Caucasian, with a small nose and curly hair, the person looked in no way remarkable, the same face Reed had seen 100 times before.
An expletive rolled out under his breath as he flipped to the next pages in the file, the report from the criminalists. They had gone back to Mentor’s and took a look at the balcony, finding several fibers from a coat and gloves, though nothing with any usable DNA.
Cursing once more, Reed removed the lead from Billie, allowing her to roam free as he shook the mouse to life, dropping the files he’d carried in.
Extracting a single photo, he made his way to the copier, scanning the image and emailing it to himself.
A moment later it was up on his screen.
Placed on the green background of a surgical towel, was Edwin Mentor’s arm, the two severed parts positioned as close together as possible. At a glance, the image looked as if someone had drawn a line through the middle of the arm in black magic marker, a clear gap separating the two halves.
Despite the splice through the middle, the image tattooed on the skin was clear, a script letter K standing two and a half inches tall, the letters OTB stretched between the two bottom legs.
After 12 years with the force, Reed had seen a fair bit of ink. He had watched up-close as it was applied to Riley’s skin in a high-end shop in Worthington, the lines clean and the colors bright. On an almost daily basis he had seen shoddy homemade efforts, made using little more than a needle and a ballpoint pen.
More times than he could count, he’d seen prison work, heavy metal inks that left thick and blurry lines on the skin.
The tattoo etched across Mentor’s arm fell somewhere in the middle of the spectrum, the work neat enough to have been done in a shop, just marred enough to denote that it wasn’t a top-dollar establishment.
Clicking on an icon, Reed pulled up the Columbus Police Department Gang Unit database, entering his badge number and password. A few clicks got him into the repository for emblems and markings, the screen split between Mentor’s arm and every known insignia in central Ohio.
Twenty minutes of scrolling revealed nothing, none of the stored images even close to the symbol he was searching for.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” a voice shot across the room, a mocking tone of faux surprise and condescension. “Look at this guy in here playing detective.”
A sense of dread passed through Reed as he shifted his attention away from the screen. He remained silent as he glared at the pair of men waiting in the foyer, both with cups of coffee in hand, smug looks on their faces.
“I guess making the lead story on the evening news and the morning paper was enough to finally get you to work, huh?” Iaconelli asked, the look growing more pronounced on his face.
Since the last time Reed had seen him, he had swapped out shirts for a solid red number unbuttoned to the lower chest, the effect making him resemble a balding Kool-Aid Man.
“I thought you guys had gone home for the night?” Reed asked. “Couple of regular 9-to-5ers around here?”
A momentary look of surprise seemed to pass between them as they exchanged a look. “9-to-5ers? If you think such a thing exists in here, no wonder you haven’t solved this thing yet,” Iaconelli said.
Heat rose along Reed’s back as he stared at the men, his heart rate rising, pulse starting to pound through his temples. Beside him Billie picked up on the change, pulling her chin from the floor and raising herself to a seated position.
“Could be that, or that thing he calls a partner there,” Bishop said, gesturing to Billie with his coffee cup, a look on his face that was almost hopeful, an attempt at humor in front of his partner.
“Yeah, well, after what happened, is it any surprise?” Iaconelli said, the two conducting the conversation as if Reed wasn’t sitting there, couldn’t hear every word they said.
The statement was more than he could bear.
Reed snapped himself up from the chair so fast the back of his knees hit against the seat, sending it hurtling across the floor. The moment it happened, Billie was on her feet beside him, a low growl rolling out, her canines exposed.
“She,” Reed corrected, standing across from them, both men frozen in place. Along the back wall Jackie seemed to have assumed the same position, nobody expecting the sudden outburst.
“Not it, not that thing, she,” Reed said, letting anger drip from the words. “Her name is Billie, she is a veteran and an officer in the Columbus Police Department.”
Every person in the room remained unmoving.
“And as for my last partner,” Reed continued, his voice lowered, the tone unmistakable, “if either one of you ever says another word about her, I’ll set my new one loose on you.”
He stood peering across at them, checking each one in turn, almost daring them to respond.
“Got it?”
Both stood in complete silence, coffee cups in hand, jaws slack. Reed waited for any sign of a response, and when it became apparent none was coming, snatched up the files from his desk.
“Come on, Billie. Let’s go.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Any hope at meaningful rest was short lived, Reed’s phone ringing at 6:10 a.m., Grimes on the other end. In no uncertain terms Reed was told to get down to the precinct for a 6:30 meeting, his boss’s brusque manner and clipped words suggesting it wouldn’t only be the two of them sitting down together.
Allowing just enough time to let Billie out the back door and jump in the shower, the two of them met back at the car eight minutes later, both of their hair still wet from their respective chores.
Another eight after that, they were parked outside the precinct, neither of them happy about it.
Reed made it to Grimes’s office two minutes early, finding the space already full, three people inside. None said anything as he approached, all wearing dour expressions as they turned to face him.
Behind the desk sat Grimes, his standard frown on full display. On the other side were two people Reed had seen before but never met.
