the detective said. “I think you better start telling me everything you know before I share anything more.”

  21

  Nashville, Tennessee

  Frankie felt the adrenaline drain. Coffee no longer helped. It just made her have to pee, and she didn’t want to stop unless she needed to fill the tank. Which meant gas station toilets and gas station coffee.

  Earlier, she’d called Hannah using one of the burner phones to tell her she was driving down instead. Frankie told her about the men at the airport, how she recognized the one by the scar on his neck.

  “Hannah, they knew exactly what gate. How is that possible?”

  Hannah was one of the calmest, steadiest people Frankie knew, but she could hear the worry wrapped tight in Hannah’s words.

  “Just come on home, girl,” she told Frankie. “Be careful. Be smart. We’ll figure this out. And please, just let me know where you are. Even if it’s a quick text.”

  For the first four hours Frankie constantly checked her rearview mirrors. She took unnecessary exits only to loop back onto the interstate. The whole time she watched to see if any vehicles stayed with her. She kept telling herself it was crazy to think they could have followed her from the airport. But then they had shown up inside the exact terminal at her flight’s gate. Was it possible they had access to her credit card information? That still didn’t explain how they knew what flight she’d booked.

  Who the hell were these guys?

  She shook her head and said out loud, “Tyler, what kind of mess did you get yourself into?”

  Maybe they’d laugh about it someday.

  She met her eyes in the rearview mirror and shook her head, again.

  You know he’s not okay. Why lie to yourself?

  Maybe because she still had too many hours to go, alone and on the road. How did she forget it was a fourteen-hour drive from Chicago to the panhandle of Florida? In her defense, it had been over a decade since she’d driven the route. The rare times she went down to visit her father she had taken a flight that amounted to a couple of hours.

  Her rental car didn’t have a GPS. Her mistake. In her hurry, she’d forgotten to request one. She was just grateful to have a black Ford Escape waiting for her, right in stall I-24 with the key FOB and papers on the driver’s seat. When she got to the exit booth and handed the printout, along with her driver’s license, the attendant barely glanced at it.

  For the first time since Tyler’s phone call, she could breathe.

  But it was short-lived. She had barely left the maze of rental car companies and felt like she was driving in circles, not sure what exit was needed to escape the swirl of interstate junctions that all seemed to lead to O’Hare. Quickly, she realized she nee
ded directions.

  She had pulled off into a fast food parking lot and tucked her smaller vehicle between two large SUVs. She’d never used a burner phone before and panicked when she realized it didn’t have Internet access and couldn’t even connect to Wi-Fi. She caved in and turned on her cell phone after promising herself that she wouldn’t. But she desperately needed GPS just to get out of Chicago.

  Later, at one of her first gas station stops, she asked the clerk if they had any road maps. He stared at her as though she were a Martian. Finally he told her “no.” Then he added that the McDonald’s up the road had free Wi-Fi access. She simply said, “thanks,” not wanting to see the look on his face if she told him she couldn’t use her cell phone. Despite her screw-ups, she knew the last thing she needed was to be memorable in case someone did come along behind her, asking about her.

  Now here Frankie was, seven hours outside of Chicago. She passed an exit for Nashville. Signs announced there would be more exits for the city in the next several miles. Ordinarily, there’d be a few more hours of sunlight, but dark clouds were rolling in from the west. Frankie had noticed the temperature and humidity raised a notch with each stop for gas, fogging up her sunglasses as soon as she got out of the car. Only halfway to her destination, and exhaustion had begun to seep into her veins.

  “Face it, Frankie,” she told herself in the rearview mirror. With the darkening sky, she’d removed the sunglasses and could see her puffy eyes. “You don’t have the energy to drive through thunderstorms.”

  Back at the gas station where she’d asked about maps—just outside of Indianapolis—she’d taken the clerk’s advice and stopped at the McDonald’s. She hadn’t eaten anything except an apple back at the airport. At the McDonald’s, she had backed into a spot under a tree where she ate and watched every vehicle that came into the parking lot. If the man with the scar was following her, she’d see him before he saw her. Or so she told herself.

  The comfort food had not only settled the acid in her stomach, but it had also calmed down her anxiety a notch. Enough so, that she had dug out her cell phone charger and plugged it in. She turned on the phone no longer admonishing herself. But this time, she had looked up the rest of her route and jotted down notes including cities, exits and how many miles in between. It was a straight shot down I-65. That shouldn’t have been difficult to remember, and yet, she felt more vulnerable without the GPS to direct her. Before she left the parking lot, she had sent Hannah a quick text:

  JUST OUTSIDE INDIANAPOLIS. SO FAR, SO GOOD. XXOO

  Now Frankie glanced at her watch, ignored that the stupid thing was telling her how many steps she was behind. Indianapolis was five hours ago. No wonder she was tired and hungry.

  She started looking for exits with hotels. Not a motel, she decided. It had to be someplace with more than one door between her and anyone following. The hotel could be off the interstate but with an easy escape route. And someplace with more security than a guy at a front desk. Room service would be nice. She didn’t want to leave once she settled in. And just in case they were tracking her credit card, she still remembered Gordon’s number.

  “Be smart,” Hannah had told her.

  Frankie followed the road signs and took an exit. She slowed down and watched to see who exited with her. Only one white car and when Frankie turned left, it turned right. Still, she drove a short ways and got back on the interstate. She took the next exit and relief washed over her when no one followed. And there in the near distance, she saw a sign for a luxury hotel brand she recognized. Six stories, a swanky lobby, room service, security cameras and keycard entrances. Everything a girl could want to feel safe and comforted. Yet, her eyes darted from one mirror to another.

