The Scarlett Bell FBI Series

by Dan Padavona

  The radio crackled.

  “Gardy?”

  She picked it up and replied to Haggleston.

  “This is Bell.”

  A hesitation.

  “Where’s Agent Gardy? Everything okay up there?”

  “He’s gonna grab Hayward.”

  “Sweet Jesus. What the hell is he planning?”

  Bell peered over the window ledge. The night seemed darker as though a black veil cloaked the moon.

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  The back door clicked shut. Footsteps, too many for one person, swished through the kitchen and into the dining room. A muffled yelp, the sound of someone gagged.

  Bell’s hand crept to her hip. Removed the Glock-22.

  She abandoned her post and slid toward the attic door. Back against the wall as she peeked around the corner.

  Bell released her breath as Gardy led Hayward up the stairs, one hand cupped over the reporter’s mouth. They reached the second floor when Gardy cried out and shoved Hayward against the wall. Bell burst down the stairs, the gun fixed on the reporter.

  “The son of a bitch bit me.”

  Hayward’s face scrunched against the wall, lips puckered and petulant.

  “I couldn’t breathe, dammit. You can’t do this. I know my rights.”

  “Right now I don’t give a rat’s ass about your rights. If you blow our cover and the killer gets away, I’ll make your life a living hell, Hayward.”

  “I’d like to see you try.”

  Hayward’s laugh morphed into a pained yelp when Gardy shoved his head against the wall.

  “Easy, Gardy.” Bell spoke into the radio. “We’ve got Hayward.”

  Bell holstered her weapon and grabbed the agent’s arm. Ignoring her, Gardy pressed harder.

  “How would you like an FBI agent to trail you everywhere you go? Try nailing an undercover story with a shadow behind you.”

  “That’s harassment. Our lawyers—”

  “Screw your lawyers. Two women dead. I’ll hold your ass responsible if you scared the killer off.”

  As Bell moved between the two men, an idea occurred to her.

  “Wait a second,” Bell said, pulling harder on her partner’s arm. “How did you know we were here?”

  Hayward twisted his head toward Bell.

  “How the hell do you think?”

  “Christ, Hayward. You’re stalking us.”

  Hayward wheezed out a laugh and cursed when Gardy twisted Hayward’s arm behind his back.

  “Stalking is such an ugly word. I’m a reporter, Agent Bell, and you are news. And I’m well within my rights.”

  “Except you trespassed again,” Gardy said. “A second offense in two nights won’t look good.”

  Hayward shrugged.

  “Like a horse flicking away flies. You can’t make the charge stick.”

  “Let him go,” Bell told Gardy.

  “Why?”

  “Hayward’s not going anywhere. He can help us.”

  Both men shot her cautious glares. Gardy released Hayward, who clutched his arm and winced.

  “Save it,” Gardy said. “If I wanted to break your arm, I would have.”

  Gardy snapped his fingers in front of Hayward’s face. The reporter cringed.

  Bell shifted in front of Gardy and stared daggers into Hayward. The fat man took an involuntary step backward.

  “How long have you been following me?” No answer. “I spotted you this afternoon. Did you stalk me to the hotel, too?”

  “I don’t have to tell you anything.”

  She reached for the camera, and he snatched it away.

  “If I check your photographs, what will I see? Me gathering evidence across the street. The boardwalk. The park near the police department. Give me the camera.”

  Slowly, Gardy discovered the angle to Bell’s line of questioning.

  “Not without a warrant,” Hayward said.

  Bell stepped closer. Nose-to-nose with Hayward. He butted up against the wall, trapped.

  “You’re a fool. A fool who’s lucky to be alive. You see, Hayward, you’re not the only one stalking me.”

  Hayward glanced between the two agents for clarification. The horror dawned on his face.

  “The killer?”

  Bell nodded.

  “I want those pictures, Hayward.”

  Her demand shook away his trepidation.

  “Never. I captured the photographs legally.”

  “You know the killer is in your camera. Somewhere. Think, Hayward. You could help us catch a serial killer. How’s that for a headline?”

