The Kid: A Suspense Thriller (A Reed & Billie Novel Book 3)

by Dustin Stevens

  The captain held it for a moment, seeming to debate the proper response, before nodding just slightly.

  “I am working with the state BCI on his murder last night.”

  “Why?” Gilmore snapped.

  Again Reed could feel his body temperature rise. “What business is that of the FBI’s? Franklin Medical is a state facility, outside the BOP.”

  Reed didn’t want to have to point out this entire matter was outside the FBI’s jurisdiction, leaving it just short of that, far enough along to make his point.

  Across from him the jab seemed to land, the skin tightening a bit around Gilmore’s eyes.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” Gilmore responded.

  “Nor you mine,” Reed replied.

  Not once in his discussions with Glenn had any mention of the FBI been made. The BCI had been handed the case free and clear, no requirement for cooperation, no requests for a joint investigation.

  On certain matters such as interstate trafficking or terrorism, the FBI was handed automatic control, though nothing of that sort seemed at play. A home invasion and murder were terrible, but no more than thousands of other such incidents that occurred everyday around the country.

  “Captain, I expected a little more cooperation than this,” Gilmore said, turning his face toward Grimes but keeping his gaze on Reed. “The FBI and CPD have always had a good working relationship, it would be a shame to see that end now.”

  “A relationship that has been fostered on mutual respect and communication,” Grimes said, his voice even, the implication clear.

  It was enough to pull Gilmore’s gaze from Reed to the captain, the scowl on his face growing more pronounced. He remained that way before finally nodding twice, pursing his lips before him.

  “Okay,” he finally said, “I can see this is going to be some kind of home turf thing, the two of you ganging up on the outsider.”

  He paused there a moment, trying to drive home his point, before saying, “Two patients that were recently released from Franklin Medical are on our watch list. We have concerns that one of them might have committed this crime.”

  “You let two people on your watch list be released from custody?” Grimes asked.

  “And why hasn’t this information been shared with the lead investigator?” Reed asked, reasonably certain that Glenn had not been apprised of anything of the sort.

  The look on Gilmore’s face grew a bit more pronounced as he looked between each of them before standing. He shoved his hands into the front pockets of his slacks and continued to glare, Reed and Grimes both meeting the stare.

  “Look,” he said, lowering his voice a bit, “I came here as a professional courtesy. Tread lightly on the Weston case.”

  He paused there, his mouth half open, the impression clear there was more he wanted to say. Just as fast he closed it, nodding at Grimes. “Captain.”

  Without another word he turned on a heel and exited the office, not acknowledging Reed or Billie as he left. A moment later the front door could be heard swinging open and slamming shut, the sound echoing through the nearly empty precinct.

  Once the sound faded away, Reed drifted over to the chair Gilmore had been using and lowered himself into it. He could feel the sweat that had arisen in the small of his back causing his shirt to cling to his skin, feel droplets along his brow.

  “What the hell was that all about?”

  Grimes stared at him a moment before shaking his head just slightly. “I can’t be sure, but I think he was here to try and strong arm us.”

  “You realize he was lying out his ass about two recently released inmates and all that, right?”

  “Of course,” Grimes said. “You should have heard him in here blowing smoke before you arrived.”

  Reed grunted in response, though said nothing. The demeanor change in the man had been obvious when Reed shut him down right off the bat, causing him to reverse course out of the gate.

  Still, that left a great many questions and very few answers.

  “Thoughts?” Reed asked.

  “Bah,” Grimes said, waving a hand at the door, letting his expression relay what he thought of the man. “Why were you looking in the files of Dennis Weston?”

  “BCI and I believe his death and the shootings of Iaconelli and Bishop are connected,” Reed said. “Both were of a very personal nature, both aimed at police personnel. At neither scene was any forensic evidence left, though a witness each time heard him use the word payback.”

  “So our suppositions this morning were correct?” Grimes asked.

  “To the letter,” Reed said, nodding just slightly.

  Grimes paused a moment, mulling the new information. His chin receded back into his neck, the folds of skin piling up high as he did so, his standard position when processing new information.

  “Leads?” Grimes asked.

  “Nothing from the scenes,” Reed said, “but I think I was just handed a new one.”

  Pulling his eyebrows in tight, Grimes stared at Reed a moment before understanding set in.

  “Just be careful. Asshole or not, the FBI doesn’t take well to outsiders poking through their dirty laundry.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Glenn went through the same emotional progression Reed had upon hearing of the visit from Gilmore. Her first reaction was surprise, followed in order by confusion, defensiveness, and finally anger. She lingered a bit longer on each of the stages, a fact aided considerably by her not being in the same room with the man, but ultimately ended in the exact same place.

  Seated in the front seat of his car, parked in the front lot of the Mercy West hospital, Reed listened intently as she parsed her way through it. He had left nothing out of his description, telling her the entire interaction, what little of it there was to relay.

  “And that’s it?” Glenn asked, the first real follow up question she had fired his way since ending a long string of garbled mumblings.

