by Devon Scott
“Thank you. I’ll be back very soon,” Joe says.
Amanda nods, her eyes darting about the room, full of fear.
Good, Joe thinks.
Time to take it up a notch.
Joe arrives in Clearwater at the address provided courtesy of the Hillsboro County Sheriff’s Office.
He pays the taxi driver and asks if he’ll wait a few minutes. He doubts if Damian is home, but it’s worth a shot.
Joe leaves his bag in the backseat and hops out, admiring the neighborhood. He puts the single-family homes in the seven-hundred-to-eight-hundred-thousand-dollar range, easy. Manicured lawns, clean sidewalks, two- and three-car garages.
Damian Rein lives in a two-story yellow home. The driveway leading up to the attached two-car garage is reddish brick. There are two eighteen-foot palm trees in the front yard. Damian is living large, and that’s no joke. The country might be in the midst of a recession, but business isn’t hurting at Rein Security.
Joe goes to the door and rings the bell.
Nothing.
He can’t peer through the windows because of the treatments covering them.
Rings again.
Still nothing.
Joe contemplates throwing a brick through the window to test the security system.
Undoubtedly Damian’s got one.
Joe pulls out his business card and sticks it between the door frame and the door so it won’t fall out.
Satisfied, he returns to the waiting taxi.
“Recommend any hotels not far from here?” Joe asks the cabbie.
“Sure,” the cabbie responds, putting the taxi into gear and taking off.
Chapter 66
Less than an hour later, Detective Joe Goodman has checked in to his hotel. The Sheraton Tampa Riverwalk Hotel is on the banks of the Hillsborough River and across from the University of Tampa’s campus.
Joe is famished, so he decides to grab something to eat. The restaurant has a scenic overlook of the water. Joe takes a table by the window and orders a chicken sandwich and fries. While waiting for his food, he plots his next move.
Some phone calls are in order.
With his memo pad on the table, he reaches for his cell.
His first call is to Tara.
It goes straight to voice mail.
There are so many things he wants to say.
Staring at the slow-moving water, with the university in the distance, Joe’s words falter. He keeps it simple. He made it safely. He misses her. And he loves her.
He does.
So why, then, is he down here, on his own dime, way out of his jurisdiction?
Is it for her sake?
Kennedy’s?
In a way, yes.
Not because he loves her, although, when Joe is totally honest with himself, as he is right now, he knows that in a way he’ll never stop loving Kennedy.
Not completely.
It’s as if they were never truly done.
At least he wasn’t.
Joe was never really done with Kennedy.
He realizes there is no future with her, knows that he can’t go backward, and that’s okay. He knows he fucked up. He messed up the best thing that ever happened to him. Joe realizes that now.
He can’t go back.
But perhaps he can fix things in some small way. Make Kennedy realize with his efforts here that he’s sorry for hurting her.
His thoughts swing back to Tara.
Joe loves his fiancée. She’s his life now. He doesn’t want to hurt her. Wants this mess to be done with so he can give her his full attention. Show her that he is her man now.
But he’s got to finish what he started.
Got to find Damian Rein and shut him down.
Then and only then can he move on.
His next call is to Chandran Nadar.
Chan picks up on the third ring.
“Nadar here.”
“Chan the man! It’s Joe Goodman. How are you?”
“Joe! Good to hear from you. I’m fine. You?”
“Never better, Chan.”
“That’s good to hear. How are things going with that case I consulted on? Made any progress?”
“Funny you should mention that, Chan.” Joe is ready to tell him he’s down in Tampa, but thinks better of it. The word might get back to the captain. “I was wondering if I could draw on your extensive computer expertise again.”
“Of course, Joe.”
Joe outlines what he needs.
Intel on a Damian Rein of Clearwater, Florida.
Joe can almost see Chan grinning on the other end of the line.
“Piece of cake. Give me a couple of hours?”
“How about an hour? I’m kinda pressed for time.”
“All right. I’ll do what I can.”
“Chan, you are da man!”
Joe’s food arrives.
He orders a lemonade even though a beer is what he really needs right now.
Attacks his chicken sandwich and drowns the fries in ketchup. Less than ten minutes later, the plate is empty. An eyebrow on the waitress is raised as she clears his plate and inquires if he was at all hungry.
Joe smiles and asks to see the dessert menu.
His third call is to Deputy Radcliff of the Hillsboro Sheriff’s Office.
Radcliff is in the office and takes his call.
“I was calling to follow up on our conversation we had about a week ago regarding Lindsey Rein, a missing persons case. I was wondering if there had been any new developments?”
“Yeah, I remember. Funny you should be calling today, Detective,” Radcliff says.
Joe takes a sip of his lemonade and then reaches for his pen.
“Why is that?” he asks.
