by Kava, Alex
She peddled hard, trying to pull Creed along. Out here, the trees were stripped of their leaves along with the kudzu, but at least, some of the trees were standing.
“Slow down, girl,” he told her.
There was hardly any shade, and the sun was relentless. Creed didn’t want Grace to get overheated. The temperature edged into the upper eighties and the humidity made it feel even warmer. Scenting dogs breathed in 140-200 times a minute compared to a dog taking a walk and breathing in thirty times a minute. But it wasn’t just breathing. Grace was taking in air, sending it in different directions, separating and identifying the scents. She could get dehydrated quickly. She wouldn’t stop until she found her target. It was Creed’s number one job to make sure his dog wouldn’t hurt herself.
He also needed to make sure the tall grass wasn’t hiding sharp objects. Grace had always fought him on wearing protective boots, but no footgear could prevent razor cuts from shards of glass or punctures from boards with nails. The storm had reduced everyday objects and thrown them around to make a dangerous obstacle course. From what he could tell, most of the debris out in this field was contained to the solid heaps the storm had spit out. Or at least, that was what Creed hoped.
Along the way he saw dozens of soda cans, unopened but crushed. There were stray pieces of fabric and paper. Twice he bent to pick up a scattering of photographs. Smiling faces, family reunions, graduation, a wedding. He tucked them into his daypack.
At the far end of the field, a long line of pine trees had fallen on their sides, like dominos, one then another on top of each other. From what Creed could see they still had their pine needles. All the branches were intact. It looked like the wind had gently pushed them over. And that’s exactly where Grace was leading him.
He glanced back. Norwich and Sykes followed behind, keeping a good distance. What Creed wanted to see was how far back the vehicle with the missing driver was. It had to be 100 feet away.
Grace kept a steady pace, her breathing more rapid. She zig-zagged and weaved, running perpendicular to the line of downed pines. She had zeroed in on something, crossing in and out of the scent cone. Grace slowed to skim her nose over some scrubgrass and stopped to sniff a bush. Creed was about to offer her water, but then she started pulling him, again, angling toward the fallen pine trees.
He glanced back a second time. She was drawing him farther and farther away from the vehicle and any other debris. A breeze had picked up, and he realized they were downwind from the area Grace led him. That was a good thing and yet, Creed couldn’t see any signs of a target source. Was it possible she was smelling drugs or chemicals that were included in explosives? With all the stuff that had gotten ripped up and blown away, many of those toxic chemicals were undoubtedly in the air. He trusted Grace, but her ability to track multiple scents meant she could be leading him to a scent he hadn’t asked her to find.
He couldn’t imagine that the driver of that vehicle had been flung this far, but he and Grace had discovered stranger things. It was hard to explain, but finding a body—no matter how damaged—was actually easier than not finding the missing person. Coming up empty, left questions. Did he miss something? Had Grace tried to tell him or lead him and he hadn’t read his dog correctly?
Percentage-wise a good deal of searches ended with no victim. Sure, some finds were gruesome. Creed thought about the guy still strapped into the vehicle. The driver would most likely be in far worse condition. But no matter how gruesome, the find meant success and would bring an end to the search.
There was an old saying among K9 groups. Grief belongs to the families. Dread belongs to the handlers.
He wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand.
Trust your dog, he reminded himself. Grace was rarely wrong.
Now, up close and along side the pine trees, Creed marveled at the sight. Not a branch was broken, not even the trunks. It truly looked as if the wind had gently pushed them down, one after another. The ground pushed up revealing roots still attached and holding on.
Grace pranced to a spot in the middle and poked her nose into the thick swath of pine needles. The branches on top of branches made it impossible to see underneath. Grace pulled her nose out and shook her head, sending stray needles flying. Then she turned to look up at Creed, finding his eyes with an intent stare that was her alert.
She had found her target and was ready for her reward.
