“That’s a theory,” Nick said. “I guess we can check on it. Send me the pic, and I’ll shoot it over to Quantico.”
I got his info, sent him the image, then shook my head. “It’s the oddest thing though. Dillon’s accused of this horrible crime, yet he’s also being protected because of some billionaire vendetta that led to him being shot.”
“Allegedly,” Stan said.
I nodded in agreement, then segued to the second case involving Dillon. “I’m concerned about Emma. She’s worried about her mom and dad, and unless we keep her locked up, the news about her dad will be at the forefront of everything she does. She’s good at hiding her stress, but I wonder if there’s something burning inside of her.”
“It sucks. I’ll say that much,” Stan said. “But you have to know that the sexual-assault charge looks pretty solid right now.”
“I need to see that video.”
My phone buzzed. I read through a lengthy text from Pudge. It was related to the one part of the Dillon investigation I’d yet to share with Stan. Though really, I had nothing substantive to share. Once I did uncover an actual lead, he would be the first person I would reach out to.
Stan mumbled something.
“I’m sorry?” I pulled my eyes away from the phone.
“I asked if you have a new boyfriend,” he said, pointing at the phone. “You’ve been distracted with it. Maybe trading selfies with Saul?”
I could feel my face go flush. I couldn’t make a big deal about him trying to hook me back up with Saul, because doing so would…make a big deal about it. “I don’t have time for any boyfriend. ECHO business is demanding my attention around the clock.”
I turned the phone face down and stared at the cousins. “Now where were we?”
“About to leave,” Stan said with his arms on the table, about to push to a standing position.
I snapped my fingers. “I know. You were going to show me the video of Dillon slipping a pill into the victim’s drink.”
A pained expression washed over his face. “I know we agreed to share everything, but do you understand what would happen if my commanding officer found out I was sharing the key piece of evidence from this crime with a civilian?”
“But haven’t we established that ECHO is kind of a hybrid organization? We’re here to help do the right thing, but not be weighed down by rules and regulations.”
“I guess, but I still have rules and regulations.” He scratched his face. “And then there’s Ronda, the assistant DA. She could say I was circumventing her prosecution.”
“If she found out. She won’t find out.”
“I know, but…”
“You see? Even when you go with the ‘but,’ you can’t think of a logical reason.” I paused for a second and let my argument sink in a bit. “On top of that, you’ve told me I should change my career path, go to the police academy, earn my stripes, and work my way into becoming a detective. So you’re more or less saying you respect my opinion. I think I can help.”
“But it’s already been decided, Ivy,” he said, pulling out his phone and swiping a finger across the screen. “Ronda’s going to use that video as one of her key pieces of evidence.”
“Okay, so it won’t hurt anything. Maybe seeing it will help me realize that the contradiction I feel about Dillon is unfounded, even if he’s a good father.”
“Come on, Stan. Didn’t you tell me earlier that she’s basically one of us?” Nick lifted his eyebrows, which remarkably expanded his forehead.
“Pressure from both sides,” Stan said as he typed on his phone.
“What are you doing?” I asked
“Typing in my password to get to the server.” He looked around the store, apparently to ensure no one was about to walk up.
“We’re all clear,” I said.
He held the phone out so Nick and I could see it. But before he hit the play button, he turned to look at me. “Just to let you know, this is the only camera in the entire place. It’s positioned to focus on the cash register. Apparently, the guy who was running this rave was more concerned about the help skimming money off the take from the drinks than anything else going on.”
“You said a rave. For young people?”
He nodded. “Forgot to mention that the other day.”
“So it was one of those parties that only a few people know about, I’m guessing. You have to be in the right circles.” My mind was racing with possible theories.
“Typically,” Stan said. “We’re still trying to confirm exactly how he knew about the rave. So far, looking at his computer, technicians have not been able to find any online evidence of him being aware of any rave or any website where this was discussed.”
“But what did he or Ross say about it when they were questioned?”
“Let me guess,” Nick said. “Deny, deny, deny. Am I right?”
“Bingo, cuz. Said he wasn’t even there.”
“But you’ve got proof.”
He took one more glance around the store, then hit play. “It’s a bit grainy, so you have to look closely.”
The video started playing, and I could see people sitting at a bar that appeared to be nothing more than raised metal tables. Red and blue flashing lights made it difficult to get a clear view of faces.
“He’s here.” Stan pointed at a man three chairs down from the camera. The camera caught him from an angle. I couldn’t see his face, but the brown, curly hair and lean build were dead giveaways for Dillon. He reached for a drink and sipped it. Same hands and mannerisms as Dillon.
This image, with Dillon occasionally sipping his drink, went on for about a minute. “Did I blink and miss something?”
“Another few seconds,” Stan said, his eyes riveted on the screen.
He was correct. Moving in from the left side of the screen, a girl sauntered up to the bar. I saw lots of white skin around her chest and thighs. The obvious conclusion was that she had the body that would turn heads and she wasn’t going to hide it. In fact, some would say she was purposely flaunting it.
But having a knock-out figure and even showing it off for the world to see didn’t justify rape. This wasn’t 1968.
