The Promisor: A Suspense Thriller Page 8

  Assigned to the neighboring 19th Precinct immediately out of the academy, Reed had spent the first decade of his career just up the road in Hilliard. Working the standard ascension path, he and his former partner Riley had spent the vast majority of that time as beat cops before eventually transitioning to life as detectives.

  A post they had been in for only a couple of years before her untimely death.

  In the wake of her passing, Reed went through a period of seriously considering leaving the force for good. Handing in his gun and his badge and retreating west, back to join his family in Oklahoma.

  A decision that was stopped only by the strong urging of Grimes to come work for him as the newly installed captain in the 8th as the precinct’s new K-9 detective.

  An option that he had balked at initially, only slowly warming up to the idea in the months thereafter. A decision that now, more than two years later, he could not have imagined playing out any better.

  The whole situation with Governor Cowan notwithstanding.

  Tracing the same path they’d walked hundreds of times together, Reed and Billie made their way up the couple of steps to the front door before passing inside. At such a late hour, there was very little foot traffic to speak of, Reed choosing to let Billie roam free by his side, unencumbered by one of the pair of leads kept coiled in the footwell behind his seat.

  Their paces matching, they passed through the open bullpen of the first floor. Rows of beat-up wooden desks with chairs of various sizes and ages strewn throughout, the space consuming a full half of the ground floor. A sprawl stretched the entire length of the building, only the staircase ascending in the center of it breaking up the monotony.

  Glancing in either direction as they went, Reed saw only a pair of officers still at it. Dayshift guys hunkered over their desks with lamps burning bright. Mounds of paperwork piled beside them, they both raised their chin in greeting before falling back to the task at hand.

  A chore that Reed did not miss in the slightest, one of the rites suffered through by all new recruits.

  Lifting a hand in response, Reed kept his path aimed straight ahead, leading Billie to the double doors framed within the wall running through the middle of the building. The permanent partition separating the bullpen from the administrative suite, lights burning bright behind the frosted windowpanes.

  Increasing his pace to arrive a step before Billie, he held the right side open, allowing his partner to pass before following her through. A journey that ended just a few feet beyond at the door standing open to their left, light spilling out into the hallway along with a pair of voices.

  One, the familiar graveled timbre of Captain Grimes. The other, a tone Reed couldn’t quite place as he listened a moment before curling back his fingers and tapping his knuckles lightly against the doorframe.

  The instant he did so, the conversation within cut out, replaced with Grimes’s elevated voice calling, “Mattox?”

  Easing forward a couple of steps down the narrow walkway leading into the office, Reed went just far enough for the captain to come into view. Seated behind his desk, he stared expectantly toward the door, his fingers laced across his stomach in his trademark pose.

  “Hey, captain,” Reed replied, “sorry to interrupt. Just wanted to let you know we were here.”

  Pulling his hands apart, Grimes extended one toward Reed, motioning him into the room.

  “Come on in, we’ve actually been waiting for you.”

  Not exactly sure who the we in question was, Grimes having made no mention of a third party joining them on the phone earlier, Reed ascended the remainder of the corridor. At the corner, the office opened up wide before him, revealing a pair of visitor chairs sitting across from Grimes’s desk, one of them occupied by a man climbing to his feet.

  “Reed, this is Lieutenant Sam Schoen with the Gun Crimes Division,” Grimes said. “Sam, this is Detective Reed Mattox and his K-9 partner, Billie.”

  While the captain and the man that stood before Reed were both black and hovered somewhere in the vicinity of fifty years of age, any similarities ended there. While Grimes still had a full head of hair just starting to trend toward silver and shaved his face every day, Schoen’s scalp was completely bare, any hair having migrated into a goatee encircling his mouth.

  For Grimes, the attire of choice was a full uniform still buttoned at the collar and wrist, only the jacket removed and hanging on the wooden rack behind his desk. For the lieutenant, things were more tactical, the man donning boots and canvas pants with a v-neck t-shirt to match Reed’s.

  Still seated behind his desk, a few extra pounds having accumulated from his last years in administration were apparent for Grimes while Schoen was much closer to wiry.

  “Lieutenant,” Reed said, meeting the man in the open gap between the visitor seats and the front edge of the desk.

  “Detective,” Schoen replied, thrusting his hand into Reed’s and pumping twice. Glancing down to Billie, he added, “Detective. Seen you both on TV and heard the stories around the office, glad to finally meet you.”

  “Mostly good, I hope,” Reed replied, knowing full well how the life cycle of force scuttlebutt can go. Stories that can be blown into myth, inevitably drawing backlash.

  “Definitely,” Schoen replied, a smile eventually creasing his features. “Mostly. How’s that thing going with the governor’s office so far?”

  Motioning for the man to be seated, Reed did the same. Beside him, Billie did as well, her ribcage coming to rest against his calf. “Just getting started actually, which is why I’m guessing you’re here?”

  “Yes,” Grimes said. “After our conversation earlier, I called over to GC to see what they had going on. Wasn’t ten minutes later, I got a call from the lieutenant asking if he could stop by.”

