On His Watch (Vengeance Is Mine Book 1)

by Susanne Matthews

  “You’re welcome. Is there anything else I can do for you?” he asked, his voice full of concern.

  She couldn’t imagine what such a gentle giant was doing in her room. “Are you the night nurse?”

  He chuckled. His voice was pleasant, and it reassured her. “Not exactly. I’m from Sentinel Security. I’m here to watch over you and keep you safe.”

  “Like a guardian angel?”

  “Sort of,” he answered. “Jason will be back in the morning. He’ll explain it all to you. Go back to sleep, Mrs. Hart. You’re safe.”

  Jason? The name meant nothing to her, but then again, so little did. Yawning, she closed her eyes and drifted back to sleep.

  * * *

  Jason sat in his hotel room, his laptop computer open on the desk in front of him. The remnants of the steak room service had delivered earlier sat on the coffee table. The flat screen television was tuned into the baseball game. His team hadn’t made it to the World Series, but he enjoyed watching a good ball game. The Yankees were up by three, so he’d turned down the sound and got back to work. Knowing Brad wanted to talk to him had driven him to review all the case files. As usual, he started with the hardest part of the investigation.

  He called up the audio file of the nine-one-one call the operator had sent Rick. He’d made a copy of it for himself. How many times had he listened to it over the last month and a half? Yet it still didn’t yield the answers he needed. If he’d ever expected it to ease his conscience, he’d been mistaken. It was an ulcer in his gut, eating at it each time he listened to it—and he listened often.

  According to the coroner’s report, Danny was already dead when Nikki had made the call. That had been some comfort, but not enough to ease the rest of his guilt. He reached for the scotch he’d poured himself and pressed play.

  From the ragged sound of her breathing, she’d been in a lot of pain. He heard her muffled gasp, which he believed was when she’d been stabbed a second time. The technicians had been able to enhance the tape, and the killers’ voices now came across loud and clear. They’d determined the man who’d stabbed her first was named Leroy.

  According to the FBI linguistics expert Jason had contacted, Leroy had a pronounced southern drawl from the Texas Panhandle. Jason had the FBI techs search every database available for criminals named Leroy who grew up in Texas, and although hundreds of names had popped up, few of them fit the bill. The half dozen they’d questioned all had rock-solid alibis.

  Each man they’d brought in, regardless of which office had done it, had been asked to read the same script into a recorder for voice analysis and comparison.

  Boss, there’s no one upstairs. The little girl’s room is empty. For a rich man, he didn’t live very high off the hog.

  None of the voices had even come close.

  There were no other names on the tape. The second man, the one who’d delivered the wound to her lower back, had a Midwest accent, which was harder to pin down. Millions of Americans from dozens of states spoke that way. The FBI had questioned a couple of known felons in the area and in Nevada and Colorado who’d been charged with aggravated assault, but nothing had stuck.

  The recording captured the sounds of someone coming in from the garage, rooting through the cupboards, and going out again. They weren’t sure if he was the third man who’d spoken or someone else. There was no forensic evidence to suggest a fourth person had been there. Twice the man had mentioned the safe.

  According to drug company records, Dr. Hart had recently received a new shipment of narcotics. Had this been about drugs? Had the doctor been supplying someone with prescription drugs and somehow cheated them? The father’s sin—the boss had said it was what they’d been told to write. But by whom?

  Obviously a fourth person was involved, whether or not he’d been on the premises that night. Chances were good he hadn’t been. Those guys generally didn’t get involved in the dirty work. No survivors—kill everyone in the house. The words were branded in Jason’s mind. Who’d given the orders for the massacre?

  According to the linguist, the man in charge at the house was a New Zealander. What the hell was a killer from New Zealand doing in the United States, let alone Larosa? He paused the audio file and refilled his glass. He stared outside at the driving rain, wishing it could wash away his guilt.

  Listening to the attack on Nikki was always the worst, but he’d forced himself to listen to that dialogue over and over again until he knew every last inflection in the bastard’s voice. The time stamp indicated the attack had started at 9:30. Where had he been at that time? Picking up a six-pack. He couldn’t even look at the brand anymore without feeling guilt and shame.