  Hayward’s grin turned wolfish. As quickly as it appeared, it faded.

  “Or what if I keep the photos for myself and show the world why I’m the best investigative reporter in the business? I caught the murderer on camera days before you figured out his identity.”

  Gardy turned away before he did something he’d regret. Bell’s internal fire turned into gray coals. Hayward seemed impenetrable. There was one choice. She could rip the camera from his hands and peruse the images while Gardy restrained the reporter. A dark and risky path fraught with eventual lawsuits. The move would save lives. And harm their careers.

  Another choice existed. Bell chewed on it. She felt nauseous, hollow.

  Hayward swung the camera strap over his shoulder and straightened his back.

  “I’m leaving now. You can’t force me to stay.”

  The reporter moved toward the stairs. Bell lowered her eyes to the floor.

  “Don’t leave yet, Hayward. I have a proposal.”

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED ELEVEN

  Haggleston scowled at the 32-ounce orange cola he’d snagged at the mini-mart before the stakeout. The human body didn’t require this much soft drink even though orange pop qualified as the nectar of the gods. With amusement, Adames watched Haggleston squirm between the front and back seats as if constant motion would empty the older officer’s bladder through cosmic osmosis.

  “Dude, if you gotta go, you gotta go.”

  “Thanks, Einstein. Where?”

  Haggleston was stuck inside a surveillance van with the nearest gas station bathroom a mile away, and Adames grinned at him. Crumbs littered the carpet, and a bag of barbecue potato chips lay on its side with half the contents spilled across the van’s floor.

  “The bushes.”

  Adames bobbed his head at a tiny park nestled between sprawling homes. No. This wasn’t reasonable police behavior. Public urination where children play during the day?

  Haggleston groaned, and a wave sloshed inside his abdomen. This was going from bad to worse.

  “Just go. I’ll keep an eye on the bungalow. It’s not like the killer is gonna show in the next five minutes.”

  “I can’t.”

  Adames huffed and waved his hand in front of his face.

  “You’re polluting the van, Haggleston. I’ll make you a deal. Slip out of the van and make a dash for the park, and I’ll watch your back.”

  “This is a terrible idea.”

  “What’s the alternative? You wanna drive back to the mini-mart while I stakeout the neighborhood behind a hydrangea?”

  “Fine. I’ll do it. But if word gets out…”

  Adames raised his hand in the air—scout’s honor.

  The air turned cool when Haggleston slipped out of the van, typical of January when temperatures sometimes dropped into the forties. He’d grown up in Michigan and knew what real cold was, and this wasn’t it. But two decades working in Florida turned you cold-blooded, and his skin rippled and contracted from the wind snaking down the lane.

  Haggleston stood at the back of the van and peered around the corner. Avoiding the street lamp, he dashed for the curb and stepped through dew-laden grass, his bladder squealing in protest.

  The park was a dark mystery of shapes and shadows. He didn’t notice the swing set until he walked face-first into a chain. A jumbled figure several feet away appeared to be playground e
quipment, a curling elephantine slide, metal stairs leading up to a tower.

  He kept walking past the playground, his legs glued together so he didn’t empty his bladder prematurely. Wouldn’t Adames love that? Haggleston would never live it down.

  Somewhere a dog barked. The faraway purr of thoroughfare motors rode the breeze.

  A man-sized bush sprouted near the chain-link fence. Dancing with desperation, he shot a last second glance over his shoulder.

  Haggleston unzipped his pants and relieved himself behind the bush. He moaned from the pain of holding his bladder too long. It made him cringe to think a kid might play here tomorrow. What if the child picked leaves off the bush and…

  He altered his aim away from the bush and onto the fence. Not that this was better. Kids climbed fences.

  It took a full minute before he finished. He smiled up at the moon and gave thanks to the heavens. There was still the matter of his upset stomach, but emptying his bladder had gone a long way toward settling his tummy.

