Sweet Dreams Boxed Set (186 page)

Nonetheless, the greater the risk, the higher the profit. And he was very pleased with the profit. How many, though, before he turned a profit for himself?

“Do you have a gun?” Cruz asked, thinking wildly of the invasion, and Cole Hansen upstairs and no help at all. His filthy clothes in the dumpster, no longer staining Frankie’s pristine bed linens.

“What?”

He didn’t like the fact that they hadn’t called emergency services, but if they took him to a hospital, they’d be required to report a bullet wound to the police.

“We don’t want that kind of scrutiny until we know who we can trust,” Frankie had explained.

Cruz agreed. “Local police could be in on this. We don’t know how wide Anson Stark’s ring of corruption reaches.”

She hadn’t gotten a good look at the intruder who shot Cole, but Cruz guessed by the fact the man ran off that he was a gang banger, some punk-ass member of the
Lords of Death
sent to frighten or kill Frankie. Or Cole, who certainly had a target on his back by now.

“What?” Frankie repeated.

“A gun. You need protection.”

“Don’t worry, I have several guns.”

That surprised him. Most doctors he knew were anti-gun people. “Know how to use them?”

She laughed, as if he’d said something amusing. “Oh, yeah.”

“Yeah?”

She nodded. “My father taught me. I could shoot cans off a fence when I was barely able to steady a pistol. Dad took me hunting every year – deer, elk, bear in season, here and in Utah and Idaho.” She sounded nostalgic, and a little proud.

“Where is Dad now?”

Her face shut down fast, a smooth-as-glass calmness that made her look like she was made of crystal. “Doesn’t matter anymore.”

More secrets, but concern for the immediate dilemma made Cruz decide to let the subject drop. “Show me the guns.”

Upstairs in a smaller bedroom, clearly used as an office now, was a locked gun cabinet. Not only did Frankie have a .22 rifle, but a 12-gauge shotgun, and two hand guns – a .40-caliber Beretta and a larger, heavier Glock. Cruz was impressed. Anyone with this kind of small arsenal definitely knew how to handle a loaded weapon.

“Cartridges?”

She opened a locked drawer on the side of a wide mahogany desk where rows of magazines, cartridges, and bullets filled the inside.

He smiled. “Guess I don’t have to worry about leaving you alone.”

He gently put one hand on her shoulder. “It’d still be a mistake to underestimate these guys. They caught you off guard once. They can do it again.”

“I thought I was safe here,” she admitted, “that no one knew about this house. That won’t happen again.” Her stormy gray eyes darkened like a thunder cloud rolling across a heavy sky. “I’ll have more than a baseball bat next time.”

“Let’s hope there won’t be a next time.”

From his car Cruz listened to Slater’s message again and called him. The Sheriff picked up right away.

“Slater, what’s going on?”

“You won’t believe it,” the Sheriff answered. “Meet me at the morgue in twenty minutes.”

“Wait!” Cruz shouted. “A lot has happened since I talked to you – a hell of a lot of messed-up shit.”

“Same here. Make it quick. Best not to talk over the phone.”

“Aw, hell!” Cruz hung up, thinking what Slater had to say couldn’t possibly be worse that what he had to tell the Sheriff.

Chapter 47

Cruz, Slater, and Dr. Wilson gathered around the autopsied body of Dickey Hinchey, where it had been pulled from its drawer in the morgue. The former parolee looked more peaceful than he ever had in life. Cleaned up and the incision sewn closed, he seemed almost normal.

Cruz didn’t have time to fill Slater in before Patch began the particular details of the two post-mortems he’d done. After they viewed Dickey’s body, the medical examiner pulled out the drawer containing the Hightower girl’s body.

“I don’t get it,” Cruz said, stepping closer. “You’re saying the girl’s organs were removed, but Dickey’s weren’t? Why?”

Dr. Wilson shrugged elegantly.

Slater wore a puzzled look.

“Should we talk to Flood?” Cruz asked.

“Hell, no. Let the little weasel squirm.” Slater flashed a small grin, then quickly sobered as he turned to the medical examiner. “Have you sent the autopsy reports to Detective Flood yet?”

When Wilson shook his head, Slater asked, “Can you do me a favor and hold up for a few hours until we can figure this out?”

