“What for?”
“The department is testing a new cell phone application. It works with your phone’s GPS software to feed the location of the originating call into the 911 emergency system.”
“Doesn’t it automatically do that?”
“Well, not exactly. Even though today over half of all 911 calls are made from cell phones, in most cases the best we can do is to get a general location-based on the closest cell phone tower. We can narrow it down to an area within a several-block radius, but not an exact location. This application will provide more info on where you’re located, so if you hang up, they know where you called from. I’ve been testing it on mine already, and it seems to work pretty well.”
Alex fell silent. He ran a weary hand across his eyes before meeting her gaze.
“Look, Jill, I’m really sorry about this.”
“Sorry?”
“About all of this.” With a broad sweep of his hand, he gestured toward the gun. “I’m sorry my job brought this crazy son of a bitch into our lives, and now I’ve put you at risk. This isn’t how it should work. Ever. I’m so sorry, Jill.”
Pushing her chair back, she rose and rounded the table, stopping behind him. She planted a kiss on his hair, fingers kneading his knotted shoulders. She could smell the liquor on his breath, and she wondered how much he’d had to drink before she’d arrived. The smell of boozy breath conjured an image of her stepfather. Sam had been a mean drunk, but Alex was nothing like him. He was the one person she could trust.
“Not your fault. But I wouldn’t complain if you decided to quit your job and become a real-estate agent, or something.”
That won her a low chuckle, and at last, Jill could feel the tension in his body ease.
“Sure I can’t make you a sandwich? I’m starving.”
42
Weeks after Kenneth Cox’s body had been planted in the ground of a Miami cemetery, Christmas passed in a blur of brightly colored paper and twinkling lights. There were family celebrations and quiet nights at home. But after three days of sleeping in late and getting caught up on prerecorded television programs, Alex looked twitchy and decided to go into work. He told Jill that he was worried the headway he had made on his recent backlog of cases was disappearing as new ones flooded in. She knew the real reason, of course. He was still searching for Jerry Honeywell, and while the case had dipped on the overall department priority list, it was still at the top of Alex’s.
Jill, on the other hand, opted to camp out at Alki Bakery and use their free Wi-Fi to check Lilith’s mail. Kenneth Cox, a.k.a. Casanova, was dead. One down, but there was still one to go. She had to find the dark-haired man from the video.
Seated at a table near the back of the bakery, Jill nibbled on biscotti as she looked out the window. For once it wasn’t raining, and the locals were taking advantage of the “good weather” to take a chilly stroll along Alki Beach. The bakery teemed with life as folks ducked through the door to warm up with a cup of coffee and a treat.
Jill’s thoughts strayed back to the hotel in San Francisco and the encounter with Kenneth Cox. A search of the hotel room had uncovered a small hidden camera. No doubt intended to capture their tryst for upload onto his private pornographic website. Putting a stop to his covert activities felt pretty damn good, and the careful planning increased her confidence that she hadn’t left a trail. She was safe. All those years of listening to Alex drone on about how they tracked their suspects hadn’t been a waste of time.
“Penny for your thoughts,” a man at the next table said.
Jill started visibly at the interruption. Her knee hit the table, and the coffee mug rattled against the scarred surface, slopping over the edges. She swore softly, her fingers rubbing her throbbing knee, and glanced over. The man was in his thirties, with the coloring of a Siberian husky—dark hair and freaky blue eyes. Small silver hoops twinkled from his ears.
“Trust me, they’re not worth that much.” Jill forced a quick grin, careful not to maintain eye contact for long. Shifting back to her laptop, she busied her fingers on the keys, hoping that he would just go away. An uneasy tingle raced down her spine. Paranoia or intuition? She didn’t know which.
Regardless, Jill reached down to edge the laptop bag closer to the leg of her chair. The gun Alex had given her was safely tucked inside, close by in case she needed it.
“I doubt that. I’ll bet there are all sorts of interesting things going on in that pretty head of yours,” the man persisted. His smile seemed disarming enough, and reluctantly Jill looked up.
