Relentless

by Shawn Wilson

  Copyright © 2019 by Shawn Wilson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, businesses, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-1-60809-370-0

  Cover Design by Christian Fuenfhausen

  Published in the United States of America by Oceanview Publishing

  Sarasota, Florida

  www.oceanviewpub.com

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  For Lady

  “To be Irish is to know that in the end the world will break your heart.”

  —DANIEL PATRICK MOYNIHAN

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My thanks and gratitude go to:

  Bob and Pat Gussin and the Oceanview Team for making Relentless a reality.

  Anne Dubuisson for your expertise and encouragement. Third time’s a charm!

  The organizers of Santa Barbara Writer’s Conference, Bouchercon, Left Coast Crime, Sleuthfest, and Killer Nashville where I learned so much and always had a great time.

  A group hug to my family and friends for sharing the good times and bad, the laughter and tears. I am so blessed to have you in my life.

  A very special thank you to Ruth Ann for letting me have the creative writing gene.

  And, of course, to Bob for introducing me to Chicago, a place that felt like home from day one and for turning this Yankees fan into a Cubs fan forever.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Washington, D.C.

  April 2013

  PINK SNOW.

  A gentle breeze sent the fragile, two-days-past-prime cherry blossoms cascading to the ground.

  Detective Brian Kavanagh ignored the petals falling around him. As he peered past the railing toward the east side of the Tidal Basin, he was focused on one thing. He adjusted his binoculars. A naked body floating facedown in the murky water came into view. What he saw was long dark hair and a petite build. Odds were the body was female, but he knew better than to assume. Another slight adjustment provided a clearer look. He noticed something unusual. The skin on the right shoulder and extending partway down the arm appeared inflamed. There were lots of possible explanations, but Kavanagh knew the only way to find out was to get a close-up look.

  At roll call, seven hours earlier, the lieutenant had announced that the weekend triple shooting in Southeast brought the number of homicides up to forty-one. Would this add another to the tally? Murders were running ahead of last year’s total, and at this rate, could start creeping back up to the bad years—those years when D.C. had the distinction of not just being the nation’s capital—but its homicide capital as well.

  Kavanagh didn’t believe in numerology any more than he believed in psychics solving crimes, but for some reason, the number forty-two seemed to be stalking him. He had turned forty-two last month and celebrated by watching a couple of spring training games at Stein-brenner Field in Tampa. For a split-second he thought about his chance coffee-shop encounter with Mariano Rivera. Many times, he’d watched the Yankees’ number 42 take the mound at the top of the ninth. Calm and confidant with nerves of steel, the Sandman would face his opponent and then almost always strike him out. Kavanagh hadn’t thought of it before, and even though it might be a stretch, realized he had something in common with the future Hall of Famer. After all, their goal was pretty much the same—close the inning or close the case; do your job and put another one in the win column.

  “Hey, Brick.”

  Kavanagh’s red hair was now laced with strands of gray, but the nickname from his youth would probably stick with him to his grave. He turned toward the sound of his partner’s voice. Brick had been working with Ron Hayes for a little over a year. They were a good fit even though Ron was ten years younger and this was his first stint in Homicide. He was a quick study, eager to learn, but only time would tell if his enthusiasm would last or he would burn out like several of his predecessors.

  “They’ve got the area by the bridge taped off and uniforms posted. A couple of squirrel chasers are over there, too.”

  Brick smiled. He didn’t always agree with Ron, but when it came to the Park Police, they were of the same mind. Still, the presence of mounted officers might help discourage curious onlookers. “What’s going on with the harbor patrol?” Brick asked.

  “The dive team is suiting up; they should be here in about twenty, twenty-five minutes.” Ron glanced at his watch. “Ten bucks says the media gets here first.”

