But, still, no untimely visitors.
Unless Ian Kusić's killer had squeezed himself beneath the floorboards, the trailer was clear.
Kate holstered her 9mm, curiosity throbbing as she exited the kitchen. Like the laptop and instruments in the spare room, the oak cabinets appeared new. The financial records on this guy were bound to be fascinating.
What the devil did Kusić do for a living? Had he come into an inheritance? Won the lottery?
Heck, why bother remodeling at all? Surely it made more sense to move?
Kate crossed the plush carpet and tugged on the cord hanging from the living room window's pleated shades. Kusić's rusted truck greeted her. Why hadn't it been replaced with a man-sized version of one of the cars in that display cabinet? Because it had yet to be delivered? Or, in light of the trailer's crumbling exterior, had Kusić been intent on keeping down appearances? At least as far as the outside world was concerned. But again, why?
Drugs? The trailer was parked within spitting distance of the I-40 corridor. Corpses of men and women in that particular line of work had been known to surface with missing parts from time to time, though usually a lot closer to Mexico.
Yes, times were changing. But a double-crossed heroin kingpin wouldn't waste time staging that dump site. He'd have simply shot Kusić, possibly hacked off his head as a statement, and been done with it. Likewise, a double-crossed customer wouldn't have enough brain cells left firing to pull off that pristine scene.
Was the killer a recovering addict, then? Or had Kusić pissed off one-too-many emotionally and financially, cleaned-out loved ones?
One thing was certain. Kusić hadn't made the money to outfit this place by working for Uncle Sam. Not unless he'd received a battlefield promotion to general at the ripe old age of twenty.
Kate turned toward the hall, intent on firing up the laptop she'd spotted to scour it for clues. She stopped at the couch instead, her attention snagged by a pair of professionally designed memory albums tucked away on the shelf beneath the coffee table. Odd. Most people didn't print photos anymore, let alone collect up enough to paste in an album. Perhaps she wasn't the only one to have inherited an old 35 mm from her mother, along with the curiosity and stubbornness to use it.
Intrigued, Kate retrieved the uppermost album and opened the cover. An inscription greeted her.
* * *
Ian,
We're so proud of you.
Love, Mom & Dad
* * *
That explained the albums. As for the inscription, Kate knocked the green-eyed monster off her shoulder and flipped through the succeeding pages—and wished she hadn't.
While the album was filled with countless photos of Kusić and his friends, nearly every one oozed Army. There were shots of the man as a seasoned sergeant in the thick of things all the way back to his swearing in as a lanky, still-unshorn private. The insignia on his dress uniform confirmed Kate's suspicions regarding Kusić's Airborne and Air Assault quals. He'd also qualified expert on his rifle.
Ironic considering that, according to the man's military occupational specialty school graduation photo, Kusić had been a 68 Kilo. Otherwise known as a lab tech. Any knowledge the vet possessed regarding drugs—legal and otherwise—had been earned the hard way. Given the settings of several other photos, Kusić had once been up to his neck in needles, microscopes and blood in at least four of the busiest combat hospitals the US Army had run in both Afghanistan and Iraq. From the legion of mile-wide grins and arm-in-arm poses, Kusić and his buddies had thrived on the resulting adrenaline. That sweet rush that came with knowing you'd given your all for your comrades, and knowing they hadn't hesitated to put their collective asses on the line for you—and would again.
Kate's own past crowded in. The memories.
And then, those goddamned, gaping holes.
She slapped the first album onto the coffee table and grabbed the second. She flipped through the pages, pausing at a photo of Kusić hugging a decidedly older, grayer version of himself. Judging from the banner in the background, the photo had been snapped at one of Kusić's homecomings.
The jealous monster crawled back up on her shoulder as Kate confronted the pride glowing in Kusić senior's face.
She turned the page on both, leafing through the remaining photos until she reached a written citation near the end of the album. Kusić had been awarded the Meritorious Service Medal while deployed to Bagram hospital eight years earlier. Kate turned the page, skimming two other citations and an effusive attaboy from Kusić's final commanding officer before she reached the write-up for which she'd been searching: his Purple Heart.
