The Buried (The Apostles) (10 page)

“True.” He aimed the SUV off the highway and rested his fingers—all ring-less—on the top of the steering wheel.

“Did you ever remarry?” Grace couldn’t help but ask. A charmer like Hatch had to have had more than a few women clamoring to get in his bed long-term.

“After you, Princess, all women paled by comparison.” He gave her his bullshitting smile. “My wounded heart sought solace in the sea, and that there’s my bride.” He motioned out the front window where the waters of St. Joseph Bay stretched out before them in a deep, dark blue teardrop. And beyond that, the endless sea and whispering wind.

A shiver swept across her skin. “Must get cold and lonely,” she said.

Hatch shrugged, feigning nonchalance, but the lift of those broad shoulders was anything but light and breezy. “And you?” His grin gone. “Has there ever been a Mr. Courtemanche?”

Over the past decade she’d been courted by a few men at work and her racquet and golf club. Most didn’t understand her dedication to her career and the pursuit of justice, of her calling to put bad people behind bars. A few who were patient and persistent made it into her bed, but no one got close to her heart. She’d put it under lock and key after the summer of Hatch. Plus there was the issue that every man paled in comparison to Hatch, who had been a blazing golden sun that was the center of her universe.

She blinked away the brightness. “No husband.”

“Must get cold and lonely.” There was no snark, no biting edge to the echo of her words.

At times she was lonely, achingly so, but never, ever cold. Not with the fire burning in her chest to battle evil like Lia Grant’s killer. She pointed to a highway exit. “Turn there.”

When they arrived at the phone store, Grace cupped the sides of her face and peered into the storefront glass, spotting boxes, half-assembled displays, and wadded shrink wrap. She banged on the locked door until a woman with a pinched face walked out from a back room, a box cutter in her hand.

We’re closed,
the woman mouthed.

Grace was about to bang again when Hatch reached into his wallet, took out his badge, and tapped it on the glass, tossing in a brilliant white smile. The woman tossed aside her box cutter, smoothed the sides of her hair, and hurried to the door.

Hatch leaned so close his lips brushed the hair curved about her ear. “Can’t say I’m just another pretty face.”

Grace didn’t bother with a response as the woman unlocked the door and pulled up the security grate. Hatch’s ego was big enough already.

“I’m Grace Courtemanche from the State Attorney’s office, and I need to talk to you about a recent purchase made in this store.”

The manager, who was ogling Hatch, shooed away Grace’s words with the back of her hand. “All that stuff’s handled by my district manager.”

“I have a call in to your corporate office already, but we need to move quickly. A phone purchased from this store was used in the murder of a nineteen-year-old woman.”

The woman stopped ogling Hatch long enough to frown. “That’s terrible.” A buzzer ripped through the air. “I’m sorry to hear about the girl’s death, but you’ll still need to talk to the DM. They handle everything with the cops and press.” Another buzz. “Listen, I need to get that delivery. Call the DM.” The manager hurried through a door at the back of the store.

Grace checked her watch. The corporate office didn’t open for another hour, and she’d already left a message. She could get some muscle and speed behind her request with a subpoena, but getting a judge out of bed could take precious time. However, she had something better than a court order. Grace couldn’t imagine anyone listening to Lia’s voice and not feeling the fear and desperation of the young woman’s final, horrifying moments.

Next to her, Hatch picked up a cardboard cutout of a three-foot cell phone and began folding flaps. He hummed a soft, lilting song that reminded her of the sea.

As Grace retrieved her voicemail messages, the store manager dragged in a cart with a load of boxed phone accessories. When she saw Hatch, who had assembled the giant cardboard cell phone cover display, the lines across her forehead smoothed.

“Any chance you’ll work for minimum wage?” the store manager asked with a flip of her hair. “I have three more of those that need assembly.”

“My pleasure, ma’am.” Hatch winked. “I’m a man with fast hands.”

The woman almost swooned. “You’re serious?”

Hatch took her hand in his and placed it on his chest. “As a heartbeat.”

With a flustered smile, she rushed into the stock room.

“A man with fast hands?” Grace asked, not bothering to hide her censure.

“I seem to recall you liked my hands.” He slid a thumb along the curve of her elbow. She’d forgotten how Hatch was always touching her. He was a man comfortable in his own skin and with others’. “The faster the better.”

A rush of heat fired along her skin, and she swatted away his hand. This was not the time to be remembering the havoc his touch wreaked on many and varied body parts. “You were flirting with a potential witness.”

“You catch more bees with honey.” His tongue lingered on the last word. Honey and Hatch. The two would always be intertwined in her mind.

“We’re not catching bees, Hatch, but a killer.”