  “Are you back there somewhere, and I just can’t see you?”

  22

  Southern Alabama

  The first site the response team wanted Creed and Grace to search no longer looked like a vehicle. It had been thrown about 500 feet off the interstate. A state trooper and Sheriff Norwich led the way. They could reach the wreckage only by foot. Much of the way was flooded by ankle-deep water, and Creed hiked Grace up under his arm. Debris floated along the oily surface that glistened with shattered glass. He took careful steps over splintered wood and shredded metal. The scent of diesel permeated the air even this far away from the ruptured fuel lines at the gas station.

  As they got closer, Creed could see that all but one of the car’s tires had been sheared off. The hood and trunk were smashed in like a car crusher had prepared it for a garbage heap. The windows were gone, and in places even the paint had been peeled away. As Creed stood over the wreck he could see the roof looked like a huge claw had dragged over the top, cutting into the metal.

  Though they had walked through running water to get to the vehicle, this section was dry. The tall grass around the smashed heap looked undisturbed. Creed examined the ground before he put Grace down and was surprised to find no pink insulation or shredded steel—not even a single piece of broken glass—tangled or deposited in the grass. It was as though the storm had sucked up the vehicle, chewed and battered and swallowed the pieces then spit out the empty hull. Creed realized that probably included the car’s passengers.

  “There’s a body inside,” the state trooper told Creed as if reading his mind.

  The man had introduced himself as Jim Sykes. He was as tall as Creed with a sun-weathered face, unflinching gray eyes and a confident gait that gave Creed the impression he had seen things as gruesome as today’s findings.

  “It’s still strapped in.”

  Creed lowered Grace to the ground, holding tight to her leash. She had on a vest that signaled to her that they would be searching for people—no drugs, no bird flu, no C. diff. Although, if Grace detected any of those, she would still alert. Multi-task dogs couldn’t help themselves. It wasn’t a credit to the trainer as much as the skill of the dog. In Grace’s case, Creed knew he was simply her anchor, protecting her and keeping her safe while she did her job. He’d never had a dog quite like Grace.

  “What makes you think there was anyone else in the car?” Creed asked, keeping his eyes on Grace.

  Her nose was up, sniffing and twitching. She had been testing the air the whole time he carried her, but now she was already working a scent. It was probably the body inside. Even Creed could smell the ripe decomp beginning in the sun-baked heat.

  The trooper hadn’t answered yet, and Creed glanced up at him.

  “The body’s still strapped in. On the passenger side.”

  Norwich bent down to look inside the vehicle then jerked back and shook her head.

  “I’ve seen plenty of car accidents in my day,” she said, “but I’m always shocked by what a tornado can do to a person.”

  Creed took a good look and didn’t flinch. He expected the mangled corpse to resemble the victims he’d seen after IEDs. But this surprised him. The passenger’s seatbelt was buckled keeping him in place. The airbags hadn’t had a chance to inflate. The man’s shirt had been sucked off. Only the band of fabric around his neck was left, identifying that he had been wearing a blue crewneck T-shirt. His chest and face had been pelted with debris. Leaves and pine needles stuck to his skin. Pieces of glass and gravel were embedded like shrapnel. Something white like cotton had tangled into his hair. Streams of blood, now dried, had run from his ears and his nose.

  The eyes were always what haunted Creed. Wide open, they conveyed the shock and horror of those last seconds.

  “His wallet was still in his pocket,” Trooper Sykes told them. “We usually take digital photos, just of the face to make it easier on the families. But it’s always easier if we have a driver’s license.”

  “Have you done that yet?”

  “No, not until we’re finished. Or you tell us we’re finished.”

  Creed glanced back into the vehicle. As if reading his mind, Trooper Sykes added, “Don’t worry. I’ll close his eyes.”

  Grace tugged at the end of her leas
h. She was getting impatient at being ignored. Creed glanced down at her as he unzipped his daypack for her toy. He needed to praise his dog. If they found any blood or decomp material—even it wasn’t exactly what they’d been looking for—he rewarded his dogs. It reinforced their effort to continue searching. For the dog it was a game. If a handler wanted the dog to continue playing the game then it was important to not change the rules.

  His fingers found Grace’s reward—her pink, squeaky elephant—inside the pack. But before he could pull it out, he realized Grace wasn’t alerting to the remains in the vehicle. She didn’t have time for the easy gimme. Grace had already moved on to another scent, and she wanted to go follow it...now.

  “We’ve walked this entire area,” the trooper told Creed when he noticed Grace with her nose poking up. “You think she already smells something?”

  “In a situation like this there’s a lot of scatter.”

  “Scatter?”

  Creed focused on Grace. Her whiskers were twitching. Her head bobbed as she breathed in, sampling the air. The sun was beating down, warming the air and making it rise, but the humidity would make it heavy, trapping it.

  He glanced up to find both Trooper Sykes and Sheriff Norwich waiting for an explanation. Normally, he’d be more delicate in his response, but these two were seasoned law enforcement.

  “Any time you have a case where a body is dragged, flung or possibly ripped apart, there’s what we call a scatter of scent. The dog’s smelling blood and decomposition but that doesn’t mean it’s a body. It could just be blood. It might be pieces of a body.”

  “Would it help if I pointed out what areas we’ve already walked?”

  “No. Grace directs me,” Creed told him. “You’re both welcome to come with us, but I need you to stay back ten to twenty feet.”

  “Grace, find,” he said, though she didn’t need a search word. She was already keyed in on a scent.