Читать книгу Agent Cowboy - Debra Webb - Страница 12

Flight 1101 from Chicago to Houston

Monday 9:30 a.m.

At six foot three, a first-class seat was about the only place Trent Tucker was comfortable on a commercial airliner. Not to mention it gave him a little more privacy to peruse the kind of reports he was reviewing this morning.

Heavy icing had delayed all flights departing from Chicago on Sunday so he’d had no choice but to postpone his departure until Monday morning. To bring him up to speed and to prevent further delay, Senator William Lester had kindly faxed him the reports and photos pertinent to the Jarvis case last evening.

The images in the photos were gruesome. Three murders. Each victim cut down in the midst of going about his or her business. What Trent needed to know was had that business been the motivation for murder? Were three people dead because Raymond Jarvis had gotten in bed with the wrong folks? And was twenty-five thousand dollars enough to buy an FBI agent with an otherwise spotless record? Or was it merely a fraction of the full payment? What about the assistant? Was she involved or had she simply been at the wrong place at the wrong time?

Trent shuffled the pages until he came to the data sheet on Jarvis’s assistant. Kelly Pruitt would turn twenty-three her next birthday. She had no close family and had graduated from a Texas university at the top of her class. She had no criminal record and a perfect credit score. The money she’d inherited when her parents had died had seen her through college and then some. She had a handsome savings and a healthy balance in checking. Midsize and modest summed up her taste in automobiles. Her living space appeared a bit more luxurious, judging by the address. She just didn’t fit the profile of someone looking to get involved in criminal activity.

The next data sheet detailed the life of her forty-eight-year-old boss. Unlike Kelly, Ray Jarvis had scraped by in college, making the necessary grades by the skin of his teeth. He’d first gone into business with a partner who later became his wife. Unfortunately, fourteen years and two children down the road, the two divorced and dissolved the partnership, which was on the brink of bankruptcy. Jarvis, however, had learned a few things. Picking up the pieces of his life he’d started his own business and thrived. Ten years after that he was on the verge of becoming a major player in the financial world of the Lone Star state.

Jarvis had worked hard to get to where he was, it didn’t make sense to Trent that he’d get greedy at this point and risk everything. But then, he wouldn’t be the first guy who had turned stupid as he neared fifty. A midlife crisis took its toll on many.

The FBI agent, Norton Davis, seemed an even less likely candidate for duplicity. Thirty-one, a wife and new baby, the man had a stellar record. He had been third generation law enforcement and a pillar of the small community where he and his family resided just minutes outside Dallas.

None of it made sense. And yet, three people were dead and dirty money had changed hands.

A gasp startled Trent back to the present.

“I’m…I’m sorry,” the flight attendant said. Her eyes were wide as her gaze went from the photos spread on the tray in front of him to his. “I…thought you might like some more coffee.”

Trent shuffled the photos and reports into a file folder and smiled up at the nervous woman. “No thank you, ma’am.”

She managed a shaky smile. “You must be the detective.”

“That’s right.” He didn’t bother with the distinction of private detective. She was already nervous enough. Of course, seeing photos of a homicide scene would do that. But she would know a detective was onboard since he’d checked his weapon, which was packed and secured for the flight along with his one piece of luggage.

The stewardess nodded and continued down the aisle, her posture a little stilted.

Trent glanced at his watch. He had another thirty minutes before arriving in Houston. Plenty of time to further analyze the data he’d reviewed. Immediately his thoughts went to Kelly Pruitt. His gut told him that she was the true victim here. He doubted she had known what she was getting into. Jarvis, if he had gotten involved with the drug cartel, had brought this on himself. Agent Davis knew the risks and hazards of his job. But Kelly Pruitt was just a kid…she’d had no idea that death lurked so close.

At thirty-three, Trent was old enough to know that youth didn’t necessarily equate to innocence, but he had a feeling about this young woman. He leaned back in his seat and stretched out his long legs as best he could. If she proved as innocent as he suspected, he would make this right for that little lady. Whoever had murdered her wouldn’t get away with it. He’d spent six years as a bounty hunter in the great state of Texas. Sniffing out and bringing in his quarry was what he did best. Patience and persistence always paid off in that line of work and there wasn’t a more patient or a more determined man on the planet.

“YOU MUST BE Mr. Tucker,” a man suggested as Trent exited the gate at Houston’s Hobby Airport. “Detective Hargrove.” He extended his hand. Houston’s police department would be working aspects of this case along with the FBI—because the senator didn’t trust the local Bureau.

It hadn’t been necessary for the detective to introduce himself. Trent recognized the cop instantly. Wrinkled suit, probably hadn’t been home all weekend, and a five o’clock shadow well before noon. If he was the detective in charge of this case, Trent doubted he’d get any rest before it was solved. With a senator breathing down his neck he likely wouldn’t even sleep until he had a suspect. He looked to be about forty. Fairly trim, but with a haggard expression that lent credence to Trent’s conclusion.

