Without Malice (The Without Series Book 1) (17 page)

Chapter 48

Drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, he realized he’d been thinking subconsciously about Angie Hunt for a long time, waiting for the right opportunity. He drew in a deep, shuttering breath, calming his excitement, trying 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. Although he didn’t regret it, he knew 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 stupid shelter, overseeing the funds that rolled in from wealthy saps who believed her sob stories about street bums and their hard lives. Preaching about their rehabilitation.

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

The old homeless man at Ryder Park had been a spontaneous act, an accident that’d ended in a risky situation for him. This time, however, 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 a few minutes later 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 like a piece of meat 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 mother-fucker 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, lying on a dirt floor. A dank, dimly lighted area.
What the hell?
He’d dragged 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.

But the fucker had made a mistake in not tying her up.

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.

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

Chapter 49

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 office 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 had 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 gripped him. Sergei was right. Angie’s disappearing was a sign of trouble. God, 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 overheard the Cruz’s complant and 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 swallowed his pride and followed Detective Flood who ended up in the break room pouring a cup of coffee. 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 trail after him, he turned and 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, trying to act nonchalant and balance his coffee cup at the same time. “So Angie Hunt’s finally got herself into some trouble.”

“Why would you say that?”

“It was only 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 fuck with 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
when 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. Maybe not even clean first.

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 antibiotics and 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, 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 in the future.

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 one of her grandmother’s quilts 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.

“Chago?” She asked, using his nickname to address the really important question. “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. It’s where Walt knew I’d be.”

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 right now. Keep the weapon close by. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He paused and with a hint of humor in his voice, added, “And for God’s sake don’t shoot the deputy.”

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 checked through the window to see the patrol car outside across the street. 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,” Slater said.

“It’s about time for some good news.”

“Their coroner 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 could be okay ... or not.”

“Yep.”

“And the case is related to our two DB’s.”

“Yep.”

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

“We’ve got to talk to someone we can trust at the prison,” Slater said.

“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.