Читать книгу No Darker Place - Debra Webb - Страница 13

Five

The hum of her cell phone vibrating woke Bobbie. She reached toward the floor and snatched it up. She squeezed her eyes shut and then opened them again in an effort to force her bleary eyes to focus. She hadn’t come to bed until after four. It was... 7:30 a.m. glared at her from the screen of her cell. Groaning, she rubbed her eyes and read the name flashing beneath the time. The boss.

Bobbie bolted upright. “Morning—” She cleared her throat. “Ma’am.”

“I need you at the office ASAP, Detective.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Owens ended the call and Bobbie stared at the phone. Had the chief forgotten to tell Lieutenant Owens about the admin leave? Doubtful. Something was up.

Bobbie pushed to her feet; her right leg protested. She winced and made a path down the hall to the bathroom. One glance in the mirror confirmed she looked as bad as she felt. Good thing she’d showered after her run last night. She dragged a brush through her hair and wrestled it into a ponytail. She washed her face, rolled on deodorant and took care of other necessary business.

She reached for the door and froze. For the first time since she left the rehab center she found herself without a weapon. Her Taser, her knife and both her handguns were still in her bedroom.

Fear expanded in her chest, sliding over her muscles, creeping along her limbs and lodging in her throat. The Storyteller was alive and he was close, and she was in this damned bathroom with no window for escape and no weapon. Sweat coating her skin, she steadied herself and struggled to suck in air around the swelling fear.

Bobbie flattened her hands against the door and closed her eyes. Listen. You know his footsteps. You know the sound of his breathing. She forced herself to quiet. Slowed her respiration. Her heart and pulse rates followed suit. The roar of the blood in her ears hushed. Then she held her breath. The low hum of the air coming from the floor vents...and silence.

Drawing in a gulp of air, Bobbie concentrated on the doorknob. Slowly her hand descended to wrap around it. Braced for battle, she twisted the damned thing and jerked the door open. No one jumped at her. No sound of running footsteps echoed. Nothing but the darkness and the stale air being circulated by the old HVAC system.

“Coward,” she cursed herself as she stormed back to her bedroom.

Just another secret she kept from the world. Bobbie Gentry was a coward. Without at least one of her weapons she was nothing but a sniveling scaredy-cat. No matter that she’d taken every defense and hand-to-hand combat class she could find between here and Birmingham, she was still a coward.

The world knew the Storyteller had taken her family, but they didn’t understand he’d taken something else from her as well...some vital piece she couldn’t name.

Doesn’t matter. She peeled off the T-shirt and shorts she slept in and tossed them onto the bed. She didn’t need that piece to do what she had to do.

Stepping into a pair of panties, she scanned the floor for her shoes. The black leather loafers lay next to the closet door. She pulled on a sports bra and grabbed a pair of socks. Yanking the plastic from a freshly laundered suit, she surveyed the row of pullover blouses that were basically alike except in color. Scooped neck, short-sleeved, functional. She grabbed a white one. The navy suits and black suits were all the same. Serviceable and comfortable.

Dressed, she threaded a regulation leather belt through the loops on her trousers, and one by one stationed her police-issue Glock, cell phone and badge around her waist. She grabbed the black leather shoulder bag that held the rest of her life, including Tic Tacs, latex gloves, an emergency tampon, sunglasses, wallet and her keys, and stepped into her loafers. She headed for the door. At the living room window she checked the street, noted her surveillance detail at the curb. Only one uniform this morning. He lifted a McDonald’s coffee cup to his lips, and her own need for caffeine awakened.

There would be coffee at work. She didn’t want to take the time to stop at a drive-through en route. Now that her head was clear of sleep, she realized the call from Owens meant new developments. If her presence had been requested despite being on admin leave, something big had gone down—something related to the Storyteller.

Outside, the young officer flashed her a smile as she loaded into her Challenger. “Nice ride.”

“Thanks.” She started the engine, grateful for the quiet exhaust system. When she’d bought the Hellcat, she’d immediately taken it to a shop to tone down its roar. She wanted the speed and agility but not the growl of the beast under the hood. With this vehicle, if the need arose, she could outrun basically anything else on the road.

Traffic was light. No kids hurrying along the sidewalk headed for school. Jamie would have started pre-K this fall. The realization sank like a massive rock in her gut. She blinked away the burn in her eyes and forced her attention back on the passing surroundings. D-Boy lifted his head and watched as she rolled past. She’d filled his water bowl and taken him a treat around midnight last night. He was a good dog, but she didn’t need one.

Nick Shade’s image intruded on her thoughts. He’d been watching her. She’d seen him at the fountain last night. There was a darkness about the man. She lacked enough detail to make a valid assessment beyond the fact that he disturbed her somehow. Just another obstacle and potential distraction she didn’t need.

She rolled to a stop at the intersection behind a vintage Camaro as black as the car she drove. The Camaro waited for an opportunity to turn left on Fairground Road. She’d seen it around the neighborhood. Probably belonged to a member of Quintero’s thug gang. One of these days the guy was going to get what was coming to him. He ran the illegal activities on this side of town. Everyone knew it, but no one could prove it. He and Bobbie had butted heads more than once.

