Sweet Dreams Boxed Set (187 page)

Cole simply hadn’t understood how the overheard chatter fit with Anson Stark and his terrible, threatening plan of harvesting inmates’ organs.

Chapter 49

Sharon Fasser was a frazzled-looking white woman, bleached blonde and a little on the plump side, hurried through the gate to unlock the door to the lobby. “Sorry, guys, sorry.” She panted heavily and pushed her way inside, moving directly to Angie’s office and dumping her things on the desk.

Cruz followed her. “Where’s Angie?”

The blonde looked harried, but guarded. “Who are you?”

“Parole officer.” Cruz indicated the badge at his waist and repeated the question. “Where’s Angie?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. She didn’t show up, I got a call from one of the people, here I am. I never know anything,” she complained. “She’s a recovering addict. You know how it goes.”

“You file a missing person’s report?”

“Get serious. You think the cops care if someone like Angie goes missing a few hours?” She shrugged. “She’ll turn up.”

Cruz’s large body framed the doorway. “You don’t like her much.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Not really, but what’s that got to do with anything? She’s left me with a load of work. That’s what I’m worried about right now.” Turning away, she ignored him and shuffled through the paperwork on the desk.

Irritated, Cruz wandered outside, asked a few questions, but no one knew anything about where Angie had gone. The last person to see her was an older veteran, grizzled and boozy with vodka. “She close up late, man, ‘bout a couple hours after dark. Thass all I know.”

Cruz jumped in his jeep and drove to the Rosedale Police Department.
What the hell happened to Angie?
This disappearing act was not like the woman who’d dedicated the last ten years to rescuing down and outers.

A bad premonition washed over him. Sergei was right. Angie’s disappearing was a sign of trouble. Shit, would it end up being another murder?

At police headquarters Cruz examined the bored look on Officer Jeff Rawley’s face as he riffled idly through a stack of reports. Pretending he was busy while he manned the reception desk. How had a man who looked like an anorexic, balding version of a sumo wrestler made it through the Police Academy?

Across the room in the detective division, Andrew Flood glanced over at them with his usual smirk. “Ease up on Rawley, man. You know the drill, twenty-four hours at least before we can file a missing person’s report.”

“Yeah,” Rawley echoed. “It’s not like some twelve-year-old disappeared. We got better things to do, even if you don’t.”

“Angie Hunt is a responsible woman,” Cruz answered patiently. “She cares for her charges. She wouldn’t bail on them without a good reason.”

Flood shrugged. “Tell it to someone who cares.” He rose from his desk, shoved past Cruz, giving him a little bump on the way to the coffee machine.

“You know what,” Cruz said, “Rosedale PD is full of lazy bastards like you two.”

“Oh, yeah?” Rawley retorted, hands fluttering nervously over the items on his desk.

If Cruz said “boo,” the man might jump, but the parole officer decided to let it go. Finding Angie was more important. Protecting Frankie and Cole was more important. The murders were more important.

Cruz appealed to Detective Flood. Like Rawley, Flood had a lousy attitude toward the homeless population in Rosedale, and he didn’t hide it, which was one of the reasons he’d only risen to detective, second grade. When he saw Cruz walk toward him, he snarled, “Back off, Santiago. I got enough on my plate with these homicides.”

Cruz stared him down, noting the sweat that broke out on the detective’s forehead, the tight shoulders, the anxious eyes. Maybe the cases were getting to him. Leads were dwindling to nothing, and Flood acted like he’d given up.

Or didn’t care, more likely. He was a hard-ass, who basically despised the entire homeless community. He should never have headed the case.

Cruz stood close, eyeing him pugnaciously.

Flood edged backward, tried to act nonchalant. “So Angie Hunt’s got herself into trouble.”

“Why would you say that?”

“It was just a matter of time. She’s an ex-junkie, works all day with those losers, and makes my job harder than it should be.”

“How’s that?” Cruz followed Flood back to his desk. When the detective sat down with his coffee, Cruz perched on the edge without invitation.

“You don’t want to irritate me, San-tee-AG-o,” Flood warned, sipping his coffee.

