JT punched the guard in the face.
He rubbed his jaw. Smirked. Walked around the bed to the small sink. Spat blood into it and rinsed it away with water. ‘You’re riled, huh? Guess you really do got a soft spot – or a hard spot – for that bitch.’ He wiped his mouth with a tissue. Put it in the yellow trashcan for bio waste. ‘But you need to get yourself over that. The Old Man wants her ended; and sure, we could snatch her up, but he thinks it’d be better if you brought her to him.’
‘Never going to happen.’
‘She betrayed Tommy for you, is that about right? Helped you when you were hunting him, but somehow Tommy got dead?’ He gave a little laugh. ‘The Old Man thinks it’d be poetic if you’re involved. You betray her – an eye for an eye.’
JT didn’t speak. Glared at the podgy guard. Clenched his fists. ‘I’m not for sale.’
‘Everyone has a price.’ The guard smiled. ‘Cute kid she’s got. Wonder who the father—’
JT snarled, ‘Tell the Old Man the answer is no.’
45
The ringing of my cell jolted me awake, the beeping dragging me back from the twilight zone between sleep and wakefulness. It wasn’t dark outside any longer – the sun was filtering through the voile covering the window. Still groggy from sleep, I groped for the handset on the nightstand and answered, expecting it to be Red.
‘He … I…’ The woman’s words were too distorted from crying to make out.
‘Mia? Slow down, tell me what’s wrong.’
I heard her gulp the air. ‘I got into the study … I…’ More sobbing.
My heart rate accelerated. ‘What’s happened? Did he hurt you?’
‘I’m … okay. Marco … he … he…’
‘I need you to take a breath, Mia.’
I heard her wracking sobs slowly subside.
‘First, are you safe?’
‘It’s okay, he’s … not here … he doesn’t know that I…’
‘Good. Now tell me what happened, slowly.’
Mia’s spoke fast, her words running into each other. ‘Marco got up earlier than normal and went out for a run. I knew you needed the information fast so I thought, okay, I’ll go in the study now; I should have an hour before he’s back. So I managed to get into the study … and I typed the password into the computer and it worked.’ She took a loud breath.
‘And?’
‘I didn’t find anything. There was nothing on his email that mentioned Gibson or Mexico. I searched for as long as I could risk it, checked the sent and deleted folders then shut down the computer. It was when I came back upstairs I saw it.’
‘What?’
‘His cell. He’d left it in his dressing room. I managed to unlock it – the grease marks from his fingers showed me the passcode. He’d been sending messages to a person…’
‘Who, Mia?’
‘It said “Dodge”. Dodge had been paying men who looked like Gibson to be decoys for your spotters – Rosas and Ortiz, right? – I found their pictures in the message exchange. Marco wanted to find Gibson first … Dodge would get a bonus if he took Gibson alive so Marco could … so he could kill him.’
‘Have they got Gibson?’
‘No … no, not yet … but… the pictures made me think there might be others, maybe of the people he was working with or something. So I went to his camera folders and that’s when I found the … the … I…’ Her voice sounded strangled. She started crying again.
‘What did you see, Mia?’
‘More pictures, but … I … I … can’t believe he … It’s too…’
I kept my tone gentle. ‘Can you tell me about them?
‘Snuff pictures, that’s what I thought first off … a man and woman … covered in blood and…’ She took a ragged breath. ‘I thought Marco’s need for hard-core porn had turned from forced sex to … to murder and…’ She was sobbing too hard to speak.
‘Mia, deep breaths. Tell me what else.’
‘I recognised them.’
‘You knew the victims in the photos?’
‘I never met them, but I knew of them.’
Realisation started to dawn on me. Searle was involved in far more than sabotaging my hunt for Gibson. My voice was urgent as I asked, ‘How?’
‘Their pictures were all over the media. They were the couple Gibson was convicted of murdering. Their name was Walker – a husband and wife.’ She blew her nose. ‘Why does Marco have images of them dead? I … It makes no sense … How could he have those pictures on his cell unless he … unless he was…’
Involved in the murders? Responsible for the Walkers’ deaths?