“Tell me something I don’t know, Princess.” He rested his hand on his hip, and for the first time she noticed the bulge under his breezy cotton shirt. His gun.

The store manager reappeared with three display boxes and plopped them at Hatch’s feet. Then she looked at Grace. “I can spare fifteen minutes.”

Hatch grabbed a box and hummed another sea ditty.

Grace handed the store manager the information on the phone found in Lia’s lifeless hand. “Two days ago I talked with someone in your operations department, and he told me this pre-paid phone was purchased from your store two weeks ago. I need to find the buyer.”

“Easiest thing will be to check batch records and find out if the buyer used a credit card.” The manager booted up a computer at the checkout desk while Hatch tackled another giant cardboard cell phone, still humming. Grace tapped the pearls at her neck.

“Here we go,” the manager announced. “Found the buyer of the phones. Unfortunately, it was a cash deal, so I can’t give you a name.”

Grace heard the word cash, but she was focused on another word. “Phones?”

“Three pre-paids. Same model.”

“Three?” Grace pictured the large red X across Lia Grant’s face. “He bought three phones?”

At some point Hatch must have stopped humming. He stood silently next to her, his fast hands still. There was nothing relaxed and easygoing about him now. He, too, knew what three phones meant.

They were looking at two more victims.

H
atch’s fingers tightened around the SUV’s steering wheel as they pulled out of the phone store parking lot. In the passenger seat next to him, Grace stared at her cell phone as if expecting it to grow razor sharp teeth.

Three phones. Three victims.

“The store manager is reviewing security tapes,” Hatch told Grace. “And the lieutenant and her team are processing the crime scene. It’s possible we’ll nab this guy before he can put those other two phones into play.”

“But what if we don’t? What if another terrified girl calls me from the grave?”

“If that happens, we’ll get every dog in the county and track him down. And this time we have the advantage. We know he’s playing a game. We know to take the first call seriously. We’ll have techs on standby and searchers ready to hit the ground running.”

“What if he changes the rules? What—”

He reached across the front seats and placed his hand on her thigh. “At Quantico we’re taught that crisis situations aren’t about the future. They are about the here and now, the things we know and the things we can control. We can’t waste time and energy on monsters of our own making.”

Grace did one of those deep breathing moves and slipped her phone into her purse.

He pressed on the accelerator and sped toward Cypress Bend and a game-playing monster. Grace was no longer his wife, and this wasn’t his gig, but he had no plans on backing down from this monster. He made his living talking to people in crisis situations. He knew the tone to use and questions to ask, and he wanted to be the one on the phone if and when the next victim called.

When he turned onto the dirt road leading to Cypress Point, they passed Grace’s construction site where earth movers sat deathly still, like giant yellow insects with spindly arms and huge glassy eyes. Hatch waved at the forensic team buzzing around in bright orange jackets and boots. Grace had a hell of a lot on her plate.

When he pulled into the driveway, Grace pulled in a fast breath. “The front door. It’s wide open. I know I locked it this morning and set the alarm. Oh, God. Where’s Blue?” Before he stopped, she yanked open the door and dove out. “Blue!”

He slipped the keys in his pocket and grabbed his cell phone from the charger. Grace may have noticed the wide open front door, but she’d failed to see the phone company truck parked at the far end of the drive, probably because she’d been preoccupied with thoughts of two more voices from the grave. “Grace!” he called out.

She waved him off and darted around the side of the house.

When he reached the porch, he jogged up the steps.

“What are you doing?” Grace said as she ran toward the porch. “You can’t walk in there without a gun or back-up.”

“Aw, shucks. Nice to know you care about my old hide.”

“Hatch, this is serious.”

“Indeed it is.” He pointed to the utility truck. “Which is why the phone company is putting a trace on your home phone.” He turned her toward the door just as a man from the phone company walked out. Hatch nodded. “Morning, Doyle. I’m Hatch. We spoke on the phone earlier.”

“Hey, there, Agent Hatcher,” the technician said. “Got the trap and trace feature installed on Ms. Courtemanche’s land line. Also have her cell phone and work phone on watch. You should be good to go.”

“You?” Grace extricated herself from his hands. “
You
ordered this?”

He’d been on the phone twice with the phone tech this morning while Grace had been getting information from the store manager. “If we’re looking at two more potential victims,” Hatch said, “we need to be ready for additional calls on any phones associated with you.”

She slid her palms along the pressed creases of her trousers, leaving a pair of damp spots. “Of course.”

Another shape shifted in the doorway, and Allegheny Blue ambled out.

“Blue here didn’t give you any trouble, did he?” Hatch asked the technician.