Cruz leaned forward, up in Flood’s business. “Oh, yeah, why’s that?”

Flood cleared his throat, had to look up to Cruz. “Angie’s a bleeding heart do-gooder. Always on the side of ex-cons, even when they break the law – hell,
especially
if they break the law.”

“No one’s breaking the law right now, and Angie Hunt’s missing.” Cruz towered over Flood. “Angie could be another victim like Dickey Hinchey and Valerie Hightower.”

Flood sneered. “So now you’re a detective, is that it? Why don’t you get the hell out of my office and leave the investigation to me?”

“You just man up and do your job, Flood.” Cruz gave him an icy glare and walked away, flinging the last words over his shoulder. “Or someone will have to do it for you.”

“Oh, yeah, sez who?” Flood muttered, but not loud enough for the big man to hear.

Chapter 50

Frankie awoke from a light sleep and checked on Cole. In spite of her crude surgical techniques he was holding his own. So this is what medical practice was like a hundred years ago, she thought. Clean, cut, and wait.

He was still running a low-grade fever, possibly indicative of an beginning infection, but now rested quietly on her bed upstairs, looking much better since his wash-up. Luckily, she had plenty of pain killers on hand, along with her surgical kit supplies.

Frankie was fond of the ex-con, but knew when this ordeal was over with, she’d have to burn the sheets and bed coverings he lay on. The blood, the stains, the infected areas – she didn’t want any reminders when this ended.

If they all survived when it was over.

Frankie swept the kitchen, ate a hearty lunch. Dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, she returned to the huge leather chair that had belonged to her long-dead grandfather. She pulled her grandmother’s quilt tight around her.

Too wired, she knew she wouldn’t sleep again. The locked and loaded pistol that’d belonged to her father lay on her lap beneath the quilt.

Frankie had no intention of letting someone take her unaware again.

She jumped when the cell phone buzzed on the end table. She picked it up quickly.

“It’s Cruz,” he said before she could speak. “How is everything?”

She updated him on Cole’s condition. “When he – when Cole recovers, what are we going to do with him?”

That wasn’t the most important point, she knew, but the words had erupted from her mouth as though her brain had no control over her lips and tongue.

“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of that,” Cruz answered. “Right now we have to consider safety.” He hesitated, thinking. “When do you think it’ll be okay to move him?”

“A few days probably, but he’ll still need nursing care.”

“Right.” A long pause filled the space like the calm before a storm.

“Cruz?” She asked the really important question now. “How did they find us? How did they know about this house? It’s owned by my father. My official residence is in Crescent City – ” She interrupted herself when she heard the rise of hysteria in her voice.

It was funny how doctors could contain the panic and chaos of trauma during triage, but when it was your own life threatened, you lost yourself to terror.

“I’m scared,” she admitted reluctantly. “Someone has connected this house – my safe house – to me. It’s where the lawyer told me to go.”

The thought flitted through Cruz’s mind:
what lawyer? What was she talking about?
But like an annoying fly, it buzzed away. There were too many immediate concerns to consider.

“We’ll figure it out. Sheriff Slater will help us. We can trust him. He’s got a deputy watching the house. For now, keep the weapon close by. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

The phone went dead and she carefully placed it on the table. A sense of warmth came over her, knowing that Cruz was thinking of her, worrying about her.

Throwing off the quilt, she moved steadily and quietly around the downstairs, checking every lock, every window, every point of entry. She conducted the same systematic patrol upstairs. Satisfied, she finally returned to the chair, determined to keep watch over herself and her patient.

No point in telling Frankie about Angie Hunt, Cruz thought. She didn’t know the
Jesus Saves
woman personally, and she would only worry about another person in danger, possibly targeted for murder.

In fact, they hadn’t discussed the case Detective Flood was putting together – the murders of two homeless people, the investigation. An uneasy suspicion gripped his gut. The whole tangled web of death, missing organs – it had to be connected somehow.

Throw in a man like Anson Stark, a powerful gang leader, the attack on Frankie. He was sure she’d gotten involved unwittingly in something far more dangerous than he’d initially thought.