When five then ten seconds passed with no traffic and no movement from the Camaro, tension slid through her. She reached for the gearshift to move into Reverse, but the passenger-side door of the Camaro opened and a man emerged.

“Speak of the devil.” What the hell did he want?

Javier Quintero approached her passenger-side window and leaned down to stare at her. “I need to talk to you, mami,” he said, the glass muffling his voice.

She powered down the window. “We have nothing to talk about, Javier.”

He unlocked the door and got in.

Bobbie rolled her eyes. “I don’t have time for this.”

“Your friend—” he hitched his head to indicate the cruiser behind her “—is causing my eses discomfort.”

Like she cared what his homeys suffered. “Get out of my car, Javier.”

In her side mirror she watched the officer emerge from the cruiser. She swore as she powered her window down.

“Ma’am, is everything all right?” Officer Delacruz, she read his name tag, already had one hand sitting on the butt of his weapon.

“Everything’s fine.” She offered one of her fake smiles. “Just chatting with a neighbor. Wait in your car, Delacruz.”

The painfully young officer, who shared absolutely nothing but a Hispanic heritage with the gangbanger currently occupying her passenger seat, glanced at Javier before giving her a nod and heading back to his cruiser.

“You see what I mean?” Javier complained. “This is bad for business.”

There were a number of things Bobbie could have said just then, but she decided in the interest of time she would give it to him straight. “You know that serial killer who almost killed me?”

Javier nodded. “I remember. He’s one sick motherfucker.”

On instinct, Bobbie checked her mirrors. “He’s back, so the chief put a tail on me.”

Javier laughed out loud, showing off his gold-and-silver grill. “Your jefe thinks that little boy back there is going to protect you, mami?”

“I told you to stop calling me that.”

“You tell your chief this is my neighborhood,” Javier said, ignoring her comment. “That fucker comes up in here—”

Enough. Bobbie slid her Glock from her belt and jammed it in his face. “Get out of my car.”

His mouth eased into a big grin, stretching the scar on his cheek where someone had sliced his face the last time he was in prison. “Don’t tease me, mami. I get hard when you play with me like this.” He flicked out his tongue and traced the muzzle.

She gritted her teeth. “Get out.”

The smile vanished and his brown eyes bored into hers. “Tell your chief that Johnny Law needs an unmarked car. He’s fucking with my cash flow and I don’t like it.”

With that demand he exited her car and climbed back into the Camaro. The driver spun out, tires smoking and squealing. Bobbie shook her head and rolled to the intersection. She hoped Delacruz hadn’t pissed his pants.

Criminal Investigation Division, 8:15 a.m.

Bobbie entered the building and waved to the sergeant stationed at the visitor’s registration desk. If she was lucky, there would be some fresh coffee somewhere in the building. She rounded the corner and bumped into Bauer.

“It’s about time you got here, Gentry. Everyone’s waiting for you.”

Detective Asher Bauer was average height with a well-muscled build maintained by his obsession with the gym. His need to heft weights was matched only by his determination to keep a year-round tan and a trendsetting club wardrobe. The sandy-blond hair and sleep-deprived gaze completed the party-player look he appeared to fancy. If he was smart, he’d find something for those bloodshot eyes. Since his fiancée died he was determined to spend his off time deep in a bottle of Jack and screwing anyone who would spread her legs. Bobbie wished she could find the right words to make him see alcohol and casual sex weren’t the answer.

At least he hasn’t slit his wrists the way you did.

Bobbie closed out the thoughts and produced another of her standard fake smiles for the guy. “As soon as I get coffee, I’ll go to the LT’s office.”

Bauer moved his head from side to side. “Go to the conference room. I’ll bring your coffee. Peterson’s in there, too.”

“Black, no sugar,” Bobbie reminded him before changing directions and heading for the conference room.

Whatever was going on, the chief’s presence confirmed it was a high-profile situation like the Storyteller. Why else would they have called you?

Anticipation seared through her veins and her fingers itched to draw her weapon and hold on to it just in case. The door to the conference room was open. Peterson sat at the head of the table, Lieutenant Eudora Owens to his right, Sergeant Lynette Holt next to her. Across from the LT were Montgomery County Sheriff Virgil Young and Special Agent Michael Hadden from the local FBI office.

All looked up when Bobbie entered the room. “I guess I’m the last one to the party.” She reached for a chair.

“Not quite, Detective.”

Her pulse bumping into a faster rhythm, Bobbie turned to the man standing in the open doorway. Special Agent Anthony LeDoux. Resentment, bitterness and no small amount of dislike stirred. She clenched her jaw and tamped down the surge of emotions.

LeDoux was only four years older than her. He had been on the Storyteller case since the eighth victim was left at his front door. At the time he’d been a brand-new profiler and his work had apparently drawn the Storyteller’s attention. LaDoux’s light brown hair was shorter now than it was last December when she’d first met him, and the wedding band he’d worn back then was missing.

