Drawing Dead (A Chase Adams FBI Thriller Book 3)

by Patrick Logan

  Chase walked back to her chair and slumped in it, rubbing her temples.

  “Everyone involved in this thing seems so damn shady, but nobody has a motive,” she said.

  “They all had the universal motive, Chase: cash,” Stitts said.

  Chase shrugged.

  “I guess,” she said, picturing Mike Hartman’s bloody face in her mind. “Just seems like overkill. We’ve got eleven dead people, anywhere between twelve and fifteen million dollars missing, and a killer who vanished into thin air.”

  “Killers,” Stitts said. Chase raised an eyebrow and Stitts continued, “when I spoke to the manager, he said they. As in they got away.”

  They sat in silence for several seconds before Stitts got to his feet.

  “I need a smoke,” he said, before turning to Greg. “Wait, back in the elevators at The Emerald, you said something about your contact compiling information about Mike Hartman’s family?”

  Greg nodded.

  “Yeah, not sure if it means anything, but Mike Hartman’s father, Harry Hartman, used to be a dealer at The Emerald.”

  “Seriously? Harry Hartman?” Chase said. “Yeesh.”

  Her comment went ignored.

  “And? Does he still work there?”

  Greg turned his attention to his phone for a moment before answering.

  “Nope. Died about six months ago. Heart attack. Actually happened on casino property.”

  Chase’s interest was peaked.

  “Anything else?”

  “Nope… wait, only that his father used to deal at some of these private poker games.”

  Stitts’s eyes narrowed.

  “Let me guess, he was one of Shane McDuff’s favorites.”

  Greg shrugged.

  “No record of that here. And no record of when the last private game was held, either.”

  “What do you mean, no record? Shane admitted to holding other games, he was just lying about not remembering when the last one took place.”

  “I’ll have my contact keep digging.”

  Chase’s phone buzzed in her pocket, and she pulled it out. There was a single text message from ATM again.

  Another game — tomorrow 10 AM, two-million-dollar buy-in. The Emerald.

  Chase felt a knot in her stomach.

  Already? How the hell can they be so brazen?

  “Good. Also, I asked the manager for footage outside his office before and after the murders, but he was reluctant. See if you can get your guy to come up with that.” Stitts tapped his chin. “One more thing, I’m not ready to give up on this food service cart thing just yet. See if you can get video footage of where it came from, its path from the kitchen to the room.”

  Greg agreed.

  “Chase, you think we should bring in the manager? The window washer, if we can find him?”

  Another game… the killers wouldn’t dare striking another game, not so soon, would they? But if Stitts is right and the only motive is money…

  “Chase?”

  One thing was for certain; if they did strike again, Chase wanted to be there.

  “Chase? Earth to Chase.”

  Chase snapped out of her head and looked up, staring across the room at Stitts.

  “Yeah? What is it?”

  “I asked if you think that we should bring in the window washer and the manager and grill them a little.”

  Chase shook her head.

  “No, not quite yet. Let’s just keep an eye on them for now until we have more to go on.”

  And if they’re involved, I don’t want to tip them off that we know about this new game.

  Chapter 34

  “You can’t be serious, Chase,” Stitts said. “I mean, you didn’t even tell me what the hell Stu Barnes said the first time you went to go meet him.”

  The last thing Chase wanted to do was lie to her partner again, but she didn’t see any other way out of this. If she told him what she was really planning on doing, Stitts would almost certainly intervene. And based on how far she’d already pushed him, she wasn’t sure to what lengths he might go to stop her.

  For a moment, Chase was back in her shitty apartment in Quantico, holding her psych and medical evaluations, both of which she’d failed, and Stitts was standing before her.

  You have two choices, Chase… got to prison or go to rehab.

  At the time, she’d been certain that he wouldn’t let her go to prison, but now, she wasn’t so sure.

  It’s for his own good, she told herself.

  Another lie, of course.

  It was for her own good.

  “Stu just texted me and said there’s been some chatter about a new player who wants a high stake game, having just come into some money.”

  It was a shitty lie, but she hoped that Stitts knew so little about how the poker scene worked, especially when it came to private games and hrers, that he might go for it.

  The man’s face underwent a series of changes then, shifting from what was clearly anger, to something else. Something she couldn’t quite place.

  “And this guy… this investor, Stu Barnes? He wants to meet you tonight?”

  Chase shook her head.

  “No, not tonight. Tomorrow, sometime. Morning. But right now… right now, Stitts, I need some sleep. I’m fucking tired.”

  And hungover. And ashamed. And guilty.

  “Should I get my own room?” she asked.

