The Kid: A Suspense Thriller (Reed & Billie Book 3)

by Stevens,Dustin

  Again he thought of asking her to go before contaminating the crime scene but opted against it, not wanting to create bad relations by embarrassing her in front of the other officers.

  Clearly, they still had work to do before this was over.

  “Don’t know,” Reed said. “My guess would be, to borrow a cliché, wrong place wrong time.”

  “Wittek came in,” Glenn said, her voice a bit stronger than expected, “looking for Vazquez, found them both, emptied his gun in them.”

  Reed grunted, sweeping his gaze over the room. Past the initial sensory overload of the sight and smell, his mind transitioned, inventorying what needed to be done.

  “Gilchrist?” he asked, turning back toward the door.

  “Yeah?” the young officer responded from further back in the hallway, beyond Reed’s sight.

  “Can you call Grimes and tell him to get Earl and the 19th over here? It’s their crime scene, but he’ll be the one doing the work up.”

  “You got it,” Gilchrist said. A moment later, the sound of his heavy footfalls could be heard as he descended the stairwell.

  Reed turned back to face the macabre scene again and said, “I don’t see any brass, but how much you want to bet they’re the slugs that hit Ike and Bishop?”

  “No bet,” Greene said, “too easy. From the looks of things though, these folks have been here a while, a lot longer than Saturday night.”

  “True,” Reed said. “There wouldn’t be this smell until at least a couple days, the bloating and distortion even longer after that.”

  “Especially given how cool it is,” Glenn added.

  Reed nodded, continuing to take everything in. From what he could tell, the couple had either been asleep or in the throes of passion when Wittek entered. Neither had made a move to climb from the bed before the shooting started, both still in the middle of the mattress.

  It also appeared that every bullet had found a target, no visible holes in the paneling above the bed or blood spatter on the wall.

  “We also need to consider,” Reed said, “that this one wasn’t law enforcement. Could there be someone else targeted? An agenda even larger than we realized?”

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Reed nodded to the cluster of officers standing on the front porch, each of the men giving him a wary glance before nodding in return. Previously housed in the 19th Precinct, Reed knew each of the men by sight, having worked in the same building with all four for at least a couple of years before moving over.

  He knew the reasons for their aloofness were numerous, some that were legitimate, many more that were vested in the sorts of low-level pissing matches he liked to think the various precincts were no longer concerned with, but knew better than to believe. To them, while he had perhaps overstepped an unspoken boundary by uncovering a heinous crime in their jurisdiction, his problems extended back long before that.

  After years of serving as beat cops, the same as the men on the porch, he and Riley had made the conscious decision to transition into being detectives. The move was made after long and careful debate, both wanting to make sure they could remain partners first and foremost, their secondary concern being about the escalating rates of crime in the area and how they thought they could best make an impact.

  Not once were the topics of rank or pay ever considered.

  Despite that, many of the fellow uniforms they worked with had taken it as a slight. Several started making comments, some even went as far as to cut off communication.

  Whatever momentary reprieve he had gotten after the passing of Riley had been instantly revoked the moment he chose to change precincts, many in his wake feeling betrayed and deserted.

  Judging by the begrudging acknowledgment on the front porch, many still harbored the same feelings, Reed not especially surprised, even less concerned. Instead he walked right past them and down the front steps, joining Greene, Gilchrist, and Glenn beside the blue-and-white cruiser still parked straddling the driveway.

  By his side was Billie, the previous tension that propelled her onward having evaporated, her tail drooping a bit as she loped along beside him.

  In addition to the cruiser and Reed’s sedan were now a trio of additional blue-and-whites and Earl’s white van, the collection of cars taking up most of the available space on the street. None of the vehicles had used their lights or sirens on approach, but that didn’t keep the occasional onlooker from roaming past, pretending to be out for an afternoon stroll.

  “Well, that was subtle,” Glenn said, staring past Reed to the men on the porch.

