The Buried (The Apostles) (13 page)

“Something about my new aide. The crotchety old woman bailed on me last week. Got Kate in a snit, which got G-man in a snit. They didn’t want me listening, so they went outside and are having a loud discussion in the car.”

“How loud?” Hatch asked with a smile. He loved seeing his formerly buttoned-up teammate get riled because it showed Hayden was deeply in love with a woman who loved him enough to give it back with equal passion. The opposite of love wasn’t hate; it was indifference. Hatch poked his fork into the shrimp fettuccini. That had been part of the problem with Grace. She’d announced they were getting a divorce and said good-bye. He’d wanted to argue and fight, but she disappeared, like she no longer cared.

“Loud enough for me to hear words like ‘assisted living’.” Smokey snorted. “Now tell me about what’s going on down at the swamp. I heard about that little gal buried alive. Got another sicko on the loose. You need me out there to give you a hand? You know I got experience in stuff like this, taking on serial killers and all. Jist say the word, and I’ll be there. Hang tight, G-man’s walking up the driveway. Nope. They stopped. And they’re yammering again. Katy-lady just stomped her foot.” Smokey chuckled. “Man, she’s fit to be tied.”

Smokey Joe was legally blind but had incredible hearing. Hatch would have loved to have had the old man in the swamp when Grace heard that ringing phone and voice. Old Smokey might have been able to hear footsteps or a boat with an electric motor gliding through the water. At first Lieutenant Lang had thought they might be looking at a potential witness, but with the game-like quality of the exchange, Hatch had other ideas.

“Actually, Smokey, I have a question for you. You spent some time dodging through the jungles of Vietnam. How does a guy move around without being heard?” Hatch told him about the ringing phone and voice Grace heard in the swamp.

“You say she heard the voice only once, right behind her?”

“Yes, coming from the water.”

“And the old dog didn’t pick up a scent?”

“Didn’t seem to.”

“I’d put my money on a water entry. If a body’s underwater, you can’t smell or see him. As for that ringing phone, a guy in the know can do some fancy-pants stuff with audio software, stuff like making sounds appear in places where he ain’t.” Smokey Joe chuckled.

Hatch had a feeling Smokey was speaking from experience, and it most likely involved pranks on an aide or two. “You can tell me that story later. Right now I want to hear about this manipulation of sound.”

“So if I was wanting to make a phone sound like it was coming from different places I’d apply some low-pass filters and adjust the slider. Then I’d drop out most of the high end here and add some reverb over there. Boom. Got it. A phone that sounds like it’s moving around. Hey, here’s G-man. Now, don’t forgit. You give me a call if you need anything else.”

“Smokey talk your ear off?” Hayden asked.

“He actually gave me some useful information.” Hatch told him about the ringing phone.

“So we’re looking at someone or multiple someones with considerable technical skill, physical agility, and knowledge of the area.”

“That’s why I called. We don’t know what we have. I need you to get in this guy’s head.”

“Send me everything you have. Crime scene photos. Witness accounts. Victim profile. Given the method of kill, we’re clearly chasing a sociopath.”

One who was fixated on Grace.

G
race curled her fingers around the window latch and slammed. The moulding shook and the pane rattled, but the man on her settee didn’t bat a golden eyelash.

Her ex-husband could sleep through a class-five hurricane. Hatch had spent the night on her settee, and right now one leg was flung over the arm, the other stretched out across the floor, a white sheet draped across his lap and torso. She picked up his shirt and pants and flung them onto his chest. Still no movement.

Her fingers pressed at the ache between her eyes. The dull ache had worsened, as if she, not Hatch, had spent an uncomfortable night tossing and turning on a too-small bed. The problem was that her bed, while large, had been too crowded, thanks to the questions crowding around her most of the night. Why bury Lia Grant alive with a phone programmed to call only her? Who killed the girl? Someone Grace helped put behind bars? Someone who harbored a serious grudge? But most importantly, when would he strike again? She’d taken a steamy shower this morning, trying to wash away the questions along with the accompanying angst and uncertainty, but the tiny jets of hot water hadn’t helped.

Her mind momentarily wandered to Hatch’s magic fingers. No, she didn’t want to go there. She bent, her hand ready to thwack Hatch on the shoulder, when his right eye popped open.

“Hey, Princess,” he said around a yawning grin. “What a beautiful sight to wake up to.”

She ignored the swirl of heat that megawatt smile sent throughout her shack. She poked him in the shoulder. “Up. My car won’t start and I need a ride.” She’d banged on the starter for fifteen minutes without luck.

He rolled to his side, pulled a pillow over his head, and held out his hand, the fingers stretched wide. “Five more minutes.”

She yanked the pillow off his head. “I don’t have five minutes. We need to get moving, I want to go to the phone store and see the security files.”

“Files?” Hatch stretched his arms over his head in a lazy arc, and on the down slope he ran a finger along the crease of her trousers.

She side-stepped his hand, remembering such casual touches were second nature to him. “From the security cameras. The manager said her people would pull up both the indoor and outdoor security images for the day the phones were purchased.” She threw the pillow at his chest.

