He kept a watchful eye on the cell phone app, tracking Emily’s position. It had not moved from the San Diego location. A few glitches kept Jordan from pinpointing exactly where she was located. It was somewhere in the downtown area, most likely a hotel or restaurant.
But why?
He had no other choice, but to forge ahead with the arson investigation and hope something pointed to Emily and Rick’s whereabouts.
It amazed him how many things he could find out even though he didn’t work for the FBI anymore. With less restrictions and protocols as a licensed private investigator, he had made the right decision getting the license for his security business.
The thump of the Labrador’s otter-like tail now kept a constant beat along with the snores.
Jordan continued his search. He added a few potential things to Emily’s profile on the arsonist, hoping something would break.
He typed out:
Overachiever, never completed a degree(s), wronged by society, believed “he” is smarter than police and society, obsessive/compulsive, tech savvy, EMT or firefighter or investigator experience?, washed out of fire type of job or didn’t make the grade?, sales job?, makes for flexible schedule, multiple residences, no family, no close relationships, won’t surrender, watches law enforcement closely, may even know someone in law enforcement.
A new email notification chimed on one of Jordan’s working accounts.
A list of suppliers for security doors appeared, specifically for the one mysteriously installed at the location at the abandoned hardware store. Attached to the email were the most recent catalogues, complete with photos and specifications.
Jordan swiveled his chair to compare the photo that Emily took of the door to the catalogue items. Back and forth, he compared the size, color, depth, and hardware, until one emerged. Luckily, it was an unusual model, extremely high end, and originally developed in Germany.
“Gotcha.” Jordan stared at the door image.
He mumbled. “What does this mean? How could someone afford something like that?”
He studied the door, the layers of steel, the weight, and the usual subcontractors that installed something of that caliber.
Jordan realized that the killer wanted to show off his expertise and arrogance with the door, but someone had to have sold it and installed it. With fast keystrokes, he contacted every distributor who sold that particular door, twenty-two places in all.
It was like locating a needle in a haystack, but Jordan felt that every investigative avenue should be covered. He left his email and contact phone for them to respond. Of course, he gave the pretext of a major security client’s needs for the company; otherwise, they would not give him the information he needed.
Jordan glanced at his cell phone, the blinking icon still showed the same location in San Diego.
That means something, but what?
Pushing his office chair backward and running his hands through his hair in frustration, Jordan scrutinized all the running computers, and what kept pushing to the surface was Bishop’s house.
Sarge had awakened, sat next to Jordan, and plopped his big head on his lap.
Scratching the big dog’s ears, “Yeah, I know. I miss her too.”
* * * * *
The last time Jordan did a covert reconnaissance at a location for a person of extreme interest, it turned ugly fast, and left behind a trail of dead bodies. He tried not to think about it as he entered Bishop’s estate from the far northeast corner.
The cameras on two of the corners of the estate were not in operation yet. He had surveyed the property first and found that these two cameras weren’t running, and the electronic eye wouldn’t see him scale the rock wall to drop into the garden.
Jordan didn’t waste any time at his apartment to make the rash decision to break into Bishop’s house. He knew that the elusive man was miles, if not several states away from the house. The lavish home waited for something other than his personal home base.
Damn.
Jordan hated when he missed the obvious, but he had focused on the huge security assignment instead. He loved the challenge of the business and missed the subtle cues of the intended motivations of something much more sinister. Like a clever illusionist’s performance, Jordan looked one way as Bishop worked his dark magic with unidentified motives the other way.
Somehow, Emily became snared in the web.
The ground in the garden squished with a wet suction on the bottom of his boots. He quickly searched for the timer that directed the sprinkler system. On the corner of the house, a small box hung with simple buttons to set at specific times – nothing out of ordinary.
No controlled gunfire spattered the walls.
No bullhorn announced that he was trespassing on private property.
Jordan stopped in the darkness and listened, not only for a henchman straggler, but also for that tiny internal voice telling him to run away as fast as he could.
A soft breeze blew through the foliage. A subtle nudge kept him focused.
There was no turning back now.
He knew every inch of the estate, how many windows, doors, and rooms.
Unhooking one of the straps of a specialized fitted backpack, Jordan retrieved a small black box from a zippered compartment. He pushed a button to jam all signals for cell phones and any wireless computer connections. It also included the motion indicators for the cameras. The cheap device purchased from any tech-oriented store proved extremely useful in so many situations, and should last for the length of time Jordan needed. It also meant if something went wrong, he wouldn’t be able to contact the police for help on his cell phone.
A low hum interrupted Jordan’s illicit thoughts.
He stopped.
With nerves at an all-time high, he realized that the noise he kept hearing was the filter system for the pool.
It was now or never, go or stay, so Jordan kept low and approached the back entrance where the main security keypad was located. It was time to disarm it. He also knew that this area of the house opened into a long hallway with four bedroom suites.