Wilson answered calmly, “As you wish.” He paused, touching the girl’s long hair. “It’s a bit of a puzzle, these two murders. The blows indicate different kinds of weapons caused the blunt force trauma – one was hard and wide like a baseball bat, the other narrow and heavier. A different size of blade also was used on the two victims.” He paused, looking perplexed. “And, of course, the victims themselves vary greatly as to age, gender, and general health.”

“And there’s the missing – or not missing – organs,” Slater added.

Both men followed the coroner into his office where he handed them a copy of the pathology report. “Mr. Hinchey’s liver was riddled from years of alcohol abuse,” Wilson informed them. “He wouldn’t have lived much longer on the street. His heart and lungs were compromised.”

“And the girl?” Slater asked.

“I can’t be sure, but her age alone suggests healthy organs were removed. Everything remaining was in excellent condition.”

“And Hinchey’s organs wouldn’t be worth pennies,” Cruz said.

“You think the organs were harvested to sell?” Wilson asked.

“It crossed my mind,” Cruz said, thinking of the inmates’ missing body parts. “But if someone is harvesting organs, why go after homeless people? Most of them have abused their bodies from years of living on the street. Many have Hep C or HIV.”

“Sac County’s dead body was a homeless woman, too,” Slater reminded him.

Cruz didn’t want to challenge another county’s medical examiner, but he had to ask. “How thorough do you think Sac County was with her autopsy?”

Slater’s craggy face had a fierce look. “I don’t know, but I mean to find out.”

“That county is much more overworked than Bigler County is,” Wilson offered. “A too-casual autopsy wouldn’t surprise me.”

“If the homeless woman in Sacramento had her organs removed, too, it’s – ”

“Right,” Slater interrupted, “going to be a shitload of a mess.”

After Cruz and Slater finished at the morgue, Cruz turned to Slater. “There’s more,” he said, not quite knowing how to explain Frankie Jones’ role in all this. “A doctor at Pelican Bay contacted me, looking for a paroled inmate. She was nosing around in inmate medical records through a routine health exam and was attacked at the prison.”

They’d reached their cars in the hospital parking lot by the time Cruz had told Slater about the assault on Frankie at the prison parking lot, about Cole and the sudden attack on both of them at the Rosedale house.

“Mary, Mother of God!” Slater said. “How? Why?”

During the post-mortem discussion, Cruz had considered another puzzle piece. “There’s more,” he began just as Slater’s phone rang.

“Urgent, I have to take this,” Slater said as he slipped into his truck. “Tell me the rest at this – this prison doctor’s house. Right now we need to keep your two people out of harm’s way. Text me the address and I’ll send a deputy there.”

Yeah, Cruz thought as Slater sped away. But will that be enough?

Cruz swung by the
Jesus Saves
shelter before returning to check up on Frankie and Cole. The building was locked up tight, no lights, no one inside. A dozen or so homeless men and woman stood smoking and leaning against one of the buildings. A pile of backpacks and two bicycles lay on the sidewalk.

When Cruz spied Sergei Petrovich from the corner of his eye, he approached him. “Where’s Angie?”

Sergei’s small eyes darted one way, then the other. “She’s missing.”

Cruz hovered over Sergei like a mountain. “What the hell do you mean she’s missing?”

The Russian man shrunk back. “I dunno, man. She’s gone.” He pointed toward the closed door of
Jesus Saves.
“She don’t show up today.”

“That’s not like Angie,” Cruz remarked, looking around the white picket fence of the
Jesus Saves
yard. He narrowed his eyes and fixed them firmly on the Russian. “Do you know where she’s gone?”

Sergei shrugged in a very east European manner, but his eyes slid away from Cruz. “Nobody know.”

“When did you see her last? Maybe she took a vacation day,” Cruz suggested.

“No, man, this place her life. She no show, she in trouble.” Again, his eyes didn’t quite meet Cruz’s. He started to say something, but was interrupted by the arrival of a woman Cruz had never seen before.

“Thas Sharon Fasser,” Sergei mumbled. “She muss be here to work for Angie.”