“Okay, I’m up.” Hatch blinked and inched to an upright position. He scrubbed the side of his hand against his stubbled jaw, his hair falling in messy waves across his forehead. Morning always looked good on Hatch, all crumpled and tumbled.

She walked into the kitchen, and when she turned around Hatch had slumped back down and closed his eyes. Over the past few days she’d seen flashes of brilliance that made him worthy of Parker Lord’s team, but not now. She hurried to the settee, pulled off the sheet, and opened her mouth to help him rearrange his priorities but drew up short, his naked lap giving her a good idea of what he’d been thinking.

Hatch’s devilish chuckle chased her into the kitchen. She didn’t turn as he padded on bare feet—and bare everything else—into the bathroom where the pipes groaned and rattled and where water would soon be sliding over every inch of his wide-awake body.

“I never thought I’d admit this, Blue.” For the second time that morning she emptied and filled the dog’s water bowl. “But there are worse roommates than you.” She reached for the food bowl to wash it, but it was still half full. “What’s wrong? You’re usually an eating machine.” She took off the anklet and checked his foot. No signs of infection. “It’s probably all that bacon.”

Fifteen minutes later Hatch appeared, fully clothed and with his hair slicked back. He grabbed a loaf of bread from the counter and dropped two pieces into the toaster. “Did the store manager call and say the video was ready?”

“No, but you saw her yesterday. She’s overworked and harried.” Grace reached into the cupboard and set a jar of peanut butter on the counter.

“And what are you going to do, go through the records yourself?”

“If need be.”

“The store’s not even open.” The toast popped, and he slathered on peanut butter.

She handed him a banana. “Then you can flash your shiny badge or perhaps do something with your fast hands.”

Hatch peeled the banana. “You know what your problem is, Grace?”

She handed him a knife. “I’m sure you can’t wait to tell me.”

“You need to be more patient.” He sliced the bananas and placed them in neat rows on the peanut butter.

“And you need to check your fishing line more often.”

For a moment, their gazes locked. Shortly after they were married, they took a sail past the barrier islands where Hatch dropped anchor and a fishing line to catch dinner. For hours they sat side by side, she with case notes from work, Hatch with a book of Longfellow’s poems. As the sun dipped and there was still no nibble, Grace pointed out that boats around them were reeling in line after line of Spanish mackerel.

“Why don’t you check your line?” Grace had suggested.

“Why don’t you be more patient?” he’d countered with a slow grin.

When he finally reeled in his line, he discovered he’d lost his bait and his hook. Who knew how long he’d been fishing with nothing?

Hatch tossed the banana peel in the trashcan, threw back his head, and laughed. “Touché, Princess, touché.”

She grabbed the other piece of toast, smashed it on the bananas, and spun out of the kitchen, Hatch and his breakfast on her heels.

When they reached his borrowed SUV, he opened the door for her and lingered as she buckled her seat belt. “I want you to stay close to me today.”

“Hatch, I’m a big girl who—”

“Who’s playing a game with a sociopath.” His morning cheer had faded, replaced by a grim seriousness she found even more disturbing. “Our team’s criminal profiler sent me some notes this morning. Grace, the person playing this game with you is twisted. He plays by a different set of rules. He’s the type who isn’t going to play fair.”

She placed her fingertips on his chest and pushed him away. “Then we’ll just have to play dirty.”

They reached Port St. Joe, and the phone store manager unlocked the door the minute she spotted Hatch. “Tired of the FBI and itching to work retail?”

“Itching for something,” Hatch said with a wink.

Grace tried not to roll her eyes. “Are the security recordings ready for viewing?” One camera. One clear face shot. That’s all they needed. Would it be someone from the Morehouse camp? Another low-life lawbreaker? Someone from Grace’s past? This was about her, and she, more than anyone else, should be able to identify the buyer of those phones.

“Didn’t the district manager call you? Our security guys called up the files for the day the phones were purchased, but everything had been wiped. No files from any cameras on that day, interior or exterior.”

“Did you have a system-wide malfunction?” Grace asked.

“Nope. It’s a relatively new system. Never had a problem with anything getting wiped.”

“How about the day before and after?”

“Both okay. Not a single minute missing.”

“Is it possible you or your staff could have accidentally erased it?” Grace asked.

“We don’t touch the stuff. The file archive dumps are automated.”

“Any break-ins?”

“No.”

“Who has access to this office?”

“Just me and my assistant manager.”

“What about staff or corporate personnel?”

“I guess they could, but they’d need the key.”

“And where’s the key?”

The manager reached into her pocket and pulled out a packet of gum and an Exact-O knife. With a frown, she hurried to the offices behind the sales floor and found the key in the door, the door wide open. “Oh, man, I can’t believe I did that. With inventory and new hires not showing, it’s been crazy around here.”

This kind of crazy Grace could deal with. “I need a list of all of your employees and any district or corporate personnel who have had access to this room and the security recordings.”

The store manager gnawed on her lower lip as she stared at the key she’d left in a door. “Are you thinking some of my people tampered with the security tape?”

Hatch set his hand on her shoulder and spun her from the dangling keys. “At this point all we’re thinking about is saving another life.”