  He walked back to the computer and pushed play again. The man’s voice filled the room as he spoke to Nikki. Jason listened to him cut off her finger, and then kiss her. He heard the violent curses and what he now knew had been the bastard spitting on her. Unfortunately, by the time the techs had identified that sound, any viable DNA evidence had been lost. He stopped the audio file. He couldn’t listen to the beating again. There wasn’t much else on the recording.

  Thomas Lincoln had been anxious to tear down the garage and kitchen on the house and rebuild them. Crime scenes didn’t have a high resale value. CID had gathered their evidence and given permission for the renovations to begin before he’d even gotten back to Larosa. Money talked.

  He opened his case files and called up the time line they’d established based on Molly’s phone records and the nine-one-one tape. This was his own particular hair shirt.

  The operator had taken the call at 9:10. She’d tried to get information from the caller and had relayed the call to Molly at 9:13. Molly had sent Buck to the Purple Grape earlier, but she’d tried him first. When he hadn’t answered, she’d called Jason at 9:15. At that point there were two lines on the screen—one showing what was happening in the Hart kitchen and another showing what he’d been doing at the time. Every time he looked at it, he questioned his decision to stay on the case. This chart was his dirty little secret. Sure, the kid at the convenience store knew he’d stopped by that night, but he hadn’t shared that with anyone. Rick had found the beer in the trunk, but hadn’t said a thing about it. There wasn’t enough forgiveness in the world to cover the role he’d played in this.

  He reached for the envelope of crime scene photos. The ones on the top of the pile were those taken in the garage. He stared at the one showing the doctor’s mutilated hands. Why cut off his fingers? So far, no one had been able to answer that question.

  Pete had suggested it was so no one could identify the doctor, but since everyone knew exactly who he was, that seemed unlikely—overkill at best. Lisa thought maybe he’d stolen something, and it was a punishment like the ones they’d meted out in Biblical times, but they’d have cut off the hands, not just the fingers.

  It was possible whoever had done this had staged the robbery to cover up a crime of passion. It could be payback for a botched surgery. If that were the case, cutting off the offending fingers made sense. But Jason had gone through the doctor’s OR records and hadn’t found anything. The doctor had never even been sued for malpractice—a rare thing for surgeons these days.

  The coroner had said his fingers had been removed, one at a time, while he’d been alive, but he couldn’t say if he’d been conscious. The tape across his mouth would have muffled his screams. Bruises on the body’s torso indicated Dr. Hart had been badly beaten. Why the torture? The killers had taken the doctor’s fingers with them. Souvenirs? Proof they’d killed the right man? Anything was possible.

  They’d taken everything the doctor kept in the safe, so that was a dead end. Now the only one who might be able to tell them what was in the safe was Nikki, and she might never remember. He examined the insurance photo of Nikki’s wedding band. They’d cut off Nikki’s finger to get it, but they’d left her finger behind. What had the man meant when he’d said its owner wanted it back? Lisa tried to convince him the missing fin
gers and those words implied Dr. Hart had stolen the ring. More than likely he’d unwittingly purchased a stolen ring and he and his family had paid the price.

  According to the insurance record, the red stones were diamonds, not rubies. He’d never even heard of red diamonds, but all of the area jewelers he’d spoken to had agreed the ring was worth a small fortune.

  They’d circulated the picture to every diamond merchant and high-end jewelry store in the country and got nothing. Last week, at Jason’s request, the FBI had sent the picture and the MO from the incident to Interpol, Beijing, Tokyo, and Australia. So far, nothing had come of it, but these things took time. It was only on television that vicious crimes could be solved in an hour. In reality it took months, years, and sadly, some were never solved.