Which, considering what they had to go on, wasn’t happening anytime soon. This was one of those dig in for the long haul kind of cases. Trent could feel it all the way to his bones. There would be no clear-cut answers. No handy suspects. This one would be solved one tidbit of revealed evidence at a time. Slowly and methodically.

The idea didn’t intimidate Trent in the least. Waiting out his prey was something he did especially well.

Trent shook the other man’s outstretched hand. “I appreciate you coming out to meet me like this considering it’s a holiday,” Trent offered.

Hargrove rolled his bloodshot eyes. “What holiday? Until I catch the perp in this case I doubt I’ll even see my family again.”

Trent had been right. “I understand.”

“You want to go to the scene first, right?”

“Right.”

After a trip to luggage pickup, Hargrove led the way to the short-term parking area where two dark sedans waited. He gestured to one and offered Trent a set of keys. “I figured the least we could do was provide you with transportation seeing how you’re going to be cooperating with us and all.”

Trent accepted the keys. “Sounds fair to me.” He tossed his luggage in the back seat and settled behind the wheel. The Houston Police Department didn’t want him uncovering anything without keeping them fully informed. He imagined there would be a tracking device somewhere on the sedate-looking vehicle just so they would know where he was at all times. No one wanted this case to go any farther south than it already was. And no one, not H.P.D. or the senator, wanted the Bureau to know Trent was involved.

Forty-five minutes after leaving the airport, Hargrove turned into a small parking area that supported a minioffice complex on the fringes of Houston proper. Three separate suites made up the complex with Jarvis’s on the end. An overgrown jungle of shrubbery camouflaged the aging building from its newer two-story neighbor.

Yellow crime-scene tape and a posted warning at the entrance marked the area as off-limits to anyone but official personnel. To breach that line was a criminal offense.

Hargrove unlocked the door and entered the premises. Trent took his time as he moved inside, studying the layout and looking for anything that appeared out of place. The lobby was relatively small, tiled floor, upholstered chairs and a couple of tables covered with magazines for waiting clients. The assistant’s desk stood on the far side of the room where the space narrowed into a corridor that led to the other offices, he surmised.

The assistant’s desk was tidy. A small green plant occupied one corner. A chalk outline on the floor behind it represented the young woman who had been murdered there.

“Her purse was taken as evidence,” Hargrove told him, noting the path of Trent’s gaze. “There wasn’t much in it though. A few dollars, a credit card, sunglasses, and lip gloss and tissues.”

Without looking up from the outline, Trent asked, “No driver’s license or other ID?”

“Apparently she left home without her license that morning, even got a ticket on the way to work. Oh.” The detective shook his head. “Forgot to mention that, the ticket was in her purse as well.”

Trent nodded.

“Look around all you’d like,” Hargrove said as he handed him a pair of latex gloves. “Jarvis’s office, a lounge and a conference room are that way.” He gestured to the corridor. “I’m going to make some calls.”

Hargrove took a seat in the lobby and fished out his cell phone. Trent, thankful for the opportunity to view the rest of the scene alone, tugged on the gloves and entered Jarvis’s office first. He preferred making his own assessments, with no outside influence.

The leather executive chair behind the desk carried the mark of a single bullet hole and the dried remains of a good deal of blood. Some of the life-giving fluid had dripped onto the beige carpet. One of the upholstered chairs in front of the desk was overturned. The agent had likely stood and faced the shooter after Jarvis took a bullet. That would explain the overturned chair and the spray of blood and brain matter on Jarvis’s desk. According to the M.E.’s preliminary report, the bullet had entered his forehead, leaving a small round hole, but had exited the back of his head removing a wide swath of all in its path.

Again, an outline on the floor marked the place the agent had fallen. Trent shook his head. He never doubted his first impressions and this had the look and smell of a setup.

The shooter hadn’t simply walked in at just the right time to take out all involved. He had known when the agent would be arriving. Had known when the other offices would be closed, allowing additional privacy. These killings had been planned down to the precise moment—after the envelope of money was in the agent’s pocket. Almost too precise.

Trent took his time going through the office, then the lounge and conference room. Everything was just as it should be. Not a single thing looked out of place.

When he returned to the corridor, he walked the full length of it. Checked the rear emergency exit, which led into an alley that backed up to a small strip mall. He moved slowly back up the corridor but stopped midway. Something snagged his attention. The grill on the return duct wasn’t fully closed.

He crouched down and found one latch loose, the louvered grill that served as a door was held closed at the top only. “Hargrove!” he called.

The detective appeared pretty damned quick for a guy running on forty-eight hours or more with no sleep. “Yeah?”

“Got a flashlight?”

“In the car. I’ll get it.”