  “Pretty much,” Reed said. “Captain and I both got the impression he thought walking in, waving his creds and telling me to stand down was going to do it. When that didn’t work he tried to flex a bit, then left.”

  “Hmm,” Glenn said, the word coming out in a short, angry grunt. “And when you say flex?”

  “I mean he tried to scare us away,” Reed said. The insinuation was clear during the meeting, though with all the other vitriol Reed was working with at the time, he hadn’t given it quite as much due as he should have.

  Only after the fact, while driving away, had he really zeroed in on that being the purpose of the stop.

  “But why?” Glenn said. “This isn’t the Feebs case. If they wanted it, we would have happily handed it over.”

  Now, having seen the strong likelihood of a connection between his case and hers, Reed wouldn’t give it away for anything, especially to a prick like Gilmore.

  Twenty-four hours earlier though, he would have tossed it their way without a second glance.

  “I agree,” Reed said, “and when I pressed him on that, he got skittish. Wasn’t two minutes later he jumped up and ran out.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that,” Reed said. “Kind of surprised Grimes and me both, but, whatever.”

  “Yeah,” Glenn said, shoving out another breath.

  Reed could hear some of the acrimony in her voice fleeing, though it was still clearly present around the edges. He himself was still hovering somewhere close to a similar state, remaining silent.

  Outside, the front lights of the hospital were all on for the night, the emblem perched high above blazing like a macabre Christmas tree topper. A reflection of it refracted off the front hood of the car, giving the interior an unnatural glow.

  In the backseat Billie sat on her haunches, filling the space between the two front bucket seats. Reed could see her in his rearview mirror, her focus on him.

  No doubt she had sensed the physiological change in him that occurred the moment he encountered
Gilmore, her presence letting him know she was close if needed.

  “You get anything this afternoon?” Reed asked.

  Another loud sigh, this one a bit more intense than the previous, sounded out. “No, just a whole lot more of the same. Local traffic cameras were about as useless as the ones from the Plaza. A couple of them picked up Weston’s Audi driving away, but the damn windows on the thing were so tinted we couldn’t see anything in the backseat.”

  Reed nodded in the darkness, having thought that exact thing the first time he saw the car parked outside the dry cleaners shop.

  “I also swung back with Mrs. Weston,” Glenn said. “Yesterday afternoon, the place was overflowing with people. She had to park out back.”

  She paused there, not needing to go any further. Their best hope at seeing anything on camera was when the killer had gained access to her car. Her being parked out back meant that it all occurred out of view from anybody.

  “Any word from Wade on the car yet?” Reed asked, already having a strong supposition but having to ask the question anyway.

  “Not yet,” Glenn said. “I think the house and the car back-to-back put them a little behind. As you probably noticed, New Albany isn’t the kind of community where things like this seem to occur in bunches.”

  A smirk rocked Reed’s head back against the seat behind him, the sound filling the interior of his car. “Not a lot of crime in Stepford, huh?”

  “How about you?” Glenn asked, bypassing the question. “What’s your plan?”

  Any trace of mirth faded from Reed’s features as he looked up again at the front façade of the hospital before him.

  “I’m going to pop in here and check on my guys, then I’m going to pay someone a visit, see if I can’t figure out the real reason Dan Gilmore came calling tonight. That work?”

  “Keep me posted.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The bottle was cradled in a way that bordered on reverence, the look on Derrick Chamberlain’s face just south of awe. It was balanced in his left palm, the glass stem of the neck resting against his wrist as the fingertips of his right hand gently traced over the label.

  “Johnny Walker Blue,” he whispered. “Wow. Thank you.”

  “Um, should I give you two a moment?” Reed asked, allowing his face and his tone to relay the heightened discomfort he was beginning to feel.

  The sensation was one that had settled in long before observing the weird amount of deference paid to the bottle of whiskey, starting the moment he left Mercy West a half hour before. It started deep within, the same as it did every time he had to make this particular visit, feeling like butterflies in the pit of his stomach that slowly morphed into a tangle of writhing snakes.

  The transition began in earnest when he stopped off to purchase the alcohol that was being so lovingly caressed across from him, reached a fevered pitch as he stood at the front door of the quaint house on a bucolic street in Hilliard and explained to Chamberlain’s grandmother for at least the 15th time who he was and why he needed to speak with her grandson.

  Somehow, the feeling had managed to grow even stronger as he descended the stairs from the first floor of the home, an ode to all things grandmotherly, an overwhelming amalgam of scents and warm colors, into the basement. Different in every way from the scene above, it was a mecca to arrested development, the kind of thing that seemed more fitting in the basement of a frat house than the dwelling he was actually in.

  Reed had made enough pilgrimages into the basement in the name of work to know that one half was a converted living space, replete with a king sized water bed and kitchenette. The other was left open, an 80 inch television, towering speakers, and matching subwoofers filling most of the space. A couple of leather recliners were parked before the television, the only other seating options besides the desk chair in front of the enormous computer system arranged along the back wall.

  “Jay Double-U Bee,” he said, sounding out the three initials for the alcohol phonetically. “Damn, you must really need something big.”