“Listen, I don’t mean to be rude,” she began, careful to keep her tone friendly, “but I’ve got a lot of work to do.” Despite her efforts, an edge crept into her voice.
He raised his hands in a quick movement that had her scraping her chair back and gripping her bag. The stab of panic she felt must have flashed on her face. His palms-up gesture was designed to put her at ease.
“Okay, calm down. Just trying to make conversation.”
Jill gave a brief nod and looked away, releasing the tight grip she had on her bag. Jill glanced at the cell phone she had sitting beside her computer. She could call Alex if she needed to, but that was a last resort.
With a muttered curse under his breath, the man stood and moved to a table closer to the window. A long sigh escaped her as she felt the tension drain from her body. Maybe she’d overreacted, but a girl couldn’t be too careful, especially with creeps like Jerry Honeywell lurking.
Jill shook off the thought. Focusing back on her laptop, she called up her online profile. She grinned at Dana Evans’s picture. While not a perfect match for Lilith’s vital statistics, it had been close enough to lure in Kenneth Cox and the sixty other hits that had come in since she had last logged on.
Now it was time to go hunting for the third man involved in the sex-video ring. It didn’t take long to find him. He called himself Joel Goodsen. If you pictured your ideal stockbroker or CEO type, he’d look just like this: compact build, close-cropped, dark hair, all-American face. Sharp. Focused. Ruthless.
She smirked. Surely it wasn’t his real name. No one in the shark tank used their real name. Jill pressed her lips together as she considered his profile. Every detail oozed success. She wondered what drove him to the kind of twisted, thrill-seeking behavior he and his sick buddies made their hobby. Whatever it was, he’d live to regret the shitty choices he’d made. She’d make sure of it.
Opening a new browser window, she typed the name “Joel Goodsen” into the search screen and scanned the results. None of the hits seemed to match the online profile. There was, however, one reference that made her smile. Joel Goodsen was the name of the character Tom Cruise had played in Risky Business.
At least the asshole had a sense of humor. Risky business. Well that just about sums up life in the shark tank.
She typed Joel’s name in the chat window. Half a second later, Joel pinged back. Jill’s pulse began to pound, and an electric energy surged through her. Hairs pricked at the back of her neck as she shifted forward in her seat. The hook was baited; all he had to do was bite.
“How’s life in the Big Apple?” Jill typed.
“Not in New York at the moment.”
“Where in the world are you?”
“Nursing a merger in San Francisco.”
Jill could feel her pulse throb in her ears as she read the reply. San Francisco. Dumb luck. What were the odds?
“Not quite the same as nursing a hangover, but I do feel your pain.”
“LOL. Sure. Dull. Throbbing. Inescapable. Kind of like the city itself.”
“Ah, I take it you don’t like the financial powerhouse of the West Coast.”
“Powerhouse? Hardly.”
The cursor blinked at her from midscreen. Leaning back in her chair, Jill took a sip from her latte as she thought about Joel. He’s definitely type-A, nothing flirty about him. He communicated in crisp, clipped sentences—probably conducted his transactions that way, too. N
othing personal, ma’am, just the facts.
“So how long are you stuck in paradise?”
“A few more weeks.”
“Poor thing, living out of suitcases in a hotel is a drag.”
“Corporate condo.”
A high roller. If he was telling the truth, he was employed by a pretty high-powered firm. Of course, that was a big if. Everybody in the shark tank lies.
“Good view, I hope?”
“It’s okay. Within walking distance to Chinatown.”
“Authentic dim sum is a good thing.”
“Got that right, but what would a girl from Georgia know about dim sum?”
There it was; that hook into the encounter. Up until now, he could have been chatting with a work colleague. He’d just swallowed the bait. Would he run with it?
“Oh, I’ve traveled a little.”
“The Midwest doesn’t count.”
Jill’s lips tightened as she stared at the screen, and she bristled at the insinuation. He had her pegged for a midlevel corporate hack, smart enough to work in a plodding business environment, but not sharp enough to play with the big dogs. Boy, was he in for a surprise.
