CHAPTER TWO
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Present day…
Brody Novak swapped one used notepad after another, searching for the information he’d jotted down during the hundreds of hours he’d put into his research. He was looking specifically for any trace Shepherd Moss left behind regarding his possible locations or the whereabouts of his next victim. The son of a bitch was good…too good.
Research tended to be tedious and time-consuming. Something written down during hours buried in old newspaper articles in a library archive could take on a different context when viewed through the lens of hindsight properly focused with the appropriate amount of bourbon.
The notorious serial killer was at least five steps ahead of the federal authorities on his worst day—light years ahead in most instances. Would the veteran investigators of their small collective Safeguard Securities and Investigations have better luck than the big boys?
“Why do you think Moss would target a random female in Colorado?” Keane Sanderson questioned, catching on rather quick with his follow-up inquiry. “Or are you saying she was deliberately chosen? Do you think he could be a long-haul trucker? That has some merit with the Bureau. They seem to think those guys are prime candidates for the serial profile.”
Brody peered over one of his numerous monitors that filled up what looked more like a long conference table rather than a prefab desk. He’d had the solid oak work station crafted to his needs, as well as the matching outlying office furniture. No expense had been spared, and he didn’t ask where the funds had come from, because it was none of his business. He’d requested state-of-the-art communication and technical equipment, and he’d gotten exactly what he’d asked for, including some cutting-edge Agency gadgets that could reconstruct and interpret audio signals from vibrations on windows or other similar hard surfaces. That was fine as frog’s hair, as far as he was concerned.
Unfortunately, there wasn’t a ban in place to keep the technically illiterate out of his workspace. It seemed like every idiot without a purpose had to wander over to his desk and pick up something or other that they shouldn’t be touching. He wanted a Faraday cage built to establish an electronic safe space for his machinations, which would also limit the walk-in traffic.
Keane was one of those technology-impaired, firearm worshippers. Brody’s teammate and longtime friend was dressed in his usual boring khaki pants and relaxed dress shirt. He could be the seamless prototype for a government clone, minus the tactical genius that he was known for on their team. If that wasn’t scary enough, the man kept the same hairstyle he had years ago when they’d served in the Marines. It wouldn’t surprise Brody if the FBI came knocking and wanted a sample of Keane’s DNA to facilitate building their latest prototype of stormtroopers.
“If you so much as touch that 3D printer, I won’t be responsible for cleaning up your blood and brain matter that will be on the floor,” Brody warned, finally locating the pad of paper where he’d scribbled down the names of potential victims Shepherd Moss could be targeting. He held it up in victory. “Calvert is thinking that Moss could be targeting a number of people associated with a certain woman by the name of Shailyn Doyle.”
“Is she the one?” Keane asked rather abruptly, not needing to clarify his question. He stepped away from the printer right as Townes Calvert came through the doorway holding two cups of coffee. Now this man might take exception to Keane’s style of questioning. No one could have detected that Calvert hadn’t been expecting anyone other than Brody in the heart of their headquarters had he not flexed that two-inch scar along his jawline. Keane greeted their boss as if he hadn’t just stepped in some nonliteral shit. “Good morning, boss. I hear we’re heading to Colorado later today.”
“You heard right,” Calvert replied in a deadpan voice. Brody looked on in annoyance as Townes handed off that second cup of coffee to Keane, who took the drink with an arched eyebrow in victory. “You’re early, though. I scheduled the briefing at zero nine hundred.”
Brody sat back in his brand new, black leather chair that was just slightly more comfortable than the Sleep Number bed he slept on in his recently unpacked apartment in Mount Dora, Florida. He smiled in satisfaction at the subtle reprimand Calvert had just imparted onto Keane. It was almost worth missing out on that cup of coffee his friend had just purposefully stolen. Almost.
“Ashlyn had court early this morning,” Keane said, as if his fiancé’s career as a federal prosecutor explained the reason he’d driven from Orlando to Sorrento at zero six hundred. It sure as hell wasn’t to beat the traffic, but it wouldn’t surprise Brody if the rest of the team started shuffling into his office within the next five minutes. They were all anxious to finally be briefed on their next assignment. “Besides, your coffee is always better than any six-dollar disposable cup of joe served by a barista in a corner café.”
Brody fought the urge to hurl the notepad at Keane’s head, but he refrained when his attention was drawn to Royce Haverton walking in with a dozen fresh donuts. The delicious fragrance of warm pastries was enough to pull Brody out of his seat, but Calvert ruined his chance at snatching up the first chocolate filled donut by directing Royce to back out of the room.
