The Watched (CSI Reilly Steel #4)

by Hill, Casey

‘Fine. We’ll take it from here.’

  Before Reilly could say anything else, the line went dead. This whole hanging up before saying goodbye the Feds always did was really getting on her nerves.

  ‘Asshole,’ she muttered as she slammed down the receiver.

  Now all she could do was wait.

  Seven a.m. and Todd still hadn’t made it in. Reilly frowned.

  She knew he’d been pissed about how things had gone with the FBI, and with his dad. Knew that he’d been weirded out by what had happened between them, too.

  But she’d thought they’d moved past that. And she’d never thought he’d blow off work. A harried-sounding Emilie had called to say that she was running late, but that hadn’t really surprised Reilly. The youngest member of the team had never worked one of these types of cases before, certainly not one where she knew a victim. It took a lot out of veteran agents. For a newbie, Emilie was doing very well.

  Against her better judgment, Reilly picked up her phone. It was possible that Todd would be more likely to answer if she called from the lab rather than her cell. As she sat and listened to it ring she questioned her reasoning. If he was late and saw that work was calling, he’d most likely assume it was her on the other end of the line. When it went to voicemail, she left a brief message and hung up. Where was he?

  A beep at her computer distracted her and she crossed to it. When she hadn’t heard back from the field office by six-thirty, she’d decided to run her own data-mining search on Fisher looking for anything related to his visit to Florida on anything other than the film festival.

  She knew Agent Kent wouldn’t approve, but she really didn’t care at this point.

  Wesley Fisher. Rented, one full-sized storage unit. Gatlin Boulevard.

  Why would a director visiting from California need a storage unit here in Florida? Reilly mused as she reached for her phone again. What could he possibly be storing? Or more to the point . . . who?

  She tapped impatiently on the desk as she waited for Agent Kent to answer. After a minute, she heard the usual clicks and buzz as she was transferred. The voice that answered was female and not one Reilly recognized.

  ‘Hi, this is Reilly Steel from the Tampa CSI department. I’m the liaison on the movie-maker murders, and also the Drew Sheldon kidnapping.’ She kept her tone professional, without a hint of the frustration and annoyance just below the surface. For all his talk of taking the information she’d provided and making logical conclusions, Kent had yet to acknowledge the connection between the kidnapping and the murders.

  ‘And how can I help you?’ The woman sounded vaguely bored.

  ‘I called in earlier this morning with the name of a potential suspect. Agent Kent was supposed to check it out but I haven’t heard back yet. I just—’

  The woman interrupted in the same flat tone. ‘Federal agents do not always have the luxury of keeping local law enforcement updated during the course of an investigation, especially lab technicians. If you’re that concerned, I suggest you contact your local precinct to see if they’ve received any new information. Other than that, I can only recommend that you wait until Agent Kent is able to contact you. He will do so at his earliest convenience, I’m sure.’

  ‘But I—’ The line disconnected before Reilly could explain any further. She stared at the phone. ‘You’ve got to be kidding me.’ After a moment, she dialed again. ‘Fine, you want me to contact the locals, don’t get pissed if my information gets them the arrest.’

  ‘Tampa Police Department.’ This woman sounded a bit more polite.

  ‘Hi, this is Reilly Steel from the CSI department. I’m looking for either Detective Reed or Detective Sampson.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Ms Steel,’ the woman apologized. ‘Detectives Reed and Sampson are out engaged in something for the FBI.’ Interviewing Wesley Fisher? Reilly hoped so, but she didn’t have a cellphone contact for either of the detectives to hand. She was sure it was in the files somewhere but . . .

  ‘Captain Harvell?’ Reilly hadn’t wanted to go to the captain because it wouldn’t improve her relations with the detectives, but time was of the essence. She just hoped the detectives saw it that way and not that she was going over their heads.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the woman apologized again. ‘I’m afraid Captain Harvell called in sick today. Some sort of stomach bug that’s been going around. Can I take a message?’

  ‘No.’ Reilly shook her head, trying not to let her emotions bleed through to her voice. ‘I’ll talk to them later.’

