Drained, page 7
“Agent Beth Harper,” she said.
I continued up the flight of steps to take a seat in the lobby and wait for her to finish her call. She met me a moment later.
“That was the mother of Jasmine Thomas, our second-most-recent victim. We have an appointment with her tomorrow morning at ten.”
“Good,” I said.
“That’s enough for the night,” Beth said. She motioned toward the elevators. We walked over, and she thumbed the button to take us upstairs.
I dug my fingers into my eyes and gave them a hard rub. The elevator doors opened, took us inside, and let us out on the tenth floor a moment later. Beth and I walked for our rooms. I fished my hotel key card from my wallet.
Beth looked over at me from her room door. “Are you going to sleep soon?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I’ll probably call my wife, relax in front of the television for a bit, and call it a night.”
“Feel like going downstairs and getting a drink?” she asked.
I took a rain check.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Brett pulled the Ferrari past the front door of the address Monica had given him.
“Shit,” he said.
Her apartment complex was above a row of cafes and small businesses. People roamed the sidewalks back and forth. The stairs leading to the entrance of her building were immediately to the right of the cafes’ outdoor seating—seating that appeared full. Brett continued for a block or two and found a parking spot on a side street. He parked, placed a baseball cap upon his head, and stepped from his car. Then he walked back to her building.
He kept his head down and to the right as he passed the cafe. Brett quickly climbed the stairs and walked through the glass door of Monica’s building. He stood in a small entryway the size of a closet. Another door, which was locked, led into the apartment building itself. Before Brett was a row of buttons on the wall to buzz each apartment. He found her name next to unit three eighteen. He thumbed down the button.
“Hello,” a woman’s voice called.
“Here to pick you up,” he said.
“Sure, I’ll be down in a minute.”
Brett waited in the entryway. A moment later, he saw her approaching from an elevator down the hall.
She opened the locked door. “Oh, it’s you. I thought you were sending a driver.”
“I couldn’t get a hold of him, so I figured I’d pick you up myself. I tried sending you a message, but I never got a response,” Brett said.
“Yeah, my phone just up and died. Weirdest thing. I went to grab it to make a call, and it just did nothing. I swapped batteries, everything. Whatever. I guess I’ll have to get a new one tomorrow on my lunch break.”
“Yeah, that’s definitely odd. You didn’t get it wet, did you?” Brett asked.
“No, not at all.”
“Well, more bad news. I was in a rush out the door and forgot my wallet, so we’ll have to stop and get it.” Brett looked down at his watch. “We have like an hour and a half until our dinner reservation, so we should be fine.”
“Oh, okay,” Monica said.
Brett looked her up and down. She wore a tight white dress with thin straps at the top.
“You look amazing,” he said.
“Thanks. You don’t look so bad yourself,” she said.
Brett smirked but said nothing. He was wearing a black tailored suit. His shoes were a couple thousand—his watch more. The amount of scruff on his cheeks was perfect. He waved for her to follow him out from the building’s entryway.
She did.
“Where’s your car?” she asked.
“I had to park like two blocks away. I drove past and couldn’t find a single spot, but now there are a bunch.”
She shook her head. “A lot of weird stuff seems to be going on. Maybe it’s a sign.”
Brett chuckled. “Yeah, maybe.” He walked fast past the cafe, trying to get off of her heavily populated block as quickly as possible.
“Where’s the fire?” she asked. Monica jogged a couple steps in her high heels to catch up to him.
“Oh, sorry.” He slowed and let her meet him at his side as he placed his hand at the small of her back. “I didn’t have any change, so I didn’t put anything in the parking meter. I don’t want to get a ticket.”
Brett crossed the street, and the pair found his car and got in.
“Wow, Rick. I’ve never been in one of these. I saw the photos of it online in your ad. This thing is so cool.”
“Yeah.” He fired the motor and revved the engine. “A little pricey.” He chuckled. “I actually have a more expensive one on the way.” That was a lie.
“Wow,” she said again. “I can’t imagine what a car payment on something like this would be.”
“No car payment,” Brett said. “Just a purchase.”
He quickly glanced over to catch her reaction. She looked at him and smiled.
Monica reached over and placed her hand on his thigh. “How far away is your house?”
“About a half hour. We’ll still be able to make our reservations, and if we don’t, I’m sure the restaurant will accommodate us. I’m friends with the owner.”
“Oh, okay,” she said.
Brett smirked—he had no reservations at any restaurant. He exchanged a bit of small talk with the woman on the drive toward his house—it mostly consisted of her talking about her phone and him talking over her head about business.
Brett pulled up to the front gates at his driveway.
“This is your place?” Monica asked.
Brett reached from the window of his car and punched in the gate code. “One of them. I have another home in St. Louis and another outside of Columbus. My business has a regional office in each location. I also have a condo in Aspen.”
“I don’t know if you ever actually told me what you do.”
“Oh, actually, I own the site you found me on.”
She jerked her head back. “What? You own Classified OD?”
Brett smiled and nodded.
