Bounty Page 5

  Gregor grimaced and cupped his hand over the mics. "What is it, Gibbs?"

  Gibbs stood on his tip-toes, leaning in to whisper in Gregor's ear. "We should probably leave now; you have a very important meeting in twenty minutes."

  Annoyance gave way to understanding. Gregor nodded and watched as his personal assistant disappeared into the crowd again. He gave the crowd a smile and a wave, before turning around and looking at the shrine again. He took time to read the names, smiling to himself when his eyes found Vladmir Gregor etched into the granite. The smile faded in an instant, though, and Gregor left the crowd without another word.

  Chapter 11

  Ninety-nine percent of the time, Juanita Gutierrez loved her job. She loved the sense of purpose it gave her, the fact that she could piece together someone's final moments and eventually, that work would lead to the person responsible for their death. She never had the flair for investigation that her younger brother Ramon had, but Juanita learned in high school that her knack for science had its own purpose. She had endured a lot of teasing for her love of science, particularly in middle school, but the fact remained: that lifelong love led to an important job she enjoyed, and she couldn’t help but occasionally wonder what those who had teased her were doing these days.

  A combined ten years of school, and a mountain of debt of which she never wanted to speak, led Juanita to the same police department as her brother, where she worked as one of Baltimore's go-to medical examiners. One of her first cases involved a 9-year-old boy, the victim of abuse at the hands of family. As it turned out, the father, an uncle, and the older brother had all been beating the boy, but Juanita's work allowed police to determine which blows came from which man, and what blow was fatal. All three men were in prison now, but the right one caught the murder charge.

  As emotionally heavy as that case had been -- and they were all heavy, in their own ways -- Juanita lived with that, knowing the eventual payoff was worth it. She dealt with the gore, the occasional body mangled or beaten beyond recognition. Her days of getting sick over a body were long over -- not even her hotshot detective brother could boast that. But every time she got to a crime scene, every time there was a body on her metal slab, Juanita felt a tug on her heart.

  Today, that tug brought with it frustration. Dr. Roberts' autopsy confirmed her initial thoughts: the slashed throat, and resulting blood loss, had killed him. The slash on his arm, the slicing open of his chest, the ribs snapped like twigs -- all of that was postmortem. No matter what tests she ran, no matter how many times she ran them, Juanita had no more answers than the night they pulled Dr. Roberts' body out of the water. Even worse, they were getting nowhere in locating his heart.

  She could deal with the heartache and the guilt and the weight of importance pushing down on her shoulders. What Juanita couldn't handle was not having answers. Juanita sighed when Jill walked into the morgue, standing and tucking her clipboard under her right arm.

  "I wish I had something to tell you, Jill."

  The detective stopped at the table, staring at Dr. Roberts' face. Juanita noticed Jill's brow scrunching briefly; if Juanita had to guess, there was something about the victim that struck a chord with the detective. Jill looked up at Juanita, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her black leather coat, and the fingers of her left hand instinctively grabbed for the business card hidden in her pocket. "Still nothing?"

  "Nothing of note." Juanita set the clipboard down on her desk, crossing the room until she was near the doctor’s head. "Confirmed cause of death. Tox screen came up empty. Contents of his stomach show last meal was a crab salad with raspberry vinaigrette dressing and a Diet Coke. Wounds on his left arm and chest were postmortem -- my guess, immediately after he bled out."

  Jill frowned. "No prints? No DNA?"

  "Nope." Juanita sighed and sat on the edge of her desk. "I wasn't expecting anything, either."

  Jill leaned closer to Dr. Roberts' body, her face inches from the cut in his left arm. She chewed on her lower lip as she studied the cut, a vein showing up in the middle of her forehead. Juanita had known Jill long enough to know that was her pensive face. The wheels were turning, even if the car wasn't going anywhere.

  "You have a theory."

  "Hm?" Jill straightened with a shrug, not once tearing her eyes from the body. "Oh, not really a theory, just... anything on these cuts? What might've made them?"

