by James Hunt
Still, after Grant was dismissed from the department and she was assigned a new partner, she never found that same dynamic that she had with Grant. Aside from her and Rick deciding to have kids, Mocks knew that the other big reason for her move to the desk was her work life. She still loved the work, but when Grant left, it just wasn’t the same.
Mocks reached for the box of strawberry frosted Pop-Tarts on her desk, her eyes trained on the stack of reports she needed to get through before the end of the day. Her fingers snatched the last pair in the box, and she ripped open the package then rested one of the Pop-Tarts on her stomach and took a large bite out of the one in her hand.
Crumbs fell on her chest, adding to the pile from the previous snacks. Mocks had reached the point in her pregnancy where she no longer cared what she looked like. Not that she needed much of a push to get there in the first place, but she’d be lying if she said she didn’t enjoy the “pregnancy excuse.”
Mocks ignored the knock at her door, placing the rest of the strawberry pastry in her mouth as she composed an email.
“Lieutenant?”
“What?” Mocks typed quickly, her attention still focused on her computer screen.
Officer Lane stepped inside, sheepishly ducking his head as he approached her desk. He was a greenhorn, but he worked hard and had a good head on his shoulders. He was a traffic cop, but when he was on desk duty, Mocks had him double as an assistant for the detectives. She believed he had a future on the beat.
“I ran that name you requested in the database,” Lane answered.
“Oh, right,” Mocks said, holding out one hand but keeping the other to type. But when Lane never handed her anything, she finally looked at him. “Well, where is it?”
“There is no Charles Dunny in the system.”
“I don’t need a criminal check. It’s for a civilian—”
“I know,” Lane said. “There is no Charles Dunny, no Chuck Dunny, or any variation of the name that was close enough to count.”
Mocks leaned back in her seat, her eyes drifting away from Lane and to a random patch of carpet as she furrowed her brow. Grant wouldn’t have given her a fake name on purpose, and he wouldn’t have made up a story about a family kidnapping.
“Lieutenant?” Lane asked. “Are you all right?”
Mocks nodded, unconsciously moving her hands to her stomach. “That’ll be all, Officer.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Lane straightened up and turned on his heel, disappearing into the bustle of the precinct.
Mocks kept quiet for a moment, lightly rocking back and forth in the chair, rubbing her stomach. She eyed the top drawer to her left and then opened it. She reached inside, pushing past the paperclips, pens, and other stationery until she felt its familiar shape and pulled it out.
A green Bic lighter rested in her palm. It had been given to her by Grant after he’d lost her last one. She used to flick that thing from a nervous tic, a symptom of a past that had long since been buried. She hadn’t needed it since she found out she was pregnant. It just didn’t seem important anymore.
But while Mocks had been able to bury the past and move on, she knew that her old partner was still struggling. Sure, he could talk about Ellen now, even bring up the case that ended his career without too much distress, but he had to put on a mask before he spoke about either of them.
And whatever Grant had gotten into now felt big. It felt dangerous. She knew him better than anyone that was still living, and she knew that once he got a hold of a thread, he’d follow it until it ran out. It was what made him such a formidable detective. And it was the same attribute that got him into trouble in the first place.
Mocks rolled the lighter around in her hand and then gave it one quick flick, sprouting a flame that wiggled back and forth from the silver head. She let go, and the flame disappeared, and she tossed the lighter back into the drawer then slammed it shut.
She planted her elbows on her desk and rubbed her temples. “Jesus, Grant.” The anxiety made the baby kick, and she reached down, gently placing her hand over the spot where he was fussing. “What the hell have you gotten yourself into?”
With Grant’s failed promise of reuniting Bandit with Anna, the dog ignored Grant the entire ride back to Deville. And while the dog sulked, Grant occupied himself with his running theories on the Dunnys, not liking any of them.
A random attack felt too impersonal. The blood and the fact that the house was a mess leaned toward the victims knowing the attackers. He toyed around with the idea that Charles’s accounting business might have something to do with it, but if he was dealing with any unsavory characters, they weren’t in Deville.
