Cut and Run

by Allison Brennan

  Lucy said, “You are the detective of record and you talked to Denise’s friends, family, neighbors. The files were … well, incomplete.”

  “Because when we learned they left the country there was no reason to continue beating a dead horse. Their credit cards didn’t pop, they didn’t call friends or family, we had no reason to believe that they’d returned.”

  “So it was a closed case,” Nate said.

  “Inactive,” Douglas corrected. “Now active again.” He looked at Lucy, who she figured he felt was more reasonable. “So what do you think happened to their son? His body wasn’t found with the others. Are you buying the PI’s theory that someone in the family called the grandparents in Arizona the Christmas after they disappeared?”

  He certainly remembered the case—or had read up on his files when he knew they were coming in.

  “This is just conjecture,” she said, “but logically, he was killed at the same time as his family but for some unknown reason was buried elsewhere. We have cadaver dogs out looking at an expanded grid. I hope we find him so we can lay him to rest with his family.”

  “Me too,” the detective said, showing compassion for the first time. But was it an act? She couldn’t be sure. Maybe she’d adopted Nate’s theory that the cops were incompetent—which she fully believed—or corrupt, which she didn’t want to believe.

  She didn’t like Douglas. His investigation was mediocre at best, and he was being an ass to her and Nate. She didn’t think he was guilty of anything but incompetence, except that one question seemed off. Calculated. He wanted to know what they knew about Ricky Albright.

  They were going to have to investigate this case without the help of Detective Douglas. Not just because he was ineffective three years ago, but because they didn’t trust him.

  “I think that’s it for now,” she said. “We may have more questions once we finish reviewing our files at the FBI. Our White Collar Crimes unit has been working on a major trial this week and we’re getting information piecemeal.”

  “We’re all busy these days,” he said with a fake smile.

  Nate and Lucy walked out. Lucy turned and said, “Detective?”

  “What?” he snapped.

  “When you find that witness statement—the person who said Albright exchanged the Escalade for another vehicle—please send it directly to us. You have our emails.”

  Then she followed Nate out.

  “Prick,” Nate said. “And a liar.”

  “Liar? Incompetent and uncaring, yes, but what lie?”

  “He has copies of all the files the FBI has. They cc’d him into everything—so to say he didn’t have them is just bullshit.”

  “We need to get Laura to sit down with us ASAP. After hours if we have to. I’m going to call Daphne and request it.” Daphne was the Supervisory Special Agent of the White Collar Crimes unit. Lucy had worked with her on a recent bank robbery case, and if there was a way to make this happen Daphne would get it done.

  She talked to Daphne, who said she’d move Heaven and Earth to have Laura in the office at six that night. The agent was unavailable while in court, so they wouldn’t have confirmation until late that afternoon.

  “Back to the office?” Nate said.

  “We’re going to have to go through the files without the benefit of Laura’s insight. Maybe Detective Douglas is right and one of her other clients killed her. I just don’t believe they went to Mexico at all, and that means that either Douglas is a complete idiot who saw exactly what he wanted to see—or what someone else wanted him to see—or he knows more than he said.”

  * * *

  They had turned onto the road that would take them to the interstate when Nate said, “We’re being followed.”

  Lucy glanced discreetly in the side mirror and spotted a dark SUV with tinted windows. “Not the same car as yesterday.”

  “Hold on.”

  Instead of turning right to head back to San Antonio, Nate continued straight, which would take them to the north side of the county.

  “Still there. So, you want to know what we’re doing?” he mumbled.

  Lucy wasn’t sure what Nate’s plan was, but he drove to the Albright house. She was surprised to see that Ash was still there, talking to a dog handler. The SUV didn’t follow them into the neighborhood but turned into a strip mall two miles before that boasted a grocery store, gas station, and coffee shop.

  “Hey, I wasn’t expecting you,” Ash said as he approached the car. “Were we supposed to meet?”

  Nate said, “No. We were at the sheriffs office, wanted to see how you were doing.”

  “We’re done. We covered the ground between here and the Youngs’ house, no bodies. Ricky Albright wasn’t buried in the area, I’m pretty certain.”

  The dog handler concurred, then excused himself to take a call.

  Ash looked like he’d failed. Lucy said, “Ash, we’re making progress. Knowing he’s not here is good.”

  “How? We need to find his body.”

  Lucy didn’t want to tell him everything—they were really going out on a limb thinking that Ricky was still alive—but she wanted to give him hope. She looked at Nate and he knew what she wanted. He nodded. “Ash,” she said quietly, “we’re still at the beginning of our investigation, but Nate and I think Ricky might be alive. That he might have gone into hiding because he witnessed something he couldn’t process or— We don’t know, it’s just speculation at this point, but we have some evidence that he was alive late the night his parents disappeared. We’ll let you know as soon as we know anything definitive.”

  “Thank you. I don’t know why I’m taking this so personally.”

  “Because you care and you want justice. This whole case is … well, it’s depressing, but we’re going to find out what happened. We’re piecing together the family’s last day and I think Ricky is the key—dead or alive—in finding out what happened.”

