Obsessed

by Devon Scott

  Kennedy almost drops the picture frame.

  Instead she stares at it for a good thirty seconds, not moving, until its true purpose is disclosed to her, like fog dissipating, revealing the forest beyond a winding country road.

  Chapter 62

  The rain has been falling hard for several hours by the time they are ready to wrap up.

  Kennedy has divided her time between the couch in the family room and the bay window overlooking the backyard.

  Besides Joe, there are two of them.

  They are wearing what looks like navy blue flight suits. Kennedy is not sure if they are MPD officers or from some other agency.

  Joe isn’t saying, and she’s too frazzled to ask.

  It’s late.

  Or early, depending on the way you look at it.

  Close to two AM.

  It had taken a few hours for Joe to mobilize the team after she called him. Then to get over here and get the equipment set up.

  The actual sweep of the house took under ninety minutes.

  She observed them in stunned silence, hunting with their equipment, sniffing for scents in the ether.

  Four items were discovered.

  Bug in the picture frame—family room.

  Bug in the computer power strip—den.

  Bug in a hardcover novel—master bedroom.

  Three microtransmitters on tiny circuit boards.

  And the pièce de résistance—a small wireless transmitter in the attic.

  Communicating with their own wireless router.

  Incredible!

  Joe motions to the team while they are packing up.

  “Looks like we got everything. Your house is now clean.”

  Kennedy is stunned.

  “You okay?” he asks, staring down into her eyes.

  “How . . . how did this happen?”

  “Someone got into your house and planted those bugs.”

  She processes that.

  “How?”

  “I don’t know, Kennedy.”

  “How long?”

  Joe shakes his head.

  “There’s no way to tell, unfortunately. Could have been planted yesterday or three weeks ago.”

  “My God . . .”

  “Yeah. It sucks.”

  Joe can’t think of any other way to put it.

  “But . . . why?” she asks.

  “Because this . . . asshole wants to get under your skin. He enjoys playing God, messing with you, disrupting your life.”

  “But why? What did I ever do to him?” she cries.

  Joe looks at her.

  “You slept with his wife. He obviously found out about the encounter. Perhaps Dawn told him, but I doubt it. Regardless, he’s angry, and its payback time.”

  “Are you sure it’s him? Dawn’s ex?”

  “I can’t prove it. Not yet. But it’s all coming together. The dots are beginning to connect. Damian Rein is Lindsey Rein’s ex-husband. He owns his own security company. He has the motive and the wherewithal to do everything that has happened to you—intercept your e-mail, bug your house, access your bank accounts. It’s him. I know it is.”

  Kennedy shakes her head gravely.

  “Then why can’t you go arrest him?” she exclaims.

  “Because of what I just said. I can’t prove any of it. Not yet, anyway. But I will. I promise you that.”

  She shakes her head again.

  “I feel like I’ve just been shot. Or like someone’s just taken a baseball bat and swung into my stomach.”

  Joe puts his arm around Kennedy.

  “I know. You’re going to get through this. I’m gonna nail this bastard. I just need to connect the dots.”

  Kennedy glances up into his face as she blinks away tears.

  “Thanks, Joe.”

  “One more thing. Tomorrow morning I need you to ditch your BlackBerry and buy a new one with a new phone number. Michael needs to do the same. Understand?”

  She stares up at him.

  “I thought you said they got everything.”

  “They did. But we can’t be sure he’s not tapping your phone. I doubt it—he’d need some serious hardware to accomplish that. But I don’t trust this fucker as far as I can throw him, so to be safe, get rid of the phones. This way, there is absolutely no way he can tap your cell, unless he discovers your new number.”

  “Jesus Christ. Is this really happening?”

  “Yeah, it is. We live in a technology age. And anything is possible. This evening I went on the Internet and found software that you can install on a PDA like your BlackBerry that listens in to calls. All for less than three hundred bucks per year.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah, I am.” Joe gestures to the door. “I need to get going.”

  The team has packed up and passes them in the hallway. Joe shakes hands with each of them. Kennedy issues her thanks.

  “Lock the door,” he says, once the team has gone and it’s just the two of them in the house. “Go upstairs and get some sleep. You look like you need it.”

  “That’s an understatement.”

  “In the morning, do what I told you to do regarding the . . .”

  Joe holds his thumb and pinky to his ear, mimicking a phone.

  Kennedy nods.

  He gives her a hopeful smile before heading out into the steady downpour.

  Work still to be done.

  Connecting the dots.

  Chapter 63

  “Denied.”

  Joe stands immobile in front of Captain Renee Watts’s desk.

  It’s barely nine AM, and yet she’s in a foul mood already.

  “Captain—”

  “Denied.”

  “May I speak?” Joe asks.

  Captain Watts glares at him for a moment, then nods.

  “If I’m to catch this perp, then I need to go down to Tampa. The ex-husband is our strongest lead. He’s our guy.”

  “No.”

  “But Captain—”

  “DENIED, Goodman. You are not using department funds to question an alleged perpetrator in Tampa, of all places.”

  “All evidence points to him,” Joe exclaims, throwing up his hands.

