Crime Scene Connection
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Janice Kay Johnson
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18
Chapter One
Lieutenant Matthew Reinert sat behind the wheel of his department-issued SUV and frowned at an ordinary rambler halfway up the block from where he’d parked. In the past twenty minutes, the mild concern that had brought him here had morphed into alarm.
Illegal drugs were a chronic problem in his jurisdiction, just as they were in every decent-sized town in the country. Fentanyl had taken its toll, but most recently they’d been seeing overdoses from exceptionally pure, strong drugs. A new organization had moved into the northeast of Washington State, supplying meth, cocaine, oxycodone and heroin. What made these new traffickers different was the level of brutality they displayed toward competitors and used to punish dealers who had annoyed their employers. The gruesome deaths dealt as warnings weren’t the norm in a city with a fairly low homicide rate.
Spokane PD had led the investigation until rumor had it that the traffickers had moved to the Spokane suburb that was Matthew’s jurisdiction. Then came the tip from an occasional confidential informant, giving an address: the house Matthew was currently observing.
Matthew, as head of the major crimes division, wouldn’t normally have been involved, but stories and excitement had flown. Hard not to hear the talk. Vice was pumped. SWAT was on the alert. Mike Kinney, deputy attorney general, had been nagging for Vice to get a move on. No doubt, he was ecstatic at what these arrests would do for his chance of promotion.
Just this morning, Matthew had been talking to the county deputy who’d led the combined city-county SWAT team. Their conversation had primarily centered on a separate joint investigation, but Brad Hargrave had complained about the pressure for him to request a warrant on the drug house.
“They aren’t giving me anything!” he’d exclaimed. “And it’s not my damn investigation. It’s your Vice cops who should be on it.”
“Not mine,” Matthew had countered. “Tell you what, though. I’ll see what I can find out.”
Hargrave had thanked him fervently.
A quick stop by Vice detective Phil Banuelos’s desk had left Matthew uneasy. Phil’d tried not to show it, but he hadn’t been thrilled to see Matthew.
Phil had played the recording of the tip for him. “Guy’s a low-level drug dealer,” he’d said with a shrug. “Mostly reliable. He may have reason to resent this new act in town.”
They’d been looking into the tip, but didn’t have much yet except a couple of reports of sketchy-looking guys coming and going from the house in question, he’d admitted. “We don’t really even have eyes on the house.”
So how had the rumors and excitement blown up?
Impulse had brought Matthew here, detouring after another stop to look at the supposed drug house. Immediately incredulous, he’d done some online research and talked to a couple of neighbors. What he’d learned had made this mess potentially his business after all.
It was true that in your typical American city, drug traffickers didn’t hole up in walled compounds. They hid in plain sight. He couldn’t deny that this was the right kind of neighborhood, one that had slid downhill for years until recent signs of recovery. It still consisted mostly of rentals and a few vacant houses; from police reports, he knew it to be a hotbed of petty crime and domestic violence. Plenty of neighbors wouldn’t complain even if they guessed traffickers did their business right next door.
That said...this particular house had been newly painted. The lawn had been mowed in the past day or two. There was a flower bed in front of the porch, for God’s sake! Riotous flowering baskets hung from brackets to each side of the garage and from the beam supporting the roof of that front porch.
Matthew had yet to meet anyone even peripherally involved in the drug trade who hung flower baskets, far less fertilized them on a regular schedule.
He’d knocked on a few doors, even though he’d known he was stepping on toes. At this point, he didn’t care.
The couple next door had looked astonished at his questions and insisted they hadn’t seen any man there. Another less voluble neighbor across the street had appeared annoyed at being bothered but said, “She works for the newspaper. That’s what someone told me.”
Uh-huh.
Phil had said he’d been told it was “unclear” who owned the house, which had been a long-time rental. It hadn’t taken Matthew more than a few minutes to learn that the house had sold a year ago to Alexa B. Adams, who held a mortgage on it from a local bank. There was no justification for confusion.
And Matthew knew that name.
Alexa Adams didn’t just “work” for the Tribune. She was an investigative journalist, and a good one. A pit bull. Matthew had seen her byline in the newspaper often enough. Worse, he’d heard her name spat in disgust and even hate around the police station these past couple of months. Ms. Adams hadn’t made any friends within the law enforcement community when she’d set out to identify problem officers, city and county, and to ask hard questions on why they hadn’t been held accountable for questionable activities and outright breaking the law.
Wanting to believe this whole thing would die a natural death without him having to stick his nose in, Matthew decided he’d seen enough. He changed his mind when a car came around the corner and started in his direction. The sedan turned into the driveway of Ms. Adams’s house. The driver parked and hopped out.
He lifted binoculars and watched as she took what was probably a laptop and file case out of her car and started for the porch, pausing to bend over and pick up the rubber-banded newspaper he’d seen being tossed onto her driveway earlier. Up to the porch and an instant later she disappeared inside. Presumably, she meant to go out again this afternoon or evening.