  "I've narrowed it down to surgical, precise, and metal." Juanita shook her head. "Which describes almost all of my autopsy tools. Forensics is running the residue we found on his arm, but I'm not optimistic."

  The detective briefly considered telling Juanita about her trip to the yacht, but thought better of it. Honestly, what would she say? That she found evidence the other investigators missed because of her handy-dandy infrared vision? Jill had already spilled her secret to one friend, and she worried that bringing more people in the loop would compromise both herself and the investigation -- not to mention endanger anyone who knew who she really was. Besides, with no actual fingerprint from the hand partial, and no tread on the footprint, it wasn't like they could trace them to anything anyway.

  "This was the work of a professional." Jill cringed, realizing she was stating the obvious. "And given Dr. Roberts' military ties, I'm working on the assumption that he and the killer knew each other. A throat slashing can be construed as a crime of passion; it would be real easy to just slice away and toss him overboard."

  Juanita nodded. "But the cut on the arm. Stealing the heart. This wasn't just a murder. It was a killing with a message." The ME shed her blue latex gloves and tossed them in the trash can. "Speaking of messages... can we step outside a sec?"

  Jill watched her with a furrowed brow, and when Juanita walked out of the morgue, the detective followed. They stopped near a vending machine, and Juanita rammed her left elbow into the side of the machine before a can of soda dropped with a dull thud. She smiled and cracked open the can, taking a swig. Jill had shared that little secret with her a year and a half ago, and to this day, they were still the only two who knew about it.

  "So," Juanita paused to swallow her first swig, "Ramon's been all jacked up all day. More excitable than usual. Any idea why?"

  Jill shrugged her shoulders. "Good night with Jorge?"

  Juanita laughed and shook her head. "That boy's been living at the library for the past week, working on his thesis."

  "Well, he was in a good mood last night when we met at O'Shea's." Jill leaned against the wall. "We had dinner, a couple drinks, toasted the Yankees losing... just a regular night."

  Juanita folded her arms, her left brow arched. "Mm-hmm..."

  Jill rolled her eyes. "Oh, please... don't tell me you're in on this 'they're-sleeping-together' crap, too. You know better!"

  The ME couldn't help but laugh, placing a hand on Jill's arm and shaking her head. "Oh god, honey, no!" Juanita started laughing harder, doubling over. "No no no nononono... my gay brother and his asexual female partner sleeping together? Somehow, I don't even think Larry in Missing Persons would believe that one."

  Jill smiled sheepishly and averted her gaze. It was far-fetched to anyone who knew the two of them.

  "No." Juanita straightened again. "Ramon's acting like... ever since he was a kid, whenever he knew something and couldn't tell, he'd just kind of... strut around, I guess. He'd never blab, but he'd make sure the whole world knew that he was in on something that no one else knew."

  Panic briefly set in, before Jill fought it back with an indecipherable shake of her head. He hadn't said anything, and that was good, but the fact that people could tell when he knew something was unsettling. She hoped it was only a tell Juanita noticed because she was his sister, having spent her life with him, and not something just anyone could pick up on, but Jill had to admit -- at least to herself -- that she worried he'd give her up somehow, even inadvertently.

  Her phone broke her train of thought, and Jill was thankful for the reprieve. Reading the t
ext, she smiled and gave Juanita's hand a squeeze. "I gotta go, J. Call me if you find anything."

  Jill was out the door before Juanita had a chance to protest.

  Chapter 12

  Jill could probably drive to Daniel Richards' house with her eyes closed, she had taken the route so many times over the years. Her family and the captain’s had met weekly for dinner when Jill was a kid, and she had continued that tradition into adulthood -- even after Paul's arrest, Janice's suicide, and the strain tearing apart Jill and Brian. The fact that Daniel and Evelyn lived a block and a half from Jill’s childhood home made the trip even more familiar.

  But she wasn't going to think about that on this night, choosing instead to enjoy a quiet evening with her second father and his wife. Her relationship with Richards was mutually beneficial; he had been there when her family was torn apart, he had taught her everything about life as a cop and as an adult. In return, she gave Daniel and Evelyn the child they never were able to have themselves.