  Stitts sighed and at that moment, Chase knew that she had him.

  “I’ve already arranged rooms for us at a hotel off the strip,” he said dejectedly.

  Rooms; plural. That was good. That was better.

  “All right, send me the address,” Chase said as she made her way to the door.

  Stitts rubbed his eyes and then eventually nodded. For what felt like the thousandth time, Chase wondered why he was doing this, why the man was willing to risk everything for her, someone who, in reality, he barely knew.

  Guilt caused her solar plexus to clench, but she forced it down into the pit of her stomach with the rest of her emotions.

  “I’ll take you there,” Stitts offered.

  When Chase started to shake her head, Stitts snapped at her.

  “For fuck’s sake, Chase! Let me do that at least. I’ll take you to the hotel, check us in, then I’ll be out of your fucking hair, if that’s what you want.”

  Chase eyed him suspiciously and then looked over her shoulder at Greg, who was pretending not to listen, but clearly was.

  Stitts lowered his gaze.

  “Please,” he said quietly. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

  Chase couldn’t tell if this was just a ploy to keep an eye on her, but she couldn’t see how she could wriggle her way out of this one. She was about to agree when someone appeared at the door, red-faced and out of breath.

  The man didn’t even bother knocking, and it took a moment for Chase to realize who it was. It seemed like they’d met months ago, even though it had been less than a day when he’d offered his office to them.

  “Hey, FBI guys, I need your help,” Sgt. Theodore said. “We need a profile on this bomber.”

  Stitts and Chase exchanged looks before the latter shrugged.

  “That’s your domain, Stitts. Looks like I’ll be going to the hotel by myself after all.”

  ***

  The hotel was also a lie, she had no intention of heading there, at least not quite yet. Despite everything that had happened, there was one thing that nagged her most of all, something that she just couldn’t seem to get out of her head.

  She needed to know; she needed to know if she could see. And the only place she could do that was at the morgue.

  A simple Google search revealed where it was, and her FBI badge got her in the door. Claiming to need to see Mike Hartman’s body again for the case, the tech, who seemed equally enamored by Chase as he was her badge, didn’t hesitate in taking her to the room.

  The smell of antiseptic in the room was strong and it ca
used her tired eyes to start watering immediately upon entering. The room itself was much larger than the one she’d visited in Alaska, but the sensation Chase experienced was the same: a heaviness to the air, a stillness that could only be had in death.

  “Mike Hartman’s body is near the back,” the man said, pointing toward a row of lockers that flanked the rear wall. “Everything is arranged by name, but I should warn you that the victim’s mother? Well, she’s a real fucking treat, let me tell you — pardon my French.”

  Chase thanked the man and when he was gone, she moved toward the lockers he’d indicated. As she did, her thoughts turned to the woman, Ms. Hartman, with her rheumy eyes and raw nose. The way she’d been so adamant about her son’s watch had been strange, but everything about this case was strange.

  Chase’s eyes homed in on the label with Mike Hartman’s name written on it in bold letters.

  Her hand hesitated before opening the locker, however.

  What happens if I open this box, touch his skin, and nothing happens? Even now, hungover as shit, what am I going to do if nothing happens?

  Chase took a deep, shuddering breath.

  That wasn’t the only problem, of course. Perhaps even more frightening was the prospect of what she would do if something did happen.

  Don’t be such a pussy, she scolded herself. Open the door.

  Imbued with a false sense of courage and a lack of good sense, Chase did just that.

  Chapter 35

  Stitts was so angry that he could barely see straight. He thought that if he rescued Chase the way he had and got back on board, that should be more amenable to his rules. To their rules, to the rules that applied to the FBI and every other citizen living in the United States of America.

  If anything, she was more obstinate now than she had been before.

  And Stitts was pretty sure she was using, too. Maybe not the hard stuff, not yet, but he’d seen this before with someone else that he loved dearly. If she continued down this path, it was only a matter of time before she slipped back into her heroin addiction. And how long after that would he be called to her house only to find her with lipstick on her cheek giving away her things to some punks on the street?

  For his mother, it had taken more than a decade. With Chase, he feared that he’d be identifying her corpse long before that happened.

  And now this. This bullshit; being dragged into another case that he wanted nothing to do with.

  “I can give you a preliminary profile if you let me have the case files for a few hours,” he snarled. “But that’s all I can do. You’ve only given me one guy, my partner is exhausted, and I have eleven dead bodies with no suspects. And what’ve you got? A couple of cherry bombs going off in sensitive locations with no injuries.”

  Sgt. Theodore said nothing; he just led them to a conference room on the second floor.

