by James Hunt
Grant one-handed the back of Hoverty’s neck and yanked him from the car. The man couldn’t have weighed more than a buck-fifty, and Grant tossed him to the ground with ease. Hoverty smacked the dirt and let out a loud groan. “What the fuck, man?”
Every cop had a threshold. Some were shorter than others. Grant had always considered himself to have a very long one, but there were a few times where he dared to peek over the edge. He’d seen what the bottom of that cliff looked like, and the last time he inched his toes over the side he nearly killed himself. It was the farthest he’d ever gone. There was always great perspective when faced against the finality of death. He hadn’t been there for over two years, but he wasn’t afraid to at least toy with the idea. And that was always bad for suspects.
Grant towered over Hoverty, who lay pinned on his back like an exposed turtle. Grant thrust a finger in his face, and he felt blood rush to his cheeks from the sudden burst of anger. “Who’s your boss?”
Hoverty lifted his head from the dirt, his beard smeared in soil. He shook his head in defiance, so Grant wrapped his hand around Hoverty’s throat. All the while Mocks just leaned against the car and crossed her arms. She knew him. She trusted him.
“You tell me right now, or I’ll take you back into the woods and beat you with your own goddamn rifle,” Grant said.
Hoverty’s cheeks flushed a crimson red as Grant tightened his grip. “You don’t have the balls.”
Grant looked to his partner. “What do you think, Mocks? Is Mr. Hoverty resisting arrest?”
Mocks tilted her head to the side, while Hoverty choked for air. “Why, yes, I believe he is.”
“Bullshit!” Hoverty said, a small spray of spittle ejecting from his lips.
Grant slammed his fist into the left side of Hoverty’s rib cage, and a raspy scream escaped the choke hold Grant had clamped on his throat.
“Who are you working for?” Grant asked.
Hoverty kept his mouth sealed, but one more punch to the ribs and he nodded furiously. Grant released his hand, and Hoverty hacked and coughed, wheezing as he inhaled, and Grant wiped the snot from under his nose with his sleeve. It’d been a while since he had to work someone like that.
“Christ, man,” Hoverty said. “I’m working for Baez’s crew, all right?”
Unfortunately it was a name that every officer in the state of Washington knew. His gang had helped the drug epidemic become so bad in Seattle that the DEA had set up a command post in the city. Baez had turned Seattle into the northwest drug hub of the United States.
“How the hell did you guys even know I was here?” Hoverty asked. “My probation officer didn’t even bother to come looking for me!”
The longer Hoverty spoke, the more Grant realized that the man had no idea what happened to his daughter. Grant stepped toward Hoverty, and the man recoiled.
“Your daughter is missing,” Grant said. “Have any of the people you work with threatened to take her? Owe any bad debts you can’t pay off?”
Hoverty scrunched his face up. “What? Hell no! I don’t fuck around with these people. Shit, no one even knows I have a daughter. I don’t ever see her. I don’t call her. Whatever happened to that girl isn’t my problem.”
Grant picked him up and shoved him into the backseat and slammed the door shut. Mocks followed Grant back to the trailer, both of them quiet until they reached the awning.
“You’ve had a lot of excitement for one day,” Mocks said. “You turning into an adrenaline junkie on me?”
“I don’t think I have the stomach for that sort of thing,” Grant said, and now that he had retreated from the threshold, his body grew tired. He leaned against the trailer for support and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “What are the odds that this guy got in too deep with the drug cartel and they took his daughter as leverage?”
“Slim, considering there wasn’t any ransom note,” Mocks answered. “Not to mention that the guy doesn’t give a shit what happens to his daughter either way.”
“The two possibilities here were family or a child predator. And I think it’s safe to say we can cross this guy off the list,” Grant said. “Someone has been working Mallory Givens for a while and finally convinced her to hop on board.”
“Which means our guy is still on the loose.”