The gates spread. Brett drove up the driveway and stopped just beyond the front of the home. He shut the car off and stepped out while Monica remained in the car. He pretended he was receiving a phone call, putting the phone to his ear. After a few seconds, he walked to the passenger side and opened her door.
“That was my driver,” he said. “He’s going to meet us here and pick us up. He should be here in about a half hour. Care for a tour while we wait?”
“Okay, sure.”
Monica stepped out and looked around, staring at the brick home. “Wow, Rick. This place is great.”
“Thanks. I wanted a place with a fair amount of land. When this place came on the market, listed with twenty-some acres, I kind of fell in love with it.”
Brett walked toward the front door, and Monica followed. He unlocked it and entered.
“Glass of wine while we wait?” he asked.
“Yeah, that would be fine,” she said.
“I just got this new bottle from France that’s supposed to be to die for. We’ll have a glass, walk around the house and grounds for a bit, and then take off when Henry gets here.”
“Sounds good,” she said.
“Make yourself at home.” Brett pointed toward the living room. “I’ll bring you a glass.”
“Thanks,” she said.
Brett went to the kitchen and pulled open the drawer beside the refrigerator. He removed a small Tupperware dish of powdered Rohypnol. The drug had been in pill form when he acquired it in Mexico years prior—grinding it into a powder made dissolving it into a food or drink much easier. He took the lid off the dish—inside was a plastic teaspoon. Brett grabbed a pair of wine glasses from the cupboard and a bottle of wine from the rack on the counter. He turned the bottle in his hand and looked at the label. The wine was some everyday brand he’d picked up for a few dollars at the grocery store.
Brett scooped a teaspoon of the Rohypnol from the container and placed it in one of the glasses. He uncorked the bottle and poured wine over the top of the powder to dissolve it. With a few swirls of the wine in the glass, the powder remaining at the bottom dissolved. Brett filled his glass and walked from the kitchen back to the woman. He handed the tainted wine to her.
“Ready for the tour?” Brett asked.
She stood from the couch.
“Let’s start out back,” Brett said. He walked to the back of the living room and opened the door leading out to the expansive patio and pool area. After a half-hour walk around the grounds, he brought Monica back to the front of the house. He could tell by her stumbling that the drugs were taking effect. She’d finished her drink fifteen minutes prior. Brett punched in the code for the garage. The first door of three opened. His Jeep sat in that garage stall.
“Come on,” Brett said. “We’ll go through here so you can see the lower level of the house.”
Monica walked to him and put her arms around his neck. She pressed a leg between his. “Why don’t you show me your bedroom,” she said.
“Are you telling me you can’t wait until later?” Brett laughed. “Patience. Plus, Harry, the driver, should be here soon.”
“I thought you said his name was Henry.”
The drugs weren’t working quickly enough on the woman—she was still coherent enough to catch his error. Brett improvised. “It is. Sometimes, I call him by his last name. It’s spelled H-a-r-i.”
She slowly nodded, seeming to buy his explanation. “Maybe we can just stay here. I’m sure we can find something to do that will be fun,” Monica said.
Brett looked her in the eyes as she smiled at him. Her eyes were beginning to glaze over as though she was extremely intoxicated.
“Yeah, if you want. Let’s grab another glass of wine.”
He ushered Monica inside and parked her on the couch again. He went to the kitchen and fixed her another Rohypnol-filled glass of wine. When he brought the glass to her, she was passed out with her chin resting on her chest.
“It’s about time,” Brett said.
Monica woke up. “It’s what? Time? For what?”
“Here.” He handed her the glass of wine and took a seat next to her.
She brought it to her mouth and took a sip. “Where’s yours?” she asked.
“I was about to go to the kitchen to get it.”
Monica set the glass of wine down on the glass coffee table. She turned toward Brett and tried to pull him on top of her.
Brett held back.
“Come on. Let’s screw around,” she said. Her words came slow and slurred.
“Let me call the driver quick and cancel,” he said. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket.
Monica picked up her glass and took a large mouthful of wine. She swallowed then clanked the glass back down on the table, spilling some on the rug covering the tile.
Brett pretended to be having a conversation with someone while watching Monica from the corner of his eye. She leaned back on the sofa and closed her eyes as he continued talking to no one on the phone. Then Monica’s head fell to her chest—she was out. He planned to give the drugs a few more minutes to work before taking her downstairs.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I woke up a bit after seven in the morning, showered, and dressed. I sat at the small desk in my room, putting together a file of everything I wanted to go over with the families during interviews that day. I flipped the folder closed and dialed Karen, who picked up right away.
“Hey,” she said.
“Mrs. Rawlings,” I said.
“How was your night?” she asked.
I leaned back in my chair. “After I talked to you, I watched some television, had what I figured to be an eighteen-dollar gin and tonic from the minibar, and knocked out. About it. You?”
“I unboxed a few things and curled up with Porkchop on the couch. We watched a couple of sappy movies and cried. Ate popcorn.”
