Black Jack

by Diane Capri

  Only two ways that could have happened.

  An informant.

  Or a leak.

  She shoved that thought aside. She’d come back to it. She needed more intel to work with first.

  “What does Reacher have to do with this?”

  Brice said, “He’s a person of interest.”

  She wouldn’t have been more shocked if he’d said Reacher was a Martian. “Reacher? A person of interest in that Garrison bathtub case?”

  “Not exactly,” he glanced down again.

  Kim held herself in check. What she wanted to do was choke the intel out of him. “Then what, exactly, are you saying?”

  “See, Jodie Jacob was Reacher’s girlfriend. The one that got away, from what we can tell.” Brice cleared his throat again. “Jacob left him for a job in Europe. He wasn’t okay with that. Didn’t want her to go. Didn’t want to stay here without her. She didn’t want him to come along. Get the picture?”

  No.

  Because Reacher was a love ’em and leave ’em guy. She’d met enough of his women to know that much about him.

  All those women were still alive and breathing, by the way. So far, none of them had been the least bit concerned that Reacher would kill them and stuff their bodies in a bathtub full of green.

  She shook her head. “Spell it out for me.”

  “You’ve had the same training I had.” Brice shrugged. “Nine times out of ten a woman’s murdered, it’s her lover who killed her.”

  “Right,” Kim said sarcastically, although those statistics could be relevant. For starters, the body in that tub had been dead for at least a week. She absolutely believed she’d seen Reacher in Palm Beach thirteen days ago. Air travel being what it was, he could have returned to Garrison and killed Jodie Jacob.

  “When Garber died, he left the house to Reacher. When he and Jodie Jacob were together, Reacher lived there.”

  “Which makes him a killer who would hide the body in his own house?” Kim didn’t buy it. She could understand why Brice and Deerfield would, though. They didn’t know Jack Reacher. Knew nothing about his character. She didn’t know a lot about the guy, but she would never believe he did this based on what little evidence she’d seen so far.

  What did Brice and Deerfield know? Maybe they’d looked at his Army files and found the bodies piled up. Reacher was one of the best-trained killers the Army had ever produced.

  But she’d learned the hard way that there was more to Reacher than the Army’s records revealed. A lot more. Some of it better and some of it worse than what was in those old files.

  Kim knew in her bones that committing a twisted murder, like the woman in the tub, was not the kind of thing Reacher would do. For starters, he didn’t kill women. At least, none she’d identified so far.

  Every woman Kim met who’d been involved with Reacher was a living, breathing, Reacher fan. Astonishingly so. It was one of the many confounding things about the guy.

  So why would he kill Jodie Jacob?

  Because she left him? Was Brice right about that?

  Possible, she supposed. Some guys, especially tough guys like Reacher, couldn’t deal with rejection from women. Kim simply didn’t believe Reacher was one of those guys.

  And if Reacher had killed that woman, Brice and his pals were watching the house. They’d have seen him around, the same way they saw her. It’s not like Reacher was invisible. Far from it. The guy was almost as big as Reggie Smithers.

  Brice was barking up the wrong tree.

  Which meant something else was going on here.

  She needed to find the source of the leak to Deerfield and plug it.

  The fastest approach was straight through Brice.

  Kim began to breathe normally again. Her alert level backed a hair off the full stop at the end of the red line.

  She rose from the table and slipped her coat on. “Okay. You convinced me. Let’s go.”

  Wisely, he said nothing else to make her change her mind. He followed her outside.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Friday, January 28

  7:45 p.m.

  Garrison, New York

  The third trip along the snow-covered route that followed the Hudson River was no faster than the first two. Almost an hour after they left the restaurant in Newburgh, the SUV came around the last dark curve into a light show that almost blinded Kim and Brice, even through the windshield.

  The surreal scene at the house bustled like a Las Vegas traffic jam along the strip. Flashing red, blue, yellow, and white lights were everywhere. Dozens of pedestrians moved hither and yon like ants hard at work on dismantling a picnic.

