by Debra Webb
She rolled to a stop at the intersection behind a vintage Camaro as black as the car she drove. The Camaro waited for an opportunity to turn left on Fairground Road. She’d seen it around the neighborhood. Probably belonged to a member of Quintero’s thug gang. One of these days the guy was going to get what was coming to him. He ran the illegal activities on this side of town. Everyone knew it, but no one could prove it. He and Bobbie had butted heads more than once.
When five then ten seconds passed with no traffic and no movement from the Camaro, tension slid through her. She reached for the gearshift to move into Reverse, but the passenger-side door of the Camaro opened and a man emerged.
“Speak of the devil.” What the hell did he want?
Javier Quintero approached her passenger-side window and leaned down to stare at her. “I need to talk to you, mami,” he said, the glass muffling his voice.
She powered down the window. “We have nothing to talk about, Javier.”
He unlocked the door and got in.
Bobbie rolled her eyes. “I don’t have time for this.”
“Your friend—” he hitched his head to indicate the cruiser behind her “—is causing my eses discomfort.”
Like she cared what his homeys suffered. “Get out of my car, Javier.”
In her side mirror she watched the officer emerge from the cruiser. She swore as she powered her window down.
“Ma’am, is everything all right?” Officer Delacruz, she read his name tag, already had one hand sitting on the butt of his weapon.
“Everything’s fine.” She offered one of her fake smiles. “Just chatting with a neighbor. Wait in your car, Delacruz.”
The painfully young officer, who shared absolutely nothing but a Hispanic heritage with the gangbanger currently occupying her passenger seat, glanced at Javier before giving her a nod and heading back to his cruiser.
“You see what I mean?” Javier complained. “This is bad for business.”
There were a number of things Bobbie could have said just then, but she decided in the interest of time she would give it to him straight. “You know that serial killer who almost killed me?”
Javier nodded. “I remember. He’s one sick motherfucker.”
On instinct, Bobbie checked her mirrors. “He’s back, so the chief put a tail on me.”
Javier laughed out loud, showing off his gold-and-silver grill. “Your jefe thinks that little boy back there is going to protect you, mami?”
“I told you to stop calling me that.”
“You tell your chief this is my neighborhood,” Javier said, ignoring her comment. “That fucker comes up in here—”
Enough. Bobbie slid her Glock from her belt and jammed it in his face. “Get out of my car.”
His mouth eased into a big grin, stretching the scar on his cheek where someone had sliced his face the last time he was in prison. “Don’t tease me, mami. I get hard when you play with me like this.” He flicked out his tongue and traced the muzzle.
She gritted her teeth. “Get out.”
The smile vanished and his brown eyes bored into hers. “Tell your chief that Johnny Law needs an unmarked car. He’s fucking with my cash flow and I don’t like it.”
With that demand he exited her car and climbed back into the Camaro. The driver spun out, tires smoking and squealing. Bobbie shook her head and rolled to the intersection. She hoped Delacruz hadn’t pissed his pants.
Criminal Investigation Division, 8:15 a.m.
Bobbie entered the building and waved to the sergeant stationed at the visitor’s registration desk. If she was lucky, there would be some fresh coffee somewhere in the building. She rounded the corner and bumped into Bauer.
“It’s about time you got here, Gentry. Everyone’s waiting for you.”
Detective Asher Bauer was average height with a well-muscled build maintained by his obsession with the gym. His need to heft weights was matched only by his determination to keep a year-round tan and a trendsetting club wardrobe. The sandy-blond hair and sleep-deprived gaze completed the party-player look he appeared to fancy. If he was smart, he’d find something for those bloodshot eyes. Since his fiancée died he was determined to spend his off time deep in a bottle of Jack and screwing anyone who would spread her legs. Bobbie wished she could find the right words to make him see alcohol and casual sex weren’t the answer.
At least he hasn’t slit his wrists the way you did.
Bobbie closed out the thoughts and produced another of her standard fake smiles for the guy. “As soon as I get coffee, I’ll go to the LT’s office.”
