Vigilante Dead (Kate Jones Thriller #8)

by Berkom, DV

  I called the Thai place to ask if they delivered. When they found out I was calling from a park, the woman on the phone balked, but after a couple minutes of cajoling she relented and said her driver would be there in twenty minutes or less.

  I reached behind the front seat and brought out a large, waterproof case. Inside was a laser microphone. Making sure there was no one nearby who could see what I was up to, I attached the receiver and the transmitter to mini tripods and aimed the laser beam at the big picture window. The mic worked by directing the beam at the glass to capture sound vibrations within the room. The beam then bounced back to the receiver, which converted the vibrations into an audio signal. It took a few tries to line things up, but soon the audio signal from inside the house came across in my headphones as clearly as if I was standing a few feet away.

  Then I grabbed my camera out of the console and trained the long lens on the house while I waited for my food.

  “I don’t think you should go with them,” Dora was saying, her voice strained.

  “I’ll be fine,” Bobby replied. “They’re my boys. They got my back. Ain’t nothin’ gonna happen to me.”

  “What if you don’t come back? What do I do then? Me and Missy can’t make it on my salary alone.”

  There was a brief pause. “Glad to know you’re so concerned about me, sis.” Bobby’s voice dripped sarcasm.

  “You know I care, Bobby. But you shouldn’t have come out when that woman was here.”

  “I had to—”

  “No, you didn’t. I had it handled.” Dora’s voice rose an octave. “She was almost out the door when you decided to make your entrance.”

  “Whatever,” he said, shutting her down. “What’s done is done. I’ll explain it to Chacon—he’ll understand. I didn’t give her anything she could use.”

  Chacon. Now where did I know that name?

  “You believe what you want to believe. That man is trouble.” Dora’s tone indicated their little spat was over. A long silence ensued, punctuated by the baby’s fussing. I settled back in my seat to wait.

  Five minutes later, the driver from the restaurant showed up with my order of Pad Thai. I had my headphones off and was out the door to pay him before he could get a good look inside my car. He grinned at the big tip and was soon on his way.

  The mouth-watering aroma of chicken Pad Thai emanating from the container could not be resisted and I dug in.

  I’d just finished eating when a tricked-out Honda Civic with low profile tires and an aftermarket spoiler and hood scoop boiled into the driveway and two men got out. Both wore hooded sweatshirts and baggy jeans, and one sported a tattoo on the side of his neck. The Terminator and Bruce Wayne? I peered through the camera and took a number of pictures, zeroing in on the tat. His sweatshirt covered a good portion of the ink, but something about the design struck a familiar chord.

  With my history, you pay attention to details like that.

  The two men climbed the front steps and rang the doorbell. Bobby opened the door and let them inside.

  At first, there was some friendly banter, with the men’s voices dominating. Then came a pause in the conversation.

  “We gotta bounce, brah.” The husky voice belonged to the guy I’d dubbed Bruce Wayne.

  “Yeah. I know.” Bobby sounded resigned.

  “I won’t let you take him.” Dora’s voice was higher than usual. The baby fussed in the background.

  “Take it easy, Dora,” Bobby assured her. “It’ll be all right, once I explain things.”

  “Yeah. Don’t you worry, Dora. Li’l bro here’s gonna be just fine,” the one I thought of as The Terminator said. “We gotta take him to the man and get this shit straightened out or it’s bye-bye Bobby.”

  “Call me when the meeting’s over, okay, Bobby?” Dora said, worry thick in her voice.

  “Sure. See you later. Bye, little Missy-girl.” The baby erupted in giggles.

  A moment later the front door opened, and Bobby and the two gangsters walked outside, headed for the Civic.

  Seven

  THE THREE MEN walked to the Honda and climbed in—one of them sat behind Bobby, who was in the front passenger seat, and the other drove. The taillights blinked on, and the Civic backed down the driveway. Tires chirped on the pavement, spitting rocks as the low profile hot rod zoomed away.

  I quickly stashed the mic and called Sam to give him the plate number as I followed at a discreet distance. The Honda sped along surface streets, heading toward the highway. Luckily, traffic was light and I was able to stay behind a couple of cars while at the same time keeping them in view. I had no idea if any of them were trained in spotting tails. Like Sam always said, never underestimate the target.

  My guess was that both of Bobby’s “friends” were packing. In the cartel world weapons were the first items on a wannabee’s list of must-haves. One-upmanship between rival factions was the norm, and it often devolved into a pissing match over whose gun was bigger.

  The Honda turned south on the highway heading toward Tacoma. I kept a couple of car lengths back, but from what I could see the occupants weren’t especially concerned with the vehicles around them. Not once did either of the gangbangers turn in his seat to check behind them, and the driver wasn’t overly enamored of the rearview mirror.

  I followed them across the Tacoma Narrows Bridge and merged south onto I-5. Traffic was uncharacteristically light, so I could still hang back far enough that they’d never suspect they were being followed. The sun had set and the shadows worked in my favor.

  A few minutes later, Sam called back with information on the car. I fed the call through the car’s speakers.

  “Your Civic belongs to a John Hastings of Lacey, Washington.”