To the right was Oliver Dade, senior media representative for the CPD. Unlike the other two, he was not in uniform, dressed in chinos and a dress shirt, the sleeves rolled three times each. Approaching 60, he was one of the oldest employees in the system, his thinning grey hair underscoring that fact.
Beside him sat Eleanor Brandt, Chief of Police for the entire Columbus force. Perched on the edge of her seat, she sat ramrod straight, only her bottom touching the chair. Her dishwater blonde hair was pulled up tight, and her lips were pursed, not a trace of makeup anywhere.
Though seated, Reed guessed she couldn’t have been more than 5’3” at full height.
“Detective, thank you for joining us,” Grimes said, nodding to the door for him to close it.
With both chairs already occupied, Reed leaned against the table by the wall. He stared back as all three seemed to measure him, waiting for someone else to open up the discussion.
In a move that didn’t surprise him in the slightest, Brandt took the floor.
“I want to pull you from this case,” she said, the words flat, with no trace of femininity. “Your captain seems to think that would be hasty. You have three minutes to explain why you should stay.”
The air slid from Reed’s lungs as his mouth fell open. He instantly felt his wet hair begin to itch as blood rushed to his scalp, sweat appearing on his upper lip.
“You called me in here this morning to tell me I’m being punted?”
Nobody in the room moved or made an attempt to answer the question.
“2 minutes and 50 seconds.”
Reed opened and closed his mouth twice as he looked at her perched on the edge of her seat, a tiny flicker of rage welling within him. As the Chief of Police, it was well known that she had the authority to assign cases and had on many occasions. The fact that half the precinct was now working the Near East Side murders proved that.
But calling him first thing in the morning and making him beg for a case, was too
much.
“Why the hell would you pull me off now?” Reed asked, hostility apparent in his tone.
“2 and ½ minutes,” Brandt said, raising her voice to match his own.
Breaking eye contact, Reed glanced over to Grimes, who remained behind his desk, his fingers laced over his stomach. The scowl on his face was a little deeper than usual, but otherwise there was no reaction at all.
“I knew it,” Brandt said, shifting her attention back to Grimes, “this high school gym teacher you’ve assigned to the case is out of his league. I’m bringing in the big boys.”
The backhanded comment at his appearance coupled with the blatant questioning of his capability brought the feeling of indignation higher in Reed’s chest, pressing down so hard he had to force air in and out.
“I’m not even going to dignify this little charade you’re trying to play with an answer,” Reed said, heat flushing his features, his voice just south of a yell. “I am an experienced detective with this department, and I don’t have to beg for cases.
“I will tell you this though, in the last 24 hours I’ve made more progress working with a dog than your damn big boys will make in a week. I know this case, and I know these streets, and I know for a fact I will catch the sonuvabitch doing this.”
For so long Reed had felt pinned up, forcing himself to bite his tongue. Lashing back at Iaconelli and Bishop the night before had felt good, but this was on an entirely different level.
Months of feeling repressed, going through the motions, not sure of himself or his abilities, and now, that feeling was gone.
The looks on the faces of both Brandt and Dade told him that he was walking a fine line between confidence and insubordination.
At the moment, he didn’t much care.
He inched forward another half-step, far enough away not to be threatening, but close enough to make Brandt look up at him.
“How much time do I have now?”
The flinty veneer of the chief’s face broke just a bit as her lips parted, a muted sound passing over them. She stared at him, not saying a word.
“That’s what I thought,” Reed said.
For a moment he fought back a smirk before turning and exiting the room.
Nobody said a thing as he left.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Less than four miles separated the 8th Precinct from the Columbus department headquarters, an easy drive through the pre-rush-hour streets of downtown. The entire ride Reed spent with both hands gripping the steering wheel way too tight.
In the backseat Billie paced back and forth, an animal in perpetual motion, feeding off the change in Reed.
Both were ready for movement, springs that had been coiled tighter and tighter, ready to leap at the first available target.
Eight minutes after leaving the 8th, Reed pulled to a stop outside the headquarters. Different in every way from his home precinct, it was a sprawling structure made of grey stone, resembling the kind of thing he once saw on a class trip to Washington D.C.
Standing three stories tall, a dome rose from the middle, a flag pole extended high above, the colors already flying for the day. Across the street pale sunlight reflected off the Olentangy River, early morning joggers dotting the landscape.
Ignoring the visitors’ lot a story underground, Reed pulled to the curb on the opposite side of the street. He knew his police-issue plates would be enough to keep him from getting a ticket in the metered space. Climbing straight out, he clipped the short leash to Billie.
He had made the mistake of leaving her behind once already that morning, had no intention of doing so again.
Side by side, they jaywalked across Marconi Street to the front of the building, falling in with a steady flow of foot traffic. At the door, Reed flashed his badge to the guard on duty who barely noticed it, instead focusing on Billie as he waved them through.
The headquarters opened into an enormous rotunda, a circular space with hallways shooting off in various directions. Filling them were scads of people in both uniforms and suits, all holding coffee, their gazes aimed down at the floor.
