Trapped (Private Justice Book #2): A Novel

by Hannon, Irene

  Faith bit her lip, tucked her hair behind her ear, and studied him across the frozen expanse. When she dropped her gaze and angled toward his neighbor, Mark knew she’d decided to accept the guy’s offer.

  “Thank you. I’d appreciate the escort. But I need my stuff from the house. My keys are in my purse.”

  They both looked his way.

  He was stuck. Refusing to hand over her things would only add to their suspicions. He’d have to smooth things out with Faith tomorrow at work. Convince her it really had been a nosebleed. In the daylight, back in familiar surroundings, she’d accept that explanation. Right now she was drugged, cold, and standing in a strange, dark alley. Her imagination would be playing tricks on her—or so he’d tell her tomorrow.

  Unfortunately, he’d also have to play out this romance thing a little longer, until tonight was forgotten. An unappealing prospect, but necessary.

  “Fine. I’ll get your things.”

  He turned away, but when she gasped he swung back. “What’s wrong?”

  The guy spoke. “There’s blood on the back of your shirt.”

  He smothered a curse.

  He’d been wearing his jacket when he’d grappled with Laura in the basement room. Some of the blood must have gotten on it, then rubbed off on the back of his shirt as he’d shed his outerwear.

  And a bloody nose wouldn’t explain stains on the back of his shirt.

  But how much could there be? A few streaks? And in the dark, they wouldn’t be able to tell for sure if it was blood.

  Staring the two of them down, he lifted his chin. “I don’t like your insinuations. Faith, I’ll put your things on the back porch, since you prefer the company of your new friend.” He shot the guy a quick, scornful look, then refocused on her. “I’ll see you at work tomorrow.”

  With that, he walked back to his house, pushed through the door, and closed it behind him.

  Only then did he allow his shoulders to sag.

  He was going to have to do some serious damage control at work tomorrow.

  Closer to home, he’d also have to undermine Faith’s credibility. That should be easier. He’d watch for Super Jock, then happen to run into him in the alley. The guy would surely notice Faith’s unsteadiness if he walked her to her car tonight, and a couple of remarks about drinking should punch a lot of holes in her story. The crew next door had firsthand knowledge about the mind-muddling effects of alcohol.

  For now, though, he’d gather up her stuff, hand it over, and scrub the kitchen until there wasn’t a speck of blood left, even if it kept him up past midnight. The basement room would require a much bigger effort, but since he never allowed anyone downstairs, it could wait.

  Mark pushed off from the door and went in search of Faith’s coat and purse, scrutinizing her keys for any sign of blood before he dropped them in one of the side compartments on her bag.

  She and the college guy were still standing in the distance when he set her things at the edge of the stoop—and neither approached until he retreated inside.

  He watched from a slit in the blinds as her protector retrieved the items, then rejoined her.

  But instead of heading down the walkway between the buildings on the other side of the alley, they disappeared in the direction of the house next door.

  Had he offered her a drink? Was he trying to pick her up? Did he intend to take advantage of her tipsy, vulnerable state?

  Who cared? She was old enough to fend for herself.

  And he had other, more important things to worry about.

  “Lie still, sweetie. You’re going to be fine.” Laura tried for an encouraging tone, hoping the assurance was true. But she didn’t like the location of Darcy’s abdominal wound, even if it wasn’t bleeding nearly as much as the puncture on her own leg.

  Lord, please don’t let one of her vital organs be damaged!

  Tears trickled out of the corners of her sister’s eyes. “I’m s-so sorry.”

  “There’s nothing to be sorry about. You saved my life. If you hadn’t lunged for him when he raised the knife over me, I’d be dead. Instead, you got the brunt of it.”

  “We wouldn’t b-be in this mess if it w-wasn’t for me.”

  As Laura fought back another wave of mind-numbing dizziness, she tried to think of a way to refute that. Failed. Darcy was right.

  Except mess was far too mild a word.