  “Is there anything in the database?” I asked.

  “Nope. He’s clean. You want his info?”

  “Sure. Text it to me.”

  Sam sent John Hastings’s address, birthdate, and other particulars to my phone. Having contacts with access to the Department of Motor Vehicles was helpful in our line of work.

  “Got anything else on him?”

  “I did a search, but there’s more than one John Hastings. None of them fit what you’re looking for. It’s like the guy doesn’t exist.”

  “What about Kitsap County civil and criminal cases?”

  There was a pause while Sam looked up the information. “Nada. And I checked surrounding counties. Want me to keep going?”

  “No reason. There probably isn’t anything to find.”

  The Honda continued on the interstate past Tacoma. A few miles out from the city of Olympia, they exited the freeway and took a left, headed toward a rest area at the top of a hill.

  “Hey, looks like they’re pulling off. I’m going to have to call you back.”

  “Be careful, Kate.”

  “Will do.” I ended the call and followed them to the rest stop.

  A number of big rigs took up space in the truck lot, acting as a temporary hotel for long-haul drivers. There weren’t many vehicles in the car lot.

  The Honda continued past the building that housed the restrooms to the back of the truck lot where shadow overruled light. Only a couple of semis had opted for the dark side of the rest area. I assumed load safety took precedence over sleeping in total darkness for most.

  The Civic rolled up to a white van parked at the far end. The doors to the Civic opened and the three men got out. The driver walked to the van and knocked on the side door. I cut the lights and parked next to an idling semi.

  A short time later, the door slid open and a dark-haired man who looked like he’d just woken up climbed out. In his hand was a hood, which he pulled over Bobby’s head. Bobby didn’t struggle, which led me to believe he expected it. Then the guy with the tattoo on his neck zip-tied Bobby’s wrists together behind him and helped him into the back of the van before the driver rolled the door shut.

  One of the men from the Honda handed the driver an envelope. He opened
it, glanced at the contents, and slid it into his back pocket with a nod. Then he circled the van to the drivers’ side and got in.

  Was there money in the envelope? I couldn’t be sure, even with the camera’s long lens. Bobby didn’t act scared, so I doubted the driver was being paid to kill him. Assuming the envelope contained cash, it was possible they were delivering a payment for something else.

  I decided to follow Bobby and let the two in the Civic go. Something told me Bruce Wayne and The Terminator were minor players. The van driver struck me as a pro. I’d have to be more careful tailing him.

  The two gangbangers got into the Honda and sped off, while the van waited a few minutes before hooking a U-turn and heading for the on-ramp to the freeway. I pulled out and followed at a healthy distance.

  Half an hour later, the white van exited and drove through a residential area. The homes in the neighborhood were larger than average, and the lawns looked finely manicured, as though a service handled the upkeep. Here and there a higher-end car or SUV was parked in the driveway.

  A block ahead, brake lights flashed and the van slowed, pulling into the driveway of one of the houses. I continued past and turned left at the next intersection, then circled back from the opposite direction. Slowing, I doused the headlights and pulled to the curb across the street and slightly down from the house.

  The van was no longer in the driveway. My first thought was that the driver had spotted me and used the house as a decoy, but after checking, I noticed a detached garage. The back of a white van was visible on the far side. I breathed a sigh of relief.

  It took less time to set up the mic since I’d left things partially intact from surveilling Dora’s place, and I pointed the beam at the large picture window near the front. The receiver picked up some ambient noise but no vocals. I repositioned the transmitter, targeting another window, but didn’t have any luck there, either.

  If I wanted to find out what was happening to Bobby, I had to get closer. I quickly broke down the mic and put it in the case before grabbing my semiauto from the console. Scanning for a better place to set up, I zeroed in on a thin stream of light coming from a window on the far side of the house. A hedge of hydrangea bushes marked the edge of the lot, providing good cover, though I’d have to leave the safety of the Tahoe in order to get in position.

  What if there are dogs?

  Being mauled by a pack of angry pit bulls was not my idea of fun. Even a yappy Chihuahua could spell trouble if the neighbors investigated. If the owners had dogs, wouldn’t they be outside by now? Or at least barking their heads off? I decided to chance it.

  I parked the SUV in the driveway of a darkened, uninhabited-looking residence on the opposite side of the street. Grabbing two tripods and the case with the mic, I scanned the street for cars. The neighborhood was quiet. It was late enough that most folks had settled in for the evening.

  A few minutes later, I was in position behind a massive hydrangea bush and had the equipment set up with the beam pointed at a window on the side of the house. Luckily, there were no dogs in sight. I zipped my jacket closed against the cool spring evening, glad that rain wasn’t in the forecast.

  The mic picked up a faint murmur that resembled conversation, but it wasn’t clear. I adjusted the beam, moving it back and forth across the window surface like I was tuning a radio station until I could make out the words. A man whose voice I didn’t recognize was speaking.

  “I hear a PI came to visit you today. Is that right, Bobby?” The question was followed by the sound of ice clinking in a glass.

  “I told them I didn’t know anything.”

  “Of course. But still the woman found you. How do you think she managed to do that?” More ice clinking.