Additionally, there was the murder of the woman in Sacramento County. How did she fit into the puzzle?

The answer came sooner than he expected. Cruz was still talking to people loitering around
Jesus Saves.
Had they seen or heard anything about Angie? How late had she worked last night? The blowsy blonde, Sharon Fasser, claimed she knew nothing and clearly had decided to be unhelpful.

Slater rang through while Cruz continued to ask questions. “Good news from Sac County,” he said.

“It’s about time for some good news.”

“Their M.E. did a complete autopsy after a little pressure from homicide division. The homeless woman they found in Battery Hill Park was missing both kidneys.”

“That’s all?”

“Yeah, and according to the coroner after examining her lungs and other internal organs, she was unhealthy, probably well into the final stage of cirrhosis.”

“So the kidneys would be no good.”

“Yep.”

“I’ll bet someone is royally pissed off about that,” Cruz mused aloud.

“Yeah, enough to kill because of it,” Slater agreed.

“And how does that death fit into the overall scheme?” Cruz asked. “We’ve got to talk to someone we can trust at the prison. Walt Steiner?”

“The visitation officer at Pelican Bay?”

“Yeah, Frankie trusts him.”

“Not sure it’s wise to trust anyone right now,” Slater muttered as he hung up.

Chapter 51

The killer saw from the scuffed dirt on the cave’s floor that she’d crawled from the spot he’d dropped her, back toward the entry. She lay unconscious near the mouth of the cave. He looked around, wondering if anyone could see the opening this far up.

Bitch!

He bent over her, felt for a pulse. Steady and strong. Good, she was alive.

Grabbing her feet, he dragged her heedlessly deeper into the interior. For good measure he kicked her once in the ribs. The blow roused her for a moment, and she groaned weakly, rolling into a fetal position.

He jerked her flat on her back on the rumpled blanket he’d spread on the dirt. Wouldn’t want to get his own clothing dirty.

Bitch! Miss Self-righteous Angie Hunt, always looking down her nose at reliable, productive members of the community. Favoring the scum she surrounded herself with. He felt the familiar rage roil inside his gut, remembered his father’s disparaging words.

Straddling her, his knees on either side of her hips, he looked down at her bruised face, the gouges and cuts on her arms. He felt the first stirrings of arousal at the sight of her helplessness – not sexual – he wouldn’t screw a diseased whore like her if his life depended on it.

But a thrill at the sight of her fragile, thin neck – the cords standing out like chicken bones – made him hard. Thinking about how easy he could snap it – a twig in a child’s hand – aroused him. The utter vulnerability of the woman and the absolute power he had over her made him shudder with sexual promise.

He wrapped a hand around her throat. He could break her scrawny neck with one twist. He spread his fingers widely and felt another pulse of anticipation jitter through his body. Felt her pulse skitter beneath his touch.

She coughed and sputtered her eyes open, staring at him with round black pits in her chocolate face. “You?” she choked out. “I thought – ” Pure unadulterated hatred, mingled with fear, contorted her face.

He could hardly hear her weak words, but laughed anyway. “Yeah, what a bitch, huh?”

Her eyelids fluttered wildly as she tried to shake her head. Her eyes rolled back, showing only the whites, stark against her brown skin.

He wrapped both hands together around her throat, thumbs hooking at her larynx.

Squeezing slowly, watching her eyes jerk and close – open, jerk, and close as she gasped for air – he brought her almost to death. Then the next moment he allowed her to gasp back to life in a spate of wheezing and coughing. He repeated the actions, excited by the perverted intensity of the act. He began a third time.

All at once with a sudden burst of strength, Angie came to life, fought him, her skinny fingers clawing at his hands, desperately trying to break loose from his iron grip. Her legs kicked, her hips bucked beneath him, but he continued the rhythm – tighten and release, tighten and release.

At last the exquisite pleasure was too much and he exploded, spasmed in a jerk that bowed his body backward. Sweat dripped down his face onto her rictus of repulsion. He collapsed on her, rolled off and trembled with the greatest sense of release he’d ever felt.