Grounded (Out of the Box Book 4)

by Robert J. Crane

  I sat up, keeping the sheet clutched tightly to myself. “Who are they?”

  “David Murphy Griffin and Miguel Alonso,” he said, looking up to meet my gaze. “Griffin was a Gulf War vet, Alonso was a former auto mechanic, according to social security administration. Both locals.”

  “Huh,” I said. “That’s not much to go on.” I lay back on the bed, smelled a rush of Calderon’s scent as I pushed my face into the pillow.

  “It actually is,” Calderon said, stepping forward, brandishing the phone like Exhibit A. “Because these guys have something in common that a cop would pick up on immediately.”

  I stared at him. “Well … so … what is it?”

  He grinned at me. Nice smile. I still liked him in the morning, which was a good sign, right? “You glad you came to Atlanta?”

  “I’ll be gladder if you’d stop holding out on me and spill it, already.”

  That did not make him smile less. “They’ve both got records with infractions for loitering, urinating in public, vagrancy … bunches of minor stuff that all spells—”

  “They were homeless,” I breathed, jumping to the conclusion before he could spell it out. “And they were found in the yard of someone who worked at a homeless shelter.”

  Calderon cocked his head at me. “The coincidences just keep piling up, don’t they?”

  16.

  It only took a call to the shelter and a quick chat with Yasmine Colon to confirm that the victims were former residents who had gone missing. That hacked and slashed straight through any possibility that it was mere coincidence. Yasmine said that Flora knew both the men in question, without doubt, and that they’d disappeared shortly before Flora had been killed.

  I was in Calderon’s bullpen at the police department, pacing back and forth in front of the little cubicle he called his own while he did a lazy half-spin around to watch me move. I wasn’t restrained in my motions; I was churning at full meta speed, right along with my thoughts.

  “You’re gonna wear a hole in the carpet,” he said as I passed him again.

  I paused, my cell phone in hand. “This is big. This is really big. I don’t know how you can just sit there—”

  “We all get our twitches out in different ways,” he said, looking cool as a cucumber. “And this isn’t as big as you think. It’s not like we have a name, someone we can go slap cuffs on. We’ve just got a little bigger web to troll for flies, that’s all.”

  “Bigger web?” I stared at him, my mind racing. “Okay. I’m not exactly a seasoned investigator like you, so I’ll bite. How does this not narrow the field?”

  “Because there are still a lot of possibilities,” Calderon said, and started ticking them off on his long fingers. “One—an individual serial killer, praying on the homeless, experimenting on metas in their ranks—”

  “What kind of serial killer hires mercenaries?” I asked, smiling.

  “One that has money,” he said. “One that’s connected. Pretty much the worst kind, actually.”

  “I don’t buy it,” I said. “Too pat. Doesn’t feel like a serial killer, does it?”

  “Tons of homicide victims buried with less regard than most people give to disposing of their pets?” He raised an eyebrow at me. “That feels a little serial killer-ish.” He paused, thinking it over. “Esque, maybe? Serial killer-esque?”

  I ignored his word search. “Second possibility: a group of killers, working to … I don’t know, slaughter people?”

  “See, we need motive,” Calderon said. “Means, motive, opportunity. Those are the legs of building a case and finding our villain.” He gave me a second for that to sink in. “There’s always the wild card possibility, too—a conspiracy.” He said the last word with silly emphasis, like he was discounting it.

  “So how do we figure out who has those things?” I asked. “Means, motive and opportunity, I mean?”

  “Gotta investigate the victims,” he said, hands behind his head like he was totally relaxed, the old pro at this. “You’ve delved into Flora Romero pretty well, but you haven’t even touched on Kennith Coy, Roscoe Marion or Joaquin Pollard. Remember, they were the victims of lightning man, not whoever killed these homeless guys. Pollard has to be tied to Flora Romero—”

  “But maybe Coy and Marion aren’t,” I said. “Different killings, different MO, different case?”