“Nah, I just gave him a piece of bacon like you suggested.” The tech rubbed the dog’s floppy ears. “We’re good buddies now.” With a wave, he hopped off the porch and walked to his truck.

“Wait!” Graced balled a fist on her hip. “Exactly how did you get in my house?”

“Agent Hatcher had a locksmith out, and he got me in without a problem.”

“And the security code?”

“Agent Hatcher gave it to me.” With a tip of his ball cap, the phone tech drove away.

“So you just had someone break into my house without my permission?” A vibrant pink splashed across her cheeks. Good; no more pasty white.

“Yup.”

“And it never occurred to you I would mind?”

“Do you?”

“Of course not. It’s a matter of principle.”

Hatch just smiled.

“And my security system? How did you get the code?”

“From watching you. You’re a beautiful woman, Princess. Sometimes I can’t take my eyes off you.” And last night, he dragged his attention from that angelic face and devilishly hot body to watch her punch in her security code. His teammate Finn Brannigan was fond of saying,
Chance favors the prepared
.

Grace opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She finally flung her hands in the air. “How can I fight with someone on the same team?” Spinning on her polished pumps, she whistled at Blue. “Get in here, Blue. I want to check your stupid foot.”

While Grace and the dog went inside, Hatch sat on the bottom step and took out his phone.

Parker answered on the sixth ring, his breathing winded. Must have been swimming. Every day of the year, even on days when the frigid Maine air was barely above zero, Parker Lord swam a hundred laps in the heated lap pool situated on the thin strip of cliff between the ocean and the Box. His boss was a man of discipline and endurance, and lucky for Hatch, Parker Lord was good at adjusting his sails when needed.

“I need to stick around Cypress Bend a few more days,” Hatch said. “Can you see if Hayden will suit up for the Big Easy?” Hayden Reed was the SCIU’s criminal profiler who’d last month collared a serial killer in northern Nevada called the Broadcaster Butcher. The Butcher case had snagged a great deal of attention, fascinating a nation and showcasing Hayden’s world-renowned profiling skills. In New Orleans, Hatch had been scheduled to give a workshop on crisis negotiation, but the event organizers would probably jump at the chance to have Hayden speak. They’d probably make him a keynoter.

“I’ll take care of New Orleans,” Parker said. “You ready to talk?”

This was one of the reasons he liked working for Parker. His boss didn’t require daily status updates or reports in triplicate. “Don’t have much so far.” Hatch ground his dock shoe into the wet loam, bits and pieces of this place clinging to the sole of his shoe. “We just learned Lia Grant’s killer bought three phones, so it’s likely he’s planning two more abductions.”

“Need anything?”

“Have Hayden give me a call. I want him to create a profile on this guy, and get Jonny Mac out here. If another person goes missing, I’ll want him on site.” Hatch would be on that phone, and he wanted a teammate in the field.

“Will do,” Parker said. Hatch was about to say good-bye when Parker added, “And Alex? Everything okay with your son?”

Hatch could not and would not bullshit his boss. “No.”

“Excuse me, Detective Holt, the press are getting antsy.” A Kentucky state trooper charged with crowd control at Collier’s Holler jabbed his thumb at the news vans gathered along the old country road. “Are you ready to make a statement?”

“No.” Tucker Holt, who’d rather see a few shots of Wild Turkey than a few worked-up reporters, watched the crime scene boys pack their last CSU-labeled suitcase into their van and pull away from the holler.

“And old man Collier,” the trooper added. “He’s wondering when he can let the dogs out of their pens. You ready to release the scene?”

“No.”

This case was full of no’s. Twenty-four hours ago Collier’s bird dogs spotted up on Grandpa and Grandma Doe sprawled in the holler. His team found no ID, no wallets, no jewelry, and no artifacts that would aid in identifying the victims. An acidic substance confirmed to be pool acid had been poured on their faces, the flesh eaten away so he had no shot at a facial ID. The same substance devoured their hands. No fingers meant no prints. A five-mile radial search turned up no abandoned cars or campsites.

And on top of that, he had no shot of Wild Turkey.

Calvin Tanner, a fellow detective and his favorite drinking buddy, joined him at the top of the holler. “Ready to call it quits, Tuck?” He fanned the air between them. “Man, you smell like you could use a break.”

Tucker ran a dirt-streaked palm down his face, breathing in decaying body, holler mud, and eau de dog. “No,” Tucker told Calvin. “I’m gonna stick around a few more hours, talk to some of the regular hikers along this trail and find out if they noticed any suspicious characters or vehicles.”

“Any word from the M.E.’s office?”

