He watched the news earlier and was pleased to see his handiwork flash across the screen. It was amazing that as a child, he could do no right, but now, he was revered.
Noticing that he was sharing the spotlight with Greyson Croft was irritating, but at least they all knew who the true star was. It wasn’t the Fed, but the man who was taking women and giving them the spotlight. ‘Nice’ was given one hell of a sendoff, and those who were naughty had the ultimate gift of humiliation.
Isn’t that what he learned growing up?
He could do no right.
His brother could do no wrong.
Their mother would see the err of her ways. He wasn’t the loser that she had believed him be. Now, he was out of the shadow of what had once been.
He almost wished to call her up to brag and give her the news of his supreme victory over the FBI. He was so much smarter than all of them.
If anything, they should be ashamed to be called law enforcement. They were running in circles and chasing their tails. They would never figure it all out, and now he had all the time in the world to find the next woman.
Then the need came rushing back.
He couldn’t wait too long. What if he missed the perfect woman? No, he needed to keep it balanced. He took ‘nice’ and now it was time for ‘naughty’ to have his attention.
His laughter bubbled out, and the mental illness he couldn’t recognize rooted itself deeper, taking even more control.
“Let’s go looking for a woman,” he sang to himself.
Oh yes, it was time.
* * *
If you wanted to see a very angry man teetering on the edge of control, all that you needed to do was take a good, hard look at Greyson Croft. He was irritated, pissed off and ready to lose his temper.
Not at his people, but at the other factors out of his control, like the media and the killer.
They had to be missing something.
It was probably right there in front of their noses. Gathering his team together, he sat them all down to reassign them duties going forward.
“Curtis, you’re on desk duty. I want every financial pulled on all the victims. If it’s not the reverend, then they have to all connect some other way. Find me a money trail.”
“So, are we eliminating him?” Tessa asked, not sure what she thought about that.
“No, but we’re putting him aside to try and find someone else that makes sense,” he answered, taking his seat.
“I want to re-interview him,” Tessa said. “Since we had another body, I want an alibi and one more crack at him. Maybe I can get an emotional response from him since we know that he knew the victim.”
“Go for it. Take Paris with you and rattle the reverend’s damn cage until something falls out of it. We already found some of his secrets, so get me the rest of them.”
“Yes, sir,” they replied, standing.
“We likely have DNA on our last victim from the bite marks. See if you can get him to submit a sample, but make it legal and above the rules. I don’t want to snag him on a technicality and have a judge hand it back to me along with my boss kicking my ass.”
“On it,” they said together.
“Paris, psychoanalyze the shit out of him and find me a thread to tie him to this!” Croft demanded.
They both escaped and were glad to be as far away from the simmering pot as possible. They knew the lid was about to blow off, and no one wanted to get burned.
“The man gets out and we have a killing within hours. I don’t get what the hell I’m not seeing,” he said.
Emma patted his arm reassuringly. “I’ll help Curtis go through all the financials. He’ll need another set of eyes.
“I’d appreciate that, Emma,” Briggs answered as he scanned more data.
She grabbed some printouts and started reading, hoping to find something soon, or her husband might just have the mother of all strokes. He was again pacing and his hair was standing up in sexy little tufts from where his hands were run through it.
Suddenly, Curtis’s tablet began chiming.
He picked it up to read the information. “I have your location on that key card.”
That cheered Croft up. At least something was going his way today. “Spill it.”
Briggs pulled up the website and flipped the tablet around for them to see. “It’s a storage unit off the highway. You can be there in less than twenty minutes if you go the speed limit.”
He pulled out his phone and began dialing. Croft knew who might want to join them, since he’d found the locker key that led Emma to it.
“Ford.”
“Hey, we got a pop on the key. Do you want to ride shotgun? Croft inquired. “You know, for the sake of interdepartmental cooperation.”
“Want me to meet you there?”
Croft had a better idea. “We’ll pick you up at the back door of the morgue. We don’t need media picking up on this and following. Everyone thinks this is dead.”
“Works for me.”
“Can we borrow Detective Westmore? My partner has a shitload of data to go through, and he needs an extra set of eyes to do it. I already sent the agents out to do an interrogation.”
“I’ll send her over.”
“See you in ten minutes,” he replied, before hanging up the phone.
“I can’t believe you thought to get me help,” Briggs said, grinning.
“Yeah, because now I can tell you this; you have no excuse to not get through those papers and fast. Find me something or I may have to make you do desk duty until you’re a senior citizen agent.”
Croft hustled out of the room with his wife behind him. It was hard not to laugh at that visual.
“Yeah, well you’re going to retire before that happens,” he muttered under his breath.
His phone chimed with a text message.
‘Don’t bet on that!’
“Shit! J. Edgar Hoover must have this place bugged for sound.” Briggs looked around and wondered if he was watching him too.
* * *
He drove like a maniac.
They didn't have time to waste, and he also wanted to make sure that no one was following them. If he was going to lose a tail, it would be on the highway going eighty with his lights on. If anyone tried to follow, they’d be getting a little gift from the LVPD courtesy of the highway patrol.
