No End of Bad Guys

by Jeff Buick

  “Got it,” Stacey said, and Vern nodded.

  “White started out in the secondary vehicle the night Jocelyn was abducted, and parked it where she disappeared. Quiet street, well treed, no one sees him.” Bobby pointed to a spot on the map. “Then he pulled the bicycle out and rode home. He picked up the SUV parked in his garage, the one registered to him, and drove back to the place where he’d left the other SUV. He parked, switched vehicles and put the bicycle in the back of the secondary one.”

  Stacey was nodding now. “So he’s in the secondary vehicle and along comes Jocelyn, walking home from work.”

  “Right, and he gives her some line like, Hey, do you want a lift home? She accepts. Why not, it was dark and cold and she knew him from the Starbucks. Once she was in the front seat, he chloroformed her and turned off her phone. She was out cold and he headed back to his condo complex, making sure he drove the same route he took on the bicycle.”

  “Why the same route?” Stacey asked.

  “No CCTV coverage.”

  “Okay, so she’s back at his condo. There was no trace of her ever being there.”

  Bobby picked up a photo of White’s condo that showed the entire row of townhouses, and handed it to her.

  “She was never in his condo. Remember, she’s unconscious in the secondary vehicle now. White drives it to the complex and opens the garage door to number 24.”

  “He lives at number 18,” Stacey said.

  “Exactly. Number 24 is at the other end of a row of seven townhouses that are all attached. He pulls into the garage, drags her out, ties her up and jumps on his bicycle. He pedals like a madman back to where he left his SUV, the primary vehicle, makes sure no one is looking, dumps the bicycle in the back and drives home. This time he takes a route where a camera will pick him up so he has an alibi. However, that’s why he’s missing eighteen minutes.”

  “So when he pulls into his garage, Jocelyn is in the unit at the other end of his complex.”

  “Exactly. She’s never been in the vehicle or the condo we searched. He used the secondary vehicle, registered to Roger Baker, who owns number 24, to grab her.” He handed Stacey the printout from the DMV database. “Roger Baker. Look close.”

  She stared hard at the older, bearded man. Finally, she said, “Jesus, it’s him. It’s Cedric White.”

  “It is.”

  “We checked all the neighbors,” Vern said.

  “And according to them, Roger Baker is somewhere in the Caribbean for the winter,” Bobby said.

  “What about the vehicle going in and out of the garage at unit 24?” Stacey asked.

  “That was a risk he was willing to take. It could have upset everything if a neighbor had seen him drive in.”

  Bobby held up a page from the lab report. “This is what broke it open for me. The tech guys found a tiny bit of wood in his vacuum cleaner. They figured it was some landscape bark that had got tracked into the unit.” He pointed to a separate page in the murder book. “The attic is filled with undisturbed wood chips.”

  “He’s been going back and forth through the attic,” she said. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  “It explains the missing eighteen minutes, the wood in the vacuum canister, the extra food he purchased, and why he isn’t buying any extra gas for his car.”

  “No wonder there was no trace of her,” Vern said.

  Stacey’s jaw tightened. “She’s in number 24.”

  Bobby nodded. “She is.”

  “Christ, she was under our noses the whole time.” She whipped out her phone. “I’ll get warrants for both units, you put a team together.”

  “I get to go in first,” Bobby said.

  She stared hard at him, trying to read what he was thinking. “Okay,” she said.

  chapter thirteen

  A uniform cop smashed in the door of number 18.

  They barged in and raced through the condo with Bobby leading the way upstairs to the attic access. A stepladder was set up under the opening where the hatch had been removed, and Bobby climbed up and shone his flashlight down the long, dark space. The wood chips had been pushed aside, exposing a series of wide planks leading the length of the building. Cedric White was visiting Jocelyn Buchanan.

  Bobby scrambled off the ladder and ran out of White’s condo. He sprinted down the sidewalk to number 24 and kicked at the front door. It resisted the first couple of hits until on the third try the jamb splintered and the door flew open. Bobby pulled his gun, flipped off the safety and started in, Vern right behind him.

  The foyer and living room were dark and they stopped and listened. There was the hint of music somewhere nearby but too faint to make out the tune. Bobby started moving, quietly now. He could see the living room furniture in the low light—a striped sofa—identical to the one in White’s other unit, and he started moving again. The light on the kitchen stove read 9:26, and he crept to the stairs and glanced up. It was dark, there was no indication Cedric White was in the house.

  “Second floor,” Bobby whispered to Vern, who nodded.

