23
Lance pulled up to the curb, set the brake, and blew out a frustrated breath.
Of all nights for his brother to be off the grid.
What was he doing that was so important he couldn’t return an urgent call or text?
Reining in his aggravation, Lance slid from the car. He’d give Mac ten more minutes to respond to his abbreviated voice mail and more detailed follow-up text. If he didn’t hear from him, he’d ask Mark to contact County.
But Mac would get him answers faster.
As he approached the door to Jasna’s flat, a child’s muffled wail greeted him.
Sounded like he wasn’t the only one who was frustrated tonight.
He leaned forward and pressed the bell.
After twenty seconds ticked by with no response, he pressed it again.
Half a minute later, the door swung open. A harried-looking woman stood on the other side, the howling toddler in her arms. The kid’s ear-piercing wails stopped long enough for the tyke to give him a fast once-over, then resumed with renewed gusto as he grabbed fistfuls of the woman’s hair and began tugging.
“Ben . . . no! Stop! That hurts Mommy.” She tried without success to lean away from her squirming son. “Agent McGregor?”
“Yes.” He extended his credentials.
She gave them no more than a cursory glance. “Come in. This one has an ear infection”—she inclined her head toward the toddler—“and he’s very cranky. Make yourself comfortable in the living room while I try to calm him down.” She closed the door behind him and vanished into the recesses of the house.
As Lance took a seat in the sole chair not covered with toys, a solemn little girl peeked at him from around the door where her mother had disappeared.
He smiled. “Hi there.”
No change of expression. No smile. No shy dip of the chin.
The child just continued to stare at him, statue-like.
So much for his attempt to make friends. A smile was the only trick in his bag for kids.
But he had a feeling Christy would have won the little girl over in a heartbeat. An innate warmth and caring flowed out of her like—
“Lana! I started the video. Come back and watch it with Ben.”
The youngster backed away and disappeared as music kicked in from the rear of the flat.
Doing his best to set aside thoughts of Christy, he rechecked his messages while he waited for Jasna.
Yes!
A text had come in from Mac, clipped and to the point.
Checking. Stand by.
At least he’d have an answer to his question about Mevlida soon.
Jasna returned, an envelope and sheet of paper in her hand. She handed him both and tossed aside a doll to open up a spot on the couch. “Sorry for the noise and mess. It’s been one of those days.”
“No problem. Give me a minute while I read this.”
Dear Jasna,
I do not wish to complicate your life, but I have no one else to turn to. I hope you will find a way to give this information to people who can stop my grandson from whatever he is planning to do. I beg you to try, because I am very much afraid tragedy will follow if you don’t.
I have talked with you about Neven—but I have not told you everything. It pains me to admit this, but here is the truth—he was always a different boy, even before we left our homeland. Often uncaring, sometimes cruel. And the atrocities that happened in our country, the brutality he witnessed that no boy should ever see, I fear they killed whatever small measure of kindness might have been in his heart. I have come to believe they also twisted his mind. He does not see the world the way other people do.
When you found him for me two years ago, I was hopeful he and I could make a new start. He was kind in the beginning . . . but that changed quickly, and he has made my life very difficult ever since.
I thought it was only me he wished to punish, for letting the state take him after his father died—but now I worry that others have also angered him. Especially an ice-skater named Christy Reed.
Lance read the description of what the woman had found in her grandson’s room. The signed picture of Christy with the knife thrust into it. The old group photo that included her and Terzic. The remains of a tortured mouse.
Guns.
Add in Mevlida’s account of his reaction to the newspaper article after Ginny’s body had surfaced, as well as her description of his personality, and it was obvious they were dealing with a very disturbed mind.
This guy had all the earmarks of a psychopath.
In other words, he was a perfect candidate to be Christy’s tormentor.
And based on the woman’s closing lines, Jasna’s worry about Mevlida wasn’t misplaced.
By the time you get this, I will be with my beloved husband. It is not the end I intended, but it is for the best. Neven’s anger is too difficult to bear. I have wondered every day these past few months if I will live to see the next morning. Now there is no uncertainty. I know the end is coming.
My dear Jasna, I thank you again for all your kindnesses during my illness. Please forgive me for this burden I have placed on you. But I beg you, do not let my attempt to help that young woman be in vain.