  In the driveway, on the shoulder, and lining the road on both sides were squad cars, a small fire truck, and two unmarked NYPD sedans, along with vehicles for paramedics and crime scene techs.

  The only official vehicle Kim didn’t see was the second FBI SUV. Smithers and Poulton had skipped the party.

  Also on the shoulders were three media vans, all with satellites on top. Reporters and camera operators were staked out at various spots, setting up for their live shots.

  The house was ablaze with interior and exterior lights, some placed temporarily by the various first responders. Hardly an inch of the entire property remained in the shadows, which irrevocably altered its deadly vibe. Only the real estate photos she’d found persuaded Kim this was the same house where they’d seen the body in the bathtub mere hours ago.

  Nothing about a single homicide should have generated this level of response.

  “Brice,” Kim’s anger flared. “Why are all these people here? What do they know that I don’t?”

  “Beats me,” he replied as if he had no clue. “But we’ll find out soon enough.”

  She didn’t believe him. Not even remotely. She fumed in silence.

  He parked on the shoulder at the end of the line of official vehicles, and they climbed out of the SUV. The temperature had dropped down into single digits, and the wind had picked up. The wind chill factor made it feel sub-zero in an instant.

  They trudged through the packed snow, collars turned up, heads down, and hands pushed into pockets.

  At the driveway’s entrance, a uniformed police officer from the local cop shop checked ID and turned the media sightseers away.

  Brice and Kim showed their badges, and he waved them through. They covered the packed snow path toward the front entrance quickly. Along the way, various professionals passed as they worked to collect and preserve the evidence inside and outside the house.

  Another local police officer was posted at the front door. Brice showed his badge and Kim did the same. This time, the officer didn’t wave them inside, and Kim was freezing.

  Brice nodded toward the officer’s nameplate, pinned above the left breast pocket of his shirt. “Chambers, right? I’m FBI Special Agent Brice. This is Special Agent Otto.”

  Chambers nodded, but he frowned, and he didn’t move. “We didn’t request assistance from the FBI.”

  Kim stomped her booted feet on the sidewalk in a futile effort to warm up, while Brice tried to reason with Chambers until he’d exhausted her patience. She stepped onto the stoop and moved through the doorway.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Chambers demanded. He glared as if he might shove her back outside.

  “You’re not in charge here,” Kim replied. “Who is?”

  “NYPD Detective Mariette Grassley,” Chambers said as if the name should mean something in particular to all sentient beings.

  Brice sputtered. “NYPD has no jurisdiction out here.”

  “We don’t have the resources to handle a case like this.” Chambers said. “We invited NYPD to take the lead.”

  This was excellent news. Competent cops were always better to work with than incompetent ones.

  “It’s too cold to stand around out there. We can find Detective Grassley ourselves if you need to man your post,” Kim said as if she had authority to deliver orders. “Or we’ll wait i
nside while you let her know we’re here.”

  Chambers looked from Kim to Brice and back again. He spent another full second thinking things over before he made his choice. “Wait here.”

  He turned and walked toward the master bathroom, leaving his post unoccupied, which allowed Brice to come in from the cold.

  Kim looked at the big, open room. She’d imagined the room bright and inviting, as the real estate photos depicted. Without furniture, it seemed both larger and smaller than it was. The drapes were shabby, and the floor was scuffed and worn. The walls were marred by holes, scrapes, and evidence of hard use. They badly needed Spackle and at least two fresh coats of paint.

  The kitchen, on the other hand, was as magnificent as the photos. The appliances and fixtures, cabinetry and countertops, cost more money than Kim earned in five years. But here, too, the room was well used, and the floors and wall paint were damaged.

  When Chambers returned to his post, as if he was announcing the impending arrival of the Queen of England, he declared, “Detective Grassley will be right with you.”