  Nate said, “Ash, don’t come out here, or to the gravesite, without backup, understood?”

  “Uh, okay. I wouldn’t.”

  “Everyone needs to be cautious.”

  They left the same way they came in. A block after they passed the strip mall, the SUV was behind them again.

  “Be alert,” Nate said. “No front plates, I want to find out who they are.”

  He backtracked and headed toward the high school. The SUV followed. He pulled into the parking lot and the SUV continued down the street. Then Nate immediately reversed and pursued the vehicle.

  The driver knew immediately and pushed on the gas.

  “Shit,” Nate mumbled. The SUV was too far ahead for them to see the plates. It ran a stop sign, then turned right. Nate pursued.

  “Oh shit!” Nate said again. “Tag team. Hold on.”

  Lucy looked in the mirror. A second SUV, identical to the first, was right on their tail. It sped up and started to pass them on the left, crossing into oncoming traffic.

  The windows were tinted and Lucy couldn’t see the driver.

  Suddenly the SUV intentionally swerved and clipped Nate’s bumper. Nate anticipated it and compensated, controlling the spinout and avoiding a serious accident. By the time he turned and was facing in the right direction, both SUVs were gone.

  Nate pounded his fist on the steering wheel and sped in the direction they’d disappeared, but as they looked up and down streets they didn’t see them.

  Nate drove back to the sheriff’s station and skidded to a stop out front. He was heated, and Lucy didn’t think she’d be able to calm him down. Fortunately, they got back to the security office without too much trouble and the guard in charge of the cameras knew what he was doing. He quickly located Nate and Lucy leaving the building thirty minutes earlier. “Here you go,” he said, and let Nate take over.

  It was a wide-angle lens that distorted the front parking lot, but they could see the entire area. They watched themselves leave the front of the building and turn left, to where Nate parked their car. They turned nor
th out of the parking lot. From the south an SUV came into view and followed.

  Nate rewound. They couldn’t see the SUV when it was parked—it was just out of the camera’s vision. But as soon as Nate turned onto the street, the SUV pursued, clearly waiting for them.

  “Are there any cameras showing that side of the street?” Nate asked.

  “No, sir, not ours.”

  Across the street was an apartment complex set far back from the road, and to the south was a county maintenance facility on the other side of open space. It was most likely that the driver parked in front of the grass, which would minimize the chances they could get a clear visual of either the license plate or driver.

  They thanked the guard for his time, then went across to the apartment office. It didn’t have any security cameras except on its own parking lot and, according to the manager, half the time those didn’t work. He hadn’t seen the SUV on the street, but he wasn’t looking.

  A dead end.

  “Why?” Lucy asked. “They only ran us off the road when we spotted them.”

  “They want to know what we’re doing,” he said. “Track the investigation. Find out who we’re talking to. That was an experienced tail. Two cars, tinted windows, knew exactly how to maneuver. I should have been sharper.”

  “We were in a residential neighborhood near a school,” she said. “They’ll show up again; we’ll be prepared.”

  “Next time we come up here, we need a second car—either we split up or we get backup. I’m going to find out who those bastards are, and we’re going to take them down.”

  Chapter Twelve

  THREE YEARS AGO

  Javier Olivera could fix anything, and in the three months Ricky had been living with him Ricky had learned more about cars, plumbing, and electricity than he’d known his entire life. Today, they were working on a truck. If Javier could get it running, he’d get a thousand pesos. Ricky thought that was a lot of money, but Javier laughed and said it was about fifty bucks in America.

  “But here, it’ll go far.”

  Javier spoke English, but never around other people. Ricky had learned that Mrs. Young was his cousin. They had the same grandfather. They were both born in Texas, but Javier came to Mexico to take care of his grandmother when he left the military—he’d been in the Army for six years out of high school—and never returned to the States.

  “It’s a simple life. A good life. I don’t need a lot.”

  Ricky thought there was a lot more than that to why Javier never returned to the States, but he never asked. He was just grateful that Javier hadn’t sent him back when he discovered Ricky in his truck.

  Javier lived in a small village north of Ciudad Victoria. He often went to the city to work and sometimes took Ricky with him. Once, he told Ricky, “When you want to go home, I’ll take you. Anytime, no questions. Until then, you listen to me. Mexico is not Texas.”

  Ricky had learned quickly to keep his head down and do what Javier said. He didn’t want anyone to find him, and he didn’t want to bring trouble to Javier. He’d only been here three months, but he already knew Spanish. Not a lot, but enough to get by. Javier was teaching him more. He called it immersion. Sometimes, he would only speak in Spanish and Ricky had to figure out what he meant by the context.

  Javier didn’t volunteer information about Ricky, but when his priest asked—Javier went to church every week—Javier said, “The boy needed a home.” He didn’t ask again.

  Ricky helped Javier with the truck, handing him tools and holding bolts and screws. He almost always knew what tool he needed, and Javier was pleased he learned quickly.

  Ricky wanted to learn, because if he kept busy he got tired, and if he was tired he could sleep.

  But his sleep was always interrupted by nightmares.

