D.D. AWOKE TO THE THUNDER of footsteps. She just had time to brace herself before the bedroom door burst open and Jack came plowing into the room, Kiko hot on his heels. Boy and dog hit the bed in a single flying leap.
“Two weeks till Christmas!” Jack roared. “Daddy says we can get a tree this weekend!”
Next to D.D., Alex groaned. Jack found the space between them and started his favorite morning ritual of bouncing. Kiko, on her spindly black-and-white legs, did her best to dance around her favorite boy, while tripping over Alex’s and D.D.’s prone forms.
D.D. managed to turn her head toward her husband. “We’re getting a tree this weekend?”
“Seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“We are going to find a real grown tree and cut it down!” Jack fairly screamed. “With a chain saw and everything. Then we’re going to drink hot cocoa with whipped cream and marshmallows!”
“When he discovers coffee,” D.D. said, “we’re in real trouble.”
She managed to unpin her arms from the covers and hold them out to her very exuberant child. In response, Jack collapsed to his knees, then pitched forward into her arms. He was still vibrating. He smelled of grubby hands, syrupy pancakes, and little-boy sweat. God, she loved him.
“Will a Christmas tree survive in our house?” she asked him.
“Of course! Kiko and I will take very good care of it.”
“You can’t leap on the Christmas tree.”
“No!”
“You can’t jump around the Christmas tree.”
“Never.”
“No throwing ornaments. And absolutely, positively, no peeing on branches.”
Jack stared at her indignantly.
“That last instruction was for Kiko,” D.D. informed Jack. Since Jack was on top of her, Kiko had moved on to Alex and was attempting to lick his face, whether Alex wanted his face licked or not.
“What time is it?” Alex mumbled around dog tongue.
“Round bottom six,” Jack supplied.
“Oh dear.” D.D. moaned. “I gotta get to work.”
“No work!” Jack ordered. “Let’s go get the tree.”
“How about work and school today, tree tomorrow?”
Alex, one hand blocking his cheek from Kiko, arched a brow at her. First rule of thumb for a kid Jack’s age was not to make promises you can’t keep. Given the demands of D.D.’s job, that was easier said than done.
“I can figure it out,” she assured him. “For that matter, I have a new fed playmate. Maybe I can make her work tomorrow.”
“You have a playmate?” Jack asked. He’d calmed down slightly, curling up in her arms, head pressed against her shoulder. Kiko gave up on Alex, licked Jack’s face instead. The dog was very gentle about it, as if she was grooming her puppy. Kiko loved Jack, too.
“A fed playmate?” Alex asked.
“SSA Kimberly Quincy. She has an interest in my victim, who we’re pretty sure has been living under a false identity.”
“What about the wife?” Alex asked.
“I still don’t know. But I’m thinking that whatever happened Tuesday night was more than a domestic situation. Which is why”—she flipped abruptly, catching Jack beside her and tickling his sides while he giggled hysterically—“I gotta get to work.”
“Gonna catch bad guys?” Jack asked. It was his favorite question.
“Oh yeah. And lock up a few from Santa’s naughty list as well. We all gotta do what we can to help the big guy this time of year. Speaking of which, where’s the elf?”
The Elf on the Shelf, which Alex had sagely brought home a few weeks ago and started moving around the house, was supposedly the eyes and ears of Santa. Reported all naughty, noticed all nice. Personally, D.D. thought a spying house elf was a little creepy. But Jack was all about keeping the elf happy, given that his future supply of Christmas LEGO bricks depended on it. Oh, the power of the holidays.
Not to mention, D.D. herself had taken up Googling photos of Felonious Elf on the Shelf, posed in various criminal acts, and/or at various crime scenes. Some of them made her laugh hysterically, which was probably inappropriate. Then again, she knew for a fact that Alex had already looked up how to make elf blood spatter. What either one of them was doing raising a child was the real question. And yet, here they were.
At the mention of Elf on the Shelf, Jack untangled himself from D.D.’s embrace and went tearing out of the room, Kiko in immediate pursuit.
“Does he ever walk?” D.D. asked.
“Not that I’ve seen.”
