by Chris Culver
Trisha nodded and typed before looking back at me. “She the victim you pulled out of the woods yesterday?”
“Yeah. Dr. Sheridan ID’d her, so I need everything you can get on her. Finances, immigration status, criminal records, social media accounts, everything you can get.”
Trisha typed again before nodding. “I’ll try to get it by the end of the shift.”
“Great,” I said, already heading toward the front door. “Type everything up and email it to me. And I’ll see you tomorrow. I think I’ll be working late.”
8
Nick slowed his rental car in front of a two-story Garrison Colonial with white siding and tasteful if minimal landscaping. A red plastic swing hung from a tree, and Tonka bulldozers in the front flower bed looked ready for some little boy or girl to play with. Woods ringed the property, giving it privacy. That would make his job today much easier.
He parked in the driveway. Laura Rojas had given him the home’s address. Nick hadn’t enjoyed killing her, but she threatened business deals already agreed upon by men who didn’t take well to threats. She had brought her death on herself.
He stepped out of his car. The home’s front door was shut, and none of its windows were open. The homeowner probably thought it was secure. It wasn’t. Nick had never seen a truly secure residence.
If it were up to Nick, he’d burn Reid Chemical to the ground and never look back. His employers had made a sizeable investment, though, and they intended to earn a return. Nick worked for one of the most sophisticated logistics companies in the world.
With forty-eight hours’ notice, Nick’s employers could drop a thousand AKM assault rifles on a battlefield anywhere on the planet. With a few weeks’ notice and a large enough advance payment, they could supply a militia in Syria or South Sudan with an entire air defense system capable of fending off the air forces of every two-bit despot and dictator on the planet.
He pulled out a portable cell jammer from the inside pocket of his jacket and hit the power button. Though he had never tested its range, the device was designed to block all cell signals within a ninety-foot radius. His employers sold them to police and military forces who used them to prevent adversaries from coordinating with one another via cell phones. They worked just as well to disrupt the radios in modern home alarms.
He put his jamming device on the ground and picked the lock on the walkout basement’s door. The alarm blared upstairs, but he had a plan for it. He pocketed the jammer, and he checked out the home room by room.
According to Laura Rojas, the homeowner and several chemists with whom he worked had stolen hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of equipment and chemicals from Reid Chemical’s warehouse. It would have been a case for the local police, but the stolen chemicals were illegal to have without licenses Reid Chemical didn’t have. An investigation would have hurt everyone. This was best handled in-house.
Once he had the house secured, Nick hurried back to his car for tarps and painter’s tape. Then, he moved the basement furniture against the walls, leaving him an open space, which he covered in clear plastic tarps. When he finished, it looked like something from a television crime show. That was the intent. Image mattered as much as actions.
With the room complete, Nick walked upstairs, placed a call to Austin Wright’s cell phone from the house’s landline, and waited through three rings before the man picked up. Wright made a good living for himself at Reid Chemical, but his wants exceeded his six-figure salary. He got greedy, and now he had to pay the price.
“Hi, Mr. Wright,” said Nick, holding a hand over his left ear so the blaring alarm system wouldn’t distract him. “This is Detective Chris Carter with the St. Augustine County Sheriff’s Department. We got a call from your alarm company about ten minutes ago, so I’m at your house right now. I need you to come out here.”
Wright hesitated. “Did somebody break into my house?”
“Nobody’s hurt, but yes, there’s been a break-in,” said Nick. “I’m in your foyer right now. You think you can come out here?”
Wright swore. “Yeah. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Sure thing, sir,” said Nick. “I’m in an unmarked vehicle, so there will be a four-door car in your driveway.”
“Okay. Thanks,” he said. Nick hung up a moment later and waited on the front porch. A green Jeep Cherokee pulled into the driveway about fifteen minutes after Nick placed his call. The driver was about six feet tall and had a wiry build and black hair. His glasses were oversized but fashionable, and he wore a plaid button-down shirt and jeans. The moment Nick saw him, he stepped onto the grass.