  Brick shook his head. Only a sucker would make that bet. “I’m surprised they’re not here already.” He glanced toward a dock where a fleet of light blue, plastic-shelled paddle boats were moored. In a few hours, tourists and locals would pay a nominal fee to don life jackets and pedal around the Tidal Basin. Before long, this annual rite of spring would lose its appeal when summer temperatures soar and the smell of fish hangs heavy in the humid air. Brick pointed toward the boat dock. “Let’s go.”

  For a moment, Ron hesitated. He lagged a few steps behind his partner. “Please tell me you’re not considering hopping into one of those boats.”

  “You got a better idea?” Brick shouted over his shoulder.

  “C’mon, man, it’s the Tidal Basin. The body’s not going to get washed out to sea. I say wait for the Harbor Patrol.”

  Brick turned in Ron’s direction. “That’s because you’ve never worked with them. Some guys are okay, but a few are known for finding new ways to screw things up.”

  Ron shook his head. “Guess I should have figured that’s not happening on your watch.” His dark dreads swayed from side to side as he stepped up his pace. He caught up to Brick in front of an eight-foot fence surrounding the area where the boats were stored. A heavy padlock secured the rusted metal gate where a sign listed the operating hours for boat rental. “Looks like we’re out of luck.”

  “I can see how disappointed you are.” Brick studied the lock for a minute. “You want to shoot it, or should I?”

  “Whoa.” Ron took a step back. “Last time I checked, shooting locks isn’t on the approved list.”

  Whether Ron realized it or not, the suggestion was meant as a test. Brick was pleased his protégé passed. “I’m kidding. You’ve learned how to scale a fence, haven’t you?”

  Ron nodded as a smug smile crossed his lips. “Are you really going to risk those fancy threads you’re wearing?”

  Brick was used to being teased about his wardrobe. There was no denying he was a clotheshorse, more likely to shop at Brooks Brothers than the Men’s Wearhouse. “It’s called taking one for the team.”

  “Okay, then.” Ron deferred to Brick with a sweeping hand gesture. “Age before beauty.”

  This wouldn’t be the first time Brick scaled a fence, but silently he hoped it might be his last. He took a deep breath, grabbed hold of two iron bars, and pulled himself up to get a foothold on a narrow ledge. He hesitated for a moment, then launched himself over the top. The landing wouldn’t earn points for style, but he made it without damage to himself or his favorite suit. He was grateful on both counts.

  Ron took a running start, leapt onto the ledge and over the top of the fence sticking the landing with the grace of a well-trained athlete. Being in his early thirties gave him an edge as did his college days at University of Maryland where he had been a track star and the hours he still spent working out.


  “What?” Ron shrugged his shoulders. “Unfair height advantage?” At six-foot-four, Ron was a good five inches taller than Brick.

  “First time today you’ve reminded me,” Brick said.

  Ron sneered and lowered his voice to a growl. “Day ain’t over yet.”

  Brick shook his head. A line from a movie—Ron’s constant challenge—who said it—what movie? But Brick wasn’t taking the bait. Unlike a lot of guys, he didn’t have an endless supply of movie quotes at his disposal. Except for Field of Dreams, he’d rarely watched a movie more than once.

  Together, they walked down the weathered dock past the row of boats to the last one tied securely to the one next to it. Brick went to work on the thick rope with a Swiss Army knife. Once freed, Ron held onto the back of the boat, keeping it steady as Brick stepped aboard. Carefully, he moved over to the left and sat, positioning his feet on the pedals.

  Ron followed his lead but with more difficulty. “This is worse than squeezing into an airplane seat.”

  “Would you rather swim?” Brick asked.

  Ron shifted as if to find a more comfortable position. “Goddamn, my knees are hitting my chin.”

  “Really? Well, how’s that height advantage working for you now?”

  “Guess I deserved that.” Ron started to laugh but stopped abruptly. “Oh, man, I got a charley horse.” He winced as he tried to stretch his left leg. “Why is it in movies cops get to commandeer Lexuses and Jaguars?”

