Hunt and Prey (Kelsey's Burden Series Book 8)

by Kaylie Hunter

  Grady took a small step away, shocked by Donovan’s words.

  Donovan turned back and ushered me across the gym, stopping at the bottom of the stairs. “You go do your thing. I got this.”

  I stood on my tippy toes and kissed Donovan’s cheek. “Thanks.”

  “No need to thank me. I meant what I said. You’re family.” He turned away, heading back toward the entrance.

  I watched him a long moment as he walked away before I climbed the stairs and entered the War Room. “What are we working on today?”

  Before anyone answered, an unmanned laptop started beeping from the end of the table. I walked over and saw it was flashing a code.

  Tech pushed me aside and started performing his magic, maneuvering through screens at lightning speed. “Call Charlie for me. Put her on speaker.”

  I pulled my cellphone and called Charlie.

  “Yo,” she answered.

  “Tech told me to call you.” I set the phone on the table, already on speaker.

  Tech glanced at the phone as he spoke. “I’ve got a rough location for the burner phone you wanted me to trace. It’s bouncing off a tower in south Miami.”

  “Shit.”

  “What’s wrong?” I asked Charlie.

  “Nothing’s wrong—yet. But I need to get a woman to a safe house. Tech, anything else you can tell me about the phone or its owner?”

  “The phone was activated in Georgia, but that’s all I’ve got. Sorry. Want me to keep monitoring the cell towers?”

  “Yeah, if you don’t mind. Thanks. I gotta run. Chat later.”

  “Hey—” I started to say, but Charlie had hung up. “Yeah, yeah,” I mumbled to myself. “Good to hear from you too, sis.”

  “It’s decided then?” Bridget asked. “You’re calling each other sisters now?”

  “I’m still test driving it,” I said, shrugging. “Feels wrong, though.”

  Tech rolled his eyes.

  Chapter Eight

  CHARLIE

  Sunday, 8:45 a.m.

  Two hours later, the last batch of cops left my apartment. I carried the empty pastry box into the kitchen and jammed it into my trash can, using my foot to stomp it down. The sink was full of dirty coffee cups, but I’d wash them later. I turned off the coffee pot and walked out, finding Spence standing there with his hands perched on his hips and a pissed off look on his face.

  “Your files and phone are over there,” I said, pointing at my desk in the living room. “Thanks for letting me borrow them.”

  “We both know I didn’t let you borrow them.”

  “Oh, I must’ve misunderstood.”

  He pursed his lips, but crossed the room to gather his stuff. “What’s the deal with the herd of cops?” He shoved his phone in his back pocket and piled the folders under one arm. “They made me wait an hour before I could enter the building.”

  “A junkie was murdered.”

  “Damn. I thought my neighborhood was bad.” He looked around my sparse living room and then down at my worn orange carpet. “Why the hell do you live in this dump? I ran your background this morning. I know you can afford one of those nice beachside condos.”

  “And be surrounded by snobby couples who name their poodles things like Muffy and Fluffy?”

  He chuckled as he set the folders on the table and sat. “You could borrow Beast to scare the neighbors away. He hates poodles.”

  I slid back into my chair. “What’s your plan with Evie’s case?”

  “Honestly? I don’t have a plan. The truth is, I need the money.”

  “How good of a PI are you?”

  He leaned back in his chair, looking defeated. “I’m better than the cases I’m getting. Hell, I’m a one-man act and I know I’m better than most of the big firms. But without a fancy office, I’ll never attract decent clientele.”

  Having read his case files, I already knew he was thorough. He never would’ve found Evie if he wasn’t attentive to small details and committed to his work. She made one mistake, calling her aunt from a pay phone at the bus depot. She thought it was safer than using her burner phone. Once Spence had an address he started digging into apartments and bars in the neighborhood and searched in an outward circle until he found her.

  “Wait here,” I said, standing and walking down the hall. In the bedroom, I opened the safe in the back of my closet, pulling out an envelope. I returned to the dining room and tossed the envelope to Spencer. “I’ll pay your finder’s fee in exchange for your silence.”