  ‘Very well. Have a nice day.’

  ‘Thank you. You too.’ She said the words automatically, her brain already racing through her next options. It was possible, she supposed, that the detectives or Agent Kent would arrest Fisher, but doubtful. If Fisher was spooked and ran, he might kill Sheldon as a loose end. Someone needed to check out that storage unit before Fisher knew they were on to him, and if the cops and the FBI were both too busy, it didn’t really leave a whole lot of other people to step in.

  ‘This is a bad idea,’ Reilly murmured as she reached for her cell and dialed Todd’s number. ‘A very bad idea.’

  CHAPTER 37

  The Maestro paced in front of his newest acquisition. He’d considered cleaning the dried blood off of the young man’s face, but had ultimately decided against it. He just hoped it would show on film as blood and not dirt. ‘You know, if you were really this eager to break into the movie industry, all you had to do was ask. You’re a good-looking guy, very much leading man material. I’m sure we could’ve found something for you without all of this drama.’

  ‘You can kiss my ass,’ the dark-haired man spit out, glaring up at his captor.

  ‘If you insist.’ He was vaguely amused by the investigator’s anger.

  ‘Not something you’re used to yourself though, is it?’ The reply was snarky, pale eyes flashing with anger.

  The Maestro laughed, amused by the young man’s fire. That would make for an excellent performance. ‘I guess you could say that. Though my recent foray into a new genre of movies has contributed to a change in the way I’m viewed these days.’

  ‘You really like to hear yourself talk, don’t you?’ The man squirmed in his chair, apparently thinking he looked as if he were simply trying to get comfortable.

  The Maestro wasn’t fooled. He knew the younger man was testing his bonds. Not that it would do any good. He had purchased high-quality handcuffs a few days ago. After all, one never knew when extra restraints would come in handy. Anyway, the other man wasn’t entirely wrong. He did love to hear himself talk. He was the only one with whom he could carry on an intelligent conversation.

  Others always fell so short.

  ‘I’m The Maestro now, a film-maker like no other.’ He spread his arms wide in a grand gesture. ‘Wesley Fisher is a failure who tried to raise the consciousness of his audience by creating meaningful pieces. Four movies, each grossing less than the one before. No one wanted to watch something uplifting and thought-provoking. No, they were too busy spending their money to see bad actors pretend to die in inexplicable ways.’

  ‘Will you please just shut the hell up?’ The man interrupted with a groan. ‘Or kill me already. Just don’t make me listen to you talk anymore.’

  The Maestro scowled. Wasn’t that just like an actor? This arrogant little twerp was totally unappreciative of what was about to be done for him. Before, he hadn’t cared much about what the finale entailed, as long as it was epic. Now he was hoping that Sheldon’s denouement included something pretty painful. He turned to the writer. ‘How much longer until the finale’s complete? My star appears to be getting anxious.’

  ‘A day? Maybe two?’ Drew’s eyes darted between his fellow prisoner and their captor.

  The Maestro wasn’t stupid. He knew that the writer was trying to figure out how much time he could buy for the other guy to get them out. He rolled his eyes. It wasn’t like he’d kidnapped a cop, just a scientist. And, based on the evidence at hand, not a
very smart one.

  ‘You have twenty-four hours, no more.’ The Maestro walked over to the door where he’d set down his bag. ‘Now, Todd, just in case you’re thinking that your pretty blond sidekick is going to rescue you . . .’ He drew two items from the bag and held them up. ‘I’m going to take you to a more secure location so my writer here can work. It’s your choice how you want to go.’ He waved the cattle prod in one hand and a bottle of chloroform in the other. ‘Hard or easy?’

  ‘All right, Todd, where the hell are you?’ Reilly scowled at her phone. She’d been calling his cell and landline for the last forty minutes, using both her own cell and the office line, but no luck. If she wasn’t so pissed at him, she might have been a little worried.

  ‘Sorry I’m late.’ Emilie entered the lab, breathless and flushed. ‘I slept in a little later than I’d planned.’

