Obsessed (26 page)

Authors: Devon Scott

BOOK: Obsessed

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Chapter 64

Ronnie Falmouth is at it bright and early.

He loves this time of morning, when the sun is just rising from the marshy grasslands. He steers the airboat slowly through the brackish water, not hurrying, certainly in no rush.

He sits up high in the molded seat, the hum of the Chevy engine behind him, its giant propellers allowing him to travel effortlessly over grass and water.

He’s about seventy miles southwest of Miami in the Everglades National Park, cutting through an impressive expanse of water interspersed with swamplands called Midway Keys, heading west toward Shark River Island. There he’ll fish until nightfall.

Probably camp overnight at Oyster Bay Chickee or Joe River Chickee.

A perfect day ahead of him.

Ronnie’s alone, and that’s just the way he likes it. Away from the wife and kids, and his buddies, who could fuck up a wet dream with their incessant bitching and whining.

No, thank you.

It’s just Ronnie and the outdoors, this rental Diamondback, and four glorious days away from everything and everyone that gives him a headache.

Open water appears to be about a quarter of a mile away. He’ll meander around teeny islands of red and black mangroves, their tentacles reaching deep into the swamp muck, on his way to Shark River Island.

He increases throttle, listens as the 355-hp Chevy begins to whine, startling a heron that is off to his left in a patch of saw-grass. It croaks loudly as it climbs slowly into the morning sky. Around him the water is dotted with floating plants: bladderwort, white water lilies, and spatterdock. The airboat can glide over these easily, yet Ronnie maneuvers around them, enjoying the feel of the steering stick in his left hand and the throttle in his right.

The wind is in Ronnie’s face, the scent of brackish water hanging in the air. As he drives close to a copse of sunken mangroves, an alligator, unseen moments earlier, hits the water with a splash. Ronnie is momentarily frightened as the eight-foot beast passes not far from the bow of his boat. He pulls back instinctively on the throttle and angles the craft sharply to starboard, not wanting the reptile to come up right under him.

That’s when he sees it.

Something, Ronnie’s not sure exactly what, half-floating in the tangle of half-submerged black roots, a whitish slab of what can only be described as
meat.
Ronnie cranks his neck as the airboat slows, and suddenly the stench assaults him, overpowering his senses.

His eyes water.

Involuntarily, he begins to dry retch as the nature of the floating slab becomes clear.

Ronnie has turned as white as the bloated thing in the water.

A leg.

A human leg!

Bitten off above the knee.

Black and dark red tentacles of half-bitten flesh seem to hang in the near-still water.

The thing bobs near the mangrove, its bloated toes scraping noiselessly against the exposed roots.

A blotch of red above the ankle.

Blood?

He doesn’t know.

Too much to process.

The leg continues to bob in the water as if it didn’t have a care in the world.

He wrestles his stare away, directing his attention toward the interior of dank, dark underbrush.

There he spies another slab of meat.

Ripped upper torso.

Headless.

No limbs.

Just chewed, half-eaten flesh.

Ronnie yells before vomiting onto the side of the airboat.

Wipes his mouth with his sleeve once he’s finished heaving up breakfast.

Steers the airboat away into deeper, less putrid waters.

Ronnie cuts the engine.

Regains some form of composure and reaches for the marine VHF radio.

Chapter 65

Joe Goodman rides in the taxi with his garment bag beside him. The window is halfway down, providing a nice breeze. He watches the sights rush past as he’s whisked toward his destination. The skyscrapers are what impress him. Not at all like the nation’s capital. Down here in Tampa there are real office buildings.

Tall, majestic even.

It’s close to one
PM
.

Joe considers checking in with Tampa PD but decides against it. He mulls over his captain’s final words before erasing them from his mind. He’s on his own now. No sense involving the local police department until he has something concrete regarding Damian Rein.

He hopes that not involving Tampa’s law enforcement will turn out to be the best decision he makes today.

The cab drops him off in front of a tall building in downtown Tampa. The airport lies only a few miles away. He pays the driver a ten and tells him to keep the change.

Joe hefts his garment bag onto his shoulder and glances up at the partly cloudy sky before heading toward the building’s entrance.

He has always known this day would come.

He has anticipated it with a mixture of rising anxiety and giddiness that has added nausea to his normal headache. Earlier today, when he spotted the lead-in for the news, he knew it was finally time.