  “Yeah, well, that shit goes back a long ways,” Reed said, not bothering to turn and look at them, knowing all four were at the least glancing over every few seconds, if not openly staring. “Not my biggest concern at the moment.”

  “What’d Earl have to say?” Greene asked, looking up at the bedroom window on the second floor, the curtain pulled back, shadows visible moving around on the opposite side.

  Flicking his gaze to Glenn, Reed said, “You’re going to love this. He ran the prints of our two victims through AFIS on his electronic pad and got hits for both.

  “Raul Vazquez and none other than one Sonya Johnston.”

  Glenn’s face fell blank for a moment, searching for the name, before recognition set in, her features snapping back to attention.

  “Who’s Sonya Johnston?” Gilchrist asked.

  “Marco Sanz’s girlfriend,” Glenn said. “Even spoke at his trial.”

  “Probably showed up ready to take down his best friend’s - his big brother’s - killer, and found him in bed with his lady,” Reed said.

  “That’d do it,” Gilchrist agreed, nodding once for emphasis.

  Before further comment could be made, the theme song from The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly, sounded out, the low, mournful whistle resonating from Reed’s hip.

  For a moment the group stared in confusion before Reed raised a hand in apology and pulled it free, looking down at the screen. Holding it out in front of him, he accepted the call, switching the volume to speakerphone.

  “Deek, I’ve got you out loud with Investigator Glenn and Officers Greene and Gilchrist.”

  “Alright,” Deek said, a bit of a drawl sliding out with the word. Had he repeated it twice more Reed might have mistaken him for Wooderson from Dazed and Confused. “Anything good turn up at Vazquez’s house?”

  Reed glanced up at the others, his features grim, and said, “Depends on your definition of good. He was here, and so was his girlfriend, both with about half a dozen bullets in them.”

  In most circumstances, Reed would never dream of being so cavalier with the details of an investigation, especially with a civilian. Given the nature of the aid Deek was providing though, and the fact that his interaction with the outsider world was limited to his senile grandmother and zit-faced online gamers, he felt reasonably assured in doing so.

  “Damn, man,” Deek said, “sorry to hear that. Almost makes what I’m about to share that much worse.”

  Several quick looks were exchanged around the impromptu circle, Reed raising the phone a bit higher. “What were you able to find?”

  “Well, you were right,” Deek said, the omnipresent sound of background typing rolling out with his voice, “Anthony Wittek has become a ghost. No credit card activity, no library card activity, not a loan application or even a doctor’s visit to speak of.”

  Reed waited, his gaze locked on the phone, knowing Deek would get to it soon enough.

  “But I was able to find a single checking account that he opened almost a decade ago,” Deek said. “The last deposit of any kind was more than two years ago, which from the looks of things was pretty hefty.”

  “Two years ago was before Sanz got pinched,” Glenn said.

  “Yep,” Reed agreed. “Made a nice pile on their last batch of heists, been laying low ever since.”

  “I was curious though, figured this guy had to be paying the bills somehow,” Deek said. “Every
month he withdraws between $1,200 and $1,400 from the account. About half of that is in cash, all from one of three different ATM’s in Hilliard.”

  He paused there, the keyboard falling quiet as well, and said, “Not too far from where you are, come to think of it.”

  “And the rest of it?” Reed asked, the words coming out a bit harsher than anticipated, though he did nothing to retract them.

  “One check a month,” Deek said. If he noticed or took exception to Reed’s tone, he did nothing to indicate it. “Amount of $700, written out to Cash.”

  “Dammit,” Glenn said, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, glancing down to Billie by her side.

  “Not so fast,” Deek said, raising his voice just a bit, letting them know he was still working toward something. “They were made out to cash, but they were all deposited by one Irma Bowdoin.”

  Rifling back through his memory, thinking over the files he’d pulled on his computer, the transcripts of Sanz’s trial he’d seen, Reed tried to place the name.