  Haggleston hopped as he yanked up on the zipper. Buttoned his pants and glanced around again. He thought his eyes would have adjusted to the dark by now. They hadn’t. The park became its own universe, a black abyss set apart from the well-lit street.

  He started toward the van when a branch cracked. The noise stopped him in his tracks. Automatically, he thought of Adames playing a joke. That didn’t jibe. Adames was a cutthroat prankster, but he wouldn’t abandon his post.

  Weaving through the grass toward the hulking playground tower, Haggleston reached for his hip and remembered the radio was inside the van. From here, the street seemed a million miles away. Footsteps in the grass brought him to another stop.

  “Anyone there?”

  The crickets sang back at him. Haggleston grabbed his flashlight and waved the beam over the equipment.

  “Palm Dunes Police. The park’s closed after dark.”

  He swept the beam along the fence and saw nothing.

  Not wishing to draw attention to himself, Haggleston flicked off the light. He picked up his pace and didn’t perceive the footsteps swishing through the grass behind him.

  The assailant’s flashlight clubbed the officer’s head and dropped him to his knees. A powerful hand gripped Haggleston’s mouth and stifled his cry for help before the business end of the flashlight rained down on the back of his neck.

  The man ripped him off the ground. Python arms encircled his ribs and squeezed. Drove the air from his lungs.

  He beat his arms against the man’s face as the shadowed figure hoisted him higher. Crushed his back and spine.

  Haggleston screamed for Adames. All that came from his mouth was a jet of spittle and a dying wheeze.

  Then something snapped along Haggleston’s spine.

  And the officer stopped feeling.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWELVE

  Bell leaned forward on the chair with her palms supporting her aching head, elbows on knees.

  “You can’t be serious,” Gardy said. “Forget the career implications. This will ruin your life.”

  Hayward wore a shark’s grin as he stood beside the attic window. A slice of moonlight drew a glowing border between the reporter and the two agents.

  Ignoring her partner, Bell motioned Hayward forward.

  “You know the deal,” Hayward said, pulling the camera back.

  “And you have my word.”

  Gardy swore and turned his back to them. His fingers interlocked atop of his head, eyes squinted shut. It was hard to see the agent amid the darkness, but Bell sensed his fury just the same.

  Hayward handed the camera to Bell and showed her how to access the images.

  “The computer, Gardy.”

  “What?”

  “We need the computer.”

  Gardy snatched his laptop bag off the floor and brought it to her.

  “I hope you gave this enough thought.”

  “Yes, I did. I’m stopping a lunatic before he kills again. That’s what matters.”

  “If you say so. Take this miscreant with you while I sign on.”

  While Bell wandered to the window and peered into the night, Gardy started the laptop and entered his password.

  “You’ll need this,” Hayward said as he handed Gardy a cable.

  The glare Gardy gave Hayward forced the reporter back a step. The computer churned, then the screen filled with images.

  “Okay, you’re in,” Gardy told Bell. “I’ll keep an eye on Tannehill’s house.”

  Bell traded places with Gardy. Hayward followed Bell like a bad habit.

  Bell felt as if a pair of slimy eels clung to her neck as she stepped through the photographs. One candid shot after another. Here she was entering the Palm Dunes Police Department for the first time, the sun recently set and the sky full of stars. Now climbing the front steps with Gardy at Tannehill’s. Several low angle images aimed at the roof overhang and attic window to capture the killer’s path into the bungalow.

  A normal man would have become embarrassed and stepped away. Hayward leered over Bell’s shoulder, proud of his intrusion into her life.

  Flipping through the pictures, Bell searched for a common thread—a car parked along the curb, the man she saw at the boardwalk and in the park. She found nothing.

  She’d examined over a hundred pictures before one stopped her heart. There she was with Gardy in Lynn Thomas’s yard, Haggleston and Adames kneeling in the grass, as a sports car passed through the frame. A red Camaro. But it wasn’t the car she fixed on. It was the man behind the wheel, caught in side profile. The man she sought.

  “I got him, Gardy.”