***
Once backup arrived to case the scene and log evidence, Mocks and Grant took Mr. Hoverty back to the station for processing. Normally they would have dropped him off at the local precinct, but seeing as how they claimed jurisdiction over the case, as well as Grant’s desire to make sure the piece of crap got what he deserved, they took care of him personally.
Hoverty demanded to speak to a lawyer for nearly half the trip back and vowed that both Grant and Mocks would lose their badges for what they did to him, but the moment they stepped into the station, the gusto ran out of him.
Grant stopped at the front desk on their way inside and motioned for Mocks to go ahead with processing. “Give the DEA a call and let them know we found a lab they can take a look at. They’ll have more resources to deal with that mess than we do. Once Hoverty is processed, we’re done with him. I wanna follow up with the lieutenant about the Amber Alert request.”
“Tell him he better speed up the process,” Mocks said. “You want me to call the mom and give her an update on her ex-lover?”
“No,” Grant answered. “He’s a dead end, and I don’t want to cause the woman any more grief.” Grant walked to the lieutenant’s office and this time found his CO at his desk, buried in paperwork. Grant knocked to grab his attention.
“Yes, come in.” Lieutenant Furst didn’t even bother lifting his head.
“Sir, have you had a chance to look over the Amber Alert request I submitted earlier today?” Grant asked.
“Yes.” The lieutenant remained quiet for a moment before he lifted his head. “I heard about the case with the ambassador. You keep that up, and pretty soon they’ll make you sit at my desk.” He smiled, and when he did, it accentuated the scarring on the left side of his face. It spread from the top left of his eye all the way down to his jawline. A constant reminder of just how dangerous their line of work really was.
“You know I’m not much of a desk man, sir.”
“No,” Lieutenant Furst answered. “You’re not.” He reached for a stack of paperwork and shuffled through it until he found the request Grant submitted. He scanned it a few times, flipping over the pages, pausing to reread certain sections. “And what’s your opinion on it, Detective?”
Grant took a breath, running through the information already in his head, the pieces of a puzzle starting to come together in the early stages of investigative work.
“The girl fits the description of a classic loner,” Grant answered. “No real friends. Mom works a lot so the two never talk. Loved by her teachers, but shunned by her peers. We just brought her father in, and while he is into some bad stuff, I don’t think he is involved, at least not directly. All in all she’s the perfect target for a pedophile.” He took another breath and then nodded. “So, yeah, I think someone convinced the girl to run away and now she’s being held against her will. Clock is running out on this one, Lieutenant.”
The chair squeaked when Furst leaned back. He was a young man, only slightly older than Grant. There had been speculation that if Grant hadn’t taken his leave of absence two years ago and stayed in Homicide, that seat would have been his. He was an exceptional detective, he got along with everyone, and he knew how to handle himself in front of the press. Ideally, he was the poster boy for the department, and the chief would have loved to groom him to climb the ranks. And there was a time when Grant saw that for himself. But those ambitions died years ago.
“You’ve already got a media package ready?” the lieutenant asked.
“Yes, sir,” Grant answered, absentmindedly rubbing his thumb over the gold band on the same hand.
The lieutenant flipped to the last page and then scrawled his
signature onto the paperwork. “Just make sure that all of the agencies are up to speed. I’ll schedule some overtime for any officers who want to help with the call-ins. Any leads?”
“Not yet,” Grant answered. “But once we get eyes out into the field we will.” He tapped his knuckles on the doorframe and then left the lieutenant to the rest of his paperwork, a renewed spring to his step. Amber Alerts weren’t anything the department took lightly. The coordination between local, state, and federal officials made it a bear to manage, but it was highly effective. With the number of eyes in the street and the widespread use of social media, Amber Alerts gave a boost to the likelihood of finding the kid before it was too late. And when it came to life and death, any percent increase of success was welcome.
When Grant returned to his desk, Mocks leaned forward, her eyebrows arched as she opened another strawberry Pop-Tart. “The verdict?”
“We’re good to go,” Grant answered. “I’ll let Homicide know.” He walked backward, still talking to Mocks. “You call the DEA?”
“Our hands are washed clean,” Mocks answered.
