Bait the devil, p.4
Bait the Devil, page 4
Letting the door swing closed, he stepped back and spotted another hallway. T.J. followed it. Three bedrooms and a half bath lined the hall. The first two rooms proved to be the sons’ rooms with the typical mess and stench, and the last bedroom was the master with an attached bathroom.
T.J. turned on the light and found what he’d been anticipating the moment the front door creaked open. Within the confines of Hal Jones’s bedroom was frantic pandemonium—male and female clothing tossed over the bed, on the floor, and piled in front of the open closet. Discarded travel bags kicked aside, probably for something lighter and more compact. Dresser drawers left open, undergarments and jeans hanging over the lip. In the master bath was more of the same, missed bottles of cosmetics or toiletries scattered on the tiled floor.
T.J. backed out and headed down the hall toward the front. “All clear,” he called to the two women.
Dot and Vivian followed him back inside and left the door open.
“I think Hal Jones packed up the family and ran,” T.J. said. “Looks like they took only the bare minimum.”
“Why would he run?” Vivian asked, moving farther into the house.
“Probably has something to do with Cade Porter,” Dot said.
“Shit,” T.J. spat. “We’ve got someone else to track down.”
Chapter Six
Standing knee-deep in the Boise River in chest-high waders, Dot flicked her fishing rod and watched the lure sail out. Once the indicator settled on the bouncing waters, she reeled back the line a few times and waited.
This part of the Boise River was prime fishing for salmon and a beautiful spot to relax and think. So far, she’d done more relaxing than thinking. Her wicker basket already held one catch. She was allowed two per day, and she fully intended to reel in a second salmon for the freezer.
Dawn was fading into morning, and the sun was starting to peek through the trees. From her spot in the river, Dot heard the early risers making their way into the city for their daily grind. On the opposite bank, she spotted a herd of deer grazing on the lush river-fed grasses.
Dot chose to live in this part of Boise because of its access to Boise National Forest and the river with its prime fishing grounds. The first thing she did after getting her address was purchase a fishing license. If she got an itch to disappear into the foothills, she had access to more than a few trailheads. And if the urge hit to nock a few arrows and let them fly, there was an archery range northeast of her bungalow.
All this wilderness so close to a bustling city, but she still missed the wilds of the Ybarra ranch in the heart of the Payette National Forest. What she wouldn’t give to saddle up, ride into the mountains, and camp out.
Adjusting her hold on the fishing rod, she eased out the travel mug she kept hooked on her catch basket and took a long pull of the coffee—a special brew roasted by a fellow veteran who talked her into being a shareholder in the company—and let the warmth seep through her. A breeze rolled down from the hills, teasing her face and hair. Today promised to be another scorcher. For now, Dot stayed cool standing in the churning river waters.
There was a hit to her line, and the indicator disappeared beneath the waters. With her mug hooked on the basket, she took hold of the rod and began reeling in her new catch. There was a struggle, and she worried she’d snagged debris instead of a salmon. The line came free, and she felt the drag on the fishing line. She had a big one.
She managed to reel the fighting salmon closer, take out her net, and scoop up the thrashing fish. Lifting the net, she admired the wriggling silver and yellow body.
Dot waded through the rushing waters back to the shore, where she deposited the net and rod on the sand and rock mixed ground. She made short work of freeing the salmon from the net and removing the hook, then held up the still fish. It was a good catch.
With the salmon laid to rest beside her earlier catch, Dot set the basket on the ground and sat next to her equipment. She enjoyed the last of her coffee as she watched the sun’s rays dance on the water.
The rustle of boots through the dried grasses alerted her to his presence before he came to stand beside her.
“Knew you’d be out here,” T.J. said, his voice low and rumbling.
She patted the empty ground next to her. He squatted, his knees sounding like popping corn, and then sat with a grunt. They sat there enjoying the morning.
“Catch anything?” T.J. asked after a bit.
“Two nice salmon.”
“Those will taste good.”
More companionable silence passed between them.
“Come up with a plan?” T.J. asked.
“Not a thing,” she answered and tipped up her mug.
“Larrabee called me,” he said, plucking the seed head from the grasses. “They’ve IDed some of the dead men at the horse farm. Low-level enforcers from Las Vegas.”
“These wouldn’t be the same types we tangled with before?”
“Larrabee says no. But there was a hitch in his voice when he said it.”
Dot lowered her mug. In her short association with the lawman, he hadn’t crossed her as one to wiggle on the hook when it came to doling out information.
“What are you thinking?” she asked T.J.
“I want to go through the lawyer’s house. Vivian wrangled permission for us to be there.”
“Shouldn’t we bring the police in on that?”
T.J. made a scoffing sound low in his throat. “There was nothing there to prove foul play. Unless the law firm decides to call him a missing person, then the cops might get involved.”
“And the law firm isn’t because?”
“Because Halloway Jones put in for vacation time, starting yesterday.”
*
After cleaning the salmon and storing the meat in her freezer, Dot took a quick shower and dressed in tan cargo pants, a green tank top, and a lightweight white button-up she left unbuttoned. She laced up her boots and settled a dark-green ball cap over her damp head.