Her voice was almost a whisper. ‘He hates Gibson. He said he’d do anything to keep him away from me.’
Anything.
Even murder?
46
The photos suggested Searle was balls-deep in the murder of the Walkers and I was starting to believe Gibson Fletcher might have been wrongfully convicted. The pieces of the puzzle were moving closer to each other, yet exactly how they fitted together still escaped me. That said, the photos Searle had were new evidence. They put a different slant on the Walkers’ murders, adding another player to the game. Although I didn’t trust him, I needed to tell Monroe.
I grabbed the burner from my purse and checked Monroe’s last message. His flight would arrive just after eleven. Right now, he’d still be in the air and our burner phones were too basic for internet calling. I couldn’t wait two hours. I needed to act now. Mia was in a mess and if Searle figured out what she’d discovered there was no accounting for what he might do. I had to help her, even if it meant getting in the line of fire between her and Searle. I couldn’t let him hurt her for helping me.
I sent a message to Monroe: Call me asap.
Then I slipped my vest on under my shirt, fastened my shoulder holster over the top and put on my leather jacket. Grabbed my Taser and headed for the door.
*
I’d just climbed into the Jeep when my cell phone buzzed. The message was from Red: Urgent! Watch now: CCTV visits Donald Fletcher – Gibson Fletcher.
I clicked the video file. The footage was medium quality but it didn’t matter; the identity of the man impersonating Donald Fletcher was an easy spot. I recognised his gait as he approached the counter, but his was face hidden, so for a brief moment I held on to the hope that I was wrong. Biting my lip, I waited for him to turn. Prayed that it was someone else.
It wasn’t.
As the camera view changed to one positioned behind the desk officer’s shoulder, the impostor’s face was framed dead centre. His clothes were more casual than I was used to – blue jeans, a white tee and a sport coat – and he’d altered the shape of his face somehow, most likely with temporary fillers, which pushed his cheeks up over his gums; he’d also added a neat moustache and black framed glasses. But his brown hair was the same – just a touch too long and rather wayward. His piercing stare was fixed on the officer.
I cussed loud, slamming my palms against the steering wheel. I didn’t need to hear him speak to know he had a Kentucky accent. Gibson’s brother had been telling the truth; it wasn’t him visiting at the prison. FBI Special Agent Alex Monroe was the man impersonating Donald Fletcher.
I felt paralysed. I knew I needed to drive to Mia. I had to make sure she was okay. She’d taken a risk to help me out, and now – unless she could act like nothing was wrong – what she’d discovered would put her in danger. I had to keep her safe. Couldn’t let Searle hurt her. I owed her that.
But I couldn’t take my eyes off the CCTV image freeze-framed on the screen of my cell phone. I watched each of the short clips, corresponding to each of the prison visit dates. In every one the visitor was the same man: Alex Monroe – the agent who was supposed to be leading the hunt for Gibson Fletcher; the man who was supposed to be able to get JT’s charged dropped just so long as I brought Gibson in. It made no kind of sense.
Or maybe it did.
Monroe was the law, so wh
y was he impersonating Donald Fletcher in order to visit Gibson? He had access to prisoners if he needed it for his job – he didn’t have to sneak in under another person’s name. But I had the proof that he done just that on the screen in front of me. That told me he was hiding something. By bringing me in to chase down Gibson rather than sending an FBI team after him, Monroe had managed to keep his co-workers at a distance from Gibson. I reckoned now that whatever he was up to with Gibson, it wasn’t part of his work. That’s why he wanted time with Gibson before he took him back to jail.
The puzzle pieces were starting to fit.
Gibson Fletcher must have colluded with Monroe; he kept meeting with him every time he turned up as ‘Donald’ on the first Tuesday of every month for the same length of time – one hour. Except the last visit hadn’t been on a Tuesday, and it only lasted seventeen minutes rather than sixty. The next day Gibson Fletcher had got a ruptured appendix and been rushed to the emergency room at Florida Medical. The smart money told me Monroe was the one who’d helped Gibson escape.