23
FBI Crime Lab
Quantico, Virginia
Maggie sat down next to Special Agent Antonio Alonzo. What he called his office looked more like a film editing booth. A half dozen computer monitors lined the wall he faced, but his swivel chair allowed him to swing around to a more conventional desk that always seemed to be immaculately unadorned. Maggie couldn’t help wondering if the desk was mostly for show, so that he didn’t entirely throw off visitors who came into his office unprepared.
He eyed her as she placed the Starbuck’s container next to his empty coffee mug. He recognized the bribe, and still rewarded her with one of his wide grins.
“You know I changed up a bit,” he told her as he pulled the cup closer and inhaled deeply.
“A venti caramel latte,” she said, “with three shots of espresso.”
“Extra pumps of caramel?”
“Five pumps of caramel and one pump of mocha.”
“You must want something big,” he said as he snapped off the lid and took a sip. “Oh, that is some kind of wonderful. Go ahead, ask and you share receive.”
Although Alonzo was considered a data wizard he defied the computer nerd stereotype. A fashion trendsetter in a building of drab navy, black or brown suits, Alonzo wore a bright orange button-down shirt that complimented his brown skin. His tie and the frames of his eyeglasses always seemed to match. Today, they were an indigo blue. He wore khakis and high-polished, brown leather shoes. He also, smelled good. Not ordinary aftershave. Something citrus with a hint of coconut.
“There were two homicides in Chicago this morning,” she told him as she popped open a can of Diet Pepsi. “Two young men, middle twenties. Deacon Kaye was shot—execution style—in what looked like a home invasion. The other man, Tyler Gates, was shot on the street. Actually, just a few streets away. A possible botched robbery except they left the wallet. Took the cell phone. Both shootings took place in about the timeframe of an hour.”
Alonzo sat back in his chair and sipped his coffee, listening, taking it all in. She knew he wouldn’t interrupt her until she was finished.
“The men were friends. Kaye was a mid-level computer analyst for a chemical laboratory. Gates was a junior account rep for an advertising agency. They hacked into a company’s computer email last week.”
She paused and waited, letting him mull it over. He sat forward with his first question. “A military contractor?”
Maggie shook her head. “A cereal company.”
“Cereal? As in Fruit Loops and Cheerios?”
“Not those two in particular, but yes, cereal and breakfast bars. It’s a food company called Carson Foods.”
“How do you know they hacked into the company’s computer?”
“A woman named Francine Russo worked at the advertising agency with Tyler Gates. They’re the account reps putting together an advertising campaign for the company’s latest organic breakfast bars. Gates didn’t like that the products were suspected of having glyphosate in them.”
“Glyphosate? That’s some sort of herbicide to kill weeds?”
“Or regulate plant growth. Sometimes it’s used as a drying agent.”
“But it’s toxic?” Alonzo asked.
“It’s been registered as a pesticide since 1974. The EPA says there are no risks to public health when glyphosate is used in accordance with its current label and that glyphosate is not a carcinogen. I’m quoting.”
“I see.” He put down his coffee and steepled his fingers.
“But the World Health Organization and some recent
studies have labeled it a carcinogen that increases the risk of cancer.”
“Ah, I get it,” Alonzo said. “And Mr. Tyler’s computer buddy at the chemical lab tested the breakfast bars, and indeed, found disturbing levels of this pesky pesticide.”
“Yes. Russo was on the phone video-chatting with him about it when he was shot.”
Alonzo whistled and tapped his fingers together. “I don’t like where this is going. What do you need from me?”
In the past, Antonio Alonzo had been able to provide the unthinkable from satellite photos of a killer’s gravesites to security camera feeds of a WalMart parking lot in the Midwest. He could track down the smallest piece of evidence, run it through databases and somehow find its relevance. He had been Maggie’s right-hand man on several cases, accessing vital information in a remarkably short amount of time. On one occasion he provided life or death information. And he didn’t just depend on computers and databases. The man was an encyclopedia of facts and trivia.