A body had been pulled from the Everglades.

Details sketchy.

Sex and age of the deceased unknown since the body was decapitated and missing several limbs.

Damian had left the office immediately and driven straight home.

There wasn’t much to do.

He had made preparations days ago.

Now it was time to execute them.

Time to get his life back on track.

The pain will soon cease to be an issue.

Damian is about to silence the pain forever.

Then, and only then, can he begin to live again.

“I’m here to see Damian Rein.”

Joe pulls his shield from his waist and holds it up so the assistant can see it clearly. He adds “Metropolitan Police Department” so there is no misunderstanding of why he’s here.

He stands in the reception area of Rein Security. It’s a small waiting room, tastefully decorated. Muted colors, two relatively comfortable-looking chairs.

The woman facing him is not quite thirty, dressed in khakis and a button-down shirt. She peers at the badge as if she’s some sort of crossing guard who is going to decide whether to let him pass or not.

Joe shifts his weight and says irritably, “I need to see him . . . now.”

The assistant blinks.

“I’m sorry, sir, but Mr. Rein is not in. Did you have an appointment?”

Joe ignores the question.

“Where is he?”

The assistant swallows.

“I’m sorry, sir. He’s not expected back in today.”

Joe puts down his garment bag and glares at her.

“What is your name?”

“Amanda.”

“Okay, Amanda. This is a police matter. I need you to get on the phone and find your boss.”

Amanda glances around, looking for help. When she finds none, she nods and murmurs something to herself.

“Oh, all right. If you’ll excuse me.”

Amanda heads down the hallway, but Joe is on her heels. She turns around, sees him behind her, and winces, but keeps moving. She gets to her desk and sits quietly, reaching for the phone. Joe glances around. There is an office door off to the side. Joe walks over and tries the knob.

It’s locked.

Amanda raises her voice. “Sir? Please don’t do that. I’m attempting to reach him now.”

Joe ignores her.

He glances down the hallway. A few cubicles are empty. The entire suite seems devoid of life save for Amanda. Interesting.

“He’s not answering,” she says.

“You tried his cell? What about home?”

“I’ll call his home.”

“Do that,” Joe replies.

A minute goes by.

“Sorry, sir, he’s not answering there, either.” She has replaced the phone and is looking up at him, waiting for further instructions.

“Leave a message. Let him know that Detective Goodman is here to see him.”

“Detective Goodman?” she asks.

“Correct.”

Amanda picks up the phone again. Joe waits while she leaves the message.

“Thank you. I’ll be back very soon,” Joe says.

Amanda nods, her eyes darting about the room, full of fear.

Good,
Joe thinks.

Time to take it up a notch.

Joe arrives in Clearwater at the address provided courtesy of the Hillsboro County Sheriff’s Office.

He pays the taxi driver and asks if he’ll wait a few minutes. He doubts if Damian is home, but it’s worth a shot.

Joe leaves his bag in the backseat and hops out, admiring the neighborhood. He puts the single-family homes in the seven-hundred-to-eight-hundred-thousand-dollar range, easy. Manicured lawns, clean sidewalks, two- and three-car garages.

Damian Rein lives in a two-story yellow home. The driveway leading up to the attached two-car garage is reddish brick. There are two eighteen-foot palm trees in the front yard. Damian is living large, and that’s no joke. The country might be in the midst of a recession, but business isn’t hurting at Rein Security.

Joe goes to the door and rings the bell.

Nothing.

He can’t peer through the windows because of the treatments covering them.

Rings again.

Still nothing.

Joe contemplates throwing a brick through the window to test the security system.

Undoubtedly Damian’s got one.

Joe pulls out his business card and sticks it between the door frame and the door so it won’t fall out.

Satisfied, he returns to the waiting taxi.

“Recommend any hotels not far from here?” Joe asks the cabbie.

“Sure,” the cabbie responds, putting the taxi into gear and taking off.

Chapter 66

Less than an hour later, Detective Joe Goodman has checked in to his hotel. The Sheraton Tampa Riverwalk Hotel is on the banks of the Hillsborough River and across from the University of Tampa’s campus.

Joe is famished, so he decides to grab something to eat. The restaurant has a scenic overlook of the water. Joe takes a table by the window and orders a chicken sandwich and fries. While waiting for his food, he plots his next move.