“I could use that kind of energy on my case team.”
“What do you think?” Alex said, referring to her case now that Jack was out of the room.
“I have no idea. You know how at the academy you’re always talking about the importance of victimology?”
He nodded.
“This is one of those cases. Turns out Conrad Carter wasn’t Conrad Carter at all. He’s been living for years under an assumed name. Even met Jacob Ness in a bar in the South under an alias.”
“The Jacob Ness?”
“Which is why I got a visit from the SSA Quincy. Then, just to make it really interesting, Conrad’s father was a detective in Florida who died under mysterious circumstances.”
Alex’s eyes had widened. “That’s one of the crazier victim backgrounds I’ve ever encountered.”
“Hah. Wait till you meet my case team.”
“You love this case, don’t you?” He knew as well as anyone, the larger the riddle, the bigger D.D.’s fascination.
Now, she broke into a wide smile. “Honest to God, it’s like Christmas has come early.”
D.D. ARRIVED TEN minutes late to work. Supervisor’s privilege, she decided. But in consideration of the fact that several of her detectives had no doubt pulled all-nighters, she arrived bearing gifts: a tray of four fancy coffee drinks with whipped cream and chocolate drizzles and peppermint pieces. Not just caffeine, but caffeine and intense amounts of sugar married together in a concoction designed to cause an immediate jolt to the central nervous system.
She set down her shoulder bag. Ditched her coat. Switched from her thick winter boots to her much sleeker black leather boots, which she’d decided to keep at the office and away from Kiko’s evil clutches. Then, picking up the tray of chocolate minty goodness, she went in search of her detectives.
She found Phil first and presented beverages. He selected the cup closest to him and, without a word, took a hit, smearing whipped cream across his upper lip.
“When I’m done with Betsy, I’m gonna marry you,” he said.
“Oh, you adore her, you big softy.”
“I adore coffee. Whipped cream. Chocolate. What is this, a liquefied brownie?”
“Entirely possible. What do I need to know?”
“Video surveillance sucks.”
“Fair enough. Walk me through it.”
Phil caught her up on the techs’ attempts to find footage of the arsonist Rocket Langley’s designated drop site. As it was located in a major urban environment, the issue wasn’t whether there were cameras, but how many cameras, where were they positioned, and were any of the captured images any good?
“Patrol collected the tapes,” Phil explained. “Tech support started skimming for content. We have a photo of Rocket, so our first goal was to see if we could capture a shot of him in the general area. Which we did.”
“Sounds promising.”
“Yes and no. Drop site is a loose brick on the side of a building. Pull brick out, leave behind money, instructions, replace brick. There’s only one camera angle that’s any good for that side of the building, however. We caught Rocket walking up the street. Full on, there’s his face square in the lens, so that was excellent. But then that camera loses him. Security footage from a local business picks him up again, standing at the wall, but from that angle we can only see the back of his head. Rocket stood there so long we honestly thought the dude was urinating. I finally drove out there at four A.M., which is how I discovered the loose brick.”
“Anything there now?”
“No.”
“Okay. So you’ve located the drop site and at least spotted Rocket in action. What time and day?”
“Wednesday morning, seven A.M.”
“And the fire was Wednesday afternoon?”
“Yeah. I think we caught him picking up the target address and down payment. So now we’re going forward to late Wednesday evening/early Thursday morning to see when he picks up his final payment. Once we have that, we have two opportunities to catch Rocket’s client—either when the suspect first leaves the address or when he drops off the final payment. It’s taking a bit, though. Footage is dark and grainy. Combine that with random people bumbling about, and there are a lot of visuals to sort through. Hell, I think I’ve already ID’d several drug buys. It’s not a quiet area.”
“Smart thinking on Rocket’s part. That much activity, his own comings and goings hardly matter.”
“The kid’s been a known firebug for most of his life. I doubt anyone in the neighborhood messes with him. Anyone who likes to burn things for sport is best left alone.”
“He’s got a reputation.”