Despite that expert badge, Sergeant Kusić had wielded a test tube for the Army, not a rifle. So how had a 68 Kilo earned that generous collection of bullet and shrapnel scars she'd noted out on Old Man Miller's road?
It seemed she and Sergeant Kusić had run afoul of the enemy in an eerily similar fashion. Ambush. Like her, one blissfully ignorant moment Kusić had been riding in a military medical convoy with his fellow soldiers, only to take jarring flight the next on a shitload of instantly expended explosives.
The citation in Kate's hands disintegrated as the memory of another shattered Humvee slammed in. Only this one had been flipped completely over in the blast. Within seconds she was back in that sweltering hell, suffocating on the stench of burning rubber, pinned between a buckled roof and her smoldering seat, half-blinded by the pain slicing through her face and the blood dripping into her eyes. The latter hadn't been hers. It had belonged to her best friend, Max.
Despite a shattered collarbone, she'd managed to retrieve her sidearm and take aim at the bearded face hunkering down beneath the edge of the crumpled door of their Humvee to fire her first bullet of the day.
Bullseye.
The fading light from those eyes had barely registered as she'd worked to twist her battered torso and hips far enough around so she could use her boots to kick the bastard out of the way. Somehow, she'd succeeded in dragging Max's unconscious body and her own broken, sorry ass out into the Afghan countryside...where the rest of the bastards had been waiting.
Kate snapped the album shut and dumped it on the table as the sludge began to churn deep inside.
She closed her eyes and worked to quell it.
It was no use.
Against her will, her right hand came up, her fingers automatically finding the dive watch on her left wrist and beginning to twist as she headed down the hall to Kusić's spare room and that laptop of potential clues. She was about to enter when her fingers stilled. Her entire body followed suit.
There.
She forced her fingers to trade the band of Max's watch for the textured grip of her 9mm as she caught a second muffled thump farther down the hall.
Shit.
From the moment she'd spotted that Screaming Eagle tattoo, she'd known she had no business working this case. She wasn't a hard-charging Army detective anymore; she was a backwater, speed-trap monitoring deputy—and had been for three years now. She never should've caved beneath Lou's pleading. But she had. And now her fucked-up brain had caused her to miss something vital.
Because she wasn't alone.
3
Kate eased the 9mm from her holster as she turned toward the master bedroom. She crept forward, pausing at the half-closed door to ensure her cellphone was still muted, catching two more thumps as she returned the phone to her pocket. Glock front and center, she nudged the bedroom door open another two inches and slipped inside.
The room appeared empty...until another thump reverberated from beyond the foot of the bed.
The closet.
She had closed it, hadn't she? Because a good three inches of shadowed air now separated the edge of the mirrored door from its frame—and there was definitely motion within.
Adrenaline pulsed as Kate skirted the waterbed. She used her right boot to slide the door completely open as she drew down on the intruder. "Police; freeze!"
&nb
sp; A panicked fumble reverberated from behind the pair of plastic green storage crates...and a meow.
Crap.
Kate swallowed her adrenaline and a healthy dose of humiliation as she shoved the 9mm into its holster. A sleek, black-and-white face with dark yellow eyes poked up from behind the oversized boxes. The cat meowed again, loudly. It was pathetic. Hungry.
And not supposed to be here.
For all the landlady's snooping, Leena had managed to miss a cat she'd officially nixed, along with the delivery of enough high-end, man-cave gear to keep a newly single Kusić from prowling the neighborhood for at least a year.
What else was the man hiding?
And where were the cat's water, food and litter?
A closer inspection of the bathroom yielded two of the three. The water dish was tucked behind the toilet and was bone dry. The litter box, however, was boldly in the open. It was also disguised as a sleek, whitewashed table that doubled as a towel holder and magazine rack. A discreet cutout on the far side allowed the cat to do its job in private. The plastic flap and thick charcoal filter kept what would've otherwise been an impressive odor from leaking out.