Every time Grant thought he was getting close, those old detective muscles would shut down on him. It was a muscle he hadn’t used to lift something this heavy in quite a while. And while the cold cases had kept him busy, they were the equivalent of working the minors. He was back in the big leagues now. He just needed to get the timing of his swing back.
Grant glanced at his phone, checking for Mocks’s call, but tossed it into the cupholder when he found no missed calls. Once back in Deville, he turned off Main Street and onto Oak Lane. He followed the winding road, and when he rounded the short bend that was close to his house, he eased on the brakes.
The old rust bucket squealed as he came to a stop, and Bandit perked his ears up, looking down the road, whimpering anxiously.
A black SUV was parked in Grant’s driveway, the GMC Yukon’s newer paint job gleaming beneath the afternoon sun. Grant gave the animal a few soothing strokes down his back and then took his foot off the brake. “Looks like the sheriff’s department made a call.” But to whom, he wasn’t sure.
As Grant parked beside the SUV, the front door to his house opened, and out stepped a tall man in a dark suit and tie, wearing sunglasses. Even from the car, Grant saw the light bulge of the sidearm beneath the man’s jacket. It was the uniform of a federal agent.
Grant made sure the leash was secure on Bandit’s collar and then stepped out, keeping his eyes on the agent, who guarded the front door like a sentry. The agent kept his stiff, alert posture as Grant approached, Bandit giving a light growl as they got closer.
“I don’t suppose you have a warrant for entering my house unannounced?” Grant asked.
The only response the stoic sentry allowed was a slow turn of the head, looking down on Grant through the dark tint of his glasses. The muffled sound of radio chatter from his earpiece passed between them, and Grant already had an idea of who might be inside. He kept himself between Bandit and the agent at the door as they stepped inside.
The lights in the living room were shut off, and the front blinds were closed. Grant blinked a few times, unable to identify the shadowy silhouettes in his house. Though he recognized the voice.
“Hello, Grant.”
Grant flicked on the light, filling the dark features of Chad Hickem, who was dressed in a similar suit to the agent outside. Standing next to him was a woman. She was tall, close to five ten, with blond hair pulled tightly into a bun. She wore blue slacks, a white blouse, and a dark blazer. A badge was clipped to the front portion of her belt, and a .40-caliber Glock was holstered on her right hip, which she couldn’t hide beneath the short jacket.
“What are you doing here, Hickem?”
Hickem rocked himself out of the chair, stretching out all of his six-foot-six frame. The man was built like a bruiser and had the skill and knowledge to back up every pound of his two-forty frame. “It’s actually Deputy Director Hickem now.” He smiled, buttoning his jacket, then smoothed out the front. He gestured to the living room. “Nice place. It’s very… you.”
Grant looked at the woman. “Who’s your friend?”
“Samantha Cohen. I’m with the US Marshals’ office.” She stepped forward, and Grant noted that she wore flats in lieu of heels. One more note to her practicality. He imagined some of her male superiors were intimidated by her height. She was also young, mid to late t
wenties. She was also very attractive.
Bandit took a seat next to Grant’s leg as he bent over to unhook his leash, then darted off into the bedroom, pausing to give the marshal a quick sniff and approving wag before he disappeared from the living room.
“What do you want, Deputy Director?” Grant stepped between Hickem and the US Marshal on his way to the kitchen.
“You already know why I’m here,” Hickem said, shouting a little bit as he wandered freely through the living room. “We got a flag in our system about a Charles Dunny. When I saw where the request came from, I knew who asked for it. She didn’t find anything, by the way.”
Grant grabbed a glass and filled it at the sink, which offered him a view of his houseguests through the kitchen cutout. He nodded, letting the bubbles in the water settle. “Because Charles Dunny doesn’t exist.” He turned his gaze to the marshal. “They’re in WITSEC.”