  He watched Javier, absorbed in what he was doing, but not really thinking about it.

  All he could think about was his grandma.

  She’d answered the phone yesterday when he called her. Javier didn’t think it was a good idea, but he took Ricky into town after church. A friend of Javier’s had a phone, and Javier gave him twenty American dollars to use it.

  Ricky should never have called. His grandma thought he was his mom, called him Denise. Of course, he didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. He just wanted to hear her voice. He just wanted to … he didn’t know. He was homesick, but he couldn’t go home. He was scared that the bad cop would hurt his grandparents. They were old, and they wouldn’t understand why Ricky was scared. His grandpa had been in the hospital last year, and his mom kept saying he couldn’t have any stress or his heart would give out.

  His grandparents would tell him everything would be okay, but it wasn’t and it never would be okay. Ever.

  His mom and dad and sisters were dead. And a policeman had killed them. He couldn’t let anyone hurt his grandparents.

  Ricky didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to be scared, he wanted to be brave, but he feared those men. Here, he was safe. Here, he had a home and no one could hurt him.

  When he’d hung up on his grandmother, Javier had asked, “Do you want to go home?”

  He’d said no. He cried and went to bed. But today … today he was so sad and he didn’t know what to do.

  Suddenly he needed air. He couldn’t breathe. Ricky dropped the tools and ran out. He sprinted to the small garden behind Javier’s house. They grew vegetables and had a chicken pen. It was Ricky’s job to feed the chickens and collect their eggs every morning. They all ran over to the edge of the pen and clucked at him, expecting more food.

  Ricky sat on a stone bench and cried.

  Javier’s old dog walked up and lay down at his feet with a tired sigh.

  “I miss everyone, even Tori,” he said to the dog. “I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing anymore.”

  The dog didn’t say anything.

  A good thirty minutes later Javier walked down the path, sat next to him, and handed him a bottle of water. Ricky drank it. Bottled water was precious. He’d taken it for granted at home, but here it was more valuable than anything.

  “If we leave in the morning, we’ll be in San Antonio by dark.”

  “N-no,” he said, his voice cracking.

  “The authorities believe your parents left the country.”

  “I know. I read the article.”

  Javier had brought him a newspaper about how his mom stole a lot of money and disappeared. He knew it wasn’t true. Well, he didn’t know about the money. Listening to the men who took stuff from her den, maybe she did. Maybe that’s why she died. Maybe it was all her fault.

  He grew hot, then immediately cold. How could he think that about his mom? She loved them. She would never want them to get hurt. It wasn’t her fault, it couldn’t be. And even if she did a bad thing, did they have to kill her?

  “I’m scared,” Ricky whispered, feeling immensely guilty. He was worried about himself and not the men who killed his family.

  “I know, son.”

  “I don’t know what to do.”

  “You don’t have to make a decision now.”

  Ricky said, “If I go back, they might hurt my grandparents.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “If my mom did what they said she did, why did they kill everyone?”

  “I don’t know, Ricky.”

  “I want to stay.”

  “Okay.”

  “You’re not going to get in trouble, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Okay.”

  “Let’s make supper.”

  “What about the truck?”

  “I’m done. Good as new.” He put his arm around Ricky’s shoulder as they got up and walked toward the house. Javier whistled for the dog, who slowly rose and trotted after them.

  Ricky felt safe for the first time in three months.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Stanley Grant would be released at one thirty that afternoon, after he was fitted with an ankle monitor
. Marie was staying at the courthouse with him, then Sean would escort the two of them to a hotel room that Max had reserved for Grant.

  There was a threat to Grant, but Sean didn’t know how serious it was, or even why.

  Max had given Sean a key to her hotel room so he could work from there and have access to all her research. She’d only been in town for twenty-four hours, but already her makeshift office was complete with an up-to-date timeline and sticky notes asking questions.

  If Grant embezzled 2.1M why is there no paper trail until after V’s murder?

  Where are Grant’s gambling losses? Who and what bets? Need verification.

  If Grant didn’t kill V, who and why?

  Max must have stopped here after the interview at the courthouse, because she’d put a sticky note with the description of the large Hispanic male with a scar on his hand and added Marie’s car accident in the timeline. But for now, Sean focused on her most recent addition:

  Who is Harrison Monroe?—Rogan.

  Sean booted up his laptop and logged into the RCK database that he and the former RCK IT manager had created to pool all public databases into a central location. He limited the search fields to Harrison Monroes in Texas. There were eleven. He then narrowed to a hundred-mile radius of San Antonio and came up with three. He could expand out if these came up dry, but it made sense that if Victoria Mills was working with someone—a real buyer or a straw buyer—the individual would be local.

  Then he read over the basic background reports that the RCK system generated. Monroe, Harrison A. was in his seventies, a veteran and widower, and lived in a small house near Lackland Air Force Base. Three kids, four grandkids, lived within his means. Sean kept that individual on the list because a terrific scam was to use a real, yet unsuspecting, individual to buy and sell land. The purpose was primarily tax evasion or money laundering, but there were other reasons to use a false identity or a straw buyer.