Eleven (Brandon Fisher FBI Series #1)

by Carolyn Arnold

  “I’ll have Nadia send the list. Get back to me on what you find—”

  “Jack.” I pictured his finger poised over the disconnect call button.

  “Yes.”

  “Did anything come back on the surveillance devices? The fingerprint on the audio recorder?” My rapid heartbeat made it almost impossible to breathe.

  “I’ll let you know once we do.” He terminated the call.

  It left the hotel room quiet as if it would somehow silence us with Ssh if Paige or I said a word.

  “Brandon?”

  I knew her gaze was on me, but I couldn’t look at her.

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  I inhaled a deep, jagged breath. “I just thought we’d be headed home.”

  “This shouldn’t be too bad.”

  “We’re sitting around waiting on a list of people.”

  “Sometimes the job involves waiting.”

  “I’d just rather—”

  My cell rang, and I answered without checking the identity of the caller. “Hello.” There was nothing but dead air. “If this is you, you son of a bitch—”

  “Whoa still a fiery redhead I see.”

  It took me a moment to place the voice. I answered anticipating it being Debbie wanting to retract her earlier decision. Then with the silence I had assumed it was the unsub but it was neither. “Randy?”

  Randy Whalin and I were best buddies before the move to Virginia. He had never settled down and teased me about the decision to marry young whenever he had the opportunity.

  “How goes it as a Special Agent for the FBI?” He put on an uppity voice and laughed.

  He made me smile despite my mind being a tangled mess between work and personal. “On a huge case actually.”

  “Oh your first time out? You’ve had your cherry popped.” Randy thought of himself as a player, and I had to admit the guy did alright. “When are you coming home? The bars aren’t the same without you. I need my fall guy.”

  “Aw, touching man but I’m working.”

  We used to frequent a bar called Sassy’s on Main. I always made Randy look good by acting like a sleaze. Randy would jump in and save them from the drunk, grabby guy.

  “That sucks.”

  “Yeah.” My eyes scanned the hotel room. We were sitting around waiting on a list. “Maybe we could meet up for drinks.” I glanced at Paige who cocked her head to the side.

  “I thought you were—”

  “Forget what I said. I’m actually in the city.”

  “Really?”

  “I’ll explain later. Sassy’s for eight?”

  “Date.” Randy laughed. “I really need to get laid.”

  I was smiling when I hung up.

  “Sassy’s?” Paige’s fawn eyes watched me. She wasn’t going to like this.

  “It’s a bar.”

  “We’re working.”

  “Do we not get any time off the clock?”

  “Not much and not during an investigation on the scale of this one. It’s not a nine-to-five job.”

  “I’m familiar with the FBI website Paige, but it’s an old buddy of mine. It would mean a lot right now.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You might even like him.”

  Her eyes hardened over. “I’m in a relationship.”

  “You’re sleeping with someone. There’s a difference.”

  “What are you saying Brandon?” Paige stood there, her expression full of anger and pain.

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “Just a few drinks before bed.”

  She didn’t say anything and a text came through on her phone. She checked it out and didn’t say anything.

  “I take it that’s not the member list.”

  “Good work Sherlock.” She left the room, slamming the door behind her.

  I was feeling too sorry for myself to go after her. I did go towards the mini bar.

  Lance Bingham smiled. Those feds thought they were so intelligent by screening his mail, but they didn’t know he had the perfect system worked out. They likely never would figure it out and that was why he was really the one in charge of the investigation. They only found what he left for them.

  He hadn’t always been a country hillbilly who fed hungry hogs. He’d been places, been educated, not that it was from any school nor did he have a diploma to frame and hang. Life taught him more than any textbook ever could.

  He knew the Feds would have connected the bodies from Florida already, but he had been younger and, dare he admit to himself, more careless back then. He didn’t have as much restraint. The method of killing had been different, but he still had fond memories of the self-control he had demonstrated in wielding the knife in a rough circular motion. But all the willpower climaxed when he placed the plastic bag over their heads and suffocated them. They thrashed but to no avail.

  Bingham’s smile widened.

  Their fighting for their life and losing the battle brought elation to him. The steps to get to that point drained him of control. The kill was the release. It was up to him whether they would live or die.

  The guard led him out to the courtyard.

  He squinted as the contrast between the darkness of the prison and the light of day proved blinding for a few seconds. It made him think of the Bible story where God blinded the man on the road striking him in punishment for his sin.

  The smile on Bingham’s face sobered. He was sent to do serious work. He didn’t kill simply for pleasure. He killed to cleanse the earth, and it wasn’t like he set out knowing this was his mission in life. As with higher callings it struck him as an epiphany one day. He deeply cared for his first kill, loved her even. At least what he knew of love, but it didn’t mean anything at this point. She had betrayed everyone.

  Bingham sat on the top of a picnic table in the prison yard and rested his feet on the bench portion. The warden walked by looking down on him and the other inmates, a thing which Bingham found hypocrisy in as the warden wasn’t a religious man. He was in no position to judge the people here. Yet it wasn’t Bingham’s place to teach the warden either. People who weren’t drawn to God didn’t know any better and couldn’t be held accountable for their sins.