Lowering the binoculars, he rolled his shoulders to release tension. She was younger-looking than he’d expected, slight of build, and pretty, all of which was irrelevant. What she did took brains, determination and the kind of empathy that convinced reluctant people to open up to her. Not muscle.
And more power to her.
Knowing he needed to get back to the station and start figuring out who was responsible for stirring the pot, he still didn’t reach for the ignition. He gave himself a minute to brood.
Given who the homeowner was and how deep the dislike for her went among a certain segment of police officers, he had to assume this whole thing had been aimed straight at the journalist, the goal to humiliate and frighten her. Even get her killed if the operation went south. Or maybe the instigator had never believed the raid would actually happen, just hoped word would reach her. The threat wasn’t subtle.
If this fiasco turned out to have anything to do with that department-wide anger, those ruffled by her investigation could quit worrying about her and worry about him instead. Heads would roll. He should hand this to Internal Affairs, but he wasn’t impressed with how easy they’d been on officers who had committed an offense. If an assault—even one disguised as an “oh oops SWAT raid”—was made on Ms. Adams, then he’d feel free to act, up to and including cuffing and charging members of his own department.
He had to ask himself how many officers had been involved in this setup. He’d absolve DA Kinney of any active role; ambition was Kinney’s problem. But everyone else, including Vice detective Phil Banuelos who’d taken the tip and opened the investigation, had to be considered suspect.
Matthew grunted and started the engine.
Maybe he should leave Ms. Adams an anonymous tip, he thought with dark humor, but knew he couldn’t.
UNEASINESS CRAWLED UP Alexa’s spine as she slowed in approach to the park where she had promised to meet a man who’d called out of the blue. He’d claimed to be a confidential informant for the police department.
“I’ve given them some good tips,” he’d said in a gravelly voice that made her think he was a long-time smoker. “Thing is, I seen some of ’em doing shi—I mean stuff I don’t like. There’re cops who take what they want from girls who work the streets, if you know what I mean. That don’t seem right to me.”
It didn’t seem right to Alexa, either. What’s more, what he was apparently willing to talk about fit right in with her investigation of dirty cops right here in this small city.
The agreed meet was to happen at this downtown park that took up only a block but had a rose garden she admired, paths and some old maple and even cedar trees. Picnic tables were tucked in here and there, along with wrought-iron benches. Two sides were bounded by streets especially busy in the evenings since this was where bars, nightclubs and restaurants thrived.
Leaving home, she’d felt comfortable about the location, even with the approach of dusk. She couldn’t be the investigator she was without taking calculated risks, which included sitting down with strangers who called because they’d read her articles and columns and decided to trust her with information. Plenty of them, from drug dealers to cops, didn’t want to risk being seen with her.
Now, the streetlights starting to hum into life, Alexa was bothered to realize that the park itself looked awfully dark. She backed into a spot at the curb, got out and eyed the deeper darkness lurking between those big trees and behind dense rhododendron shrubs. For the first time, she wondered how many drug deals went down in the park, and especially how safe it was for a woman to stroll one of these paths at night.
Huh. Maybe tomorrow she’d do some research and find out.
People crowded the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street, enjoying the nightlife, greeting friends, going in and coming out of clubs and restaurants. Alexa eyed a couple of women, wearing especially skimpy attire, who stood at the far corner calling out to passing cars. Those almost had to be some of the “girls” her tipster had been talking about.
Her head turned. On this side of the street, what looked like a couple of older men sat in deep conversation on a bench at a bus stop. Otherwise...she was alone.
He’d promised, “I’ll find you.”
Well, she wasn’t about to wander down one of those paths looking for him. Circle the park, she decided. Stay on the sidewalk. It was one block, that’s all. Keep an eye out.
Her shoulders stiff, nerves prickling at the back of her neck, she started walking. Three-quarters of a block north, turn the corner. A couple who looked as if they’d had a few too many drinks was getting into a shiny, jacked-up pickup. They didn’t even notice her. One restaurant halfway down the block was open, but otherwise traffic on this cross street had become close to nonexistent. Maybe she didn’t want to circle the backside of the park. She’d just turn around when she got to the corner—
A vehicle door opened right behind her. She didn’t have time to turn before a hand slapped over her face and a beefy arm wrapped around her middle. Alexa fought, kicking hard enough that her assailant swore and had to twist. He carried her only a couple of feet before slamming her down into the bed of a pickup. Her cheekbone hurt where it skidded on cold, ridged metal. The guy who’d grabbed her must have jumped up with her, because he drilled a painful amount of weight into her back with his knee.
Even as she tried to sink her teeth into a fleshy part of his hand, a bounce told her someone else had leaped into the truck bed with them. Two of them. Oh God, they were kidnapping her.
A voice said, “Do it.”
Whatever hit her head hurt and she went limp.
ALEXA SURFACED WHEN the tailgate clanged. Hands dragged her out. Alexa grabbed for purchase with her fingers and found none. She couldn’t scream; tape covered her mouth. Hands groped and ripped at her clothing.
They were stripping her, she realized in new panic. She saw her chinos fly upward.
