Mark Mullins arrived at Eleven Cedar Street twenty-five minutes after he received a call from the sheriff’s department. While the sheriffs had their own investigators and detectives, they included the state police on virtually every case beyond petty crimes. And while Mullins had no authority over the deputies, the county sheriff, Alex Prendergast, made it clear to every member of the sheriff’s department, that the highest ranking officer, regardless of which agency they belonged to, was in charge of the scene.
Mullins had driven slowly once he neared the crime scene, scanning the entire area for anything or anyone that looked out of place. Besides a car making a u-turn and driving away from the scene, several people were standing in their front windows or on their front lawns, wondering what had happened at the Patel home.
“That’s their name, right, The Patels? I only met them once and I could hardly understand him with his accent. Don’t get me wrong, I have no issue with foreigners. None at all. Especially the smart and successful ones.”
“I think that’s their names. I know he’s a doctor and the wife pretty much stays to herself.”
“Any idea what happened in there?”
“Can’t say for sure, but whatever happened, it can’t be good.”
Mullins saw nothing that commanded his attention.
He climbed slowly and deliberately out of his Ford Taurus, surveying the outside of the crime scene with trained eyes. He called over to a state trooper he noticed standing at the end of the driveway. “Anyone talk to any of the neighbors yet?” he asked.
“Not that I’m aware of. I just got on-scene five minutes before you.”
“You go inside?”
“Yeah,” the trooper said, his face held stern against the horror he had witnessed inside the Patel home. “Damn ugly. Husband, wife and two kids. All slashed up, necks cut for good measure. Mother was found with one of her kids still in her arms.” The trooper’s voice cracked and sounded creased and damp.
“Give yourself two minutes to clear your head, then grab whatever troopers are here and a few deputies, and meet me right back here in five.”
“Okay,” the trooper said, his voice level.
“Is Sheriff Prendergast on-scene?”
“No. I heard he’s on a golfing vacation in Myrtle Beach.”
“Better place to be than here.”
As Mullins made his way up the driveway, several troopers and deputies backed away, giving him a wide berth. The town of Ravenswood had recently installed sodium arc street lamps that cast the Patel home and all the deputies and troopers in an anemic-looking orange haze of muted light. Mullins asked a deputy he passed to have the town shut the lights off till the crime scene was cleared. “And have the fire department send over one of their rescue trucks,” he said.
“Rescue truck?” a deputy asked. “There’s no one inside that needs to be rescued.”
“I don’t need the skills of the rescue truck drivers, I only need their night vision spotlights. I need this entire area flooded with clean light, not the shit pouring out from that street light.”
He entered the Patel home through the front door. The smell of burnt oil, mixed with the distinctive metallic odor of drying blood invaded his nostrils. From the front door, he could see through a doorway into the kitchen. A pair of legs, surrounded by a pool of blood—bright red on the outside and a deep shade of crimson in the middle—were visible from where Mullins stood.
“Husband is in the kitchen, wife and kids upstairs. One in the room on the left and two in the master bedroom.”
Mullins recognized the voice but was struggling to recall the name attached it.
“Deputy Jimmy Flanders. We met a few times on mutual aid calls.”
Mullins turned his powder, icy blue eyes towards Jimmy Flanders, trying to recall their previous meetings and wondering if Jimmy was one of the few Mullins considered among the select group of exceptional police officers. A few seconds passed before he remembered Deputy Jimmy Flanders as belonging to another one of his lists.
“Good to see you, Flanders,” Mullins said. “Coroner been in yet?”
“Sure has. He’s upstairs with the mother and one of the kids.” Flanders paused, looked up the staircase, then shook his head slowly. “I’ve been with the department for seven years and have seen a lot of bad shit. But nothing, nothing even comes close to this.”
Mullins turned his wide-framed body so he was directly in front of Flanders. “I need you to do two things for me, Flanders. First, I need someone of your caliber to organize four to six deputies to canvass the neighborhood. Ask every neighbor, many of whom are standing outside wondering what the hell happened in this house, what, if anything, they saw or heard this evening.”
Flanders said, “That should be easy. Pretty high-end neighborhood.”
“Meaning?”
“High end people like to talk, especially when the talking is about other people’s business. The folks around this area? Hell, I’ll be surprised if they won’t get to talking so much that we’re here all night.”
“If you say so,” Mullins said, his icy gaze locked onto Flanders. Mullins was keenly aware of how intimidating he could be and how many of his fellow police officers that found themselves caught in his tractor-beam stare often took to either babbling or fell terribly silent. Some, feeling an undeniable need to impress with their intelligence, capabilities or aptitude, were usually too willing to share their ideas, thoughts, or suggestions about a particular crime scene or investigation. These types annoyed Mullins. It wasn’t because he believed only his abilities were of value during an investigation or that he possessed an omnipotence, rendering all others as mere pawns. It was how these babblers were more interested in making themselves heard than they were in advancing an investigation along its most logical, effective and efficient steps. Those who fell silent were better, Mullins believed. The silent ones listened, took orders and carried them out based on fear or the desire to avoid a repeated visit with Frosty and his soul-chilling stare.