“Let’s take this meeting up to the house on the deck,” Townes directed, following closely behind Royce as they filed out of the maintenance and operations outbuilding one by one. He didn’t turn around to see if Brody or Keane followed. “Brody, bring that list of names and locations with you.”
Shit. He wanted that chocolate éclair, especially before Keane got his grubby hands on it. Royce always got an assortment when it was his turn to hit the local bakery, not caring to ask everyone’s favorite the way the rest of them did. Keane managed to get to the door before Brody, raising his coffee cup in acknowledgment.
Today just wasn’t starting out on the right foot—not with that jerkoff underfoot.
Brody glanced down at his sandals, wiggling his toes and reminding himself that he was living the life. He even rubbed his newly acquired five o’clock shadow. Yes, he was living the life. He repeated his personal mantra over and over in his head. Every day was a good day that someone wasn’t shooting him. Rarely was he disappointed with such low expectations. He’d learned that from someone else and now used it as his own.
It had taken him years to get to this point—a secured position within a respectable agency that paid their taxes and didn’t take on the shadier jobs. He had a cushy career behind the computers where fieldwork didn’t come into play most days, and the ability to wear whatever the hell he wanted to work on a daily basis.
His Hawaiian shirts, cargo shorts, and brown sandals sure as hell beat the heavy cotton utility uniforms or that crappy, rip-stop fabric that made him sweat like a pig that they had all worn in the service. He wasn’t one for fancy suits at some corporate job that would have sucked the life out of him. No, the conventional route to a newfound career wasn’t for him.
Magnum PI had become his hero during the ’80s…only without the matching red Paradise Found Jungle Bird shirt or the 1984 Ferrari 308 GTS Quattrovalvole with the Targa top.
Brody deeply inhaled the warm morning air on the short stroll up to Calvert’s log cabin-style homestead, the warm humidity keeping any thought of a morning chill at bay. It was the first week of November and temps were still relatively high for this time of year in the Sunshine State. Why their boss had chosen Sorrento, Florida to build his massive home was still up for debate. It definitely wasn’t the price of land this close to the city.
They were all getting closer to an answer, though, ever since this particular case had landed in their laps. The team had already taken up a pool to bet as to the reason why…and it most likely had to do with the woman’s name he’d already dropped.
He took great satisfaction in Keane’s acute interest in the notepad he was carrying.
“Take a seat.”
Calvert had somehow gained on Royce and led the way around the back of his six thousand square foot house he’d specifically designed to his needs. Each building on the compound had a well-thought layout and purpose. The land had been cleared back a hundred yards to provide an effective killing ground if the place ever needed to be secured.
It was in total contrast to the Floridian plantation style abode that would have been right at home in these parts underneath all the shade trees and the occasional palm. Instead, the vast property was acres wide and had a security system that could rival the White House. Farther outside of the surrounding trees was a perimeter road with antipersonnel movement sensors and cameras. Townes was known for being rather unconventional, and this place suited him to a tee.
“I’ll go and make us all more coffee.”
It sounded as if Calvert followed that up with I’m going to need it, but Brody was relatively sure the verbiage was a bit more colorful. Why Calvert didn’t hire an assistant was beyond him, but the man did like his privacy. There was a private room inside the cabin for every single man under his employment, but it was rare that anyone took him up on that courtesy. Every door had a lock, too.
“You touch that éclair, jackass, and I’ll make sure the TSA does a thorough pat-down at the security checkpoint in the airport,” Brody warned Keane, quickly stepping past him and taking the stairs up to the sprawling deck. Royce had already set the box of donuts on the table, taking a seat in the lounger instead of one at the table. “Of course, that wouldn’t be an issue if a certain non-team player would get enough of what everyone wanted.”
“That would require me writing it down, and that isn’t going to happen in your lifetime,” Royce pointed out, unhooking his sunglasses from his T-shirt and sliding them up the bridge of his nose. The morning sun was rather intense and Brody was wishing he’d thought to grab his. Instead, he hooked his foot around the leg of a chair facing west. The satisfied grin on Royce’s face said it all, but he still followed up his sentiment with words. “Besides, I like to watch you get all worked up. It’s the only thing that seems to rile you, and I just can’t help myself.”
There was a lot that irritated Brody. That was the reason he chose his casual state of dress. Hawaiian shirts represented relaxation, and his mind somehow took the hint. His teammates should take a page out of his book. Maybe then they wouldn’t look like they were all about to face the firing squad.
Speaking of the rest of the team, Sawyer and Coen finally joined them by stepping through the patio doors out into the warm weather. The two men couldn’t have been more different, with Sawyer having the next-door neighbor boy good looks and Coen appearing like he’d been up all night partying after the proverbial orgy spun down. Hell, maybe he had been.