  He opened the envelope and flipped through the stack of hundreds. “If I fire him as a client, he’ll know I found her. He’ll just hire someone else.”

  “It might buy me some time. And he’s already in town. His burner phone bounced off a tower in south Miami this morning.”

  “Shit.”

  “It’s fine. I made a few calls and had Evie relocated. She’ll be safe until I straighten this out. Just keep the information you found to yourself.”

  He glanced at the stack of files. “We both know my dog Beast is easily persuaded to allow strangers inside my house. You should keep the files.” He moved the pile of folders to the center of the table. “I’ll forward you my electronic records and then delete my copy. Since you’re the client now, so it’s only right that you’d get them.”

  “And if they come after you directly for the intel? Try to force the information from you?”

  “I can handle myself,” he said with a glimmer of excitement as if he’d welcome the confrontation. He held the envelope up. “You sure about this?”

  “You solved the case. It’s only right you get paid. And we both know I can afford it.”

  “When I ran your background, I saw the bank account balances, but I couldn’t track the income source. The monthly wire deposits led me down an endless maze of shell companies.”

  I raised an eyebrow at him. “Is there a question?”

  “Would you tell me where the money comes from if I asked, or should I keep digging?”

  I smirked but didn’t say anything.

  “Fine. I’ve got better things to do with my time anyway,” he said, pulling a few business cards from his wallet and dropping them on the table. “If you could pass my card to anyone interested, I’d appreciate it. I get the feeling you have a few contacts that could afford my services.”

  “I know some people—who know even more people. It’s called networking.”

  He emptied all the cards from his wallet onto the table. “I’ll bring a box of cards next time.”

  “Next time?”

  “Positive thinking.” He left, carrying only the cash envelope.

  I picked up one of his business cards and took a picture of it before texting it to my business and investment contacts. After that, I forwarded it to all my police contacts before programming his name and number into my phone’s contact list.

  Gathering the pile of cards, I took them to the kitchen and dumped them into the overflowing junk drawer. I was about to head off to bed when my phone chirped. I spent the next hour fielding questions via text messages as people inquired about his services.

  My coffee cold, my neck kinked, and my eyes starting to cross, I set the phone down and decided I’d finish the rest of the messages later. I stretched my arms over my head and yawned.

  My phone rang. I sighed and picked it up, seeing Spence’s name on the display. “Hello?”

  “My phone is blowing up,” Spence said. “Is this for real? Or am I being punked?”

  “Don’t make me regret recommending you. You can turn down any case you don’t want, but the ones you take need to be professionally handled. And hire someone to answer the phone. Even if they have to work from your crappy house until you can afford a real office.”

  There was a long pause before he spoke. “I know someone who could use the work. Thanks. I won’t forget this.”

  “It was nothing. Good luck.” I hung up and tossed my phone onto the table.

  Kelsey would’v
e set him up in one of our buildings and offered him a partnership contract. I wrinkled my nose at the thought of having a contract with Spence. He was smart, sexy, and so far, unable to be intimidated. To be honest, I liked him. Which was exactly why I didn’t want any contracts binding our lives together. It was best to keep my distance.

  I needed sleep, but my thoughts started shifting back to Pauly. He didn’t like violence, so why did he get a gun? Where did he get a gun? Who was he afraid of?

  Most of my neighbors either ignored Pauly or complained to the landlord about him. Not that I blamed them. No one hopes for a homeless man to set up camp in their lobby. But there was one neighbor, Roseline Pageotte in apartment 3C, who, like me, occasionally left Pauly food or let him use her shower. Roseline might be able to shed some light on whatever had spooked him.

  I should’ve told Uncle Hank about Roseline, but because she was an illegal, there was no way she would’ve confided to a man in blue. Besides, she worked the eleven-to-eleven nightshift at the truck stop. She wouldn’t be home for a few more hours. I looked up at the clock and saw I had two hours. Plenty of time for a nap.