He supposed his annoyance should be replaced with gratitude. He had earned a reputation throughout the law enforcement community as being one of the top investigators. He had the ability to see things no one else could. He asked the right questions during an interview that produced a clue, lead, or confession that others believed would never be obtained. Mullins was different from many, he knew it, as did most who worked alongside him.
“The second thing I need from you,” Mullins continued, “is to send in the top ranking officer from the Ravenswood Fire Department to see me. I noticed one of their rescue vehicles parked down the road from here.”
“Yeah,” Flanders interjected, “dispatch wanted them to stage till we cleared the scene and knew there wasn’t any remaining danger.”
“Thought as much,” Mullins said. “So, after you create a team to canvass, walk to their vehicle, and ask the highest rank to meet me exactly where you and I are standing right now.”
The question or idea which was preparing to flow from Flanders’ mouth and then blend into the mix of the conversation was halted and slammed back down to wherever it was given birth by Mullins’ raised hand and increased sternness of his gaze. “If,” Mullins said, exaggerating and dragging out the word, “there is not an officer on-scene, instruct them to send one.” With that, Mullins turned away and stepped ridiculously slowly towards the kitchen and the body of Dr. Dev Patel. He stopped after no more than two steps, turned quickly to Flanders who was still standing in the foyer. “Also, when I arrived on-scene, I noticed a car pulling a u-turn and heading away from here. Late model Honda Accord sedan. Couldn’t tell if it was green, black or fucking blue with those damn street lights. But, find out if any of the neighbors drive a car like the one I saw or if any of the neighbors know whose car that was.” Without waiting for Flanders to reply or to clarify, if needed, his added request, Mullins turned and continued inching towards the kitchen.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“We’re a
ll set.”
“Did anyone see you?”
“I’m sure some people did, but I acted like I was just a guy visiting his friend to have a beer or two. Area is swarming with cops.”
“Did any of them ask you questions?”
“Nah. I parked a few doors down from his house, then walked across his neighbor’s front lawn to his house. He left the front door open. I walked right in and found him upstairs. Didn’t give them any chances to ask me shit.”
“Your hubris is far from comforting. Does he know what happened? Know what he did?”
“He has no idea. I will tell you, though, he does know that something happened. I found him sitting naked in his dry bathtub, with that spaced-out, scared-as-hell look in his eyes. His clothes were in a ball in front of him.”
“Did he recognize you?”
“He must have thought I was a cop, or someone who was about to tell him what the fuck he just did and why his clothes were covered with blood. He just kept on staring at me, like he was trying to place my face but was too fucked to put the pieces together. I put his clothes in a bag, double bagged them, then showered him clean. Gotta say, I’m not a fan of giving a dude a shower. Especially a dude that seemed ready to snap at any second.”
“How did you get him out of the house without being questioned by the cops?”
“Gave him that special drink of yours to calm his nerves. Shit works like a charm. One minute, he looks like a guy standing outside on the edge of a high rise, the next minute, he’s all calm, cool and collected. We walked right out through his back door, across his neighbor’s back yard to my car. The cops were so freaking busy they didn’t give me a second look when I made a u-turn and drove away.”
“Don’t suppose you had time to remove any evidence from his house?”
“Couldn’t find the knife he used. He had no idea what the hell I was talking about, so he was zero help. I wiped up a bunch of blood drops with Clorox, but, honestly, there wasn’t much in the house. I already burned the clothes out near the public park on my way over here, and, before you ask, no one saw me or the flames. I locked his front and back doors, flipped on a few lights and got his and my ass the hell back here.”
“Is he secured now?”
“He’s in our little ‘hotel.’ Is he going to be part of our team or…”
“I can’t see adding another. Running out of room. You’ll need to take care of him. Tonight. Wait till later, then drive him south to the pond. Make damn sure he’ll never float to the surface.”
“Don’t worry, I’m getting pretty damn good at this. His face won’t ever see the sun again.”
“You may need to do something about your boss soon. He and his good looking partner are sniffing around and may be figuring things out if they continue.”
“Derek and Nikkie are good, no doubt about that, but they’re running out of time. If they get too close, I’ll do what needs to be done. Trust me on that.”
“They’re working with Mullins. I hear the three of them are getting chummy. That’s not good.”
“You already sent a message to them when Bo’s mommy got her head all bashed in. Maybe Cole needs another message.”
“Listen to me, Alex, we can’t let things fall to chance. We all have way too much exposure and way too much at stake. Send whatever message to your boss and his assistant you want, but you better be damned prepared to shut them down before they find something and share it with Mullins.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Derek slid past several empty seats in the back row of the theatre before choosing a seat in the middle of the row. While he didn’t expect to watch much of the movie, he favored center-row seats, despite those being the worst seats to be sitting in should an emergency occur in the theatre. Emergencies, and the possibility of one happening, were very much on his mind as the on-screen advertisements (thankfully) gave way for the previews.
John Mather was right: there were only three others in the theatre and were sitting far enough away that Derek wasn’t concerned about bothering them when he pulled out his iPhone, checked for any missed calls, messages and the time. He saw one message, from Ralph Fox, reading;
Your client’s daddy has got his hand in a whole mess of businesses. I’m still searching.
