6:26 p.m.
East New York (a Brooklyn neighborhood)
Jacob pushed the shifter into ‘park’ and killed the engine, his head pivoting in all directions. “I’m not liking this area one bit.” He checked his weapon and returned the pistol to its holster. The gun was always loaded and ready to fire, but neighborhoods like this one made him seek assurances.
He looked across the street at the best home on the block. At least the paint was not peeling, all of the screens were intact and the grass was not two feet high. “Is that the house there?”
Stockwell read the address. “We’re in the right place.”
He faced her. “If this doesn’t go well, I’ll remind you of those words.”
She smiled and grabbed the door handle. “I only said it was the right place. I never said if this was the right time or not.”
Jacob shouldered open his door. “The outcome of this encounter will determine both.” He got out and slammed the car door. Outcome of this encounter? He winced. Get out of my head, Higs.
Joining him, Stockwell noticed the grimace. “You okay?”
Crossing the street, the two of them side by side, Jacob glimpsed her. “Just an irritation from a newfound pain. I’ll be fine.”
“So do we play ‘rock paper scissors’ to see who leads the questioning?”
Jacob hung back and swung an arm toward the house. “Far be it from me to interfere with your investigation, Agent Stockwell.”
Stockwell ascended the porch steps. “Yeah right. Something tells me interference is your middle name.”
“Actually, my middle name is Samuel.”
She stopped on the top step and cranked her head around. “Jacob Samuel St. Christopher? I see your parents went all biblical on you. Get teased much by the other kids?”
He met her on the porch, standing tall. “I was six foot when I started high school.” He grinned. “What do you think?”
Stockwell smiled back at her temporary partner, a twinkle in her eye. Biting her lower lip for a fraction of a second, she ogled him for another fraction. I like tall, dark and handsome…that’s what I’m thinking. Turning away, she approached the front door and extended a forefinger toward the button under the black mailbox.
Jacob grabbed her wrist, while yanking out his Coonan 357 Magnum from under his armpit. “Hold on, Stockwell.” He touched the door and it opened an inch. He pointed at the splintered wooden frame on the other side of the latch.
Stockwell drew her Glock 19M; the FBI’s new standard issue weapon, which ended the agency’s nineteen year run with the Glock 22/23. “I’ll go around back.”
Jacob caught her by the elbow. “We’re going in together.”
“But—”
“We watch each other’s backs. I’ll go high and right. You take left and low.”
She pointed her gun at the door and nodded. “Ready when you are, Jacob Samuel.”
He froze, not having heard a woman, since his mother, call him by his first and middle name in a long time. Inwardly, he smiled. He was usually in trouble when the two were put together. He gripped the three-fifty-seven tighter and gaped at the broken jamb. I suppose this passes for trouble.
“What’s the holdup, partner? You want a woman to go in first and show you how it’s done?”
Half turning his head, he flashed a grin at the spitfire beside him. I like you already, Stockwell. Pushing on the door, he entered the structure and darted right. “Homeland…”
“FBI.”
“…Security.” Staring down the sights of his gun, Jacob flicked his eyes toward Stockwell. We need to work on our identification protocols.
… … … … …
Meeting the female agent at the base of the stairs, Jacob lifted eyebrows at Stockwell.
She snapped her head backward. “Back of the house is clear.”
He nodded and pointed his 1911 upward. He climbed a short flight of stairs, made a ninety-degree left and went up a second short flight to the home’s upper level. Reaching the first of four rooms, he motioned down the hall, “Cover me,” and snaked into the first room on the right, a bedroom.
Clearing the room, he went to a distant corner, squatted on his haunches and put fingers under a man’s chin. The bullet hole in the head and the massive amount of blood on the carpet suggested the middle-aged man was dead; however, Jacob had to make sure.
Jacob stood and gaped at the fatal wound. A blood trickle was slowly extending its thin line down the dead man’s nose. This just happened.
Exiting the bedroom, he skirted around Stockwell, “One dead in there,” and entered the next bedroom. Ten seconds later, he came out, “Clear,” and headed for a bathroom on the left. A quick scan revealed an empty room.
Stockwell aimed her weapon at the last bedroom, briefly lowering the muzzle when Jacob went through the archway.
After clearing the room, Jacob performed another pulse test on a second victim, a middle-aged woman with wounds identical to that of the man. Jacob holstered his pistol. “Both shot in the head at close range. The male vic also showed signs of physical trauma to the head and neck area.”
Stockwell eyed the woman’s dead body, noting wounds similar to what Jacob described. “They were beaten before being killed.”
He nodded, “Looks that way,” and went to the middle bedroom. Standing in the center, he made a slow, complete circle, observing everything. He felt Stockwell’s presence behind him. “This has to be Applegate’s room.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “The other one belongs to a boy; lots of posters of monster trucks and football players.”
She crossed her arms and shifted weight to one foot. “Here I was going to say because of the stink wafting out into the hall.” She waited a beat. “So girls can’t like monster trucks and football? St. Christopher the sexist. I never would’ve figured.”
Jacob chuckled and shook his head, “No, I’m not saying that,” while performing another three-sixty. “But a big old ‘William’s Room’ sign above the door sure helps narrow down the sex of the room’s occupant. Wouldn’t you agree…FBI Agent…Stockwell? Or are your investigative skills a little rusty?”
She half grinned, “Very funny,” and walked to the other side of the room, making sure she bumped him with her shoulder. “If I weren’t watching your six, I’d have seen the sign.” She pawed through articles on a desk before opening and closing drawers. “So what’s with all the spinning? You’re making me dizzy.”
“Just getting a look of the area from a teenage girl’s perspective.”
She squatted and rummaged a wastebasket. “And?”
“And,” he put hands on hips, “If this is Applegate’s room, then she hasn’t slept here in a long time.”
The FBI agent stood and eyed him, head cocked to one side.
Jacob saw her gaze in his peripheral vision. “Even when a teen,” he pointed, “does make a bed, they don’t make it that nice. He bent over and lifted the blanket. “Just as I thought…hospital corners. Most adults don’t even do that when they make a bed.” He jutted his chin at the carpet. “And look at—” he peered at her.
Stockwell arched her eyebrows.
He held up his hands. “Of course I happen to be talking to the one adult in New York City who does make hospital corners.” He went back to eyeing the floor. “And look at the deep lines in that carpeting.” He observed the baseboards. “They go right up to the wall. Teens don’t vacuum that thoroughly either.”
“So what does all this mean?”
“Just what I said.” He opened the closet and searched the few articles of clothing inside. “She hasn’t slept here in quite a while.”
“Okay. Keep at it, St. Christopher.”
“Jacob.”
“Right. I need to call this in.” Digging out her phone, she left the bedroom. “I’ll be right back.” She stuck her head back into the room. “And call me Deanna. I’m tired of all the formalities.”
He opened a nightstand drawer. Thank God for that. A moment later, he sniggered aloud. She’d love conversing with Higs. Jacob stopped his search, tipped his head back and shut his eyes at the ceiling. Conversing. Just say ‘talking’ will you, Jake. Talking…so much easier than—gunshots cut off his thoughts. He drew the Coonan. “Stockwell!”
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
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