  Those who know and yet sin commit the greatest sin.

  With the warden’s back now to him and knowing he wouldn’t circle back around, Bingham pulled the envelope from the waist of his pants. This was his favorite time of day. Just knowing that someone else carried on the good work until he reclaimed his freedom would get him through his sentence.

  He carefully handled the envelope, tearing it along the seam. He pulled the paper from its sleeve and smelled it. For an instant he transported to the last kill when there were three, a triad of power, before his lack of control had landed him in prison.

  Bingham looked over the yard at the imbeciles he shared the correction facility with. They dribbled basketball and collected in clusters. Another guard came along and broke them up. They were worthy of confinement. They acted on their own agendas. He had acted on the highest authority.

  Bingham smiled as he unfolded the letter. The words caused the smile to fade and become replaced with consuming anger.

  “We’ve been over these files at least fifteen times now.”

  Jack smiled at Zachery. “I’ll trust your count to be accurate.”

  Between the records and trying to access the memories of the retired detective they hoped to derive some relevant information to get them closer to the unsub.

  Jenkins appeared more ready for sleep than to be of any assistance. He dragged a hand down his face and gently slapped himself before dropping his hand to his lap where he clasped it with the other one.

  “Boss.” Nadia walked in the room. “I have something. It just came over now. I swear to you.”

  Jack looked at the file she held in her hands. It was labeled Surveillance Equipment—The Redeemer Case No. R238923. “They were to call me with the fi
ndings.”

  “Like I said they just showed up.”

  “Hmm.”

  Nadia held up her hands in surrender and stepped back towards the doorway.

  “How’s the congregation list coming?”

  She took another few steps backward. “Almost there. I’ve contacted the church administrator. It should be—”

  “The minute it gets here.”

  “Yes, boss.” She cleared the doorway.

  Jack could handle another cigarette right now. Something twisted in his soul that told him they were narrowing in on the unsub. He patted his pocket as if for some reason to delay the opening of the folder and the forensic findings. He knew Zachery and the old man watched with impatient eyes. Jack opened the folder and read what was inside. “Get that kid on the phone now!”

  CHAPTER 31

  The ringing cell phone cut through the minute trace of happiness that came from the few small bottles of whiskey I drank back-to-back from the mini-bar. I sat slumped forward, watching out the window over the street. People all had somewhere to be, people waiting on them. I had no one now. I tore off the lid of a fourth bottle and swung it back before I answered.

  “Special Agent Fisher.”

  “Kid, we got a hit on the fingerprint from the recording device.”

  I sat back, the fresh swig of whiskey soothing me. Even the sound of Jack’s voice didn’t have the ability to jar me sober. “Who?”

  “The guy’s name is Peter Robinson. He’s on file for assaulting his wife a couple years back. Apparently he held a knife on her —”

  “We’ll go now.” I stood up holding the cell between my ear and shoulder and hoisted up on the holster around my waist. The combination of rising quickly and the whiskey had me lightheaded.

  “The guy owns a pawn shop on the corner of Clark and South Lockwood Ridge Road. Now remember, this could be the unsub we’ve been looking for. Round up local PD. Go in hot.”

  Go in hot. I always thought that was something they said in movies.

  “I’m texting the information to your cell. And Kid?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t mess this up.”

  “You can count on—” The line went dead.

  If Jack knew I was drinking on the job I wouldn’t have to worry about my career factoring into my marriage.

  “Are you going to apologize?”

  “I don’t believe I did anything.”

  “You basically called me a slut.”

  “I’m not in the mood right now.”

  Paige leaned in toward my mouth and sniffed. “You’ve been drinking.”

  We headed down the elevator to the lobby. Local PD had been called in.

  “If Jack finds out—”

  “Is he going to?”

  Paige’s jaw tightened, and she turned to face the elevator doors. “No.”

  Something must be said for flying through a city at the speed of seventy miles per hour with cruisers trailing behind, sirens wailing and their lights refracting off the glass buildings like a kaleidoscope.

  Paige drove while I rode shotgun because as she said, I wasn’t in any shape to drive. The Cruze rocked as if on stormy seas. Any more whiskey and it would be revisiting.

  “Let me take the lead.” Paige figured that with the driver’s seat came the position of power.

  I didn’t say anything, and she glanced over. She swerved through traffic as a ribbon being weaved through a basket. How she managed with only half her attention on the road, the rest devoted to me, I didn’t know.

  “Why were you drinking anyway?”

  “Call it lunch.”

  She scrunched up her face. “What—”

  “We’ve been putting in overtime. The way I see it, lunch is my time. On my time—”

  “It’s after four in the afternoon, and you drink yourself shit-faced?”

  “I’m not—”

  “Just don’t let it happen again. And don’t fuck this up.”

  “Does this mean we’re good?”

  “Not even close.” The car jolted forward as she pressed on the accelerator.

  I couldn’t wait for the ride to be over.

