Say Goodbye

by Karen Rose

She’d already texted Daisy to ask the woman to accompany her and gotten a “Hell, yeah” reply. Which presented another problem.

  “Can I store my boxes in your garage? Just for today. I need to go somewhere with Daisy and she won’t fit in my car right now.”

  Irina nodded. “Where will you go?”

  “With Daisy?”

  “No. Well, yes, but I meant where will you live now that you’ve moved out?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll find a hotel for a few days while I look for a place. Just temporarily,” she added hastily when Irina opened her mouth to speak. “I may be able to get a place in the dorm for the upcoming semester.”

  “You will stay here,” Irina declared, her mouth set stubbornly.

  “I will not stay here,” Liza replied, calmly sipping her tea.

  “With Sasha, then.” Sasha was Irina’s second-youngest daughter and lived in the house that Rafe had converted into apartments. Amos and Abigail lived on the top floor, Sasha on the middle, and Rafe and Mercy on the ground floor.

  “Nope,” Liza said with a smile to soften the refusal. “She and Erin are in the gooey and sweet phase at the moment and I won’t impose. Right now, I need my own space.”

  Irina nodded, resigned. “I understand. If you won’t live here or with Sasha, will you let me find you a place in a safe neighborhood until your school begins?”

  Liza’s smile felt wobbly. “Yes. Thank you. I can’t be picky right now, but if the rent is affordable, I’d be grateful. That would be one thing I wouldn’t have to worry about.”

  Irina released her hand but didn’t move away, instead resting her chin on her fist, creating an air of companionable commiseration. “What else do you worry about?”

  Liza was literally saved by the bell when the front door opened, making an alarm beep. That was new. “You have a new alarm?”

  “No. I just set it to beep when anyone enters or leaves the house. I didn’t ground Zoya for driving to San Francisco with Jeff yesterday morning, because her heart was in the right place and she is a safe driver. But I don’t like the idea of her being able to sneak out, either.”

  “My mom would have loved you,” Liza said with a genuine smile, and then she turned to embrace the child flying into her arms. “Miss Abigail! Good morning!”

  “Morning, Liza! Morning, Miss Irina,” Abigail added, her smile sunny. “Is there breakfast?”

  “Abigail,” Amos chided. He’d followed Abigail at a more sedate pace. “Don’t be rude.”

  Abigail sighed. “Sorry, Papa.”

  “It is okay, lubimaya,” Irina said. “You want some eggs? Or pancakes?”

  Abigail looked undecided. “Both?”

  Irina chuckled. “Wash your hands and set the table for you and your papa.”

  “Karl and Zoya, too?” Abigail asked.

  “No, they’re already gone.” Irina turned to Amos. “Is Mercy coming?”

  He shook his head. “No. She’s staying with Rafe today. She said she’d do Abigail’s science lesson with her this afternoon back at our house.”

  Abigail sobered. “It’s because of Brother DJ. Rafe is afraid she’ll be hurt. Mercy said that she’d stay to keep Rafe happy. And to bake me some cookies.” She sidled up to Liza. “I brought my book. See?” She produced a copy of Who Was Sally Ride? from her book bag.

  “And we will read it after breakfast,” Liza promised, hugging her. “You have your orders, Private,” she barked, pretending to be a commanding officer. “Wash hands. Set table. Go.”

  Abigail saluted, giggling when she accidentally poked her eye. “Yes, sir!”

  GRANITE BAY, CALIFORNIA

  THURSDAY, MAY 25, 9:45 A.M.

  DJ slowly drove up and down the streets of the Sokolovs’ neighborhood, searching for the best surveillance angle. He wasn’t going to park here like he’d done the morning before.

  This seemed like exactly the kind of place that would have an intrusive neighborhood watch program that might notice his truck parked for hours a second time. He’d already killed Mrs. Ellis for spying on him. He didn’t want to kill anyone else.

  Not that he minded killing people. He’d gotten very good at it. But a trail of dead bodies would be like a neon sign indicating his movements. Cops had forensics, and those were the guys who made him nervous. They already had his prints and his face. He wasn’t going to telegraph his plans by leaving a bunch of dead bodies.