  “Mention of Alex Aquino has a way of doing that,” Schoen said. Turning his focus toward Reed, he added, “And I happen to live just past Grove City and was kind of in the area anyway.”

  Nodding in understanding, Reed shifted his left hand from his thigh to the top of Billie’s head. Fingers running through the thick tuft of hair between her ears, he said, “Appreciate it. Apologize for making you wait, but that drive is no joke.”

  Raising a hand, Schoen waved off the apology. “No need. I just got here myself. Wallace said something about this originating down in Gallipolis?”

  Launching straight into the story, Reed brought them both up to speed as quickly as possible. A rundown that was mostly repeat for Grimes while hitting all the high points for Schoen.

  As he spoke, Schoen’s gaze shifted to the side. His brows coming together, he remained fixed in that position, waiting until the narrative was finished before flicking his gaze from Grimes to Reed.

  “Damn,” he muttered. “That poor woman. I didn’t even know Aquino had a sister.”

  “Seems like they worked to keep it a secret on their end too,” Reed replied. “Nobody I spoke to called her anything but Salem, talked about her only in glowing terms.

  “Wasn’t until her husband mentioned it that her maiden identity even came up.”

  Offering a small click in response, a sound originating deep in his throat, Schoen nodded. “And he was convinced it was because of her brother?”

  “Seemed to be,” Reed said, recalling the way Harrison had put the information out there. Not a moment’s pause, or even time wasted considering alternative notions. “I mean, it’s not every day a place like that sees a planned execution take place.”

  The corners of his mouth hooking downward, Schoen asked, “And that’s what this was?”

  “It had all the earmarks,” Reed said. “We were able to work with the crime scene guys to find the shooter’s nest, Billie was able to track them back to where they were parked on the opposite side of the foothill.

  “This was a precision hit on a very specific target.”

  Faint lines formed around Schoen’s eyes. A bit of a wince as he accepted the information before as
king, “Has anybody informed Aquino yet?”

  “No,” Reed replied, cutting his gaze across the desk to Grimes before returning it to Schoen, “which is one of a couple reasons why Captain Grimes reached out to you. We wanted to check on getting in to talk to Aquino in person, preferably as soon as possible?”

  Bobbing his head up and down a few times in short order, Schoen replied, “I can arrange that. He’s currently being held at Ross County. You familiar?”

  “Yeah,” Reed said, lifting his hand and patting Billie atop the head. “We were just there recently on another case.”

  “Okay,” Schoen replied. “And let me guess, the second thing was to see if there was anything new moving in the area that might have caused someone to go after his family?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The pair of blue nose pit bulls sat side by side in the living room of The Promisor’s home. Backsides lowered to the hardwood floor, they stared directly up at him, their muzzles shifting with him, tracking his every movement.

  A perfect matching set, nearly everything from their appearances to their mannerisms to the occasional flick of their tongues completely synchronized, the only noticeable difference between the two being their genders. Kratos on the right, named after the Greek god of strength. His sister Bia beside him, her moniker taken from the goddess of force.

  Twins in the ancient mythology, same as the pair resting on the woven rug in the center of the living room floor.

  After the better part of two days spent subsisting entirely on dry kibble, they had both just been rewarded with an equal split of a flank steak. A matching piece to the meal The Promisor had made for himself, recognizing the need all three had for protein and fat.

  Energy to sustain them through what lay ahead.

  The Promisor, for the chores he still had stretched out before him. The twins, for the task that was left to them while he was gone.

  The role of looking after the place, serving as a final layer of security that was now as important as ever before.

  With the air inside the home redolent with the smells of grilled beef and woodsmoke, the dogs both sat with their spines erect, their weight balanced on their front paws. Beneath them, their stomachs bulged, pressing against the lower part of their ribcages.

  A rare bit of bloat that would be gone within a couple of hours, but for the moment couldn’t help but bring a small smile to The Promisor’s face as he glanced over.

  The sole thing about the day – and certainly this final task of the night – that evoked even the slightest bit of mirth.

  Backside resting on the canvas seat of a folding stool, The Promisor sat with his body perpendicular to the fireplace. Elbows balanced on his knees, he watched as the larger sticks surrounding the pile of kindling in the center slowly caught fire, tendrils of red and orange rising into the air.

  Flickering fingers that cast long shadows across the interior of the living room, the flames serving as the main source of light inside the home.

  On the ground between The Promisor’s feet rested a stack of items. Photographs and printouts and handwritten notes accumulated over the last few months. Untold hours of work and preparation all rendered moot with a single tug on the trigger of his Mossberg this morning.

  Stripped bare to the waist, The Promisor felt the warmth of the fire against his bare skin. Heat that mixed with the June air temperature to bring perspiration to his features, droplets beginning to streak down his cheeks and over his chest.

  A physical form that was not quite the same as it was the last time he was undertaking such tasks, but could still outpace most men twenty years his junior.

  A point of pride that also served him well in his role since leaving field work long ago.

  Grabbing up a poker from the floor beside him, The Promisor ran it up under the pile of burning sticks. Redistributing the bed of coals, he pulled them into an even layer, a shower of sparks rising upward.