  Kim waited until he turned his back. Then she headed toward the master bedroom. She’d covered ten feet of the distance when the detective stepped out of the room to block her path.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Chin out, shoulders back, fists clenched at her side, she resembled a Valkyrie ready for battle. Red curly hair held back in a scrunchie, flashing blue eyes, caramel freckles across her nose, and a chip on her shoulder the size of Devil’s Tower completed the image.

  “You’re Detective Grassley?” Kim asked because she couldn’t resist. She showed her badge. “FBI Special Agent Kim Otto. This is Special Agent Houston Brice. We’d like to see the body.”

  “We didn’t ask for your help, Agent Otto.” Grassley’s tone made it clear she didn’t want any help, either. But she would. Very soon. “Why are you interested in this case?”

  Brice replied ingratiatingly. “We’ll explain, Detective Grassley. But we’d like to see the body first.”

  Grassley folded her arms across her chest and refused to budge. None of the uniformed personnel were overtly watching, but they were paying attention to the war of wills. The prudent thing was to let Grassley win the skirmish and save face, which Brice-the-wuss would probably do.

  “To be clear, are you denying the FBI access to view the body? Because if that’s the case—” Kim pulled her phone out, refusing to back down. Bullies only respected one thing. Equal force. “We’ll make a call to the Director to resolve the issue.”

  The standoff ended when a crime tech called Grassley to return to the master suite. She narrowed her eyes and stared at Kim, then Brice, and then back to Kim again. “I assume you have your own gloves?”

  Brice pulled gloves from his pocket and pulled them on. Kim did the same.

  Grassley said, “Follow me.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Friday, January 28

  8:15 p.m.

  Garrison, New York

  Brice followed close behind Grassley, moving ahead quickly. Kim hung back, observing what she hadn’t been able to see in the dark when she was here before. The high-end, looped Berber carpet ran the length of the hallway and into the master bedroom. It was clean and looked relatively new. She didn’t notice any obvious green stains anywhere. If the green liquid in the bathtub had been carried in over this carpet, the containers must have been sealed to avoid spills.

  She opened each of the doors and looked inside the rooms. They were unoccupied, and the windows were covered by the same heavy drapes as the common room. The real estate photos had shown three of the rooms furnished with beds and the fourth had been an office. The same light-colored Berber covered all the floors. The carpets still showed dents from heavy furniture, which made visualizing the layouts easier. She saw no green liquid stains anywhere.

  The paint on the walls in each of the rooms and in the hallway had faded. Artwork had hung on the walls long enough to preserve the original colors in random squares surrounded by the washed-out hues.

  Kim paused at the threshold of the master bedroom. Like the other rooms of the house, this one was flooded with bright light from temporary sources supplied for processing the scene. Techs were working in several areas, blocking her view, but overall the room was starkly harsher than it had seemed in the micro-beam.

  She looked for green stains and saw none.

  Deep dents in the carpet suggested a heavy king-sized bed had been placed against one long wall, with bedside tables on either side of a square headboard. A large chair might have occupied one corner. Perhaps a chest of drawers had rested across from the bed. A television probably sat on top of the chest, because a cable connector outlet was mounted on the wall seven feet above the floor, but there was no visible evidence suggesting a wall mount. Next to the electrical outlet behind one of the bedside tables was a landline telephone plug.

  The paint was as faded here as everywhere in the house. Darker color squares dotted the walls here and there. The same thick drapes covered the windows. The big closet was as empty now as it had been before.

  The double doors to the bathroom were open wide. Crime techs were documenting, collecting and preserving trace evidence here, too. The bright lighting ricocheted off every surface of the white room. Kim paused at the threshold and looked down, to allow her eyes to adjust to the sharp, painful glare.

  Grassley, Brice, and a woman in a white lab coat gathered around the bathtub. The body and the green liquid were exactly as Kim had seen them originally. Crime techs collected samples. A photographer snapped photos of the room and close shots of the body.