  There was a brief pause. “I think she logged into Jason’s online accounts and was following up with his friends. Look.” Bobby’s voice held a hint of desperation. “It’s nothing. I was just one of a bunch of Jason’s contacts. He had, like, thousands of online friends.”

  “Yes, but how many of them went to prison for robbing a bar?” Another pause. “Or have a connection to us?”

  Who is this guy?

  “Like I told you, the bar thing was a mistake. One I promised to never make again.” Bobby’s voice had gone into pleading mode.

  “I think that’s wise.” The man paused. In the background, a door opened and closed. “I also think it’s wise that you are no longer part of our operation.”

  “What’re you doing here?” Bobby’s voice wavered. He sounded surprised.

  Instead of an answer, two thuds burst in rapid succession followed by the sound of something falling to the floor. Pulse racing, I froze.

  “Get him out of here. And clean this mess up,” the man said. There was a deep sigh and another clink of ice cubes hitting the sides of a glass. “This doesn’t make me happy.”

  “What should I do with the body?” a third voice grumbled.

  “I don’t care, but take him far away where no one will be able to connect us to his death.”

  I’d heard enough. I yanked off my headphones, grabbed the equipment, and ran.

  Eight

  HEART HAMMERING, I made it to the SUV in record time and tossed the case with the mic in the passenger seat. I shoved the keys in the ignition, started the engine, and backed down the driveway, trying to act like a normal suburbanite going to the store.

  Possibilities raced through my mind, but I kept coming back to what I thought Sam would do in this situation. He’d keep the killer in sight and call his buddies in law enforcement with his location. That way, at least the body would have a chance of being recovered and hopefully provide some clue to the killer.

  Dora may have lied to me, but she’d likely done it to protect her brother. I might have done the same thing. If I could just keep tabs on the body, there was a possibility that the authorities would recover something they could use against Bobby’s killer. The physical evidence from the burial site along with the location of the murder might be enough to kick off an official investigation into Bobby’s death.

  If the killer even stuck around. It had been my experience with Salazar’s thugs that killers usually skipped the country until things cooled down.

  I idled near the end of the block next to a small stand of cedars with a good view of the driveway, waiting for a vehicle to exit the house. I fired off a quick text to Sam giving him my location and telling him I’d call him in a few minutes. A short time later, the white van drove out of the driveway, turned left, and headed in my direction. I’d parked so that the Tahoe was well hidden, but I slid down in my seat nonetheless, allowing myself just enough of a visual to see who was in the driver’s seat and which way they were going. The van passed by heading north. Two people occupied the front seats—the same guy from the truck stop was driving. I couldn’t make out any features of the person in the passenger seat.

  I waited to make sure no one else followed from the house. After a few beats, I pulled into the street behind them with my headlights off, then flicked them on once we turned onto the main thoroughfare.

  The van merged onto I-5 and then took 101 North, heading toward the town of Shelton. City lights faded to the occasional street lamp, and I dropped back even farther. The taillights on the van were distinctive and easy to track from a distance, but I still didn’t take my eyes off of them.

  I called Sam. He answered on the first ring.

  “I’m on 101 headed north just outside of Shelton in pursuit of a white van with a possible dead body inside. The driver and passenger are prime suspects and most likely armed.”

  There was a long pause before Sam replied.

  “When you left this afternoon you said you were going to talk to Bobby Branford’s sister. How did a simple interview turn into chasing a killer and a dead body?”

  I explained about Bobby and the two gangbangers and how they delivered Bobby to the guy in the van. Then I told him what I’d heard at the house outside of Olympia.

&
nbsp; He took a deep breath and let it out in a slow exhale. “And you thought that following the killer was a good idea because...?”

  Ignoring the question, I said, “Can you run the plates for me?”

  “What the hell were you thinking?”

  “I’m only doing what I thought you would do in a situation like this.”

  “You what—never mind.” He let out a deep sigh. “Kate, I’m trained to respond in this kind of situation. You aren’t.”

  “How else am I going to learn? Seriously, Sam. Can’t you just help me?”

  There was another pause. Impatient, I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel.

  “Fine. Give me the number.”

  I rattled off the license plate and waited, listening to the one-sided conversation he had with his guy. A few minutes later he got back on the line.

  “The plates are unregistered. You need to stand down, Kate. I’ll contact the sheriff and they can take over.”

  “If I stop now I’ll lose the van and they might not be able to recover the body. I don’t want these guys to get away with murder.”

  “Are you to Shelton yet?”

  “About five minutes out. If the body is in the van, and I’m 99.9 percent certain that it is, sooner or later they’re going to pull off the highway and look for a place to dump it.”

  “All righty then.” Sam’s tone had pissed off written all over it. “I’ll relay your position and the location of the possible homicide. And I’ll give them the description of the suspects, victim, and van. But I’m also going to let them know you’re alone, without backup, without a radio, and that I told you to ABORT, to get the fuck out, now—”

  “Sam, I’ve got this. Don’t worry.”

  “—and that you’re incapable of listening to reason.”

  Silence.

  I waited, imagining him struggling to control his anger. Sam rarely got angry. In fact if I really thought about it, he only got pissed off when I did something he deemed dangerous.