Bauer moved his head from side to side. “Go to the conference room. I’ll bring your coffee. Peterson’s in there, too.”
“Black, no sugar,” Bobbie reminded him before changing directions and heading for the conference room.
Whatever was going on, the chief’s presence confirmed it was a high-profile situation like the Storyteller. Why else would they have called you?
Anticipation seared through her veins and her fingers itched to draw her weapon and hold on to it just in case. The door to the conference room was open. Peterson sat at the head of the table, Lieutenant Eudora Owens to his right, Sergeant Lynette Holt next to her. Across from the LT were Montgomery County Sheriff Virgil Young and Special Agent Michael Hadden from the local FBI office.
All looked up when Bobbie entered the room. “I guess I’m the last one to the party.” She reached for a chair.
“Not quite, Detective.”
Her pulse bumping into a faster rhythm, Bobbie turned to the man standing in the open doorway. Special Agent Anthony LeDoux. Resentment, bitterness and no small amount of dislike stirred. She clenched her jaw and tamped down the surge of emotions.
LeDoux was only four years older than her. He had been on the Storyteller case since the eighth victim was left at his front door. At the time he’d been a brand-new profiler and his work had apparently drawn the Storyteller’s attention. LaDoux’s light brown hair was shorter now than it was last December when she’d first met him, and the wedding band he’d worn back then was missing.
“Why don’t we get started?” the chief suggested, impatience radiating in his tone. Peterson didn’t care much for LeDoux, either, and he didn’t mind showing it.
Bobbie shifted her attention to those gathered at the table. “What’s going on?” She didn’t ask why she was here, she was just grateful not to be left in the dark.
“Lieutenant Owens will brief us,” Peterson said, his somber gaze now resting on the Major Crimes Bureau commander.
Bobbie sat down next to Holt. Bauer showed up and took the seat beside her. Thankfully the cup of coffee he sat in front of Bobbie smelled drinkable, which wasn’t always the case around here. Many of the detectives in CID were former military who’d done numerous tours of duty overseas, and their definition of full-flavored coffee was something strong enough to eat a hole in the cup.
“About five this morning the car belonging to Gwen Adams was discovered in the driveway of a vacant home on Highland Avenue,” Owens announced. “Her purse and keys were still in the car. No sign of her cell phone. Witnesses say the car has been there since yesterday morning or the night before, but none saw the driver or anyone else in or near the vehicle. It wasn’t until this morning when the Realtor came by on his way out of town that anyone realized it shouldn’t be there. We’ve had no hits on our BOLO on Ms. Adams, and her boyfriend, Liam Neely, is missing, as well. Based on the number of calls made between Neely and Carl Evans during the forty or so hours before Evans’s suicide, we’ve listed Neely as a person of interest.”
Equal parts pain and anger welled inside Bobbie. If the Storyteller followed his usual MO, he would torture Gwen relentlessly and rape her repeatedly. Bobbie closed her eyes. She had to do something. Gwen had worked so patiently w
ith her during her recovery. She refused to give up even when Bobbie was at her lowest. The chief could keep her on admin leave, but Bobbie had to help find Gwen before it was too late. Before the bastard did those things to her...
Whispers and images attempted to invade her thoughts. Strong-arming those ugly memories aside, she glanced at LeDoux, who was busy flipping through pages of reports. To Owens, she said, “Obviously you’ve decided her abduction is the work of the Storyteller.” Bobbie didn’t know why she’d bothered with the statement. Of course it was the Storyteller.
“Actually,” LeDoux cut in, “I made that call.”
Another wave of tension washed over Bobbie as she met his gaze. “Based on what?” Was there more he wasn’t telling her, because he couldn’t possibly know what Evans had said to her?
