“Detective, it was just supposed to be a dare.” The teenager stood with his back to the gray cement blocks of the wrecking yard office. His gaze darted from his three friends lined up beside him and Heath and Derek in front. “Get over the fence and take a selfie in one of the cars,” he rushed out. “I thought it would be fun to take mine in the trunk of that old Lincoln.’ He swallowed. “That’s all.”
Except the kid’s Sunday afternoon soon turned into a crapfest.
Heath glanced across the yard of mini skyscrapers of junk cars stacked one on top of another as the crime scene techs processed the kid’s grisly find. “And then you found the bodies, Peter?”
The kid nodded. “Man, the smell.” He shuddered as his three friends nodded in agreement, one of them making an all too realistic gagging sound. “It was”—he shook his head—“bad.” He broke off and lowered his gaze to his sneakers.
Heath could sympathize. The rancid stench of a dead body burned its putrid way into a person’s memory. And the summer heat wouldn’t have helped matters.
“Detective…” The boy’s father spoke as he stood off to the side, his forehead lined with worry. “Peter and his friends were stupid, but trespassing into Wazkowski’s Yard is a neighborhood tradition that’s gone on for three generations. Frank and I”—he gestured to another of the boys’ fathers next to him—“did the same when we were their age. Not that I’m excusing what the boys did, but even the owner knows this happens. Wazkowski doesn’t have any security except for the chain and padlock on the front gates.”
Heath didn’t waste time putting the father at ease. “Detective Shaw and I have already agreed we won’t be charging the boys.” Under the circumstances, the teens had already suffered a big enough scare. They had been checked for shock, given water, and interviewed with their parents in attendance.
“Okay, boys. Go with Sergeant Baker.” Heath indicated the female uniformed cop on his left. “She’ll organize your statements and talk with your parents.”
He noted the remorseful looks on the kids’ faces before walking with Derek over to the late model Lincoln. They stepped around two crime scene technicians setting up lights on tripods. It was four o’clock in the afternoon, but processing a scene took hours and the techs and detectives would be working until well past sundown.
The foul stench of decaying flesh slapped Heath in the face as he neared the car’s trunk. Small shallow breaths through the mouth. He blinked twice, regained his focus and studied the bodies jammed into the trunk. A male and female. Clothed. The woman on her back looking up to the sky, the male on his side, face toward the trunk’s carpeted floor and obscured from view. Both had their legs bent at the knees.
Heath and Derek nodded to a man in white paper overalls who was busy snapping photos of the trunk.
“Hey there, Tom. What can you tell us?” Derek asked of the Crime Scene Unit Detective.
Tom waved a hand toward the trunk. “Both victims shot in the back of the head. Execution style. Not killed here. Autopsy will tell you more, but my guess is they’ve been here at least a couple of days.”
Execution style. An organized hit?
The woman wore a black dress in a flimsy material with a halter top barely covering her breasts. The man had on jeans, a dark shirt and engraved leather boots, which would have cost a mint.
The man’s clothing—finer material and those expensive boots—were in stark contrast to the cheaper quality of the woman’s attire.
This was no couple.
Heath slid on a pair of nitrile gloves. “Any ID?”
“Yes.” Tom lifted a clear evidence bag lying on a blue tarp at his feet and passed it out to Heath. “Female had a handbag. Driver’s license says Alyssa Holmes. Age twenty-eight. Sergeant Baker recognized the name. She’s a prostitute. Pulled her in before.”
Heath took the evidence bag, and pushed the ends of the small black clutch inside to get a view of the bag’s contents. Condoms, an iPhone, travel packet of Kleenex and ID were the only contents.
“The male’s Donny Jacobsen.”
Heath’s gaze snapped from the victim’s clutch to Tom. “The two-bit drug dealer?” His days in Narcotics were years ago, but Heath had arrested the guy a few times.
“A deal gone bad?” Derek said as if to himself, repeating Heath’s thoughts.
Heath glanced to his partner. “Your brother Aidan works Narcotics, right?” Aidan would have more background on Jacobsen, which might save them time digging up shit.
“On it.” Derek pulled out his phone and walked away a few paces.
Passing the evidence bag back to the tech, Heath scanned the yard.
A jumble of cars stacked one on top of another. One more car down the back of the lot wouldn’t attract attention. Hidden. The smell of the bodies would eventually bring attention. But not straight away.
Heath waved over one of the uniform cops. “Where’s the yard’s owner?”
“In Idaho at his daughter’s wedding.” The officer checked his notebook. “Victor Wazkowski. He’s been gone since Tuesday. Closed the yard for the week. It’s a family operation run with his two sons. The father’s on his way back now.”
Someone making good use of an opportunity? The killer would have had to know the owner had shut up for the week. “Get me his contact details.” He’d call Wazkowski once back at the station and set up an interview with the guy for as soon as he returned.
“Right,” Derek said into his cell phone. “Yeah, we’ll see you in an hour or so.” He ended the call and turned his gaze on Heath. “Aidan said Jacobsen had a fight with some younger dealers over turf a week ago. He’ll see what he can dig up and meet us back at the station.”