When Lance looked up, Jasna leaned forward, her features taut. “You see why I had to call you.”
“Yes.” He indicated the return address on the envelope. “Why did she send the letter there?”
“That’s where I worked when we met. They forwarded it. As you can see from the postmark, she mailed it Thursday. Five days ago. I hope it’s not too late—for Mevlida or that skater.”
“I talked to the skater less than an hour ago. She’s fine. I also have a call in to the County police about Mevlida, and a colleague is tracking down her grandson’s address as we speak.” He pulled out a notebook. “What can you tell me about him?”
“Not much. We only exchanged a few words twice—the first time he came to see Mevlida, and the day he picked her up.”
“Give me your impression.”
She picked up the doll beside her and held it tight against her chest. “To be honest, he scared me a little. He smiled and was solicitous toward Mevlida, but his eyes . . .” She shivered. “They seemed cold and callous. His smile never reached them. That’s one of the reasons I gave Mevlida my card. I had a feeling living with him might not turn out as rosy as she hoped.”
“You said he and his grandmother were estranged. Do you know why?”
“Yes. I was the only one at the facility who spoke Bosnian, and Mevlida knew very little English, so we often talked. She didn’t give me a lot of background, but she did share a few details. She and her son and grandson sought refuge in America about the same time my family did—after the Srebrenica genocide. Do you know about that?”
Lance scrolled through his memory, pulling up what he could remember about the two-decade-old tragedy. “Bits and pieces. Thousands of Bosnians were massacred, as I recall.”
“Yes. I was very young and don’t remember much, but my parents and grandparents still speak of it with horror . . . on the rare occasion they speak of it at all. Thousands of people were killed—including women, children, and elderly—in hundreds of villages. Soldiers would pick people out of the crowd and execute them or take them away. Women were violated in public. Homes were ransacked and set on fire. Men of military age were executed and buried in mass graves. My uncle was among them.” Her breath hitched, and she swallowed. “Mevlida lost her husband, daughter-in-law, and her other grandson during that terrible time.”
Lance didn’t want to appear indifferent to the old trauma Jasna had described from her homeland, but he needed her help to prevent another tragedy from happening here. Now. “Why were she and Neven estranged?”
“Both she and her son began to drink once they arrived here. To forget the horror, she told me. After her son was hit—and killed—by a bus, she began to drink more. Eventually Neven’s neglect was reported to the authorities, and they put him in a foster home. I got the impression it was a very bad experience, and he blamed her for it. He ended up running away, and the two of them didn’t reconnect until an attorney I know tracked him down after she fell and broke her hip. At that point, she was destitute and living in a homeless shelter. After we were able to get some public assistance for her, Neven took her in.”
Along with her checks.
Jasna’s implication was clear.
Another wail came from the kitchen, and she vaulted to her feet. “I’ll be right back.”
“No problem. I need a minute to think through everything you’ve told me.”
While she retreated to the kitchen, Lance weighed the letter in his hand, his mind racing.
You didn’t have to be a psychologist to realize Neven Terzic had serious mental issues. Exacerbated by his traumatic experiences in Bosnia, perhaps, but based on Mevlida’s letter, it sounded as if he’d already been troubled. Considering his long estrangement from her, he was also a man who held grudges. Plus, he’d made the older woman’s life miserable once he’d taken her in—as punishment for past transgressions, no doubt.
What transgression had Christy committed that—in Terzic’s mind—deserved the kind of punishment he’d meted out?
His phone began to vibrate, and he pulled it out, moving to the tiny foyer as he spoke to Mac. “It’s about time.”
A beat of silence. “Hello to you too.”
He ignored the mild annoyance in his brother’s tone. “I don’t have time for niceties tonight.” Soft jazz music played in the background, accompanied by the tinkle of glasses and a soft buzz of conversation. “Where are you?”
“Not that it’s relevant, but I’m having a long-delayed night out with my fiancée. Your messages came in while we were making a toast and discussing our wedding plans.”
“Oh.” No wonder his brother sounded peeved. “Sorry to interrupt, but my case heated up.”
“So I gathered. I made a couple of calls after I got your text. Since we’re dispensing with niceties, I’ll cut to the chase. Mevlida Terzic is dead.”