  Tightening the makeshift bandage on her leg, fighting the near-debilitating weakness in her limbs, she glanced around the room from her kneeling position on the floor beside her sister.

  Pure carnage.

  There were streaks and splotches of blood everywhere—and more was being added by the minute. In addition to the ever-widening circumference on the towel she’d secured to her leg by knotting the sleeves of one of the blouses in the closet around it, she could also feel warmth trickling down her shoulder from the wound at the top of her left arm that she hadn’t been able to bandage. On the plus side, the blood from the stabs on her arms was no longer seeping through the washcloths she’d tied around them. Her nose had also stopped bleeding.

  “Laura?”

  At Darcy’s soft summons, she refocused on her sister. Her head was throbbing, and her vision was going in and out of focus, but she could see clearly enough to discern that her sister had been through hell over the past ten days. Her face was one giant bruise, her blonde hair had been hacked off and dyed, and she’d lost a significant amount of weight. Now she’d sustained a possible life-threatening wound that needed professional medical attention.

  The specter of death was an almost palpable presence.

  Her throat constricted, and she tried to swallow past her panic. She couldn’t lose Darcy now. Please, God, no! Not after all we’ve both been through!

  “What is it, sweetie?” Despite her best efforts to sound calm and in control, a tremor ran through her words.

  “I w-want you to know I appreciate all you d-did for me.”

  “You can thank me later, after this is over.”

  “He’s going to k-kill us.” Darcy’s voice was dull now—and resigned. “Just like the o-others.”

  A cold chill settled in the pit of Laura’s stomach. “What others?”

  Darcy drew a shuddering breath. “Star and Angela and Denise. Maybe Lil too.”

  Hamilton had killed four women already?

  The pounding in her head intensified.

  If they were dealing with a serial killer, he wouldn’t hesitate to kill again—and he’d had a lot of practice.

  Her estimate of their odds of survival plummeted.

  But she wasn’t going to give up yet. Hamilton might be smart and physically strong, but no one was unbeatable. She’d cling to that thought and focus every ounce of her diminished brainpower on coming up with a plan to outwit him.

  “That doesn’t mean we have to be his next victims.” The words came out sounding much more confident than she felt.

  “There’s no way out of this room. And he’s not going to let us jump him again.”

  That was true—but they weren’t in any condition to attempt a repeat performance of that in any case.

  “Then we’ll think of something else.” Laura scooted up and set to work on the rope binding Darcy’s wrists.

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know yet. I’m working on it—but it wouldn’t be a bad idea to ask for some help. Will you pray with me once I get your hands free?”

  Her sister gave a soft sigh. “I guess. I’ve been doing a lot of that since I’ve been down here, but I didn’t talk to God much before this and you always had to drag me to services, so I don’t know if he’s been listening. Still, where two or three are gathered and all that.”

  Apparently a few things from the sermons her sister had claimed were lame and boring had stuck.

  “He always listens to us, no matter how long it’s been since we last spoke with him. It’s just that we don’t always get the answer we want.” Giving Darcy’s hand
a squeeze, Laura closed her eyes. “Lord, we need your strength and your wisdom and your fortitude. Please inspire our thinking and help us find a way out of this situation. Give us courage and fill our minds with the serenity that comes from knowing no matter what happens, you are with us always. But if it’s your will, please save us from this danger so we can have many years together to discover all the blessings of sisterhood. Amen.”

  As Darcy’s hushed amen echoed hers in the silent room, Laura squeezed her fingers again and added one more silent plea for help.

  Because despite the brave face she was trying to maintain for her sister’s sake, in her heart she knew it would take a miracle for them to escape whatever fate Hamilton had planned for them.

  Insulated mug poised halfway to his mouth, Dev watched the police car pull up to the curb and stop in front of the house next to Hamilton’s.

  Interesting. During all his hours of surveillance, he’d seen a few cops drive by—but none had ever stopped.

  He took a sip of coffee and watched the car.

  Two minutes later, the officer got out and started up the walkway toward the front door of Hamilton’s neighbor.