  Jason pushed away from the computer, the timeline still up on its screen, and dropped the photograph of the ring on the desk. He downed the last of the whiskey. Maybe he’d go down to the hotel fitness center. They had a heavy bag down there that would let him blow off some steam, and then he’d swim laps until he’d be too exhausted to think about hazel eyes staring at him. He’d picked up a swimsuit in the store in the lobby, had paid three times what he’d have paid for it in Larosa, but it would do. He’d have to buy some clothes tomorrow. It didn’t look like he’d be going home anytime soon.

  Chapter Six

  Jason let himself into his hotel room. He was exhausted. He must have done thirty laps after pounding the shit out of that bag. He went into the bathroom, showered to rinse the chlorine from his body and poured himself another scotch. He pulled on his boxers and walked back to the computer. The screen was black, but a flick of the mouse brought up the timeline again. He was about to open a second file when his cellphone rang. He checked the display. It was Rick returning his call.

  “Hi, bro, thanks for calling back.”

  “I tried earlier, but there was no answer.”

  “I was down at the pool. Listen, I won’t be back for a while. Nikki Hart woke up this morning and—”

  “Is she going to be able to ID the attackers?” Rick cut him off.

  “Not likely. She’s got amnesia. Her doctor and I held a press conference. It’ll probably make the eleven o’clock news. We wanted to make sure everyone knew she didn’t remember anything in case someone decided to come back and finish the job.”

  “Shit. That’s not good, and I have more bad news for you.”

  Jason frowned. “What do you mean? They’re not taking me off the case, are they?”

  “No, not that I know of. Javier Gomez from the California State Police called this afternoon. He’s been on vacation the past week and found a message on his desk from Rafe Somers, the park ranger over at Auburn State Recreation Area. He called him back and got some news he thought might interest us. Do you remember when Dad took us camping there when we were kids?”

  “What kind of news?” he asked impatiently. Rick took forever to get to the point at times. It was probably why it had taken him three years to propose.

  “I was coming to that. A couple of prospectors found two bodies in a tent. According to Rafe, the cadavers were pretty badly decomposed, and the animals had been at them. He figures they’ve been there a while. He called Gomez because of the APB the state police put out just after the murders. They’ve sent the remains to the FBI lab in Sacramento for forensic investigation. The man in charge of the case is Calder Jackson. I’m sure he must have something by now.”

  “It’s kind of late to get anyone in the office tonight.” Jason swallowed his scotch and let the liquor burn away his frustration.

  “Not a problem. Molly called their office to check when he’d be around, and he gave her his home number. I was going to call him myself, but I thought you would rather do it. This could be the break we need. Rafe said their throats had been cut. I’m thinking it might be two of our guys. You know—a falling out among thieves? On the other hand, it could be two more victims. Either way, if it’s in any way related to our case, it’s a lead.”

  Jason sighed. The last thing he needed was for this to become a serial killer case creating a media feeding frenzy. There’d be enough attention on it tomorrow once news of Nikki’s amnesia was out.

  “Call Calder.” He copied down the number Rick gave him. “Let me know what he said. I’ll be up for a couple of hours yet.”

  Jason ended the call and poured more scotch in his glass before walking back to the desk and picking up one of Nikki’s promo shots. The lady was a highly respected artist. He’d looked through the brochures of her work and had been impressed. A couple of her pieces looked similar to the only oil painting he owned, an unsigned seascape he’d bought for a song at a little boutique in Venice Beach seven or eight years ago. The painting had called to him, reminded him of the bluff he usually visited when he needed time to think. He’d felt the man in the painting’s loneliness and isolation. But what the hell did he know about art? He’d bought that picture of the dogs playing poker, too.

  He put down the photograph and reached for the phone to call Sacramento. In one way he hoped the men in that tent weren’t connected to his case. He seemed to be spinning his wheels here and adding to the body count probably wouldn’t help.

  Thank God, Brad was back. Jason hated to admit it, but he was pretty sure he wouldn’t solve this one alone. Being the agent in charge of a case gone cold was frustrating as hell, and the one witness he had didn’t remember a thing. Brad, who’d stayed with the BAU a few years longer than he had, had a way of looking at things that brought them into focus. His old partner had returned to the San Francisco bureau office last week after finishing a case up in Alaska. Jason had sucked up his pride and begged his friend to look at the case. He’d sent everything they had. As he’d hoped, the occurrence had fascinated Brad who’d agreed to pull strings and get assigned to the case. If Brad wanted to see him tomorrow, it was good news.