“The US Marshals’ office would like to extend the courtesy of giving you a heads up about your…” Samantha trailed off, as though she was looking for the right word. “Involvement. We’re aware of your previous law enforcement experience, and the events that led to your dismissal from the department. We’ve already spoken with your former partner, Lieutenant Mullocks, and made her aware of the situation as well. We’d appreciate your discretion while we work through this.”
Grant sipped the water. It explained why Anna wasn’t taken to the DCF, or even in the system, for that matter. “So what is the FBI doing working with the US Marshal service?” He pivoted his gaze toward Hickem, who was at Grant’s desk, picking at the cold-case files like a buzzard surveying a piece of carrion. “Witness protection falls under marshal jurisdiction.”
Hickem opened one of the files on the desk. “The FBI is working in coordination with the marshals as a means of outreach.” He turned his gaze away from the paperwork and looked at Grant, flashing that crooked smile. “I’m afraid that’s all I’m at liberty to discuss.”
Grant set the half-drunk glass on the counter and wiped his wet palm on the towel. “I’ve been hearing that a lot today.”
“Mr. Grant, we appreciate you trying to look out for the girl, but we can take it from here,” Samantha said, a genuine tone of thanks in her voice.
Grant stepped around the kitchen and back into the living room, crossing his arms. “Just trying to help.” He leaned up against the wall.
“The Dunny family isn’t your problem,” Hickem said. “The little girl isn’t your problem. You want to help? Keep the dog. Make sure he stays fed.” Hickem looked around the barren house. “It looks like you could use the company.”
“It’s been close to thirty hours,” Grant said. “Which means you’re eighteen hours away before your chances of actually finding Anna’s parents drop to zero.”
“And what makes you think we haven’t found them already?” Hickem asked.
“Because you’re here.”
Hickem smiled and fiddled with the button on his suit, and judging from its cut, Grant thought it was tailor made. A promotional perk, to be sure. “Grant, you and I go way back. And despite the way things ended with your career, a lot of what you did helped catapult me into my current position.” Once the jacket was adjusted, he inched closer to Grant. “And because of that, I’m going to do you a favor.” He leaned forward and down, the brute with a brain towering a good half foot above Grant. “Whatever little strings you’re pulling, whatever side project you think you have going on here, stop it.” He shook his head. “You’re not a detective anymore. You’re a PI who works cold cases. This is way out of your lane, and if you veer into again, I’m going to make sure you end up back in a jail cell for obstruction of justice.”
Grant didn’t back down, standing his ground until Hickem retreated toward the door.
“Stick to your cold cases, Grant,” Hickem said then turned, narrowing his eyes. “You won’t be able to hurt anyone that way.”
Samantha gave a curt nod, but when she fell into stride to follow Hickem outside, Grant took a step toward her.
“Marshal, wait.”
Sam turned, just as Grant disappeared into his room. When he returned, he held the pink elephant.
“It belongs to Anna,” Grant said. “I’m sure she could use something familiar.” He handed the stuffed animal to her, and Sam nodded her thanks.
“I’ll make sure she knows who it came from.” Sam followed Hickem outside, the brooding agent at the entrance shutting the door after they’d gone.
Grant walked to the front window and peeled back the curtains in time to watch the SUV kick up dust down the road. He let the cloth go and then looked back at the cold cases spread out over his desk.
So Charles and Mary Dunny weren’t really Charles and Mary Dunny after all. They’d been his neighbors for six months, and not once did he ever suspect anything strange. He felt foolish for being so naïve, and bitter that his deduction skills had gotten so rusty.
Bandit poked his head out of the bedroom hallway, checking to make sure the coast was clear, and then panted as he walked toward Grant, the cold shoulder from earlier warmed as he nuzzled his leg. Grant bent to his knee and gave the beast a good scratch down his back.
“I don’t like this, Bandit.” Grant turned toward the closed curtains of the living room, and Bandit barked, Grant taking that as a sign the dog agreed.