“Because we received a call from the boys in Metro-Dade no more than three, four hours ago. Seems some feller out fishing in the Everglades came across a body being chomped on by a gator. He called it in, and Metro-Dade came on out. Body’s at the ME’s office now. Autopsy not scheduled until tomorrow. Head’s missing, so is one arm, so they gonna have to rely on fingerprints and DNA to ID.”
“Okay,” Joe says, his attention riveted on what the deputy is saying.
“Here’s the interesting part. Turns out they recovered one leg, and on the ankle was a small tat. The detectives there are going through the missing persons database, and they come across our missing girl. Lindsey Rein’s got a tat on her ankle. Black-widow spider. Not a hundred percent conclusive until they match the DNA, but I’m gonna bet my money it’s Lindsey. Looks like they found her.”
“Jesus,” Joe says. His mind is racing.
This changes things.
This changes everything.
“Has the ex-husband been notified?” he asks.
“Hell, no. Not until a positive ID has been made. For now we’ll keep things quiet, and that means you not talking to any family members, either.”
“I’m not a rookie, Deputy.”
“Just saying, Detective.”
“Keep me informed, if you would. Thanks.”
“Sure thing.”
Joe closes his cell and stares at it.
Suddenly he’s no longer in the mood for dessert.
Murder has just been added to Damian Rein’s résumé.
He can’t prove any of it, not yet, but he’d bet his life on it.
Damian Rein is behind all of this.
And what scares Joe the most is the fact that Damian’s not finished.
Not at all.
Joe has a feeling he’s just getting started....
Chapter 67
Joe’s back in his room when his cell rings. He glances at the screen and flips open the phone.
“Goodman.”
“It’s Nadar.”
“Hey, Chan.”
Forty-five minutes have passed. Joe has contemplated returning to Clearwater but thinks otherwise. He decides to wait until later on tonight. That way he can surprise Damian, catch him off guard when
he least expects it.
“Talk to me,” Joe exclaims.
“I’ve got the information you asked for. You ready?” Chan asks.
Joe sits up, grabbing his memo pad and a hotel pen.
“Shoot.”
“Okay. I managed to get Mr. Rein’s corporate American Express. He’s been busy. Made a trip to Miami a few days ago, and was here in D.C. about three weeks ago—”
“Wait a sec,” Joe interrupts. “Damian was in D.C.?”
“Yes, sir. Stayed two nights at the Radisson, Crystal City.”
“Son of a bitch! He lied to me.” Joe recalls asking Damian if he’d been to D.C. recently. “Sorry, Chan. What else?”
“He purchased a ticket today, Jet Blue, Tampa to D.C. Flight 410. First class. Departed Tampa at eleven fifty-five AM, arrived D.C. three-forty this afternoon.”
“Shit! That cocksucker is in D.C. and I’m here? Fuck!”
“Is something wrong, Joe?” Chan asks.
“No, I’m cool. Just thinking out loud,” Joe replies.
“Whatever you say, Joe.” Chan chuckles. “I’ve got some other stuff, mostly routine. Address, license, registration. I’m still checking on other credit cards. I pulled his credit report, and he’s got a ton of credit cards that he uses for six months or a year and then closes. I have a feeling he’s hiding something, but I need more time to be sure.”
“Chan, this is great work. Thank you.”
“Just doing my job, Joe. But you’re welcome.”
“Call me if you uncover anything else,” Joe says.
“Will do.”
Joe ends the call. Speed-dials Kennedy’s new cell and waits impatiently for it to connect.
She doesn’t answer.
Joe snaps his cell shut.
Opens and hits redial.
No luck getting through.
He contemplates leaving a message. But what should he say?
Damian Rein is now in D.C. I need you to be extremely careful. We need to assume this guy is dangerous.
And one more thing.
A body was found earlier today in the Everglades. The police down here think it might be Dawn, but they won’t know for sure until they cross-check DNA.
No.
He can’t leave that in a message.
He hangs up.
Joe gets up and goes for his garment bag.
Time to get back to D.C. ASAP!
Call the front desk, see if the concierge can get him a flight straight back home.
NOW.
Before Damian Rein does something stupid.
Chapter 68
Damian Rein’s head is about to explode.
There’s a dull throb at the base of his skull. It feeds the pain up in his forehead and temples. He’s drained the Tylenol bottle that was in his carry-on. But the Tylenol’s no longer effective.
Tired, pissed off, he’s ready to hurt somebody.
That fucking cop is history.
Amanda’s call gave him a huge jolt.
Joe Goodman. Down in Tampa? Looking for him there?
Incredible.
How long before the detective connects the dots?
The body in the swamp. Identity tracked back to him. Which is why he needs to be here now.
Washington, D.C.
To finish things.
He’ll deal with the cop as soon as he’s done here.
As soon as his work is complete.
It’s all been leading up to this.
A path that he had no control over.
One that he did not choose.
It chose him.
All because of her.
It’s her fault that he’s here in the nation’s capital, having to deal with this shit instead of being home, in Clearwater, with the woman who used to be his wife.