They both nodded their heads, and then she put a hand on his upper arm. A moment passed, and Dillon waved at a bartender. Booze was poured and mixed with ice, then the male bartender set the drink on the table for the girl and replaced Dillon’s empty with a new drink.
“Do you know if she had other drinks during the night, maybe before Dillon interacted with her? Someone could have spiked her drink, even a bartender.”
Stan shifted his eyes to me. “If anything these bartenders cut back on the alcohol so they can make a greater profit. The bar staff, bouncers…they’re as nomadic as gypsies, usually only trying to scam just enough money to make it to the next rave. But to answer your question directly, the toxicology report was consistent with what we saw.”
“I don’t see anything.”
“Hold on. Give it another minute,” he said.
It look less than a minute. The victim turned away to talk to another girl. In the blink of an eye, Dillon slipped his hand into his shirt pocket and ran his fingers across her drink.
“Replay that again.”
“It’s quick, isn’t it?” Nick said as Stan fumbled with the phone buttons to back up the video a few frames. “It’s like Dillon is some type of David Copperfield magician.”
Stan finally rewound the video about twenty seconds and hit play. “Right there.” He froze the frame just after Dillon moved his fingers above her plastic cup.
I leaned in closer. “I think I see something small dropping in the cup, but I can’t be sure.”
“That’s what started the video forensics. The techies were able to enhance the video on a few frames. On those, it’s just about a certainty he dropped in a pill.”
“Toxicology proved that, you said?”
“The technical name is… Go ahead, Nick. You can pronounce it better than I
can.”
“Flunitrazepam. Also known as Rohypnol, or a Roofie.”
Stan flipped a thumb toward Nick. “Yeah, that’s what they found.”
The video continued playing, and after another couple of minutes, Dillon and the girl walked off with her hand inside the back pocket of his jeans and his arm draped over her shoulder. They looked like they were high school sweethearts. But he was twice her age. I was already creeped out.
“Where did you say this was?”
“A metal barn off the highway between here and San Marcos.”
“Do you know the ages of the people in attendance? Dillon looks young for his age, but still...”
“College age, generally. But the vic is only sixteen, so it’s apparent they weren’t checking IDs at the door,” Stan said.
I recalled Ross bragging how they could prove Dillon’s innocence. “Exactly how does it happen that Dillon was there, but supposedly wasn’t? I mean, you can see him right there.”
“You know lawyers. Ross could deny the sky was blue while staring right at it. He actually kept it vague, saying they couldn’t afford to tip their hand on their defense strategy, in light of the DA’s office jumping to conclusions.”
“What other conclusion could be drawn after watching that video?” I asked as much to myself as to the Radowski cousins. “Before you guys jump in… Just because he dropped a roofie in the victim’s drink doesn’t mean he raped her. Someone else could have actually assaulted her, right?”
“You’re thinking like a detective again, Ivy,” Stan said with a smile.
“Even like an FBI agent,” Nick added.
“Flattery will get you nowhere,” I said, winking.
Stan’s face then went flat. “There’s more evidence.”
“More than the video?”
“They found…” He paused, leaned over the table and spoke in a quiet voice. “They found hair and blood from the girl inside Dillon’s Porsche.”
“Shut the—”
“I’m not lying. I’m telling you, Ross better start begging for a plea deal or Dillon is going to serve some serious time.”
With Dillon’s guilt even more certain, why did I feel compelled to follow through on the task Pudge and I had discussed earlier?
Because I still wasn’t sure who the real Dillon Burchfield was.
33
I had a couple of hours before I was to meet Pudge, so I first dropped by the mansion to check on Emma. She and Cristina were having a blast attempting to make cookies. The kitchen was a mess and so were they. I was forced to eat one of their experiments. I had to clamp my mouth shut so I wouldn’t regurgitate it. But I smiled nonetheless. I told Cristina I had a new case come in for ECHO so she wouldn’t ask too many questions, and I headed back out the door.
About thirty minutes later, I arrived at my destination on the west side of San Antonio. A dog barked with little energy, its sound bouncing around the courtyard of the dilapidated apartment complex. Trampled weeds and half-buried rocks were in the center of the rectangular opening, surrounding a rusted jungle gym with exposed screws and multiple metal bars swaying in the strong southerly breeze. The U-shaped complex was six stories high, but other than a few pieces of clothing dangling off wires from patios with fences that had been dismembered, the place looked abandoned. Even worse.
I stood at the edge of the weeds and rechecked the address that Cristina had shared with me, the last known location for her mother. I was in the right place. I looked toward the west side of the complex where the sun had just dipped below the top of the building. I looked three floors up, trying to find 313. It was hard to find any of the outside-facing doors with all three numbers on them. This would require a lot of door knocking and a little bit of luck to find Momma Lena.
As I crossed the so-called children’s play area, I spotted numerous broken needles, cracked bongs, and other drug paraphernalia. How this place hadn’t been shut down was one of San Antonio’s greatest mysteries. I found the staircase and started climbing. A baby wailed from one of the nearby apartments. Was the baby hungry or hurt, or maybe just waking up from a nap? I continued climbing the concrete steps, but I could feel a pang of guilt rippling through my veins. My instinct was to knock on every door until I could find the baby and ensure the parent or guardian wasn’t mistreating the child.