“Keane says we finally have a name,” Coen tossed out with interest, carrying his glass of preferred orange juice he must have gotten from the kitchen on his way through to the deck. He turned his ball cap forward and low on his forehead before claiming the lounger next to Royce. “Is there any truth to that?”
Calvert returned with a pot of coffee, two more mugs, and a folder before Brody could answer that question. Townes set the items down next to his own cup that he’d left on the table. Brody licked his fingers clean of any remaining sugar before snatching up the carafe and pouring himself a cup filled to the brim. He made sure to hand it off to Sawyer with a smile before Keane decided he needed a refill.
“Enough speculation,” Townes said somewhat wryly, pulling out the chair at the head of the table to give him the ability to see everyone as he apparently decided to finally address some of their questions. Brody had no doubt some of the information regarding Shailyn Doyle would remain buried, just as she’d intended. “You know that Shepherd Moss escaped Union Correctional Institute in Raiford, Florida. He murdered eighteen women before being sent to prison, and he’s now on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list and a headliner for the U.S. Marshal’s Fugitive Task Force. You’re all also aware that I was assigned to protect a woman back when I’d just left the service.”
There was a lot of speculation about that time in Calvert’s life, though no one had the balls to question him about it. It was also well known that Townes was a full-patch member of a 1% MC back in the day. Motorcycle clubs of that stature didn’t get their reputation by being gentlemen or participating in community outreach programs. One had to question the mental stability of someone who would hire a one percenter for personal protection.
“I failed to accomplish my assigned mission. Shailyn Doyle was one of Moss’ victims. She was also the one who managed to survive and was the sole reason Moss was discovered to be the murdering trash that he is and put away for his crimes. Ms. Doyle went into witness protection shortly after the trial and cut all ties with her previous existence.” Townes compressed his lips as he scanned the massive pond behind the main house that gave the deck its scenic view of Florida’s wildlife. He looked as if he belonged here with his long hair, rough features, and black tattoo of an eagle, globe, and anchor. He had always been an apex predator. It was that simple. No one moved or said a word as they waited for him to continue. “Due to Moss becoming active again and most likely wanting to finish the job he started all those years ago, Ms. Doyle’s extended family members now have around-the-clock protection—as do those friends who were close to her at the time of her attack.”
“I’m hearing a but in there,” Coen interjected, sharing a speculative look with the rest of the team. “Was the woman who was murdered in Wyoming last week related to Ms. Doyle somehow?”
“No relation, but the victim was an old childhood friend of hers.” Townes took a drink of coffee, most likely to fortify himself for what he was about to share. “It appears Shepherd Moss had time in prison to extensively investigate Shai—Ms. Doyle—and is being random in his selection of leads to follow up on. Now it’s more than obvious to everyone involved that not every single person who has touched Ms. Doyle’s life in some manner can be given protection, and the federal government has reached out to SSI for our services. We are officially on the case to track him and return him to custody, if possible.”
“And that means?” Keane asked, having taken up residence in a chair next to Brody.
“Each of us are heading to different states to monitor a potential woman who could be next on Moss’ hit list.” Calvert set his mug down on the table without making a sound, indicating he was being very methodical in every decision he made regarding their upcoming assignments. This was personal to him, and he apparently wanted to make amends for his previous failure. “Brody has narrowed it down, and we have four possible targets who match Moss’ preferences in his victimology—single women in their late twenties or early thirties, all with somewhat fair skin. Hair color, eye color, profession, or demeanor don’t seem to play a part in his selection process.”
“Isn’t that unusual?” Sawyer asked, snatching Brody’s notepad off the table and reviewing the contents. “I thought most serial killers focused on a specific type. You know, all brunettes because they represent the murderer’s mother figure or some such shit. Or all blondes because they represent a grandmother who abused them during their weekend visits.”
“No one on the federal task force responsible for investigating Moss and creating his profile could figure out what other traits beside age and race were his trigger. Medical professionals tried over the years of his incarceration to solve that small mystery as well, but Moss was rather tightlipped when it came to how he chose his victims.” Townes rested his hand on the folder that was sitting next to his coffee cup, though Brody wasn’t exactly sure of the contents inside. All the files pertaining to Moss and his victims were in his filing cabinet. “We’re going to start from the beginning as if Moss has never been investigated. We need to learn how he thinks, study his choices, and do our best to determine his next move.”
