The Devil's Snare: a Mystery Suspense Thriller (Derek Cole Suspense Thrillers Book 4) (19 page)

He supposed his annoyance should be replaced with gratitude. He had earned a reputation throughout the law enforcement community as being one of the top investigators. He had the ability to see things no one else could. He asked the right questions during an interview that produced a clue, lead, or confession that others believed would never be obtained. Mullins was different from many, he knew it, as did most who worked alongside him.

“The second thing I need from you,” Mullins continued, “is to send in the top ranking officer from the Ravenswood Fire Department to see me. I noticed one of their rescue vehicles parked down the road from here.”

“Yeah,” Flanders interjected, “dispatch wanted them to stage till we cleared the scene and knew there wasn’t any remaining danger.”

“Thought as much,” Mullins said. “So, after you create a team to canvass, walk to their vehicle, and ask the highest rank to meet me exactly where you and I are standing right now.”

The question or idea which was preparing to flow from Flanders’ mouth and then blend into the mix of the conversation was halted and slammed back down to wherever it was given birth by Mullins’ raised hand and increased sternness of his gaze. “
If
,” Mullins said, exaggerating and dragging out the word, “there is not an officer on-scene, instruct them to send one.” With that, Mullins turned away and stepped ridiculously slowly towards the kitchen and the body of Dr. Dev Patel. He stopped after no more than two steps, turned quickly to Flanders who was still standing in the foyer. “Also, when I arrived on-scene, I noticed a car pulling a u-turn and heading away from here. Late model Honda Accord sedan. Couldn’t tell if it was green, black or fucking blue with those damn street lights. But, find out if any of the neighbors drive a car like the one I saw or if any of the neighbors know whose car that was.” Without waiting for Flanders to reply or to clarify, if needed, his added request, Mullins turned and continued inching towards the kitchen.

“We’re all set.”

“Did anyone see you?”

“I’m sure some people did, but I acted like I was just a guy visiting his friend to have a beer or two. Area is swarming with cops.”

“Did any of them ask you questions?”

“Nah. I parked a few doors down from his house, then walked across his neighbor’s front lawn to his house. He left the front door open. I walked right in and found him upstairs. Didn’t give them any chances to ask me shit.”

“Your hubris is far from comforting. Does he know what happened? Know what he did?”

“He has no idea. I will tell you, though, he
does
know that something happened. I found him sitting naked in his dry bathtub, with that spaced-out, scared-as-hell look in his eyes. His clothes were in a ball in front of him.”

“Did he recognize you?”

“He must have thought I was a cop, or someone who was about to tell him what the fuck he just did and why his clothes were covered with blood. He just kept on staring at me, like he was trying to place my face but was too fucked to put the pieces together. I put his clothes in a bag, double bagged them, then showered him clean. Gotta say, I’m not a fan of giving a dude a shower. Especially a dude that seemed ready to snap at any second.”

“How did you get him out of the house without being questioned by the cops?”

“Gave him that special drink of yours to calm his nerves. Shit works like a charm. One minute, he looks like a guy standing outside on the edge of a high rise, the next minute, he’s all calm, cool and collected. We walked right out through his back door, across his neighbor’s back yard to my car. The cops were so freaking busy they didn’t give me a second look when I made a u-turn and drove away.”

“Don’t suppose you had time to remove any evidence from his house?”

“Couldn’t find the knife he used. He had no idea what the hell I was talking about, so he was zero help. I wiped up a bunch of blood drops with Clorox, but, honestly, there wasn’t much in the house. I already burned the clothes out near the public park on my way over here, and, before you ask, no one saw me or the flames. I locked his front and back doors, flipped on a few lights and got his and my ass the hell back here.”

“Is he secured now?”

“He’s in our little ‘hotel.’ Is he going to be part of our team or…”

“I can’t see adding another. Running out of room. You’ll need to take care of him. Tonight. Wait till later, then drive him south to the pond. Make damn sure he’ll never float to the surface.”

“Don’t worry, I’m getting pretty damn good at this. His face won’t ever see the sun again.”