You can’t save every person every minute of the day, Ivy.
A moment later, as if someone were reading my thoughts, the baby’s crying stopped. I looked through the gap in the stairs and saw a woman’s face for just an instant before she disappeared behind a stained curtain.
I sensed distrust, and fear. This place might not have seen a lot of outsiders walking into their complex. And I would have bet all of my savings that drug deals were commonplace. And with drug deals came addicts and more crime.
As I made my way to the second floor, I overheard men speaking Spanish. The voices were animated, if not angry. I could sense another spike of tension form in my back. I clutched my purse tighter and felt the barrel of my Luger against my ribs. On the third floor, a door opened and a little kid with ratty hair and a jelly-covered mouth peeked through the opening. His hollow eyes spoke volumes. I took a couple of steps down the walkway, and he slammed the door shut.
Apparently, the complex didn’t have a formal welcoming committee.
Using the process of elimination, I ruled out the first eight apartments—none of the doors had all three numbers, 3-1-3. I made it to the end of the walkway and realized there was an apartment tucked in a small cove off to the right. I shuffled in that direction, while glancing over my shoulder. A door opened at the opposite end, and a short man in a wifebeater gave me the once-over and then slowly closed his door.
More fear. Or was he trying to intimidate me?
I put my ear to door 313—the last digit was hanging upside down—and I didn’t hear a thing. I knocked twice, and the sound of the hollow door surprised me. I heard footfalls and they weren’t petite.
And then silence.
I knocked three more times. No response. Someone was on the other side of the door. If it wasn’t Lena, maybe the person could tell me where she was, or wake her from her latest drunken stupor.
I counted to twenty, and then I knocked five times with the side of my fist—an indication that I wasn’t going away until this person opened the door and talked to me.
More silence.
A wave of heat rode up my spine. I was getting pissed. I was about to start kicking the door when I heard a lock turn. The door opened, and my eyes moved upward in order to face the tall, thin man who had opened the door.
“Yeah, what do you want?” His nose looked like a flattened mushroom on the end of a crooked branch.
“I’m looking for a Lena Tafoya. Is she here?”
“Not here.” He began to shut the door. Without thinking, I pushed my arm against the door.
“What in the hell do you think you’re trying to do?”
“I have a few more questions, if that’s okay.”
He shook his head. “Woman, you’re already in a place you don’t belong. If you’re smart, you’ll turn around and get your pretty blond ass out of here before the sun sets. After that, you’ve got no hope.” He chuckled, as if he were imagining what might happen to me. He made me nervous, but I wasn’t about to show it. This was about Cristina’s life, not my annoying issues with perverted men. Or at least one perverted man. Okay, all perverted men.
“It will only take a minute, I promise. I’ll give you twenty bucks.” I realized he could probably steal my purse without me putting up a very good fight. And if I tried to remove my pistol, then things would most likely spiral out of control. I took the chance that twenty bucks meant something to him and that he wasn’t looking to beat up a woman just for the fun of it.
He wiped his face, and his beak actually moved. “Okay, just a few questions.” He stood back, and I walked directly into a living room. A foul odor invaded my senses. I looked left
to a tiny kitchen and saw a swarm of flies buzzing over stacks of pots and pans in the sink.
He shut the door and held out his hand. The ends of his fingers were red, and the skin was peeling. Angling my purse to where only I could see inside, I pulled out a twenty-dollar bill and handed it to him. He stuffed it in his pocket, then sniffed a couple of times.
“I already told you, I don’t know nothing about Lena.” He began to open the door.
“I just gave you twenty bucks.”
“What else can I answer? If I don’t know nothing about Lena, then that ends it.”
“I get two more questions,” I said, crossing my arms.
“Okay, get on with it. I’m busy.”
I glanced around the apartment. I saw a table on the other side of the kitchen covered with newspapers and small baggies.
“Are you a friend of Lena’s or are you related to her?” I asked.
“Kind of related. Next.”
“Part of the same question. How?”
He pursed his chapped lips and then scratched at his forearm. “My name is Clyde. I’m Jesse’s half-brother.”
I felt a sting at the base of my skull. I pulled at my ponytail, trying not to show my discomfort with his name being brought up.
“You know him?” he asked.
“I’ve never had the chance to meet him.”
“Well, you won’t.” I followed his eyes downward where I saw two feet as big as flippers. “I came into town to ID the body. They, uh, couldn’t find his…you know, Lena. Did you know he was dead?”
“I heard that, yes.”
“What’s your name?”
“Are you going to pay me twenty bucks? Just kidding. My name is Ivy.”
He nodded as his eyes seemed to undress me. I took a couple of steps into the living room, attempting to put some space between us.
“Why are you asking questions about Lena?”
“I’m a friend of her daughter’s. She’s looking for her mom.”
I saw his eyes shift. Did he think I was after his drug stash?
The Ivy Nash Thrillers: Books 1-3: Redemption Thriller Series 7-9 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set) Page 65