“Good.” There wasn’t much he and Derek could do here while Tom, his crew, and the coroner’s staff processed the scene. “We need to track down the next of kin. Let’s get that done, then catch up with Aidan.”
At the very least, Sergeant Baker had recognized the woman’s name.
“Alyssa had a pimp. Ruiz Vargas. He runs a string of girls in North Seattle.” Baker named the hotspot for prostitution in Seattle. All the old cheap motels left over from the World’s Fair offered the perfect backdrop for johns looking for a cheap score. “Don’t think she had any family, at least not local.”
Baker’s words on who was left to mourn Alyssa proved true one hour later as Heath and Derek questioned the girls walking up and down the main avenue. The daylight hours cast a layer of extra hardness on their overly made up faces. Or maybe it was years of living with meager hope? Either way, their answers were the same. Alyssa was a product of the foster system. Friendly enough. Drank, but no drugs. No enemies. All had amnesia on where her pimp Vargas could be. The guy wasn’t in any of the motels he and Derek checked out.
Heath sighed as he followed Derek back to the station in his SUV. A person’s life distilled down to four short, emotionless sentences. How fucking tragic.
It wasn’t lost on him that his and his brother’s lives could have turned out the same way if it hadn’t been for Aurora Justice.
As for Donny Jacobsen, the guy’s record stated he had a brother in Oregon. Derek had already rung their counterparts down south to deliver the news and arrange a proper ID of the body.
Twenty minutes later, they were back at Headquarters and walking into the Homicide unit. The days of ’70s cop shows where the units were dark, gloomy rooms filled with cigarette smoke and metal desks were long gone. Heath and Derek’s work area looked more like any normal office with boring beige colored cubicles and a tile ceiling patterned with strips of fluorescent lighting.
At the far end was the major incident room, partitioned off from the rest of the unit by glass dividing walls. Whiteboards covered in notes and photos of the Fox murder scene covered the walls. Heath glimpsed his fellow Detectives Kennedy and Faulkner examining some notes. Next to them stood one of Tollison’s colleagues Heath remembered from the Fox mansion.
The natural urge to check in on their progress would have to wait. He had his own cases to keep him busy.
A tall man dressed in jeans and a gray shirt stood next to Derek’s desk, his back to them.
“Aidan,” Derek called out.
The man turned, and Heath caught the resemblance to London with his green eyes and similar hair. No, change that. Not exactly like London’s hair, more brown with russet streaks, but close enough it was obvious they were related.
“Derek,” Aidan nodded to his older brother before facing Heath. “Heath, good to see you.”
“Likewise.” Heath shook the man’s hand. They hadn’t worked together, but he had seen Aidan around Headquarters. The detective had a reputation as tough and skilled at catching his marks.
Derek sat on the corner of his desk, crossed his arms over his chest, and regarded his brother. “You said on the phone you’d heard Jacobsen was involved in a turf war with younger dealers?”
Aidan nodded. “Jacobsen was a two-bit dealer barely hanging onto his patch. Early forties, liked to dress smart and look the part, but sampled too much of his product. He’d lost his street cred, if he ever had it at all. The younger guys are ambitious and wanted to squeeze him out. But”—he glanced over at Heath—“they’re also smart. Getting rid of Jacobsen is one thing—a serious beating would likely force the man to move on. Killing him plus a prostitute?” Aidan shrugged. “Seems heavy handed. He was weak, had no friends to back him up.”
Good point. Why complicate matters with two killings? “You got any names?” Heath sat at his desk, ready to look at any leads on the system.
“Yeah.” Aidan provided details of the two leads. “Their troops have already taken over Jacobsen’s patch. However, since he’s been missing for a few days, it’s not proof alone. Nobody would leave fertile territory unclaimed for long.”
Heath sat at his desk and typed the names in and pulled up a couple of rap sheets. Two brothers. Both in their mid-twenties. Both had priors for assault, but minor. No drug convictions. These guys obviously kept their business tight. Got others to make the rounds for them and take the risks.
“We should coordinate our teams and pay them a visit,” Heath said.
Aidan sighed. “Damn, this means we’re gonna miss Mom’s roast tonight. Mercy and I were heading over.”
“I took you away from that sweet girl of yours. Still can’t understand what she sees in you.” Derek chuckled at Aidan’s one-fingered salute. “I was looking forward to a roast dinner. I’ll be living on take-out and cold coffee until this case is done.”
Heath’s mind raced back to London, alone, with no plans to visit for a family dinner. At least, not before he left. Maybe she’d end up at her parents? “What about London?”
“Our sister?” Aidan’s gaze narrowed.
Jesus, he’d asked that aloud? “I met her with Derek at your parent’s house last Thursday. I wondered if a Sunday roast was a family meal or if she’d be writing.” Or if the fates weren’t a bitch, she’d have been with him, and writing would have been the last thing on her mind.
“Once a month we make sure we have a family meal, but the dinner wasn’t this weekend.” Derek moved to sit behind his desk and gestured to his brother to take the visitor’s chair on the other side. “Mom got it into her head her sons needed spoiling, and none of us are stupid enough to dissuade her of that idea.”
“Although Cooper and Liam aren’t cops, so there’s a chance they really are stupid.” Aidan shared a smile with his brother.
