The Good Son: A Suspense Thriller (A Reed & Billie Novel Book 2)

by Dustin Stevens

  “Victim’s name is Ira Soto,” McMichaels said, consulting a small wire-bound notebook. “From what we can tell, she lives alone, and somehow managed to call 911 while committing suicide in her garage.”

  Reed knew from just the single statement why they had called and asked for him by name. The location was different, the MO was different, but the similarity with the calls was just too great to ignore.

  Somebody wanted these women found, and fast. Why, Reed didn’t know, the possible reasons still too numerous to peg. For the time being he would refrain from speculation, careful not to jump to any false conclusions.

  “Alright, let’s take a look,” Reed said, shifting his attention to Billie. “Stay.”

  On cue, Billie lowered her backside to the ground. She kept her head raised, her body stiff like on onyx Sphinx.

  Jacobs and McMichaels both stared at Reed’s partner as she took their place guarding the crime scene.

  The garage was designed to hold two cars, though only one spot was filled, a ’80s model Buick that looked much newer than its age would suggest, obviously well-maintained and much-loved. The rest of the garage was filled with assorted odds and ends - gardening tools, an artificial Christmas tree, a Shop-Vac and boxes that probably hadn’t been opened in years, if not decades.

  Reed made a quick circle around the Buick. The windows were clean and non-tinted, making it easy to see Ira Soto seated on the front seat, her head hanging to the side, her unusually red tongue extending out of her mouth.

  Two of the windows were closed tight, strips of duct tape sealing the edges. The driver’s window was shattered, the tape hanging loose, from the officers breeching some time before.

  The rear driver’s side window was cracked less than an inch, just enough space for a length of green garden hose to pass through. Like the others, silver duct tape had been used to the seal the gap.

  The opposite end of the hose snaked around the edge of the car, Reed following it to the exhaust pipe jutting from the undercarriage. A coil of duct tape had been wrapped around the end of the pipe to secure the hose, making sure all fumes were funneled straight into the car.

  “Damn,” Reed muttered. He stood back and assessed the scene before him, crossing his arms over his chest. Inside the garage the heat was well above 90 degrees, his skin again damp with sweat.

  “Who called it in?” he asked.

  “Don’t know,” McMichaels said. “Another anonymous 911 caller.”

  “Male or female?” Reed asked.

  “Not sure,” Jacobs replied. “Dispatch just said we had an attempted suicide.”

  Reed nodded, not expecting them to have an answer, content that he could get a copy of the recording easily enough the next day.

  “How long had she been here when you arrived?” Reed asked.

  “Don’t know that either,” McMichaels said, “but she was long gone, even more so than last night.”

  “How much hell you catch from everybody standing outside?” Reed asked.

  “Not as bad,” McMichaels replied. “The one EMT was a dick, but everybody else was okay.”

  “I think the firefighters are just pissed their game of basketball got interrupted,” Jacobs said. “Damn waste of taxpayer money that they get sent out every time somebody calls 911.”

  The comments drew a nod of agreement from Reed as he removed a pair of gloves from the back pocket of his jeans and opened the driver’s side door. Lingering exhaust fumes greeted him, mixed with the growing smell of Ira Soto’s body.

  “Should have smelled it when we first cracked the thing open,” Jacobs added. “I damn near vomited.”

  Seeing Ira Soto up close for the first time, she looked to be in her mid-to-late 60s and in reasonably good shape, much like Esther Rosen, though the similarities ended there. Her skin was the color of dark chocolate, and her feet barely reached the pedals of the car. Her hair was silver, framing her face in tight curls.

  “Did you guys move her?” Reed asked.

  “Just to check the vitals,” McMichaels said.

  Reed only response was a grunt as he knelt and stared at the body, wondering if an attempt had been made to resuscitate her as well. If the carbon monoxide had been what killed her, or if the scene was merely staged to look like a suicide.