  “Then let Tampa PD deal with it. I won’t. Not when we have plenty of unsolved cases right here in our own backyard.”

  “Ma’am—”

  “You must be hard of hearing. I said DENIED! Now, you are excused.”

  Joe grits his teeth, his jaw muscles pulsing under his cheeks. Renee Watts has returned her attention to the paperwork before her.

  Joe scratches at his scar with an index finger.

  “Ma’am, I would like permission to take two days’ unscheduled leave.”

  She looks up into Detective Joe Goodman’s eyes.

  “For personal reasons,” he adds, eyes unblinking, “beginning today.”

  Captain Watts stares for a moment more before shrugging.

  “If you’ve got the vacation time, then I won’t stand in your way.”

  Joe nods once before turning on his heels and walking toward the door.

  The captain clears her throat.

  “And if you happen to get caught down there meddling in someone else’s jurisdiction, you’re on your own. Don’t call me to bail you out. Understand?”

  Joe nods without glancing back. Then he leaves the office.

  The captain watches her detective go.

  He’s packing when she comes in.

  Joe wasn’t expecting this.

  It’s not even ten AM, and he’s back home, out of uniform, now in jeans, sweatshirt, and sneakers, garment bag sprawled across the bed, placing a change of socks and underwear into the side pockets.

  Tara should be at work.

  “Going somewhere?” she asks acidly.

  Joe ignores the question.

  “Shouldn’t you be at work?” he says instead.

  “I should be asking the same thing.”

  They stare at each other. Tara’s
arms are folded across her chest.

  Joe blinks first.

  “I’m taking a few days off. Going down to Tampa.” He adds hastily, “For work.”

  Tara purses her lips and nods several times.

  “I see.”

  Joe’s not sure what else to say.

  “Purpose of this trip?”

  “The perp is there.” Joe continues filling his bag. “I need to question him.”

  “And yet you’re taking a few days off?”

  Her head is cocked to the side, an expression of confusion covering her normally peaceful face.

  “The captain won’t okay the trip.”

  “Yet you’re going anyway and spending our money?”

  “My money. I’m using my money, Tara.”

  “Oh, it’s like that now?” Tara nods to herself. “Interesting.”

  “Tara, please don’t start with me, okay?”

  “I find it intriguing that I can’t get you this motivated where our impending wedding plans are concerned. But you’re all into this case, aren’t you? Interesting . . .”

  He turns to face her, a pair of folded jeans in his hands.

  “Just because I don’t spend my time picking out invitations and place settings doesn’t mean I’m not motivated about our wedding.”

  “Really? Well, what does it mean, Joe? Because I’ll be damned if I can explain how your ex gets your gears cranked so high. I mean, wow, truly amazing. I haven’t seen you this enthused in a long, long time.”

  Joe ignores the comment and throws the jeans into the main compartment. He goes into the bathroom, comes out seconds later with his toiletry bag. This is tossed into the main compartment as well. He zips it up as Tara watches him mutely.

  “I’ve got a flight to catch,” Joe says, finally making eye contact with her.

  “I’m sure you do,” Tara replies.

  He grabs the garment bag and leans in to kiss her. Tara’s hand comes up, like a karate move, blocking his attempt at intimacy.

  Joe pauses, glares at his fiancée for a moment before sidestepping around her, leaving Tara in their bedroom to stew all alone.

  Chapter 64

  Ronnie Falmouth is at it bright and early.

  He loves this time of morning, when the sun is just rising from the marshy grasslands. He steers the airboat slowly through the brackish water, not hurrying, certainly in no rush.

  He sits up high in the molded seat, the hum of the Chevy engine behind him, its giant propellers allowing him to travel effortlessly over grass and water.

  He’s about seventy miles southwest of Miami in the Everglades National Park, cutting through an impressive expanse of water interspersed with swamplands called Midway Keys, heading west toward Shark River Island. There he’ll fish until nightfall.

  Probably camp overnight at Oyster Bay Chickee or Joe River Chickee.

  A perfect day ahead of him.

  Ronnie’s alone, and that’s just the way he likes it. Away from the wife and kids, and his buddies, who could fuck up a wet dream with their incessant bitching and whining.

  No, thank you.

  It’s just Ronnie and the outdoors, this rental Diamondback, and four glorious days away from everything and everyone that gives him a headache.

  Open water appears to be about a quarter of a mile away. He’ll meander around teeny islands of red and black mangroves, their tentacles reaching deep into the swamp muck, on his way to Shark River Island.

  He increases throttle, listens as the 355-hp Chevy begins to whine, startling a heron that is off to his left in a patch of saw-grass. It croaks loudly as it climbs slowly into the morning sky. Around him the water is dotted with floating plants: bladderwort, white water lilies, and spatterdock. The airboat can glide over these easily, yet Ronnie maneuvers around them, enjoying the feel of the steering stick in his left hand and the throttle in his right.

  The wind is in Ronnie’s face, the scent of brackish water hanging in the air. As he drives close to a copse of sunken mangroves, an alligator, unseen moments earlier, hits the water with a splash. Ronnie is momentarily frightened as the eight-foot beast passes not far from the bow of his boat. He pulls back instinctively on the throttle and angles the craft sharply to starboard, not wanting the reptile to come up right under him.