  Bobby headed upstairs, steady on the balls of his feet. He reached the top and stood still, unsure of his next move. Directly ahead was a solid wall of thick plywood running the length of the hallway. The music was coming from behind the wall and he put his hand on the wood. It was vibrating, but the sound was almost indiscernible.

  “Soundproof room,” he said quietly. “He hasn’t heard us yet.”

  “Think it’s okay to use a flashlight?” Vern asked.

  “Should be,” Bobby said.

  Vern flipped on his light and shone it on the rough plywood, revealing a door near the far end. Vern shimmied down the narrow gap, put his hand on the knob and twisted, but it didn’t turn.

  “Locked,” he whispered. “Kick it in? Go through the attic?”

  Bobby figured if White had the music on, it was likely party time. He would be distracted and that could play well for them.

  “We’ll go in both ways at the same time,” Bobby said. “Do you want the attic or this door?”

  “I’ll stay here.”

  “Okay,” Bobby said as he checked the door. It was an inswing, but the hall was too narrow to get any sort of power behind a kick, and there was no way to use a battering ram. “Hang on, I have something in my car to lever it open.”

  Bobby squeezed by the other officers in the hall and hustled down to the street. He opened his trunk and pulled out a crowbar, then ran back upstairs and handed it to Vern, who slipped the tapered end between the jamb and the door.

  “It feels like it’ll give when I push,” he said.

  Bobby grabbed him by the arm. “Turn your phone on vibrate. I’ll call when I’m in position. You answer and we go on the count of five. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  Stacey Daniels was waiting at the top of the stairs and he explained the plan to her as they jogged back to the other end of the building.

  “Any idea what’s behind the wall?” she asked.

  “None,” he said, trying to catch his breath. “Vern will be going in blind.”

  “Want to wait for SWAT?”

  Bobby considered it, but any sort of delay was pushing their luck. “Christ only knows what he’s doing to her. I think we need to get in now.”

  “Agreed.”

  They slipped back into White’s condo and Stacey grabbed him by the shoulders. “Make sure he’s armed if you have to take him out,” she said, then let him go.

  “Yeah, of course.”

  Bobby holstered his gun and raced up the stairs, climbed the ladder and pulled himself into the attic. The peak of the roof was about four feet above him and he moved fast along the planks on his hands and knees. Two minutes later he had crawled the length of the building and reached the trap door above unit 24. He tried the handle. It was unlocked. Bobby turned off his flashlight and lifted again, this time far enough to see through the crack into the room below. The lights were on and music blasted out of the opening the m
oment the seal was broken. Below him lay the bathroom and a straight drop to the toilet. He glanced about, the space was empty except for White’s ladder, which was closed and leaning against the wall.

  “Aw, fuck,” Bobby cursed. “I’m getting too old for this shit.”

  He lifted the cover all the way and slid his feet into the hole. There was no way he would fit through with his vest on. He unclasped it and slipped it off, now feeling naked and vulnerable. Bobby called Vern and when the other detective answered, he said, “On five.”

  “Five.”

  Bobby killed the call as he counted and slipped the phone into his pocket. On the mark he leaned forward and went straight down, his right arm hitting the edge of the opening and throwing him off balance. He landed with one foot on the toilet and careened sideways into the wall, then to the floor. He jumped to his feet, jolts of pain shooting through his body as he pulled his gun and legged it to a well-lit room at the end of the hall. Vern was screaming Police over the deafening music when Bobby came crashing in, his gun leveled. Two bodies were on the bed, with Jocelyn Buchanan on the bottom, her arms and legs tied to the posts.

  Cedric White was naked and rolling off the girl, shock registering on his face for a second, then something else. Hate and determination. Bobby had seen it before. It was the look right before someone went for a weapon.

  “Don’t fucking move,” Bobby yelled, his gun aimed at White’s chest. Jocelyn started screaming and White dove behind the bed so fast that neither Bobby nor Vern had a clear shot. When he came back up he had something in his hand. Jocelyn was blocking Bobby’s line of sight, and he hesitated for a fraction of a second, his finger on the trigger.

  “Gun,” Vern yelled.

  White spun fast, coming to bear on Bobby. Vern fired and White’s body jerked hard, smashing against the wall. White’s gun went off and Bobby felt the heat of a slug whistle past his cheek. Bobby kept his firearm pointed at White, who was now sliding down the wall, leaving a trail of blood, the weapon still in his hand. Vern’s shot had hit him square in the chest and he lay in a heap, his eyes open and staring at them, blood dripping from his gaping mouth.