“I’ll provide each of you support from back here at headquarters,” Brody followed up, holding out his hand for the notepad Sawyer was still reading over. He glanced at the first name once the list was back in front of him and started to give everyone their assignments. “Coen, you’ll take Brettany Lambert in Colorado. She went to middle school with Ms. Doyle and the two were inseparable until Ms. Lambert’s family moved due to her father’s career. They haven’t spoken since then, but your primary fits the right type. You’ll have to be creative in finding a way to monitor her comings and goings since there’s a snowstorm expected to hit tomorrow. You’ll be outside looking in.”
“I’ll make sure to pack a parka,” Coen replied, grimacing upon realizing he was the one to be sent into freezing temperatures. He drained the last of his orange juice and then set the glass down on the wooden deck floor. “Where are the other locations? I might want to flip for it.”
“Assignments are non-negotiable.” Townes didn’t bother to look at his team upon making that last declaration. He was still focused on the scenic view and whatever answers the calm water may be providing. “Continue.”
“Keane and Royce, you’ll be staying in Florida. Your objects of focus are two co-workers who were teachers with Ms. Doyle at Rollins College. They weren’t close, but the women fit the profile perfectly.” Brody flipped the page to see who was left on his list of potential targets, while Keane glanced at the pastry box and realized Brody’s threat regarding the TSA pat-down had been completely baseless. It was always good to be one step ahead. “Sawyer, you’ll be catching a flight to New Orleans, where your charge is currently teaching at Tulane University. Mary Baker received her degree right alongside Ms. Doyle, but the two took different paths when Ms. Baker continued on for her Master’s degree. As far as anyone can tell, the two haven’t been in contact since their partying days, but Ms. Baker is in her early thirties and fits Moss’ predilections.”
“I’ll be heading to Raiford,” Townes announced as he reached over the table for the carafe. He poured the rest of the contents into his mug, leaving Keane without a refill. That was just karma at its best. “I’ll be taking the lead on conducting the investigation. I want to see Moss’ individual cell for myself. I want to see what books he checked out from the library, I want to read every piece of fan mail that came in contact with his hands, as well interview the guards who may or may not have been unethical in their positions at the facility. Brody will be staying here at the house for the time being, so he’ll be available to you twenty-four seven.”
“I have files for each of you to peruse during your travels to your AORs. Keep your shit together. Protect the woman you’ve been assigned.” Brody leaned back in his chair, curious as to why Calvert hadn’t run those plans by him. His office chair might be more comfortable than his bed, but his apartment overlooking a lake was his sanctuary. It wasn’t like he was complaining though. The pond here would do nicely, and the coffee Townes had ordered in was bar none the best any of them had ever had the pleasure of tasting. But something wasn’t right, and it had to do with the folder he’d just picked up. “The contents not only include information on your objectives, but also the various websites Moss visited over the course of his incarceration. I also have background checks on all his visitors, though the majority of them were either journalists wanting to write his story or sick fans who wanted to be in the presence of a real life psychotic killer.”
Brody drained the rest of his coffee and then stood, wanting to get back to his personal domain. He was more comfortable in front of his monitors than anywhere else. That included this table where he was one hundred and ten percent positive Calvert was about to lay something on him that he wasn’t going to like. It was most likely delaying the inevitable, but it would be best if he could just get everyone on their merry way.
“Brody, you aren’t going to ask why you’re staying at headquarters during the duration of this investigation?” Calvert didn’t waste time as he tossed the manila folder so that it landed directly next to Brody’s empty cup. Damn it. This had better be something he could do from his keyboard, but every nerve in his body was telling him differently. “A father of an old friend of mine called in a favor.”
Brody didn’t have to be told that this favor was going to be added to his to-do-list. If it was called in, that could only mean Calvert owed someone and he always paid his debts in full. Normally, the tables were turned the other way around. He collected on his debts. Most people out in the civilian world had a remaining balance to pay toward Calvert. This time? It appeared that Brody would be helping with his boss’ account. He reluctantly opened the file without sitting down.
“A babysitting job, right?”
Brody hadn’t known what to expect, but this was something he could do. It was almost like being a landlord. Besides, how hard could it be to keep an eye on someone who technically wasn’t even a target? This sideline assignment would be a piece of cake. The others on the team were listening intently to the current conversation, but quickly lost interest upon realizing the delegation of a favor wasn’t that noteworthy.
“You could say that,” Calvert replied wryly, catching everyone’s attention. His demeanor spoke to an underlying layer Brody must have missed in his perusal of the brief front page synopsis. He looked again, this time at the black and white photograph of a very attractive woman. “Your assignment isn’t only to protect Remy Kinkaid from her sister’s killer, but to ensure that Ms. Kinkaid doesn’t try and seek revenge for her sister’s murder. Bottom line? You are not to let her out of your sight for one minute. Consider yourself glued to her side until further notice.”