6
The lamp at Grant’s desk was the only light in the living room. Its yellow tones highlighted the cracks along the wall and the stains on the aged carpet. Bandit sat on the left side of Grant’s chair, sleeping, while Grant struggled to concentrate on the cases in front of him.
Grant had always associated crimes with a rock splashing in a pond. The criminal was the thrower, the victim the rock, and everyone else was the pond. And when that rock splashed into the water, it sent waves that affected every life that was close to them, and even some that weren’t. Their actions stretched far beyond the lives of the assailant and the victim.
Of the dozen files that Mocks had given him, only three had enough information for him to follow a trail beyond the notes of the detective that had taken the case. The other nine were negligently shoved aside, marked as lost causes before they even got off the ground. Those lost causes were a thirty-nine-year-old woman named Alicia Carver, stabbed nine times in the stomach and chest then raped. Another was a seven-year-old boy that was abducted ten years ago, their family never finding closure with either the capture of the abductor or the recovery of the child’s body.
Each of those “lost causes” was a life, taken from their home and from this life far before their time. And each left behind a crater in the lives of those that they had touched.
All he saw were the case file numbers and the few pieces of evidence that had been tagged with a few stray leads that were never followed. And so the families, the friends, anyone affected were left dealing with the aftermath without any answers. Without any justice.
Grant dropped the pencil he’d been wiggling for the past fifteen minutes and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his face. He stood, the need to feel his blood moving pushing him out the front door, Bandit waking and excitedly following him outside.
It was a clear night, and a cool summer breeze greeted Grant as he stared up to the starry sky. So long as there weren’t any clouds, the views at night were always a sight to behold. Away from the pollution of Seattle, Grant had discovered how much he enjoyed nature. There was a simple beauty to it that he could never find in the city. And while he missed being a detective, he didn’t miss the life that came with it.
Grant tried to force himself to remember all of the dinners and get-togethers he missed with his late wife. He tried to remember all of the built-up stress that accompanied the homicide cases he worked on when he first became a detective. And then he tried to force himself to remember all of the danger that he put himself and Mocks in on his last case four years ago. The same case that nearly killed Mocks and her husband.
He
tried to remember, he tried to force himself to swallow that bad medicine, but he couldn’t. Because nostalgia and the addiction of success were a potent cocktail, and it was one that Grant found himself drinking a lot of lately.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he fished it out, surprised he was even getting a signal. Shoddy cell reception was one of the drawbacks of small-town life, not that Grant had a long contacts list to begin with. And this late in the night, especially after the day he had, there was only one person that would be looking to talk to him.
“Hey, Mocks,” Grant said, keeping an eye on Bandit as he roamed around the front yard, sniffing at bushes and rocks.
“How’d your visit with the old friend go?”
“Standard. You?”
“Same. He’s still an arrogant prick, isn’t he?”
Grant chuckled. “Yeah.” He toed a small rock, rolling it around in the dirt, already knowing what was coming. “Listen, I’m sorry about getting you involved. I hope I didn’t cause too much trouble.”
Mocks sighed. “Well, the captain wasn’t too happy about it, and I received an email from the commissioner’s secretary with what I assumed was a verbal warning. It was my call to run the query, Grant. I’m not sorry for helping a friend.”
“Yeah, well, I’m sorry anyway.” Grant kicked the rock, sending it flying, and Bandit chased after it, wagging his tail excitedly for the attention.
“Listen,” Mocks said, her voice dropping an octave. “I know they were your neighbors. And I know you watched their daughter a few times. But—”
“Mocks, you don’t have to tell me,” Grant said. “Hickem already told me to stay out of it.”
“And are you?”
Grant looked down the road, toward the Dunnys’ house. Normally, he could see the front porch light on at night, signaling that the family was home. But the road only ended in darkness and an empty home where a family had once lived.
“I’m trying,” Grant said then cleared his throat, changing the subject. “Listen, I could use a few more cases if you want to throw them my way. There wasn’t much in the batch you gave me, and since I’m working on a commission basis, it’d be nice to have a larger selection to pull from.”
