by James Hunt
“Grant,” Mocks said, tapping him on the shoulder. “Put him down.”
But the only thing Grant heard was the pit of rage that had transformed from the bundle of nerves in his stomach. All of it could have been exacerbated by lack of sleep, the number of times he’d been shot at today, or the fact that there was still a missing girl somewhere in this city that he wasn’t even sure was alive anymore.
“Where is she!” Spittle flew from Grant’s mouth as he slammed Paley’s body against the wall again, which triggered another shrill scream and flow of tears from the pastor. Hands and bodies pulled the pair apart, and Grant had to stop himself from swinging at the officers that removed him. In the end, it was Mocks who finally calmed him down as she shoved him out the front door and into the yard.
“What the hell was that?” Mocks asked.
Grant paced a tight circle, glancing down at his feet, the anger still steaming. “He took her, Mocks. You know it, and so do I.”
Mocks stepped up in his face, which wasn’t an easy feat considering he was almost a foot taller than she was. “The only thing we know is what Mallory Givens wrote in her journal. And that’s it.” She gave him a little shove. “You know better than to paint the picture before we have all of the colors. You’re jumping the gun, and if he did take the girl, then you’re giving his attorney an excuse to get him off for police brutality. Is that what you want?”
“No,” Grant answered, quick and short like a child who knew he was in the wrong but didn’t want to admit it. But he knew Mocks was right. He was getting ahead of himself. He looked down at his watch, which just sped past the eighty-hour mark.
“Get forensics in here,” Grant said. “I want the house searched from top to bottom.”
Chapter 8
Forensics was on scene in less than twenty minutes, and they immediately went to work scouring the house while Paley was kept in the back of a squad car. Grant watched Paley from the front porch, still seething anger.
The youth pastor kept his head down, tears streaming down his face. If the pastor was faking it, then he was doing a hell of a job.
“Grant,” Mocks said, poking her head out of the front door.
“Yeah,” Grant said, keeping his eyes on Paley.
“We’ve got something.”
The nail in the coffin. Grant followed her inside, past the swaths of forensic members sweeping every inch of the house, and they stopped at a computer nook where an officer had his hands on a laptop, scouring through pieces of data.
“Go ahead, Sam,” Mocks said, tapping the officer on the shoulder. “Tell him what you told me.”
Sam cleared his throat. “Well, I’ve been checking the search and browser history on the laptop, and I found a few sites that he frequented. Most of them were harmless: shopping, his church website, social media, things like that. But I did find a site that was visited every day for a month about six months ago.”
“And?” Grant asked, when the officer didn’t finish.
“And it’s underground,” Sam answered.
“I never paid attention in my digital literacy class, Sam, so you’ll have to catch me up to speed,” Grant replied.
“There are two Internets out there for everyone. The first is the normal Internet that ninety-nine percent of people use that comprises the commerce and social media sites that most people visit. The second Internet is the underbelly, a series of servers and dark sites that most people don’t even know how to access. It’s where a lot of black-market deals go down, and where a lot of communication happens between black hats.”
“Hackers?” Grant asked, the phrase stirring a memory in the back of his head.
“Yeah,” Sam answered. “The problem with the site I found is that it has a pretty decent firewall around it, which means unless you have the access code to enter, it’s very difficult to break through.”
“But not impossible?” Mocks asked.
“No,” Sam answered. “If I can get this back to the station, I’ll have more tools to work with to see if I can crack it.”
“What about pictures, letters, notes, anything child related?” In the world of the digital age, molesters and perverts had access to troves of deplorable images. On nearly every child abduction case that involved a stranger, ninety percent of them always had some dirt on their phones or computers.
“I haven’t found anything yet, but that doesn’t mean there’s not a ghost drive hidden somewhere,” Sam answered. “But trust me, if there is something on this computer, I will find it.”
Grant slapped Sam on the shoulder. “Let me know the moment you find anything.” He walked over to the lead forensic investigator to check in. “How’s it look?”
Barry Ingle was a short man, barely clearing five feet. His head was far too large for his body, and his torso was squat like his arms and limbs. But if there was a better forensic tech on the West Coast, Grant had yet to find him.
“There are definitely multiple sets of prints everywhere in the house, including the bedroom,” Barry answered. “We’re checking toothbrushes, combing for hairs on clothes and furniture, and sorting through the dirty laundry to see what we can turn up. Right now though I’d say the place looks pretty clean.”
“Find any compromising equipment?” Mocks asked.
“Nothing. No rope, no duct tape, no drugs other than over-the-counter cold medicines,” Barry said. “We checked the basement but couldn’t find anything but a few boxes and old workout equipment. We’ll keep looking, but so far nothing is standing out.”
Grant nodded, hope slowly sifting away. “Make sure you expedite those DNA samples and prints for the lab. I want them back ASAP.”
“Will do, Detective.”
Grant pulled Mocks outside and watched the squad car carrying Paley disappear down the road. There was still the matter of the computer and whatever site Paley had accessed, but there wasn’t a guarantee that Sam would be able to break through the security.
“What are you thinking?” Mocks asked.