  Giving herself a once-over in the rearview mirror, Jill re-did her ponytail before getting out of the car. She grabbed a bottle of wine she'd bought for the occasion -- something cheap from the local grocery store -- and knocked on the door.

  Evelyn beamed as the door swung open. "Jill! Come on in."

  Jill smiled and handed the bottle to Evelyn with a nod before shedding her coat. "Hope you guys don't mind, I picked that up on the way. It's not much, but --"

  "Cop's salary, I get it." Evelyn's smile broadened, her hand on Jill's arm. "Trust me, dear, I know."

  The women laughed as they crossed into the kitchen, and Evelyn prepared a bucket of ice in which to place the bottle of wine. Richards was stirring a pot of marinara sauce, stopping only when he saw Jill, closing the distance to embrace her in a quick hug. "I'm glad you could come."

  "You kidding me, Dan?" Jill playfully punched him in the shoulder as the embrace unfolded. "I wouldn't miss these dinners for the world."

  Jill joined Evelyn in setting the table. She looked forward to these dinners, not just because she was sharing a meal with people she considered family, but because it granted her a respite from her work. When she sat at the mahogany dining table, Jill wasn't a homicide detective, she wasn't a vigilante... she was just Jill. No case work, no theorizing, no talk of evidence or depositions and warrants; these dinners were about the joy of close company and the smaller pleasures of life.

  Her weekly break was always welcome, but no more so than this week. The Roberts case wasn't the most difficult she'd ever been tasked with solving, but it was by far the most personal, and she had more to lose in not solving the case, or not solving it quickly enough, than anyone could've guessed.

  Evelyn set a large bowl of angel hair pasta in the center of the table before wiping her hands on her apron and pulling off the garment. She was an English teacher at a local elementary school, and she took just as much pride in her job as a Daniel did in his, if not more.

  "How's school this year?" Jill asked as she took her seat.

  The white-haired woman beamed. "Every year, I think I have the best kids ever. Then the next year comes and I'm proven wrong."

  Richards uncorked the wine and poured a glass for all three of them. Evelyn and Daniel took their seats, right next to each other, their hands immediately clasping together. Over thirty-five years together, and they still looked at each other like lovesick teenagers. It was sweet, even if it was the sort of thing Jill never imagined in her own life.

  "Jill, would you do the honors?"

  With a nod, she bowed her head. Jill was never going to be accused of being particularly spiritual -- in part because of what she'd had to endure in her life -- but she loved the Richards family enough and respected them enough that when they asked if she'd offer grace, she couldn't bring herself to say no. Besides, Jill learned in her Army days that one didn’t necessarily have to be religious to be thankful and to express as such.

  "We come together with thanks." Out of the corner of her eye, Jill saw Evelyn squeeze Daniel's hand. "We offer thanks for great people, great friends, great family. We offer thanks for those who love us, and those whom we love. We offer thanks for the strength they provide us, the realization that no matter what life throws at us, we're never alone."

  Jill paused. For some reason, this grace was tugging at her heart.

  "We offer thanks for this meal, for this life, and for the chance to spend a night with those who mean the most to us."

  Daniel and Evelyn interjected in unison. "Amen."

  Evelyn immediately started taking plates and piling pasta onto them, before leaving Jill and Daniel to their own devices with the sauce. They collected their respective dinners in comfortable silence, until all three were seated again, full plates in front of them. A basket of garlic bread sticks sat to Jill's right, and she immediately reached for a piece, breaking it off and dipping the bread into her sauce. Richards' homemade marinara sauce was the best she'd ever tasted.

  "Dan, this sauce is the reason I can't eat spaghetti anywhere else."

  "Not bad for Otis' only boy, huh?" He smiled at the mention of his father, a long-retired Army general who lived in New Orleans. The elder Richards was almost ninety and as energetic as ever. Every time she visited, Jill could see the picture of Otis in his Army fatigues hanging over the fireplace. It reminded her of her own father, and she couldn't help but smile at the memory.

