Already dead, p.12
Already Dead, page 12
Chapter 25
Floyd was about to hop in the shower and scrape the filth of the day off of him, and perhaps even work on getting rid of the stench, when he heard the door to the room next door open and close.
“Just shower,” he told himself. Just shower and get some sleep.
He was exhausted. Even though Chase had done all the talking at Henry’s house, his anxiety had still peaked. And he was now dealing with the fallout from the adrenaline rush.
Floyd knew that he had to somehow get over this fear of his. If he didn’t, he was destined to play backseat to all the Chases and Tates of the world. This wasn’t the worst thing for him, after all, for every alpha there was at least one beta, but in the FBI, it was move up or move out.
And he didn’t want to move out.
Floyd shut off the water. The shower would have to wait.
Sleep, too.
He was still subordinate, and although it wasn’t under his purview to make sure that Chase was safe at all hours of the day, he felt it was his duty as her friend.
She wasn’t right. Even for her, Chase was acting odd. And she was lying. He knew this, although Floyd couldn’t identify the exact reasons underlying his confidence. But there had been a look… when Floyd had first asked about Georgina, something crossed over Chase’s features.
And despite his best efforts, Floyd couldn’t suppress the images that flashed in his mind. There had been another time when he’d that darkness on her face. Not long thereafter, they’d found Chase in a gravel pit, her body covered in scratches, her heart barely beating.
So, Floyd followed her. He watched Chase interact with a man at the bar and silently wished that he took her home, or vice-versa. At least that would keep her off the streets where the real danger lay.
But she didn’t.
And when he saw his partner stop outside of E-Tronics, he grinned. This was a good sign. Chase, throwing herself into a case that, truthfully, neither of them believed was actually a case.
Another indication that she was going to stay out of trouble.
Floyd shook his head admonishingly.
She’s not a child, Floyd. Even if she were, it’s not like you’re qualified to give her advice. Ye, who cannot even speak to a grieving individual without breaking down.
Floyd, feeling as if he’d done a good deed, turned, intending to head back to the hotel and get that well-deserved shower and rest.
But something caught his eye. Whether it was Chase’s story about seeing the woman in the white dress that had primed his mind, or just simply the fact that Chase and alleys generally didn’t mix, Floyd could have sworn he saw a flicker of white near the dumpster.
He started in that direction, head down, hands in pockets. When he reached the dumpster, Floyd’s eyes were drawn to the stain on the ground. It took him a few seconds to avert his gaze. As a final act of due diligence, Floyd glanced all around the dumpster.
There was nothing there and what had, moments ago, felt like a good deed now just felt dirty and intrusive.
Head hanging even lower now, Floyd stuck to the shadows as he started back to the street. He’d taken a dozen steps before he heard the scream.
It was Chase.
Floyd broke into a run, shouting her name as he rounded the back of the building. The first thing he noticed, however, wasn’t his partner. It was another stain. A stain uncannily like the first—even its proximity to the dumpster was similar.
The only notable difference was that this one was still wet.
“Chase!”
Floyd rounded the dumpster and what he saw made him stop in his tracks. Chase was lying on her back, eyes open but blank. Blood seeped from a wound on her neck, soaking the collar and front of her shirt.
Floyd dropped to his knees and pressed his hands against her neck. Her blood was still pumping, but weakly so.
“Oh, God, Chase,” he whispered, struggling to stem the bleeding while also dialing 911. “I need help! Please!”
He relayed the address and then hung up, needing both hands to try and save Chase’s life.
A gurgling sound came from her throat and Floyd whined, thinking that this was a death rattle.
It wasn’t.
It was Chase trying to say something.
“Shh, quiet… save your strength,” Floyd begged. “Just… quiet.”
But in true Chase Adams fashion, she refused to be told what to do. Even in her final moments.
“Save her,” Chase whispered. “Save her.”
“Her? Who?”
Chase’s eyes rolled to her left and Floyd looked in that direction.
A woman in a white dress—mostly red now—lay slumped against the wall, bleeding to death. There was a hunting knife with a brown handle lying beside her right hand.
“Please, save her,” Chase whispered again. She said something else, too, but her words were silenced by the scream of a siren that filled the night air.
Chapter 26
Tate found himself back in the stinky loaner but today he wasn’t spying on Meredith Griffith’s house. He was spying on her, but not at home—at Morris Cemetery.
From where he was parked, Tate had a clear view of Dr. Wayne Griffith III’s funeral. It was fairly standard, and without anything interesting of note, he decided to multi-task. With his laptop open on his lap, Tate searched for any record that Roger Evans or Henry Saburra had a child. So far as he could tell, they did not—at least, not according to any official state registry. Neither man was very active on social media, either, and Tate could find no evidence of a child there. The only photo that was telling at all was one of the two men holding each other, red-faced from alcohol and looking happier than pigs in shit.
Next, Tate looked into crimes that matched the two that they were currently investigating. He found two that were of interest. Upon digging deeper, one of them turned out to be a simple robbery that transitioned into murder. The other had merit. It took place nine months ago about two hours south of Columbus in a city called Portsmouth. The details were sketchy, but it appeared as if a local drug dealer had been murdered in his car. The killer was in the backseat—a filthy woman who was also dead. The reason why this case didn't immediately pop up, was because there were so many question marks on the file. Whoever had been in charge had done the bare minimum amount of work.