  After breakfast with Coleen, DJ had taken her to the rehab center, where they’d gotten the welcome spiel, including the level of care Pastor would be receiving and all the security features the place provided. The facility and its grounds were surrounded by a wrought iron fence. The gate was activated by key card and every staff member was vetted. Families were offered wigs and other disguises so that they could visit undetected. Security cameras were placed everywhere. Halls and common areas were monitored twenty-four-seven. Cameras in the patients’ rooms were only monitored by request or if there was a disturbance.

  Which had made DJ think of Kowalski and all the cameras the bastard had installed in both his house and Mrs. Ellis’s. And had prompted his early-morning visit to Walmart.

  He’d taken a calculated risk going into the big store. He figured that the cops might have his face from a surveillance tape of his botched roof job the morning before, but nothing had shown up online. So maybe the office building hadn’t had a security camera and he’d worried for nothing. Even if they had one, they hadn’t posted footage in the media, so it was unlikely that anyone inside would recognize him.

  If they had, his handgun was holstered under his jacket. Luckily no one had and he’d been left alone to shop. There were more eyes watching the electronics aisle, so he’d chosen the baby supply aisle instead. Baby monitors came with cameras, and cameras were what he needed. He’d bought one that had a video recording feature, paid cash, and walked out without a single raised eyebrow.

  Now he needed to find the proper place to set up the camera. There was no rain in the forecast, so even though the unit wasn’t waterproof, it would be okay for a few days.

  He stopped the truck in front of the house he’d deemed to have the best view. It wasn’t across the street from the Sokolovs, unfortunately. Ephraim had tried that, a fact included in the media coverage DJ had read while waiting for Pastor’s surgery to be over. He’d also read that the homeowner had been saved by his daughter, who’d declared that she’d had extra security installed, so sitting too close to the Sokolovs’ house was not an option.

  Some assholes spoil it for the rest of us.

  The house DJ had chosen was behind and to the right of the Sokolovs’. There was a gap in the trees, through which the street just beyond the Sokolovs’ house was visible. A camera wouldn’t capture the activities of individuals, but it would capture vehicles and license plates.

  Getting out of his truck, he double-checked the magnetic sign he’d applied to the driver’s door. Today he was posing as a contractor for PG&E.

  Nobody questioned the presence of the utility company.

  He crossed the homeowner’s back lawn, along the man’s eight-foot privacy fence, looking for the best spot for the baby monitor camera. It was light pink and would show up if he mounted it to the fence itself. But if he mounted it to one of the trees, he might be able to camouflage it with leaves.

  He chose the tree and went down on one knee, laying out his tools, cursing his left arm, which still hung in the sling. Even though he’d developed the dexterity of his right hand, it was still his less dominant and clumsier. This injury made everything take longer.

  “Hey! You there!”

  DJ stilled. Fucking hell. Slowly he rose, tugging on the brim of his ball cap to hide his face. A man in his sixties stood near the fence, scowling. He’d either come from the house or just been walking down the street, paying attention to things not his business.<
br />
  Damn neighborhood watchers.

  “Good morning, sir,” DJ said pleasantly.

  The man’s scowl slipped a little. “What are you doing?”

  “I work for PG&E. We’re monitoring the moisture level of the soil. Dry spots are tinder for wildfires.” Kowalski had taught him that spiel as well.

  “Okay.” The man took a step forward, then stopped. “But that looks like a camera to me.”

  “It monitors temperature and moisture content,” DJ explained, calm on the outside, but inside he was starting to worry.

  “So you say. Looks like a camera to me. Maybe I should call your manager.” The man’s chin lifted slightly. “Or even the police.”

  For fuck’s sake. Really? It appeared he might have to kill the man after all.

  “Whoa, whoa.” DJ took a step closer. “No need for that. I’ll give you my number and you can call my boss.” Of course the number was a fake and the man would probably end up talking to a contractor in L.A. who’d tell him he had the wrong number. But by then, DJ would be gone.

  “No. I’m going to call the police.” The man took out his cell phone and stared into the screen, unlocking it.