  The Pawnshop, that was its actual name, was located on the corner of Clark and South Lockwood Ridge Road, as Jack had said. The windows were plastered with posters announcing cash advances, discount electronics, and we buy gold advertisements.

  Paige parked the car near a fire hydrant. She had that look, her eyebrows arched downward, her eyes narrowed in on where she was heading, that said she wasn’t one to be messed with.

  “You follow behind, watch my six.”

  “Not a problem.”

  “Don’t even try to be funny at a time like this. We know what this guy is capable of.”

  “I got it.”

  “Alright then.” She directed a few police officers around back of the building to secure the perimeter.

  I held the door for Paige.

  A teenager wearing earbuds rifled through an assortment of classic rock CDs. Her head bobbed up and down like one of those Bobbleheads people put in their car’s rear window.

  Paige put a hand on her shoulder. The girl jumped.

  “You need to leave.” I grabbed her elbow and guided her to the door where I passed her off to a police officer. With the girl secured outside, Paige and I readied our guns and approached the counter.

  A black man moved behind a display rack of watches that towered on the counter. All we could see was the top of his head and his arms.

  “Peter Robinson, FBI.”

  He stepped to the side of the display. His eyes went to our guns. “What the—”

  “We need your hands in the air now!”

  He complied with Paige’s direction, his attention steadied on our drawn weapons.

  “You’re coming with us.”

  “I don’t think so.” His one arm went beneath the counter.

  “Lift your arms in the air!”

  “You can’t make me.” His arm extended under the counter.

  “Last warning. Hands in the air!”

  “I can’t go to—”

  Paige had a shot off before I completely assessed the situation.

  “Fuckin’ son of a bitch!” Robinson staggered back a few steps. Blood spurted from his shoulder. He put a hand to it.

  “Next time you won’t be so lucky.” Paige moved in closer to him, her gun readied to fire another round. “Let me see both your hands.”

  Peter Robinson raised his good arm in the air. “I can’t go to jail.”

  Sergeant Haynes of Sarasota PD came in the front door and spoke into a cell phone. “We need a bus on Clark just east of South Lockwood Ridge Road for a GSW.”

  “Stay back from the counter. Keep your arm in the air. Face the door.” I headed towards the counter, taking my steps slowly. “You mess up in any way my partner will shoot to kill.”

  Peter Robinson’s eyes begged for mercy.

  Shoot to kill. I had been trained for this if the situation deemed it necessary. I swallowed back on the smell of whiskey that came up from my lungs and made eye contact with the suspect.

  Paige stepped behind the counter. “Hands behind your back now.”

  He complied. “I didn’t do it.”

  “Do what Mr. Robinson?”

  “Whatever you think I did.”

  Paige snapped the cuffs on, wrenching his wounded shoulder back. Peter Robinson let out a wail.

  “Is this ’cause I’m black?”

  “Yeah that’s it. The whole world’s out to get you.” Paige tugged on his arms. “Let’s go.”

  The wails of the ambulance siren were getting closer.

  “This is where I would normally say you take the car and I’ll go with Robinson but—”

  I read her eyes, you shouldn’t even be here. “I’m fine.”

  “Where the hell do you think I’m goin’ lady? You shot me.”

  Paige ignored the man and spoke to me, “You sure?”

>   “I’m fine,” I repeated my words.

  She studied my eyes as if by staring into them she’d have an answer on whether or not to believe me.

  The wails of the sirens went mute as they arrived on scene. The paramedics got out of the bus almost as if they simply pulled to a stop and tucked and rolled.

  One headed straight to Robinson but glared at Paige. “You cuffed him.”

  “Damn straight I did.”

  “You shot him then cuffed him?” He examined Robinson’s shoulder while talking to Paige.

  “Nothing slips past you.”

  “I’m going to need you to uncuff him.”

  “If you knew what he’s done you wouldn’t—”

  “So much for the innocent until proven guilty BS, I guess. I always figured it was a line of crock.”

  “You’re talking to a federal agent.”

  “And you’re talking to a paramedic. And this isn’t my first time out. The man has rights.”

  I noticed the small twitch in Paige’s cheek. She broke eye contact with the man and undid the cuffs. “He’s not leaving my sight.”

  The other paramedic came to them pushing a stretcher with a medical bag on it. As they worked on Robinson, Paige’s eyes didn’t leave the man.

  “It was just a little bullet.” Paige paced, while I leaned against the wall.

  We were at Sarasota Memorial Hospital waiting on Robinson to come out of surgery. Paige insisted that we stay right outside the operating room just in case he made a run for it. I tried to convince her he wasn’t going anywhere.

  I had followed behind her in the Cruze while she rode in the ambulance. We met up here at least an hour ago and she hadn’t stopped talking about Robinson or the paramedic who thought he was the ruler of the world, as per her words.

  “We should probably call in and let them know how we made out.”

  “And what? Tell Jack I shot the guy?”

  “He’d probably be proud of you.” I smiled at her, and she returned it.

  “Yeah he probably would be.” She laughed and ran a hand through her hair. “God it’s been a long week.”

  “Why we deserve some down time.”