“The first call he’s going to make will be to his fiancée,” Grant answered. “We need to figure out what she knows before the two can collaborate on a story.”
“You think he brought her in on it?” Mocks asked. “The stick-up-her-ass didn’t strike me as someone who would stay with someone like him if he did.”
“You’d be surprised what someone’s faith can drive them to do,” Grant said. “I once had a case where a mother drowned both her children because she was convinced they were possessed by the devil, and that the only salvation they could find was in the arms of the heavenly Father.”
“Christ,” Mocks said. “She confess?”
“She left a note,” Grant answered. “After the kids were finished she wrapped her mouth around the end of a twelve-gauge that belonged to her husband. The note said she wanted to see her kids again in heaven.” He still remembered the way the little bodies floated in the bathtub, facedown. “They were one and two.” It was the last homicide case he was assigned before his leave of absence.
“Hey,” Mocks said, her voice soft. “You all right?”
“I’m fine,” Grant answered. “Let’s go and have a chat with Stacy and see what she already knows.”
***
The house resembled the one Grant and Mocks had just left, though the immediate reaction for both of them was that it was most definitely decorated by a woman. The light accents on the front porch of table and chair, combined with the immaculate flower garden that lined the grass in front of the porch, told a story of a woman who kept a very tidy household.
Lights shone from the windows through thin curtains as Grant parked on the street. He flicked off the engine and unclicked his seat belt. “We don’t need to tell her what happened to her fiancé. I’d like to keep her in the dark as much as possible.”
“No complaints here,” Mocks said.
Side by side they walked the stone path through the small front yard and ascended the front porch steps.
The scene was eerily similar to the one they had just left, and Grant found himself with a case of déjà vu. Minus the S.W.A.T. team of course.
Three quick knocks at the door and, after a moment’s pause, the light patter of footsteps moved quickly toward them. It opened without so much as a groan, and Stacy West stood there in a light-yellow blouse and jeans, her makeup and hair just as immaculate as the front yard.
“Detectives, can I help you?”
“We had a few follow-up questions for you,” Grant answered. “Could we come inside?”
A tight, forced smile spread across her face. “Of course.” She stepped aside, and the two entered, the door quickly shutting behind them.
“You’ll have to excuse the mess,” Stacy said. “I was just getting dinner ready.”
What mess the woman was referring to Grant had no idea, but he suspected it was something she would have said if she’d just spring-cleaned the entire house. “It’s not a problem at all.” He noticed the additional setting at her small kitchen table set up in the living room. A pair of long-stem candles burned, and from what he could tell the silverware that was set out looked like it was only used for special occasions.
“Glenn coming over for dinner?” Grant asked.
Stacy raised both eyebrows and then looked to the romantic scene she had constructed herself. “Oh.” She chuckled. “Yes. Have to keep the flame fanned.” She gestured to the living room. “We can chat in here until he arrives.”
Mocks held back a scoff, and Grant shot her a sharp look as the three of them took their seats. Mocks and Grant opted for the couch, while Stacy took up an armchair across from them. A vase of roses had been placed in the center of the coffee table between them.
The stems were a hearty green, and the petals themselves still a gorgeous red, firm and bouncy. A card sprouted from the middle with words that Grant couldn’t read from his current distance. He pointed to them. “I can see he’s kept up the romance too.”
Stacy blushed and then gave an “oh, stop it” wave with her hand. “One of the many reasons why I’m marrying him.”
Mocks leaned forward, ending the lovebird talk and cutting straight to business. “Does Glenn do a lot of work at home on his computer?”
Stacy tilted her head to the side. “Why do you ask?”
“I’m just curious as to the stress levels he might be under at the church,” Mocks said. “It seems like a big place, and with him as the only youth pastor I could see how it might be overwhelming.”
“I help him with anything that he can’t handle.” Stacy’s tone became increasingly stern. “We’re a team. We share everything together. Our successes and our failures. It’s a woman’s place to help support her husband.”
While the pair continued to spar, poking barbs into each other’s sides over the female role in a domestic partnership, Grant took stock of the rest of the house. Aside from its incredible detail for cleanliness, he noticed the fine artwork on the walls, the crystal in a kitchenette that was the price of a used car, and the security systems on the windows and by the door. The alarm gadgets looked top of the line, but he didn’t see a sign out front that marked the security firm that installed them.
“And what do you do for a living, Ms. West?” Grant asked, interrupting some type of explanation on how God created woman and man in His vision.
“I’m sorry?” Stacy asked.
“We never got that down in the original report when you and your fiancé came down to the station,” Grant said. “Your employment.”
“Oh, well, I dabble in a few things,” Stacy said, dancing around the actual question. “My mother always told me how important it was to be able to handle your own business.”
“Is she the one who also told you about the woman’s place in the kitchen?” Mocks asked, more teeth on this particular bite.
Before Stacy could respond, Grant cut in. “What kind of dabbling, Ms. West?”
“Well, I actually help out a lot with the systems at the church, making sure everything remains properly organized and—”
“What specific systems do you work with?” Grant asked, trying to cut through the bullshit.
“Computers.” But before Grant could push the topic any further, the timer in the kitchen went off. “Excuse me.”
