Deadly Recall

by T. R. Ragan

  “Sounds like you’re very serious about all this.”

  “I am,” Zee said.

  Before Jessie could say anything more, Zee was on her feet and heading for the door. “Thanks for the update,” Jessie called after her, but she was gone.

  Jessie looked over her shoulder at Higgins. “What have I gotten myself into?”

  Higgins lifted his head and looked at her curiously.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “Everything will be fine.”

  As long as Zee didn’t approach the neighbors and kept her updated, what could possibly go wrong?

  NINE

  Friday morning Ben arrived at work an hour later than usual. He grabbed a cup of coffee from the lunchroom, and then made his way to his desk, where he promptly began sorting through his mail.

  The envelope on top was thick and padded. He recognized the handwriting at once. His skin tingled with impending doom as he reached for the letter opener.

  Damn. This didn’t bode well. He’d never received a call back from Shepard, and when he’d notified the police, they had told him there was nothing they could do unless he had a name or proof that a crime had been committed. Ben had neither. He’d had no choice but to hope that MAH was nothing more than a practical joker.

  Inside the envelope Ben could see a letter on white paper and a thumb drive. Droplets of red, like tiny freckles, dotted the paper.

  Ben swiveled in his chair, opened his bottom desk drawer, and pulled a pair of thin latex gloves from a box. He was a crime reporter. He knew how this worked, and this time he wasn’t taking any chances.

  Mr. Morrison,

  I’m wondering if I’ve asked the wrong person for help. I thought you were a man of morals, someone who cared about social injustices. I considered sending this letter to one of your competitors. Maybe then someone might take me seriously. But then I realized the fastest way to get your attention was to provide proof.

  So, here it is . . . live and in full color.

  When you’re done talking to your superiors, and after you’ve called the authorities, I ask you once again to contact DHI and see that I get an apology, along with reassurance that all experimental drugs for all patients will be covered from here on out. I hate to be redundant, but I repeat: if I don’t see a copy of said letter on DHI’s company letterhead signed by the president and chief executive officer, Owen Shepard, on the front page of the Sacramento Tribune by Monday morning, another life will be taken.

  Sincerely,

  MAH

  With gloved hands, Ben reached inside the padded envelope and pulled out the flash drive. Spotting another item at the bottom of the envelope, he gently shook the contents onto his desk. It was an ID card.

  TYLER MCDONALD

  DRY CREEK ROAD, RIO LINDA, CA

  Heart racing, Ben picked up the flash drive and inserted it into his computer. His screen lit up in shades of gray. The grainy picture wobbled, as if the camera was being propped on an unstable surface. And then came a distorted voice: “Testing one, two, three. Testing one, two, three.”

  Ben turned up the volume.

  The picture on the screen stilled and became clearer, revealing a cinder-block wall. No shelves or decorative items. An empty warehouse? Ben wondered.

  “Testing one, two, three,” the voice said again. A male voice. Slightly muffled. The camera lens shifted slowly to the left until Ben saw a young man sitting on the cement floor, his back straight against the cinder-block wall. The camera zoomed in on his face. Tyler McDonald. His reddish-brown hair had been cut since the picture on the ID was taken, shaved closed to his head around the ears, longer on the top. His green eyes were shaded with fatigue, his expression haunted.

  “Tyler,” the voice said. “Tell whoever is watching why you’re here.”

  Both of Tyler’s shoulders slumped as if he’d been asked the same question hundreds of times already. “I don’t know,” he said, trying to get free. His arms were behind him, out of sight, most likely bound with tape or rope.

  In the background, Ben thought he heard the sound of a magazine being loaded into a pistol.

  Sitting taller, eyes wide, the young man looked directly into the lens of the camera. “Why are you doing this?”

  “You know why.”

  “I told you. I’ve only been working for DHI for a short time. I never met Owen Shepard. He wouldn’t know me if we bumped into each other.”