  Chapter Nine

  CHARLIE

  Sunday, 10:30 a.m.

  Startled from a deep sleep by my alarm going off, I shot out of bed, grabbing my gun. I staggered a bit, absorbing my surroundings as my brain cells started sparking to life. Once I processed where I was, at home in my shabby apartment, I tossed the gun on the bed and stumbled into the bathroom.

  After taking my second shower of the day, I dressed in linen slacks, a lilac silk blouse, and comfortable cream flats and stood frowning at my reflection in the mirror. I looked ridiculous. But I had one of Aunt Suzanne’s social events on the calendar today and there was no sense in changing outfits later.

  In the kitchen I ignored the sink full of coffee cups and made a sandwich with the last of the sliced turkey and bread, both only a day or two away from morphing into something found on a compost pile. I was out of mayo and mustard so the first bite stuck to the roof of my mouth. I continued chewing, forcing myself to swallow the lack-luster food.

  I looked around the apartment thinking of all the crappy meals my cousin and I had eaten in this kitchen. This was our second apartment after moving to Miami. The first had been an attic-converted apartment above a bar. It had been impossible to fall asleep before three in the morning, and despite all the air fresheners, the apartment had always reeked of stale beer.

  We moved to this apartment two years later. And after all these years, I still didn’t care that there was only one bedroom or that the bathroom was the size of a coat closet. I didn’t care that the neighborhood was sketchy. Nor did I care that some of my neighbors were assholes. This apartment was the place where, for the first time in my life, I felt like I didn’t have to hide. I’d turned eighteen the day before we moved here. For the first time, I was able to sign the lease agreement, my name legally listed next to Kelsey’s. After years of waiting for my parents to drag me back home, I finally felt free. Safe.

  The night we moved in, we stayed up talking until the early morning hours. I told Kelsey I wanted to join the police academy, and after several hours of pestering, she agreed to take the training with me when I turned nineteen and qualified. Two years later, we could afford a nicer place to live, but I didn’t want to leave. Kelsey moved into a nicer neighborhood, renting a two bedroom in case I changed my mind. I never did, though. This apartment was my home. With its ugly worn carpet, walls that hadn’t been painted in two decades, and light fixtures that flickered when you flipped the switch, I felt safe here.

  I finished eating the dry sandwich, and since I was still standing in the kitchen, eating over the sink, I brushed my hands together to knock off the crumbs. Back in the dining room, I gathered my purse and my keys and walked toward the door. Before I could open it, someone rapped their knuckles on the other side.

  I opened it, startling Sergeant Quille. “Sir?” I asked, stepping back to open the door wider.

  Sergeant Quille was a forty-something cop who lived the job. While he usually followed the rules to a T, this wasn’t the first time he’d shown up at my apartment door. I had a feeling he was here to guilt me into coming back to work.

  “Is this a bad time?” he asked as he looked down to see my purse and keys in hand.

  “It’s fine. I was heading upstairs to talk to one of my neighbors before running a few errands.”

  He stepped back, waving a hand for me to walk out.

  I stepped into the hallway and closed the door before locking my deadbolt. I decided to take it easy on Quille, getting right to the point of his visit. “How backed up are the cases?”

  “We have six active homicides, including your homeless guy who honestly ranks low on the list. You coming back soon?”

  “Can I work Pauly’s case?”

  “Who?”

  “The homeless guy had a name—Paul Leenstra. Can I work his case if I come back?”

  “Sure. As long as you clear at least three other cases at the same time.”

  “You know I’m not the only detective, right? What’s the problem?”

  “Henley’s wife had her baby and he’s on paternity leave. Jameson is home with the flu. Keller is on vacation. I have a handful of support staff and rookie detectives, but no one other than Ford to help me lead them. We need you back.”

  We walked down the hall toward the stairwell. An offensive aroma struck my nostrils, and I used my arm to cover my nose and mouth. “What the hell?”

  “The smell from the dead homeless guy seems to be getting worse, not better,” Sergeant Quille said, covering his face with his sleeve. “I’m surprised it hasn’t cleared out yet. The landlord should prop the doors open.”