The moment she was gone, Mocks sprang up from her seat. “No way she doesn’t know something. We need to bring her to the station right now.”
His partner was chomping at the bit, and Grant felt it too, but if they pushed too hard they might lose her. “We’ll make something up. Get her to come with us.”
“Paperwork?” Mocks asked, smiling.
“That’ll work.”
“Would you two like any refreshments?” Stacy asked, calling from the kitchen.
“No, thank you,” Grant answered, yelling from the couch. His eyes caught the roses once more, and while he still heard the clanking of pots and pans in the kitchen, he reached for the card in the middle of the roses and plucked it from its holder.
It was folded in half, and when he flipped open the card, there was something immediately familiar about the handwriting. It was smooth and practiced, beautifully written on the small business-size card. The steel-winged butterflies made a surprise visit when he saw the name written at the end, circled with a heart. It was Mallory Givens.
Wordlessly Grant dropped the card and reached for his firearm, but before he had his hand on the butt of the pistol Stacy West appeared from the kitchen with a gun in her hand, aiming it between both Grant and Mocks.
“Don’t move,” Stacy said. “I want both hands on the coffee table, palms down.”
Neither Grant or Mocks moved, both frozen in shock at the fact they’d been had.
“Now!” Stacy said, both arms shaking, her finger on the trigger.
Grant and Mocks complied, Grant’s mind racing with questions but only asking one. “Is Mallory still alive?”
A smile twitched up the left side of Stacy’s mouth. “Yes. She’s alive. I wouldn’t kill my first. I wanted to enjoy the fruits of my labor.”
“You fucking bitch,” Mocks said, not hiding the disdain in her tone.
But the comment only revealed an even larger smile across Stacy’s face. She stepped farther into the living room, the barrel of the gun growing closer, and Grant finally noticed the suppressor on the end of the muzzle. He was betting she purchased it underground on those black sites that Sam was talking about.
“Clever, clever, clever detectives,” Stacy said, taking a few more steps and stopping just out of reach from Grant’s wingspan. “I thought I’d have at least a week before any of the fingers started to point my way, but in less than a day?” She shook her head. “You really are good at your job, aren’t you?”
“You need to let the girl go,” Grant said. “Think of her mother—”
“The one that’s never home?” Stacy asked, cutting in. “The one who doesn’t know about what really goes on in her own daughter’s head? The thoughts of fear and betrayal. The lust she feels for my fiancé? The fact that while her mother lives with her, it’s like she doesn’t have any parents?”
Grant pinched his eyebrows together, confused. “It was you she was writing about?” He shook his head. “But she wrote Glenn’s name down.”
“Maybe not as clever as I thought,” Stacy said. “You should have just stuck with your gut and brought a case against Glenn. I left a few pieces of evidence at his place to seal the deal. A hair, fingerprints, some of her clothes. You should have just followed the bread crumbs where I placed them.”
It was all too surreal. But Grant didn’t think he’d live very long to regret his mistake. Stacy’s body language screamed she would get rid of them. Now it was just a question of the most efficient manner of how.
“We’re going to take a little ride,” Stacy said.
Chapter 9
The pressure from the end of the pistol Stacy pressed against Grant’s head held steady the entire drive. Stacy sat in t
he backseat directly behind Grant, who drove, while Mocks rode in the back with her, handcuffs around her wrist and pinned behind her back with her own pistol aimed at her.
More than once Grant thought of pulling off the road and slamming into a tree or parked car, or anything that would give them a chance, but he didn’t have a hard time questioning Stacy’s resolve now that he knew she was the one behind Mallory’s abduction. The only question that remained now was how to get the girl out alive. But first Grant had to think his way out of this.
Stacy directed Grant to the coast, and their final destination was a small marina twenty miles north of the city. From the rusted gates, crumbling boathouse, and decrepit vessels that littered the yard on concrete blocks, the place looked like it had been closed for a long time.
“Shut off the engine and cut the lights,” Stacy said. Once Grant complied, she removed the barrel of the pistol from the back of Grant’s head and then opened her door. “Get out, Detective Grant.”
Slowly, Grant reached for the handle, and as he stepped out, so did she. One pistol remained trained on Mocks while the second was kept on Grant. “Now,” Stacy said. “Let your partner out, but keep her cuffed.”
Again, Grant complied, and Stacy walked the pair to the only dock still standing, which jutted out a few hundred feet into the bay. The wooden boards groaned with each step and were slick from years of ocean spray. Wind gusted from the Pacific in cold bursts, and more than once Grant thought they were going to plunge into the freezing ocean.
Stacy walked them all the way down to the end of the pier, and once they reached the edge Grant and Mocks turned around, both staring down the pistols meant to kill them.
“So what now?” Grant asked. “Shoot us and then dump us in the ocean?”
“That was the plan,” Stacy answered. “The tide will take you out, and you’ll be lucky if your body comes ashore tomorrow, maybe the next day. By then you’ll be bloated and difficult to identify, which means a DNA test must be performed, and that could take up to three days. Though I’m sure your brothers in arms will be able to connect the dots once you don’t show up for work tomorrow. Oh, which reminds me. Badges. Both of you.”
