[Jess Kimball 01.0 - 02.0] Fatal Starts Read online

  Jess waited. Her right hand held the Glock firmly pointed in Richard’s direction. She’d shoot him only if he forced her to. But shoot him, she would. He’d be a fool to believe otherwise.

  She knew Richard. If he saw her before she was ready, he would do something stupid. Something that might hurt Anna. The child’s safety was paramount. Jess steadied herself and remained invisible as long as possible.

  Richard snuck out the back door and closed it without a sound. Only then did she move.

  Jess activated the tiny camera she wore in a pendant around her neck, waited until she heard the creaking boards under his feet and three sneezes in a row before she hurried silently out behind him. A cool breeze brushed across her eyes and lips, the only uncovered parts of her body.

  She followed Richard off the property and onto the street where he’d parked a dark SUV. A less arrogant man might have noticed he was being followed. Richard did not. Now. Now he’d taken Anna in the eyes of the law. Jess wasted no time gloating.

  He was bent over, placing Anna in the back seat when Jess came up behind him and pressed the Glock briefly to his spine before she widened the distance between them beyond his arm’s reach.

  “Move away from the car. Much as I’d like to shoot you…” She allowed her husky voice to trail away. Disuse and fear had stolen the moisture from her mouth, but she refused to acknowledge it. She moved her tongue imperceptibly seeking saliva.

  Richard stepped back, cavalierly raised both hands palms out, as if he was play-acting with a child.

  “Turn around,” she said, quietly, hoping not to awaken Anna. He complied. He saw the gun, pointed now at his chest. He smirked.

  “Smile,” she said, picking up the pendant and pointing the micro camera directly toward him. “A picture’s worth a year of testimony, isn’t it?”

  She snapped three photographs of Anna sleeping in the vehicle, too. Each image would be date and time stamped. Evidence. The more, the better.

  She’d argued with Betsy and her sister, Bette, for hours about the next part of their plan. Betsy had cried, said she didn’t want her child’s father incarcerated. She wasn’t desperate enough yet.

  But Jess knew Betsy would be more desperate later; it was a mistake not to finish this now, once and for all. Richard would never give up as long as he drew free breath. Letting him go was a stupid mistake. Yet this was not her decision to make.

  The breeze had picked up force and dried her eyeballs each time it brushed across, yet she refused to blink. Too much could happen in the blink of an eye. Peter was stolen in what seemed just such a quick moment fifteen years ago.

  Jess held the gun steady and waited for Richard to make his move. Maybe he would give her the excuse she needed to do what should be done. Could she shoot him if she had to? In a New York second.

  Released and alone, Richard would steal his daughter again, not because he loved her, but because he owned her. Anna would never be safe from him. Ever. He should have gone to prison long ago for battering his wife. Or when he stole Anna the last two times. But Betsy had refused to testify against him. Now, Jess had proof when Betsy needed it. But it would have been so much better if Betsy had agreed to Jess’s final solution. Jess knew Richard was a fatal enemy, not a mere opponent.

  Richard stared at Jess, wary but unafraid. He seemed to know her, but not recognize her simultaneously. His puzzlement was almost comical.

  Jess’s slender frame was indistinguishable from a slight man’s in these clothes. And she held an equalizer pointed at his heart. Did he recognize her voice? Maybe, although they hadn’t talked in years and he’d been through a lot of women since then.

  She could almost see him calculating his next move and five moves after that, like a chess match. Richard had always been good at strategic games.

  Jess said what she’d agreed to say. “If you ever set foot in the state of Florida again, the video of tonight’s escapade will be delivered to the U.S. Attorney’s office. You’ll die in prison.”

  He smirked again. He wasn’t afraid of her. He was a fool.

  Jess’s hand itched to smash the gun into his face at least, but she kept calm. The video would be her shield, not his sword against her, no matter how much she’d rather finish this now.

  “Move to the front of the car,” she said.

  He sidled to the center in front of the grille, well lit by the streetlight and far enough away. Her gaze never leaving him, the gun steady, Jess bent down and lifted the little girl. Anna stirred, but didn’t waken. Jess almost cried when she smelled Anna’s fabric softener and baby shampoo scents.

  Bastard.