  “The files, sergeant, I need the—”

  Stitts stopped when he saw that conference room was packed with people. He picked out Duane and Josh, as well as other ATF and DoD agents. The rest of the room was full of uniformed officers.

  “I—I need some time,” he said, his anger fading. “I need time to put together a profile. You need to give me the files so that I can sketch it out.”

  Sgt. Theodore shook his head.

  “We don’t have time. This is escalating and before we know it, we’re going to have some dead bodies on our hands.”

  “Dead bodies? Dead bodies? We already have dead bodies… eleven of them. All you’ve got is a few broken windows.”

  Sgt. Theodore grabbed his arm and spun him around.

  “I invited you guys, the FBI, to Las Vegas to help. And that’s what I need now: help,” the man hissed.

  Stitts narrowed his eyes and glared at the sergeant’s hand that gripped his upper forearm.

  “Let go of my arm,” he said in a calm, flat voice.

  Seeing the look in his eyes, the sergeant released his grip and took a step back.

  “I’m sorry,” Sgt. Theodore grumbled. “Just under so much pressure to close this goddamn thing.”

  And to get your promotion to lieutenant, the one that you were on track for before you fucked up during the Village shooting, Stitts thought, recalling what Greg had told him back at The Emerald. That’s what this is really about.

  Stitts wanted to tell the man to fuck off, but he knew that it wouldn’t be long before this got back to Quantico and Director Hampton. And given the trajectory of their own investigation, and Chase’s problems, he had the sneaking suspicion that they might need the director on their side in the future.

  In the near future.

  Stitts swallowed his pride and took a deep breath.

  “You got two bombs, one outside Planned Parenthood the other at a church that supported gay rights?”

  The sergeant nodded.

  “Yeah, the church is known as the Queer Jesus Church or something like that.”

  Stitts looked at the room full of expectant agents and started to think that maybe this distraction would be a good thing. Perhaps an easy profile such as this one was just what he needed to take his mind off things, give him a new perspective on his own case. Worst case scenario, he would establish some credibility with Theodore and his men in the rare event that they needed them in the future.

  But if he grabs me like that again…

  “All right, lead me inside.”

  Sgt. Theodore made his way toward the door and pulled it wide, and all eyes were suddenly on FBI Agent Jeremy Stitts.

  “This is the FBI profiler I was telling you about,” the sergeant said in a booming voice. “And he’s here to help us. Agent Stitts?”

  Chapter 36

  Michael Hartman was paler than Chase remembered him, which was the result of having been laid out on a refrigerated slab for the last 24 hours or so. And yet, in some ways, he was the exact same, despite the fact that he had been stripped naked. Rather than touch the man right away, Chase observed his wounds — the bullet holes in his chest, his face which had been reduced to the bloody mess, his hands and fingers that had been chewed ragged by glass. The tattoo on his right forearm of the sparrow that his mother had used to identify him.

  Chase swallowed hard and closed her eyes. She tried to picture the scene in which she found the man, lying behind the bar, his hand still wrapped around a shattered tequila bottle.

  Do it, Chase. Touch him.

  Chase’s eyes snapped open and she reached out and grabbed the man’s wrists just above the tattoo.

  Then she inhaled sharply.

  She could feel the texture of Mike’s skin, which was drier than a living person’s, and also the prickle of recently shaved hairs.

  But that was all she felt, all she saw. Chase closed her eyes again and redoubled her concentration. She envisioned the food service cart being rolled into the room, a man leaping out, spraying the room with automatic gunfire. Bullets lodging into furniture, the walls, shattering the windows.

  Chase tried so hard that she eventually saw stars.

  And yet these weren’t visions; they were only the stirrings of her imagination, which quickly evaporated like drops of water in a scalding cast iron pan.

  She opened her eyes and gripped Mike’s wrist so hard that her fingers started to ache.

  “Come on, show me what you see,” she pleaded through gritted teeth.

  Still nothing happened. Chase wasn’t transported elsewhere, she didn’t get that sense of vertigo and nausea that came with her visions — she felt nothing. Nothing, aside from cold, dead flesh.

  “Fuck!”

  Chase let go of the man’s arm and it smacked loudly on the metal tray, a sound that echoed in the otherwise silent room.

  Still nothing.

  With a sharp intake of breath, she touched his abdomen with two fingers right near one of the bullet holes.

  When that didn’t inspire any visions, Chase went back to his wrist again.

  Sweating now, Chase rolled the body
into the locker, only she shoved it too hard and it banged back open again. One of Mike’s legs slipped off the gurney, and she was forced to flip it back on. After closing the locker more gently this time, she looked around the room.