  “The lightning man is the common link,” Calderon said. “He’s the thread that runs through the whole case—your mercs that tried to hide bodies of evidence, Pollard who killed Flora, and lightning man who wiped out Pollard, Coy and Marion.” He spun a little in his chair, about ninety degrees back and then forth. “Like I said—big web. Lots of spiders.”

  “Okay,” I said. “You take Pollard, and I take Coy and Marion?”

  Calderon got a pained look on his face. “Can’t.”

  “What do you mean, ‘can’t’? You’ve got a yard full of bodies.”

  He eased his way to his feet, still looking like he was in great discomfort. “Yes. Unfortunately … my boss isn’t buying the idea of lightning man. He’s actually, uh …” he searched for words again, “… well … the phrase ‘head in the sand’ comes immediately to mind. Makes me want to walk on over and give him a kick in the hind parts, correct his perspective.”

  “Bad boss?” I smirked. “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

  “Things are the same the world over, huh?” He gave me a smirk of his own. “So … much as I’d like to help, unless you want to call your boss and get him to move some pressure onto mine, I’m stuck investigating my current case load … and a bunch of skeletons that were dug out of Flora Romero’s yard. I might be able to widen that to include Joaquin Pollard, since he did kill Flora, but other than that … you’re gonna have to dig on Roscoe and Kennith all by your lonesome.

  I felt my phone buzz and looked at the faceplate. I didn’t have the number in my phone memory, but it said “Atlanta, GA” under the number. “Maybe,” I said, and pressed the talk button. “Hello?”

  “Hey, it’s Augustus,” came the voice from the other end of the line. “Boss gave me the day off. Where you want to meet?”

  I covered the mic. “Give me the info on Coy and Marion, and I’ll start canvassing with my new partner.”

  Calderon did not look super impressed. “You’re really going to take junior along on this?”

  “He’s only a few years younger than me,” I said.

  “Uh huh,” he said and picked up a couple files from his desk. “I’ll copy these and be right back.” I watched him thread his way around me, nearly tripping over a rut in the carpet as he went. He looked back at me accusingly, and I realized that … whoops, yes, there were some slight ridges in the carpeting where I might maybe have left some tread damage.

  “Hellooo …?” Augustus asked from the other end of the phone. “You still there?”

  “Yes, sorry,” I said, watching Calderon’s retreating back for a few seconds. “I’m at the cop shop at the moment. Calderon is getting me copies of files on some guys we need to investigate.”

  “Anyone good?” he asked.

  “Lightning man’s victims,” I said. “What happened to your job?”

  “I told you, boss gave me the day off,” he said. “I guess he saw me on the news and wants to make a positive contribution to society.”

  I saw Calderon disappear into an alcove. There was a coffee pot sitting on a ledge just inside, and a microwave. “Who is it you work for again?”

  “Edward Cavanagh.”

  That one perked my ears up. “Like … the billionaire?”

  “The very same.”

  “Hm,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “You had that tone.”

  “What tone?” I asked.

  “That tone women get when they think about a billionaire.”

  “Billionaires are quite hot right now,” I said, “though I think most people miss the fact th
at very few look like Edward Cavanagh. Most of them look like Warren Buffett.”

  “What’s wrong with Warren Buffett?” Augustus asked. He sounded a little cross, like I’d stepped on his toes.

  “Nothing,” I said. “I’m sure he’s a perfectly lovely guy. But he’s not exactly Christian Grey in the looks department, is he?”

  There was a pause. “Who’s Christian Grey?”

  “Fifty Shades … never mind,” I said. “Point is, billionaires are old guys, not young ones.”

  “Except for Edward Cavanagh,” Augustus said. “Or Mark Zuckerberg. Or Tony Stark—”

  “Tony Stark is a fictional character,” I replied tautly, “also like Christian Grey and countless erotic romance heroes.”

  “Why are we talking about this again?”

  “Because—” I stopped. “I don’t remember now.” Calderon started making his way back through the aisles toward me, the files and some sheets of paper in hand. “Oh, good, here comes my info.”

  “What are you expecting to find?” Augustus asked.