Some phone calls are in order.

With his memo pad on the table, he reaches for his cell.

His first call is to Tara.

It goes straight to voice mail.

There are so many things he wants to say.

Staring at the slow-moving water, with the university in the distance, Joe’s words falter. He keeps it simple. He made it safely. He misses her. And he loves her.

He does.

So why, then, is he down here, on his own dime, way out of his jurisdiction?

Is it for her sake?

Kennedy’s?

In a way, yes.

Not because he loves her, although, when Joe is totally honest with himself, as he is right now, he knows that in a way he’ll never stop loving Kennedy.

Not completely.

It’s as if they were never truly done.

At least he wasn’t.

Joe was never really done with Kennedy.

He realizes there is no future with her, knows that he can’t go backward, and that’s okay. He knows he fucked up. He messed up the best thing that ever happened to him. Joe realizes that now.

He can’t go back.

But perhaps he can fix things in some small way. Make Kennedy realize with his efforts here that he’s sorry for hurting her.

His thoughts swing back to Tara.

Joe loves his fiancée. She’s his life now. He doesn’t want to hurt her. Wants this mess to be done with so he can give her his full attention. Show her that he is her man now.

But he’s got to finish what he started.

Got to find Damian Rein and shut him down.

Then and only then can he move on.

His next call is to Chandran Nadar.

Chan picks up on the third ring.

“Nadar here.”

“Chan the man! It’s Joe Goodman. How are you?”

“Joe! Good to hear from you. I’m fine. You?”

“Never better, Chan.”

“That’s good to hear. How are things going with that case I consulted on? Made any progress?”

“Funny you should mention that, Chan.” Joe is ready to tell him he’s down in Tampa, but thinks better of it. The word might get back to the captain. “I was wondering if I could draw on your extensive computer expertise again.”

“Of course, Joe.”

Joe outlines what he needs.

Intel on a Damian Rein of Clearwater, Florida.

Joe can almost see Chan grinning on the other end of the line.

“Piece of cake. Give me a couple of hours?”

“How about an hour? I’m kinda pressed for time.”

“All right. I’ll do what I can.”

“Chan, you are da man!”

Joe’s food arrives.

He orders a lemonade even though a beer is what he really needs right now.

Attacks his chicken sandwich and drowns the fries in ketchup. Less than ten minutes later, the plate is empty. An eyebrow on the waitress is raised as she clears his plate and inquires if he was at all hungry.

Joe smiles and asks to see the dessert menu.

His third call is to Deputy Radcliff of the Hillsboro Sheriff’s Office.

Radcliff is in the office and takes his call.

“I was calling to follow up on our conversation we had about a week ago regarding Lindsey Rein, a missing persons case. I was wondering if there had been any new developments?”

“Yeah, I remember. Funny you should be calling today, Detective,” Radcliff says.

Joe takes a sip of his lemonade and then reaches for his pen.

“Why is that?” he asks.

“Because we received a call from the boys in Metro-Dade no more than three, four hours ago. Seems some feller out fishing in the Everglades came across a body being chomped on by a gator. He called it in, and Metro-Dade came on out. Body’s at the ME’s office now. Autopsy not scheduled until tomorrow. Head’s missing, so is one arm, so they gonna have to rely on fingerprints and DNA to ID.”

“Okay,” Joe says, his attention riveted on what the deputy is saying.

“Here’s the interesting part. Turns out they recovered one leg, and on the ankle was a small tat. The detectives there are going through the missing persons database, and they come across our missing girl. Lindsey Rein’s got a tat on her ankle. Black-widow spider. Not a hundred percent conclusive until they match the DNA, but I’m gonna bet my money it’s Lindsey. Looks like they found her.”

“Jesus,” Joe says. His mind is racing.

This changes things.

This changes
everything.

“Has the ex-husband been notified?” he asks.

“Hell, no. Not until a positive ID has been made. For now we’ll keep things quiet, and that means you not talking to any family members, either.”

“I’m not a rookie, Deputy.”

“Just saying, Detective.”

“Keep me informed, if you would. Thanks.”

“Sure thing.”

Joe closes his cell and stares at it.

Suddenly he’s no longer in the mood for dessert.

Murder has just been added to Damian Rein’s résumé.