“No.” Frustration tightened his lips. “I put a call in, asking for an escalation, but I probably won’t hear anything until Monday. I’m shooting blanks on this one.”

Calvin motioned with his chin at the crime scene tape. “Bullshit. A guy like you, you gotta have something. What’s your gut telling you?”

For years, Tucker had relied on his gut, and more often than not, it paid off. But this case was different. His job was on the line, not to mention his kids. He needed to collar the asswipe who knocked off Grandpa and Grandma. Unfortunately, all he had was a shitload of
no
.

But Calvin was right; he had his gut.

Tucker pointed to a section of the path jutting out in a sharp point. “So I’m thinking Grandpa Joe, Grandma Jane, and Asswipe are standing here.”

“Just one suspect?” Calvin asked.

“Hard to tell as Collier’s dogs tracked all over the scene.” Crucial point, because the scene had been so compromised he had no viable impression evidence. “At this point, I’m speculating only one. So Asswipe takes out a gun and shoots Grandpa. Dead shot straight to the brain. Grandpa falls into the holler.”

“A sharpshooter?”

“Someone who knows his way around guns.” Tucker walked along the lip of the ravine. “Grandma takes off to the east, justifiably worried she’s his next target and gets about ten yards. Asswipe shoots a single bullet into the back of her skull. Down and dead in the holler.”

“That’s it?”

“CSU boys found no prints or trace on or near the bodies, and so far I have no witnesses.”

“Man, Tuck, this is a tough one.”

“No shit.” And this case was the reason why he was going to have to cancel his plans tonight. After Calvin left to deal with the media, he took out his phone and checked the time. He’d better call Mara before she called him.

His soon-to-be-ex-wife answered the phone with a growl. “No, Tuck, no, no,
no
!”

“Let me talk to Jackson.”

“You promised to be a dad tonight. I made plans.”

Probably a date because, unlike him, his soon-to-be ex-wife had a life outside of her job. “My sister will take the kids,” he said. “Now let me talk to Jackson.”

“He’s at the creek fishing. What do you want me to tell him this time?”

“Tell him the truth. Tell him I can’t make it to his baseball game because I have a dead grandma and a dead grandpa, and I’m guessing they have some grandkids somewhere who are wondering where the fuck they are.” Tucker rolled his head along his shoulders, the dried sweat on the back of his neck cracking, and he pictured that broken glass on the photo of his son and daughter. “Tell him, tell him I love him, and I’ll see him next week.”

“Sure, Tuck. Next week.” A sigh—more sad than bitter or angry—rolled across the line. “It’s always next week.”

The minute they arrived at the crime scene where Lia Grant had been murdered, Grace headed to Lia Grant’s grave while Hatch made his way down to the creek. He’d always been drawn to water. It was his thoughtful place, his happy place, but the hard set of his jaw as he squatted and studied the earth made it clear he was anything but happy. Nor was Grace. Lia Grant’s killer had purchased three phones.

Grace found Lieutenant Lang near the gaping hole that had once held Lia Grant. “Any news on the other two phones?” Grace asked.

Lieutenant Lang shook her head. “Techs are monitoring, but so far they haven’t been activated.”

A pair of deputies attached ropes to the wooden prison that had become Lia Grant’s deathbed. This spit of land was so dense with trees and vines, it was hard to get through on foot. They’d never get digging machinery back here. A perfect place to hide a body.

A deputy cranked the winch, and the ropes tightened and groaned, lifting the wooden box from the earth’s clutches.

“Anything on the coffin?” Grace asked.

“No handy fingerprints or stray hairs,” Lieutenant Lang said. “But it tells us something interesting about the killer. This box didn’t come from an undertaker. Construction is crude. Uneven boards. Jagged cuts. The sides don’t meet in a flush seam.”

“Which means air can get in if the dirt’s not packed too tightly.”

The lieutenant looked grim. “Exactly. This coffin wasn’t meant to suffocate, at least not right away, but to contain.”

“Because the game clock needed to play out.” Grace pressed at her temples. “Anything on the construction materials?”

“Commonplace, supplies that can be found at home improvement centers across the country.”

“Not exactly a smoking gun, but another thread to follow.” Grace momentarily closed her eyes, picturing those threads intertwining, growing longer and stronger. “And soon we’ll have enough rope to hang Lia’s murderer.”

“That’s the plan, counselor. Now let’s see what your FBI guy is up to.”

“Hatch is not my guy.” But he was a member of an elite FBI team, and he’d been intently focused on the water.

“We’re fairly certain our killer came by water,” Lieutenant Lang said as they picked their way through tangles of vines and spiky grass toward Hatch. “Landed his boat here, unloaded the coffin, and dragged it to the burial site.”