  Derrick Chamberlain and Riley had been matched up as neighbors in their freshman dorm, never a more unlikely friendship having developed in the world. The strength of that bond endured through graduation and even a full decade beyond, clear until Riley’s untimely demise less than a year before.

  Insistent upon being called Deek at all times, it was in the course of that friendship that Reed had first encountered him.

  Graduating with a degree in computer science, Deek had eschewed more than a half dozen corporate job offers, instead going into business for himself as a cyber-sleuth. Word was he made enough to own the house they were now in free and clear, every other one on the block as well if he so chose.

  Instead he opted to spend no less than 10 hours a day locked in first-person video games, the reason for the vast entertainment system spread beside them.

  Subsisting almost entirely on Red Bull and Fruit Rollups, his body had the appearance of a palm tree, a waif thin frame tasked with holding up a large head with even bigger hair.

  “Maybe,” Reed said, scrunching the right side of his face slightly, “potentially.”

  The answer did nothing to dampen the enthusiasm on Deek’s face as he looked at the bottle another moment before begrudgingly setting it aside.

  When Riley had first enlisted her friend’s help a half-dozen years before, she had explained to Reed there were only two ironclad rules when coming to him. First was to never arrive empty handed. He was a self-employed businessman and working with computers was how he paid the bills.

  Honest wages for honest work and all that.

  Second was if they wanted a really good job done fast, don’t ever let that payment be in cash.

  At the time Reed had no idea what she was referring to, only later figuring things out. Some trips it was something as simple as a six pack, others a full handle of Jack Daniels. The severity of the ask tended to dictate the size of the payment.

  Given what Reed found himself in need of at the moment, Johnny Walker Blue seemed fitting.

  “How potentially are we talking?” Deek asked.

  “FBI,” Reed said, using his toe to rotate the recliner he sat in a few inches to get a better view of Deek’s reaction.

  If he was bothered in the slightest by what had just been said, he didn’t show it.

  “Working with or against them?” Deek asked.

  Reed paused a moment, considering the question.

  “I only ask because it will dictate how well I need to cover my trail,” Deek said, waving a hand before him.

  The movement, the flippant delivery of the statement, brought a smile to Reed’s face. “Neither, I think. They aren’t covering the case with us, but some jackass in a suit came sniffing around this evening and tried to shoo me away.”

  “You’ve never struck me as one to be shooed,” Deek said. He leaned forward at the waist and extended a bony leg in front of him, grasping the elastic bands of his wool sock and tugging it upward.

  “I’m not,” Reed said, “nor is my captain, which is why I’m now here.”

  “Captain,” Deek said, his voice a touch detached as he pulled on the opposite sock before setting his feet flat on the floor. “Grimy?”

  “Grimes.”

  “Right,” Deek said, nodding slightly. “Yeah, he doesn’t seem like one to be pushed aside either.”

  This time Reed settled with a simple head shake, not bothering to vocalize a response.

  “Is this official or off-the-books?” Deek asked.

  “It’s official,” Reed said, “in that he knows I’m here, as does the BCI, who I’m sharing the case with. As far as the Feds are concerned though, this conversation never took place.”

  At that Deek twisted his head at the neck to look at the bottle on the floor beside him, nodding slightly. “And hence, the good stuff.”

  “There it is,” Reed said. A small part of him hated that his motivations were so blatant before the larg
er part won out, reasoning that was only the case because he hadn’t much tried to hide them.

  There was no reason to. He knew Deek wouldn’t care either way.

  “So what do you need?” Deek asked, slapping both palms down on his thighs, the sound of skin-on-skin contact buffeted only by a pair of print boxer shorts.

  In quick order Reed went through the initial incident with Iaconelli and Bishop, followed it up with everything that had occurred with the Westons in the previous day.

  Not once while he spoke did Deek take down a note of any kind, his face twisted up slightly in thought, absorbing every word.

  Reed knew better than to bother commenting on it, trusting that everything was being recorded in Deek’s own way.

  “So you need to see their overlaps?” Deek said. “Simple enough.”

  Again Reed’s face scrunched slightly to the side, his features contorted as he raised a hand on edge and wagged it. “Well, sort of. That’s the first part of it, anyway.”

  A moment passed as Deek sat in silence before nodding his head back a few inches.

  “The second part being this FBI pinhead and how he intersects with all this?”

  “There it is,” Reed repeated, jabbing a finger out in front of himself for emphasis.

  A side-by-side of the detectives and Weston would be simple enough. He had been able to get a decent start on that already, having been pulled off only because of the discovery of Diedra Weston’s car and the daunting number of cases that the initial run returned.

  “If I were to guess Gilmore’s age I’d put him at 40ish, meaning all of these parties have a pretty substantial track record to go through. Might want to start with the most recent and work your way back from there.”

  Again Deek remained silent a moment, his eyes pinched up slightly as he stared above Reed’s head, his lips moving imperceptibly.

  “That should be doable,” he finally whispered, his gaze still locked on some indeterminate point in the distance. “Rush job?”