T.J. waited for her by the truck. Under the brim of his ball cap, his Aviators reflected. “Let’s roll, Fly Girl.”
She scowled at his old nickname for her and hopped into the driver’s side.
The drive across Boise to the Jones’s residency was about fifteen minutes. Dot kept the truck to a slow crawl down the street, watching for any kids—still out of school on summer break—to appear out of nowhere. She parked the truck lengthwise in the drive like T.J. had done the night before.
Before they exited the cab, they grabbed Nitrile gloves and armed themselves in case of unexpected visitors.
T.J. produced a key Vivian had procured for them. Once inside, he relocked the door and pocketed the key for safekeeping.
“We’ll work our way from the back of the house forward. You take the master bed and bath; I’ll handle the sons’ rooms,” he said as they wove through the clutter. “You’re not going to want to deal with the boy stench in there.”
“Can’t be any smellier than a goat buck in rut.” She snapped on a glove.
“Trust me, it’s worse.”
They separated in the hallway.
With a finger, Dot pushed open the partially closed bedroom door and let it swing open. Before they had left last night, T.J. had returned any open doors back in the near exact position they had been as he did a reconnaissance of the house, except for the front door, that they had closed and locked. Neither they nor Vivian had moved or removed anything lying about. They didn’t have to worry about fingerprints because they had worn gloves if they had to handle doors or locks.
The master bed looked as it had last night. Dot disregarded the scattered clothing and went to work searching the dresser drawers. Mr. and Mrs. Jones loved to work out if the unbelievable amount of spandex and moisture-wicking clothing was anything to go on. Dot was by no means an expert on clothing—if it didn’t say Wrangler or Ariat or was handed to her by the US Army, she was clueless—but everything looked expensive.
On the drive over, she and T.J. had discussed what they should look for. They both came to the consensus it didn’t have to be anything specific, just something that seemed way off to be in a family home. So far, the only thing Dot discovered off beat was the weird ass vibrating thing she assumed was a sex toy. To each their own.
She moved onto rummaging through the huge walk-in closet, scrounging through shoe boxes and garment bags. How did one woman have time to wear all of these clothes? Before working through what had to be Hal’s side of the closet, Dot paused to stretch her back. Her tussle with Freddy yesterday had aggravated a few aches and pains leftover from the forest service helicopter crash she’d survived a few years ago.
Bent back as she was, she spotted the extra layer of shelves above. Something dark and leather dangled over the edge of the topmost shelf. Dot reached for it, but she wasn’t tall enough. She stepped out of the closet and searched the room for something to stand on. Not spotting anything sturdy enough, she checked the closet and found a step ladder shoved behind five stuffed garment bags.
On the upper step of the short ladder, she was able to see over the edge of the shelf. The leather strap was connected to a long hand-tooled leather rifle case. Dot slid the case closer for inspection, finding it lighter than expected, and it tilted toward her. A silver medallion with a familiar leather craftsman logo winked back at her.
“T.J.,” she called out.
She stepped down, bringing the gun case with her, the lack of weight inside increasingly noticeable as she exited the closet.
T.J. entered the room, a black smudge on his cheek. “What?”
Dot pointed at her cheek. “You got something right there.”
He wiped at his face, only making the smudge larger and darker. He peered at his gloved hand and grimaced. “Shit. That room is covered in black mold.”
Now she was glad he’d taken it. She laid the case on the bed.
“Nice rifle case,” T.J. muttered as he joined her.
She pulled back the heavy-duty zipper and let the case flop open. Empty. As she’d feared.
“Think Halloway has any other empty gun cases around here?” she asked T.J.
He ran his fingers over the tooled leather. “Where’d you find this?”
“Closet, upper shelf.”
“See any gun safes?”
She swept her hand around the room. “Nope.”
T.J. examined the carpeted floor. “If I were a betting man, I’d say our attorney has a floor or wall safe.”
Together—Dot on hands and knees and T.J. moving artwork and mirrors—they scoured the room for any sign of a safe.
Dot was ducking under the bed to feel around when a loud clatter echoed through the house. She bolted upright, drawing her weapon as she moved. T.J. shifted away from the adjoining doorway to the master bath, his pistol pressed to his chest, barrel pointed down.
“I thought the house was locked up,” Dot whispered, her voice strained.
T.J. shrugged and inched toward the bedroom door.
“I don’t know who you think you are, but you better come out.” The voice echoing down the hall was decidedly female and carried an undertone of fear. “I mean it. I have a gun. And I called the cops.”
T.J. closed his eyes and let his head tip back as he mouthed Fuck.
Dot seconded his sentiment. The last thing they needed was an adrenaline-fueled Stepford wife with a weapon.
T.J. pointed to the windows behind Dot, then made a circle motion. She looked over her shoulder and frowned.
“Why me?” she whispered.
“You’re flexible and scrawny,” he whispered back.
She flipped him the bird as she holstered her 1911. Every time. Every damn time. She was the one stationed as rear guard while he kicked in the doors. But after examining the window, she had to admit, his bulky frame would not fit through without making a ton of noise.
Slowly, she lifted the sash, happy it moved freely and quietly, then she pushed up the storm screen and lastly the screen.