Only a strangled sound escaped her before once again a big hand clamped over her face-. Her brief glimpse had revealed...not a face, no, only glittering eyes looking through holes in a fleece mask. He wore all black.
“Scrawny thing,” one of them muttered. “Couldn’t tell from—”
From? The photo above her column and on the website? If so, this wasn’t random.
Somehow she freed an arm and got a handful of what felt like a windbreaker. He said a vicious word and tried to break her hold, twisting away. Black T-shirt beneath the windbreaker, Alexa saw that. Something fell out of his pocket and hit what had to be pavement with a tinny sound. One of the men backhanded her for her trouble and she fell to her knees. Just before that gloved hand snatched up the dropped object, she saw it from a watering eye. She knew that shape. It was a Wilden City PD officer’s badge.
She kept fighting. Giving up wasn’t in her nature. If they were determined to rape her, she probably couldn’t stop them, but she wouldn’t make it easy. She writhed, tried to scramble away, but got nowhere. Next thing she knew, she was facedown on asphalt as they tied her hands behind her back then her kicking feet at the ankles.
“Here,” she heard one of them growl, but couldn’t tell what was happening until one of the men bent over her.
“Think about what could have happened. This is your only warning,” he snarled. “Back off, or you’ll be sorry.”
She hunched away from him, tried to stand but got only as far as her knees before she heard the powerful engine of the pickup rev to life and the crunch of gravel.
If not for the tape covering her mouth, her teeth might have been chattering.
Alexa found herself alone in darkness complete enough her eyes hadn’t adjusted. When she tried to stand, she discovered she’d been tied to something. Her neck hurt so much, turning her head was hard, but she dimly saw a familiar shape. Her nose confirmed her guess. It was a dumpster. The men had left her in an alley, tied out like bait for a predator.
She blinked until she became aware of indistinct light coming from the end of the alley she could see. A couple of dim bulbs at what were probably back doors into businesses let her view the pale gleam of her own body.
Something primal rose in her until she realized she still wore a bra and panties. A sob trapped in her throat.
If she’d been able to scream, would anyone hear and come? Did she want anyone to come and see her like this?
She began frantically wrenching at the cords biting into her wrists.
MATTHEW HAD JUST backed out of the parking space behind the steak house where he’d met his brother for dinner when his phone rang.
“Lieutenant?” a terse male voice said. “This is Officer Gregory. There’s something you need to see.”
What he needed to see, apparently, was a nearly nude woman, tied in an alley, with a piece of paper pinned to her bra that said, Lieutenant Reinert, you should have been smart and stayed out of it.
What in hell?
His mood wasn’t fabulous after a day spent fruitlessly pursuing any lead at all to explain the push for a SWAT raid on Alexa Adams’s house, eating up time he could ill afford from the rest of his job. Now, glad his brother had driven himself and had already left for home, Matthew rocketed out of the small lot and exceeded speed limits the five blocks to downtown. He saw lights flashing behind the busiest strip for nightlife the city of Wilden could boast. A quick jog and he turned into the alley, braking hard behind a squad car and jumping out. Another unit had responded, as well, having turned in from the other end of the alley so that it was completely blocked.
He was almost past the nearest squad car when he saw, pinned in two sets of headlights, a crouched woman, wearing only skimpy panties and bra, holding herself in a tight ball, her head lifted, her eyes both defiant and terrified.
He recognized her right away. This was the same woman who fertilized the hanging baskets and the flower bed in front of the porch of her home to coax those brilliant blooms to life.
A snicker from one of two uniformed officers, seemingly doing nothing but watching from near the front bumper of their car, had him stopping and turning. “Who was that?” he snapped.
“Ah...” He recognized them, took in the names on their chests. “You’re laughing at a woman who has been brutalized?”
“They didn’t tell you who she is?” one of them—Spiers—said. “It’s that Adams woman. What goes around comes around.”
“I’ll be writing you up,” Matthew said coldly before jogging the last few feet.
He took in the clothesline tied to a bar on the dumpster, one end cut, and noted pieces of more cut clothesline lying on the pavement. Seeing the inflamed strip of skin across her face where tape must have been ripped off, he swallowed his curses as he shrugged out of his leather bomber jacket and crouched in front of Alexa Adams. Why hadn’t somebody already covered her?
He winced at her bruised, bloody wrists, not surprised that she’d fought to free herself.
“Let’s get this on you,” he said gently, wrapping the jacket around her. When her glassy gaze almost focused on him, he guided a hand into the arm of the sheepskin-lined coat then, a moment later, the second one.
He pretended to himself that he wasn’t seeing her slender, even delicate, body, almost completely bared. Fury rose in him as he took in the swelling and discoloration already evident on her face. One eye was barely a slit. Had she been raped?
He called, “Do we have medics en route?”
“Can’t be more than a minute away,” said the officer holding a box cutter he’d just used to cut her free. Gregory, who’d called Matthew. His tone, at least, was calm and professional. “My partner is bringing something to cover her up.”
Should have done that first, in Matthew’s opinion, especially given the audience.