  Nothing came to him.

  “Who is Irma Bowdoin?” Reed asked.

  “Sounds like a 90-year-old woman,” Gilchrist muttered, Glenn glancing his way and nodding in agreement.

  “Close,” Deek said, having heard the comment over the line. “She’s 78, widowed, owns a house in Hilliard less than two miles from all three ATMs.”

  “Rent,” Reed said. “He’s paying her rent, making the check out to cash.”

  “Sure as hell looks that way,” Deek said.

  “Makes sense,” Glenn said, shifting to face Reed. “Most ATMs nowadays have a hard cap on withdrawal amounts. That’s too much for him to take out, so he writes her a check, makes it out to cash.”

  Reed processed the statements of both Deek and Glenn in order, fitting them against what he already knew. “Hey Deek, can you send me that address?”

  “Will do.”

  “Thanks. Damn fine work.”

  Both sides signed off without farewell, Reed pocketing the phone and looking at Greene and Gilchrist each in turn.

  “I don’t suppose you boys are up for round two are you?”

  “Hell yeah,” Gilchrist said, his boyish features curling up into a smile before realizing the gravity of the situation and falling back into place.

  Beside him Greene was a bit more stoic, meeting Reed’s attention, his visage even.

  “Like we told you outside Mercy West the other night, whatever you need, we’re on it.”

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Deek was right. The home of Irma Bowdoin was less than five miles from the house of Raul Vazquez as the crow flew, meaning it took them just over six minutes for both cars to arrive. This time Reed opted to run with the front flashers on, choosing not to work the siren and alert Wittek in the off-chance he was there.

  Once they made the final corner before Bowdoin’s house he eliminated the lights too, shooting just past the driveway before sliding to a stop, Greene pushing their cruiser into the same position it had been at Vazquez’s.

  All four people and Billie spilled out in unison, moving forward across the lawn of the home without grouping up or pausing to state a game plan.

  The house was a single level affair, red brick rising to waist height along the front before giving way to faded green siding. The door and shutters had all at one point been painted to match the brick, though they too had aged to a color far removed from its original intent.

  A row of scraggly hedge bushes extending to knee height lined the front, a pair of small pumpkins sitting on the tiny concrete square in front of the door.

  In the yard were a handful of maple and elm trees, none with trunks thicker than Reed’s thigh. They did little to obscure the front of the house from view, though they had managed to cover most of the lawn with leaves of various colors.

  A one car garage was connected along the right side of the home, screwed in tight against it, employing the same color scheme on a smaller level.

  “We’ve got the driveway,” Greene said, he and Gilchrist fanning out as Reed led Glenn and Billie across the front yard. Underfoot the leaves crackled with each step, the ground coverage too thick to avoid them, all three disregarding the sound as they went for the front door.

  Reed hated the feeling of being exposed as they approached, as much for Glenn and Billie as for himself. The man they were seeking had already opened fire on two detectives, had killed two other law enforcement agents. He had to know at this point that his actions would land him at least in jail for the rest of his life, more likely on death row in Lucasville 80 miles south.

  On one hand, it was entirely possible they were merely approaching the home of a senior citizen, nothing more than a little old lady watching her afternoon soaps. Maybe the check she got from Wittek every month was for something else, perhaps just living expenses from a distant relative or friend of the family.

  If Marco Sanz had become like a brother to the extent of committing multiple murders, it wasn’t unfeasible to believe he would exercise his own brand of altruism to help Bowdoin.

  Despite that possibility, Reed couldn’t take the chance of entering the home empty handed.

  With his gun extended before him, Reed paused just a moment to glance back at Greene and Gilchrist, to make sure Glenn was in position, before raising his hand and knocking. Sweat caused his t-shirt to stick to his back and lined his upper lip, the cool air picking at it, a sensation crawling over his skin.