The store manager disappeared into the office and returned with a list of names of people who had access to the store’s back end. “I also included the cleaning crew and temps we used during inventory two weeks ago.” The manager grabbed the key from the door, the sharp edges biting into her fingers. “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do. Anything.”

Grace took the papers, and Hatch took the woman’s hand. “We will,” he said with a squeeze.

As they walked to the SUV, Hatch draped an arm over her shoulders. “Well done, Princess, well, well done. If you ever decide to retire from law, Parker could use you on the team.”

Grace couldn’t tell if Hatch was joking, offering genuine praise, or slipping her a thinly veiled criticism. Despite Hatch’s teasing as he got out of bed and his saucy banter with the store manager, there was an edge to him this morning, and she wasn’t sure if it was because of a bad night’s sleep on her settee or his escalating concern about catching a killer. Or it could just be he was getting anxious to set sail.

Once in the SUV she hauled out her phone. Next to her, Hatch dug out his.

“I’ll get these names to the Box,” he said. “We have access to databases filled with millions of names and phone numbers and addresses. It’s possible we’ll get a hit.”

Exactly her thoughts. Bad guys tended to leave slimy trails. “Go ahead, but we’ll have a better chance with me putting out feelers.”

Hatch’s thumb froze mid-dial. “Excuse me?”

“Your people could miss something.”

“You do realize I work for Parker Lord and one of the world’s most effective and efficient crime-fighting units, don’t you?”

Again, she felt an edge, sharp and shiny, and she realized he thought she’d just insulted his team. “Of course,” she said. “It’s not about how well they do their jobs. The issue is not one of your team members is a player.” Grace settled her fingers on her chest. “The killer chose me, Hatch, me. It’s possible someone on this list is somehow connected to me, to my work, to my past, and if that’s the case, won’t I be the best person to track him down?”

Without waiting for an answer, she turned on her phone and unlocked the screen saver. As she dialed up her contact list, Hatch said something under his breath, something that sounded a little like, “Ready, set, go!”

Detective Tucker Holt pulled the stool next to the lab table holding the body with no face. “Who are you, Grandpa? Who the hell are you?”

“Detective Holt, you’ve worked homicide long enough to know dead men make for poor conversationalists.”

Tucker looked over his shoulder to find Dr. Ray Thorpe, the medical examiner, standing in the doorway with a large manila envelope in his hand. Tucker had begged for a push on the autopsy, and Ray must have sensed his desperation.

“Someone needs to tell me something,” Tucker said, “because I don’t have much in the tank on this one. Thanks for doing this over the weekend, Ray. I’m hoping you’ll wow me with evidence that will help us identify Grandpa and Grandma here and their killer.” He pulled in a long breath to fan the tiny ember of hope in his gut. “Let’s hear it.”

The M.E. sat on the stool next to him and opened one of the folders. “Male between the ages of sixty and seventy. Multiple posterior sliding abrasions, blunt force trauma to head, all postmortem. Cause of death was GSW to the head. Given the charring and stellate pattern of the entry wound, the gun muzzle was pressed against the victim’s forehead at the time of shooting.”

So Asswipe got up close and personal, which means Grandpa could have made contact with the killer. It’s possible Grandpa fought back or grabbed Asswipe before falling into the ravine. Unfortunately, Grandpa had no hands left, so no scraping under the fingernails.

The M.E. went on to detail other findings and estimated death occurred on Monday afternoon. Then he set aside the folder.

“That’s it?” Tucker asked. “No artificial body parts with serial numbers? No unique scars or birthmarks? Hell, I’ll even take the name of his mother tattooed on his big toe.”

Ray scanned another folder. “Got some interesting stomach contents.” He flipped through the pages. “Half-pound bacon cheddar burger, sweet potato fries, and a slice of huckleberry pie. From the rate of gastric content digestion, he ate about two to three hours before death.”

Tucker ran a hand down his face. “That’s it?”

“He also ate vanilla ice cream. Probably three scoops. Your Grandpa Doe had a sweet tooth.”

“Unless Grandpa has a set of dentures engraved with his name, I’m not impressed.”

The medical examiner grinned and pushed off the table, rolling his stool toward the table on the other side of the room, which held Grandma Doe. He opened another folder and read the findings. As with the first report, there wasn’t a damn thing that would help Tucker ID Grandma or her killer.

Tucker rested a fisted hand on the autopsy table. “Anything else?”

“More pie.” Ray ran his finger down a column in the report. “Stomach contents for her include Caesar salad with chicken, bread stick, and pie. Best guess is white chocolate mousse with pomegranate seeds.”

“I want a smoking gun, Ray, and you give me pie?”

The M.E. rested a hand on his arm, which was streaked with holler mud and dried sweat. He probably stunk to high heaven.

“You’re good at what you do, Tucker, because you care,” Ray said. “Or you wouldn’t be in here on a Saturday afternoon. I gave you more than you had walking in. Now it’s your turn. Go find the
wow
.”

He left the medical examiner’s office thinking if he couldn’t have
wow
, he’d settle for Wild Turkey. He checked his watch. Choir practice would just be starting at R.C.’s Tavern, and most of his drinking buddies from the station would be warming up to sing the night away.