Chapter 48

Drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, the killer realized he’d been thinking subconsciously about Angie Hunt for a long time. Been waiting for the right opportunity. He drew in a deep, shuttering breath, calmed his excitement, tried to tamp down the adrenaline rush from having snatched her right outside the Jesus Saves
building.

He’d made peace with it all now.

He freely admitted to himself that the death of the man in Ryder Park had been an impulse. A rage without thought in the moment. It could jam him up royally. He couldn’t afford to give in to that kind of sloppiness again.

This time he’d planned, taken his time, and chosen carefully.

Bitch Angie Hunt, street skank supreme, acted like she was somebody important. Running the worthless shelter, overseeing the funds that rolled in from wealthy saps who believed her sob stories about street bums and their tough lives.

He would take his time with her. It wouldn’t be quick or easy.

The old homeless man had been a spontaneous act, an accident that’d ended in a risky situation, but this time he’d figured out all the details in advance. He knew where to take her, how long he’d keep her, and where he’d dump her when he was finished. A careful plan.

His groin tightened in anticipation as he drove south on I-80 to Highway 50, then east on what used to be State Route 16 to Sutter Creek. He’d found the old abandoned gold mine there months ago. It was hidden well off the beaten track and virtually unknown.

He checked his watch. A little more than an hour. He heard the thump of the body in the trunk of the car and grew harder, his pulses thrumming with arousal.

One hand on the wheel, he unzipped himself and reached into his pants with the other hand.

When consciousness returned, Angie Hunt became aware of the rhythmic hum of tires on asphalt and the rocky bump of a dirt road. She was curled on her side in a small space – the truck of a car?

The steady sound of the engine stopped abruptly, and her body was handled roughly as someone dragged her along uneven ground, feet first. Rocks jabbed her back, and brush tore at her clothes. She wanted to protect her head, but when she tried to lift her arms, they were uncooperative lumps of lifeless flesh.

A cold wind whipped through her coat. Her body hurt like she’d been somebody’s punching bag. Her fingers were numb and her head throbbed.

He must’ve clobbered her hard, she thought, as she drifted in and out of consciousness. She squinted at the dim night sky, and suddenly was hauled roughly into a place darker and less windy.

To think her life would end like this – after the hard road she’d walked – seared her chest with a pain more real than the one in her head. Even as despair overwhelmed her, she shook herself like a wet dog.

Angie Hunt was a fighter. She’d survived six years living on the street, drug addiction, and cancer. She’d eaten out of dumpsters and sold her body for smack. She’d begged on street corners and woken to find rats gnawing on her fingers.

She’d gotten through those bad years, and she wasn’t going to let some crazy-ass mofo take her down. She only weighed 115 pounds, but she was wiry and tough, and suddenly had a profound desire to live.

She was a survivor, she chanted silently.
A damn survivor.

She passed out again and woke cold and wet. A dank, dimly lighted place.
What the hell?
He’d hauled her inside a cave? A single lantern lighted the interior and cast spooky shadows on the walls, horrible demon-like images.

Weak and dazed, Angie struggled to sit up, looking helplessly around. He was gone now, but she knew he’d be back. Tears made dusty trails down her cheeks and her nose dribbled snot. Crazy-ass mofo had dumped her on a tattered blanket and left her to die!

For a moment indignity overcame terror. Then a wave of despair swept through her. How could little Angie Hunt from Madison, Arkansas, fight against the white establishment of Rosedale, California?

Yeah, he was gone now, but she knew he’d return. And soon.

What chance did she have to survive?

By midday, her patient recovering nicely, Frankie Jones returned to the living room and curled up in the worn, comfortable chair she’d done homework in as a child. She felt the sweet drowsiness of memory and her father’s presence wrap her in a blanket of security.

She wouldn’t sleep she told herself, even though she’d had no rest for over twenty-four hours. Just a brief respite. Just a minute or two of closing her eyes. Checking her eyelids for cracks, her father used to say. She smiled as her mind wandered lazily and she relaxed her tired body.

Cole Hansen had mentioned prison talk about something illegal – illegal music. Musical instruments, like a keyboard or piano. An organ. She pictured the giant instrument, the tall various-sized pipes, the pedals, the double keyboards, the ... the organ. She felt herself go limp, her body succumbing to much-needed rest.

Music. Organ.

Organs.