  Until Earl and his team arrived, there were only more questions adding to the growing pile, with no clear answers anywhere on the horizon.

  “Hey, Reed,” Jacobs said, pulling Reed from his thoughts.

  “Yeah?”

  “You might want to step outside here. Your, um, partner seems to be onto something.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Reed knew the pose, having seen it dozens of times over the preceding months. Billie had alerted on something and stood tense, waiting for his command.

  Remembering his own training, Reed stepped out wide and approached her from the side, making sure he was visible in her periphery. He came to her in a steady pace, bending to take up the lead from the ground.

  “What happened?” Jacobs asked, uncertainty in his tone.

  “She’s picked up something,” Reed said. “Must have been a breeze that carried a scent to her.”

  Neither man commented further as he got himself into position, Billie shifting slightly on her haunches, making it clear she would explode forward at the sound of his command.

  “Search.”

  The word was barely out before Billie bolted forward, going from stationary to a full sprint in a second. The movement was so fast Reed let go of the lead, saving her neck and his shoulder both injury. He could hear McMichaels and Jacobs both gasp as he ran after her, cutting a path for the opposite corner of the yard.

  The sudden burst of energy ended abruptly, no more than 25 yards from its starting point. There Billie stood in front of a short bush, her head extended, her body a flat line from the tip of her nose to her tail. She held the pose, waiting, as Reed raced forward, coming up behind her and placing a hand along her neck.

  “Good,” he said. “Down.”

  Her attention still aimed on the bush, Billie went to her haunches. There she remained as Reed removed a penlight from his belt and held it up, peeling back just enough branches to get a good look at what Billie had found.

  “You good?” Jacobs called, the sound of his voice indicating neither man had come any closer.

  Reed rose to full height and turned to look at them. “Apparently, Ira Soto had a dog. Looks like a dachshund mix of some sort.”

  Reed waited as the men approached, holding the light over the deceased animal, a few flies just beginning to buzz around its head.

  “Probably a barker,” Reed said, allowing each man to take a look. “Killer got rid of it before it drew too much attention.”

  Once each of the officers had their fill, Reed leaned in close, taking another look.

  The animal was small, shaped like an oversized eggplant. It weighed no more than 10 or 12 pounds, cleared the ground by a few inches. The top part of its head looked to have been caved in with some sort of blunt object. Just a few spots of blood dotted the gravel beneath it, indicating it had probably been killed in the yard and hidden beneath the bush.

  “Mark it for the crime scene guys,” Reed said, allowing the branch to swing back into place.

  Billie remained in position as he swung his light past the bush and inched his way forward, sweeping it along the outside of the property. His lower back ached and sweat dripped from the tip of his nose as he made the corner and started to work his way along the edge near the alley.

  Halfway across the back of the property he found what he was looking for, a chunk of limestone roughly the size of a soda can. Lying along the edge of the alley, it melded seamlessly with the chunks of misshapen asphalt piled beside it, the thick smear of blood along its edge the only thing giving it away.

  With his gloved hand, Reed lifted it from the ground, using only his thumb and forefinger, careful to avoid the dried blood on it.

 
“Can one of you bring me an evidence bag?” Reed said, raising his voice to be heard.

  Behind him he could hear movement before Jacobs appeared in his periphery, peeling away an evidence bag from a thin roll in his hand. “You don’t think that thing will really hold a fingerprint, do you?”

  “No,” Reed said, “but it will definitely hold a scent.” He dropped his voice and snapped, “Come.”

  Forgetting her recent discovery, Billie bolted past Jacobs to Reed. Holding the rock out for her, Reed allowed her to work her way around his fingers, drawing in deep hits of the scent without actually touching it.

  After several seconds she pulled back, letting him know she was prepared.

  Reed dropped the rock into the evidence bag in Jacob’s hand before taking up the lead from the ground again.

  “Search.”