“You may need to do something about your boss soon. He and his good looking partner are sniffing around and may be figuring things out if they continue.”

“Derek and Nikkie are good, no doubt about that, but they’re running out of time. If they get too close, I’ll do what needs to be done. Trust me on that.”

“They’re working with Mullins. I hear the three of them are getting chummy. That’s not good.”

“You already sent a message to them when Bo’s mommy got her head all bashed in. Maybe Cole needs another message.”

“Listen to me, Alex, we can’t let things fall to chance. We all have way too much exposure and way too much at stake. Send whatever message to your boss and his assistant you want, but you better be damned prepared to shut them down before they find something and share it with Mullins.”

Derek slid past several empty seats in the back row of the theatre before choosing a seat in the middle of the row. While he didn’t expect to watch much of the movie, he favored center-row seats, despite those being the worst seats to be sitting in should an emergency occur in the theatre. Emergencies, and the possibility of one happening, were very much on his mind as the on-screen advertisements (thankfully) gave way for the previews.

John Mather was right: there were only three others in the theatre and were sitting far enough away that Derek wasn’t concerned about bothering them when he pulled out his iPhone, checked for any missed calls, messages and the time. He saw one message, from Ralph Fox, reading;

Your client’s daddy has got his hand in a whole mess of businesses. I’m still searching.

Derek wasn’t surprised that Louis Randall’s business interests extended beyond his law firm. Crown had told him Louis spent more time with his “other interests” than he did on his law firm during the final year of their marriage and Derek doubted that Louis had amended that trend over the years as his law firm expanded. As Crown told him this, Derek wondered how broad a reach did Louis Randall’s interests lie. Crown had shared with him and Nikkie about Louis’s liberal definition of monogamy and hinted at Louis having been involved in matters which, if fully revealed, may require the services of a public relations firm, but she never went so far as to say Louis Randall was involved in anything criminal. Essentially, Derek believed the firm was running on auto-pilot, with the other partners and associates handling ninety percent of the work and Louis showing up from time to time to clean up messes, sign his signature on checks destined for charities that donors would realize political favors for having contributed to, and to be the face for high profile cases. Louis had told him and Nikkie that he believes a client who winds up in a court of law has a moron for an attorney, so Derek doubted Louis spent much time in front of juries and presiding judges. No. Louis Randall was the type of back office lawyer who manufactured deals with district attorneys over thirty-year old, single malt scotches. These deals, like the one Derek knew Louis was etching out for Bo, were probably the type of deals that left both the accused and the prosecutor feeling like they had been taken.

A friend of Derek’s, a yacht salesman from Cleveland, once told Derek that when it came to negotiating a final price with a client, his aim was to inflict an almost equal amount of pain from both the client and from himself.

“When both parties are uncomfortable, the final transaction price has been reached,” he had told Derek. “But, if the pain scales tip against me, either the deal will be cancelled or I’ll drag the client back to the negotiating table.”

And that was what Louis Randall had most certainly been doing since he arrived in Ravenswood: Bartering with the district attorney till a deal was crafted that left both men angry.
 

Derek could almost picture Louis, sitting with a crystal tumbler of brown liquid in his right hand, a Rolex Yachtmaster hanging loosely and proudly around his wrist and wearing that saccharin-sweet smile he flashed while sitting in The Chairman’s Booth with Nikkie and Derek, tossing out offers to a receptive district attorney like a child tosses pebbles into a lake. The two would probably banter back and forth, each displaying expected and shallow counter offers and each threatening to call off further negotiations unless the other party presented a more “reasonable offer.”

Derek could see the two men, feigning feelings of insult until a mutually uncomfortable agreement was reached.
 

“I have to tell you,” Louis would say, while waving to a waitress—probably the red-haired, short-skirt-wearing one that captured the majority of his attention during the meeting with Derek and Nikkie—then ordering that another round be poured from the bottle of scotch the bar owner reserved for patrons of a particular income level, “this deal is about as fair as a game between the Yankees and the Ravenswood High School junior varsity baseball team would be. Probably will cost me millions after my reputation takes a hit, but I don’t sense you’re willing to extend our negotiations a second longer. I’ll get Bo to agree and don’t worry,” he would say with his smile painted across his face while his hand, driven by rote muscle memory, grasped his Montblanc fountain pen from the inside pocket of his tailored suit coat, “I won’t forget the spelling of your name when the time comes for a campaign donation.”

