Blind Spot Read online

  “The slashes are downward thrusting and deep. Suicides are typically on the wrists and sideways or lightly upward. Just enough pressure to get it done. The cuts on Haywood were deep and look as if they were made in anger and at a completely unnatural angle.”

  “If you’re right that means . . .”

  “We have a killer among us.”

  “No, I don’t still believe it,” Muriel responded to the young woman in the doorway, then blew her nose into the handkerchief with a honk. “But it makes me feel better.”

  “Our daughter, Samantha,” Jacob said of the young woman. “These are—”

  “Feds,” she said, unimpressed.

  “Agent Grey and . . .”

  “Hi, I’m Tanner.”

  Samantha’s dark brown eyes narrowed. “You,” she said, sizing Tanner up with a steely stare, “aren’t a Fed.”

  Tanner smoothed her white blouse. “I’m a crisis counselor with the Bureau.”

  “Oh.” Samantha plopped down on the couch. “So you’re here to shrink our heads?”

  “No. Actually—”

  “Samantha!” Muriel hollered before Tanner could finish her sentence. “Get off the sofa, and get your feet off the coffee table.” She swatted Samantha’s bare feet off the glass tabletop.

  “Why? It’s not like he’s coming back.”

  Muriel swallowed. “What a dreadful thing to say.”

  “Apologize to your mother,” Jacob said.

  “For what? Stating the truth? It’s time we moved back into reality. Stevie isn’t coming back, and he wasn’t off on some whirlwind romance.”

  “Oh?” Declan arched a brow. “What do you think he was doing?”

  “He was on a case.”

  Interesting.

  “What sort of case?”

  Samantha hunched forward. “He didn’t get into specifics.”

  “But he told you he was going to work a case?”

  She nodded.

  “Samantha, why didn’t you say anything until now?” her father asked, irate.

  “Because no one worth telling asked.”

  “Excuse me?” Jacob said.

  “Stevie told me not to tell you. Ma would just worry, and you can’t keep secrets from her. It’s endearing in a sick-to-the-stomach sort of way, but these two . . .” She looked between Declan and Tanner. “They seem to actually care about what happened to Stevie.”

  “And his partner doesn’t?” Jacob asked.

  “Not really. I mean, I believe he’s upset about Stevie’s death, but I think he’s mad Steve didn’t trust him enough to tell him where he was going and why. But it wasn’t a matter of trust. Steve knew Chuck would view it as a wild-goose chase and try to talk him out of it. Plus, he didn’t want Chuck to have to keep secrets from their boss. He was always looking out for his partner.”

  “Chuck said Stevie called in saying he was taking a personal leave and ended the conversation there. No one in the office knew where he went or what he was doing,” Muriel added, clearly distressed by the conversation.

  “Chuck should have done more. A good partner always has your back.” Samantha looked to Declan. “Am I right?”

  He nodded. It was true. But it sounded like Steven didn’t give his partner much opportunity—just called and took off.

  “Samantha, can we talk alone for a few moments?” he asked, believing she might have answers to more of his questions.

  “Sure, hunky.” She smiled.

  Her mother’s eyes widened. “Samantha!”

  “Come on, Muriel,” Jacob said. “I believe Agent Grey no longer requires our presence. Let’s go.”

  “If it’s all right,” Tanner said, “I’d love to continue chatting with you two.”

  “Of course.” Jacob nodded. “However we can help.”

  She followed them to the door.

  “You don’t need to leave,” Declan said.

  “I think I’ll just make sure Mrs. Burke is all right.” She winked.

  He nodded. She was going to find out what she could from the parents—what they probably didn’t even realize they knew—while he spoke with Steven’s sister.

  “So what else can you tell me about the case Steven was working?” Declan asked Samantha as everyone else departed.

  “I told you,” she said. “He shared a lot with me—especially his frustration with other FBI agents—but he didn’t share specifics about cases.”

  “Did he mention anything?” The slightest thing could give them a lead.

  “He said he had to go this one alone.”

  “Meaning without the Bureau’s knowledge—or his partner’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you didn’t find that odd?”

  “Nah. Chuck and Stevie used to be tight, but things had started to shift since the new boss, Henshaw, took over. They grew distant. Stevie became more independent and less of a team player.”

  “Did Chuck or Henshaw tell him he wasn’t a team player?” He needed her to be as specific as possible.

  She thought for a moment. “He said Henshaw first . . . and then Chuck. Said the FBI was really big on team players. You should know that. They felt Stevie was moving away from that mentality and had become a lone wolf.”

  “Any idea why Steven felt this mysterious case was important enough to break from the team rules?”

  “I don’t know.” She looked around the room, then exhaled as if she had just come to a decision. “Don’t let Ma know, but I think she might be half right.”

  He arched a brow. “About the romance?”

  “Yes, but not in the way she’s thinking.” She shifted to sit cross-legged on the couch, her yellow toenail polish showing. “Before Steve left he’d been spending some time talking with a gal at some coffee shop.”

  “Did you ever meet her?”