  Much slower than the previous time, Billie began to move across the grass of the backyard, swinging her nose in wide passes. Using a sweeping motion, she worked her way forward until finding what she was looking for, her entire demeanor shifting as she zeroed in on the scent.

  A charge passed through her as she set off in a direct path, propelling Reed across the back of the property and out through the alley.

  Raising his pace to a jog, Reed did his best to allow her a few inches of slack as she worked her way through the alley. At the end of it she hooked a hard left, following the sidewalk for more than two blocks.

  There the trail went cold, Billie turning in several quick circles, trying to pick it up again, before dropping down to her backside and staring up at Reed, letting him know that the scent was gone.

  “Good girl,” Reed said, clicking on the penlight and passing it over the ground. Three feet from the curb was a small puddle of condensation on the pavement, the spot still damp despite the evening heat.

  “This is where he parked,” Reed muttered, turning and shining his light back the way they had come. “He pulled off here, covered the last few blocks on foot, walked right back out and drove away.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Good Son let the sack of feed slip from his shoulder, falling almost six feet to the concrete floor, two sounds emitting in unison as it hit.

  A loud concussive blast from the heavy weight hitting the ground, and the skittering of dog food pellets across the polished floor.

  Raising his face to the ceiling, The Good Son clenched his jaw to keep from cursing out loud. Despite feeling the stares of nearby customers, he held the pose, feeling the burning sting of sweat as it dripped down his forehead and into his eyes.

  He didn’t need this right now. Time was running short, and two failed attempts in a row had him on edge.

  If not for the fact that his paycheck was depended on, he would walk out and never return. He would focus his attention where it was best served, making certain that the next encounter did not end in disaster.

  It couldn’t. There was no telling how many more chances he might have.

  “Jesus, what did you do this time?”

  The voice was nasal, pinched and raspy, raising The Good Son’s hostility even higher. He scrunched his cheeks tight and curled his hands up into fists, despite his left hand hurting like hell. He waited until pops of light appeared behind his eyelids and his fingernails dug into his palms before releasing the tension and turning to the source of the statement.

  “I asked you a question,” the voice said.

  Opening his eyes, The Good Son saw his supervisor standing at the end of the aisle. In true form he had stopped more than 10 feet away, far enough back that he had to raise his voice, making sure that everyone within earshot heard, making even more certain that he wouldn’t have to lift a finger to help clean things up.

  “Sorry, Mr. Beauregard,” The Good Son murmured. “It slid off my shoulder.”

  Pressing his fists into his hips, Beauregard leaned in a few inches. The overhead lights shined off of the thin black hair plastered flat to his skull, and his stomach protruded well beyond his belt buckle.

  “It slid?” he said, no small amount of disbelief in his voice. “Just like that?”

  The Good Son allowed his abhorrence for the man to cross his face, leaving it there long enough for his point to be made. “Yes. It is hot back here, my arms were sweaty. I’ll get it cleaned up right now.”

  Customers nearby saw the interaction, heard the flint in his voice, all pretending to browse the shelves. Every few seconds he could sense them glancing over, curious to see how Beauregard would handle the situation.

  For his part, The Good Son kept his gaze leveled on the man, almost daring him to do something.

  Finally, Beauregard nodded, the heavy rolls along the underside of his neck bunched together, the skin slick with sweat. “Yeah, you do that. And that bag is coming out of your paycheck, too.”

  There was no outward reaction from The Good Son as Beauregard disappeared back down the aisle. He remained rooted in place, staring at the spot his pudgy boss had just stood in for more than a minute before moving again.

  Hate was not an emotion The Good Son was used to. His situation simply wouldn’t allow it. For years he had disciplined himself to push it all aside, to turn the other cheek, to do whatever was necessary to ensure he remained a good person. Doing so was the only way he would ever make it, his only chance given the situation he was in.

  Recent events, though, were making it difficult. The clock was continuing to tick, time dwindling away. Adding to it were the multiple missteps he had committed, things that were not only unthinkable but had failed to achieve their goals.