Pulling into the storage unit, they scanned the area and searched for anything out of place.
“These are awfully big units for a suitcase full of money,” Ford said, walking to the structure that matched the printout.
“Yeah, well it’s probably stuffed full of shit, and we’re going to have to dig through the man’s whole life to find a bag,” Croft stated.
“I hope there aren’t bodies. Once in Philly, we had a man who was killing women he picked up off the internet. He was sticking them in those industrial barrels and housing them in a unit much like this. There’s nothing like uncovering twelve women in body soup.”
Croft looked over shocked. “I almost worked that one. I had to get recertified for discharging my firearm and had to pass on it.”
Emma grinned. “You almost met me four years prior to Celestia then.”
He wondered if it would have still led them to this moment in time. This was more proof that fate wanted them together. They almost crossed paths and found each other before.
“Uh, you two love birds make me want to toss my cookies. Can we just open this door?” Ford stated, shaking his head.
Croft slid the key in the lock and turned on his flashlight. “I’ll go in first,” he stated, pushing his wife behind him, much to her irritation and chagrin.
He peeked back out. “It’s clear.”
They followed him in, looking around the big empty space and both were surprised.
“Wow, I didn't see this coming,” Emma stated. “It’s completely empty except for that box in the corner.”
Ford walked over to it and bumped it with his toe. “You t
hink it’s booby trapped?” he asked, glancing back.
Apparently, the man never did time in a warzone. Once, Croft watched someone nudge something with the toe of his boot, only to have a leg blown off. “If it was, you would have triggered it just then, Ford. I’ll carry it outside,” he offered. “If it goes off, we won’t all die.”
Emma was getting panicked. “Why don’t we call the bomb squad?”
“Then we have a trail, and your boss has to explain to his boss why we are still digging into the past of the man who abducted you.”
“Okay, well, let him do it. You’re married and your wife is attached to all the parts of your body,” Emma stated adamantly.
“Hey! You realize I can partner you up with Laden, right?” he replied, laughing.
She smirked. To keep Greyson alive, she’d suck it up.
“I’ll take it. I have Kevlar on under my shirt.” Ford pulled out a pair of gloves and snapped them on in preparation for looking in the box. As soon as they opened it, it was going off to the FBI for prints.
Greyson forced Emma behind him, trying to offer her body protection in case it went off. When Ford picked it up and it didn't do anything, he relaxed marginally.
Outside, they placed it on the dirt. Pulling out his pocket knife, he slowly lifted the flaps of the box to peer inside. It appeared to be wire free. “It’s clear,” he stated, looking down into the cardboard. “Boy, we have cash!”
They both moved towards him, Croft still keeping his wife behind him protectively. As they too stared down into the box, Greyson did mental calculation. “It looks to be about fifty grand.”
“I agree.”
“Good to know that’s the going rate on abducting a detective,” she stated.
“Yeah, we don’t know if this is all the money or if he’s been saving up from a few jobs. You might have been cheaper,” Ford stated.
When Croft stared at him, he began laughing.
“What? You know what I meant! I wasn’t referring to anything but the price on the job.”
Emma snickered. “As Greyson will attest, since he pays the bills, I am far from cheap.”
Her husband started laughing. “She speaks the truth. Okay, let’s find out who this was rented to. If Burns used an alias, it might lead us to another bank account, email or anything else that will help us out.”
“Good idea,” stated Ford.
“Gee thanks. That may be why I’m the director,” he joked, letting Ford carry the cash since he was already gloved up.
Emma bounded up the stairs to the office. Fortunately, someone was there. “Hi, I was wondering if you could help me?”
The man stared at her lecherously. “I love me some redheads, so the answer is yes. I’ll help you out with anything you need serviced. Is that your real color, little girl?” he leered, staring up and down her body.
Ford actually had to grab the director by the arm.
Emma didn't need his help.
Reaching over the desk, she grabbed him by the shirt and yanked him forward until they were inches apart. “One, I’m not a little girl, I’m a detective with the Las Vegas Homicide division. Two, my hair color should be the least of your worries, because I’m going to drag your ass out back and kick the shit out of you for being a condescending dickwad. Now, feel free to restart the conversation the right way. This is your one and only redo.”
The man stared at her openmouthed. “Uh.. What can I do for you?”
That was much better.
“We need the paperwork that lists who opened storage unit number twenty seven.”
“I can’t give you that information. We have privacy rules with the company.”
Enough was enough. Pulling his badge, he slammed it on the counter. “I’m with the FBI and I’m pissed. Not because you won’t hand over the paper, but because the redhead is my wife. So I suggest you give me the damn paper, before the only red you see in here is your blood splattered all over the walls.”
The man raced to the cabinet and grabbed what he needed. Returning to the counter, he slapped it down and backed away from the man.
Croft picked it up and scanned the paper. “Well, I have to say one thing about Torrance Burns.”
“What’s that?” Ford asked.