  ‘No problem,’ Reilly said absently. ‘For all of the stuff we have left to pick apart, it’ll be a challenge for us to actually find anything.’ At least, anything more promising than the lead on Wesley Fisher.

  ‘Not wanting to overstep or anything . . .’ Emilie’s concern was written on her youthful face. ‘But are you OK?’

  ‘Fine.’ Reilly smiled tightly, realizing she was pacing. She couldn’t do this anymore. She had a lead, a real lead, and no one would follow it.

  Todd was MIA, the detectives were unreachable and Daniel wasn’t allowed to touch the case any longer. Well, she was tired of waiting and tired of everyone acting like they had all the time in the world. She was tired of being scared that she’d screw things up. Now it was time to act.

  ‘There’s something I need to check out,’ she told Emilie distractedly. ‘Keep going over the latest victims’ personal effects and run whatever analysis you need.’

  ‘And if I do find something?’ Emilie immediately switched to professional mode. Unlike Todd, she’d had no problem whatsoever accepting Reilly as the senior investigator.

  ‘Call me.’ She pocketed her phone as she headed for the doors.

  The morning was already sweltering and Reilly turned on the air conditioning of the CSI van with a sigh of relief. The cool air flowed over her as she input the address she’d found into the GPS. By the time she pulled out of the parking lot, she was able to breathe again.

  She pulled into the storage company’s yard and took a moment to gather her thoughts. She had no warrant, no department credentials.

  Not only would the owner have every right to refuse her access, she could conceivably get into trouble, even be thrown off of the investigation if the matter was pressed. However, she’d found one thing to be true in both Dublin and the US when it came to working a case. Confidence can usually sell a plausible lie.

  Reilly checked her hair and make-up in the rearview mirror and smoothed down her skirt, thankful that she’d run out of clean versions of the new business clothes she’d purchased. While still conservative, the sundress she was wearing today was definitely conducive to her plan.

  A little flirting was never a bad backup either.

  The office was dark after the bright morning sunlight and Reilly paused in the doorway, blinking as her eyes adjusted. The young man at the counter was still staring as she walked forward. Maybe this wasn’t going to be as difficult as she first thought.

  ‘Hi, I’m Reilly Steel. I’m with Tampa CSI and I really could use your help.’ Reilly gave the clerk a wide smile.

  ‘You don’t look like a cop,’ he blurted out. His face turned red. ‘I mean, you need my help?’

  ‘Yes . . .’ her eyes flicked down to his name tag. ‘Brandon, I need to know about a storage unit rented by a man named Fisher.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Brandon rubbed the back of his neck and tried not to look like he was hoping for a better view. ‘Anything like that, I’m supposed to get my boss ’cos he’ll want to look over the warrant.’

  ‘Brandon,’ Reilly whispered as she leaned forward, a little bit ashamed that she’d had to resort to these tactics. When she was done here, she was going to have it out with Agent Kent. ‘Here’s the thing. This man I’m looking for, he’s a really bad guy and I need to get into that unit right away. I’m sure your boss will understand. In fact . . .’ She winked, hating herself for doing it, ‘. . . there’s even a chance that this could help lead to his arrest and I’d be more than happy to tell your boss and everyone what a vital role you played in capturing such a bad guy.’

  ‘Well . . .’

  Reilly could see Brandon’s resolve weakening and resisted the urge to reach across the counter and tell him to hurry the hell up. She could feel the time slipping away and she didn’t know how long she had before the Feds descended on this place.

  Even if Fisher didn’t cave when he was interrogated, she was sure either the detectives or the field office would at least run his name and find the same things she did. If she was caught trying to get in, she probably could forget getting her US credentials back if she ever decided to work in the States again. If she found Sheldon, however, her renegade actions would most likely be overlooked. Hell knew it wasn’t the first time she’d gone rogue.

  ‘All right.’ Brandon grinned at her, and she felt a wave of relief.

  ‘I need to know what unit Mr Fisher rented and if you have the keys.’ Reilly barely managed to keep her words from coming out harsh and clipped. She’d gotten what she wanted but there was no need to scare Brandon away simply because she was impatient.

