The Kid: A Suspense Thriller (A Reed & Billie Novel Book 3) Page 5

  Jurisdictional pissing matches were not something CPD, or any other law enforcement agency in the country, was immune to. Reed knew these guys would do their job, and do it well, but that didn’t mean they had to be happy about someone else showing up and handing them more work.

  “Even after you mentioned it was in connection to two cops being shot?”

  “They softened a little,” Gilchrist said. “Not as much as you’d expect.”

  Reed’s eyebrows rose a tiny bit, though he said nothing. For a moment he contemplated everything that had transpired on the evening, everything that still lay ahead to be done.

  “You guys can go on home,” he finally said. “I’ll sit on this, call you if anything else comes up.”

  “You sure?” Greene asked.

  “We don’t mind waiting,” Gilchrist added.

  “Yeah,” Reed replied. “There’s not much more we can do until morning. First light I’ll call the Hendrix’s, track down the witness from the scene.” He paused a moment, his mind racing to process everything before them.

  “Maybe come morning, you guys can come back out here, see if any of the other neighbors saw anything?”

  Chapter Ten

  A full 24 hours had passed since Reed had been to bed. He’d certainly pulled many, many such stints in his time, some much longer, but very few carried with them the combined weight of the last day. What had started with complete contentment – doing yard work, training with Billie – had evolved into elation during the Oklahoma game. From there it had been a veritable spiral, beginning with the call from Jackie and going through his visits to the Hendrix home and the crime scene.

  When Grimes had handed him the case the night before, his initial hope was that things would be simple, or at the very least linear. He could run the plates on the SUV, get an address, go pay them a visit. There he would either find the shooter or something that would give him a direct line on where to find them.

  A to B. Linear.

  Instead he was just a few hours in and his case resembled something more like a spider’s web. The home of the SUV belonged to a family that, based on initial appearances, was the American Dream. Nice house, two small kids, probably had a dog that was staying at a nearby kennel.

  Whether or not they were merely a target of opportunity or there was some connection, Reed had no idea. The fact that they had not been abducted was a tremendous relief, but it still did little to explain how their car ended up on the side of the road when it did.

  There was also the question of the detectives themselves and whether or not they were being targeted or simply had the misfortune of pulling over the wrong car. If it was a personal connection, Reed could be looking at decades of back files, all of them rife with potential suspects, people that the detectives had put away and would be out for revenge.

  There was also the question of the blood spatter at the scene, of the initial thoughts of Earl. The damage inflicted on Iaconelli did seem excessive, though if there were only a single shooter that could have just been circumstantial. If Bishop had been driving, there was no way to know if he would have been on the receiving end of a handful of bullets.

  The assorted pieces of data swirled through Reed’s head as he pushed in through the back door to his house. He left it open behind him, Billie in the yard doing her business, as he walked across to the kitchen table and unloaded his badge, weapon, and keys in quick order. A heavy sigh crossed his lips as he wrestled his sweatshirt off his shoulders, revealing the same Sooners t-shirt he’d been wearing while yelling at the television 10 hours before.

  Ten hours. Seemed like a lot longer than that.

  The thought of sinking into the padded chair alongside the table occurred to Reed, though he pushed it aside. He knew if he succumbed to that the odds were good he wouldn’t be rising again, lowering his head to the table in front of him, not to move until noon.

  Rather than subjecting himself and his neck to that torturous agony, he crossed over to the cabinets beneath the sink and extracted a 25 pound bag of kibble, filling one of a matching pair of stainless steel bowls on the floor. He took up the other one and filled it with cold water from a pitcher in the fridge, placing both on the floor as Billie entered behind him.

  Her toenails beat out a steady rhythm on the hardwood floor, the pads of her paws leaving behind wet smudges and bits of grass clippings as she went straight for the bowls. The sound of her lapping water found Reed’s ears as he closed the door and stood watching her a moment.

  She’d been assigned to him nine months prior, coming on the heels of the death of his partner and best friend Riley. The two had graduated from the same class at the academy together, going with separate senior officers during their training year before being paired up again.

  As the sole woman uniform in the precinct, the occasional snicker had been made over the years, both toward Reed and Riley, but neither had ever outwardly reacted to the barbs. Over time the jabs had fallen away as they both ascended quickly, having graduated to detectives in record time.

  On New Year’s Day Reed had been in Pasadena, a trip instigated by Rose Bowl tickets from Riley for Christmas. When the call came in that Riley had been in an accident he was still half-drunk in a hotel room in California, the results of too much tailgating and celebrating the night before.

  His father had been completely passed out on the bed beside him.

  The news had been a nuclear bomb, turning everything in his personal and professional life on its head. Overnight he became a hermit in every sense of the word, renting the farmhouse far outside of town, limiting his entire interaction with the world to work, essential stops like the gas station and supermarket, and home. He switched from the 19th Precinct to the 8th, even volunteering to take over the midnight shift to further minimize his contact with anybody.

