Bone to Pick: A Cold Case Mystery, #2

MASON DECKER: MAY 2016

When Mason’s wife, Anne, entered the room, he closed the checkbook register he’d been working on as subtly as he could. Though panic was making his hands shake and his vision blurry, he didn’t want her to know anything was wrong. Okay, it wasn’t wrong that they had less than two hundred dollars to their names and Anne’s next payday was two weeks away. Being short on funds was simply a fact—an unpleasant one he wanted to avoid.

So much for being the breadwinner. Currently, Mason wasn’t winning at anything, unless being a loser counted.

Anne eyed him suspiciously. Everything okay? She went to the cabinet next to the kitchen sink and pulled out a travel water bottle then filled it with water from the tap. Her next move would be to leave for work.

He should have waited until she was gone to look at the finances.

Yeah. Why wouldn’t it be?

You’re looking a little sweaty. She nodded at the sink. Want some water or something?

He had to play it cool and not feed her inklings. Anne was quick, and after a few pointed questions, she would be able to parse out which of Mason’s many failures was eating at him without his ever confessing. And money was the hot button for them. Talking about it was a surefire guarantee they would end up fighting.

Inevitably, he would be presented with the option of starting a new career or getting a second job. But leaving his career in real estate would just be one more failure.

Besides, the real estate market was fickle with ups and downs, through no fault of his own. Which meant income had its ebbs and flows too. Currently, the Deckers were in an ebb state. And telling Anne about it was the last thing Mason wanted.

Sweaty? Really? He wiped at his brow, and his fingers came away moist. He had to tell her something, so he went with a half-truth. I think I’m just worried about this upcoming deal with Daniel Lowe. Nothing I’ve shown him has been up to his standard. He wants it on water, so I show him places on water, but he doesn’t like the trees on the land. So I show him land with fruit trees, but there’s no water. Geographically, I can’t find him what he wants because it doesn’t exist in the commercial real estate market. Or at least Mason hadn’t found it.

It seems the issue is more that he doesn’t know what he wants.

Mason nodded. He says he’ll know it when he sees it. But he knows it needs water and trees.

They’d had similar conversations before. Talking about Mason’s client was in the safe zone, as was the weather, local drama and gossip, college and pro football, and Anne’s students.

Topics not in the safe zone were money; babies; their car, which needed work; why he couldn’t do more around the house, since he had a flexible schedule and she didn’t; the endless amount of paperwork Anne had as a teacher and did at night and over the weekend, for which she was not compensated; the lack of intimacy between them, which always circled back to the baby conversation; and the attitude of each mother-in-law toward the spouse. If it was important to furthering their relationship and happiness, the topic was off the table. With both avoiding confrontation rather than facing it, the strain was tearing them apart.

Anne twisted the top on her travel bottle then picked up her purse and backpack full of teacher paraphernalia, like her grade book and stacks of paper.

She paused at the back door, her hand on the knob. I’m not trying to start a fight.

But? There was no point in keeping the irritation out of his voice.

My dad called and said the sales position was still open and yours if you wanted it.

Before he could respond, she closed the door behind her without looking back.

Mason glanced at the checkbook then buried his head in his hands. Anne telling Mason that her dad said he could work for him selling tractors had led to one of the biggest fights they’d ever had. Mason could only imagine the conversation between Anne and her dad that had led to the initial offer. He would bet there had been many subsequent conversations, which was why the position was still open.

The whole thing had probably started with a conversation about children. Anne wanted a baby. Mason said they needed to wait until they were more financially sound, keeping the definition of ‘financially sound’ vague. Anne’s parents, Bob and Debbie, wanted grandkids. He was outnumbered. And he was a disappointment. If he took a job working for her dad, he would be a cliché—the washed-up quarterback who’d found success in high school and college only to not find it anywhere else after. Marrying Anne was the best thing he’d ever done.

All that made scoring the land deal with Lowe essential, as it would ease their money woes considerably.

He had four land plots set up for them to visit. Maybe that day would be his lucky day.

1

Mallory Bodine clenched her jaw, her gaze bouncing between the mostly dark half-vacant office building across the street and the three monitors before her on the built-in desk inside the van. A smattering of lights lit up the building’s second floor, but the single light on the fourth and top floor was her focus. That was where her target went about his money-laundering and drug-dealing business.

The fugitive’s business actions were Mallory’s secondary problem. His arrest warrant in a neighboring state was her first and the main purpose for the entire operation.