“Cooper being a fireman like dad is a total suck-up. And Liam becoming an economist proves he was swapped at birth.”
Heath relaxed back in his chair, feeling a smile tug at his mouth. Brotherly banter. He understood. Sometimes it involved jokes. Sometimes the message was delivered with a right hook. That’s the world of brothers.
“The economist admission is troubling, but then I have a computer genius for a brother, so who the hell am I to judge.” Heath smirked. “Getting back to setting up a visit to these two dealers, we should—” He broke off as he glanced over Derek’s shoulder and toward the entrance of their unit. “Lieutenant Brannigan,” he said, catching Derek’s gaze before his partner turned toward their commander.
“I bring good news, Justice.” Their lieutenant stopped beside Heath. Dressed in chinos and a Henley, he looked like he’d been dragged away from a game of golf with his buddies.
“Lieutenant, don’t know if you’ve met my brother. Detective Aidan Shaw.” Derek introduced the men.
Brannigan gave Aidan a chin lift before speaking. “I received a message thirty minutes ago from an old informant of mine. Said he saw your victims getting shot last Wednesday evening.” The lieutenant swept his gaze over the three men before returning to Heath. “By the hooker’s pimp, Ruiz Vargas.”
Heath blinked. A witness? This was a gift from the heavens. Nevertheless, years of false leads and letdowns on cases tempered his enthusiasm. “Can you trust this informant?”
Brannigan nodded. “He described their clothing and the car. I rang CSI on the scene. Descriptions match.”
Heath let out a sigh and glanced at Derek.
The big detective rose from his chair. “We were just out where Vargas apparently rents rooms at the old motels in North Seattle. No sign of him.” He ran a hand through his short blond hair. “My guess is he’s gone to ground.”
“Seemed that way.” Heath looked at his boss. “Lieutenant, why did the informant take so long to ring you?”
“My guy’s a fence, ready to retire. He said he had no way of proving what had taken place. Now bodies have turned up, his descriptions fit, giving his story credibility. Said the girl had just given the guy a blow job in an alley. Vargas drove up. Had words with Jacobsen, something about money owed and then the woman starts slapping Vargas. Next thing, Vargas has his gun out, forces them to kneel next to the car, shoots them in the back of the head, shoves their bodies in the trunk and drives off.”
“Cold son of a bitch,” Heath muttered.
Aidan sighed as he stood. “That’s Vargas. He’s a bastard. Keeps his girls strung out. If he loses one from an overdose, he doesn’t care, there’s always another ready to take her place.” He glanced at his phone. “I can put feelers out and have our guys monitor his girls and the hotels he uses.”
Heath nodded. “Appreciated.”
“Your informant prepared to make a statement?” Derek asked Brannigan.
“Yes.” Their Lieutenant shoved his hands into the pockets of his chinos. “Benny’s days away from moving to California, out of Vargas’s reach.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve arranged for him to be in interview room three. He should be there now.”
“We’ve got to get more evidence than just a witness. Something to tie him to the bodies or the car.” Heath looked at his phone. No messages. It would be hours yet, probably tomorrow before any lab reports or prints were back from the car. “But this helps. Thanks for getting the witness in so fast.”
“Benny’s not a junkie and has no enemies. I’ve known him for years. Got help for his daughter to get her off drugs. My guess is he feels he owes me, so he’s speaking up.” Lieutenant Brannigan shrugged. “He’ll make a good witness.” He handed over his business card with his home number on the back. “Whatever I can do to assist, let me know. If you can’t get me on my cell, call my home.”
“Yes, sir,” both men stated as Brannigan nodded to them before he left.
Heath rubbed the back of his neck. Having a witness made their job a hell of a lot easier.
So why did he have an uneasy feeling in his gut?
He mentally shook himself. Jesus, he needed a beer, some dinner and a hot shower. The chance to wash away the scene he’d left at the wrecking yard from both his body and mind would do him the world of good.
But first, he and Derek had an interview to conduct.
He stretched his neck from side to side to try and banish the stiffness from his muscles.
God, it was going to be a long night.
****
London sat at her desk and dragged in a steady breath as she reached for her phone. Wednesday had finally dawned. The book signing was tonight, and she should be excited. In fact, she was for many reasons. Not least of which was the chance of seeing Heath again. To hear his deep voice, feel the scrutiny of his blue gaze and the touch of his hands sent a tingle of anticipation over her body. Yes, he was busy with the new case, but he said he’d try to attend.
The day had also signaled the deadline to call her agent, Gloria, with her answer on whether to sign her publisher’s contract on the new YA series.
And the nerves in London’s belly had been performing cartwheels at the prospect of delivering her answer to her stubborn agent.
This was her career on the line, and therefore, her decision to make.
“Come on, get this over with.” She lifted the phone’s handset and dialed the New York number.
She announced herself to the receptionist and waited the few seconds to be placed through to Gloria’s phone.
“London, good to hear from you.” Gloria’s deep, smoke-roughened voice came clear over the line. “Are you excited about the book signing tonight?”
“Oh, yes.” London heard the smile in her voice. “Cleo’s worked hard to make everything perfect.”