  When she was sure Anna was secure in her grasp, Jess distanced herself from Richard’s SUV.

  “Get in and drive away,” she instructed, her tone harder this time, annealed with years of hatred.

  Hands in his pockets, Richard shrugged, sauntered around to the driver’s side and opened the front door. Instantly, the car alarm sounded. Impossibly loud repeated long blasts of the horn invaded the suburban nighttime, blasting Jess’s ears.

  The cacophony awakened Anna. When she saw the black-clad apparition holding her, she began to cry and kick, yelling “Let me go! Let me go!”

  Jess struggled, grabbed her tightly to keep her from taking them both down to the ground, but the gun’s steady aim didn’t waver.

  “Hush, Anna,” Jess whispered close to her ear. “It’s Aunt Jess. It’s okay. Be quiet now.”

  “Aunt Jess?” the astonished child cried, tears and screams coming to a shaky, tentative halt. She pulled the ski-mask off Jess’s head in one quick grab exposing her hot face to the cool morning breeze.

  Richard now had one leg into the SUV, his weight shifted toward the driver’s seat. He pressed the key fob to silence the blasting horn, and then flashed his sardonic smirk again. “Nice to see you again, Jess. You didn’t grow up much, did you?”

  She stiffened and extended the gun, her intention clear. “Don’t forget what I told you, Richard. No contact. Go.”

  He moved his head slowly, side to side, smirk firmly affixed. “Think again, little girl. I’m taking orders from you?” He laughed, slid into the SUV, started the engine, rolled down the window, and aimed a stare of pure hatred her way.

  Jess shivered imperceptibly. She’d made an open enemy of a distant one. Somehow, he would prove he controlled her, too, along with everything else in his world, no matter what the cost.

  She felt hot fear coursing through her entire body and a quick flash of insight. Could he be the one who’d stolen Peter? She’d investigated and rejected the possibility long ago because Richard didn’t know Peter existed. Had she been wrong?

  She couldn’t speak. She held the gun steady, pointed at his head.

  All pretext of the gentleness he’d shown his daughter gone, he said, “You’ll be sorry you screwed me, Jess. Count on it.”

  The SUV’s powerful engine roared louder than a six-pack of Blue Angles as he sped away in the quiet darkness of the early suburban morning.

  She watched his taillights recede to red pinpoints and disappear around a corner before she whispered aloud.

  “I’ve been sorry about that for years and years.”

  2

  The news from the amber alert Internet subscription service flashed across her computer as she worked on revisions to her most recent investigative article for Taboo Magazine. She ignored the alert several times until she reached a logical stopping point. A domestic violence call in a Miami neighborhood. Every nerve in her body vibrated the instant Jess read the address. Eyebrows gathered at the bridge of her nose reflecting her pain when she squeezed her eyes shut and covered her face with both hands in the only brief moment of regret she allowed herself now. More pain would follow, as it should.

  Her fingers shook as she worked the keys for information, hoping she was wrong while certain she wasn’t.

  The first officer at the scene found a woman shot and a five-year-old girl missing. An amber alert
went out at 4:15 a.m. Jess glanced down at the clock on the screen. Twenty-five minutes ago. Wasting no time on useless recriminations, she left immediately.

  Thirty minutes later, she reached Saturn Circle, a few houses scattered around the cul-de-sac bordering Lake Tarpon. Miami PD cruisers blocked the Dolphin Avenue entrance. Jess parked the rental and slipped her Glock under the front seat. She had a license to carry, but no need to make this tense situation worse.

  She grabbed her laptop and approached the first officer she saw.

  “Hey, Randy,” she said, as powerfully as she could muster simply to avoid startling him in the darkness. She showed her ID. She’d been working in Miami for several weeks on another story. The cops she’d met were helpful and sympathetic. No one wanted to help crime victims within the bounds of the law more than Jess did, and she always made sure local law enforcement knew that. They were all on the same team, she felt.

  Officer Randy Wilson wagged his head, rubbed his neck. “Sorry. No media inside. What’s your interest, anyway?”

  Jess met his steady gaze. “Betsy Martin is a crime victim. I came to offer support.”

  “She doesn’t need it,” Randy told her, too bluntly.