  “These folks are FBI Special Agents Houston Brice and Kim Otto.” Grassley identified them first and then named the others. “Dr. Sonya Spielberg, Officer Melanie Brennan, and Officer Greg Cortez.”

  Everyone nodded.

  Brice asked, “Have you identified the victim?”

  “We know she’s not the owner of this house. We’re running facial recognition, but no hits yet,” Grassley replied. “We need to get her out of there before we can do dental records and DNA. We didn’t find her wallet or any kind of ID. It’s not likely we’ll find good fingerprints, either.”

  “Any preliminary guesses on time, cause, and the manner of death, Dr. Spielberg?” Brice asked.

  “Too early to say. The body temperature is very low. Which has helped to mask the time of death. Could be a couple of days or a couple of weeks. Probably not more than a month,” the woman in the lab coat replied. “We’ll know more when we get her back to the morgue and do the autopsy.”

  “When do you think you’ll have the preliminary completed?” Brice asked.

  “Maybe tomorrow, late, if we’re lucky. Probably not until Monday.”

  Kim said, “Have you identified the green liquid, Officer Brennan?”

  The tech collecting samples replied, “Not definitively. But if forced to guess right now, I’d say it’s oil-based paint. The right viscosity, no obvious separation or color deformity, no visible ice crystals. Oil paint dries slowly, but this has been here long enough for a skin to form on the surface.”

  “Latex paint is more common for house interiors, isn’t it?” Kim asked. “This place looks like it could use a good paint job.”

  “Yes, and we found several gallons of latex in the garage, but none of it’s green. No empty cans that once held green paint, either,” Brennan said. “Latex is water based. It should be stored between sixty and eighty degrees and would freeze at thirty-two degrees. Temps have been well below freezing for the past five to six weeks. The stuff in our bathtub here shows no obvious signs that it’s been frozen.”

  Kim inhaled a few times before she asked, “Shouldn’t we be able to smell chemical odors coming off an oil-based paint?”

  “Hard to say. Usually, the odors dissipate in maybe two to four days. This stuff has been here a while, but this is a lot of paint, and it’s not dry at all. Some of the odor should have dissipated any
way,” the tech replied. “But the skin on the top is probably helping keep the odor down, too.”

  “Could she have been poisoned by the paint?” Kim asked.

  Grassley replied, “Possible. If she ingested it or breathed it into her lungs, maybe it’s likely. We won’t know the cause of death until we get the autopsy.”

  Cortez, the photographer, ignored the conversations as he moved around the room adjusting angles and grabbing snaps. When Brice blocked Grassley’s sight line, Kim moved toward Cortez and tilted her head toward the bedroom. He walked along with her.

  Kim pulled a business card from her pocket and offered it to him. He returned a card of his own.

  “I’d like a copy of your photos. I can make a formal request and go through channels, which will take a while. So I’ll get that process started as soon as we leave here. But I’d like to get moving on our end of this quickly. Any chance you could help me out?”

  “Yeah, sure. No problem. We’re all on the same team here, right?” Cortez replied easily. “How about I give you a call when I’m done here, and I can shoot a set up into the cloud for you?”

  “Perfect. My cell number is on the card. Thanks, Cortez.”

  Kim rejoined the team in the bathroom. Grassley was conferring with the techs working in the massive shower. Brice stood back to watch Dr. Spielberg processing the body in the tub.

  Brennan had completed her sample collection. She’d hooked up what looked like a fifty-five-gallon drum vacuum and stood near the foot of the tub with the hose.

  “Sorry for the noise,” she said before she placed her hand on the switch. “I’m going to vacuum this liquid out of the tub, and we’ll be able to see the body.”

  “How long do you think that’ll take?” Brice asked, checking his watch.

  “The tub is oversized and probably holds about sixty gallons or more for a bubble bath. But the killer didn’t want her head submerged, so he only added less than twenty gallons of the green stuff.” Just before Brennan flipped the switch, she said, “Shouldn’t take too long.”