  Gardy hustled to Bell. Hayward tried to squeeze between them, but Bell shoved him back. It was a stroke of luck. Hayward had clicked the shutter at the right moment and rendered the driver from the side.

  “Look at the mirror,” Gardy said, pointing at the rear-view mirror, which captured the killer’s face from his forehead to his nose.

  “That’s him. That’s the guy from the boardwalk and the park.”

  Gardy jumped on the phone with Phalen as he uploaded the image to the police department’s server.

  “Wait, I’ve seen that guy.”

  Bell glanced at Hayward, who squinted and rubbed a grubby finger on the unknown man’s face.

  “Where?”

  “Yesterday around lunchtime, a few hours before I took this picture. I stopped at Vinnie’s Diner on Sunset for a burger. The bastard was one booth across from me.”

  “Told you he was following you, Hayward. You’re lucky you didn’t end up like Morris and Tannehill.”

  Hayward’s throat made a clicking noise.

  Bell clicked the next picture and fumbled the laptop.

  “Jesus, Gardy. The license plate.”

  Gardy told Phalen to hold and lowered the phone. He craned his neck over Bell’s shoulder and repeated her curse. The Camaro shimmered with motion blur, but as Bell drew a box around the bumper and zoomed in on the highlighted area, the Florida license plate leaped out of the screen.

  “Okay, Jay. It’s a red Camaro, Florida license plate. Ready for the number?”

  As Bell lowered the laptop, the silhouette of a man crossed through Tannehill’s backyard.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THIRTEEN

  “Adames. Haggleston.”

  Gardy pocketed the radio, flustered and increasingly skittish. The backyards were moonlit and desolate, no sign of the man who crossed behind the Bungalow. Beyond a stand of trees, she saw the surveillance van at the end of the block. The lights were off, no movement within the van. That was to be expected. The officers were discreet.

  Why didn’t the officers answer?

  “What do you think?”

  Bell glanced at Gardy and shook her head.

  “Maybe their radio died.”

  “I’ve seen one too many horror movies to pass this off as happenstance. I’m calling Jay again.”

  Gardy didn’t need to place the call. His phone
rang as he flicked the screen to life.

  As Gardy drifted into the dark corners of the attic, Hayward shuffled forward to take his place. Bell sensed fear cutting through his smug demeanor.

  “I should take my things and leave.”

  “Those pictures are evidence, Hayward. You aren’t going anywhere.”

  The expected protest didn’t come, and Hayward moved obediently to a chair and sat in the shadows.

  “We got a name,” Gardy said, rolling the phone in his hand. His eyes were ablaze with the confidence they’d catch the man now. “Warren Schuler, 14 Prescott Avenue in Palm Dunes. Two cars are on their way there now. And get this. He’s a wireless phone salesman. Morris and Tannehill bought their phones at his shop.”

  “So that’s how Schuler found the women.”

  The window drew Bell. Levydale Avenue took on a crypt-like appearance at night. No neighbors conversing on the sidewalk. No traffic. Everything colored in dead winter blues by the moon.

  “They know his mobile number. As long as Schuler has the phone on him they can track his location.”

  A flicker of hope. Yet it didn’t explain why Adames and Haggleston were MIA. Gardy read the doubt on her face.

  “I requested two more cruisers. One to park at the end of Levydale. If the killer makes a dash for the highway, that’s the way he’ll go. Another to swing past the van and check things out.”

  “Hopefully without blowing their cover.”

  “That’s my concern, too.” Gardy touched her arm. “Listen, you and Jay are at each other’s throats, but I gave him your number in case he locates Schuler.”

  “Wait, where are you going?”

  “Nowhere. Just downstairs. I don’t want anyone to sneak past the front door.” He handed her the police radio. “If you see anything, radio it in and call my phone.”

  Bell steeled herself, straightened her shoulders. This case unsettled her, the sense of dread reminiscent of taking a walk through a graveyard at midnight. Not that she wasn’t a trained agent capable of defending herself, but she hated splitting up, especially since she needed to keep an eye on Hayward. Before she could protest, Gardy disappeared around the corner and descended the stairs.