“Good. Good,” Gloria rasped back. “”You’ve such a loyal readership. I bet your local fans will love getting their books signed.”
London didn’t miss the pointed choice of words to describe her readers. “I enjoy every chance of meeting up with them too.” She pressed her hand on the old oak desk, formerly a farm table, and felt the notches and scratches, which had rounded down over time and lost their sharp edges.
Everything takes a few dents over the years, but survives. Tougher. With more character.
The thought stayed with her as she strengthened her resolve.
“Gloria, I’ve come to a decision on the publisher’s offer.” She waited a beat. “I’m grateful for the opportunity, but I’m turning them down. As I’ve said before, right now, I don’t see myself writing YA. Maybe in twelve months.”
Seconds passed. Then a hard, impatient sigh cut through the silence.
“I see,” Gloria clipped in answer. “You realize what a foolish mistake this is?”
London refused to debate the merits of her decision. “My mind’s made up.”
“You’re throwing away a dedicated following to satisfy some whim?”
A whim? London opened her mouth to set the woman straight.
However, Gloria spoke first as she switched her tone to one of cajoling. “London, you can write your mystery suspense, but do that outside of your normal writing schedule. Keep writing YA and grow that brand.”
London sighed, beyond hiding her frustration. “The point is I don’t want to write YA right now. If I did, the stories would be weak, lacking conviction, and my readers would see through that by the end of the first chapter.” But her current choice of genre didn’t mean she was prepared to give away writing YA forever. “Taking a break will allow me to refresh. In twelve months, I’ll likely want to write that series.”
“What if New York doesn’t want your concept then?”
“Then we’ll try somewhere else.” Or I could self-publish. The words went unsaid, and she bet Gloria was thinking the same. Self-publishing meant no commission for her agent.
Gloria wasn’t ready to concede and displayed the tenacity London had hired her for. “Being successful in this game is about selling books. Talent counts, obviously, but the size of your readership is a major key to getting more book deals.”
True. And her following could drift away and not cross over to a new genre. She ignored the sudden tightening in her stomach. Fear is for the weak.
“We’ve been over this before. I’m not going to change my mind.”
“I think this is career suicide for your author brand.”
“You’re entitled to your opinion.” She stared unseeing at the scattered papers on her desk as another thought punched a hole in her defenses. “I hope my decision doesn’t impair our relationship, Gloria.”
“We have a three-year contract for me to represent you. I’m paid a commission on any contracts I’ve negotiated for you. That was your last series. We still have ten months left on our agreement.”
“Right,” London agreed. So why did Gloria feel the need to spell out the terms in such a cold, businesslike tone?
“Then we’re fine.”
“Okay.” She grabbed a pen, flicking it over in between her fingers as a rush of anxiety swamped her. She didn’t want to burn this bridge with her agent. They’d worked so well together in the past. “I appreciate you being candid and letting me know how you feel about my decision on passing up the publisher’s offer.”
“Of course.”
Gloria said no more. A torturous lengthy silence stretched out. God, she needed to say something more. “I haven’t said I want to give up YA entirely. I just want to try this new project first.”
“That’s your right. As you’ve said, you’re the author.” The sounds of paper being shuffled sounded through the phone. “I’ll inform the publisher on your behalf. They’ll be disappointed. Look out for an email from Emily. She’ll try to change your mind.” Gloria named London’s editor. “Good luck with tonight’s signing. Rory’s Girl’s a hit. I’m sure you’ll have a great time.”
“Right. Okay.” London blinked as the agent spoke at rapid fire speed. “Thanks,” she managed to get out as the phone clicked in her ear.
With a sigh, she dropped the handset back in its cradle. “That went well.”
Hey, what had she expected, cheering and shouts of joy?
Whether London had just committed “career suicide” or not, the decision was hers to make.
She hoped like hell this move was the right one.
****
Heath scanned the entrance and parking lot of the motel across the road. From the driver’s seat in the unmarked black van he had an unobstructed view of most of the motel’s rooms, including the one used by Ruiz Vargas. No movement. A normal Wednesday afternoon to the casual observer. He spoke into the two-way radio. “Everyone in position?”
Softly spoken one-word confirmations came in.
Daylight afforded the team of five cops no cover as they sat in regular cars on the street or hid in the alcoves around the two-story motel. Three streets away, two patrol cars plus a SWAT Team waited. Vargas was a suspect in a gun related murder. He had a history of violence and intimidation. Heath and Derek weren’t taking any chances in his capture.
Vargas was in room 25 on the second floor. In the three days since the discovery of the bodies, Heath’s men had staked out the motel—one of two the pimp used for his stable of hookers. But Vargas had been in the wind. Nobody had seen him or heard from him. Not the normal behavior for a man pimping flesh.
Finally, Heath’s patience had been rewarded. Only thirty minutes earlier, his team had sighted their suspect. Heath wasn’t surprised. Criminals always fucked up one way or another.
As news of the murders spread, word on the street leaned toward another dealer carrying out the hit, not Alyssa’s pimp. So why was Vargas hiding unless he was running?