“Mr. Wright?” he asked, holding his hand out. “I’m Detective Chris Carter. Sorry to meet you under these circumstances.”
Wright shook his hand but otherwise didn’t slow as he hurried into the house.
“Were they after my guns?”
“That may have been the target. We’ll go through the house room by room so you can show me what’s missing,” said Nick, already reaching into his own coat for his firearm. “You mind if we start in the basement? That’s where they broke in.”
“Fine,” said Wright. They hurried to the basement. Once Wright turned the corner and saw the plastic taped to the walls and ceiling, he stopped midstep and drew in a breath.
“I’ve got a gun pointed at your back,” said Nick. “If you make any sudden moves, I’ll open fire and kill you. Are you armed?”
“What is this?” he asked.
“This is a conversation,” said Nick. “Are you armed, Mr. Wright?”
He shook his head and put his hands into the air.
“No,” he said, his voice shaky. “You can have whatever you want. Please don’t hurt me.”
“I’m not here to hurt or rob you,” said Nick. “Now walk to the middle of the room and take off your clothes, please.”
“Why do you want me to take off my clothes?”
Laura Rojas had balked when he asked her to do that, too, but she gave in when Logan agreed to leave. Apparently, she was squeamish about him seeing her nude.
“I need you to take off your clothes so you can’t reach for a concealed cell phone or weapon. It also makes it less likely that you’ll run. Naked people don’t like going outside. I do this to everybody I interrogate. It’s nothing personal. Fair enough?”
“I’m not taking off my clothes.”
Nick lowered his weapon, aimed, and squeezed the trigger. The sound echoed off the walls as the nine-millimeter weapon fired. Wright dropped to the ground, screaming as he clutched his leg. The round had hit him above the knee. Nick rarely had time to practice at the gun range, but that was a terrible shot. He slipped his firearm into his holster and sighed.
“I aimed for your knee. Sorry. I’m out of practice,” he said, sliding his belt out of the loops. “I’ll put this belt on your thigh and cinch it tight. That should keep you from bleeding out until we can get you to a hospital. Sound good to you?”
Wright stopped screaming. Nick dragged him to the center of the floor by the collar on his shirt and secured his belt on the guy’s leg. Wright cried, but whether the tears came from pain or fear, Nick couldn’t say. Either worked for him.
“Okay, Mr. Wright,” said Nick. “As you can guess, I’m not a police officer. You stole something from my employers. That’s not a good idea.”
Wright’s lips moved, but no sound came out.
“Were you saying something?” asked Nick.
“Fuck you,” said Wright, his voice soft and pained. Nick sighed and scratched his forehead. Then he took a step back, unholstered his firearm, and shot him again. This time, Nick’s aim was true, and the round hit Wright in the knee. The beleaguered thief screamed again and clutched his other leg. Nick waited for the initial screams to turn to whimpers before speaking again.
“I don’t have another belt to stop the bleeding this time, so you’d better talk fast if you want to live. You stole something from Reid Chemical. I’d like it b
ack.”
Wright curled into a fetal position, clutching both his legs and gnashing his teeth.
“This hurts.”
“I know it hurts,” said Nick. “It’s supposed to hurt. The bleeding won’t stop, either, so consider talking. You do that, I’ll call 911 and get an ambulance out here for you. You refuse, I’ll call your wife and tell her that somebody’s broken into your house. I’ll shoot her next. Do you want that?”
Wright seethed and clenched his teeth before speaking.
“What do you want?”
“The chemicals and equipment you stole,” said Nick. “I’d also like to know why you stole them.”
“I stole nothing,” he said through clenched teeth.
Nick considered him for a moment and shook his head. “Your wife works at Structure’s Salon, right?”
He closed his eyes. “Leave her alone.”
“Not my call, buddy,” he said. Wright trembled. It was the blood loss. A red puddle had grown beneath his left leg, so Nick pulled the belt tight again. “I’ll go upstairs now and call Alyssa. I don’t want to hurt her, but I will. Do you understand?”