  “A murderer, I hope.” My stomach rumbled. “Also, possibly some breakfast.” Calderon’s fridge had been that of a bachelor. The only thing in it was expired ketchup. I could sympathize, having a very similar setup myself.

  “Do you just, like, fly through the McDonald’s drive thru?”

  “I’ve tried,” I said. “Pretty much every time, they try to call me a walk-up customer and make me come inside. It feels a little ridiculous—”

  Calderon arrived, not bothering to apologize for cutting off my conversation. “Coy and Marion’s addresses, employers, some other basics.” He held out a couple of sheets of paper to me. “I withheld the lab reports so you’d have less to carry. Only thing of possibly any relevance was that Coy had some traces of THC in his system, which would have been a violation of his parole if he’d been caught.” He pointed to a page as he handed it to me. “Number for Coy’s PO is here. You might want to talk to him.”

  “What’s a PO?” I asked.

  “Probation officer,” Calderon said.

  “Oh,” I said. “Anything else on Roscoe Marion?”

  “Home address,” Calderon said. “Looks like a buttoned-up guy from what I can see. I’d start with Coy. With his priors, he just seems like a more interesting character, and the criminal theme in his past might be easier to dig up. If Marion was connected to the seedy side of things at all, he did a marvelous job of hiding it. You’ll have a tougher time cracking that one open, so I’d go for the low-hanging fruit first.”

  “And you take Pollard?” I asked.

  “I’m going to try,” he said. “If I can’t, I’ll get you his details later.” He ran a hand over his head. “I’m gonna be up to my eyebrows in paperwork for a while anyway, I promise you that.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Augustus, we’re going to check out Kennith Coy first. His address is—” My stomach rumbled again and it was loud enough that Calderon looked at me funny. “Is there a Burger King near this?”

  He shook his head. “A ways south, but not really close, no. McDonald’s?”

  “Dammit.” I like Croissanwiches better than biscuits. “Okay. Augustus, meet me at—where is it?”

  “Just—there’s only one,” Calderon said. “MLK—”

  “I know where McDonald’s is,” Augustus said. “I’ll see you there in a few.” He hung up like someone from TV, not even saying goodbye.

  “Be careful out there,” Calderon said a little stiffly, like he didn’t want to be caught acting unprofessional in front of his co-workers. I could fully sympathize with that feeling.

  “Why?” I asked. “Because someone tried to kill me yesterday?”

  His face twitched, and I could tell he was trying to mask feelings. It was cute. “Yes. That’s usually a cause for concern in my world.”

  “Really? Because in mine it makes it just another day,” I said, turning my back on him and striding out of the room. He didn’t have a monopoly on playing it cool.

  17.

  Augustus

  I decided to run to McDonald’s, and it turned out to be a good idea because it not only let me figure out how fast I could run (really fast!) but it also caused people to shout and honk their horns at me as I blew past. It wasn’t, like, Flash fast, but it was pretty fast. Fast enough that people noticed. Fast enough that if I watched later on YouTube (lots of people recorded me, I saw them), I was pretty sure it was going to look cool.

  I was also hoping to beat Sienna there, because it’s in my nature to try and impress the new mentor/boss—wait, I’m not getting paid for this—uhh … do you still call them a boss in an internship? I’d never had one.

  Anyway, I made it to McDonald’s to find her already there, in the booth next to the door, bag in front of her, look of utter disappointment painted across her face. I’m sure my own look asked the question, because she answered without me having to say anything. “It’s after ten-thirty,” she said as she trashed her bag and led me outside. “Lunch. Blegh. I was not in the mood for a burger.”

  “Early bird gets the worm and all that,” I said. She did look a little bleary eyed. Also, although her clothes were different, I could tell by her hair that she probably hadn’t showered. “You all right? You look like you might have swallowed the worm last night.” I paused, and felt a mild surge of panic. “Like from a tequila bottle! Not from – oh, hell.”

  She gave me an inscrutable look for a moment before she reached into her back pocket and pulled out some folded papers. “I’m just peachy and not just because I’m in Georgia.” She looked up at me with a slight twitch upward at the corner of her mouth. “Get it?”