“Female. Exiting room 25,” Derek’s voice said over the radio. Heath’s partner had commandeered the motel’s office on arrival. For all they knew, the owner was on Vargas’s payroll. At the very least, the balding, mouse of a man was getting paid to look the other way as Vargas’s hookers went about their business.
Heath watched the female—from this distance, he’d guess she was in her early twenties, possibly younger—walk to the next room and use a key to enter. From her skimpy bra and short skirt, it was a safe bet her job wasn’t motel housekeeping.
No other movement came from room 25. There were no windows at the back of each room, only a small one looking out onto the balcony and parking lot. Vargas could still have others in the room with him, but Heath needed to strike now in case the pimp was only there to check up on business and run again.
Heath nodded to the SWAT Commander sitting next to him. The officer issued his orders in quick, precise declarations. His efficient, no-nonsense manner was in line with the straight, blunt buzz cut of his gray hair and expressionless demeanor.
Seconds later, a dark armored van sped into the motel’s parking lot. Ten men dressed in black commando gear, including full-face helmets exited the van and ran up the stairs leading to the second story. Heath drew his weapon and ran from his cover to the motel’s reception. The SWAT Commander was by his side as they monitored the scene.
One SWAT officer slammed an entry ram against the door to Vargas’s room, while another threw in a small object. Seconds later, deafening bangs sounded as blinding light flashed inside the room.
“Police! Get on the ground! Get on the ground!” Heath ran up the stairs toward the officer’s shouts and a woman’s scream. He stopped ten feet from the doorway as one of the team exited.
The officer lifted the visor of his helmet. “All clear. One male and one female contained. No weapons on either. The female has a facial injury, sustained before our entry.”
The Commander nodded and then turned to Heath. “The prisoner’s all yours, Detective.”
SWAT was used to ensure capture and initial containment of a suspect. From there, the rest of the job fell to the homicide squad. “Thanks, Commander. Please pass on my appreciation to your men.”
“Will do,” the Commander acknowledged before heading down the stairs.
Heath and the two homicide officers who had staked out the motel the past few days walked to the doorway of room 25.
Dark clothed figures filled the room, blocking their view. Heath and his team waited for all but three SWAT officers to exit before entering.
Heath saw a door open to the bathroom. A brunette woman with a bath towel wrapped around her sat on the toilet seat crying. Tiny. Too thin. Swollen eye already starting to bruise and red marks on her throat. Heath clenched his jaw. Women should be protected, not abused.
He looked over his shoulder and nodded to Jenkins.
“I’m on it.” The female officer headed toward the bathroom.
Clearing past the remaining SWAT officers, Heath caught sight of a man wearing only jeans and motorcycle boots lying face down on the brown carpeted floor, his hands cuffed behind him. A tattoo of a coiled serpent took up most of his olive-skinned upper back.
“What the fuck is this, man?” the suspect complained. Raising his bald head from the carpet, the man blinked, clearly still dazed from the effects of the flashbang. “I’m just on vacation.”
The hard features of the man’s face and the dark goatee matched Ruiz Vargas’s rap sheet photo.
The SWAT team members nodded to Heath before leaving the room.
“Shut the fuck up, Vargas.” Heath hauled the man up and noted the top of Vargas’s head reached his shoulders. Not tall, but built solid and with lots of attitude. With a firm grip, he pushed Vargas to sit on the bed.
He noted a paramedic entering the room and heading straight to the bathroom. Jenkins’s face was tight as she glanced at Heath. She pointed at Vargas and mouthed “him” before closing the bathroom door quietly.
A wave of hot anger washed over Heath, and he forced the emotion down. He was a professional. The best way to fuck this bastard up was to get the facts and use them to screw Vargas into as many charges as possible.
Order.
Method.
Do the job right the first time.
“How do you know my name? I don’t know you.” The pimp glared, his brown gaze flicking between Heath and the other detective.
“No, but you know me, don’t you, Vargas?” Aidan Shaw walked into the room.
Vargas snapped his head in the direction of the vice detective’s deep voice.
Aidan stopped next to Heath. “Been a couple of months since I’ve had the sad occasion of your company.”
“I’ll be out in a day, tops, Shaw.” Vargas gave on oily smile. “I’m just staying here with some friends. None of the women here will say otherwise.”
Heath could imagine. Vargas was a pimp. Intimidation—backed up by physical punishment—was his tool to keep his hookers in line. For that alone the bastard deserved a beating of his own.
“You think I’m trying to bust you for running your girls?” Aidan smiled, but the coldness in his eyes held no humor. “I’m simply here for the pleasure of seeing a win for Justice.”
Heath chuckled at Aidan’s hidden joke.
Vargas’s cocky attitude vaporized as uncertainty clouded his gaze. His gaze switched from Aidan to Heath.
“Ruiz Vargas, you’re under arrest for the murders of Alyssa Holmes and Donny Jacobsen.
Vargas eyes widened. “What the fuck?”
Heath ignored him and continued to read the man his Miranda rights.
“No. No.” Vargas turned his head as he looked around the room, his gaze jumping from one cop to another, then back to Heath. “That’s a fucking lie. I didn’t kill anyone.”