The bottom dropped out of Lance’s stomach. “When? What happened?”
“Her grandson found her body hanging in her room on Thursday evening.”
The same day she’d written the letter to Jasna.
And Terzic hadn’t been implicated. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have been tailing anyone last night.
“Suicide?”
“That was the conclusion—but you should talk to Mitch.”
It took a second for Lance to place the name. “The SEAL buddy who got you the gig at County?”
“Yeah. He did the investigation and has some interesting insights. He started to brief me, but I figured it would be better if you spoke to him directly.”
“And left you free to spend your evening with Lisa instead of talking shop.”
“That too.”
Hard to fault Mac’s priorities.
“You have his number handy?” He dug out his pen again and jotted down the digits as Mac recited them.
“He’s expecting your call.” Mac’s next words were muffled. Something about oysters. He must really be splurging tonight. “You need anything else?”
“Yeah. A solution to this case.”
“Can’t help you there—but it sounds like you’re making serious headway.”
“I hope so. Enjoy the rest of your evening, and give my apologies to Lisa.”
“Will do. Good luck.”
He’d take all the luck fate was willing to hand out. But in light of this guy’s ability to elude the law, he’d need a whole lot more than that to nail him.
As he slipped the phone back onto his belt, he heard Jasna return behind him. Passing on the news that her suspicions had been warranted wasn’t going to be easy—and he couldn’t stick around to hold her hand . . . figuratively speaking. He needed to call Mitch for details on Mevlida’s death and see what Mark had dug up on Terzic.
Because this guy was a ticking bomb.
And every instinct he’d developed during his Delta days told him they were running out of time.
Fast.
Christy swung into her driveway, pulled around to the rear of the condo . . . and mashed down the brake.
Of all nights for a tree limb to fall and block the garage door.
She huffed out a breath and gave the adjacent maple tree the evil eye. It had been dropping branches for months—as she’d told the condo association on several occasions.
Too bad their promise to take care of the dead wood had never materialized.
And too bad the wind hadn’t picked a more convenient time to wrench that sucker free. Like a Saturday morning in spring instead of a windy, dark winter weeknight.
Could she leave her car here and worry about moving the limb in the morning?
Twisting her neck, she scrutinized the wind-tossed tree.
Nope.
Another limb could come hurtling down any minute—and she didn’t need to add car damage to her list of problems.
Bracing herself for the sub-freezing temperature, she pushed her door open, slid out from behind the wheel, and hustled over to the branch. Not as big as she’d thought at first; it wouldn’t take much effort to drag it off to the side. The maintenance crew could dispose of it tomorrow.
She took a firm grip on the thickest part and began to haul it across the asphalt.
Halfway to her destination, she froze as prickles rose on the back of her neck.
Someone was close.
Too close.
Lungs locking, she dropped the limb and started to swing around.
She only made it halfway.
Before she even caught a glimpse of the person lurking in the shadows, a hand clamped over her mouth. Hard. Her attacker yanked, and she lost her balance as he began dragging her backward.
Adrenaline pumping, she kicked. Flailed. Wiggled. Bucked.
Nothing fazed him. His grip remained firm, his rock-solid hand muffling her attempt to scream.
Not until he reached the back of her car did he reposition his hand.
Now it also covered her nose—cutting off her air supply.
Another wave of panic crashed over her. Energized by a second burst of adrenaline, she struggled to twist her head. Loosen his grip. Suck in one tiny breath of air.
She failed on all three counts.
Five seconds passed. Ten. The edges of the shadowy world began to merge into a dark tapestry. Detail disappeared. Shapes blurred. Her arms and legs lost their strength.
He was going to suffocate her—and she was powerless to stop him.
But as she hovered on the brink of blackness, he suddenly removed his hand.
As blessed air flowed into her lungs, her eyes widened. Why would he . . .
Before the question fully formed, she had her answer.
He whipped her around.
Gripped her shoulder.
And punched her in the stomach.
Pain exploded in her midsection, and she dropped to her knees. Doubled over. Once more she fought against waves of darkness.
No!
Don’t pass out!
If you can’t stand up, scream!
She dragged in a breath, refilling her lungs. He might have the upper hand physically, but she had her vocal cords. Surely someone would hear her and come to her aid. Or call the police.