“Good, because once that alert goes out, we’ll be in watch mode on the hotline and social media.”
Mocks rolled her eyes. “My favorite part of the day.” She bit into her cardboard pastry and then picked up the receiver on her desk phone.
Homicide was always notified during an Amber Alert for preparation in case the child was found deceased. Minors involved in homicides always jumped to the top of the priority list. Aside from the simple fact that officers felt a certain moral obligation to bring justice to victims that were children, with all the press and media attention they garnered it was impossible to ignore them. They were always Grant’s most hated cases during his time with Homicide.
Both Marcus and Franz were at their desks, the two slouched so low in their chairs that they were practically lying down. He’d worked with Marcus just before he’d left the unit, and while they never had anything against one another, they never spent enough time together to be friends. And during Grant’s last days on the unit, he wasn’t exactly the most pleasant individual to be around.
“There he is,” Franz said, taking a quarter-turn swivel in his chair and spreading his arms wide with an accompanying flabby grin. “Seattle’s soon-to-be favorite son. You have your eye on becoming mayor in the next few years or something?”
Grant gave a lighthearted grin as Franz collapsed his arms to his sides. “Sounds like my perfect nightmare.” He turned to Marcus. “The lieutenant is about to initiate an Amber Alert. Wanted to give you guys a heads-up.”
“Shit, really?” Marcus asked, letting out a sigh. “How old?”
“Twelve. Female. She’s a sixth grader over at Southside Middle.”
“How long has she been missing?” Franz asked.
Grant glanced back down at the watch, the timer just now passing six hours. “Too long.” The detectives nodded gravely, and Grant left before he was forced to reminisce about old times.
In Homicide there was only one guarantee with every case, and that was the fact that your victim was dead. At the start of his career in law enforcement, Grant wanted to join Homicide because he wanted to stop murderers from killing someone else. But as his schooling and career progressed, he found it rare to find a serial case.
Most murders were passionate, violent one-offs. It was by someone who was drunk, or jealous, angry, bitter, you name it and Grant had seen it. Five years ago when the vagrant problem was at its peak, there were gangs that would force new members to kill a homeless person as initiation. It was the only case Grant ever received in terms of serial killings. And what was worse was that it barely made the evening news. Twenty homeless men and women were murdered, and no one cared.
The missing persons unit was the fresh change that Grant needed when he came back from his leave of absence. While his work in Homicide may have provided closure for the victims involved, he was tired of receiving the cases too late. In missing persons there was always the chance, no matter how grim or how small, that he could find the person and bring them back before something worse happened to them. The fires of hope that he stoked for those families helped keep his own lit. A man needed hope. People needed hope. He needed hope.
Mocks set the phone down and reached into one of her drawers and removed a candy bar. She peeled the wrapper off the top of the Snickers and took a bite before she spoke, mumbling her words between chews. How the hell she snacked so much and stayed so skinny was a mystery he’d never solve.
“Parole officer thanked us for finding his guy.” Mocks swallowed and then chomped off another large bite. “Said his boy will be going back on the inside for at least ten years this time. It’s his third strike out on parole.” She held up a fist like an umpire. “He’s outa here!”
“Better finish that before the press conference.” Grant checked his watch and then poked his head around toward the front desk where the first few news vans were already gathered. “We won’t have to take questions yet, but the lieutenant will want us presentable.”
Mocks flashed a nugget, caramel, and peanut grin and then reached for her coffee. “I’m presentable.”
Chapter 5
It wasn’t but five minutes into the Amber Alert’s initiation that the calls and messages started coming through. Everyone and their mother had seen Mallory Givens since the broadcast went live. But that was standard. With the number of tips they received, some of them were bound to be inaccurate. The obstacle now was sifting through the fake leads to find the real ones.
Another stack of call-ins at least two inches thick was dropped on Mocks’s desk by the receptionist, and she slumped her shoulders slightly like a kid who couldn’t stand the homework and wanted to go and play outside before the sun went down.