  A long pause.

  Ben hoped this wouldn’t end badly, but instinct told him it couldn’t end any other way.

  “I had nothing to do with Han—”

  A gunshot sounded. Tyler McDonald’s skull exploded. A second later, the screen went from red to black.

  Ben’s stomach turned as he stood silently in front of the computer, waiting to see if there was more.

  Nothing.

  His insides twisted at the thought of the young man losing his life.

  He grabbed the flash drive and the letter and made his way to Ian’s office. His boss frowned at him as he came through the door. “Why do I have the feeling you don’t have good news for me?”

  Ben put the letter on Ian’s desk in front of him. “Don’t pick it up,” Ben said. “Just read it.”

  Ian did as he asked. “Is that blood?” Ian looked at Ben and more specifically at the flash drive Ben had clasped between two gloved fingers. “Is that the proof he’s referring to?”

  “It is.”

  “Not good?”

  “No. Shot him in the head at close range. Not pretty.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where’s the first letter?” Ian asked.

  “Filed away at my desk.”

  “Did you ever call this Owen Shepard at DHI?”

  “I did. More than once. He never returned my calls. I also called the authorities, but there was nothing they could do unless I had a name or evidence that a crime had been committed.”

  “Okay. Good. I don’t want to take any crap for this once the public finds out what happened.”

  “What about Shepard?” Ben asked. “Want me to give him another call?”

  “No. I’ll call the authorities and leave it to them to handle Shepard. You,” Ian said, pointing a bony finger at him, “get to work on the story. It’s ours.”

  “What about the victim’s right to privacy?”

  Ian waved both hands in the air in front of his chest. “Same as always. Don’t mention any names until I negotiate a deal with the police.”

  Back at his desk, Ben tried not to think about what he’d seen on the screen, but it was no use. Scrambled bits of brain matter and skull splattered across the lens had triggered something within. He grabbed his coat and left the office. He needed to breathe. Minutes later he was in his van, driving down L Street.

  He thought of his wife and how she had no idea how much worse everything had become. Long-forgotten memories were returning. He was sure of it. Until he knew what it all meant, though, there was no sense in worrying her.

  If Melony could see him now, she’d have him hospitalized. He had no idea where he was going when he merged onto the highway. Thirty minutes later he took the Lincoln Boulevard exit off Highway 65. He made a left at the stoplight and then another left farther down the road. After what seemed like an endless route of stops and turns, he found himself on a quiet, tree-lined street. Finally, he pulled to the curb and shut off the engine.

  For the next few minutes he did nothing but listen to the sound of his breath as he wondered where he was.

  And then he saw it.

  He climbed out of the van and walked down the sidewalk, kept walking until he was across the street from a two-story house on a level lot with a wide concrete driveway and two-car garage. His hands and forearms quivered. This house had once belonged to the Stumm family.

  When he closed his eyes, he saw a small boy run out the front door. A young woman came running after him, grabbed him around the middle, and carried him back inside. The boy�
��s laughter filled the air.

  Ben opened his eyes and the vision disappeared. Nobody was there.

  As he walked back toward his van, a searing pain grabbed hold of his chest and squeezed. He slid in behind the wheel and leaned over to open the glove box, where he found a bottle of pills his therapist had prescribed. Something to help him relax. He didn’t like taking medication, but he unscrewed the lid and popped a pill into his mouth, then chased it down with water.

  Leaning back against the headrest, he closed his eyes.

  He turned the key and started off again. Six and a half minutes later, he did exactly the same thing as before. Pulled to the curb, turned off the engine, and climbed out of his van.

  The pill was working. He was less anxious. His hands were steady. Good. Again he found himself in a residential area. These houses were newer.

  “Ben!” he heard someone yell.

  He turned toward the sound of the voice, saw Larry jogging across the street toward him. “I was hoping you would show up,” Larry said when he caught up to him. “We’re over this way.”