  Sighing, DJ took out his gun. Of course it wouldn’t be simple.

  The man took a step back, wide-eyed. “What the hell?”

  DJ approached the man slowly. “Drop the phone.”

  “I knew it,” he hissed. “I called the cops already. They’re on their way.”

  But he was clearly lying. The color had drained from his face and he was twitchy.

  “Drop the phone,” DJ repeated.

  The man dropped the phone. Slipping his left arm from the sling, DJ managed to grab the phone while holding his gun on the trembling man. The phone was still unlocked and he confirmed that no outgoing calls had been made.

  “I wish you’d just accepted that I was from PG&E. Give me your wallet.”

  Shaking, the man tossed his wallet to the ground. DJ fumbled with it, dropping his gaze only long enough to see the man’s name and address. Sure enough, the man lived in the house behind the fence.

  “Let’s go home, Mr. Smythe,” he said, gesturing with his gun. “Don’t make a scene and you’ll live to see another day. This gun has a silencer and I will drop you where you stand.”

  Nelson Smythe obeyed. “What are you going to do to me?”

  “I’ll tie you up until I can get away—if you cooperate. Make a fuss and you’re dead. Got it?” They entered Smythe’s backyard through a door in the fence. “Are you home alone?”

  Smythe nodded again. “My wife is out of town until next week,” he stammered. “I won’t report you, I swear. Take my phone, my car, my money. Just don’t tie me up. Nobody will find me. I’ll die.”

  “Fine. Show me your car.”

  Body sagging in relief, Smythe led him into the garage, where a Lexus was parked. More importantly, there was a chest freezer up against the far wall.

  “Stand next to the freezer,” DJ commanded, and Smythe obeyed. “Now open it. I want to see what you have stored inside.”

  Frown deepening, Smythe lifted the freezer lid. “It’s just frozen meat and—”

  DJ fired, hitting Smythe right between the eyes. He used the backward momentum to push with his right shoulder, toppling the man into the freezer, where there was just enough room for him. DJ fired again, just to make sure.

  Kowalski had taught him that, too. He’d learned more from Kowalski than he’d thought.

  Holstering his gun, DJ checked Smythe’s pockets, finding an engraved lighter, a half-smoked pack of Lucky Strikes, and the keys to the Lexus.

  Excellent in more ways than one. DJ hadn’t had a smoke in over a month and he’d missed it. He lit up a cigarette and inhaled, feeling his body relax. Now that Smythe was taken care of, he’d finish mounting the camera on the tree outside and get out of here.

  Or . . . if the house was truly empty until Mrs. Smythe returned, he could hole up here.

  Like Ephraim did in the house across from the Sokolovs?

  Well, shit. Except DJ knew there was a wife who’d be arriving home at some point. If he could keep track of the wife’s movements, it could work. For a day or two, at least.

  He looked at Smythe’s phone and cursed. It was locked again. But . . . Examining the phone’s make and model, he was encouraged. Some of those phones had a major glitch—the facial recognition software worked even when the phone owner was asleep, unconscious, or even dead.

  This, he’d determined on his own and had shared with Kowalski. Kowalski had been very pleased to learn this tidbit.

  DJ held the phone screen over Nelson Smythe’s face and, bingo, the phone unlocked. It wasn’t a permanent solution, but he could at least find the wife’s texts and Facebook and figure out where she was. As long as she wasn’t headed to this house anytime soon, it could work.

  He scrolled through the man’s phone. She’d gone to her daughter’s house. She’d been gone for a week and would stay through Memorial Day, returning home on Tuesday.

  DJ was always mildly surprised when holidays like Memorial Day happened. Only Christmas and Easter were celebrated in Eden. All of the other holidays were either ignored or reviled. Valentine’s Day was ignored. Halloween, the devil’s day, was reviled. Fourth of July was also reviled, as it celebrated the government. Which Pastor said was evil.

  It was the best way to frighten and manipulate his congregation.

  Why are we moving? The government is coming. They destroyed the Branch Davidians. They will destroy us, too.