  Vern got to the body first and kicked the gun out of White’s hand, his pistol pointed at the man’s head.

  Bobby was on his cell. “Clear,” he said when Stacey Daniels answered. He walked over to the stereo, punched the power button and the room descended into silence.

  Stacey was at the door in seconds, assessing the situation and heading for the bed. “Jocelyn,” she said softly as she draped a sheet over the girl. “We’re the good guys. You’re going to be okay.”

  Jocelyn Buchanan was sobbing and shaking uncontrollably as Stacey worked on the knots in the rope binding her to the bed. Bobby stood quietly, watching, his cheek stinging. He touched it with his finger and it came away stained with blood.

  “Fucking close, that was,” Vern said.

  The look Bobby gave Vern conveyed more than a thousand times thank you ever could. “Yeah. Good thing you shot him.”

  Stacey glanced over at Vern, then at the gun lying near the dead man’s hand. “You the shooter?” she asked.

  “Uh huh,” Vern said. “Bobby came in after me.”

  Bobby didn’t say a thing. Truth was, he had been too slow to pull the trigger. If Vern hadn’t got off a killing shot, he’d be dead. He glanced at Vern, but the man was already working the scene. Bobby felt sick as the reality of it all sank in. He needed to get out of the room.

  “I’ll be outside, LT.”

  “Sure, Bobby.”

  He walked out into the cool Florida night and sat on the front steps. A couple from the condo next door poked their heads out, but he ignored them, the uniforms would take care of the neighbors. He felt drained, like he’d run a marathon. Cars started arriving with lights flashing, and the street teemed with police, CSI, and emergency personnel. Crime scene tape went up as they established a perimeter, and people gathered behind the tape, talking quietly and watching the activity.

  It was half an hour before Vern walked out the front door, sat next to Bobby and lit a cigarette. Neither of them said anything for a couple of minutes. Finally, Vern said, “You never gave up on him, Bobby. You knew it was him.”

  “Yeah,” Bobby said. The image of Jocelyn Buchanan, on the bed and terrified, was going to stay with him for the rest of his life. She would never be the same. How could she be? He thought of Sarah and Lizzie and tried to imagine what Jocelyn’s parents had gone through. He couldn’t really get a grip on it.

  “Good week for you,” Vern said. “Hanna Van Warner and now this piece of crap. Two dirtbags off the street.”

  Bobby looked at the man who had just saved his life. “Lots of them still out there.”

  Vern nodded. “No end of bad guys, Bobby.”

  “Yeah, Vern. So true.” Bobby stood up and started walking to his car. “Tell Stacey I’ll come in later and fill out the paperwork.”

  “Where you off to?”

  “Gonna tuck in the girls.”

  If you enjoyed

  No End of Bad Guys

  Then get the next Bobby Greco novel!

  Read more about this book on www.JeffBuick.com

  acknowledgments & kudos

  While I’m the one who sits in my favorite Starbucks and types for endless hours to create this stuff, my books are a collaborative effort. These are my fellow co-conspirators.

  Nothing would get done if it weren’t for my incredible wife, Celia.She anchors me (in a good way) and keeps me focused. She is my encouragement, my reality check and my shoulder to rest on. She’s also the best editor I’ve ever had. Lucky me.

  Christina Curkovic is my awesome behind the scenes person. She takes care of everything, like those cool links so you can get to Amazon and find my books, and a hundred other things. If Christina suddenly disappeared and I had to do all that stuff, my creative side would shrivel up and die. She lets me write, so I adore her.

  Michael Hartley-Robinson is a friend, mentor, and sounding board. He is my Saturday morning coffee guy, a source of intriguing plot lines, and a brilliant proof reader.

  Laura Rushford is the BEST proof reader EVER. She is a like a heat-seeking missile for bad grammar (guilty) and misplaced/misused words (guilty again). Thank you, Laura.

  Check out The Team page for the rest of the crew. I could never do this alone.

  about the author

  Jeff Buick has been writing thrillers since 1998 and he has no plans to stop anytime soon. His first book was a Young Adult story called Download to Disaster that he wrote for one of his sons. It was about a bad guy taking down the Internet (which pretty much no one knew of back then), and it’s so hokey it if he released it now, it could be a comedy.

  Travel plays a big part in his life, and he’s spent time in Africa, South and Central America, Europe, and New Zealand. This love of travel is reflected in where he sets his novels.

  Jeff works hard at writing great beach reads that engage, enlighten and entertain the reader.

  He lives in Calgary, Canada with his wife Celia.