But Derek felt whatever deal was reached wouldn’t cause even a whisper of pain for Louis. He’d play the role of the bullied counselor but as long as Bo never stood before a jury, pain would be a distant stranger to Louis.

“What do you not want brought to light, Louis?”
Derek thought, still sitting alone in the theatre.
“Where are you afraid that I may be digging?”

The movie rolled from the first scene to the next before Derek began to worry about John Mathers. The last thing John had said to Derek during the call Derek made outside the diner on the way to the hospital was more of a warning than a reason for demanding the two meet in an out of the area movie theatre.

“Listen Derek, there’s some seriously bad shit going on and the last thing I’m willing to do is let anyone know I’m talking with you. I’ve already heard your name mentioned around town from people you don’t want to know your name. Meet me at the movie or not at all.”

Derek wouldn’t be at all surprised if Louis Randall’s chosen private investigator had already made his rounds through Ravenswood, probably walked right into the Ravenswood Fire Department as soon as Derek had left. Nor would he be at all surprised if this private eye was entirely focused on throwing dirt back over whatever Derek had dug up.

But he hadn’t dug up anything yet. Nothing about Bo Randall, the strange events happening in Ravenswood, or anything that might implicate Louis Randall in any of the recent events in the town.

Nothing.

And that both angered and worried Derek.

It angered him because he took his job seriously. Despite only being on the case because of Crown’s continued ability to manipulate and, to some degree, control Louis, he was still getting paid and therefore was obligated to produce results. While the person paying his fees made it clear that the best result would be no result at all, it was Crown he felt in debt to. Not because he was getting paid but because Bo was her son and both he and Nikkie saw the unfamiliar look of pain and worry marring Crown’s face. And now, she was in the ICU fighting for her life. And whether Crown ended up succumbing to her injuries, woke up in her normal fiery mood of cantankerous defiance, or somewhere in between, he was going to deliver a result.

He was also worried. Worried over why Louis Randall was so hell bent on not running a ground investigation. Worried over the reason behind Crown being attacked. Worried about Bo’s returning and confused memories. And worried about why John Mather was now thirty minutes late for the meeting he had scheduled.

Derek scanned the practically empty theatre, silently hoping he had misunderstood John and should be waiting for him in the front row, and not in the back row. As the theatre was briefly brightened by a terrific explosion scene, spilling its brightness out from the screen and onto the few faces of the movie watchers, Derek noticed that one more person had entered the theatre, bringing the number of Star Wars fans to four others. But the newcomer was not John Mather and was evidently not interested in seeing Han Solo make a triumphant return to the Star Wars saga. Whoever he was, he was sitting in the far aisle seat, three rows in front of Derek. He wasn’t watching the screen at all but had his arm stretched across the seat beside him, his body turned away from the screen, and his gaze fixed firmly on Derek.

The screen’s brief flash of light dissipated, casting the theatre back into pupil expanding darkness. When the second explosion brightened the screen and illuminated the faces of those in the theatre, Derek could see that the newcomer’s hand, the one hanging stiffly over the backrest of the seat beside him, was holding something that muted the flash of light.

“Shit balls,” Derek said as he dropped to the floor a split second before the bullet punched a hole in the backrest of his chosen seat.

ˇˇˇˇˇˇˇˇˇ

Up on the big screen, Han Solo, Chewbacca and the rest of the clan had their hands full fighting off storm troopers. The theater vibrated with streams of loud explosions as TIE fighters raced through the sky, firing lasers, destroying buildings and destroying lives. In the seats, things were a bit more subdued. Down from the screen, in the moderately pitched theater, there were only two people battling. And the noise of their battle blended in so well with the movie’s soundtrack that unless the movie took a sudden turn towards quiet, it would be over before the handful of other movie goers realized a battle with much greater consequences was playing out a few rows behind them.