  Six weeks after Riley’s funeral he had been given Billie, a former bomb sniffing dog with the Marines in Afghanistan. She too was on the backend of a tragic loss, her handler having stepped on an IED outside Kabul.

  The word in her file was that even after he was gone she had covered the remains of his body with her own, waiting until rescue transport arrived to take him home before she would move an inch.

  Whether that was true or a romanticized retelling Reed would never know, though it seemed to fit with everything he had seen from her thus far.

  The going was still tough, and they both knew it. Never did a day pass when he didn’t think of Riley and on occasion he could still see moments of hesitation in Billie that reflected similar thoughts inside of her. For the most part, though, they were both getting by, using each other to heal, to reacquaint themselves with the world.

  The fact that Reed felt so compelled to find whoever did this to Iaconelli and Bishop now only served to confirm that.

  “Sleep well, girl,” Reed said, watching as she continued to shove her nose into the bottom of the bowl, attacking the food with so much vigor it scooted across the floor. “We’re back on in three.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The Kid was parked in the fourth row of the parking lot, far enough back that there was no chance of him being noticed. In the busy shopping center he was just one of 100 indiscernible customers, an aggrieved boyfriend or husband, waiting for his lady to finish her business inside and come out.

  For his part he played the role to the letter, lowering the driver’s side window and propping his elbow up on the sill. He rested his hand along his brow and stared at the grocery store, every so often pushing out a loud sigh, timing them with the passing of anybody that might remotely be within hearing distance.

  As he sat and stared at the front entrance to the shopping center, a host of competing emotions fought for top billing inside him.

  The frontrunner at the moment was actually surprise, both at how well the events of the previous evening had played out and how easily he had assimilated into the role. Those pieces were far and away the biggest hurdles he’d had to overcome in the lea
d-up to this undertaking, having convinced himself that his targets were just short of invincible.

  Getting their attention, executing his plan, had almost been too easy. It threatened to take away a bit of the enormity from the moment, might even potentially taint the very reason he began in the first place.

  Riding shotgun after surprise was elation, for the very same reason. Now that he was well on his way, had proven to himself, and everybody else for that matter, that it could be done, that it wasn’t too difficult, his confidence surged.

  Despite the fact that the incident was just hours old, already he was seated in the parking lot, ready to kick off the next step. There was no reason to delay, nobody that could stop him even if they wanted to.

  Knowing that brought with it a feeling of equal parts euphoria and invincibility. To anybody that were to walk by, the only outward sign of any of the events from the previous evening were his bloodshot eyes, a product of smoke from the torching of the car he’d swiped and a lack of sleep.

  Otherwise he was as faceless as all the other schmucks shuffling back and forth from the supermarket in front of him. He was younger than most, in better shape than almost all, but otherwise there was nothing discernible about him.

  He was a ghost. A lethal, predatory, ghost.

  The thought caused the right corner of his mouth to curl upward as he continued to watch the entrance to the market. It was nestled in the front of his mind, pushing all other notions aside, as the object of his presence stepped outside.

  As it did, the smile fell away from his face, his hand lowering itself from his brow. His heart rate increased just slightly, his attention aimed on the figure before him.

  Her name was Deidra Weston, though she insisted on being called Didi by anybody that had known her for longer than a minute. Four years above 50 in age, she could have easily passed for a decade younger, the result of a posh lifestyle and spare capital to be spent on cosmetic and surgical enhancement.

  Hidden beneath oversized sunglasses and an outsized hairstyle, she pretended to be oblivious to the world around her. She wore a dress and heels despite the cold, her bare legs on display for all to see. In a slow and easy gait she moved away from the store and cut a path toward the front row of the lot, unlocking the rear door of her Audi S3 and depositing the lone small bag in her hand. From there she looked around the lot twice, her head on a swivel, perpetually on the watch for whoever might be nearby.

  Only once she was content that nobody of consequence was in the vicinity did she climb into her car.

  From his vantage in the fourth row, The Kid watched everything, forcing himself not to smirk at the pompous nature of it all.

  It was the fifth such day he had spent following her, the end result of countless hours spent in internet research. On every single occasion before she had conducted herself in much the same manner, the actions at first a cause for concern, worry that she might spot him and think to act on it.

  Not until the third day out did The Kid realize not once had she even seen him, his lower-class car and physical attributes being of the kind that never registered in her mind. He could have been parked in the stall beside her and she wouldn’t have glanced his way.

  Would never glance his way.

  The brake lights on the Audi flared as Didi put the car into reverse and backed away, The Kid watching the entire thing. He waited as she eased out of her parking spot and was almost clear of the lot before starting his own ride and pulling forward in her wake.

  Things were coming together. They had worked beautifully the first time.

  There was no reason to believe the next would be any different.

  Chapter Twelve

  Reed had told Billie they were back on in three, and he had forced himself to lie in bed for all 180 minutes, though the number he actually slept could be counted using only his fingers and toes. Despite the deep-rooted exhaustion that seemed to grip his body, his mind refused to quit working, trying to piece things together, to make sense of everything.