Maggie gave him the names of the three people involved: Francine Russo, Tyler Gates and Deacon Kaye along with any details Hannah had been able to share as well as the information from Detective Jacks.
“Anything you can find about Carson Foods and their CEO might also be helpful,” Maggie added.
“I seem to remember a lawsuit regarding glyphosate. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a food company though.”
“Maybe there’s a connection. You think this could be about warding off possible lawsuits?”
He shrugged. “We both know people have killed for less.” He was already making notes on a yellow legal pad. “Makes more sense than it being about cereal.”
“Breakfast bars,” she corrected him.
He looked up and smiled at her. “Right. That makes a big difference.” He tapped his pen against the notepad. “You said the killer took Tyler Gates’ cell phone?”
“It wasn’t at the scene or on him,” Maggie said. “Is that significant?”
“There’s a whole bunch of information stored on a person’s phone.”
“But he’d have to know Gates’ passcode.”
“You said Gates was video-chatting when he met up with the guys. They wouldn’t need the passcode. And a lot of people don’t like to bother with passcodes. We live in an instant access society. Everybody wants to stay connected. They activate the Remember This Device. Social media accounts—Facebook, Twitter, Instagram—who signs out? Even their Amazon accounts and their email. A lot of people leave them open so they can quickly access them. Who has time to key in your password every time? The apps and accounts don’t remind you to logout. They want you to stay connected. Did you ever notice they’ve even made it harder to find the logout?”
“So anyone who steals the phone also has instant access.”
“Yup. And think about all the things we use our phones to do. Refill prescriptions. All you gotta do is scan the barcode. Same with checks. The bank lets you scan it and you see the amount in your account. If a person leaves that app open and doesn’t logout, anyone who picks up the phone has instant access to all those accounts. Not only to their email and their texts, but their friends and family. In fact, the killers might be emailing or texting acquaintances before they discover Gates is dead. Especially if they’re still looking for something—like who Gates might have shared information with from those hacked emails.”
“That seems rude.”
Alonzo gave her a look. “Yeah, we’ve never seen that before—a rude killer. Hey, I don’t suppose you could get me a copy of the emails they hacked?”
“Not yet,” she told him. “Russo said Tyler was sending her copies. I’m hoping to talk with her tomorrow. If she has anything, I’ll see if I can get them forwarded to you.”
“It’d be better if you can get me her email address and password.”
Maggie was still waiting to hear from Hannah to see if Francine Russo had agreed to meet her. Or if the woman would even be able to. Two young men were dead in a matter of an hour. It had to be an orchestrated hit. Whatever Tyler Gates and Deacon Kaye stumbled upon was enough to get them killed. And if Alonzo was right, the killers already had plenty of information about Russo. Most likely, the woman wasn’t just being paranoid that they would come for her next.
24
Southern Alabama
Creed’s fingers fumbled around inside his daypack. He couldn’t see through the pine boughs. When he finally pulled out Grace’s pink elephant she didn’t seem interested. Instead, the little dog kept prancing back and forth in front of the spot where she’d given her alert. She was more anxious for Creed to see what she’d found.
He looked over his shoulder. Norwich and Sykes had stopped about ten paces back. Creed guessed the wrecked vehicle was at least 300 feet away. Dread made him hesitate. He’d seen bodies in different stages of decomposition. Death was not kind. The smells that accompanied the dead rarely bothered him. In Afghanistan he’d witnessed corpses burned beyond recognition and ripped apart by IEDs. But he’d never seen anything like the body in the smashed wreckage. And that one had tons of steel surrounding and protecting it. He couldn’t imagine what happened to a person flung 300 feet into the air and slammed back down.
“Did she find the driver?” Trooper Sykes called out.
“I’m not sure,” Creed answered.
Grace kept her eyes on him even as she continued to pace. Every once in a while she would swing her head toward the downed pine trees as if she couldn’t believe how slow he was.
“Good girl, Grace,” he praised her, slipping the toy into the daypack.