It was the nature of the wounds and the murder weapon that tipped Tate off. Although the drug dealer had several punctures in his arms and chest, he died from a lacerated throat. The vagrant had died in a similar fashion and a generic hunting knife had been found on the floor of the backseat.
Tate looked up when he heard a shout.
“Oh shit!”
He tossed his laptop onto the passenger seat and got out of the car. Wayne had a large funeral, full of fancy, important people, who were carbon copies of each other: custom suits, monogrammed shirts, white hair, and clean-shaven faces. They were politicians, they were bankers, they were businessmen.
The commotion hadn’t been started by any of them, but by two women.
Two women whom Tate recognized: Meredith Griffith and Julia Abrams.
They were standing near the grave site, and Meredith was wagging a finger in Julia’s general direction. Tate couldn’t imagine anything more uncomfortable than this scene: the dead man’s mistress and wife fighting at his funeral.
No one seemed to know what to do. Half the people were ignoring the altercation while the other half were staring in disbelief. A young man stepped forward and said something, clearly meant to diffuse the situation. When Meredith shot him a look, he crawled back into his shell.
“What's the problem?” Tate said as he strode toward the crowd. “What's going on here?”
He knew that in situations such as this one, the general public liked to defer to the authorities. This had been a Constantine Striker specialty, and Tate liked to think of himself as a worthy apprentice.
“This bitch has the nerve to come here,” Meredith spat, still sticking her finger in Julia’s face. “This whore.”
“I just wanted to say goodbye,” Julia said, her voice soft. “I don’t want any trouble. I'll leave.”
“Oh, you don't want any trouble, do you?” Meredith shot back. She was dangerously close to pushing Julie onto the casket, which was lowered halfway into the ground by a mechanical winch.
Wouldn't that be ironic? Julia lies on top of Wayne in death while Meredith condemns her for lying on top of him in life.
He shook his head, trying to clear himself of the bizarre thought.
“Everyone needs to calm down,” Tate offered, slowly wedging himself between the two women.
“She shouldn’t be here!” Meredith shouted.
Tate addressed Julia.
“This is a private gathering, Julia.”
“Julia? You’re on a first name basis with this whore?”
Tate held his hand up, silencing Meredith. He wasn’t sure if she recognized him, but he hoped she did—he didn’t want to have to pull his FBI badge out here.
“I was just leaving,” Julia said, lowering her head.
“Yeah, you were.”
“Quiet,” Tate hissed.
Meredith looked appalled at being spoken to this way, but she didn’t open her mouth again.
“I’m—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause any problems. I just wanted to say bye to Wayne.”
Meredith sucked her teeth at the mention of her husband’s name but remained silent.
“I understand.” He gestured for Julia to move away from the crowd. “Let me walk you to your car.” Then to the rest of the funeral, Tate said, “I’m sorry for the interruption. And my condolences to the friends and family.”
Chapter 27
Floyd tapped his foot incessantly as he watched Chase's chest rise up and down. The sound of loose change in his pocket combined with the beeping of the machines that were hooked up to his partner made for an interesting symphony.
He still couldn't comprehend what had happened. And what might've happened had he not followed Chase last night.
The woman who had attacked Chase was a carbon copy of Wayne and Roger’s murderers. Reeking, filthy, and with no apparent concern for their own body. Not only that, but the MO was the same. Knife to the throat, knife to the throat. Thankfully, Chase’s attacker had been less efficient.
What it all meant, Floyd had no idea. But one thing was for certain: this was no coincidence. It also suggested that all of these crimes were indeed connected.
But why Chase? Was she specifically—
“Is she alive?”
Floyd was startled and stopped moving his leg.
“Chase, shit, you scared me.”
Chase grimaced and tried to sit up, but only made it halfway. Floyd propped some pillows behind her back.
“Is she alive?” Chase repeated.
No thank you for saving my life, no I’m so glad you were there, Floyd.
But that was Chase for you.
“You need to focus on yourself, for now. The knife nearly severed your carotid artery, Chase. A half-inch to the left and you wouldn’t have even made it to the hospital.”
Chase winced and adjusted her position.
“Please, just take it easy.”
“Floyd,” she said hoarsely. “I need to know if she’s alive.”
Floyd looked at his partner. He knew that if he didn’t tell her, she’d probably drag her ass out of bed and go searching the hospital for herself.
“She's alive,” he said glumly. “But she's in worse shape than you are—in the ICU. Doc says it’s fifty-fifty for her to p-pull through.”
“Damn it.”
Floyd’s upper lip curled. He was too exhausted to remain congenial.
“R-r-really? You’re pissed at me because I saved your li-life? Because I saved you over her? A girl who tried to k-k-k-ill you?”
“What were you doing there?” Chase demanded. “Floyd, what were you doing at the electronics store?”
Floyd instinctively looked away, then immediately glanced back at Chase.
“Why was I there? These are n-not the q-questions you should be asking, Chase.”