  “No. He was pretty secretive about the relationship, which was strange because we usually shared everything. He told me he was meeting a friend, and when I pressed, he said it was a woman.”

  “Did you ask why he was being so secretive?”

  “He said they were just friends, so there was no point going into detail, but he did say she was new to the area and he was just trying to help her out. But one day she didn’t show.”

  “Didn’t show? He told you that?”

  “He came back from the coffee shop early and in a panic. I asked what was wrong, and he said she didn’t meet him and he feared something had happened to her. He wouldn’t elaborate, just said she was gone. I’d never seen him like that—so frenzied. He packed a duffel and said he was going to investigate.”

  “Did he say where he was going?”

  She shook her head. “I told him he needed to tell Chuck, work with him, but Steve insisted the Bureau wouldn’t back him on this, that Chuck would get in trouble if he helped him, that he had to handle it on his own.” Tears filled her eyes. “And then he just left.”

  “And he never came back?”

  “No.”

  “Any idea which coffee shop they met at?” If they could get the woman’s name—or even a description—they could begin to search for her.

  “Frank’s is his favorite,” she said. “It’s more a diner than a coffee shop, but Stevie usually had his morning cup there. Sometimes he went to Beans & Buns—they have the best cinnamon buns—other times he went to Denton’s.”

  “And he never let on which coffee shop he met her at?”

  “Nah. Like I said, he was pretty secretive about the whole thing.”

  “I could be wrong, but you just don’t seem the type to let things go that easily.”

  She smiled ruefully. “I tried following him once, just to get a glance at her, but he caught me right away. He was a stellar agent, after all.”

  “And he never let on why he was so worried about her? What made him believe she had disappeared, and not that she just hadn’t shown up for some reason?”

  “He seemed convinced she was in some sort of danger. He was definite
ly fixated on something tied to her. I could see it in his eyes. He’d get this look whenever he was on to something. Only this time, he went chasing after whatever it was and it got him killed.”

  “According to the ship logs, it appears Steven was aboard the Hiram for close to two months.”

  “That’s about how long he was gone before we learned of his death.”

  “Did you or any of your family members have any contact with him during those months?”

  “He sent my parents the two postcards they told you about—one before he left Galveston, and the other a few weeks later—but those were just filled with fluff about the imaginary friend he was traveling with. He only sent those to keep them from worrying. He sent a couple postcards to me through the P.O. box he kept. I always checked it for him while he was away.”

  Interesting. So he sent his sister two postcards, but he went through his P.O. box instead of having them delivered to the apartment building. Was he trying to avoid his parents seeing them or was he worried about somebody else monitoring his mail?

  “Any chance I could see the postcards?” he asked.

  “Sure. Like I said, you and Tanner are the first people who actually look like you might be bright and eager enough to figure out what happened to Stevie.”

  “Thanks . . . I think.”

  “It was a compliment. Trust me.” She smiled and stood, heading for the door. “I’ll be right back. They’re down in my apartment.”

  Declan looked around while he waited for Samantha to return. The apartment was good size—a living area, full eat-in kitchen, bedroom, and two baths—a half off the living room and a full off the master bedroom. There was a Lee Child book on the nightstand, a slip of paper holding Steven’s spot. Declan picked it up, having really enjoyed Die Trying, and looked at the slip of paper—nothing but page numbers. They were probably just sections that Steven had enjoyed, but maybe—he could hope—they were clue notations to something he’d discovered. He’d ask Samantha if he could take both the book and the paper.

  Samantha returned and handed him the postcards. Both from ports the Hiram had made late in the journey, according to his memory of the manifest. They appeared to be nothing but short notes to his sister, but Declan didn’t think it was too much of a stretch to hope there was more to the postcards than what appeared on the surface.

  “Does what he wrote have any significant meaning to you?”

  “I thought maybe he was trying to tell me something, because they were sort of weirdly worded, so I kept rereading them, but I couldn’t figure out what he was trying to tell me. I feel horrible that I didn’t figure it out in time to keep him from dying.”

  “You can’t blame yourself.”

  She exhaled. “It’s hard not to.”

  “Would you mind if I borrowed them, along with the book on his nightstand? I’ll be sure to take really good care of them and return them to you. I promise.”

  “If you think you could crack the postcards, then by all means, but why the book?”

  “It has some numbers noted on a slip of paper. Probably nothing, but it’s piqued my curiosity.”

  “Sure,” she said.

  He rested his hands on his waist and looked around, trying to decide if there was anything he’d missed. “So other than the hard drive, was anything else taken?”

  “I think some notes he had on his desk went missing, but he kept his personal files at my place.”

  Jackpot.

  “Let me guess,” she said, before he could ask. “You’d like to borrow those too?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “I’ll go get them.”

  “Anything else he had you keep at your place?” Might as well ask before she needed to make a third trip.

  “Nope.” She headed for the door. “I’ll be back.”

  “I’ll be looking around.”

  She nodded and shut the door behind her.

  He strode once again through the living room, wondering what it was like to be Steven Burke. The local Feds had already processed the place, or at least made a sweep. How he’d love to get Parker down here, but he could only imagine the logistical red tape. Though if Burke’s parents allowed it . . . perhaps they could do it under the radar. Steven may not have been killed at his apartment, but the break-in indicated he had information that a third party wanted.