And there she was, stuck in the van. She wanted to be out there with the team making their way into the building. But no, her being left behind clearly had to be related to ageism or sexism or some sort of -ism. A few weeks ago, the team had celebrated her fortieth birthday, and now she was stuck in the stakeout van. Coincidence, she thought not. Chuck Sumpter, who was leading the team, was turning forty in a few weeks. Why isn’t he in the van?

She cut her eyes to the side, where her newly minted boss, Steve Harper, sat with his feet up on the counter that held the monitor, a toothpick in his mouth. He, too, was watching the monitors and probably her. It felt as if he were breathing down her neck.

No sign of movement, she muttered, her eyes glued to the grainy video feed. It’s very quiet. Too quiet. Her gut clenched, a surefire sign that her instincts were giving her a warning. She clicked through the cameras they’d installed a week earlier. Nothing looked out of the ordinary. Yet something felt off.

Keep your eyes peeled, Harper said, obviously trying to project an air of authority.

He was high on the promotion he hadn’t deserved. Rumor was the higher-ups promoted him, knowing he would fail, then they could get rid of him. Stupidest idea ever, in Mallory’s opinion. Until then, she and her coworkers would have to work for him. Worst luck ever.

For a Tuesday night in early October, the industrial district of Seattle was eerily quiet, the distant hum of interstate traffic the only sound permeating the air. As Mallory continued to scrutinize the warehouse and monitors, trying to figure out what was off, sweat began to bead on her forehead. A hot flash. Perfect timing, of course.

Mallory rolled her eyes as she grabbed a notepad from the dashboard and began to fan herself furiously. Her doctor said perimenopause was what she was experiencing, and she could expect moments of being out of sorts.

Being out of sorts was the worst description ever.

You finding it hot in here, Bodine? Harper asked, glancing over at her with a wry grin.

Something like that, Mallory replied tersely. She switched the subject. Doesn’t this fugitive call his mom every night at the same time?

Before Harper could respond, their earpieces crackled with static interference.

Status report, Sumpter barked. We’ve entered the building and are headed up the north stairs. ETA two minutes.

Still no movement from the fugitive’s floor, Mallory informed him, her voice tight with irritation. Nothing popping on the thermal cameras either. Lights on the second floor in a few offices but no bodies. Your entry looks clear. She adjusted her headset, which was pressing into her ear and adding to her irritation. In her pocket, her cell phone vibrated. Mallory ignored it.

Should be easy fishing, then. He’s not expecting a thing. Sumpter was an arrogant ass.

Mallory clicked through the cameras again while she reached for the file on their fugitive’s behavior. She plopped it on the desk and flipped to the tab about patterns. She’d been right.

Something’s off, she told Harper. He always calls his mother at nine. She glanced at her watch. It’s seven minutes after. He hasn’t called. Something’s off.

Her cell phone had stopped vibrating but started up again. She pulled it from her pocket and slapped it on the table. Her mother’s name was on the screen, which caught her off guard because Cici rarely called and, when she did, it was never midnight Florida time. Dread fluttered in her stomach.

Both Cici and Mallory’s sister always texted, as they never knew whether Mallory was at work. Mallory hesitated with her finger over the screen as she battled with whether to take the call or send it to voice mail. If she took the call, Harper would probably use that against her. Promising she would call her mom the first chance she got, Mallory sent the call to voice mail. Then she felt sick to her stomach.

Seven minutes isn’t that much of a lag, Harper said, but he was sitting straight up and had moved closer. The tension in the surveillance van was thick. Maybe his mom had plans tonight. Not everyone is like clockwork like you are, Agent Bodine. People tend to be more flexible.

She did not appreciate his characterization of her. Flexible? What does that mean? As far as Mallory was concerned, she was flexible. She was sitting in the van, which was certainly not her first choice of roles for the assignment.

What are the odds his mom wasn’t available tonight? Mallory asked. Every night for the last month, she’d been home.

Harper took over the mouse and flipped through the cameras. They had three monitors with nine cameras. The video-management software that did the split screen they usually worked with had picked that night to be glitchy.

That should have been the first omen of the night, Mallory thought. She dialed up her counterparts in the state, requesting extradition. They were supposed to be watching the mom as a precaution.

As she listened to the endless ringing, her call going unanswered, a second wave of unease washed over her. Her mom calling; the fugitive not calling his mom; the agents on the other end not answering—too much was off. She caught sight of something on the edge of the screen glowing orange as Harper clicked over.

Go back. She hung up the phone.

She needed the stakeout to wrap up right then.