“Leave her alone.”
“That’s your choice,” said Nick, hooking his thumb toward the stairwell. “I’ll call her upstairs. If you haven’t talked by the time she gets here, I’ll burn her with cigarettes until you tell me what I want to know. That sound okay to you?”
Wright thrashed on the floor, but Nick ignored him and walked upstairs. If he called Alyssa Wright at work and played the detective again, she’d come running. Wright might play hero when his own life was on the line, but not when his wife screamed in pain. If Nick brought Alyssa to the house, she’d have to die. He’d hate to do that, but he’d get over it.
Nick stayed upstairs long enough for Wright to believe he had made a phone call before returning to the basement. Austin Wright had crawled to the back door, leaving a trail of blood on the tarps. Tears streaked his cheeks. A cell phone lay in the middle of the floor.
“How’d your phone call go?” asked Nick. Wright sobbed but said nothing. “That well, huh? Mine went okay. Got a hold of your wife’s salon, and she’s on her way. How do you think she’d want to die?”
“I hate you,” said Wright, his voice almost inaudible through his tears. “I fucking hate you.”
Nick tilted his head to the side. “Alyssa doesn’t have to die. Where are the chemicals you stole, and why did you steal them? Did you sell them to somebody? If you did, that’s cool. I can work with that. Just tell me.”
He clenched his teeth. Wright was hurting as much as possible with the tools Nick had available. Maybe he could find paint stripper in the garage. That on an open gunshot wound ought to do the trick. He turned to leave the room when Wright spoke again.
“Fentanyl,” said Wright, his teeth clenched. “We were making fentanyl.”
Nick stopped moving.
“Fentanyl,” he said, surprised. “The narcotic?”
“We’ve been synthesizing it at night.”
That was a problem. Nick’s employers had the worldwide network to become major players in the narcotics world, but they stayed away from the trade. It was too dangerous. The war on drugs may have been a symbolic fight to arrest users and dealers in the United States, but outside the country, it was a real battle with real weapons.
“Where are these drugs now?”
“We sold them.”
Nick sighed and considered what to do. Wright’s face was growing pale.
“You better hold that belt tighter, or you’re going to bleed out,” he said. Wright gripped the belt with white knuckles. “If you sold fentanyl, you’ve got money. Where is it?”
“I don’t have any money.”
“Okay,” said Nick, scratching his brow. “I’ll go upstairs and wait for your wife. Do you have any tools? Since she works at a nail salon, I was thinking of ripping out her fingernails with pliers. I like irony.”
Wright thrashed on the floor, but Nick ignored him and walked upstairs. The garage was off the kitchen. Nick searched and found a hammer and a pair of needle-nose pliers in a pink basket on a shelf by the back door. When he got back to the basement, he found that Wright hadn’t moved from his spot. His face was even paler, and his breath was shallow.
Nick held up both tools. “Found some. Do you want to watch as I pull out Alyssa’s fingernails, or do you want me to take her upstairs?”
He narrowed his eyes but said nothing.
“Talk to me,” said Nick. “Who do you work with? Where are the drugs? Where’s the money? Tell me what I need to know, and I’ll clean up your mess. Your wife and kids will move on with their lives.”
Wright said nothing for at least half a minute. He stared at Nick, though, with black, hate-filled eyes.
“You’ll hurt her even if I tell you.”
“I promise I won’t,” he said. “You’re dead no matter what, but if you give me the money, I’ll shoot you in the heart. It won’t even hurt. Then I’ll rip down the plastic, roll you up, put you in my trunk, and get out of here before she arrives. So what’s it going to be? You want to watch your wife die, or do you want to be a hero and let her live?”
He closed his eyes. “The money’s gone. My partners took their share, and I bought a boat.”
“How much did you spend on it?”
Wright opened his eyes, but he wouldn’t meet Nick’s gaze. “Almost three hundred grand.”
“You didn’t make fentanyl on your own,” said Nick. “Who’s in charge?”