  Declan moved back into the bedroom and sat on the edge of Steven’s bed, surveying the space, wondering what Steven’s morning routine was like.

  He reached to flip on the bedside lamp, and the room lit. He strode to the reading chair and flipped on the gooseneck reading lamp beside it, pausing as a shadow under the hood of the lamp caught his eyes. Is that . . . ? He bent and angled his head.

  “Little bugger,” he murmured, disengaging the listening device, inspecting it. It looked a lot like the ones Parker found in Mira’s apartment. Coincidence? He didn’t believe so. Too many things seemed to indicate Steven Burke was a link to their terrorist case in Baltimore. But how did it all fit together? He slipped the bug into a small evidence bag.

  Samantha returned with a file box.

  “Thanks so much,” he said.

  “Discover anything else?”

  He held up the evidence bag with the bug.

  She squinted. “Is that what I think it is?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t believe they had the nerve . . .”

  “Who had the nerve?” Who did she think was listening in?

  “I have no idea, but whoever it was sucks.” She glanced around the apartment. “Are there more?”

  “Not that I’ve found, but I still have the rest of the place to search.”

  “Can I help you?”

  “That’d be great.” Since Tanner was occupied, it’d help him move through the place quicker. “Put these on.” He tossed her a pair of gloves.

  “Now I’m a real CSI,” she joked.

  The two combed the remainder of the apartment but found no more bugs, only a small piece of wiring that had been left behind. He was betting whoever wiped the computer and took the hard drive removed the bugs in an effort to hide the fact they’d been listening. But they’d been sloppy and left one and a piece of one behind. The bugs definitely weren’t federal issue, so he truly believed the party that broke in, whoever they were, were behind the listening devices.

  When Declan was satisfied their search was complete, Samantha showed him to her parents’ penthouse. Tanner was in the midst of having tea and cookies with Jacob and Muriel Burke. Muriel appeared to be in a much better mood, actually smiling and offering him some refreshments as he and Samantha entered. The penthouse was huge—stretching the full length of the building’s top floor. He supposed when you owned the building those perks came with it.

  He sat down next to Tanner, a cup of tea in hand. He much preferred coffee but didn’t want to be rude.

  “Muriel’s been telling me all about Steve,” Tanner said. “He’s quite the man of accomplishment.”

  Muriel’s cheeks flushed. “Oh, you’re too sweet,” she said.

  “He was a track star in high school and college, graduated top of his class at the academy,” Tanner said with a smile.

  “That is impressive,” he said, amazed at the change in Muriel’s demeanor and at the woman sitting next to him.

  How did Tanner do it? Get people to open up so readily? Get him to listen to his heart for once? It was terrifying but at the same time exhilarating.

  Griffin watched as Haywood Grant’s body was zipped up in a black plastic morgue bag, still in shock that it would be his last sight of the man he’d first met when he was just a kid and had believed was larger than life. How did this happen? Who murdered his coach and staged it to look like suicide? Who set him up to take the fall for the Markums’ murder? What had the killer done with the Markums’ bodies? Was the killer Lowell Brentwood? And if so, how were they going to prove it?

  16

  The
search for the Markums was flatlining quickly. The K9 units covered the resort grounds and surrounding woods, but the only trail they picked up led from the resort’s side door straight to Haywood’s car. They’d checked the alarm record and found the exit door next to the Markums’ room had opened during the night at roughly one o’clock, two o’clock, and finally at two twenty, not to open again until seven thirty.

  Griffin and Jason found dried mud caked in Haywood’s tires and looked in the trunk, where they saw what looked to be more blood, but they needed to wait for Parker and Avery to properly process the vehicle before examining it in greater detail. Parker and Avery still were in the midst of processing the Markums’ room.

  It was vital to Griffin that this case be worked to the letter, each piece of evidence photographed and catalogued. He would find Haywood’s killer, and when he did, he wanted all the evidence in order. He just prayed God would equip him to restrain himself when Lowell Brentwood returned, given that Haywood’s partner was suspect number one.

  But at least they’d finally learned where Lowell was. One of the guests had seen him and Emmitt Powell heading out for a horseback ride early that morning. Surely they’d be back soon—and what a return they’d have waiting. Haywood dead, the Markums missing and presumed dead, and the remaining clients upset and scared. All of them were anxious to leave, and while a good number had been released once they had been interviewed and their contact information taken down, several had been asked to stay based on information they gave, their room’s proximity to the crime scene, or the fact that they were one of the clients who were missing funds.

  As they entered the inn, Griffin and Jason headed to check in with Parker as he finished processing the Markums’ room. Griffin prayed his friend had found something—anything—that might aid in the search for the Markums’ bodies.

  Parker worked the Markums’ room, trying to keep his focus on the minute details and the task before him, but his mind kept shifting back to Haywood slashed up in the tub—the metallic smell of blood, the feel of the cool water as he dipped his gloved hand in for a sample, the sound of the draining water.