“I know someone is in here!” the frightened Stepford wife hollered.
Dot glanced at T.J. “You better go defuse the situation,” she whispered.
He waved her off and peered around the doorframe.
With a shake of her head, Dot made like an otter and slid through the gap, headfirst. She dropped to the ground on a flower bed, crushing delicate petals and stems. She was on her feet in a flash and stuck her head into the open window.
“Fat ass,” she hissed at T.J., then bolted before he could respond.
Dot left the 1911 in its holster and headed for a neat patio jutting into the backyard. The whole yard was encased by a dark-stained wooden fence, its boards evenly spaced with hair-width gap between each board. The lone gate dividing the Jones’s yard from the neighbors’ gapped open. So, Stepford wife was a nosy neighbor.
As Dot reached the patio, she heard T.J. inside the house.
“Ma’am, I’m a fugitive recovery agent here on official business. Would you please put that gun down?”
Dot slipped across the patio’s cement pad to the open French doors. Nosy Neighbor had a key?
“The cops are on their way,” the woman’s voice wobbled.
“That was not necessary,” T.J. said.
Dot peered in through the window bracketing the doorway and spotted the neighbor standing at the edge of the tiled kitchen, trembling arms pointing a too-heavy pistol in the direction of the hallway. Dot noticed some of the football gear left on the chairs in the kitchen had been dumped to the floor, probably the clatter they heard before the woman announced herself.
“Ma’am, if you’d just let me show you some ID—”
“No! Keep your hands where I can see them.”
Dot crept inside the house, careful to avoid the scattered gear, and keep out of the woman’s line of sight. The best method was to approach her from behind and disarm her before she could fire a shot. It was going to be tricky, because this incompetent female had her finger on the trigger.
Dot spotted T.J. as she cleared the table. Ever the professional, he didn’t flick his gaze her way.
“Ma’am, I need you to set that gun down before you end up doing something you’ll live to regret.”
“I’m not falling for that.” She jerked the gun at him.
T.J. ducked. “Ma’am, I’m serious. You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“I do too!”
Dot acted. With one hand, she gripped the pistol’s slide and with the other the woman’s right wrist. The gun went off as Dot pinched hard on the wrist nerves, making the woman screech. Dot disarmed her and forced her onto her knees by twisting her wrist. Once she had the woman subdued, Dot ejected the clip and the spent cartridge.
“You good?” she called out to T.J. over the ringing in her ears.
“Good,” he answered.
Dot chucked the pistol with its slide racked and the clip onto the kitchen table. From her cowering position on the floor, the woman tried to glare at Dot.
“Next time you try to play hero,” Dot said, leaning closer to the woman, “don’t. If we’d been real criminals you’d be dead.”
She looked between Dot and T.J. “I called the cops,” she croaked.
Before Dot could say anything, T.J. had his phone out. “I’m on it,” he said.
“Who are you?”
“Well, Nosy Neighbor, we’re fugitive recovery agents, as my partner told you we were.” Dot untucked her badge from behind her vest and let it dangle about her neck. “We’re here per the request of Mr. Jones’s law firm.”
“Yeah, Bukowski, it’s Roman. Did you get a call for a unit to respond to a B and E?” T.J. rattled off the address to the LEO, then waited.
Dot stared down at the woman who had the good sense God gave her to remain in the position with her hands up.
“That’s what I thought. Hey, can you call the car off? It’s just me and Dot here on request of the owner’s place of employment.” T.J. waited again. “Oh, that? That was nothing.” He met Dot’s gaze and winced. “Well, the alarmist decided to play heroine with a loaded gun … Yeah, she fired a shot, but it hit a wall. No one’s hurt … No, that’s not … Okay, fine. I’ll let the law firm know. Thanks.” T.J. ended the call. “For nothing. Squad car is almost here. Someone else just called in shots fired at this location.”
His withering look dropped to the woman kneeling on the floor. “Who the hell are you?”
Nosy Neighbor pointed a trembling finger at the backyard. “I live next door.”
“And just happen to have a key to the place?” Dot asked.
“Yes. I’m the HOA president.” Her voice rose. “Every owner on this block has to give a copy for emergencies.”
Dot made a face, the one she gave when she didn’t believe whatever lie vomit was coming out of someone’s mouth. He shook his head and rolled his eyes.
“Pretty certain a lawyer is not going to give over a copy of his key to some rando no matter how much perceived authority she gives off,” Dot said as she circled the kneeling woman. “So many violations in the span of a few minutes.”
“I have not broken any laws.” She pointed between Dot and T.J. “You are the ones who broke in.”
T.J. walked past, dangling the key and the authorized letter of permission from the law firm. “Yeah, no.”
Nosy Neighbor must have realized her mistake and went for the next best defense. She clutched her wrist. “You broke my wrist.”
Dot gave her a canine-bearing smile. “The nerves might bother you for a few hours, but nothing was broken.” She leaned forward. “You, on the other hand, wielded a firearm. By the way you were brandishing it, I’d say you have no idea how to use it, and you have no legal right to do so.” Dot cocked her head. “Is it your husband’s? Maybe the pool boy’s?”