  He tapped away on his computer, using the classic hunt-and-peck method of so many who’d ‘learned’ to ‘type’ by texting. Reilly was mildly surprised that he wasn’t mouthing each letter as he searched.

  ‘Mr Fisher rented one of our full-sized storage spaces at the far end of the lot. The notes say that he specifically requested the most isolated unit we had available.’ Brandon beamed at Reilly. ‘Number 314.’

  ‘Keys?’ Reilly prompted.

  ‘Oh, we don’t have any. All locks are provided by the customer.’

  Damn it. Reilly tried not to show her frustration. It seemed she was going to have to do things the hard way. ‘Do you have a bolt cutter?’

  Brandon looked doubtful once more. This was why she’d kept her ‘nice guy’ face on. Never burn bridges, even if you are in a hurry.

  ‘You don’t even have to give it to me,’ Reilly said in her best soothing tone. ‘Just tell me where it is and I’ll get it myself. Plausible deniability.’

  ‘Plausi-what?’

  Reilly smiled while mentally berating the public education system. ‘You can say that you didn’t give it to me, I took it. That way, you don’t have to worry about getting into any trouble.’

  ‘Oh, OK.’ Brandon’s doubts vanished. ‘It’s around back.’

  ‘Perfect.’ Reilly straightened. ‘And which way is unit 314?’

  CHAPTER 38

  Todd was still trying to figure out how he’d gotten himself into this mess when the vehicle he was in came to a stop.

  This was not good. So very not good.

  He closed his eyes even though the trunk was dark and took slow, even breaths in an attempt to calm his racing heart and to push back the panic that threatened to overtake him.

  When he’d first arrived at the hotel, flashed his badge and asked for Wesley Fisher’s room number, the night manager had complied.

  Todd had gotten into the elevator with his usual swagger, completely confident in his ability to handle Fisher. What he hadn’t counted on was someone following him into the lift, nor what was hidden beneath the guy’s jacket. He had a vague recollection of pain shooting through his body as he hit the floor.

  The next thing he knew, he was trussed up like some Thanksgiving Day turkey in the trunk of a car and his head was throbbing. The side of his face itched and he had a feeling it was from dried blood. The scratchy blanket rubbing against his cheek immediately brought to mind the fibers Emilie had matched from two of the crime scenes.

  That was Todd’s first indicati
on that he was screwed.

  When Fisher had pulled him out of the trunk, he’d barely had time to register that they were at a storage unit before the brandished cattle prod had poked him in the back. No electricity that time, but the threat had been enough to get Todd moving. His first encounter with the prod had been enough.

  He’d focused on trying to pick up as much surrounding information as possible as he stumbled through the doorway – and then the smell had hit him. One look at the dirty, angry man on the cot had explained it all.

  Fisher – or The Maestro as he called himself now – had spent the next twenty minutes or so pontificating until Todd had been ready to ‘volunteer’ for whatever scene was being scripted.

  Anything just to stop the lunatic from talking.

  When Fisher had told him to choose between chloroform and the cattle prod, Todd’s heart had sunk. Fisher was smarter than Todd had originally thought. Leaving Todd and Drew Sheldon together would raise the odds of escape or of them being found.

  Todd had considered his options before gritting his teeth and choosing the cattle prod.

  It had hurt like hell and scrambled his brains for a bit, but he’d still been more aware of his surroundings than he would have been if he’d been drugged. As it was, he was fairly certain he knew the general area where he’d been taken. He flexed his wrists and legs, testing his muscles. If he surprised Fisher the moment the man opened the trunk, Todd was sure he could gain the upper hand.

  A sliver of light shone into the black interior and Todd tensed, coiled to spring. He’d incapacitate Fisher first, then search for a cellphone. He could make the call that would bring reinforcements and label him as the one who’d brought down Holly and Bradley’s killer.

  He felt the first jolt of electricity before he saw the prod and swore even as his teeth slammed together. His chance at escape and glory was lost.

  He’d be lucky if he could stay conscious long enough to confirm his surroundings. As a different kind of darkness claimed him, Todd realized that even that little bit wasn’t going to be possible.