  He’d believed Pastor’s words until he was seventeen. Until DJ had killed his father and taken over as Eden’s shopper. One glimpse at the real world and DJ had known Pastor’s lies for what they were.

  But he still didn’t buy into the holidays. They were only good because sales of narcotics skyrocketed over long holiday weekends.

  He’d take Memorial Day, though, if it meant he had the house through Monday. It wasn’t like he planned to stay forever anyway. Just until he could figure out where Mercy was living.

  The Smythes appeared to communicate through texts. There had been no calls between them, either incoming or outgoing, which was encouraging. It was less likely that the wife would be worried if her calls went unanswered, and as long as the dead man’s face continued to unlock his phone screen, DJ could text back, keeping her from becoming suspicious.

  Closing the freezer lid, he scouted every room in the house and found it unoccupied. The spare room was filled with sewing equipment, but it had a twin bed—and a view of the street he’d wanted to monitor in the first place. He could put the camera in the window and not worry about anyone else finding it.

  Exhausted from all the driving the night before, DJ was tempted to take a nap, but he needed to get the camera from outside. Once it was in place, he could finally sleep.

  SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

  THURSDAY, MAY 25, 10:30 A.M.

  “This is fantastic work, Hunter,” Croft said as Tom drove them across town. She was studying Pastor’s medical file on her phone. “Looks like he took either a beating or a fall.”

  Tom wished he had an ounce of her enthusiasm, but all he could think about was Liza’s empty closets. And how he’d yelled at her when that was the last thing he’d wanted to do.

  Rob Winters had been a yeller. God, don’t let me be like him. Please.

  Tom thought he’d rather be dead than have an iota of his father’s personality. But genetics were a bitch sometimes.

  I’ll go to Irina’s as soon as I have a break. I’ll take Liza flowers. She liked bright, happy flowers. He had to make this right.

  “Hunter.” Croft sounded annoyed. “Are you even listening to me?”

  Tom realized that he’d completely missed what she’d said. “I’m sorry. My mind wandered.”

&
nbsp; “To the moon,” Croft confirmed. “Are you okay?”

  Nope. “Of course. I was thinking about the employee file.” Raeburn had announced in the morning meeting that they wouldn’t be storming the Sunnyside rehab center, but that they’d be focusing on recording conversations between Pastor and DJ while Pastor was recuperating. The mission was first to find Eden, then to punish those who’d committed crimes against its people. Raeburn had made it sound like it was all his own idea, but Tom wasn’t going to call him on it. As long as they got eyes and ears inside, Tom was on board.

  “Did you find anyone who might turn informant?”

  “Maybe. I gave the list to Raeburn with a few recommendations.” Raeburn was hoping to find someone who could be pressured to plant a few bugs in Pastor’s hospital room and to keep tabs on DJ.

  “Don’t worry,” Croft said quietly. “Raeburn may be a jackass on a personal level, but he’s a good agent. If he said he won’t raid the rehab center, then he won’t.”

  Tom managed a smile, both grateful and a little irritated that Croft read him so well. “What’s this tattoo artist’s name again?” he asked, changing the subject. “Your top pick, I mean.”

  They were headed to a tattoo parlor in Natomas. Croft’s source had never seen DJ Belmont or anyone with the Chicos gang tat but had recognized the style. They now had the names of a few possible tattoo artists and were following up on the most likely offender.

  “Dixie Serratt. She’s on parole, by the way, so if she did the Chicos tats or knows who did, she might be persuaded to tell us.”

  “Excellent.”

  They were silent for a time, and then Croft sighed. “If you’re in a bad headspace right now, I need to know. We don’t know what we’re walking into. If you’re not sharp, you need to say so.”

  Tom wanted to punch himself in the face. Liza deserved better than his anger, and Croft deserved a partner who had her back. “I’m good. Read me Dixie Serratt’s rap sheet.”

  Croft complied, and hearing the severity and breadth of Dixie’s crimes helped Tom’s focus more than anything else. The fifty-five-year-old woman had committed everything from manslaughter and kidnapping to petty theft. There was a vehicular homicide in there, too.