  “The landlord doesn’t live in the building, but if the smell was from the DB in the lobby, I’d have heard about it. Most of the cops in our zone took their coffee breaks this morning in my apartment.” I jogged up the stairs toward the third floor. The higher I climbed, the worse the smell was, choking me by the time I reached the upper landing.

  Sergeant Quille had followed me and when we turned into the third-floor hall, we both had to backtrack to the landing as we coughed from the stench.

  I set my purse on the floor, pulling out a pack of tissue. I stuffed pieces of tissue up my nose. “Call this in. We need the medical examiner.” I pulled a pair of latex gloves from my purse.

  “We haven’t confirmed a body yet,” he said as he grabbed the pack of tissues to bundle a wad under his nose.

  “By the time they get a van here, we will have.” I walked over to the stairwell window and looked down into the parking lot. “Todd Miller’s car isn’t here. I saw Felicia Rankin leave for work this morning, and the single guy who lives above my apartment went to Vegas for the weekend. Damn it. Roseline.” I turned back, pulling my gloves on before grabbing my keys.

  “Why damn? Is she a friend?”

  “No. But Roseline was the neighbor I was on my way to talk to. She knew Pauly.”

  “I don’t remember her name being mentioned in the report.”

  “That’s because I didn’t tell anyone about her. She’s an illegal. She wouldn’t have co-operated with a cop in uniform, but she would’ve talked to me. She works nights so I was waiting until she got home. I planned on getting the details and forwarding them to whichever detective was assigned the case.”

  Quille coughed into the wad of tissue. “In theory, sounds like a solid plan.” He moved his arm over his nose and mouth. “But I’m thinking someone should’ve checked on her this morning.” He glanced down the hall. “Which door is hers? It’s been a decade since I’ve kicked in a door.”

  I held my keys up. “No need. I have the master for the building.”

  “Why would the landlord give you a master?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.

  “He didn’t. I borrowed an impression of his key when he came to fix my sink a few years ago.”

  “I didn’t hear
that.” Sergeant Quille turned away to make the 911 call.

  I approached the last apartment on the right. I was already coughing from the stench as I checked the door, finding it unlocked. I turned the knob and stepped inside, my stomach rolling when I saw what remained of Roseline. I’d been on plenty of gruesome calls before, but between what I saw and the realization that the body was someone I knew, I bolted from the apartment as I started gagging.

  I ran past Sergeant Quille, down the three flights of stairs, and outside into the already scalding hot morning sun. Leaping forward, I grabbed hold of the front fender of my old pickup before doubling over and hurling my turkey sandwich. I was still spitting up the remnants when I heard sirens approaching. I stood, swayed, and felt Sergeant Quille’s hand on my shoulder.

  I looked back and saw he was sweaty and pale, close to losing his own lunch. He handed me my purse and I dug some gum out, offering him a piece which he waved off.

  I glanced up at the building to the third floor. “One of us should go back up there and open the windows.”

  “Not happening,” Sergeant Quille said. “Next person who enters needs a hazmat suit and a tank of oxygen.” He coughed into his hand, followed by taking a deep breath. “As soon as you opened that door it was like breaking the seal on an old refrigerator and the stench just exploded.”

  “As bad as the smell is, the heat was worse. The A/C is off. The blinds are open. The apartments bake in the afternoon on the west side of the building which is why I have an east view.”

  “And the body? I didn’t look inside.”

  I shrugged, spitting toward the curb. “Her body is lying in front of the windows.” I didn’t need to further explain. Quille had been a cop long enough to image the scene. The dried blood cemented to the body. The bloating. The rapid decay and liquifying of internal organs.

  I walked to the other end of my truck and dropped the tailgate. I hopped up to sit and wait. Quille leaned against the back-quarter panel and directed the arriving cops, turning some away to return to other crime-stopping activities. Several of the officers who’d stayed on scene attempted to climb the stairs, most never making it past the second floor.