The back door had plain glass panes halfway down in sections of three. Strangely, the door looked like it belonged in a standard three-bedroom home in modern suburbia, instead of a multi-million dollar property.
Dim outdoor lights burned along the walkway and along the bottom of the building to illuminate the outside of the structure.
With a quick elbow movement, Jordan smashed one of the windowpanes.
A red light flashed from inside. No alarm sounded, but if it wasn’t deactivated in thirty seconds the police would arrive, more likely a group of hired guns with the attitude of shoot and ask questions later.
The red light flashed like a warning beacon from the underworld.
Twenty-five seconds…
Jordan jimmied the lock open and slipped inside, not bothering to shut the door.
Twenty seconds…
Quickly taking a control device, about the size of eyeglass lens, it held a mini keypad and a USB cord used to plug into any of his systems as an overseeing administrator.
Fifteen seconds…
Hands shaking, he managed to plug in his device and typed his commands.
Ten seconds…
The code consisted of numbers, symbols and letters. Jordan clumsily entered the overriding combination with his mini-flashlight in his mouth. He waited. There was always a slight delay; he hoped that he punched in the correct cypher.
Five seconds…
“C’mon… c’mon…” He jumped up and down, deciding whether or not to run. “Crap!”
Three seconds…
Two seconds…
Green light…
The alarm successfully stopped and waited for an operator to reset it.
Jordan stared at the box for a few extra seconds, expecting it to activate again. The box remained the same, quiet and unassuming, without some unknown source controlling its destiny.
Jordan sna
pped out of his perceived twilight zone. He slipped on a thin pair of gloves, careful not leave any fingerprints or anything else behind.
Systematically he searched the house, not sure exactly what he was looking for, but he would know when he found it. Something in the estate had to tell him if Emily had been there, or if there was reason to believe that Bishop had something to do with her and Rick’s disappearance.
The first two bedrooms didn’t reveal anything unusual, except sparse furnishings that resembled more of a stage instead of a comfortable home with guest bedrooms.
Jordan almost skipped the next two suites, but thought better and entered the third bedroom. Compared to the other two, the room decorations looked more appropriate for someone who didn’t like color, or had issues with anything bright and cheery.
Upon closer inspection, someone had slept on top of the bed. The linens were wrinkled. The shower was recently used with a still damp towel on the floor. Nothing hung in the closet. The small trash receptacle had an unused plastic zip tie. Innocent enough, but something more threatening lingered in his mind. He picked it up. Jordan turned the simple but sturdy maintenance implement over in his hand. Absently, he pocketed the strip. The first thought in his mind raced to Emily. Zip ties were one of the standard work tools that Emily and Rick carried in their investigations, but there could be a million reasons why it was in that particular wastebasket.
Retracing his footsteps, Jordan reached the doorway to continue his search just as a heavy fist walloped his face. He careened into the doorframe, fell hard, and hit the stone floor as he felt every piece of the house architecture slam into his body.
Jordan groaned as he slowly moved his buzzing limbs. Blood flowed from his lip. Quickly he checked all of his teeth with his tongue, making sure that they were all counted for before another blow hammered down.
Not the face.
He sneaked a peek from under his right forearm at the assailant and recognized the stocky man as Bishop’s back up muscle from the security meeting.
Jordan tried to sit up when the man kicked him in the ribs. Searing pain rattled him senseless, leaving him gasping for air. Trying to catch his breath, Jordan used the wall to steady his body, and without anything else to lose, lunged at the bodyguard.
The two men hit the floor, scuffling, arms and legs flailing as artwork and vases crashed to the floor.
Click.
Jordan stopped as he stared into the oversized barrel of a .45 caliber gun.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Friday 2200 Hours
Douglas Easterbrook entertained his friends with lively stories as he downed his fourth cocktail, a double martini, extra dry with three olives. Impeccably dressed in a dark grey suit, white shirt opened just enough to show his tanned chest, which accented his silver hair and intense green eyes. The gregarious group hung on his every word of wild tales of how he closed one amazing business deal after another.
A young cocktail waitress with a tight pink blouse and short black skirt had her hands full with the lively group, but she kept their orders filled as the tips mounted with each visit. She smiled politely, but it was clear that she longed for something better than a service job.
Easterbrook stomped on anyone who got in his way when it came to business deals relating to technology, real estate development, and any woman he wanted. His background investigation consistently described him as ruthless and sadistic with the opposite sex.
Emily sat at the end of the bar nursing a soda water and lime on the rocks. Her location gave her an ideal vantage point to watch Mr. Easterbrook without drawing unnecessary attention. She summed up her mark carefully with his mannerisms and how he handled the crowd of admirers. She tried to formulate an accessible plan in her mind to save the overachiever from a targeted death.
“Another?” The bartender asked Emily.
She nodded. “Thank you.”
Emily caught a glimpse of herself in the artisan mirror behind the bar. Hardly recognizable with dark, long hair, too much makeup, and with her only identifiable trait of her dark eyes staring back.