He must have thought he was bulletproof. Because, while Monroe might not have got the prison CCTV for me, he’d given me access to the prison visitors’ logs. He must have let me see them because he was confident his deception would hold. He’d never imagined I’d go back and talk to the real Donald Fletcher. I remembered Monroe’s anger at me having flown back to Florida to speak with Donald without telling him first. I knew now he’d have done his damnedest to talk me out of going.
He also hadn’t figured that I’d check the signature against the Southside Storage package docket. He must have known there was no CCTV from back then to incriminate him. But the signature on the Southside Storage sender docket was the same as the one in the prison visitors’ log: Donald Fletcher’s signature, signed wrongly by Monroe.
It hit me like a sucker punch. Monroe sent the package; which meant he already knew what was inside. Given his interest right back at the start of this job had been to find Gibson in order to find the stolen chess set, there had to be some connection. But the package wasn’t heavy enough to contain the pieces, and if Monroe had sent it, surely he could have just picked it back up. No, there was something else at play here, something that Monroe and Gibson were in on.
I glared at the screen of my cell phone, at the image of Monroe’s face staring back at me, and felt a white-hot fury ignite deep within my core. He’d underestimated me, and that would cost him, because now I knew his secret. This was not a jurisdiction issue. There was no need-to-know bullshit, no wiggle room. Monroe was dirty. I just needed to figure out his end game.
I fired up the engine and stepped on the gas. Felt shaky as hell inside, but on the outside I was all business. Monroe was still in the air; I could do nothing until he landed. Getting Mia safe was my most urgent priority. She couldn’t end up a casualty of this messed-up game.
47
I sensed something was out of whack from the moment I pulled up outside the house. The garage was open, the connecting door into the kitchen ajar. I could see Mia’s SUV parked up. Beside it was a blue convertible – Searle’s I assumed. Someone had arrived or left in a hurry.
Ditching the Jeep at the kerb, I sprinted up the driveway. I heard raised voices from inside, angry, snarling – Mia and Searle. I rushed through the garage into the kitchen. Spotted car keys and shades on the island unit in the centre of the room, a half-drunk smoothie with red lipstick on the glass beside them.
I kept moving. Checked the family room, glanced into the utility and the half-bath: all empty. As I headed along the hallway towards the study, the voices grew louder. I heard a crash, the sound of glass shattering. Mia screamed.
I hurtled into the study. Searle had his hands around Mia’s throat. She was thrashing against him. Papers scattered from his desk onto the floor.
‘Let her go.’
Searle turned when he heard me. His features contorted in rage. ‘Get the hell out of—’
‘I know what you did, Searle.’ I moved closer to him. ‘You framed a man for murder. You’re going to jail.’
He snarled at Mia. Flung her away from him. ‘Fucking traitor.’
She cannoned into the desk. Fell heavily to the ground.
‘Back-up is coming,’ I bluffed. ‘There’s no way out.’
He charged me. His shoulder ramming into me, and thrusting me back into the wall. I ducked out of his reach. Pulled the Taser from my holster. He was too close for me to get a full shot off so I dry-fired into his shoulder.
Searle bellowed in fury, whacked me with his forearm, batting the Taser away. It slipped from my fingers and I heard it clatter onto the floor. Shit. He kept fighting, raining blows down on me, the voltage not enough to stop him. I blocked him. Got a couple of punches in before he pounded me in the chest, knocking the air from me.
I doubled over, wheezing. Saw Mia drag herself upright using Searle’s desk as support. There was blood smeared across her face. Her top was ripped. Scarlet marks around her throat showed where Searle had tried to throttle her.
She picked up the letter opener – the silver dagger – and took a shaky step towards us.
‘No,’ I croaked – to Mia not Searle.
He misunderstood me, thought I was pleading with him. Raised his fist again. ‘You shouldn’t have poked your fucking nose into our business.’
‘Is that why you had me followed? Why you had my investigator beat up?’
Confusion flickered across Searle’s face. ‘Haven’t nothing to do with—’
‘Leave her alone.’ Mia’s voice quivered with emotion. Her hand shook as she raised the dagger.
Searle ignored her. Didn’t even turn to look.