Chase just stared at him, unblinking, and Floyd sighed.
“I was following you, all right?” he said defensively. “I was f-f-f-following you because I was w-w-worried about you.”
Chase continued to stare at him, her expression still hard, then she broke.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “Floyd, thank you.”
Another sigh from Floyd, this one accompanied by a substantial shudder.
When he managed to get a hold of himself, he said, “What happened?”
“I just went for a walk, ended up at the Roger and Henry’s store. The garbage… the garbage was bothering me.”
“G-garbage? What do you mean?”
Chase bit her bottom lip.
“Henry Saburra… he told us that Roger would have walked the garbage out the front and then to the dumpster in the side alley. But that doesn’t make sense. Nobody would do it that way. They would use the dumpster out back—it’s literally right beside the rear exit.”
Floyd squinted.
“I meant what happened to you, Chase. What the h-hell happened to you?”
Chase appeared momentarily confused.
“I was attacked,” she said slowly. “The girl in the ICU tried to kill me then cut herself.”
“Yeah, but why—”
Floyd’s phone started to ring, and he looked at it. It was Tate and he ignored it.
“Is that Tate? Answer it,” Chase encouraged.
Floyd didn't want to answer his phone. He just wanted to stay here until Chase got better.
But she insisted.
“Tate? I’m at—”
“Guess what I just did.”
“I don't—”
“Oh, just broke up a fight between Julia and Meredith. Can you imagine? Your girlfriend and your wife nearly duke it out at your funeral?”
Floyd looked at Chase.
“Tate, I'm in the hospital.”
Tate suddenly became serious.
“What happened? Floyd, are you all right?”
“I'm fine, but Chase isn't. She was attacked. Stabbed in the neck.”
“What?”
“Yeah, she was stabbed, and the woman who tried to kill her put the knife to her own throat. She’s in the ICU now. Not sure if she’s going to survive. Tate, whatever we thought about this c-c-case before, it’s all changed now. They’re all connected and it’s on us to figure out how.”
Chapter 28
Tate's eyes went wide.
“Jesus? Is Chase okay?”
“She's gonna be okay. Lost a lot of blood, but she's gonna p-pull through.”
Tate looked through the windshield and wipers that were moving at full blast as he parked outside the bus station. The rain was coming down in sheets.
“You want me to come to you?”
“No, I don’t think so. We'll be fine here.”
“What about the person who attacked her? Really tried to kill herself afterward?”
“Yeah. I managed to keep her from bleeding out, but she’s in an induced coma now. Received six units of blood.”
Tate shut off his car and stepped out into the rain.
“Fuck,” he said as he started to sprint. “Tell her—” Tate hesitated. He’d gotten a pretty good read on Chase from their first meeting and based on what Floyd had told him about his ex-partner. But now he wasn’t sure what to say, what would serve her best in this instance. He settled on something genuine. “Tell her I’m glad she’s okay.”
“Will do. Is it—is it raining there?”
“Oh, it’s just fucking beautiful here. Love Columbus. Just gorgeous this time of year.”
Floyd offered a strangled chuckle, an abbreviated ha.
Fucking guy—he can’t catch a break, Tate thought. He moved quickly through the main foyer of the bus station and up to the ticket booth.
“Where you headed?” a woman with light blue eyeshadow asked from behind a glass partition.
Tate didn’t answer. He just pulled out his badge and slapped it on the table.
“Listen, Floyd, I looked into Roger and Henry—no kid that I can see. Pretty sure they were more than just business partners, though. If that means anything.” Tate placed the phone against his chest while he produced a photograph of Wayne’s murderer. “Have you ever seen this girl before?”
The woman's pudgy fingers extended through the slot in the glass, and she sucked onto her side. As she inspected the photo, Tate got back on the phone.
“I also found a similar case—drug dealer killed in his car two hours south of here. Similar MO.”
The woman behind the glass looked at Tate when he said this, and he just nodded at her.
“Want me to head there?” Floyd was just being polite, and they both knew it.
“Hell, no.” Tate lowered his voice. “I gotta get out of this place, man.”
“Okay, let me know if you find anything else.”
“Be good. And give my best to Chase.”
Tate hung up.
“Well, have you seen her before?” he asked.
The woman raspberried.
“Naw, I don’t think so.” She slid the photo back under the glass. “Sorry.”
Tate wondered if the woman’s memory might improve with a little cash, but he was strapped.
“You sure? She smelled real bad. Like the worst thing you’ve ever smelled before. We’re talking, rotting—”
“Sewage?”
Tate turned. A man in a blue uniform was standing behind him, a newspaper tucked underneath his arm. He was balding, and like the woman behind the glass was also on the heavier side.
“I was gonna say baby diapers—that’s a favorite of mine—but sewage works.”
“Can I see the photograph?” the bus driver asked.
Tate nodded and handed it over. The man only needed one glance to confirm.
“Yep, yep, I recognize her—that’s her. Had to get my bus fumigated after she got off. To be honest, I’m not even sure why I let her on the bus. Maybe ‘cuz it was nearly empty, and I thought I’d—” he shook his head. “—I dunno. I guess I felt bad for her.”