“Why don’t we get started?” the chief suggested, impatience radiating in his tone. Peterson didn’t care much for LeDoux, either, and he didn’t mind showing it.

Bobbie shifted her attention to those gathered at the table. “What’s going on?” She didn’t ask why she was here, she was just grateful not to be left in the dark.

“Lieutenant Owens will brief us,” Peterson said, his somber gaze now resting on the Major Crimes Bureau commander.

Bobbie sat down next to Holt. Bauer showed up and took the seat beside her. Thankfully the cup of coffee he sat in front of Bobbie smelled drinkable, which wasn’t always the case around here. Many of the detectives in CID were former military who’d done numerous tours of duty overseas, and their definition of full-flavored coffee was something strong enough to eat a hole in the cup.

“About five this morning the car belonging to Gwen Adams was discovered in the driveway of a vacant home on Highland Avenue,” Owens announced. “Her purse and keys were still in the car. No sign of her cell phone. Witnesses say the car has been there since yesterday morning or the night before, but none saw the driver or anyone else in or near the vehicle. It wasn’t until this morning when the Realtor came by on his way out of town that anyone realized it shouldn’t be there. We’ve had no hits on our BOLO on Ms. Adams, and her boyfriend, Liam Neely, is missing, as well. Based on the number of calls made between Neely and Carl Evans during the forty or so hours before Evans’s suicide, we’ve listed Neely as a person of interest.”

Equal parts pain and anger welled inside Bobbie. If the Storyteller followed his usual MO, he would torture Gwen relentlessly and rape her repeatedly. Bobbie closed her eyes. She had to do something. Gwen had worked so patiently with her during her recovery. She refused to give up even when Bobbie was at her lowest. The chief could keep her on admin leave, but Bobbie had to help find Gwen before it was too late. Before the bastard did those things to her...

Whispers and images attempted to invade her thoughts. Strong-arming those ugly memories aside, she glanced at LeDoux, who was busy flipping through pages of reports. To Owens, she said, “Obviously you’ve decided her abduction is the work of the Storyteller.” Bobbie didn’t know why she’d bothered with the statement. Of course it was the Storyteller.

“Actually,” LeDoux cut in, “I made that call.”

Another wave of tension washed over Bobbie as she met his gaze. “Based on what?” Was there more he wasn’t telling her, because he couldn’t possibly know what Evans had said to her?

To say she despised LeDoux would be a vast understatement. He had known having her on the task force last December would push the Storyteller’s buttons. He’d been desperate to see movement on the case. But then, she couldn’t hold him responsible for getting her family killed. She had quickly realized the Storyteller would be drawn to her since she fit the profile of his preferred victim and she’d stayed on the case anyway. Both she and LeDoux had hoped to be the one to bring the infamous serial killer to his knees. Apparently—she glanced at the bare ring finger on his left hand—they had both paid a price.

“Based on my recommendation,” Chief Peterson announced.

“Why am I here?” Bobbie asked this question directly of the chief. She could feel Lieutenant Owens glaring at her. Didn’t matter. The question was a valid one.

“Because I wanted you here,” LeDoux answered.

Bobbie turned back to the agent, his words reverberating inside her. This time she couldn’t keep the anger from her voice when she spoke. “I should have recognized the MO.”

“That’s enough, Detective,” Owens warned.

“We believe,” LeDoux began, “Gwen Adams is being held somewhere in Montgomery County. Perry will want to stay near you, Bobbie.”

She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of an acknowledgment.

“Chief Peterson called me yesterday as soon as the Carl Evans case broke,” LeDoux continued, speaking to the room at large. “Considering the transfer of Detective Gentry’s medical records and the research Evans had been doing on the internet, it’s clear this case is related to the Storyteller investigation.”

“With Perry active again in our jurisdiction,” Owens picked up from there, “we have to assume he has returned for you, Detective.”

All eyes at the table moved in Bobbie’s direction. She shrugged. “Why else would he resurface and risk getting caught?”

“Precisely,” the chief punctuated. “Which is why I believe it would be in your best interest to go into protective custody.”

Bobbie had wondered when that suggestion would come up. She was not running from Perry. The only way to stop him was head-on. The one chance Gwen had of surviving was if they found him quickly enough. Bobbie stood and placed her badge and her service weapon on the table. “I’m done here.”

A rap on the open door drew the room’s collective attention in that direction. The desk sergeant looked from the chief to Bobbie. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but there’s a lady at the desk who refuses to leave without seeing Detective Gentry. She says it’s urgent.”

Shoving her weapon and her badge back into place, Bobbie was at the door before anyone else at the table moved. The sergeant stepped out of her way, and then hurried to keep up with her. With every step, she hoped a little harder that the woman would be Gwen...that maybe she hadn’t been taken by the Storyteller.

“Did she give her name?” Bobbie asked the sergeant.

“She wouldn’t tell me anything except that she needed to see you.”

By the time they reached the lobby, the rest of those gathered for this morning’s trap to force Bobbie into protective custody had caught up.