Derek wasn’t surprised that Louis Randall’s business interests extended beyond his law firm. Crown had told him Louis spent more time with his “other interests” than he did on his law firm during the final year of their marriage and Derek doubted that Louis had amended that trend over the years as his law firm expanded. As Crown told him this, Derek wondered how broad a reach did Louis Randall’s interests lie. Crown had shared with him and Nikkie about Louis’s liberal definition of monogamy and hinted at Louis having been involved in matters which, if fully revealed, may require the services of a public relations firm, but she never went so far as to say Louis Randall was involved in anything criminal. Essentially, Derek believed the firm was running on auto-pilot, with the other partners and associates handling ninety percent of the work and Louis showing up from time to time to clean up messes, sign his signature on checks destined for charities that donors would realize political favors for having contributed to, and to be the face for high profile cases. Louis had told him and Nikkie that he believes a client who winds up in a court of law has a moron for an attorney, so Derek doubted Louis spent much time in front of juries and presiding judges. No. Louis Randall was the type of back office lawyer who manufactured deals with district attorneys over thirty-year old, single malt scotches. These deals, like the one Derek knew Louis was etching out for Bo, were probably the type of deals that left both the accused and the prosecutor feeling like they had been taken.
A friend of Derek’s, a yacht salesman from Cleveland, once told Derek that when it came to negotiating a final price with a client, his aim was to inflict an almost equal amount of pain from both the client and from himself.
“When both parties are uncomfortable, the final transaction price has been reached,” he had told Derek. “But, if the pain scales tip against me, either the deal will be cancelled or I’ll drag the client back to the negotiating table.”
And that was what Louis Randall had most certainly been doing since he arrived in Ravenswood: Bartering with the district attorney till a deal was crafted that left both men angry.
Derek could almost picture Louis, sitting with a crystal tumbler of brown liquid in his right hand, a Rolex Yachtmaster hanging loosely and proudly around his wrist and wearing that saccharin-sweet smile he flashed while sitting in The Chairman’s Booth with Nikkie and Derek, tossing out offers to a receptive district attorney like a child tosses pebbles into a lake. The two would probably banter back and forth, each displaying expected and shallow counter offers and each threatening to call off further negotiations unless the other party presented a more “reasonable offer.”
Derek could see the two men, feigning feelings of insult until a mutually uncomfortable agreement was reached.
“I have to tell you,” Louis would say, while waving to a waitress—probably the red-haired, short-skirt-wearing one that captured the majority of his attention during the meeting with Derek and Nikkie—then ordering that another round be poured from the bottle of scotch the bar owner reserved for patrons of a particular income level, “this deal is about as fair as a game between the Yankees and the Ravenswood High School junior varsity baseball team would be. Probably will cost me millions after my reputation takes a hit, but I don’t sense you’re willing to extend our negotiations a second longer. I’ll get Bo to agree and don’t worry,” he would say with his smile painted across his face while his hand, driven by rote muscle memory, grasped his Montblanc fountain pen from the inside pocket of his tailored suit coat, “I won’t forget the spelling of your name when the time comes for a campaign donation.”
But Derek felt whatever deal was reached wouldn’t cause even a whisper of pain for Louis. He’d play the role of the bullied counselor but as lo
ng as Bo never stood before a jury, pain would be a distant stranger to Louis.
“What do you not want brought to light, Louis?” Derek thought, still sitting alone in the theatre. “Where are you afraid that I may be digging?”
The movie rolled from the first scene to the next before Derek began to worry about John Mathers. The last thing John had said to Derek during the call Derek made outside the diner on the way to the hospital was more of a warning than a reason for demanding the two meet in an out of the area movie theatre.
“Listen Derek, there’s some seriously bad shit going on and the last thing I’m willing to do is let anyone know I’m talking with you. I’ve already heard your name mentioned around town from people you don’t want to know your name. Meet me at the movie or not at all.”
Derek wouldn’t be at all surprised if Louis Randall’s chosen private investigator had already made his rounds through Ravenswood, probably walked right into the Ravenswood Fire Department as soon as Derek had left. Nor would he be at all surprised if this private eye was entirely focused on throwing dirt back over whatever Derek had dug up.
But he hadn’t dug up anything yet. Nothing about Bo Randall, the strange events happening in Ravenswood, or anything that might implicate Louis Randall in any of the recent events in the town.
Nothing.
And that both angered and worried Derek.
It angered him because he took his job seriously. Despite only being on the case because of Crown’s continued ability to manipulate and, to some degree, control Louis, he was still getting paid and therefore was obligated to produce results. While the person paying his fees made it clear that the best result would be no result at all, it was Crown he felt in debt to. Not because he was getting paid but because Bo was her son and both he and Nikkie saw the unfamiliar look of pain and worry marring Crown’s face. And now, she was in the ICU fighting for her life. And whether Crown ended up succumbing to her injuries, woke up in her normal fiery mood of cantankerous defiance, or somewhere in between, he was going to deliver a result.
The Devil's Snare: a Mystery Suspense Thriller (Derek Cole Suspense Thrillers Book 4) Page 15