  It wasn’t until that moment that Ben realized where he was. This was the place where they had found DJ Stumm’s bones. Somehow he’d known where to go. He looked around, and in the distance he saw the brick building he’d recognized in the picture.

  “Did they find anything else on the property?” Ben asked.

  Larry shook his head as they walked. “Nothing so far. No more bones. No additional bodies. They’re running tests on the soil where the bones were found. It’ll be a while before they know whether they have any DNA belonging to a second party, someone other than DJ Stumm.”

  Larry lifted the yellow crime tape so Ben could duck under it. Forensics was all over the place, gathering samples and taking measurements and photographs. A woman in uniform closely examined the perimeter fence and took notes.

  “A secondary review?” Ben asked.

  “Quality control. They want to ensure a thorough search.”

  Twelve years, Ben thought. What could they possibly find after all that time?

  TEN

  Jessie sat at a table, sipping the last of her champagne as she admired the interior of the building. The wedding ceremony had been short and sweet, held inside a clubhouse close to Salmon Falls. The stone pillars and reclaimed-wood flooring in the main room gave the lodge a cozy touch. A dozen rustic wood tables had been set up with mason jars filled with daisies as the centerpieces.

  Twenty minutes ago, Colin and three fellow police officers had been called away to have group pictures taken with the groom, leaving Jessie alone with Lisa, a retired police communications officer who liked to talk.

  “Colin’s ex-wife is beautiful, isn’t she?” Lisa asked. “God, if that was my husband’s ex-wife, I think I’d die from envy alone.”

  Jessie followed the direction she was looking. It was true. Kimberly Grayson was beautiful. She had short honey-blonde hair and curves in all the right places.

  “My husband filled me in on everyone before we got here,” Lisa said, flitting easily from one subject to another. “He told me who’s who and what everyone does for a living—you know, stuff like that.”

  Jessie finished off her champagne.

  “See that man over there—oh, never mind—don’t look. It’s Owen Shepard, CEO of DHI, one of the biggest health insurance companies in the United States.”

  Too late. Jessie glanced in the direction Lisa pointed. The man heading toward them was tall and broad-shouldered. She guessed him to be in his early sixties.

  “Not only is he a zillionaire, he’s divorced and single,” Lisa said out of the corner of her mouth before he reached their table.

  Lisa offered her hand as he approached. “Owen Shepard. I don’t know if you remember me,” she said as he took her hand in his. “I went to school with your sister. This,” she went on, gesturing toward Jessie, “is Jessie Cole, the private investigator who helped take out the Heartless Killer and make our streets safe again.”

  Before Jessie could respond, he took Jessie’s hand. “It’s a small world and a pleasure to meet you.”

  Puzzled, Jessie wondered what he meant by that.

  He needed no prompting to explain. “I called your office earlier today and left a message.” He looked around. “I realize this isn’t the best time or place to talk, but would it be possible to have a quick word with you?”

  “Go ahead,” Lisa said. “You two chat. I see a friend across the way I’d love to say hello to.”

  Jessie had no idea what the man wanted to talk to her about, but before she could stand, he slid into the empty seat next to her. “I hope you don’t mind talking business. I’ll be quick.”

  “I don’t mind at all.” She got a whiff of his cologne. He was certainly handsome, and she found herself intimidated by the intense way he looked into her eyes.

  “The truth is, I could use your help.”

  Jessie raised a brow.

  “After returning from a business trip,” he went on, “I learned that a disgruntled client of my company, DHI, has threatened to take the lives of innocent people. He actually killed one of my employees.”

  Jessie was taken aback. “The police are involved?”

  “Yes, of course.” He raked a hand through his silver-tipped hair. For the first time since he’d sat down, she could see that he was upset.

  “Maybe you should start from the beginning.”

  He nodded. “The disgruntled client sent a letter to Mr. Morrison at his work.”