“He has a reputation in certain circles. Word-on-the-street sort of thing. Your CI might have been on to something last night. Rocket’s hardly big-time. Meaning our shooter is either local, or Rocket already knows enough to advertise on places like the big bad web. Hell, even the mob has gone cyber. It’s sad, really. Pretty soon, the department will be staffed by virtual cops programmed to ID virtual criminals. Where’s the fun in that?”
D.D. rolled her eyes. “Given that we’re not computer programs just yet, find me video of whoever hired Rocket the arsonist. A drop box is an old-fashioned system that will hopefully get us old-fashioned results. Sooner versus later, I might add. Now, Carol and Neil?”
“In the conference room. They’ve been working on Conrad Carter’s background all night.” Phil eyed her remaining coffee. “Make sure you keep one of those for yourself. By the time they’re done, you’re gonna need it.”
WHEN D.D. WALKED into the room, Neil and Carol were just hanging up the department’s speakerphone. They both appeared jazzed.
D.D. handed over coffees and took a seat. “All right, what’dya got?”
“Homicide, definitely. Conrad’s parents’ vehicle was run off the road shortly after eight P.M. One moment they’re driving home from a local restaurant along a well-known route, next their car is rolling down an embankment into a canal. They were dead upon impact.” Carol shook her head.
“Witnesses? Leads?” D.D. asked.
“Nada,” Neil supplied. “We just spoke to Detective Russ Ange from the JSO; he personally worked with Bill Conner and has been investigating the MVA on and off for years. Road was rural, no cameras, but Ange is sure it was foul play due to damage on the rear fender consistent with impact. Height of the damage indicates a large vehicle, say, a truck or SUV. No paint, however, so maybe a chrome bumper. Unfortunately, there are a lotta trucks and SUVs in Jacksonville; without any witnesses, it’s been difficult to get any traction in the case.”
“Surely he’s looked at Conner’s active investigations? Suspects, criminals the detective has come into contact with over the years and had reason to hold a grudge.”
“Detective Conner had a couple dozen open cases at the time,” Carol reported. “Two are worth noting: First, a significant domestic abuse case. Asshole husband, rich, entitled, kept beating up his wife and, given that he was rich and entitled, didn’t think her restraining order should apply to him. Situation had been going on for months. Detective Conner had taken a personal interest, meeting with the wife several times. Week prior to the accident, asshole husband showed up again, drunk, enraged, tried to break into the house. Detective Conner arrived at the scene. He and asshole had an exchange. Asshole ended up in the slammer for the night, with a black eye, and none too happy about it.”
“Detective Conner punched the man?” D.D. asked in surprise.
“In self-defense,” Neil clarified. “Husband took a swing at Detective Conner first.”
“Okay,” D.D. said. “But one way or another, I’m taking it the rich husband didn’t care for some local cop’s intervention into his self-perceived right to beat his wife?”
“Exactly.” Carol this time. “Apparently, the husband, Jules LaPage, yelled some pretty nasty threats at Detective Conner during his arrest. Unfortunately, LaPage owned a Porsche, not a truck. Jacksonville detectives couldn’t find any evidence he borrowed or rented a second vehicle. On the other hand, LaPage had no alibi either, so he hasn’t been ruled out as a person of interest in the Conners’ murders.”
“What happened to LaPage?” D.D. asked.
“He violated the restraining order two weeks after Detective Conner’s death. Shot his wife in the face. She lived. Barely. LaPage is now a long-term resident of the state. Still a smug bastard, though. According to Detective Ange, LaPage spends his days filing appeal after appeal. Ange believes it’s only a matter of time before LaPage finds the loophole or uncovers the technicality necessary to overturn his conviction. LaPage has unlimited time and resources. Not like the JSO can say the same.”
“What happened to the wife?” Because Detective Ange was right, anyone with enough determination and money could often beat the system. If Jules LaPage had been angry and arrogant enough to take out the cop standing in his way, there was no telling what he might do upon discovering the detective’s son was still investigating the case all these years later. Which also made her more and more curious about what exactly Conrad Carter had been doing in his free time.
“Courtesy of the gunshot to her left jaw, Monica LaPage had to undergo several rounds of reconstructive surgery. She testified with the bandages still on, then took her new face and fled the state. General consensus is, the moment LaPage gets out of prison he’ll go after her again.”