  Dev straightened in his seat, grabbed his night-vision binoculars, and fitted them to his eyes. With the tiny front yards in Soulard, he had no problem keeping the officer in sight as the man made the short trek to the door and rang the bell.

  Almost at once, a tall, broad-shouldered college-age kid answered. After talking for less than a minute, the officer disappeared inside with him.

  Dev lowered the binoculars. It was possible a police visit to Hamilton’s neighbor didn’t have any bearing on his case, but it was a peculiar coincidence.

  Too peculiar.

  Something relevant to his investigation was going on. He could feel it in his bones.

  Fifteen minutes later, the officer emerged. Instead of returning to his car, however, he detoured toward Hamilton’s house, went up the walkway, and rang his bell.

  Just as Dev prepared to put the binoculars to use again, he caught a movement in the upper window, out of sight of the officer. A thin, very faint band of light appeared for a moment, as if someone had cracked the blinds. Then it was gone.

  The officer waited a full minute, but when no one answered he descended the steps and walked back to his car.

  Frowning, Dev set the binoculars on the seat and tapped a finger on the wheel. He knew how this was going to play out. The officer would make a note of the call and code it a dead end.

  But perhaps he could offer some additional information that would pique the man’s interest—and pick up some info for himself as well.

  Turning up the collar of his jacket, Dev untangled himself from the electric blanket and pulled a cap over his hair. If Hamilton decided to peek out the window again, he preferred to remain anonymous, and the auburn hair would be a dead giveaway.

  After flipping off the dome light, he dug his PI license out of his wallet and palmed it. Then he swept the windows in Hamilton’s house to verify the man wasn’t watching, opened the door, and hustled down the street, crossing at the corner.

  As he approached the police car from the front, he kept his hands at his sides. In this neighborhood, at this hour, it wouldn’t hurt to let the officer know he wasn’t holding a weapon.

  On the other hand, the man didn’t need to know about the compact Sig Sauer in the concealed holster on his belt. The officer cracked his window as he approached. The fortysomething guy had the look of a seasoned street cop. That was a plus. “Can I help you?”

  “Possibly. I’m James Devlin with Phoenix Inc., a private investigation firm. We’ve had this house under surveillance for the past week.” He indicated Hamilton’s place and handed the officer his license through the window.

  “Phoenix . . . that’s Cal Burke’s outfit, isn’t it?”

  “You know Cal?”

  “Our paths crossed a few times while he was a street cop with County, before his detective days. Good guy. Are you the ATF partner or the Secret Service partner?”

  “ATF. I see our reputation has preceded us.”

  “Word gets around. Most of the PIs we tangle with aren’t in your league.” The officer slid out of the car and returned the license as he introduced himself. “Ken Larson. So what’s going on here?” He gestured to the house.

  “I’m hoping you can offer me some insights. Here’s what I know.” Dev gave the man a rapid briefing on the case. “And FYI, while you were ringing the bell, someone was checking you out through the blinds on the second floor.”

  The man raised an eyebrow, then shrugged. “Unfortunately, we can’t force people to answer the door.”

  “I know. I’ve been in your shoes. What can you tell me about your call here tonight?”

  “One of the college kids next door said a woman rushed out of Hamilton’s back door while he was taking some trash to the dumpster. She told him she was visiting Hamilton for the evening and fell asleep while they were watching a movie.”

  Dev frowned. “That can’t be. I’ve been watching the house all night. No one went in or out the front door, and no young woman has been in any of the cars that entered or exited the alley.”

  “She says Hamilton told her to park on the next street because there’d been some vandalism to cars in front of his house.”

  “Is that true?”

  “Not that I know of. Anyway, she claims that when she woke up she saw drops of blood on the kitchen floor and a bloody handprint, plus heard odd noises in the basement. The college kid said there was also a stain on the back of Hamilton’s shirt that looked like blood. Hamilton told them it was from a nosebleed.”