Damian is sitting in a rental car on Taylor Street. It’s dark. The street is quiet. He watches the Handley house like an owl. He knows someone’s inside. The lights are on. But who’s home?
That bitch, Mocha?
No way to be sure.
And he needs to be sure.
Damian massages his temples with his fingertips. It does nothing to slow the roar inside his head.
He closes his eyes. Sees red behind his eyelids before it passes. Then it’s blackness, like molasses, just the way he likes it.
For a moment he feels untroubled and controlled.
And he can actually think.
A story comes to mind.
One of his favorites.
Once upon a time there was a gentle man who loved his woman.
She meant the world to him. So he made her his wife.
He doted on her. Gave her things she’d never imagined.
A wonderful home. Peace and security. A glorious future stretched before them.
For a while, life was grand.
Magnificent.
How he loved her.
And she loved him back.
But then, something changed. She withdrew, grew secretive.
And those lies.
Those fucking lies did her in.
When she left him, the pain commenced.
It was a pain like no other.
Deep, rampant, out of control.
From that point on it grew like a cancer inside him, devastating him with its poison.
It was never far away, as if he were carrying it around like loose change.
The pain was a tumor.
The pain would kill him.
If he didn’t excise it.
So he did.
The gentle man became a violent man.
Took care of her.
Took care so that she could never hurt another living soul.
Found her living her new, secretive life.
Located her, even though she didn’t want to be found.
Punished her for what had done to him. To them . . .
And that other bitch is next.
Mocha.
Bitches think they own the world.
Think they can waltz in and out of someone’s life, wreak havoc and harm, and then tiptoe away as if nothing happened.
Well, the gentle man who became a violent man isn’t about to let that shit happen.
Not on his watch.
If he goes down, then so be it.
One way or another, the pain will cease.
He will rip out this throbbing cancer, as God is his witness.
Stomp it to death if he has to.
Then the violent man can once again become a gentle man.
And move on.
The end.
The garage door suddenly opens, bringing Damian out of his reverie.
A sleek black BMW hooks a left into the street and accelerates to the corner.
Damian feels his heat spike.
He spies her behind the wheel as she waits at the light.
Mocha.
Damian takes a slow, steady breath as he eases out from his parking spot.
Eases into the street, taking up position behind her, but not too close.
Heart rate thumping.
Like the pulse in his temples, forehead, and neck.
The light turns green.
Damian steps on the accelerator.
Let the games begin....
Kennedy is at a light on Sixteenth Street.
She glances down at her new BlackBerry on the seat beside her.
Checks her features in the rearview mirror.
Picks up the cell and speed-dials Michael.
The anxiety is there.
In her chest.
She feels like she’s back in high school.
The anticipation of what’s to come sends her stomach into somersaults.
He picks up on the fourth ring.
“Hey, it’s me,” she begins, trying to sound anything but nervous.
“Hi,” he responds.
“I’m running a few minutes behind. I’m on Sixteenth. Just wanted you to know.”
The truth: Kennedy has sp
ent the past hour searching her closet for the right thing to wear.
Didn’t want to overdo it.
Was looking for the right mix of sensuality and practicality.
Wanted her husband to see her.
See her in a way he hasn’t in weeks.
In the end she selected a pair of Michael’s favorite jeans that hugged her curves in all the right places.
Knee-high black boots.
Formfitting white turtleneck.
Silver hanging earrings.
A black stone pendant.
Makeup done just right.
Hair flat-ironed down her back, straight out of a Rihanna video.
Yeah. Michael would notice her tonight.
She had made sure of that.
“Okay,” Michael says. “We’re just crossing the bridge now. Should be there shortly.”
Kennedy nods.
Considers leaving it at that and ending the call.
But she simply can’t.
She misses him too much.
“Thank you, Michael. For doing this.”
“No problem.”
Actually, it had been Zack’s idea.
He’d been missing the three of them together.
So he suggested they go ice-skating.
As a family again.
Michael wasn’t going to say no to his son.
And Kennedy was beside herself with glee when he’d called with the proposal.
It was a small thing.
Just an hour together—the three of them—out on Michael’s night with Zack.
No dinner, just ice-skating at the outdoor rink not far from his job.
Just the three of them.
Like old times.
Kennedy smiles.
It’s a small thing.
But it’s a start.
Chapter 69
Kennedy parks on Constitution Avenue and checks herself once again in the mirror.
Satisfied, she grabs her BlackBerry and gets out, locking the door with the remote.
The Sculpture Garden rink is a block and a half away, on the corner, across from the National Gallery of Art. The rink is lit up like a carousel, and she can see crowds of people gliding around the ice.
The weather tonight is cooperating. Not too cold, just right for early December in Washington.
She can’t wait to see Zack. Even though she had dropped him off at school only this morning, it feels like a lifetime ago.
For the past few hours she’s been running scenarios through her mind.