  The simple fact was, though, there were still many holes, too many moving parts, to make it all fit just yet. Until all those things were nailed down there would be no way to form a coherent narrative in his mind. Trying to do so was just an exercise in futility or even worse, an excuse to start creating information that simply wasn’t there.

  At exactly 10:00 Reed sat up in his bed and rolled his feet to the floor. He took up his cell phone from the nightstand and checked to find there were no new messages, scrolling down a couple of spots in his call history to the dispatch desk and hitting send.

  Lou answered on the third ring, his voice just as detached, tinged with a bit of sadness, even fear, as it had been eight hours earlier. “8th Precinct.”

  “Lou, this is Mattox. Has anything come back on the BOLO for Hendrix’s car yet?”

  Several moments passed, Reed picturing the aging man’s face twisted up on the other side, fighting to discern who was on the phone and what the request had been.

  Given the situation, Reed decided to help him along.

  “Detective Reed Mattox, requesting any information on the Be-On-The-Lookout that was posted last night for the automobile of Jonas Hendrix.”

  He slowed his cadence and raised it two octaves, the sound echoing through the house. On cue he could hear Billie roust herself from her bed beneath the kitchen table, working her way down the hallway toward him.

  “Oh, yes,” Lou said, a flicker of recognition in his voice. “Sorry, Detective, I did not hear you the first time.”

  Reed waited out the apology, saying nothing.

  “And no, there has been no word yet on the BOLO. I will keep you posted.”

  Holding the phone a few inches away from his face Reed blew out an angry sigh, careful not to curse out loud, not wanting Lou to sense what he was thinking. He held it there as Billie appeared in his doorway, her dark eyes two iridescent discs flashing in the half-darkness of the house.

  “How about our guys?” Reed asked. “Any word from the hospital?”

  He could hear the rustling of papers on the other end as Lou searched for an answer, probably having been updated that morning and jotting down the information.

  The fact that he didn’t know by heart, or hadn’t been asked about it enough times already to have it memorized, was a bit disconcerting, if not entirely surprising.

  Cops were quite superstitious about such occurrences. While they would go to the ends of the earth to track down whoever had done this, that didn’t mean they needed the omnipresent reminder of what could happen to them every time they went to work.

  “Bishop’s awake,” Lou replied. “Ike is out of surgery, though they’re keeping him in a coma right now.”

  A moment passed as Reed contemplated the news. He was glad Bishop was awake, though his status had never really been up in the air. He was much more concerned for Iaconelli and the way Lou had mentioned that they were keeping him in a coma, though he didn’t feel the need to press it.

  The odds were Lou knew little beyond what he had already shared. Asking any further questions would probably only make for an awkward conversation on both sides.

  “Okay,” Reed said, pushing out a sigh, his mind already working forward to the next thing on his list. “Can you send the information on the witness from the scene last night to my phone?”

  “Will do,” Lou replied, both sides signing off without another word.

  When the call was disconnected Reed tossed the phone onto the bed beside him, raising both hands to his face and rubbing vigorously. Stars appeared behind his eyelids as Billie came closer, resting her chin on his thigh. Dropping both hands to her ears, Reed worked at the thick hair behind them, hearing the dog let out a low groan of approval.

  “You about ready to get going?”

  Another sound from somewhere deep in her throat rolled out as Reed stood and walked to the kitchen, opening the back door. He filled Billie’s bowls and set a pot with three eggs to boiling on
the stove before heading back into the recesses of the house. Ten minutes later he emerged showered and changed to find Billie working on her breakfast, his ready and waiting for him on the stove.

  Less than 20 minutes after rising they were on the road, headed toward town.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The man’s name was Harold Baldwin, a teacher at Hilliard Darby high school that moonlighted as a Sunday school leader at a nearby church. The first time Reed tried to reach him the call had gone straight to voicemail, a full half hour passing before a response came. When it did the man explained that church rules dictated his phone be off while teaching but that he now had lunch and a planning period back-to-back, giving him just over an hour of availability.

  After that, he would be inaccessible until the end of the day at 3:00.

  Given that Reed was already almost to the outer belt, he jumped at the opportunity to meet, turning north and finding the school in short order. Less than 10 minutes after hanging up he parked in one of three open visitors stalls out front. There was no thought of leaving Billie behind as he clipped her to the short lead, almost wanting some overbearing hall monitor to comment on her presence.

  The badge he left tucked deep in the pocket of his sweatshirt.

  There were a number of ways Baldwin would be able to explain a man and a dog visiting with him on church grounds. No such luck existed for trying to calm the gossip mill if he was seen meeting with a police officer in private.

  Harold Baldwin was waiting for them the moment they stepped through the front door, the building bringing back a bit of déjà vu for Reed. Despite many years passing since he spent much time in either a school or church, the place had an odd familiarity about it that seemed to remind him of both.

  Same brick walls, same narrow metal lockers that made the same sound when being slammed, same droves of children all dressed and acting the same way, each trying to prove they were just as cool as everybody else.