She poked her nose through an opening between branches, clearly growing impatient with him. Creed dropped to his knees, craning his neck to see beyond the pine needles. It was too dark. He peeled a flashlight out of his pack and pointed the beam between the branches where Grace had stuck her nose. When he still couldn’t see anything, he crawled closer. He parted the branches with his hands and then his elbows, thrusting his torso in between despite twigs whipping into his face and needles sticking his arms.
Finally, he saw what looked like the back of a car seat. It was muddy, lying on its side and plastered with pine needles. Then Creed realized it was too small to be a regular car seat ripped from a vehicle. He jerked away, throwing off his balance and falling backward out from the branches and onto his butt.
“What is it?” Sheriff Norwich was right behind him now.
Trooper Sykes offered Creed his hand. Grace batted him with her paw and started licking his face. He waved off Sykes and gave Grace a pat before he got back to his feet.
“I think it’s a car seat,” he told them.
Sykes took off his hat and scratched his head as he looked out toward the vehicle.
“Not the vehicle’s seat,” Creed said. “A baby’s car seat.”
“Oh my God,” Norwich said under her breath.
Creed had done searches for lost children before, and always when one was found dead there was an eerie silence that overcomes even the most seasoned law enforcement officers. The three of them stood motionless. But then Creed noticed Grace. She was still prancing back and forth, impatient and bobbing her head toward her find.
To scent dogs, death was a game. There was no emotion attached to finding a corpse. Dogs could be influenced by their handler’s moods and attitudes. It was why Creed emphasized to his new handlers to never show discouragement. But grief was more difficult to hide.
As if she was fed up waiting for her human counterparts, Grace poked her entire head between the branches. Creed wiped dirt from his hands and picked up the flashlight where he’d dropped it. When he looked again, he saw Grace disappear under the fallen tree.
“Grace, come back here.” To Norwich and Sykes, he said, “She usually takes her toy. I’m not sure—”
A muffled sound interrupted him, followed by a whimper.
Creed dived back to his knees, pulling and snapping branches. He crawled and shoved his body forward, ignoring th
e sharp pokes and scrapes. He didn’t stop until he could touch the car seat. The muddy, leather back faced him, but he knew Grace had made her way around to the front. All he could see was the tip of her tail, and it was wagging.
From behind and above him, Creed heard Norwich and Sykes trying to lift and break the branches. He elbowed up through the pine needles until finally he could reach over the car seat. A thin stream of sunshine allowed him to see the baby still strapped in. The child was caked in mud. Grace had licked clean the eyes and nose and mouth, and now she’d moved her tongue-bath to the left ear. The baby didn’t cry. Outside of the whimpers and sniffles, it kicked its feet out. Tiny little hands fluttered. Grace tolerated the grabs and tugs and just kept licking.
Creed pulled the entire car seat, baby included, out from under the fallen pine trees. He draped his body to shield the child from being poked or whipped by twigs and needles. He felt the stabs in his back, scrapes across his arms and pinecones digging into his knees. By the time he made it out from underneath, the child was crying, more like screaming. Grace skipped alongside, desperate to settle the little tyke.
Sheriff Norwich and Trooper Sykes stood by to help, but now the desperate little hands clung to the front of Creed’s shirt. Instead of trying to pry the child’s hands free, he asked the others to disengage the car seat’s straps. The baby grabbed fistfuls of Creed’s T-shirt and held on tighter, burying its mud-caked head against his chest.
Sweat dripped down Creed’s face, but instead of wiping at it he kept both hands on the baby. He rested his chin on top of the matted hair. Twigs and needles poked at him. As soon as the straps fell away he wrapped his arms around the child. Then he kneeled down, so Grace would stop trying to climb his leg. Her nuzzles and licks almost instantly stopped the baby’s crying.
“My God,” he heard Sheriff Norwich behind him. “How is it possible?”
“Can you guys check for injuries?” Creed asked.