  Dev’s pulse spiked. This was getting weirder and weirder. “You don’t get blood on the back of your shirt from a nosebleed.”

  “That occurred to me too.” The man folded his arms. “Here’s another interesting tidbit. The woman whose statement I just took is the same one you mentioned in your case recap. Faith Bradley.”

  His adrenaline surged as he processed that unexpected piece of news. “She’d have to have been really rattled to bolt during a long-coveted date.”

  “Rattled would be an apt way to describe her condition.”

  Dev blew out a breath, a cloud of vapor forming in front of his face, obscuring his view for a moment. “So what’s your take?”

  The man leaned back against the side of the car. “I’m not sure what to make of it. We’ve had several complaints in the past few months about the occupants of that house.” He gestured toward the two-story brick next to Hamilton’s, where Faith had taken refuge. “Loud parties. Disorderly conduct. Beer cans littering the alley. You name it. They all seemed sober tonight, though. To be honest, I was planning to code it as a dead end, but now that we’ve talked, I’ll swing by a couple more times during my shift. I can also try ringing the bell again tomorrow night, earlier in my shift. Maybe he’ll answer then.”

  “Tomorrow’s a long time away if there’s fresh blood in the house.”

  “If being the operative word. When I pressed, neither the girl or the kid could confirm that the stain on the back of Hamilton’s shirt was blood. It was too dark in the alley. So the blood in the house could have been from a nosebleed. As for the noises in the basement . . . the girl admitted they could have come from a radio or DVD.”

  Dev surveyed Hamilton’s house. “I might buy that if I didn’t already suspect this guy was up to his neck in trouble.”

  “You said the background check you did was clean.” The officer lifted his hands, palms up. “I can’t arrest a law-abiding citizen or demand entry based on a hunch.”

  “I know that.”

  A car drove by, wheels crunching on the remnants of ice in the street, and Dev moved closer to the police car as a brutal blast of cold air whipped past.

  “I’ll tell you what.” The officer gave the passing car a practiced sweep, then refocused on him. “I’ll put in a call to my supervisor while I continue my patrol. She migh
t want to get one of the detectives to pay a visit to your guy at his place of business tomorrow. Maybe talk to a few of the neighbors at a more reasonable hour.”

  It wasn’t enough. Dev knew that deep in his gut. But he also knew the officer’s hands were tied. Police were constrained both by staffing levels and red tape.

  Fortunately, he didn’t have to deal with either of those problems anymore.

  “Whatever you can do would be helpful. We might talk to some neighbors too.”

  As the officer’s radio sprang to life, he handed over a card. “I assume you’ll be here for a while?”

  “All night.” Dev took the card and gestured to the Explorer parked around the corner.

  “If anything looks suspicious, call it in. Or call me on my cell. Number’s on the card. I won’t be far away.”

  “Thanks.”

  As the officer slid back into the car and Dev started to turn away, he glanced up at the second floor . . . just in time to once again catch a thin, faint bar of light before the window went dark.

  Hamilton was still keeping tabs on them.

  The man was spooked. Why else would he be watching the activity on the street? Why else would he have refused to answer the door for the police?

  If there had, indeed, been blood on the floor and on the door frame, however, it was gone by now. Hamilton had had plenty of time to clean it up. But if the nosebleed story was a lie, as Dev suspected, the source of that blood was still inside.

  And that person needed help.

  Dev continued down the street and hung a right at the corner—away from his vehicle. Once he was out of sight of Hamilton’s window, he crossed to the other side, staying in the shadows. He’d give it ten minutes, then skulk his way back to the Explorer and slip inside as unobtrusively as possible.

  In the meantime, he pulled his cell off his belt. Given Faith’s report and Hamilton’s circumspect spying from the second-floor window, the daycare manager was getting nervous about whatever he had to hide. And nervous people made mistakes.

  If he made one tonight, Dev didn’t intend to miss it. But he needed more eyes on Hamilton’s house—and he wanted backup in place.