Because Harper wasn’t moving fast enough for her liking, Mallory took the mouse from him. She clicked through the screens quickly to get a feel for which camera she’d seen the image on, and once she figured it out, she moved to the next one in the sequence, knowing if she’d seen a person, they would have to cross that camera at some point as well.

I saw something. A person, likely. She stopped on the screen. Look. There. She pointed at the edge of the monitor, where a slight blur was cast across the floor. See that? That’s the thermal imaging picking up something. The person knows where the cameras are and is staying out of view.

Team leader, be advised, Harper said into the headset but paused to look at Mallory’s suddenly vibrating phone. He glanced at her and raised an eyebrow.

That was Cici’s third call. Something bad had happened. Mallory’s mind raced with the possibilities. Cici was no spring chicken, and it seemed the older she got, the more adventurous she became. But if something were wrong with Cici, Natalie would be calling.

Instantly, worry consumed her. She was afraid something awful had happened to her sister or one of her children. Mallory’s brain refused to even consider a situation in which her niece or one of her nephews was hurt.

Harper cleared his throat and clicked on his mic. Be advised. We have an unidentified person in the…

South. She blinked several times to clear her vision, keeping her focus on the screen.

South stairwell.

Static came over the headset. Doubtful it has anything to do with us.

Mallory wanted to slap herself and Sumpter upside the head—herself for accepting the position on the same team with him and him for being such an ignoramus.

She clicked on her mic. Sumpter, the fugitive is dead, and this person is our first suspect.

You can’t know that. I’ll send Murphy and Kimble down to check them out.

Sumpter, the fugitive hasn’t called his mom. He always calls his mom, and this unknown will be out the door and a block away before you get down the stairs. Mallory canceled Cici’s call one more time and stood. She knew Sumpter would ignore her and send Murphy and Kimble anyway.

You going somewhere, Marshal Bodine? Harper asked. Maybe got some personal business that can’t wait?

She hated the tone in his voice, which was snide and mocking. Has he never been in the same situation? On a stakeout and getting a personal call? Probably not. Men like Harper didn’t have families. They were hatched from eggs.

She strapped on her gun. Yeah, I’m going to catch this unknown, then I’m going to call my mom and find out what’s going on. When Murphy or Kimble come through the door, send them my way, will ya? I’ll be by the south-stairs exit.

She eased open the van door and stepped out. Fortunately for her, they’d parked on the east side of the building, with easy viewing of both the north and the south exits. The unknown was going to walk right into her arms.

She pulled up Cici’s name in her text messages and whispered a dictation. I’ll call you in five. Sorry.

Her phone chimed with a text from Cici.

Doug is missing. It’s been 24 hours. I’m scared.

Mallory sucked in a breath. Doug was her sister’s husband of sixteen years and her boyfriend for the four years before that. He was just as much family as any of them. Missing? She hadn’t seen that coming.

Tucking her phone into her back pocket, she told herself to focus on the job. Clinging to the shadows, Mallory crept toward the exit as fast as she could while keeping as silent as possible.

Missing? Mallory didn’t like the next thought. Or took off?

She’d seen it before. Men who just got tired of being husbands and fathers just took off and started over with different lives. Doug had never seemed the type, but neither did the other guys

Focus!

Mallory crouched against the building, using the corner of it to give her cover. The exit door eased open quietly, and she knew the hinges had been oiled. This had been planned. Their glitch with the video-management software hadn’t been a fluke. Someone knew the marshals would be there. Why strike tonight, though? Because we’re here? To make us look like fools? That didn’t seem like a good enough reason, as the risk of being caught was too high.

Or maybe the unknown had picked that place to do his deed for the same reasons the marshals had—quiet streets, quiet building, little collateral. The only danger to the unknown were the marshals, and they’d almost missed him entirely.

A broad-shouldered person stepped out, wearing a sweatshirt with the hood pulled up.

He hit the pavement and eased the door closed, keeping his body angled toward the surveillance van.

Mallory stood slowly, her shadow hidden by the building. She’d already eased her firearm from her hip holster, so she took aim and calmly said, Freeze. US Marshal.

There was one streetlight, which cast a yellow glow near where they were standing. But neither of them was in the light. He couldn’t make out details about her, and she couldn’t about him, except that he’d straightened in surprise and hadn’t done as she’d requested. Instead, he’d shifted his weight to his back leg, and Mallory knew then he was going to run.

She seriously did not have time for that. She had to call her mom and her sister.

He paused for a second then took off running.

Dang it, she said then went after him. Mallory might have been forty, but she still had her long legs and speed. Running had been how she’d worked out all her perimenopause frustrations.