To say she despised LeDoux would be a vast understatement. He had known having her on the task force last December would push the Storyteller’s buttons. He’d been desperate to see movement on the case. But then, she couldn’t hold him responsible for getting her family killed. She had quickly realized the Storyteller would be drawn to her since she fit the profile of his preferred victim and she’d stayed on the case anyway. Both she and LeDoux had hoped to be the one to bring the infamous serial killer to his knees. Apparently—she glanced at the bare ring finger on his left hand—they had both paid a price.
“Based on my recommendation,” Chief Peterson announced.
“Why am I here?” Bobbie asked this question directly of the chief. She could feel Lieutenant Owens glaring at her. Didn’t matter. The question was a valid one.
“Because I wanted you here,” LeDoux answered.
Bobbie turned back to the agent, his words reverberating inside her. This time she couldn’t keep the anger from her voice when she spoke. “I should have recognized the MO.”
“That’s enough, Detective,” Owens warned.
“We believe,” LeDoux began, “Gwen Adams is being held somewhere in Montgomery County. Perry will want to stay near you, Bobbie.”
She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of an acknowledgment.
“Chief Peterson called me yesterday as soon as the Carl Evans case broke,” LeDoux continued, speaking to the room at large. “Considering the transfer of Detective Gentry’s medical records and the research Evans had been doing on the internet, it’s clear this case is related to the Storyteller investigation.”
“With Perry active again in our jurisdiction,” Owens picked up from there, “we have to assume he has returned for you, Detective.”
All eyes at the table moved in Bobbie’s direction. She shrugged. “Why else would he resurface and risk getting caught?”
“Precisely,” the chief punctuated. “Which is why I believe it would be in your best interest to go into protective custody.”
Bobbie had wondered when that suggestion would come up. She was not running from Perry. The only way to stop him was head-on. The one chance Gwen had of surviving was if they found him quickly enough. Bobbie stood and placed her badge and her service weapon on the table. “I’m done here.”
A rap on the open door drew the room’s collective attention in that direction. The desk sergeant looked from the chief to Bobbie. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but there’s a lady at the desk who refuses to leave without seeing Detective Gentry. She says it’s urgent.”
Shoving her weapon and her badge back into place, Bobbie was at the door before anyone else at the table moved. The sergeant stepped out of her way, and then hurried to keep up with her. With every step, she hoped a little harder that the woman would be Gwen...that maybe she hadn’t been taken by the Storyteller.
“Did she give her name?” Bobbie asked the sergeant.
“She wouldn’t tell me anything except that she needed to see you.”
By the time they reached the lobby, the rest of those gathered for this morning’s trap to force Bobbie into protective custody had caught up.
“I’m Detective Gentry,” she said as she approached the woman standing alone near the sign-in desk. Not Gwen. Damn it.
The woman was medium height, on the thin side and younger than Bobbie, twenty-nine or thirty. Her blond hair didn’t look as if it had been brushed this morning. Her brown eyes were red and swollen from crying. “Detective Bobbie Gentry?” she asked.
Bobbie nodded. “Yes, ma’am. What’s your name?”
The woman held on to her purse as if she feared someone might try to take it from her at any moment. “Heather Rice.” Her lips trembled. “You have to help me.” A sob tore from her throat.
“Why don’t we sit down, Heather?” Bobbie ushered her toward the row of chairs nearby. Once they were seated, she said, “Start at the beginning and tell me what happened.”
“He said I had to find you and that I couldn’t talk to anyone else.” Heather glanced at the crowd gathered nearby. “Only you.”
Peterson stepped forward. “Ms. Rice, I’m the chief of police. You have nothing to fear here. No matter what anyone told you, you may speak freely.”
She held his gaze, tears sliding down her cheeks. “You can’t help me.” She turned to Bobbie. “He said it had to be you.” She loosened her hold on her purse and reached inside.
Every armed cop in the vicinity except Bobbie readied to go for their weapons.
Oblivious to the new tension in the room, the woman withdrew a five-by-seven photo from her purse. She handed it to Bobbie. “He said for me to give this to you, and you would understand what it means.”