“I’m sure you’ll repeat that over the next many hours.” Heath gripped the man’s arm and tugged him off the bed, his expression and tone remote. “The detectives have your wallet and shirt.”
“Fucking bastards.”
“Yeah, we’re adorable when doing our job.” Heath pulled the man out the door and stopped as Derek and a young woman stood on the second story walkway. An ugly bruise marred her cheekbone. From the purple and yellow color along with a partly healed cut, the injuries were days old.
The girl blanched as Vargas glared at her.
“Get inside,” the pimp snarled to the girl.
Derek moved to stand in front of the woman, his body easily blocking her from view. “Did Detective Justice share the good news?” At Vargas’s confused expression, Derek continued. “You don’t have to worry about the women in your absence. Seattle PD has organized a couple of women’s shelters to meet with them here once you’re gone. Detective Shaw there”—he nodded toward his brother—“was eager to share that the Vice Squad is now targeting pimps and not the girls they intimidate to work for them.” Derek’s scornful gaze drilled into Vargas. “Cutting off the head of the snake.”
Heath didn’t miss the reference to the tattoo on Vargas’s back and bit back a laugh. He owed his partner a beer just for that jab.
Vargas’s olive complexion darkened as a muscle ticked in his jaw.
Derek wasn’t finished. “And the guy in room 22, the one you had here to keep these women under control for the last three days? We caught him striking a female he had cuffed to the bed. He’s now in his own set of cuffs and has been charged with assault and battery.”
For a man like Vargas who viewed women as property, taking away all his control was more devastating than any punch to his jaw.
Heath gave the pimp a wry smile. “It’s just not your day, is it, Vargas?”
The man’s face twisted with rage. “You fucking bastards!” He kicked in Heath’s direction, jerked against his cuffs, and threatened merry hell, but between Heath and Aidan, they got him safely into the back of a patrol car.
“Meet you at the station.” Heath nodded to the uniform cop sitting in the driver’s seat.
Heath and Aidan watched the motel’s owner loudly profess his ignorance of any illegal acts being carried out on the premises as he was escorted by two more uniform cops into the reception area.
A mini-van pulled up, and two women and a guy exited. They greeted one of the vice cops as though they knew each other well.
“That’s the team from the shelter,” Aidan shared.
Heath glanced back at the young woman standing with Derek. Her sad, weary gaze made her look older beyond her years. A long line of track marks on the insides of her bare arms showed how far she’d sunk into the destructive mire of drugs.
How bloody tragic.
Would she stay more than one night at the shelter, if at all?
Heath remembered Seth sharing a few memories of his birth mother. She’d been a druggie and a prostitute back in Sydney when Seth was only a little kid. He had described looking into his mother’s eyes was like seeing a person devoid of joy, just a sad acceptance that there was no real future. She died long before taking that fatal overdose. Those were the last words Seth had shared about her.
Christ, what a different childhood he’d lived to Seth’s. No drugs. No fear. He’d been loved by his parents and older sister. Every day was normal. Safe. Filled with fun.
Until he’d turned thirteen.
In one instant, everything had changed.
His family had been taken.
Killed.
Because of me.
“Heath?”
He blinked, staring at Derek, who must have joined him and Aidan at some point.
“Sorry, just thinking ahead.” A lie. More like caught in the past. “Let’s get to the station and interview Vargas.” He held his hand out to Aidan. “Thanks for your help today. I know you’ll be here for a while, but we’ll keep you updated on how we go with Vargas.”
“I’d appreciate that.” Aidan shook Heath’s hand before glancing at Derek. “You going to London’s book signing tonight?”
Heath hid his sigh of frustration. Over the last three days, he’d only been able to leave voice messages with London and had missed her two return phone calls.
Derek checked his watch. “We’ll see. It’s already two o’clock now. The gig kicks off at six.” He shrugged. “Depends what happens with Vargas.”
Aidan nodded. “Mercy and I will be there. Mom and Dad have organized reservations for dinner afterward.” He switched his attention to Heath. “London told me you were given a special invitation.” Aidan’s gaze filled with caution as he assessed Heath.
“I was.” The invite came via one of London’s voicemail messages. “And like Derek, if I can, I’ll be there.” He didn’t elaborate any further as he turned and said over his shoulder to Derek, “Let’s roll.”
By the time his partner had followed him to Heath’s SUV, Heath had the engine running. Derek climbed into the front passenger seat, did up his seatbelt and stared at Heath.
Wonderful.
“Spit it out.”
“You’re interested in my sister.”
Heath kept his gaze on the road as they headed back to Headquarters in downtown Seattle. “You got this from an invitation to a book signing?”
“No, I watched you two last Thursday. She kept stealing glances at you like she was back in high school. And you gave her a lift home on Sunday.” At Heath’s raised eyebrow, Derek clarified. “She told Mom when explaining why she didn’t have her car Sunday night. They ended up collecting it together from Seven Dishes first thing Monday morning.” He turned his gaze to the front windshield. “You’re attracted to her. She is to you. Don’t deny it.”
Derek’s tone held no anger. He was simply stating facts.
Good. Heath appreciated the man’s direct manner and would return in kind.
“Yes, I’m attracted to her. But not only in the way you’re thinking.”