D.D. made several notes. “Is anyone from the sheriff’s office still in contact with her?”
Neil shook his head. “No, but according to Detective Ange, if she’d stayed in touch with anyone, it would’ve been Detective Conner.”
“Does Ange know where she is?”
Neil shook his head again. “No, and Ange was pretty blunt that it was in Monica’s own best interest to keep it that way. A man with LaPage’s money can buy a lot of information, including from underpaid public servants.”
“Meaning the sheriff’s office itself could become the weak link. Has Ange heard from Conrad about the case?”
“According to Ange, immediately after his parents’ death, Conrad spent a lot of time at the JSO, talking to various detectives who’d worked with his father. He asked about all his father’s active cases. Basically, like we just did.”
“And presumably got the same answers?”
Neil cleared his throat. “Detective to detective, Ange let it slip they may have made some copies of . . . pertinent details . . . for Conrad. Bill Conner was the kid’s dad after all.”
D.D. arched a brow. In other words, the detectives at the JSO had duplicated case files for their friend’s son. A definite procedural no-no and yet . . . Detectives were people, too. And sometimes, particularly after a hard loss, the rules mattered less than justice. Detective Conner’s fellow investigators wanted it, and by the sound of it, his son, too. “So Conrad was actively investigating his parents’ deaths?”
“Definitely.”
“To the extent he took on an alias and ran away to Massachusetts?” D.D. murmured, then corrected herself. “Or discovered something dangerous enough, he had no choice but to get out of town?”
“Detective Ange had no idea Conrad was living under an assumed name in Massachusetts,” Carol reported. “He says he heard from Conrad often in the beginning, but it’s now been years. He assumed Conrad had moved on with his life. Ange also thought that was healthy and exactly what his parents would’ve wanted.”
“So if Conrad was still investigating his parents’ deaths, he was doing it on his own?” D.D. frowned. “But how did that bring him to a bar with Jacob Ness?”
“Second case of note,” Carol spoke up.
“Two missing persons cases. Both female, white. One eighteen, in Florida visiting friends when she never made it home from the local bar. That girl, Tina Maracle, liked to party, so some debate whether she was truly missing or had just chosen to move on. Maracle had family in Georgia, however, and none of them had heard from her. While they may not have been the closest family in the world, three months without contact was unusual and they firmly believed something bad had happened.”
“And the second girl?” D.D. asked, because this was interesting. Keith Edgar might have been on to something yesterday when he’d asked if Conrad’s father had crossed paths with Jacob Ness. As Flora had pointed out, just because Ness hadn’t made the FBI’s radar screen didn’t mean he was on good behavior. He probably had been actively abducting and raping young women. As someone who grew up in Florida, he would’ve been familiar with Jacksonville, and many predators started out close to home, before venturing farther afield.
“Second missing woman is Sandi Clipfell, age nineteen, who waitressed at McGoo’s Tavern. Her shift ended at two A.M. Her habit was to walk home to her apartment just down the road. But that night, she never made it. According to her roommates, she was the steady type. Didn’t necessarily love being a waitress but was saving up her money to go to school to become a dental hygienist. Sandi Clipfell didn’t have local family but had worked at McGoo’s for an entire year. Always on time, very reliable. She’d recently broken up with a short-term boyfriend but didn’t sound like there was much drama there, plus, he had an alibi for the night in question. He also said she wasn’t the type to simply cut and run. If she’d tired of her job, she would’ve given notice and settled up with her roommates before moving on.”
“Any leads?” D.D. asked.
“At the time, Detective Conner was investigating regulars at both bars—looking for overlap between people who frequented McGoo’s, where Sandi worked, and guys at the White Dog Tavern, where Tina Maracle was last seen. Detective Ange has continued to work the case since, and finally got a hit: A registered sex offender was in McGoo’s the night Sandi disappeared, by the name of Mitchell Paulson. When Ange went to bring him in for questioning, however, the apartment was cleared out, and Paulson long gone. Ange put out an APB, but trail’s been cold ever since.”
“Did Paulson own a vehicle?” D.D. asked.