Several men kept their casual observation on Emily, but she made sure that they maintained their distance. The plan, as Red referred to it, was for Emily to lure Mr. Easterbrook back to his room and kill him. He explained it simply.
Rattled nerves set in as Emily’s arms and legs weighed heavy, not because of the lack of regular meals, but what she was faced with in the next hour.
The collection of Bishop’s photographic images of her and Rick working crime scenes after the police had ravaged the area filtered through her mind, making it difficult to concentrate.
How could she have been so careless?
Using the straw stirrer, she rattled the ice cubes in the glass.
The bartender set a fresh drink on a hotel coaster in front of her. His hands moved with grace and quickness, flipping glasses and balancing liquor bottles.
The lime skin glistened in the soda water as a continuous flurry of tiny bubbles rose to the surface. Emily watched the fizz, and blinked away all of the worst-case scenario images from her mind. She desperately tried not to think of Rick, and the fact that she was mad at him just before the kidnapping.
Voices rose in a ruckus of laughter at Easterbrook’s table.
Emily looked up, and slowly swiveled her body on the barstool. She decided to turn on the charm if Red’s plan was going to work. Crossing her legs seductively, she watched the target as he effortlessly engaged in another story. He took calculated moments to admire her at the end of the bar.
Emily gave an outward vibe of disinterest, but hoped that her coyness would drive up his curiosity even more.
She unconsciously touched a small gold barrette subtly affixed in her hair, which Red skillfully implanted as a listening device so he could hear all of her conversations. On Emily’s small black bag, a tiny camera lens disguised in the middle of a jeweled ornament completed her spy attire.
What Red did not know, Emily wore the silver pendant as a choker around her neck that Jordan gave her, and hoped it transmitted her location. Jordan would hopefully figure out something was wrong and come up with a plan. Until then, Emily had to give the illusion of following orders. She had to bide some time.
Four people got up from the popular table. The rest of the group followed their host’s example and began to move to the bar or retire to a suite upstairs. Easterbrook made his rounds with a few friends and some high-powered associates with their outlandishly dressed girlfriends. Smooth and charming was an understatement with his flashy smile, intense eyes, but his intelligence evident with quick responses and equally matched knowledge.
Emily turned herself forward and sipped her drink with a demure, but playful reaction to the dozens of looks from the man of interest. She pushed her new long curls back from the right side of her face, fingering the strands.
The man casually inched closer to where Emily sat; he was about two people away from her when he subtly turned his back.
Staring at her glass, Emily knew she had hooked him and it was only a matter of minutes before he said something clever to her. Her explicit instructions were clear and her every move watched closely.
Like clockwork, Easterbrook gave Emily a charming smile as if he had just noticed her. He sidled up to her barstool. “I can’t believe that you’re here by yourself.” He nudged himself a little bit closer.
“Not by choice. My group decided to go to some other bar and go dancing.” Emily forced a smile, inside she felt sick.
“And you didn’t want to go?”
“Not my thing. I guess I’m a little old fashioned, or boring by today’s standards.” Emily hoped that she wasn’t overdoing her part. It felt contrived, but judging by the man’s reactions, he didn’t care.
Easterbrook motioned to the bartender for another drink. To Emily, “You don’t mind if I join you for a quick drink?”
“Not at all.” She forced a smile.
He eagerly took a
seat next to Emily. Offering his hand for introduction, “I’m Doug.”
“Emily.” She reciprocated with a pleasant handshake. Her skin crawled as he dragged his fingertips underneath her hand in a lecherous way.
“Ah, I should have guessed. Emily is an old fashioned name.”
“So Doug, what do you do?” She quickly wanted to switch gears so that he would talk about himself and she wouldn’t have to engage in idle chitchat.
Emily fought to bite her tongue at times, the more she listened to Doug’s stories and blatant boasting, the more she wanted to smash his face with her glass. They talked for about a half an hour. That’s how long it took for him to ask Emily to his room.
* * * * *
During the ride in the elevator to one of the penthouse apartments, Emily endured Doug’s hands against her back, on her waist, and down the side of her thigh as he spoke to her. She felt filthy with his inappropriate touching, but kept a smile on her face.
The target quickly opened his room door and pulled Emily inside with him. The suite was huge and could have easily been on the cover of a decorating magazine.
He whispered in her ear, “I think you would be more comfortable on the sofa.”
Emily pulled away from him, “I need to use the bathroom first. I’ll be right back.”
Once in the bathroom, Emily had to work fast if her plan were to work. The gun was located in a lower drawer of the bathroom vanity, but the last thing she would do was kill a man in cold blood.
She looked at herself in the mirror. The plan ran through her mind. There wasn’t a way for her to save both Rick and Doug. If she tried, everyone was dead.
Carefully setting down her purse, she turned it strategically where the camera faced the opposite wall. Turning the water on, she pulled the barrette from her hair, tossed it into the toilet. She slipped off her shoes throwing them into the hotel’s laundry hamper.
She knew the plan was a gamble.
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