Derek shot him a sidelong glance. “Your attraction is based on holding her hand and discussing her publishing career.”
Yeah, this could get ugly quick.
“Mate, nobody will stay happy if we keep up this line of conversation.” Heath kept his gaze to the road. “I’m not going to explain myself except to say I know who London is to you, and I’m mindful of what that means and how she should be treated.” They pulled up at a set of lights. The tick of the SUV’s turning indicator sliced through the silence in the car’s cabin. Heath focused on his partner as his voice firmed. “Let’s be clear, I’d show her respect no matter who was her brother.”
Derek nodded. “I hear you. My gut instinct is you’re not a bastard. I like you. But this is my sister. You hurt her and I’ll fucking shove your dick down your throat.”
There was no humor in his partner’s voice. The threat was clear.
The guy cared for his sister. Fair enough. Heath refrained from telling Derek where he could shove his warning. “I’d expect nothing less. Good to know London has you looking out for her.”
“She has three other brothers who are just as protective,” Derek was quick to add.
“Yeah, but one of them is an economist.” Heath couldn’t resist the jab.
Derek sighed. “Don’t remind me.”
Heath hid his own sigh and drove on. He wanted a hassle-free working relationship with his partner—a man Heath needed to know had his back in life or death situations. So yeah, getting the guy offside over his sister wasn’t optimal. But Derek would also have to deal. London was an adult. She made her own decisions. Wherever she and Heath decided to take their mutual attraction was none of Derek’s business.
The remaining twenty-minute drive back to Headquarters was taken up with planning their interrogation of Vargas. Benny, Lieutenant Brannigan’s witness, had made his statement Sunday night to Heath and Derek and identified Vargas as the man who’d shot the two victims. The Lieutenant had assured the informant he’d be warned when Vargas was taken into custody. Now it was a matter of seeing how Vargas would try to talk his way out of two murder charges.
When they arrived back at Homicide, Heath spotted their sergeant standing in front of the large whiteboard talking with a Fed. Which reminded Heath, he still hadn’t heard back from Adam since a quick phone call yesterday. Fuck. A double murder case took all his focus. He wanted to help his brothers, but time and events were getting away from him.
Sergeant Hank Avery caught sight of Heath and turned to say something to the Fed before heading over. Short, with a piercing, dark gaze, which matched a razor sharp mind, the man was seven years older than Heath’s thirty. Tough but fair, he had the respect of the team of six detectives who answered to him.
Avery stopped next to Heath and Derek as they stood by their desks. “Nice job with the takedown of Vargas.”
“Thanks. We’re on our way to interview him.” Heath picked up the case file as Derek answered a call on his desk phone.
Avery’s gaze dropped to the file. “He’s lawyered up.”
So quick? “The guy didn’t waste time.”
“One of Vargas’s girls must have made a call.” The sergeant’s mouth slanted with distaste. “The guy only needs one girl under his thumb to do his bidding. So be careful. Vargas may be an asshole, but he’s not an idiot.” Avery shoved his hands into the pockets of his tan slacks. “I informed Lieutenant Brannigan we have Vargas. He’s notifying your witness.”
Heath nodded. “Right.” He glanced at Derek, who was hanging up his desk phone. “Ready?”
“Yeah.” Derek picked up a pad and pen from his desk. “That was the duty sergeant. Vargas and his lawyer are in interview room five.”
“Let’s not keep them waiting.” Heath glanced back at his sergeant. “We’ll keep you updated.”
“Yeah, thanks.” Avery headed back to the officers near the whiteboard.
Heath and Derek ignored the elevator and used the four flights of stairs down to the interview rooms to help expel the rush of energy that always filled a cop in the moments before interrogating a suspect. Calm and controlled were Heath’s goals, and for Vargas to feel the heat.
Opening the door to the interview room, Heath noted Vargas and his lawyer sat on one side of a metal table. Two chairs sat opposite.
The lawyer, wearing a cheap suit and making a show of checking his imitation Rolex, flashed Heath a smug smile. It takes an arsehole to enjoy defending an arsehole. At least in this case.
“Steven James, representing Mr. Ruiz Vargas,” the lawyer stated in a forceful tone. “I’d like to know how you think you can bring my client in on double murder charges?”
Derek ignored the lawyer and showed up the man’s amateurish behavior as he formally opened the interview by starting the video recording system and introducing everyone in the room.
Heath sat back in his chair and opened the case file, studying the covering page, his movements measured, unhurried.
Vargas shifted in his chair, stretching out one arm on the desk, and then the other before crossing both over his chest.
“Would you like to repeat your earlier question, Mr. James?” Derek addressed the lawyer.
“Why is my client here? What proof do you have?”
“An eyewitness saw Mr. Vargas shoot both victims and then place their bodies in the vehicle where they were found.”
Vargas shot up from his chair, his hands curling into angry fists. “You’re fucking joking.”
“Sit down,” Derek ordered in a deep, authoritative tone.
James tugged on his client’s arm. He pulled himself free of his lawyer’s grip and slung himself down into the chair.
“Fuckin’ bullshit.” Vargas stabbed a finger on the surface on the table. “I didn’t kill anybody.”