The instant she opened her mouth, however, he slapped duct tape across it. Spun her around. Secured her wrists behind her back with another length of tape he must have precut. Yanked her to her feet.
He’d rendered her mute and helpless in less than fifteen seconds.
Except for her legs.
Panic spiking, she kicked out at him. Hard.
When her boot connected with flesh, her attacker spat out a curse. Tightening his grip, he lifted her and dumped her into the trunk.
The lid slammed.
Ten seconds later, before she could catch her breath, the car began to move.
No!
Rolling onto her back, she began kicking the lid.
The car swerved sharply, and she crashed against the side of the trunk, banging her head.
A second attempt produced the same result.
Bracing herself against the side of the trunk with her feet, she faced the hard truth.
Her life was in the hands of the man who’d sent her parents over the edge of a cliff to their deaths.
Who’d burned her sister’s house to the ground.
Who’d killed an innocent woman to cover up Ginny’s abduction, then murdered her sister and thrown her body in the river.
If it was Neven Terzic behind the wheel, the frightened, insecure boy she’d stood up for against more than one bully had become a calculating, cold-blooded killer who’d carried out his ambitious plan with flawless precision.
And there was no reason to think he’d begin making mistakes.
Except . . . Lance knew who he was now—assuming Neven was their man. FBI agents were already on his trail. They’d pursue this round the clock—more so once they realized both she and Neven were missing. Lance could be trying to call her right now, and when she didn’t answer, he’d know she was in trouble. The former Delta Force operator would be all over this, with every resource of the Bureau at his disposal.
The car swerved again, tossing her against the unforgiving side of the trunk.
But how would they ever determine where Neven was taking her?
Wait!
Her cell was in her pocket! The FBI could use the GPS in the phone to track her!
Thank God Lance had suggested she activate the tracking feature.
She twisted her bound arms and reached for it.
Came up empty.
Frowned.
Had the cell fallen out when Neven threw her in the trunk?
She began to grope around—then froze as memory came surging back.
Halfway home from the rec center, she’d transferred it to her gym bag because it had been digging into her hip.
It was now sitting beside her abductor on the front seat—and given the man’s thoroughness, he’d surely checked through the contents for a phone and shut it off.
The cell would be of no help.
But there was GPS on her car too, thanks to Neven himself. Might he have overlooked that, or simply ignored it since he didn’t think anyone knew about it?
Her momentary hope dimmed. Not likely, given how thorough he’d been all along.
So how would Lance find her?
No answer materialized . . . and with every jarring mile that passed, Christy’s spirits spiraled downward.
Fighting despair, she closed her eyes and turned to the source of hope and strength she’d relied on during the past difficult year.
God, please guide Lance in his search. Let the authorities figure this out in time. And give me strength to fight this battle too. To do whatever I have to do to survive.
As she finished the prayer, she clenched her fists and stared into the darkness. No matter the outcome, God would be with her. She believed that. She did.
But she hoped he also sent in reinforcements.
Because no matter how hard she tried to thwart this madman’s plans, she doubted this was a battle she’d be able to win alone.
Lance pulled out his phone as a teary-eyed Jasna closed the door behind him.
Less than half a minute later, Mitch Morgan was on the line.
“Mac said you’d be calling to talk about the Mevlida Terzic case.”
“Yes.” Once again, soft music played in the background, and a woman spoke, her words indistinguishable.
Was everyone except him enjoying a peaceful, romantic night?
He tamped down his irritation. “Sorry to interrupt your evening.”
“No problem. My wife and I are just watching an old movie. How can I help you?”
“Mac said you investigated the death. Can you run me through your impressions of the scene and of Neven Terzic?”
A moment of silence. “You do know he goes by Nathan Turner.”
No—but Mark would have found that information by now.
“We knew he’d Americanized his name. What else do you have?”
“I’ll give you the official verdict first. Suicide, not homicide. There was no indication anyone else was involved in the death. We did take a second look after the medical examiner found significant bruising on the woman’s torso, plus a cracked rib—but those injuries predated the death.”
“How did Terz—Turner—explain that?”
“He said his grandmother had fallen a few weeks ago and had never complained about injuries. She was also slightly malnourished. According to him, she’d been eating less in recent weeks. We had no grounds to dispute those claims. The body was released, and the case was closed.”