Using a directory on the wall, Reed determined they were headed to the second floor, the first floor reserved for administrative personnel, the top for ranking officers.
Bypassing the elevators for the stairs, together he and Billie climbedto the second floor and found the office they were looking for, a pair of glass double doors in the center of the building welcoming them in. On the frosted panels were the wordsColumbus Police Department --Gang unit.
The front desk sat empty as they entered, a glance to the clock on the wall showing it was still just past 7:00. With Billie pressed against his leg, he leaned across and confirmed that the computer had not yet been booted up for the day before calling, “Hello?”
Movement sounded from the back as a middle-aged man with sandy brown hair and a matching mustache emerged. Standing a few inches shorter than Reed, he was dressed in jeans and a sports coat, wiping his hands on a paper towel.
“Hello,” he said, a single word relaying the exhaustion Reed knew most middle-management police officers were constantly under. “Detective Mattox?”
“Yes, sir,” Reed said, making sure to clear any lingering hostility from his voice. He had a feeling it would be a long time before it left his system, though he needed to be sure not to level any at others, especially someone whose help he needed.
“Sergeant Brooks Morris,” the man said, shaking Reed’s hand and looking down at Billie. He regarded her a moment before asking, “Belgian?”
“She is,” Reed said, his eyebrows rising a bit in surprise. “You K-9?”
“In a previous life,” Morris replied. “Never seen one all black before. Good looking girl you’ve got there, must scare the hell out of suspects.”
For the first time in days a genuine smile hit Reed’s face as he nodded. “Yes, that she does.”
“Come on back,” Morris said, waving a hand at him. “I apologize for the early hour, but I’m in task force meetings most of the day.”
“Not at all,” Reed said, “just appreciate you making the time.”
He followed Morris into a small, square office with windows on one wall and standard government-issue furniture filling the space. A desk, chair, computer, book case sat on one side, a couple of chairs and a small table on the other.
Different arrangement from Grimes’s office, but the same allotment of goods.
“So, what can I do for you this morning, Detective?” Morris asked, lowering himself into his seat.
Across from him Reed did the same, Billie going flat to her stomach as well. Reaching into the pocket of his sweatshirt, Reed extracted a color printout of the image on Edwin Mentor’s arm, passing it across the desk.
“I know you’ve got a ticking clock, so I’ll get right to it. You know that murder at Midwestern Paper the other night?”
Morris winced as he accepted the paper, the thick folds in it keeping it bent at an odd angle. “Yeah?”
“Well, it’s starting to have all the earmarks of a serial. Two more just like it, praying every second that I don’t get another.”
The wince remained in place as Morris stared at him, not yet having looked down at the paper. “And you suspect gang activity?”
“Possibly? I’ve got a lead on something that I strongly suspect of at least affiliation, but I can’t be certain.”
“And that’s why you asked to see me?”
“It is,” Reed said, motioning to the picture still grasped in Morris’s hand. “That insignia has been found on the forearms of all three victims so far. I ran it through the system last night, but nothing came back.”
The explanation was a slight exaggeration of the truth, though close enough Reed felt reasonably certain sharing it.
Smoothing the paper down flat, Morris leaned in and stared at it before shaking his head. “Can’t say it looks familiar, but I’m sure you can imagine how many of these cross my desk in a given year
.”
“Probably more than either of us would want to admit,” Reed said.
“Not just probably,” Morris corrected, pushing himself upright in his chair. “And certainly more than the guys upstairs would ever confess to.”
A reflexive smirk slid from Reed as he thought of his encounter that morning with Brandt, though he remained quiet.
“That’s part of why this task force was put together,” Morris said, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair and folding his hands in his lap. “These groups are popping up and dissolving faster than we can track. One day, a handful of guys get together, design a logo, start knocking out crimes like they’re a damn small business start-up.
“A year later they decide they’ve had their fill, go back to whatever life it was they were living beforehand.”
Reed nodded, not so much surprised at the sheer volume of such occurrences but at the sudden disbandment of them.
“So just like that, they fall apart?”
“Just like that,” Morris said. “Usually happens when one of three things occurs. First, they finish whatever it was they set out to do. That’s not as common, as second, they get a taste of success and keep going till they get caught and go to jail.
“And third, sometimes the hardest to spot, is something happens to divert them in the opposite direction. Somebody gets hurt, gets pinched, gets dead. And everything just falls apart.”
“The proverbial scared straight,” Reed said, his gaze shifting to the window, thinking of everything he’d just been told.
“Exactly,” Morris said.
If whatever group this emblem belonged to fit the profile Morris was describing, it made sense. Reed had seen ample sign of the major outfits in the area before, all plastered onto every flat surface in The Bottoms in various shades of spray paint.
Until the day before, never once had he seen the script K.
“Can you tell me,” Reed asked, shifting his thoughts, “is there anywhere that image might be stored outside the general system? Might someone undercover or something else be keeping it off the books?”
The Boat Man: A Thriller (A Reed & Billie Novel Book 1) Page 12