Wright opened his mouth, but he said nothing. Nick repeated the question.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m a chemist, man. My bosses tell me what to make. If you want answers, talk to Ruby Laskey. She’s in management.”
Nick rubbed his eyes and thought. He had already tried to visit Ruby Laskey and Mike Brees—two other names Laura had given him—and found their homes empty. Someone had tipped them off. Nick would have to find them later.
“Okay. Here’s what we’ll do. You’ll write your wife and kids a letter and tell them you’re leaving the family for a girl you met on the internet. Tell her you’ve been unhappy for a long time, but this girl makes you whole. In that letter, you will tell Alyssa about the boat. Tell her you’re sorry for your mistake. Then tell her to sell the boat.”
Wright narrowed his eyes at Nick, confused.
“Why would I do that?”
“Because if you don’t, I’ll kill your wife and get rid of her body, too. If you write the letter, Alyssa will think you’ve run off. She won’t call the police, and she’ll have a nice boat to console herself with. Everybody wins. Except you. You’re screwed, but I don’t believe in punishing children for the sins of their father.”
He blinked. “You’ll leave them alone?”
“You have my word,” said Nick.
Wright nodded, so Austin got him a pen and notepad from the kitchen. Over the next five minutes, Wright wrote his final letter to his wife. Then he signed it, and Nick put it in an envelope on the kitchen counter. When he came downstairs again, Wright was crying. Nick gave him a moment to compose himself.
“Any last words?” asked Nick.
“I’m sorry.”
“Me, too,” said Nick, raising his pistol. He shot Wright in the heart, just as he had said he would and just as he had done to Laura Rojas. Wright’s body stilled, but blood spattered all the way to the ceiling. Nick holstered his weapon and tore away at the plastic. Poor Alyssa would never know what had happened at the house that day, but at least she’d live. Her husband’s sacrifice had made that happen.
He tossed his burner phone onto Wright’s body and then took out his primary phone to text his employer.
Subject down. Reid Chemical has a major problem.
And then he sighed, grabbed his cell jammer, and rolled up the plastic tarps. He hated cleaning up.
9
I had just sat down in my SUV when Harry called. Part of me wanted to ignor
e him and pretend that I hadn’t heard my phone ring over the sound of the road, but Harry was too good of a boss to do that to. As much as I needed to get to Laura Rojas’s house, the boss wouldn’t have called me without reason.
I pulled out my phone and swiped my finger across the screen to answer.
“Harry, yeah,” I said. “I’m about to head north to Laura Rojas’s house. What’s going on?”
“Are you still in St. Augustine?”
“I haven’t even left the parking lot,” I said. “What’s up?”
“A nurse at St. John’s just called. A young woman from Waterford College came into the ER for a rape test. I can send Delgado, but the victim would probably be more comfortable talking to you.”
My stomach tightened, and I drew in a slow breath. I hated rape cases more than any other. When one asshole killed a second asshole in a fight, the pain ended with the victim’s death. A rape survivor, though, became a victim for life. She might move on, but she’d never forget. I knew firsthand.
I nodded and lowered my voice.
“Tell the hospital I’m on my way.”
“I appreciate it,” said Harry. “Good luck, Detective.”
“Thanks, boss,” I said before hanging up. For a moment, I sat in my giant SUV, preparing myself for the job ahead of me. Everybody was different, but I had been in this young woman’s shoes, and I understood the courage it had taken for her to come forward. Even before I spoke to her, I hated what had happened to her and the person who hurt her. I also knew I couldn’t help her one bit. Nothing would erase her memories of what had happened. My only consolation was that I might prevent her attacker from hurting anyone else.
St. John’s Hospital was just off Lincoln Avenue on the outskirts of town. It was a good hospital for broken bones or minor illnesses, but for anything more serious, most people just drove to St. Louis. I parked in a spot reserved for police officers and walked into the ER’s main entrance. The nurse working the front desk recognized me from previous visits and smiled.