I held her gaze. Shook my head. Then, moving fast, I bent down, reaching for my Taser.
Searle hit me again, real hard. The heel of his hand struck my left temple and my knees crumpled. I hit the floor.
As darkness clouded my vision, Mia lunged for Searle.
*
I woke sometime later. Felt groggy, a dull ache throbbing down the left side of my head. I blinked, clearing my vision, and saw crimson blood was smeared across the oak-wood floor. Bloody handprints smudged against the pale grey of the study wall. The desk drawers had been yanked open, and papers flung out of them littered the room like oversized confetti. The crystal ashtray lay shattered on the floor. The cigar box was overturned; the prize Cubans stomped into a brown mush.
‘Mia?’ I called. My Taser was lying on the floor beside me, I grabbed it. ‘Are you okay?’
I heard a wheezing, gasping sound coming from the other side of the desk. Getting up, I lurched towards it. Spotted a pair of feet sticking out from behind the desk wearing bright-orange Nike training shoes, white socks … tan legs – man’s legs. ‘Searle?’
No answer.
I kept moving. Found Searle slumped against the empty drawer unit. His chest was heaving. His neon-green training top was soaked in blood. Beneath his tan, his face looked ashen. The handle of the dagger letter opener was sticking out of his gut.
I put my hand on his shoulder. ‘Searle, can you hear me?’
His eyelids flickered open. He glared at me. Muttered something I couldn’t make out.
I leaned in closer. ‘What’s that?’
He muttered again. Still I couldn’t understand him.
‘I’m getting help,’ I told him. I took out my cell. Dialled 911.
He shook his head. Sweat beaded across his forehead. ‘No cops.’
I paused, my finger ready to connect the call. ‘You need them.’
‘No cops,’ he repeated. His breath came in gasps. Blood gurgled from his mouth as he fought to form the words. ‘Bitch thinks she knows where it is. She’s told him. If they find it, they’ll run.’
‘Where what is?’
Searle’s eyes rolled back. I was losing him.
‘Marco! Tell me. What are they after? Where are they heading?’
Searle grimaced. The blood had stained his teeth red
. ‘What they’ve been … looking for…’ He hyperventilated a few breaths. His body was trembling. ‘Chess…’
The gold chess pieces; it had to be. Searle had had them, hidden them, and how Mia knew the location and had told Gibson. ‘Where?’
‘Home-from-home … she should’ve never…’ Searle glanced up towards his desk. Tried to speak again. He coughed. Blood poured from his mouth, bubbled over his chin. He gasped. Made strangled sounds but no words.
I pressed dial on my cell. The call connected. I told the operator I needed police and medical.
I looked back at Searle. His lifeless stare told me they’d arrive too late.
48
I didn’t have long. The house was a crime scene and I couldn’t be there when the cops arrived – I didn’t have time to answer their questions. I had to find Mia and Gibson.
I put the Taser back into my holster and stood up. I remembered how Searle had looked at the desk when I’d asked him where Mia had gone. Stepping around him, I moved to the computer. There were multiple windows open: emails, a realtor’s website, Google maps.
I looked at the map. Coordinates had been put in for a location a few miles from Lyons Valley. I switched the view to satellite and saw what looked like a small ranch with a house and some barns, rocky land surrounding it for miles. The terrain was undulating and rugged. The ranch had no close neighbours. My heartbeat quickened. This could be the place Mia and Gibson were heading for.
I flicked to the email app and scrolled quickly through the trail of messages. The cops could be here any minute, but I needed to be as sure as dammit I was right. If Mia and Gibson were stopping once on their way to Mexico, I only had one chance to get this right.
The first chain of emails was with a realtor, the second with a legal firm; Searle had arranged to view then buy a property near Lyons Valley. It was out in the hills towards Mexico. He’d paid cash and put the documents in his name only. The reference number on the realtor’s email linked with the listing number on the realtor’s website. I clicked through the photographs; a basic ranch house, horse barns, rough pastureland filled with scrub and rocks, trees surrounding the buildings. I figured the house was the one on the map. Everything pointed towards the property.
Deep Blue Trouble Page 22