  Visual effects with the soundtrack of wood fibers snapping and popping, the smell of charred oak growing thicker around him.

  A not unpleasant scent that The Promisor barely noticed as he removed the poker, trading it out for two more lengths of wood. Pieces roughly the size and diameter of his forearm that he had taken from the forest behind the house the previous summer and left to dry throughout the long winter.

  Timber that would burn fast and hot, more than sufficient for his purposes this evening.

  “I think that ought to do it, don’t you?” The Promisor asked, glancing over to the twins perched beside him. A question that evoked a small sound from Bia’s throat. A low grunt that hinted of agreement, both of the animals knowing better than to whine.

  Beside her, Kratos responded with a simple flick of his tongue.

  The strong silent one of the pairing, just as he was raised to be.

  Dropping his attention back to the pile before him, The Promisor started with the photographs. Images of Cara Salem and the car she drove. The house she lived in. The yoga studio she attended and the parking spot she preferred at the library where she helped out.

  Every single aspect of her life snapped with a small digital camera and printed out in the rear room that served as a home office for The Promisor. The sum total of more than a dozen trips down to Gallipolis, his drive back this evening the last time he ever intended to follow the route.

  Journeys that he wished he’d never had to make, but at the same time, didn’t feel the least bit remorseful over.

  Just as he would waste no sorrow on the others that would soon be receiving a visit from him.

  Feeding the images one at a time into the flames, The Promisor waited as they were incinerated. Dark spots that formed in the center and gnawed at the edges before eventually overtaking the thin paper, reducing them to ash.

  A process that The Promisor made sure was complete and thorough before moving on to the next in the stack, to be followed in order by the notes, and the schematics, and even the overhead visuals pulled from Google Earth.

  A cathartic process that would be completed by feeding the SD card from his digital camera into the garbage disposal and destroying the ink cartridge from his color printer. Anything that might tie him to what happened, culminating with finally stepping into the shower.

  A way of cleansing away any residue from what took place already so that he could rise in the morning, ready to prepare for what must come next.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Hey, how’d it go with the call from your boss earlier?

  Lighting up the face of Reed Mattox’s cellphone in the semi-darkness of his kitchen, the incoming text message drew his attention over. Away from the legal pad before him and the full page of notations scrawled out across it in blue ink.

  Three or four different chunks, each separated by a solid line stretching from one edge of the page to the other. A regimented way of getting down the assorted facts already collected and outlining the various questions still needing answers.

  A balance that was weighted far heavier toward the latter than the former. The resulting outcome of a day that felt like it was spent playing catch up, everything from the meeting with Brandt to the scene in Gallipolis leaving Reed feeling like he was fighting to get his feet under him.

  Like a man standing knee-deep in the ocean, a series of swells preventing him from ever fully gaining his balance before the next one rolled in.

  “Sorry, Serena,” Reed said, the sound of his voice in the quiet of the kitchen drawing Billie’s ears up atop her head. Resting with her stomach flat to the cool floorboards, she was positioned with her tail pointed toward the sink on the opposite wall, her nose directed his way.

  Her preferred post whenever he was using the dining table for work, allowing her to monitor his movements and giving her a direct route to her bed under the table once slumber called an end to the night.

  A time that Reed suspected was fast approaching, the burn of his eyes and a faint bit of a headache both fast bringing a long d
ay to a close.

  “No time for your rapid-fire texting tonight.”

  Dropping his pen down onto the pad before him, Reed leaned back in his seat. Taking up the bottle of Gatorade on the table beside it, he tilted it back, letting the last inch of it slide down his throat. Lukewarm fruit punch that tasted like pure syrup as it passed over his tongue before landing heavy in his stomach.

  A testament to the hours he’d spent hunkered over the pad, the last half day a blur he couldn’t imagine slowing anytime in the near future.

  Dropping the bottle back into place, Reed ran the same hand back along his scalp. Passing it over the crown of his head, he scratched at the nape of his neck, his focus returning to the notes jotted down.

  An arrangement of thoughts to hopefully use as a framework in the days ahead.

  At the top of the page were observations about the town of Gallipolis. An odd assortment containing things from the tense encounter at the police station to Doc Blum alluding to the Salem family as a community pillar. Things that might – or even, probably – amount to nothing, but couldn’t be discounted just yet.

  Below that was a segment dedicated to the act itself. The malice needed to not only track someone, but to watch them from afar and then take them down with less regard than a hunter gives an animal.

  An act hinting at either extreme evil or a very personal statement being made.

  By far the largest chunk of the page was that dedicated to the introduction of Alex Aquino. A man whose name Reed recognized instantly, the conversation with Sam Schoen and some internet research filling in a lot of the background details that Reed either wasn’t privy to or had simply forgotten. A cornucopia of information that was little more than an oversized swirl at the front of his mind, leaving him hoping that a night of rest might help tamp it into some form of working order.

  Scanning each of the pieces in order, Reed worked his way down the page, his focus ultimately settling on the fourth category. The plans for first thing in the morning and the multitude of ways things could go from there.