As Bobbie held the photograph, ice formed in her veins, its chill sinking all the way to her bones. She stared at the sweet little face captured there. The little boy looked to be about three years old. He had wide gray eyes and scruffy blond hair. An ache pierced the one tender spot left inside her, and it took every ounce of courage she possessed to meet the woman’s hopeful gaze. “This is your son?”
Heather nodded. “Joseph. I call him Joey. When I woke up this morning, he was gone from his bed. There was a note with a number for me to call. The man who answered told me if I did anything besides what he told me to do he would...” Her face crumpled. “He said he would kill my baby.”
Bobbie handed the photo to Bauer, who was already standing by waiting for it. “Where is Joey’s father?”
“He was killed in a car accident two years ago.” She grabbed on to Bobbie’s arm. “Please, you have to find him. He’s all I have left.”
Before Bobbie could reassure her, the main entrance door opened and another woman walked in. She glanced around, worry and fear cluttering her face. “I need Detective Bobbie Gentry,” she said, her voice wobbling on the words.
Numb, Bobbie stood. “I’m Detective Gentry.”
The woman’s lips trembled. “My boy is missing. The man who took him said I had to find you.”
She thrust a photo toward Bobbie. Her heart sank. Little boy...three to four years of age. Blond hair, gray eyes.
“Please,” the woman pleaded, “you have to help me find him.”
Six
Vonora Avenue, 10:45 a.m.
Bobbie moved through the house a second time, searching for any details she might have missed on the first walk-through. Marilyn Taggart’s home was neat and well kept, just as Heather Rice’s had been. The Taggart home, a small craftsman bungalow in the Capitol Heights neighborhood, was about half the size of the Rice home, located over in a higher-end East Chase subdivision.
With two crime scenes, Bauer and Owens had taken the Rice home while Bobbie and Sergeant Lynette Holt, her immediate supervisor, had come here. The chief had not been happy that Bobbie was involved, but he had deferred to Lieutenant Owens’s wishes and taken her off admin leave for the time being. Evidence techs were already crawling over both residences.
Bobbie stood in the doorway of the little boy’
s bedroom. His room had been dusted for prints and scanned for any other evidence that might not be readily visible to the naked eye. As sad as it was, most children were abducted or harmed by familiars—people they knew. Far too often that person was a parent. That wasn’t the case this time. They knew who had taken these children and they knew why.
More of that agony she’d been fighting off tore at her. If he hurt either of these children...
Focus, Bobbie. Gwen and the children need you to do this right.
The Spider-Man comforter was tousled and the window next to the bed was unlocked and open. Anyone could have removed the old wooden screen and come inside. The window locks no longer worked in the old home. Her pulse rate building in spite of her best efforts, Bobbie forced herself to inventory the details of the room. A small bookcase was lined with stuffed animals and Dr. Seuss books. Cars and Legos and Minions littered the floor. Colorful posters of Disney movies along with his drawings and finger-paint creations filled the walls.
Bobbie’s soul ached. The room could be Jamie’s room. He had loved Legos and Minions. What little boy didn’t love cars? She swallowed, hoping to loosen the tightening muscles of her throat. Suddenly she was grateful she hadn’t touched the coffee Bauer had brought to her back at the office.
Keep it together. Finding this son of a bitch is all that matters.
Rice was a stay-at-home mom, surviving comfortably on her deceased husband’s Social Security payments and the life insurance he’d left behind. She rarely allowed Joey out of her sight. Taggart, on the other hand, was a working mom. She’d been employed as a secretary for Redmont Brothers Construction since before her son was born.
Aaron—his name was Aaron. He would be four next month. Bobbie took a slow, deep breath. Monday through Friday Aaron spent his days at Learning Tots Daycare. Taggart’s estranged husband, Scott, was currently unemployed—an ongoing issue—and MIA. A BOLO had been issued for his sorry ass, though it was highly unlikely he had anything to do with Aaron’s abduction. Beyond, she amended, the fact that he hadn’t been home to protect his child.