  Brick thought about how ridiculous they must look. “Do you really think anyone would pay ten or eleven bucks to see a couple of cops in a paddleboat?”

  “My wife would if one of them was Denzel.” Ron shifted again. “And right now, I wish it was his ass in this boat instead of mine.”

  Brick and Ron drew closer and stopped pedaling. The wake from the paddleboat caused the body to bob up and down giving them their best chance to get a look at the victim before the Harbor Patrol arrived. Ron craned his neck as if trying to get a better view of the victim’s upper body, which was closer to Brick’s side of the boat.

  “What the hell is that—some kind of bruise or burn?” Ron pointed to the patch of reddish-purple skin Brick had spotted earlier.

  “Looks like a birthmark,” Brick said.

  “Probably one of those, what’s it called … port wine?”

  Brick nodded and pointed toward the victim’s collarbone. “See how it starts there and travels over the right shoulder and down the arm?”

  “Yeah. I was about to say she was lucky it didn’t cover her face, but even if lucky described her before, it sure doesn’t anymore.”

  “She? You’re sure about that?”

  Ron hesitated before responding. “I’m basing it on what I didn’t see, rather than what I did. Know what I mean?”

  “Water’s cold enough to cause shrinkage.”

  “Provided there’s something to shrink, and it doesn’t look like there is.”

  Ron furrowed his brow as his eyes once again scanned the body from head to toe. For a minute, it appeared he might be second-guessing himself. “I’m as sure as I can be, but if the ME says otherwise, he’s the man.”

  There was a reason Brick was quizzing his partner. Part of being a detective meant being open-minded and paying attention to details, especially ones you may have to someday testify about. Being on the witness stand was nerve-wracking. Hopefully, the prosecutor wouldn’t hang you out to dry, but you could count on the defense attorney doing exactly that.

  “Wish I could get a better look at her face.” Ron’s voice had a pensive quality, almost as if he was thinking out loud. “She’s thin, almost no body fat. Probably weighs less than a hundred pounds. And she’s short—maybe five feet.” Ron continued to lean over the side of the paddleboat and scanned the victim’s body. “Aside from the birthmark, I don’t see anything remarkable. Do you?”

  “No.”

  “So, unless she decided to go skinny dipping and drowned, which I seriously doubt, we’ve got a secondary crime scene.” Ron settled back into his seat. “And, of course, they had to dump her in the water. Sucks, doesn’t it?”

  “Big-time. Unlikely we’ll get any useful trace evidence off of her.”

  “How long do you think she’s been here?”

  “Not long—a few hours, tops.” Brick glanced down at his watch. “The call came in just after five. It’s possible she got dumped sometime after midnight. This area is pretty deserted between then and daybreak.”

  “There’s got to be security cameras around here,” Ron said.

  “Given the budget cuts, don’t count on it. And even if there are tapes, they might be useless since it was so foggy last night.”

  “Wouldn’t you know, for once the weather guy on Channel 7 got it right.” Ron sighed loudly. “We’re just batting a thousand, aren’t we, partner. No clothes or driver’s license—she’s young, could be a runaway from anywhere. How long do we have before the Medical Examiner’s Office buries the body?”

  “Thirty days.”

  “Damn. That’s what I thought.”

  Brick nodded. “And the time starts now.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  “JESUS, I’VE SEEN some sights out here, but you two take the cake.” Sergeant Phil Jones, better known as “Jonesy,” laughed as Brick stepped from the paddleboat onto the ladder attached to the side of the Harbor Patrol rescue boat. “Had to do a double take, thought it was Carrot Top and Bob Marley.”

  Brick could have been offended; instead he was impressed by Jonesy’s knowledge of pop culture. He carefully climbed the narrow rungs one by one, then stepped onto the deck. Ron followed, no doubt grateful to be able to stand and stretch his cramped muscles. Jonesy pointed toward the opposite end on the boat where four members of the Water Search and Rescue Squad were checking their equipment. “Most cops would have waited on the shore and just let us do our thing.”