“LOL. Sorry to disappoint, Sugar, but I’ve never been to Kansas City. New York, Seattle, San Francisco, Boston, yes, St. Paul, no.”
“Shopping at Macy’s doesn’t count.”
Jill gritted her teeth, hating him more with each word. He was a condescending chauvinist, and she was going to enjoy teaching him a lesson.
“What are you trying to say, Joel? No girls in that exclusive boys’ club of yours?”
“Sure, we all have assistants. Couldn’t get by without them.”
“I’m sure they help organize your work life in the same way your wife manages your home life.”
“You know what they say; behind every successful man is a good woman.”
And I hope she’s packing heat, Jill did not add as her fingers tapped the keys lightly.
“Lilith?” The cursor blinked as he waited for a response.
Jill stared at the screen. She thought of Peter, Kenneth, and Joel and their sex videos. She thought about the other women they’d hurt. Used. Jill’s fingers tapped on the keys.
“You know, I was just thinking,” she typed into the browser window. “It’s been ages since I had good dim sum.”
43
Alex pushed back in his chair and finished the remnants of his tuna sandwich.
“Shit,” he muttered as some mayonnaise dripped onto the budget spreadsheet fanned out across his desk. Captain Lewis needed a quarterly update by three o’clock, and Alex was spending his lunch hour crunching numbers. Normally he would avoid this type of task like the plague, but in this case, he was doing penance. At least, that’s what Jackson called it, good lapsed Catholic that he was.
Dabbing the sheet of paper with a napkin, he managed to clean up most of the watery mess. At least it was still legible. Gaze still focused on the even columns of numbers, he crumpled the waxy sandwich paper and tossed it in the garbage, saving the garlic-laced pickle for last.
“Good news, Boss,” a voice called from his doorway.
Alex swung his chair around. Kris Thompson stood with a smile on her face and a printout in her hand. She wasn’t wearing her glasses, and he had an unobstructed view of her eyes. Hazel. Why had he never noticed that before?
“What’s up?”
“We’ve got a tip on Honeywell.” An incandescent smile lit her face.
“Where?” Alex’s mouth suddenly felt dry.
“Yakima.”
“How solid does it look?”
“Pretty solid. Retired cop says that the guy who fixed his truck looked a lot like Honeywell. The locals are on their way to confirm.”
Alex winced and rubbed his forehead with his open hand. What if they bungled the arrest? If Honeywell escaped this trap, he might just beeline it across the mountains to Seattle and make good on his threats against Jill. A printout of Honeywell’s chilling threat sat pinned under the lip of Alex’s monitor, and he eyed it with a sense of foreboding.
“Where is he staying?”
“He’s sharing a house on the west side of town with a couple of other guys.”
“Shit.” Alex slammed his fist on the desk. “Shit, shit, shit.” The thought of not being there to bring Honeywell in was frustrating beyond words.
Jackson lumbered down the hall, eclipsing Kris in the doorway.
“Christ, you look like you’re going to puke. Something wrong with the tuna fish?”
His partner leaned against the doorframe, eyes fixed on Alex, concern registering in his deep voice.
“Is it Jill?”
Alex shook his head.
“Honeywell,” Kris said.
“Where?”
“Yakima.”
Jackson’s face broke out into a broad grin.
“You want to go get the fucker?”
Kris’s lips formed a tight line as she handed the electronic tickets to Jackson and Alex. Breaking the rules wasn’t in Kris’s DNA, and the stress of doing so showed on her face. She was strictly a by-the-book kind of girl. But they had pressured her to use department resources for an unsanctioned trip across the mountains, capitalizing on the fact that Captain Lewis was in an all-day meeting with the mayor and had left strict orders not to be disturbed.
While all that was true, it was more in line with the letter of the law than its spirit. Authorizing his officers to engage in an arrest outside of their jurisdiction was something for which he would not only forgive an interruption; he’d damned well expect it.
While Alex chose to hide behind the excuse of not wanting to disturb the captain, the trio knew the truth. There is no way in hell that Captain Lewis would agree to the trip. Not after California. Not after the ass whipping he had taken from the ATF.