  A moment passed with no response of any kind, Reed raising his hand again. This time he balled it into a fist and turned it sideways, slamming it hard into the door three times. Again he paused and waited, the unmistakable sounds of movement within the house finding his ears.

  “Someone’s coming,” he whispered, positioning his weight evenly, turning his shoulders so as to make for a smaller target, his gun at the ready before him.

  The cracked weather stripping gave out a weak gasp as the front door opened, a diminutive woman with short white hair formed into curls around her head standing before them. On her feet were plaid slippers with faux fur bunched around the ankles, a matching flannel housecoat enveloping her small frame.

  Peering at him over the top edge of thick bifocals, she asked, “Yes?”

  “Irma Bowdoin?” Reed asked, feeling his adrenaline ebb a tiny bit.

  “Yes,” she repeated, the middle vowel elongated just slightly.

  “Ms. Bowdoin, my name is Detective Reed Mattox, this is Investigator Cassidy Glenn. We’re looking for Anthony Wittek.”

  At the mention of Wittek’s name the woman’s face creased into a smile, her hands coming together before her. “Oh, Tony! He’s such a good boy. Been renting from me for a couple years now, not the slightest bit of a problem.”

  Running his tongue out over his bottom lip, Reed glanced to Glenn. “Is he here now?”

  “No,” she said, “Tony doesn’t live here. He lives next door. My husband and I built the place years ago for our son to move into, but when he didn’t want it we started renting it out.”

  Feeling the adrenaline instantly spike again in his veins, Reed stepped back, looking quickly to either side, small houses much like the one he was standing in front of flanking them.

  “Next door?” Reed said. “Would you might pointing out which one?”

  For the first time since their arrival, a hint of suspicion played out on Bowdoin’s features, the smile fading away. “What’s this about? Is Tony in some kind of trouble?”

  “We don’t know,” Glenn said, jumping in before Reed had a chance to respond. “His name was mentioned in a case we’re working on, we just wanted to talk to him and see if knows anything that might help.”

  The excuse was thin, Reed knowing it the moment it came out. At this point they had everything they needed, were going to move regardless what Bowdoin’s reaction was, but standing out front and arguing with an old woman was not something that ranked high on his list of things to do.

  Unfol
ding her hands in front of her, Bowdoin crossed them over her stomach, hugging herself tight. She stayed that way before finally tossing the top of her head toward her left, in the direction of her garage.

  “Over there,” she said, “but like I said, Tony is a good boy. Whatever it is you think, I promise you’re wrong.”

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Reed left Irma Bowdoin standing in her doorway. He hated to be rude to the woman, but even less did he want to stand on her front stoop and have a discussion about all the things her tenant had done in the last week. The list was long and nefarious, not the sort of thing that should be sprung on someone, especially with more stray onlookers beginning to pop up along the street by the minute.

  They were about to get enough of a show as it was.

  Hopping down off the concrete pad, Reed moved straight across the front yard, moving parallel to the road, his feet sinking into the leaves piled up and the soft ground beneath it. From the sound behind him, he could tell Glenn and Billie were both keeping pace, Greene and Gilchrist lowering their guns slightly, standing on the driveway and waiting for them.

  “Next door,” Reed said, thrusting his chin at the structure standing less than 10 feet beyond the edge of Bowdoin’s garage.

  To call it a house was a bit of a misnomer, the building much closer to a cottage, at best. There was no garage or even driveway leading up to it, only a serpentine path of round landscape stones across the front lawn stopping abruptly at the edge of the sidewalk.

  Different in every way from the main house, it was made entirely of brick, square in shape, a door in the middle with a single window to either side.

  No lights were visible behind either one, the blinds pulled, the home giving the clear impression that nobody was inside.

  Greene and Gilchrist waited until Reed drew even with them before falling in beside the trio, the group moving five across toward the structure.

  “What’s the play?” Glenn asked, her voice bearing the strain Reed could sense in all of them.