  He was an idiot. He didn’t deserve to be trusted with such an important task. If there was anybody else, anybody at all, who could handle things, the responsibility would have already been passed to them.

  Instead, there was only him, and he wasn’t getting it done.

  The only thing he had managed to do successfully thus far was silence a dog.

  The thoughts swirled in his head like a twisted kaleidoscope as The Good Son lifted the tail of his shirt and wiped the sweat from his face before looking down at the kibble spread on the floor around him.

  He was making a mess of everything in his life right now.

  It had to stop.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Five hours after bedding down, Reed was back up again. After spending the previous half year on night shift, sleeping during the day was not a problem. The norm was to punch out around 6:00 in the morning, swing by the precinct to drop off reports and answer a few questions, before heading home.

  By 7:00, he was heading opposite the incoming traffic into the city.

  A half-hour later he fed Billie and let her out a final time before both crashed for a good day’s sleep.

  Most days they slept until sometime in the early afternoon. Rarely did Reed have an appointment that needed tending to during business hours, his only alarm clock, Billie, alerting him she was either hungry or needed to go out, sometimes both.

  It was a schedule that fit them both. Reed was a creature of habit, having retreated to nocturnal hours after the passing of Riley. At the time it had been a sort of self-imposed isolation, but once his guilt slowly ebbed away, he found himself liking the change.

  Compared to the nonstop bustle of daytime hours, Reed found the relative solitude of the overnight shift liberating. The streets weren’t loaded with angry drivers, and there were never any lines at the few establishments he did go to.

  Now that he was lead on a case, though, his presence was required during normal working hours. Despite spending the last two nights at crime scenes, he was still forced to interact with the world, made to comply with the schedules of others to accomplish what he needed to.

  The sound of the alarm clock going off on his nightstand was an audible assault on his senses, pulling him from a deep sleep. His first reaction was to lash out with his right arm, slapping the button across the top of the machine, forcing the wretched sound to stop. In the wake of it, he la
y sprawled across the sheets, a sheen of sweat on his skin despite the air conditioning in the house.

  It was not yet noon, easily the earliest he had been awake during the week since the last case he’d handled more than a month before.

  Rolling out of bed to his feet, Reed drew himself up to full height, locking his fingers and stretching them high overhead. One after another the vertebrae of his back popped, followed in order by his shoulders and hips.

  If this is what happened to his body at 35, he feared what 40, or even 50, might one day bring.

  Opting only for a pair of gym shorts, he shuffled through the house, his bare feet almost silent on the hardwood floors. As he stopped just inside the doorway to the kitchen, a pair of moist half-moons stared up at him from beneath the table.

  “Keep sleeping, girl,” Reed said. “You’ve still got a little time yet.”

  Her eyes opened slightly at the sound of his voice, though she made no effort to raise herself from the floor. Inches to her left was the overstuffed dog bed he had purchased for her during the winter, the option cast aside whenever the mercury rose above a comfortable temperature.

  Leaving her there, Reed walked over and turned on the sink. He allowed the water to cool before cupping his hands beneath it, drinking the first two scoops and then splashing the third on his face. The feel of it against his skin pulled him from his foggy haze, another pass through the process finally bringing his senses fully alert.

  Wiping himself dry with a hand towel, Reed walked over to the kitchen table and lowered himself into a hardback chair, his bottom settling onto a well-worn cushion. There he spread out the assorted files he had, everything amassed thus far for Esther Rosen and what little he had for Ira Soto.

  Starting with the coroner’s report, Reed flipped the top file open and rifled through it, refreshing what Solomon had outlined for him the previous day. Aside from the fractured sternum and the fibers found in her throat, nothing really seemed to jump out at him, the woman in good health for someone her age. No drugs of any sort were found in her system, whether ingested herself or forced upon her by a killer. No signs of a struggle of any kind, her body free of bruising, her nails without a single crack or trace of skin residue.