“You’re going to get us fucking fired,” Kris mumbled.
Alex’s eyes snapped to her face, his jaw hanging slack in disbelief. He’d never heard her swear before. Not a shit or a damn. Certainly not an f-bomb. He expected nothing less from Jackson, but from Kris? He flashed a reassuring smile and lightly squeezed her shoulder. Surely she had to realize that if anyone’s ass was on the line, it was his.
“Not all of us—just me. You know the golden rule: it’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission.” Alex checked his watch and nodded to Jackson.
“Yeah, I’ll remember that when Lewis is picking his teeth with my femur. No John Wayne stuff,” Kris called after them.
“Yes ma’am,” Alex said.
“You know, Shannon, I like you better now that you’re breaking the rules,” Jackson grinned.
“Bending them. And I don’t think that Kris shares your opinion.”
Without so much as a backwards glance, the budget updates were abandoned, and Jackson’s low chuckle reverberated down the hall.
The Alaska Air flight arrived at Yakima’s McAllister Field five minutes ahead of schedule. Stepping out into the bright afternoon sun, Alex and Jackson made their way toward the black-and-white waiting outside the terminal. It was a cool thirty-eight degrees, but Alex barely noticed the cold wind blowing through his light jacket. Anticipation had the blood pumping fast through his veins. They were close to bringing Honeywell in. He could feel it.
Alex ducked his head into the open window of the cruiser and fastened his gaze on the officer behind the wheel.
“I’m Detective Shannon, and this is Detective Levy.”
“I’m Mitchell.” The young officer cocked a thumb toward the backseat. “Hop in.”
The two piled into the car, and the uniformed officer accelerated smoothly away from the curb. Mitchell was a young red-headed cop with green eyes and translucent eyelashes. Glancing over, Alex gauged him to be in his mid to late twenties. An average-looking kid with a square jaw, set in a decided frown. He probably wanted to be the one to take down Honeywell, and letting two Seattle cops horn in on the action was the last thing he wanted to
do.
“Hey, thanks for letting us crash your party.” Alex flashed a lopsided grin. “I wanted to be here in person to bring this bastard in.”
Mitchell nodded but didn’t say anything right away. When he did, he was all business.
“We’ve got two guys watching the house. There are at least three people in there. They got home about four p.m. and haven’t moved since. Looks like they’re watching television.”
Alex looked out the window, watching the houses fly by without really seeing them. His thoughts turned to Natalie, piecing together her final moments. He could envision the dark interior of the hunting cabin in Winthrop, the musty smell of the threadbare couch where they had found her shoe.
According to the medical examiner, she put up a hell of a fight. But in the end, Honeywell ended her young life by wrapping his strong, grease-stained hands around her neck and squeezing until she stopped thrashing. Sometimes at night, when he closed his eyes, he still saw her bluish fingertips poking up out of the snow: frozen, gruesome spring flowers.
Now it was time for Honeywell to pay.
“It’s just a few blocks from here.”
Mitchell’s voice brought Alex back to the present. He propped his elbow against the door frame and rested his chin against his balled fist. The neatly kept houses near the airport gave way to sagging, rundown neighborhoods. They flew by row after row of small, military-style bungalows with peeling front doors and listing front porches.
Mitchell slowed and brought the cruiser to a stop near a faded yellow house, its white shutters hung slightly askew. He pointed down the street to a brown sedan parked under a canopy of trees a block away.
“Officers Howe and Bentley are down there. See the blue bungalow?”
Alex and Jackson followed the trajectory of his outstretched finger with their eyes. Both nodded.
“That’s where Honeywell and his buddies are holed up. We’ve got backup a few blocks away.”
Alex nodded and opened the car door, his eyes directed toward the door of the blue and white house, as if waiting for someone to appear. The shirttail of his navy button-down hung loose over the waistband of his faded jeans and concealed the bulge of his weapon. Jackson said nothing as they approached the brown sedan, but tension tugged at the corners of his mouth.
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