Trent released the one latch and pulled the grill open. The battered filter lay discarded to the side. He leaned forward and looked around inside but couldn’t see anything. Why would the filter be in that condition and moved to the side? He pulled the filter from the duct and looked it over before setting it aside.

“Here you go.” Hargrove came up behind him with a black, heavy-duty police issue flashlight in hand.

“Thanks.” Trent surveyed the inside of the duct. About ten feet long. Not much to see other than the thin layer of insulation coating the sheet metal. As far as he could tell it was undisturbed. But when he drew back something snagged his attention.

A couple of strands of hair. He reached for it. Pulled it loose from the grill and studied it. Blond. Fairly long.

“Whatcha got there?” Hargrove squatted down next to him. “You think the unit sucked those in from the floor or whatever?”

Trent shook his head. “I don’t think so. These two hairs were snagged on this metal edge where the grill frame fits into the duct.” He pointed to the spot where he’d pulled them loose. “I think they got caught there when someone stuck their head in here.”

“To change the filter maybe?” Hargrove suggested.

Trent shrugged. “Maybe.”

But whoever had changed the filter last hadn’t done a very good job, he didn’t bother to mention.

“You wanna go over to the morgue now?”

“Yeah.” Leaving the grill open, he stood. “I think I’ve seen all I need to here.” His gaze settled on the detective’s. “You got an evidence bag?”

“Sure.” Hargrove pulled a plastic bag from his jacket pocket and bagged the hair. “You want me to put it with the rest of the stuff forensics is going over?”

“Why not?”

DETECTIVE HARGROVE was a team player. Trent was glad for that. He wasn’t grandstanding and didn’t mind outside interference. Trent felt damn lucky. It rarely worked that way. Most cops didn’t like P.I.’s horning in on their cases. But then, he supposed, any sort of help would be a relief considering the way the senator was pulling rank.

The morgue was like all others. Cold, clinical and smelling of chilled flesh. Focusing on the task rather than the environment, Trent considered the bodies one by one. Jarvis and the FBI agent were pretty much what he had expected. The assistant, however, was not.

Trent walked all the way around the extended drawer and considered the victim from both sides. She looked older than twenty-two. A little tall for the description on her license as well. And the shape of the face wasn’t quite right.

“Has anyone identified the body?” Trent asked the detective who hovered a few feet away.

“Not yet. There’s no family other than a distant cousin who lives in Massachusetts. She’s flying in tomorrow to claim the body.”

Trent had a feeling she was going to be startled. “Did you print her or verify her identity with her dental records?”

The detective shrugged. “We haven’t got a response back yet on the request we put out for dental records and she doesn’t have any kind of record so she’s not in the fingerprint database. Printing her seemed pointless.”

When little was known about the victim and there was no family left behind to provide information, a request was sent to local dentists and physicians to see if the victim was one of their patients. But a response took time.

Trent surveyed the body again, his gaze going back to the eyes. “Contacts?” He nodded toward her eyes.

“Not according to the M.E.’s preliminary report. Full autopsies weren’t necessary since the cause and manner of death was obvious but he would have listed contact lenses in the abbreviated autopsy reports.”

Trent studied the color a bit closer. “Then why are her eyes brown when her driver’s license says she has hazel eyes?” His gaze shifted to the detective who didn’t bother to ask how Trent had gotten a look at her license. When he’d been a bounty hunter in Texas he’d had his sources. He’d wasted no time yesterday getting a copy of each victim’s driver’s license so he’d have a clean visual.

A frown had marred across Hargrove’s forehead. “I don’t know.” His gaze collided with Trent’s. “Are you suggesting that she isn’t Kelly Pruitt?”

Trent considered the body again, his gut clenching in anticipation. “Run her prints just in case.” She had similar blond hair to that of the image in Kelly Pruitt’s license photo as well as the hairs he’d collected from the grill over the duct at the office. “You might want to compare her hair with those we found, though it might not be relevant since the hair could be left over from a previous assistant.”

Hargrove swore. “The last assistant Jarvis employed was a brunette. I’ve already questioned her. If this woman isn’t Kelly Pruitt and we didn’t discover that fact until now, there’s going to be hell to pay.” He swore again. “And there was that 9-1-1 hang-up. We thought maybe she tried to call before she collapsed.”

Trent understood completely. He wouldn’t want to be in the detective’s shoes because he had a bad feeling that this body belonged to someone else.

If his instincts were on the mark, Kelly Pruitt was still alive. Out there. Somewhere.

The only question was whether she was hiding from the killer or abetting him.

KELLY’S EYES OPENED and she groaned.

The pages she’d printed out were plastered to her face, she realized with another groan. She raised up from the desk, peeling away the research she’d worked on until dawn. Felix the cat stretched and made a languid sound before leaping from the desktop and scurrying from the room. At least one of them had gotten some real sleep last night.