“The next time we need to have a department fundraiser, I say we just call it an Amber Alert,” Mocks said, reaching for the fresh pile of leads. “We’d hit our quotas in no time at all.”
Half listening with a phone to his ear, Grant hung up and jotted down a note. “I think I’ve got something. A bunch of kids on social media were posting about Mallory’s disappearance, and at least ten of them were talking about some group she attended at a church on Wednesday nights.”
Mocks frowned. “The mother never mentioned anything about the girl going to church every week.” She arched an eyebrow. “And I thought church was on Sundays.”
Grant slid into his raincoat and tore off the address he’d jotted down. “The kids that were talking about it had pictures of Mallory at the event.” He dove his hand into his pocket to retrieve the keys. “And church does happen on Sundays, but most churches have youth events on Wednesday nights.”
Mocks reached for her jacket and leapt out of her seat. “Well, I don’t care if it’s an event for free prostate exams, if it gets me out from behind this desk, I’m going.”
Both Grant and Mocks ignored the questions from the reporters on their way out of the station, using the ever-popular phrase, “We cannot comment on an ongoing investigation.” It made both of them smile, and it drove the reporters nuts.
A few of the questions were in regards to Grant’s previous case with the ambassador, all of which he declined to comment. He was sure there was some kind of confidentiality agreement he signed with the FBI in regards to the case details. When it came to the press, he had one rule that he followed very rigorously: keep your mouth shut until it’s not news anymore. Grant understood that the press were just doing their job, but that didn’t mean he had to like them.
Rain sprinkled on the windshield just as Mocks’s phone rang. The ringtone was from some band she liked. Grant couldn’t remember the name of it. While Mocks was more rock ’n’ roll, Grant had always enjoyed the classics. He flicked the windshield wipers on as she answered.
“Hey,” Mocks said. “Yeah, it’ll be a late one… We can talk about it later… No, you don’t have to wait up…. Bye.” She tucked the phone back into her p
ocket and immediately started playing with her wedding ring.
“Everything all right with you and Rick?”
“You know how it goes,” Mocks answered. “Our hours aren’t exactly marriage friendly.” She shifted in her seat and crossed both legs, sitting Indian style. She was small enough to get away with it.
“No, it’s not,” Grant said, his voice quiet but his tone firm. “But you have to make time for it. Whatever you two are going through, just talk to one another.”
Mocks reached for her Bic. “Sharing feelings isn’t my strong suit.”
“It only gets worse when you don’t talk.”
Mocks exhaled a breath riddled with stress. It was an exhale Grant knew well. “I know.” She flicked the lighter on, then off. “You miss talking to her?” The question came out sheepish, almost like she was afraid to ask, and when Grant looked over, her eyes were wide like saucers.
“Every day,” Grant answered.
After that it was quiet for a while, and when Mocks flicked her thumb raw on the lighter she pocketed the Bic and zipped up her jacket. “What’s the name of the place we’re going?”
Whenever Grant drove he rarely used the A/C or heat. There was a part of him that liked the naturally dreary weather that Seattle provided. There was something about the ominous overhang of an ever-looming storm that challenged him.
“New Faith Church,” Grant answered, turning on his blinker and merging onto the expressway that would shoot them across town. Mocks remained quiet, and Grant stole a glance over and saw that her arms were crossed. “What? You’ve been there?”
With her gaze still focused out the window beside her, she nodded. “They used to host meetings there. I went a couple times when I first moved out here.”
It was always dangerous footing when Mocks brought up her past, or if it was brought up for her by someone else. She’d been clean for five years, but it was like they always said in those meetings: You never stop being an addict.
Mocks actually took Grant to one of the meetings after they’d been partners for a year. It was the first time Mocks had opened up about it. When she’d asked him if she could take him somewhere after their shift was over, he actually thought it was a date. And after she burst into tears from laughing, she promised him that it was definitely, certainly, not a date. She was married, and she reiterated that he was definitely not her type. Too melancholy, she said. He’d be lying if he said that his ego wasn’t hurt.