  If Otis was anything like Daniel, Jill was sure he was a fine man.

  Evelyn dabbed at her mouth with her napkin before grabbing a bread stick and breaking it in half. "I just assigned my kids a short story. You should see the looks on their faces while they're writing, Jill. They love creating these fantastic worlds and just... letting loose for once."

  Richards arched a brow. "Any interesting stories?"

  "Oh, they're all interesting." Evelyn acted like she'd just been asked which child was her favorite. "Most of them aren't what you'd say are stories that make sense -- we're talking 8-year-olds here -- but I do have one child who's writing a murder mystery."

  Richards frowned. "Isn't that a bit much for an 8-year-old?"

  Evelyn's smile never wavered. "Jacob's father is a mystery writer. I guess it runs in the family."

  Jill matched Evelyn's smile. "I bet his story will be fascinating."

  Richards chuckled and shook his head. "Never could get into those things." Evelyn shot him what Jill had dubbed The Look, a narrowing of her eyes combined with the biting back of a smirk: fake admonishment to hide the desire to burst into laughter. "I'm sure they're fine books,” Richards somewhat backtracked. “I just... I work with murder and mystery every day. I don't want to come home and read stories about it, too."

  Jill tried to suppress her laughter and failed. "I could see you reading a Patricia Cornwell book, shaking your head the whole time and complaining about all the details she got wrong."

  Richards flashed a mischievous smile. "You're damn right I would."

  Chapter 13

  Three years ago...

  It was one of life's greatest ironies that arresting Paul Andersen wound up being the best thing for Daniel Richards' career. A year and a half after the arrest, he'd been named lieutenant. A year after that, he'd been named captain of his own precinct. His official title was captain, but Richards never saw himself as a captain and he bristled at the title. His father Otis, who had served in Vietnam, was the only true captain in the family. Upon taking the post, Richards had instructed all of his detectives and uniformed officers to refer to him as Chief, but it was clear early on that no one would, so Captain stuck regardless.

  Truth was, a desk job had its share of perks. For one thing, Richards was much safer. All those nights on the streets, chasing suspects, going undercover -- there were more than a few nights where he had been convinced he wouldn't make it home to his beloved Evelyn. He'd always felt guilty about that, and it was actually one of the reasons they never had children. He never wanted to risk bringing a child i
nto the world and not being able to raise them. As painful as it was to learn that Evelyn was infertile, the pain was muted by the dangerous realities of Richards’ job.

  But now, with his name etched into a fancy plaque on a desk and a calendar full of weekly meetings with the mayor and city councilmen and more than one judge, his worst fear was getting home after his wife went to bed. Those days were few and far between anymore, but they did still happen. Richards glanced at the clock on his desk and sighed. 11:47 p.m. This was going to be one of those nights.

  Now was as good a time as any to go home for the night. Grabbing his keys and his captain's hat, Richards paused when he glanced out the window. He frowned at the sight of a red Malibu sitting in the parking structure adjacent to the building. He had told Jill to go home four hours ago. She'd pounded her head into a case for the better part of fourteen hours, and he practically ordered her to go get some sleep. Tossing his hat back onto the desk, Richards heaved a sigh. He knew exactly where Jill was.

  If he caught the elevator just right, Richards could get from his office to the records archive in two minutes. Tonight was one such night, as the elevator doors opened with a ping as soon as he pressed the button. He loosened his tie as the elevator descended, and when the doors opened again, he was greeted by the sight of Jill sitting on the floor, her legs bent underneath herself. There was a pen clutched in her mouth, papers and file folders strewn about the floor. A cardboard box sat empty on a nearby table. Richards shook his head as he approached. He wished this was a surprise, but honestly, the only surprise was that he hadn't caught her here sooner.

  "I thought I told you to go home."

  Jill’s head shot up, eyes wide, the pen falling from her mouth. She set one of the papers on the small pile at her feet, swallowing hard. "I'm sorry, sir."