  Jason dialed the number Rick had given him and waited for Calder to answer. If the bodies in Auburn were connected, Brad needed to know about them, too.

  * * *

  “You’re absolutely certain, Calder?” Jason said, his voice betraying his dismay.

  “Yes. There’s no mistake. The blood on their clothing and boots matches your victims. According to the forensic experts, both men overdosed on prescription drugs mixed with alcohol. They must have had a hell of a party. We found Mrs. Hart’s jewelry in the tent—according to the insurance records everything is there except the couple’s wedding rings. Fenced, they could have brought in a cool quarter million dollars. Slitting their throats was overkill. Neither of them would have survived the drug cocktail.”

  Jason whistled. “That’s a lot of money to leave behind. Well, at least they weren’t innocent prospectors. The last thing I want is more victims. Have they been identified yet?”

  Was Rick right—a falling out among thieves, or had that been the plan all along? No survivors. Did that apply to the executioners as well as the victims?

  “Yep, and their deaths might have done the country a favor. Sorry, that wasn’t a very professional thing to say, but they weren’t exactly model citizens. The first one was Jean-Guy Le Roy. You were looking for him in the wrong place. He was born in Louisiana and moved to Dumas, Texas, when he was six. He was in and out of trouble from the age of ten. Spent nine years in the Clements unit of the Texas state prison system for aggravated assault. Got out in June after serving his full sentence.”

  “Son of a bitch. I thought it was a first name.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up about it. Everybody did. The coroner puts time of death within a day of your murders. Whoever the third man is, he doesn’t leave witnesses. The other guy was from Indiana—a small-time hustler who graduated to the big leagues when he killed a man in a bar fight. He and Le Roy were cellmates for seven years. His name was Clayton Fisher. I’m sorry I don’t have better news for you.”

  Jason sighed. Now his case was really cold. “It shouldn’t surprise me
. The first rule of assassination is ‘kill the assassin’ and it looks like one of the other killers did just that. Thanks for everything. I appreciate the time your guys put in on this. Have copies of the autopsies sent to Larosa along with the rest of the evidence. By the way, were the bodies mutilated?”

  “Do you mean were their fingers missing? No. Other than the slit throats, there wasn’t a mark on them.”

  He thanked him again and ended the call.

  Damn! Another dead end. What the hell was he supposed to do now?

  * * *

  Jason picked up the check the waitress had left on his table and carried it to the counter. The restaurant in the hotel provided a decent breakfast for the price.

  He paid his tab, left the hotel, and crossed the street to the parking lot where he’d left his SUV. He’d gone shopping earlier at a Men’s Warehouse just down from the hotel. He’d bought jeans, polo shirts, as well as a couple of more professional looking outfits. It hadn’t been cheap, but he wanted to look competent. No one looked competent in dirty, wrinkled clothes.

  He eased the vehicle forward through the narrow parking lanes. He checked the sign on the edge of the lot—four bucks per half hour to a maximum of fifty dollars a day. Good thing parking was part of the room rate. For more than two hundred bucks a night for a room half the size of his motel cabin, it had better be.

  He pulled into traffic, heading across town to FBI headquarters. Brad had phoned at the crack of dawn and assured him they had a team of agents eager to help. Jason was to give a full briefing at noon. He hoped he could stay focused. He hadn’t slept well.

  A pair of hazel eyes accusing him of allowing the killers to get away had haunted his sleep. There’d been some strange erotic dreams thrown in, too, and he’d awakened cranky and edgy. The six scotches hadn’t helped either. He shouldn’t have kissed her—shouldn’t have looked into those eyes.

  San Francisco traffic was brutal at eleven o’clock in the morning, and it took more than half an hour to reach Golden Gate Avenue. He parked in the visitors’ lot and entered the office tower, his ID ready.