While running, she holstered her gun. Mallory caught up quickly, then leaped onto his back and took him down. They hit the ground with a thud and curses. He tried to buck her like a horse. Mallory was quicker to recover and managed to keep him on his stomach so that she could straddle him across his back. She pulled his arms behind him and cuffed him. The whole sequence happened in mere seconds.

I did say freeze.

A scuffle of running feet came up behind her, and seconds later, she was joined by Murphy and Kimble.

Nice, Kimble said.

Mallory pushed off the individual and stood then helped the hooded man get to his feet.

What did I do? he protested.

You ran, she said and handed him over to her colleague. If you’ll excuse me, I have to call home.

She stepped away but not before hearing Kimble say to her suspect, Am I going to find a ligature in your pocket? Strangling a man at his desk. I bet he didn’t see you coming.

Knowing she would likely get reprimanded for stepping away to make a personal call, Mallory decided she didn’t care. Heck, she’d caught the guy fleeing, and the team upstairs were covering that scene. She could fill out the paperwork later.

She dialed her mom’s number.

Cici answered on the first ring. Mal. She sniffed, and her voice sounded strangled, a sure sign she’d been crying. She’s sitting in her closet with the door closed. I can’t get her to come out.

Natalie was hiding, refusing to face what was in front of her. There had only been one other time her sister had hidden. Not when Nora got her autism diagnosis, not when Whit was born premature and was in the NICU, but the day they learned their father had died.

I’m coming home. Tell Nat I’m on my way.

2

Having caught the red-eye, Mallory pulled into her sister’s driveway in central Florida early the next morning, weary from the flight and lack of sleep. But there would be no time to rest. Mallory already felt as if they were eons behind where they should have been in a missing persons case. For the entire flight, she’d run through all the possible scenarios of why Doug had vanished, and the ones that were plausible, she did not like. She’d been in law enforcement for sixteen years, and all the cases with terrible outcomes were coming to mind, so she hoped that was what was skewing her perspective and killing her hope. Any scenario other than Doug’s coming home alive and well, she would not accept. Of course, if he didn’t want to come home, that was a different story.

The morning sun cast a warm glow on her sister’s one-story ranch house, making the white paint shimmer like porcelain. Outside, everything was calm and looked perfectly ordinary. The weather was mild for fall—enjoyable, even. Yet inside her sister’s house, turmoil was brewing. Everything was upside down. Natalie would be putting on a brave face for the kids when she had to but was keeping it together with bubble gum and duct tape.

Mallory rapped on the front door and waited for someone to answer.

Her mother was the first to greet her, whipping open the door. Oh, Mal, I’m glad you’re here. She looked over Mallory’s shoulder before stepping aside to let her in. Cici’s smile was forced, but relief filled her eyes. Her hands were full of lunchboxes and backpacks, and she set them against the wall near the door for a quick pickup when they exited. She waved Mallory in.

Mallory knew her mom was hoping she’d brought a miracle with her and somehow had already found Doug on her way there. I’m alone. I’m good but not that good. I called Bo to let him know I was in town, and he’ll be stopping by to give me the rundown.

Cici gestured for Mallory to keep her voice down. The kids know something is going on but aren’t sure what. We don’t want to worry them. We told the two youngest that Dad was on a trip.

Mallory bit her tongue. She wanted to tell her mother that by not saying something, they were worrying the kids. But Mallory saved that fight for later. The house was uncharacteristically quiet, with only the sounds of Bob Barker’s The Price Is Right on in the background. Standing in front of the TV was her niece, Nora. Over her school clothes, she was wearing a plaid suit jacket that hung to her knees. She stared at the TV, intently focused.

Oh, looks like you lost, Wilma, Bob Barker said as he patted a woman on her shoulder. Too bad. Maybe you’ll do better when you spin for the showcase showdown. He gave the woman a gentle push to leave the stage.

Nora turned to her younger brother, Whitman, who was sitting on the couch, eating dry cereal from a bowl while watching the TV and his sister.

Too bad, she said, mimicking Bob.

On her last phone call with Natalie, her sister had mentioned Nora’s latest obsession was The Price Is Right, with only Bob Barker as the host, and whether fortunately or not, the show streamed twenty-four hours. Nora went through phases when she got stuck on one thing. Though her true loves that never wavered were stars and space. But she already knew everything about that, so pop-up obsessions occurred. Natalie liked to say they were trending today and gone tomorrow. Nora’s past fixations had been pirates, airplanes, whales and dolphins, bears, Pokémon, and eventually, Bob.

Hey, sweet faces, Mallory said as she went to them. She took turns pulling each of