“He was pretty smart. He left us a trail of who hired him, just in case it went bad,” Croft said, handing the paper to his wife.
As she read it, the information popped out immediately.
“The locker is registered to a T. Booker.”
At first, Ford didn't say anything. When he finally spoke, his voice was full of animosity. “Well, now I have confirmation that my boss is dirty. I don’t know if I should laugh or cry.”
Unfortunately, he wasn’t the only one.
Chapter Twenty
They had one hell of a time getting in to see the reverend. It wasn’t because the man was busy, but because he’d earned himself a guard dog named Deacon Trent Simpson. The man had tried to keep them away from Thomas Corey with every excuse in the book.
He’s busy.
He’s with a congregation member.
He’s praying.
Finally, Tessa had just about enough. She pulled out her handcuffs and pointed at him menacingly. “Do you want to go to jail for obstruction of justice? My partner and I don’t have anything planned for tonight, so a little extra paperwork won’t really matter to us.”
The man blanched. “Follow me.”
Knocking on the office door, he peeked inside. “Reverend, are you up for some company?” he asked quietly.
Paris was getting tired of all this. He kicked the door open with his boot. “We’re not company, friends, or people here to visit. We’re the FBI and we need to talk to you, Reverend Thomas Corey.”
Once inside, they noticed why the deacon was trying to stall them. The man was sitting on the couch, as sick as a dog. It appeared that someone went on a booze bender.
“What do you want?” he muttered, hugging the garbage can. His gray skin was a clear giveaway to his impeded condition.
“We need to talk to you,” Tessa said, pointing at the deacon. “Out.”
“No, he can stay. I told him everything. He’s well aware of the situation.”
Tessa didn't really care. She had one mission and that was getting the alibi and the man’s DNA. “We had another murder last night. In fact, it was right after we released you.”
Thomas Corey looked up. “Do I look like I could kill someone? I came here, I got drunk, and now I’m violently ill.”
Paris looked around. “Did anyone spend time with you last night while you tied one on?”
The deacon jumped in for him. “I did. I was with him the entire time.”
Reverend Corey shook his head. “It’s okay, Trent. Don’t lie for me. You’ll just get in trouble.”
“Yes, he will!” Tessa exclaimed, pointing at the man. “In fact, lying to the FBI gets you time in lock up. Do you want a boyfriend in jail, Mr. Simpson?”
He blanched.
The reverend continued, “I was here by myself. I passed out and woke up around seven when the deacon arrived. That’s all I can tell you.”
“Can we have a sample of your DNA?” Paris asked, glancing up from his tablet. “We have the killer’s, and we’d like to compare it.”
“Don’t give them anything, Tom. They need a warrant to get that.”
Trent Simpson was becoming a pain in their ass. Paris stepped forward. “Are you his appointed council?” When the man shook his head, he gave him a dirty look. “Then close your mouth.”
“No, it’s okay. You can take it. I just want this all to be over. I want to forget, I want to forgive, and I want to move forward.”
Paris pulled the tube containing the swab and the gloves from his back pocket. “We appreciate you cooperating.”
“Tom, this is a bad idea,” stated the man.
Tessa turned. “Sit down!” she ordered. “Shut it or I swear you’re going in for twenty four ho
urs for interfering.”
The man looked horrified and backed up to the chair in the corner. He sat and did exactly what the agent wanted. He didn't mutter a single word.
Paris swabbed the inside of his mouth, and then dropped it into the tube. “We’ll have the results later, Mr. Corey. Stay in town for now,” he stated, nodding to the door.
“If it matters, I had nothing to do with what you’re accusing me of doing,” he called after them. “I’m innocent!”
Tessa turned at the door. “If you’re not the killer, Mr. Corey, you should get some help. You’re living lies and hiding in your office while getting drunk. Not to mention the whole consorting with a dominatrix. That’s not a healthy life. You deserve better.”
He just stared at her as his eyes filled with tears.
When the door closed behind them, they walked out together. The only sounds were the echoing of footsteps down the hall behind them and the man’s distressed sobs.
* * *
He watched her from the window. She was dressed scantily, even though there was a chill in the air. It was obvious from the way that she was walking back and forth that she was on the stroll searching for some johns.
When they walked this close to him and offered up their goods, almost taunting and teasing him, he couldn’t help but want to take them.
It was like it was a sign from above.
HERE’S YOUR GIFT!
When they came right to him, what else was he supposed to think? She was so very young, and that drew him in also. No, she was well past ‘nice’ and deep into ‘naughty’.
Here she was, and it was time.
Stepping outside, he pretended to be inebriated. “Hey there pretty girl. Whatcha doing?” he slurred.
“You looking for a date, baby?” she purred, snapping her gum and twirling her blonde hair around her finger.
This man looked like more than an easy target. He was dressed nice, didn't smell like a sewer, and was kind of handsome.
“Yes I am. I scored today at the casino,” he garbled as he stumbled towards the back of the building, where he was parked. “I won big!” he exclaimed.
Christmas is Killing (A Croft & Croft Romance Adventure Book 3) Page 47