  That’s when he sees it.

  Something, Ronnie’s not sure exactly what, half-floating in the tangle of half-submerged black roots, a whitish slab of what can only be described as meat. Ronnie cranks his neck as the airboat slows, and suddenly the stench assaults him, overpowering his senses.

  His eyes water.

  Involuntarily, he begins to dry retch as the nature of the floating slab becomes clear.

  Ronnie has turned as white as the bloated thing in the water.

  A leg.

  A human leg!

  Bitten off above the knee.

  Black and dark red tentacles of half-bitten flesh seem to hang in the near-still water.

  The thing bobs near the mangrove, its bloated toes scraping noiselessly against the exposed roots.

  A blotch of red above the ankle.

  Blood?

  He doesn’t know.

  Too much to process.

  The leg continues to bob in the water as if it didn’t have a care in the world.

  He wrestles his stare away, directing his attention toward the interior of dank, dark underbrush.

  There he spies another slab of meat.

  Ripped upper torso.

  Headless.

  No limbs.

  Just chewed, half-eaten flesh.

  Ronnie yells before vomiting onto the side of the airboat.

  Wipes his mouth with his sleeve once he’s finished heaving up breakfast.

  Steers the airboat away into deeper, less putrid waters.

  Ronnie cuts the engine.

  Regains some form of composure and reaches for the marine VHF radio.

  Chapter 65

  Joe Goodman rides in the taxi with his garment bag beside him. The window is halfway down, providing a nice breeze. He watches the sights rush past as he’s whisked toward his destination. The skyscrapers are what impress him. Not at all like the nation’s capital. Down here in Tampa there are real office buildings.

  Tall, majestic even.

  It’s close to one PM.

  Joe considers checking in with Tampa PD but decides against it. He mulls over his captain’s final words before erasing them from his mind. He’s on his own now. No sense involving the local police department until he has something concrete regarding Damian Rein.

  He hopes that not involving Tampa’s law enforcement will turn out to be the best decision he makes today.

  The cab drops him off in front of a tall building in downtown Tampa. The airport lies only a few miles away. He pays the driver a ten and tells him to keep the change.

  Joe hefts his garment bag onto his shoulder and glances up at the partly cloudy sky before heading toward the building’s entrance.

  He has always known this day would come.

  He has anticipated it with a mixture of rising anxiety and giddiness that has added nausea to his normal headache. Earlier today, when he spotted the lead-in for the news, he knew it was finally time.

  A body had been pulled from the Everglades.

  Details sketchy.

  Sex and age of the deceased unknown since the body was decapitated and missing several limbs.

  Damian had left the office immediately and driven straight home.

  There wasn’t much to do.

  He had made preparations days ago.

  Now it was time to execute them.

  Time to get his life back on track.

  The pain will soon cease to be an issue.

  Damian is about to silence the pain forever.

  Then, and only then, can he begin to live again.

  “I’m here to see Damian Rein.”

  Joe pulls his shield from his waist and holds it up so the assistant can see it clea
rly. He adds “Metropolitan Police Department” so there is no misunderstanding of why he’s here.

  He stands in the reception area of Rein Security. It’s a small waiting room, tastefully decorated. Muted colors, two relatively comfortable-looking chairs.

  The woman facing him is not quite thirty, dressed in khakis and a button-down shirt. She peers at the badge as if she’s some sort of crossing guard who is going to decide whether to let him pass or not.

  Joe shifts his weight and says irritably, “I need to see him . . . now.”

  The assistant blinks.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but Mr. Rein is not in. Did you have an appointment?”

  Joe ignores the question.

  “Where is he?”

  The assistant swallows.

  “I’m sorry, sir. He’s not expected back in today.”

  Joe puts down his garment bag and glares at her.

  “What is your name?”

  “Amanda.”

  “Okay, Amanda. This is a police matter. I need you to get on the phone and find your boss.”

  Amanda glances around, looking for help. When she finds none, she nods and murmurs something to herself.

  “Oh, all right. If you’ll excuse me.”

  Amanda heads down the hallway, but Joe is on her heels. She turns around, sees him behind her, and winces, but keeps moving. She gets to her desk and sits quietly, reaching for the phone. Joe glances around. There is an office door off to the side. Joe walks over and tries the knob.

  It’s locked.

  Amanda raises her voice. “Sir? Please don’t do that. I’m attempting to reach him now.”

  Joe ignores her.

  He glances down the hallway. A few cubicles are empty. The entire suite seems devoid of life save for Amanda. Interesting.

  “He’s not answering,” she says.

  “You tried his cell? What about home?”

  “I’ll call his home.”

  “Do that,” Joe replies.

  A minute goes by.

  “Sorry, sir, he’s not answering there, either.” She has replaced the phone and is looking up at him, waiting for further instructions.

  “Leave a message. Let him know that Detective Goodman is here to see him.”

  “Detective Goodman?” she asks.

  “Correct.”

  Amanda picks up the phone again. Joe waits while she leaves the message.