A subtle inflection put Lance on alert. “You weren’t happy about that outcome.”
“Off the record—no.”
“Why?” He slid behind the wheel and pulled out his notebook again.
“Turner struck me as a user. Gut feel—but I trust my gut. He played the part of the shocked and grieving grandson well, but my money says it was an act. I’m not suggesting he had anything directly to do with the woman’s death, but I could see how this guy might get pleasure out of making her life miserable. His words and behavior were appropriate; his eyes weren’t. They were cold as some of the terrorists’ I tangled with in the Middle East.”
Jasna had noticed the same thing.
He needed to talk to this guy.
Now.
“Did you get a chance to nose around his place?”
“Yeah. We asked, and he was very cooperative. We did a walk-through. Nothing suspicious.”
“He could have stashed anything incriminating before he called you.”
“That thought did cross my mind.”
Lance ignored the wry note in Morgan’s voice. “Did you see any guns?”
“No. Why?”
“He has two.”
“Then they were hidden.”
“I’m going to run by there. Can you give me the address?” He wrote it down as the other man recited it.
“I take it he’s connected with some case you’re investigating.”
“That’s our suspicion.”
“If he is, I hope you nail him. He may not be legally culpable for his grandmother’s death, but I’m convinced he played a role in it.”
“I think we’re on the same page.” A call-waiting tone sounded, and he checked the display. Mark. “Thanks for the information.”
“Let me know if you need anything else.”
He ended the call and switched to Mark, filling him in on his conversations with Christy, Jasna, and Morgan.
“You’ve covered a lot of ground already. I found the name change too. He made it legal when he was twenty-one. He’s now thirty-two. He came to the US at fifteen and was naturalized two years later. But here’s the most interesting piece of information—he and Christy Reed work at the same facility. He’s been there about a year.”
Since three months before her parents were ambushed.
The timing was too perfect to be coincidental.
Christy might even know him—as Nathan, not Neven. Seventeen years after their adolescent acquaintance, it was possible his appearance had changed dramatically.
“I’m thinking he recognized her but she didn’t recognize him.” Lance gave voice to the scenario taking shape in his mind. “Crossing paths with her might have reignited his grudge. Maybe he decided this was a second chance to get retribution for whatever she did to incur his wrath.”
“Seems plausible. What’s your plan?”
He started the engine and put the car in gear. “I’m heading to Neven’s apartment. I’ll call Christy en route and fill her in. You want to meet me at his place?”
“Sure. How are you positioning the visit?”
“I’m going to be honest—to a point. Tell him we had a tip on the Ginny Reed case and we’re following up. No details. I just want to sniff out the place, see how cooperative he is, and put him on alert we’re watching him.”
“That could backfire, you know. If you force his hand, he might accelerate whatever plans he has for Christy.”
Like he hadn’t thought of that.
“That’s possible. Or it could make him nervous, slow him down. I’m hoping he’ll lay low long enough for us to dig up some evidence that will put him at the scenes of the crimes. I also plan to get a warrant for his computer ASAP. Unless he’s some kind of technical genius, our people will be able to verify if he’s the one who’s been following the GPS tracking device on Christy’s car.”
“Okay. I’m on my way. Our ETA should be about the same.”
The instant the line went dead, Lance punched Christy’s speed-dial number. He wanted her locked in her condo, alarm set, until he escorted her to work tomorrow morning.
After three rings, the phone rolled to voice mail.
Apprehension prickled his nerve endings.
She should be home by now—but she might be in the bathroom . . . or retrieving her mail.
He left a message and continued toward Neven’s.
Five minutes later, when she hadn’t returned his call, he tried again.
Still no answer.
He switched to her landline.
No answer.
He punched in Mark’s number and skipped the greeting. “Christy’s not answering. I’m diverting to swing by her place first. Why don’t you continue to Terzic’s, see if there’s any sign he’s at home?”
Lance tossed the cell onto the passenger seat, swung onto the entrance ramp for I-44, and floored it. Yes, there could be a reasonable explanation for her lack of response.
But after all he’d found out about Terzic in the past ninety minutes, he had a stomach-churning feeling the real explanation was far more sinister.