“A late-model Dodge Ram truck,” Neil answered. “Bit of a beater. Could’ve had damage to the front bumper. No one would notice.”
D.D. frowned. “Does Ange think he’s the one who ran Detective Conner off the road?”
Neil and Carol both shrugged. “According to Detective Ange”—Carol spoke up first—“he’s always suspected the abusive husband, LaPage. The accident seemed low-down and sneaky, exactly the kind of thing LaPage would do, plus, he definitely had a personal grudge against Detective Conner. Then again, something had to spook sex offender Paulson to make him violate his parole and split town. Meaning maybe he caught wind of Conner’s investigation. And maybe that scared him enough to take the extra step of eliminating the detective working the case.”
“Does Paulson have a history of violence?” D.D. asked.
Neil shook his head. “Just a thing for sixteen-year-old girls.”
“The missing women are eighteen and nineteen. That’s not exactly sixteen,” D.D. pointed out.
“Ange doesn’t claim to have all the answers; just a lot of questions, which apparently he shared with Conrad shortly after his parents’ deaths.”
“But he hasn’t been in contact with Conrad in the past few years?” D.D. eyed her detectives. “Do you believe him?”
“Ange claims he wasn’t that close to Conrad,” Carol offered. “There was another detective, Dan Cain, who’d worked with Conrad’s father for years, came over regularly for cookouts, that kind of thing. Ange’s guess is that if Conrad was still in touch with anyone in the department, it would be Cain. He retired shortly after Detective Conner’s death, but he’s still around. Ange will track him down, then get us his contact info.”
D.D. regarded both of her detectives for a moment. “So what do you think?” she asked them.
Neil answered immediately. “I think Conrad was investigating his parents’ death. Meaning he was pursuing an incarcerated criminal with a lot of resources at his disposal, as well as a registered sex offender who may have been involved in the disappearance of two women.”
“Not work for the faint of heart,” D.D. said.
Carol took over. “LaPage, the asshole ex, knew Detective Conrad had a son. Apparently Conrad’s real name was included in newspaper articles covering his parents’ deaths. Given LaPage’s threats against his father . . .”
“Conrad may have felt he needed to leave the area, even change his name?”
“All the better to protect himself while launching his own inquiry,” Neil commented.
“But he never told his wife?” D.D. asked.
Carol shrugged. “Maybe he thought he was protecting her. According to Ange, LaPage is still working on his release and is still a rich asshole. Let alone, prison isn’t exactly a stopgap. If anything, think of all the violent offenders LaPage has probably met over the past decade and offered money to, if only they’ll do him one little favor upon their release . . .”
D.D. nodded. Somehow, prison seemed to be a breeding ground for criminal enterprise. Ironically enough, the county had probably increased LaPage’s access to illicit resources.
Conrad’s decision to move north and live under an assumed name was starting to make more sense to her. But it still didn’t tell any of them what had led to his murder Tuesday night.
Photos of abused girls on his computer screen. The last thing Conrad had been looking at before being shot. Like Conrad’s meeting with Jacob Ness, possession of such images could go either way. Conrad was either part of the problem, a sexual predator himself, or some lone-wolf operative, trying to make a difference.
D.D. knew who she wanted him to be, especially for his wife and unborn child’s sake, but that didn’t make it so.
“You think whoever shot Carter three nights ago might be the same person who ran his parents off the road?” Carol asked now.
D.D. shrugged. “We don’t know what we don’t know. We’re just going to have to keep following the questions wherever they take us.”
“Pretty damn scary ride,” Neil murmured.
“Which apparently Conrad had been living for a long, long time. Find this retired JSO detective Dan Cain.”
Both detectives nodded.
“And let’s start digging into the missing sex offender, and what the hell, LaPage’s terrified wife. But that inquiry—”
“Strictly on the QT,” Neil filled in for her.
“Our best assumption: Conrad’s father once got too close. Then, years later, his son, going down the same path . . .”
“Met the same fate. We need to find this bastard,” Carol said.
“Agreed. Because whoever it is, the guy figured out Conrad’s alias. Meaning he also knows about Conrad’s wife and unborn child. And once you’ve killed three, what are two more?”