  “Have you ever known me to be like most cops?” Brick asked.

  Jonesy shook his head. “Now that you mention it, nah.” He turned his stocky frame toward Ron and introduced himself. “Who’d you piss off to get stuck with this guy?” He didn’t give Ron time to respond. “Just kidding. Hey, did he ever tell you about the time—”

  “Jonesy, you don’t need to tell that story.”

  “Okay, okay.” He squinted in the early morning sun. “Well, Ron, you’ll have to take my word for it—it’s a good one.” He turned back toward Brick. “Oh, by the way, did you hear my news?”

  Brick shook his head, knowing he was about to get the lowdown.

  “I’m hanging it up. Twenty-seven days and three hours to go, but who’s counting.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks. I filed my retirement papers last week, and I gotta tell you, it’s like the weight of the world’s been lifted from my shoulders.” He patted the boat’s railing. “Yeah, I’m ready to trade this one in for one I can sail on the Chesapeake. Figure I’ll keep it docked up in Annapolis. You’re welcome any time.” Immediately, he appeared to regret what he had just said. “But the Bay can get kind of choppy. You don’t get seasick, do you? I remember one time, think it was mid-October—no wait, it was first week in November—”

  “Thanks, Jonesy. I appreciate the invite.” Brick knew if he didn’t interrupt, Jonesy’s sea adventure would make Moby Dick seem like a short story. “Looks like your guys are ready. How about if Ron and I get out of the way.”

  “You’re fine where you are. I’m getting some coffee—feel free to help yourself, but I gotta warn you, it tastes like it was made with water straight out of the Tidal Basin.” Both men declined.

  Although Brick had worked several cases involving floaters, he didn’t recognize the four guys who were suited up and going over a checklist. Considering the physical demands of being on the dive team, it wasn’t surprising that the members tended to be young. No doubt, rescues from capsized canoes or boats and cars that had plunged into the water were rewarding. Recoveries
—not so much. Still, diving into the murky water was, to Brick’s way of thinking, preferable to searching pipes and sewers, which was something else they were called upon to do. Wading through sludge and mud, and God knows what kind of toxins—no wonder the turnover rate was high. Their twofold mission this morning—retrieve the body then look for evidence using metal detectors and sonar.

  As two of the divers jumped into the water, Jonesy unzipped the body bag that had been laid out on the deck. The two divers on the deck lowered a basket large enough to accommodate an adult much larger than the victim. The divers in the water quickly positioned the body into the basket and signaled it was ready to be raised. Jonesy supervised as his officers quickly transferred the body from the basket to the bag.

  “Nice work, guys,” Brick shouted and gave a thumbs-up. Before zipping the bag, he and Ron checked the body for any clues as to how she died. “What do you think?” Brick asked his partner.

  “No obvious wounds as far as I can see. I’d say she was probably dead before she hit the water. We won’t know until the ME determines whether or not there’s water in her lungs.”

  Brick was about to compliment Ron but didn’t get a chance.

  “Don’t envy you, guys.” Jonesy leaned in, close enough for Brick to smell the coffee on his breath. “The White Shirts down at Headquarters will be shitting plaid rabbits over this one. Young girl, cherry blossom time—better hope she’s not some cheerleader from Iowa on a school trip.”

  The thought had crossed Brick’s mind. Jonesy was right. Already this case had the potential to make lots of people nervous, from the mayor on down. And Brick knew from experience, when the powers-that-be got nervous, his job got a whole lot more stressful.

  “I’ve called the ME’s office—they’re sending a wagon,” Jonesy said. “With any luck, they’ll be waiting for us at the dock.” He looked over at Ron. “Good thing you had time to rest—it’s always harder pedaling back.”

  “Say what?” Ron asked with obvious disbelief. “You mean—”