  “Georgia peaches, yeah,” I said.

  “You're not the only one that can make with the mildly amusing.” Her momentary levity vanished. “Let’s get to work, shall we? Kennith Coy used to live about … six blocks from here, I think?” Her feet lifted off the ground.

  “Uhh,” I said, “you know I can’t fly, right?”

  She dropped back to the sidewalk like someone had let her loose. “Dammit,” she said. “Sorry. I’m used to going places with my brother, and he’s finally figured out how to fly a little now.”

  I looked around, and saw some bushes sticking out of the planted gap between the sidewalk and the parking lot asphalt. “I could … maybe ride the dirt across the sky like they do in the movies?”

  She raised an eyebrow at me. “Can you really do that?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe? You want me to try?”

  She seemed to think hard about it for a few seconds. “If you haven’t practiced,” she finally said, “probably not. The last thing we need right now is you falling out of the sky and going splat in the middle of the street. Because the way things are going for me lately in the press, I’d probably take the blame for that.”

  “‘Sienna Nealon kills black sidekick,’” I said.

  She blinked a couple times. “Yeah, that’s pretty much how it would read, except they’d probably also scathe me for having an unpaid intern.”

  “Damn,” I said. “I’ll practice later, see if it works.”

  “Be careful, okay? For both our sakes.” She started to walk down the street then paused. “Wait, which way do we go?”

  “You don’t even know where you’re going?”

  “I can usually …” she let out a sound of low exasperation. “I just fly around until I find the right street signs, or I use my GPS and just …” She pulled out her phone and shook her head. “Never mind. Give me a minute.”

  I plucked the paper gently out of her hands while she looked at me in mild surprise. I’d clearly caught her off guard, because I’d seen her move and I don’t think I was fast enough to catch her if she wanted to avoid being caught. I stared at the paper with the name Kennith Coy at the top. “That’s like three blocks this way,” I said, pointing.

  “Lead on,” she said and fell into step beside me.

  I hurried but didn’t run, figuri
ng it was better to not get into a race with her. I also assumed she’d let me know if she wanted to go faster. She didn’t really say anything for a little while, kinda had her head in the clouds—metaphorically speaking. I needed to make that clear because she was the only person I’d ever met that it could have been literally true about as well.

  “What’s my, uh …” I broke the silence, feeling a little swell of confidence that shriveled as she looked at me with those bluish-green eyes. “What’s my role here?”

  She sort of blinked for a moment. “Very basic. Help me out. Help keep me alive.”

  “Sounds simple enough,” I said.

  “Trust me, it’s not,” she said. “People try very hard to kill me. Constantly.”

  “Personality like yours, I’m not finding it hard to believe that,” I said, trying to put a little humor into it. I thought I might have missed the mark and backed it up a little. “You know that was a joke, right? That didn’t cross the line, did it?” She looked at me evenly. “We’re supposed to banter, I thought. That’s how they do it in the movies.”

  “Banter’s fine,” she said after a pause that felt like forever. “Banter all you want. It doesn’t bother me; most of the time I enjoy it. Besides, even if you pushed a joke a little too far, it still wouldn’tbe the least shitty thing said about me this hour, so take some comfort in that.”

  “I don’t get it,” I said. “It’s not my imagination, right? People have kind of … turned on you?”

  “It’s not your imagination,” she said darkly. “They love you one day and then hate you the next. What was that old Stalin quote? ‘Gratitude is a disease of dogs’? The press is definitely on board with that philosophy, except maybe they think he was understating it.”

  “Which I don’t get,” I said, “because, like … you saved the world.”

  “Not according to Time,” she said. “Or Newsweek. I mean, yes, at first, they thought so. But I’ve seen a few lovely pieces lately that call into question every word I’ve ever spoken. I kind of suspect that at this point if I said the sky was blue, they’d just report it as suddenly green and then issue a correction on page 48 in a little itty bitty text box six months from now.”