Kate opened the door and studied the enclosed pan. Based on the contents, Kusić's cat could have been alone a solid week, depending on when the man had last cleaned.
Not the narrowest of timelines, but it was a start.
Another meow echoed through the room. Yellow eyes blinked up at Kate from the doorway, expectant. Evidently examining a cat's box meant she was obligated to feed its user. Either that, or it was desperate. Kate reached out to pet the cat, drawing back as it pinned its ears and hissed.
"Fickle, aren't you?" A sound assessment, given the creature's willingness to trot contentedly after her as she headed out of the room. She and the cat were two feet from Kusić's kitchen and potential vittles when his doorbell rang.
"Hey, Holland? You in there?"
Seth.
Evidently Lou had his own ideas regarding his department's personnel assignments, because his senior-most deputy was not assisting the coroner with the remains as she'd suggested. Instead, Seth was risking the precarious soundness of the victim's landing.
Kate unlocked the door. "Sorry. I came through the back."
"Probably for the best, with all those avid eyes lookin' on." Seth closed the door on the gawkers that had gathered near the cluster of trailers to the east.
Kate waited as the man donned his protective booties and gloves. She knew it was coming. The mood she was in, she needed it.
Seth didn't disappoint as he turned to take in the living room's decor, his jaw dropping as he spotted the flatscreen.
Kate smiled. "You know what they say—the bigger a man's TV, the smaller his penis."
Seth's snort warmed her for the first time since she'd parted with Ruger that morning. "Thought that was 'truck.'"
"That too." Her smile spread as the deputy's hands came up to stroke the silky leather of the closest recliner.
Awe tinged his sigh.
"Wait 'til you see the guitars. I swear Jimi Hendrix owned that Fender. At the very least, his spirit drooled on it."
"Sweet Momma, forgive me. I have envy." Seth pulled his palms from the recliner to scrub his face. "Guessin' I got no business in havin' it, either. Not after what happened to the poor bastard. Find anythin' else in here? Like somethin', anythin', that points to a motive for what we saw?"
"Not yet. But the decor's not the only thing that doesn't add up. The landlady has a key, but it doesn't work. Not that it mattered, because the back door was unlocked. Something I doubt Kusić would've done in light of what's worth stealing. But there's no sign he was abducted from here. Nothing upended, no blood, no wallet, no cellphone—and his truck's out front. It's as if he left willingly...but he didn't."
Seth nodded. "Hate to add to the confusion, but Lou called as I pulled up. There's no record of a huntin' license in Kusić's name. Also, the boys scoured Old Man Miller's place. Other than that sick display, there's nothin' unusual on the property—house and outbuildings included. Finally, Lou says to tell you it's a no go on reinstatin' Feathers."
Her disappointment must've been visible, because Seth shrugged.
"I know. Man's a walkin' encyclopedia for every hidey-hole in the state. Unfortunately, Feathers has got his own crisis to wade through."
"What happened?"
"His son-in-law was out ridin' ATVs with a buddy when his flipped. Feathers set out last night to join his daughter's vigil at the hospital. It don't sound good. Feathers said he'd head back as soon as he can. Meanwhile, we're to call and pick his brain anytime, day or night."
"That'll be enough." It had to be. Because she was truly stuck with this. And, so far, she didn't have a single decent lead.
Kate headed for Kusić's coffee table and the album she hadn't realized she'd dumped on the floor. She retrieved it and smoothed her fingers over the photo in the cover's cutout. It was a formal shot of Kusić in his Blues. She studied the photo, only to flinch as something warmed her shoulder.
Seth. He'd followed her across the room. His right hand was missing its crime scene glove as it squeezed gently. Odd. She didn't feel the instinctive urge to back away.
Neither, apparently, did Kusić's cat. The fickle feline had closed in on Seth, rubbing against his legs. Seth ignored the cat as he smoothed his thumb across her good cheek.
"You okay? You seem...lost."