“No?” Heath closed the file with a casual wave of his hand. “Our witness says otherwise.”
Vargas stared back at Heath. “Bastard’s lying.”
“When was my client supposed to have committed these murders?” The counselor asked.
Heath kept his gaze on Vargas. “Last Wednesday night.” He noted the pimp’s shoulders stiffen, the way Vargas held his breath for a few seconds before exhaling. Nervous? Scared? “Where were you Wednesday night?”
“Away.” Vargas shuffled in his seat.
“Where?” Derek clicked the top of his pen, ready to take details.
Vargas went to speak, cursed, then said, “Oregon. Wanted some space.”
Derek clicked his pen once more, slowly, deliberately. “You drove?”
Vargas clenched his jaw. “Yeah.”
Click. “Did you have anyone with you?”
The suspect’s glare was hot enough to strip the dull gray paint off the interview room’s walls. “No.”
Click. “Stop anywhere, see anyone?”
The pimp shoved his hands in his jeans pockets. “No.”
Click. “So you drove from Seattle to Oregon and kept driving around for kicks since Wednesday night.” Click.
A sullen stare from their suspect was the man’s only comment.
“When did you arrive back?”
Vargas’s lip curled. “Today, just before you grabbed me.”
“Where did you sleep during the last week?”
“In my car.”
Heath had heard enough. “A guy like you, who can get a woman whenever he wants, was forced to bunk down in the back of his ride? Not so impressive.” He waited, satisfied when a muscle ticked in the pimp’s jaw. “But you know what is? Our witness’s statement, which says he saw you shoot two people and dump their bodies in the same car they were found in on Sunday.”
Vargas lunged forward in his seat. “That’s fucking bullshit.” He stabbed the air with two fingers toward Heath. “Some motherfucker’s framing me, and you cocksuckers are too fucking dumb to work that out.”
“Sit back in the chair or you’ll go to your cell to cool down,” Derek warned, his blank expression and tone showing his boredom with Vargas’s antics.
Heath raised a brow. “Got a temper on you, Vargas.” A weakness. “You’re undisciplined. A man with no control makes mistakes.”
Vargas opened his mouth, but his attorney rushed to speak first. “Exactly what details are in this witness statement?”
“Your client drove up as one of his girls, Alyssa Holmes, was giving a blow job to Danny Jacobsen.” Heath watched as Vargas curled his mouth in scorn. “Vargas confronted Jacobsen about monies owed. Things got physical. Alyssa slapped Vargas in the face and chest. Your client took extreme offense, pulled a weapon, forced the victims to their knees, shot them, and placed the bodies in the trunk of the car where they were discovered Sunday afternoon.”
Vargas shook his head. “Like I said, bullshit.”
“But you’ve failed to give us a credible alibi. What’s the make and model of the car you drove? Traffic cameras can prove your story.”
Vargas remained silent.
James cast his client a worried glance, before facing Heath. “We’ve got nothing further to say at this moment. I need more time to confer with my client.”
No kidding? They weren’t going to get any answers tonight. Vargas needed breaking down over time. No problem. “Well Counselor, we’ve got your client for at least the next 72 hours before the DA has to make up his mind and press charges, so I suggest you come up with a better story than what you’ve given us so far.” Heath stood and followed Derek out the door. He instructed a uniformed officer to collect the prisoner and take him down to Holding for intake as soon as he was done with his lawyer.
Back at their desks, he and Derek trawled through a mountain of paperwork. Witness statements of the hookers gathered by their fellow detectives, along with checking what CSI reports had come through. Contrary to what people saw on fictional TV dramas, DNA and other results didn’t materialize in an hour. Keeping busy tracking down further evidence was the reality. And every bit helped. Especially since rain Saturday night had washed away any blood or other evidence in the alley where the witness alleged he saw Vargas murdering his vics. Making a case was one thing, but the DA could still file under a lesser charge if the legal eagles believed that would provide more likelihood of a conviction.
Since Vargas was adamant he’d been in Oregon, Derek contacted Portland PD and requested they monitor for any incidents under Vargas’s name.
Vargas’s prints had been sent to the CSI team to see if they’d score a hit on the car. Even if he’d wiped his prints clean, it was remotely possible there could be trace DNA around the driver’s seat area.
Derek tossed his pen onto his desk where it landed with a dull thud on top of a pile of paperwork. “It’s six-thirty.” He nodded toward the clock on the wall. “I say we leave for the night and view these statements again in the morning. Not that we’re going to find much joy. None of the women had anything of value to say about Vargas’s movements.”
“They haven’t shared a damn thing.” Heath rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. Christ, even if they knew something, would they divulge that to a cop? “Okay, we’ll hit everything fresh tomorrow.” He grabbed his phone and stood. “Meet you at A New Chapter?
Derek studied him for a moment. Debating giving him a lecture about dating his sister? But the detective simply nodded. Heath didn’t hang around. He had a fresh shirt in his locker that would do for tonight. Time to change and get moving. He’d been waiting three long days to see London, get her in his arms, and kiss her. If he had to do that behind a stack of bookshelves, then fine. He’d make it worthy of a fucking bestseller.