Her shoulders ached and her head throbbed dully. She should have stopped and gone to bed hours ago. Swiping a hand over her face, she sighed. But then sleeping would have allowed her to dream and she just hadn’t been ready to face those haunting nightmares again. The images from Friday evening poured one over the other into her mind. She banished them instantly and forced her cramped legs to hold up her weight as she pushed out of her chair.

She couldn’t say much for falling asleep at the computer, but at least the night had passed without her having to relive those horrors yet again.

She staggered to the bathroom and turned on the shower. The disk Ray had insisted she take home with her had revealed nothing as of yet. Access required a codeword. Hours of guesswork had not revealed the proper nine-letter word. She’d tried combinations of letters and numbers with no luck there, either. Whatever was on the file she couldn’t access it. Yet. She had no intention of giving up.

Her clothes left in a pile on the floor, she stepped into the shower and let the hot water sluice over her tired muscles. It felt like heaven after a long stretch in hell. Frustration at not being able to access the disk had sent her on another mission. She’d perused Ann’s inbox as a means of distraction. Her friend hadn’t received any new e-mails since last Thursday, which surprised Kelly just a little. The only interesting part of her exploration was the numerous cyber love letters from Romeo.

Kelly shivered when she thought of the man’s sexy style of delivery. He took even the most innocuous of comments to a whole new level. No wonder Ann had been enamored with him. She’d told Kelly she had herself an online romance going. Things had definitely been heating up. Though the two, apparently, had not shared actual personal data. Romeo had not revealed his real name, address or profession and, as far as Kelly knew, Ann hadn’t, either.

Of course, that was the safe way to handle the situation, but what was the point? Though Kelly had to admit that she found his e-mails titillating, how could they compare to the real thing? She washed her hair and lathered her body, her too vivid imagination conjuring the feel of strong arms and a hard male body. Unfortunately that couldn’t be faked in cyberspace.

After a quick rinse and toweling off, Kelly scrubbed the residue from the steam-fogged mirror and stared at her reflection. How in the world was she going to get her life back? Would the police listen if she simply came forward and announced that she was still alive and told them the truth about what really happened?

Or would a move like that simply get her killed?

She thought of the data she’d downloaded and printed from Ray’s files. Since he worked from home and the road quite often, he’d set himself up a way to access his files remotely. He’d given the code to Kelly last month when he’d had to go out of town for his last remaining aunt’s funeral. She supposed even a workaholic like Ray didn’t want to pull out his laptop at a funeral.

Kelly had studied the files and determined the ones as most likely candidates for money-laundering. Overseas accounts with diverse investments. Not a single one jumped out at her. Every entry to the records appeared as it should be. She didn’t recognize the names on the accounts, all were corporations—another red flag when looking for trouble spots. Whenever an individual or group of individuals wanted to dilute a situation, they formed a “dummy” corporation and invested widely. These sorts of transactions were the most difficult to monitor.

But there were other ways that could slip under the radar of anyone looking for questionable activities.

Kelly knew most of the individual account holders. She’d met them or at least spoken on the phone with them. But being polite and cordial didn’t make them innocent. There was simply no way for her to know who could be trusted and who couldn’t. Whatever the case, someone Ray had come into contact with had grown dissatisfied with his work and had decided his services were no longer needed. Either that or Ray had figured out that a client he represented was not what he seemed and that knowledge had proved fatal.

She turned up the volume on the television as she padded through the living room. Keeping tabs on the investigation was necessary, she reminded herself as she rummaged through Ann’s kitchen in search of something to eat. Her appetite was still AWOL but eating was essential to survival.

The news anchor’s voice snared her attention with one simple statement: “Now, for an update on the multiple homicide at a Houston investment firm.”

Kelly dismissed thoughts of food and hurried to the living room to watch the report. She settled on the sofa as a reporter standing in front of Ray’s office filled the screen. She could see the yellow crime-scene tape fluttering in the breeze where it was strung across the front entrance. Her gut clenched with dread.

Ray was dead.

Ann was dead.

“The Houston Police Department,” the reporter droned solemnly, “has just released the name of the third victim in the still unsolved multiple homicide. Special Agent Norton Davis of the Dallas Federal Bureau of Investigations was murdered in the private office of Raymond Jarvis. We don’t know yet whether Agent Davis was a client of Jarvis’s or conducting an investigation into the firm’s activities, both seem unlikely given the geography and jurisdiction. However, sources close to the investigations say—”

Kelly muted the sound and sat in stunned silence for a long while. An FBI agent. No wonder Ray had been nervous. She blinked. She should have gone to the police already. Should have told them what she knew.

But then news that she had survived would leak to the press.

Her gaze focused on the crime-scene tape flailing behind the reporter. If the killer hadn’t hesitated to kill an FBI agent, what hope did she have of surviving once he realized his mistake?

None.