I smiled. “Date night with the dog?” I asked.
“Exactly. I’d rather it be you, but I’ll take what I can get.”
“Thanks, I guess?”
“What time did you say you had to go and meet with the victim’s families today?” Karen asked.
“The first one is at ten,” I said. “It sounds like we’ll probably have to leave here a bit after nine. Second one is at three this afternoon. Then we have to go this evening and view the scenes where the women were found.” A horn honked on her end of the call. “Are you heading into the office now?” I asked.
“Yeah. Some jerk just cut me off.”
“I’ll let you pay attention to driving,” I said.
“Okay. Call me later.”
“I will. Love you.”
“Love you, too. Be safe,” she said.
“Always. Bye.” I hung up.
I stood, hung my shoulder holster over myself, and pulled on my suit jacket. I needed a coffee but had never been a fan of the small hotel-room coffee makers and the kind of coffee they brewed—plus, I’d seen that the hotel had a coffee shop just outside the front awning. I put on my shoes and left my room. After a quick elevator ride down to the lobby, I left the hotel, made a right, and walked next door. The aroma from the coffee shop could be smelled from the sidewalk. I entered, and the inside of the coffee shop was a red-and-white nineteen-fifties theme. I headed to the counter, ordered two cups of what the barista recommended, filled my jacket pocket with sugar and packaged creamers, and headed back.
I rode the elevator back up and went to Beth’s room. I gave her door a knock with the toe of my shoe, and the door swung open. Beth stood before me in nothing but a towel. Her hair was wet. The television remote hung from her hand.
“Um,” I said. “Guess I should have maybe called first. I got you a coffee.” I held it out toward her.
“Set it on the table. Come in.”
“Um,” I said again. I took a step into the room and set her coffee down, holding the door open with the heel of my shoe. I fished the sugar and creamers from my pocket and set them next to the cup.
Beth went to the edge of the bed and took a seat, staring at the television.
I scratched at the back of my head. “I’ll let you get ready. Just come next door when you are.”
“Hank, just come in. Close the door. Did you see this?” She jerked her chin at the television and turned up the volume.
“See what?” I asked.
“They found another body in a Dumpster. It might be our guy.”
I walked into the room, and the door closed at my back. I stared at the television. “Is this coverage live?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“What have they said?” I asked.
“Not much. It’s a female.”
“Is this local?” I asked.
She turned her head and looked at me. “Englewood. It’s on the south side of Chicago. It looks like some old grocery store or something.”
“Did the news give an address?” I asked.
Beth shook her head.
“Get ready,” I said. “I’ll call for the car.”
“Are we going there? What about our appointment with Jasmine Thomas’s mother at ten?” she asked. “We still need to stop at the local office and get those records as well.”
I thought for a second. The body in the Dumpster might not have been related, and I wasn’t the biggest fan of missing appointments with family members of murder victims. “Do you mind making the stop for the records?” I asked.
“Not at all,” Beth said.
“Okay. I’ll go check out the scene of this body dump and then meet you at the interview with the mother.”
“Sure. That works,” she said.
I used Beth’s room phone to call downstairs for my car, stopped at my room to grab the interview folder I’d created, and left. After a half dozen phone calls, I got through to Agent Andrews and got the exact location of the scene. When I let him know I was on my way, he said he was just arriving on location. I punched the address into my cell phone’s navigation—just ten miles away.
The drive took a half hour due to traffic—traffic I was forced to sit through because I didn’t have an official car with lights or a siren.
News vans with masts in the air littered the sides of the street around what was an out-of-business grocery store. The front of the rectangular building read Discount Groceries and Checks Cashed in paint across the windows. Numerous squad cars were keeping the rubberneckers at bay and the scene secure. I slipped my car down the news-van-filled side street and pointed the nose toward the Chicago PD Ford SUV blocking the driveway to the building. An officer walked up, so I lowered my window and removed my credentials from my pocket.
“Agent Rawlings, FBI,” I said.
“One second.” The officer turned and headed to the Ford. He backed it up enough that I could pull into the lot.
I drove in and pulled off to one side, next to a pair of what looked like government-issued Crown Victoria sedans.
The officer who had moved the SUV approached.
“The scene is behind the building here,” the officer said. “There are a handful of agents already back there.”
“Got it. Thank you,” I said. I walked the lot to the yellow police tape segmenting off what looked like an alley spanning the back of the grocery store. I pulled my bifold and showed my credentials to the officer at the tape.
The officer waved me through. “All the way in the back of the alley at the Dumpster,” he said.
I headed back, passing officers and what looked like a forensics unit looking around. Miscellaneous yellow evidence cones marked the cement. Two blue FBI jackets caught my eye. I walked over. Both men had their backs to me. One of the men appeared to be Agent Andrews, judging by the short blond hair. The other was short and round, a coffee in his right hand. The rounder of the two turned toward me. His hair was short, brown, and balding. He had hound-dog jowls and a line of sweat over his brow. His face looked as if he’d missed the last few mornings of shaving.