She found an honest smile from somewhere deep and long forgotten, and bumped it up to her lips. "I'm fine. Just a bit mired in it all."
Seth's sigh warmed the air. "I know what you mean."
He didn't. He couldn't. But she didn't contradict him.
What would be the point?
She'd worked too hard to keep the worst of it from her fellow deputies and everyone else in this town. Hell, she was still desperately trying to keep it from herself.
Seth must've sensed enough, because he'd stepped back to scoop up the cat. He snuck a peek beneath the ball of fluff and grinned at Kate. "It's a she."
Kate's smile deepened as Seth allowed the cat to snuggle up against the front of his Braxton PD jacket. She suspected he'd engineered the moment to give her time to unscramble her thoughts and get them back on the case, but the cat didn't care.
The hussy was now rubbing her head against Seth's neck and jaw, and purring for all she was worth.
"That decides it. You find the cat food and some fresh water. I'll be in the bedroom. I need to look at something."
Or rather, inside it.
Seth nodded, setting the cat down to re-don his glove as Kate used her phone to snap a close-up of the photo of Kusić in his Blues. Seth headed into the kitchen as she advanced on the plastic green storage crates on the floor of the master bedroom closet. They were long and flat, and plenty roomy if a man had decided against a gun safe, but still wanted to keep his hunting rifle and ammo clean and dry.
Though she held slim hope this was about Bambi, she had to rule it out.
Kate knelt in front of the upper box and lifted the lid. Inside she found a hand-carved Remington nicer than her granddad's...along with two 9mms and a Soviet-made 7.62 AKM assault rifle with a folding double-strut stock and a thirty round magazine.
She retrieved the AK-47 and cleared the chamber. Circa 1980s, it had probably been left by some Russian soldier when his country had bugged out of Afghanistan, only to be picked up and used against the next army that came calling post 9-11...until Sergeant Kusić had decided to bring a souvenir back from the war.
Honor and spot checks at the battle end of combat tours were supposed to prevent the practice, but it happened. Especially since airlines didn't search the gear of soldiers on their way home.
As military sins went, it was mortal.
First the decor, then the cat, and now this. What else was Kusić concealing?
Kate returned the AK-47 to the makeshift gun locker and hefted the crate out of the closet. Curiosity surged as she
turned back to the second box. More weapons?
Not even close.
Kate blew out her breath as she stared at the face of America's first millionaire. Make that, faces. There were lots and lots of him. Not quite a million, but more Benjamin Franklins than she had squirreled away. The crisp hundred dollar bills were still bound with paper currency bands. Kate thumbed through a stack and multiplied the result by the total bands on the others. The result caused her to whistle.
A second, deeper, whistle echoed hers. "I was about to brag that I'd found more than the cat food, but damn—" Seth's gaze shifted from the AK-47 to the money. "—you made out a helluva lot better than I did. There must be fifty thousand in there."
"Double it." Kate retrieved the small pad of paper wedged between the bills and the side of the crate.
Yes.
"What's that?"
"A lead." Though she increasingly doubted Kusić's murder was about Bambi, it might well be connected to drugs, at least obliquely. She held up the blank prescription pad. "Belongs to a Dr. Bill Manning. Know him?"
"Nope."
"Me, neither. The phone number's out of Little Rock."
Kate retrieved her cellphone. She switched the volume on, and snapped a photo of the pad before passing it to Seth. "Bag this, along with his arsenal and the money. I'll track down the doc. If we're lucky, I'll locate and reach his practice before he leaves for the weekend."
Conversations regarding the illegal selling of prescription drugs almost always went better in person...for the cop.
"Sounds good." Seth reached down to snag her hand and draw her to her feet.
"Thanks. Give Lou a heads up on the money so he can inform the governor's office. And ask him to send the crime scene unit here when they're done at Old Man Miller's." Even if Kusić's killer had been inside, she doubted he'd left evidence. Not with that antiseptic crime scene. But it was worth a shot.
The Garbage Man Page 4