  “Ben Morrison at the Sacramento Tribune?” she asked, surprised.

  “Yes.”

  “Why wouldn’t the client have contacted you directly?”

  “Apparently he’s written DHI in the past but never received a response. My staff is doing all they can to figure out who this person is. He signed the letter ‘MAH,’ and since we insure over five million people across the United States, it’s going to take time.”

  “What did the letter say? Is there something this person wants from DHI?”

  “He lost his daughter, and he’s angry. He wanted me to write a public apology giving assurance that experimental medications for all patients in the future would be covered.”

  “Did you write the letter?”

  Owen raked a hand through his hair again. “By the time I returned, it was too late. And even if I had written a response, I’m worried it would only be a matter of time before he realizes nothing has changed as far as coverage goes.” He raised his hands. “It’s not up to me to make those types of decisions. And even if it were, it doesn’t happen overnight.”

  “Are you afraid he’ll continue to kill?”

  “Yes.”

  Jessie said nothing.

  “If the public gets wind of what’s happening, this man could ruin DHI’s reputation.” He paused. “That’s where you come into the picture. If I hire a private investigator, especially one with your experience, I might be able to reassure employees and board members that DHI is doing all they can.”

  Ahhh. Owen Shepard, it seemed, was more worried about his company than about the possibility of more lives being lost. “You said one of your employees was killed. Did you know him or her?”

  “No. I’ve since learned he was a new hire at the general office in Sacramento. We have somewhere around ten thousand employees.”

  “What is it exactly you would want me to do?”

  He tugged at his tie. “I want you to find this lunatic.”

  “I work mostly on cold cases,” she told him, put off by the man since he’d outright said that hiring her was merely a way for him to make his company look like it was doing all they could. “My specialty is searching for missing persons.”

  “Think of this as exactly that—you’ll be searching for a missing person.”

  “A person with no name,” she said.

  He gave her an imploring look. “I need your help. I’m begging you.”

  He was doing nothing of the sort
.

  “My office Monday at three o’clock?” He pulled a business card from his pocket and handed it to her.

  Clearly the man was not used to taking no for an answer. “Three o’clock sounds fine,” she said, figuring it wouldn’t hurt to meet with him, hear what he had to say, and find out if he had a plan.

  He stood, thanked her, and then walked away to mingle with the crowd. Gone as quickly as he’d come. Jessie didn’t know what to think about him. Self-assured one minute, cold and aloof the next.

  “Would you like to dance?”

  Colin had returned. He held out his hand for her to take. Jessie laughed as he helped her from her chair and quickly led her to the dance floor. “What’s the hurry?”

  “I saw that man hovering over you, and I knew it was time to show everyone that you were taken.”

  “I didn’t know you were the jealous type.”

  “There are a lot of things you don’t know about me,” he said as he led her to the dance floor.

  Jessie wanted to ask Colin about the case Owen Shepard had talked to her about, but she decided it could wait.

  As they moved to the music, Jessie realized she’d never danced with Colin before. He appeared to be in his element. The song was off tempo and hard to dance to, so she basically stood in place and moved her arms as she watched him entertain the crowd.

  There was so much she didn’t know about Colin Grayson.

  Their relationship was complicated. They had met ten years ago at the police station right after her sister had disappeared. Colin had been a great listener and a shoulder to lean on. Their relationship had escalated quickly. But then Kimberly Grayson had shown up at her doorstep to let Jessie and Colin know she was pregnant. Colin went back to his wife, and Jessie put all her energy into raising her niece and searching for Sophie.

  Less than a year ago, she’d run into Colin. He was divorced, and so they went out for coffee and played catch-up. They had been close friends ever since.

  The song ended, and Jessie started to walk off before Colin reached for her hand and pulled her back to him, smiling mischievously. It took a second for her to realize the song playing was “You Never Can Tell” by Chuck Berry. Pulp Fiction was the first movie she and Colin had watched together all those years ago.