  Jess released her breath in a long exhale, closed her eyes. The news hit her hard in the gut, even though she’d expected it, really. Pressing a man like Richard as hard as she’d done was dangerous. She’d known it at the time, but she’d thought the stakes were worth it. A short moment of guilty mourning was all she permitted herself for now. Plenty of time for remorse later, too.

  “Suspects?”

  “Nasty divorce. Custody problems with the daughter.”

  Jess nodded to draw him out, not trusting her voice to remain steady just yet.

  “Bet on the ex,” Randy said. His tone conveyed the disgust only the well-informed would feel. “Real piece of shit. Restraining orders, my ass.”

  Nobody needed to tell her how inadequate the law was at protecting women from men like Richard.

  “Can I go up?” While my legs will still carry me?

  He shrugged again, nodded, as if to suggest there was no harm she could do at this point. “Why not?”

  “Who’s primary?” she asked.

  “Jerry Schmidt. Missing persons.”

  Jess shivered in the morning’s cool breeze, wishing she’d pulled her sweater from the back seat. She made her way down the short street to the brick colonial at the end. She saw two unmarked cars, an ambulance, and people milling around. Officers, crime scene technicians, photographers.

  A couple of detectives interviewing a woman, maybe one of the neighbors, maybe the one who’d called in the gunshots. Tallish woman, mid-forties probably. Hair gathered at her nape. Very pregnant. She made a mental note to interview the woman later, if she needed to.

  Jess walked up the sidewalk to the threshold and stared into the open front door.

  Betsy Martin’s body lay on the tiled foyer floor, clad in a neon yellow nightgown, eyes open, frozen in surprise. Two entrance wounds were visible in her chest and abdomen. Lots of blood had pooled. Bullets probably severed the femoral artery. No way Betsy would have survived, even if she’d been found immediately. The thought was little comfort. Betsy’s body had been there a while, long enough for all the blood to have congealed. Jess closed her eyes briefly and offered a silent prayer. For Betsy, Anna, and herself.

  She moved carefully through the foyer. A few feet inside, Jess caught Detective Schmidt’s attention.

  “I heard you were in town again,” he said, a question in his tone that she’d answered too many times before. Why? That’s what he wanted to know.

  “Betsy Martin was a friend. I thought maybe I could help you find Anna,” she said. She might have told him the whole story if Betsy was still alive. Now, that’s all he needed to know.

  He sized her up as if he’d never seen her before, although the two had worked together on a case last year. He might have sent her packing except time was of the essence and an abducted child was their number one priority. He waved toward the body. “Not a pretty scene.”

  Jess glanced briefly at Betsy, but she’d already seen more than she wanted to.

  “There are security cameras throughout the house and grounds.” She pointed to the camera hidden in the wall sconce on the side of the front door. When his eyebrows rose in question, she nodded to convey a certainty she couldn’t voice. “They might help.”

  Schmidt seemed to consider something, but after a few moments he said, “We’re not through processing yet. Don’t touch anything else.” He let her pass.

  Jess focused on the work. She moved carefully through the kitchen, Anna’s room, Betsy’s room, and the door that led outside to the attached garage. She located the surveillance cameras she’d insisted Betsy install and removed the memory cards. The cameras recorded in a loop, replacing images every three days. Maybe they’d get lucky.

  One of the techs gave her permission to set up on the kitchen table where she’d waited for Richard Martin on that dark night last year. The bright kitchen lights blazed now, bathing modern steel appliances and glossy surfaces that reflected harshly. Uniformed personnel from multiple agencies moved about as if choreographed by Broadway. No mingling, no collisions, but rising noise levels as equipment was moved in and out, evidence was collected, and the crime scene was both secured and processed. No time wasted, either.

  Jess opened her laptop, booted up, and slipped the memory card from the kitchen camera into the slot first. The images downloaded quickly. She and Detective Schmidt watched video of the dark kitchen, but nothing more.

  “It was a long shot,” he said, by way of forgiveness.

  Methodically, Jess downloaded data from the other four and continued searching. “Look there.” She pointed to the screen. The intruder had come in through the garage door.

  “Who is it?” Scanlon asked, as if he truly couldn’t guess. A test, perhaps.

  “Richard Martin.” No surprise and no doubt about it, either. He’s a bold bastard, she reminded herself. She swiped a palm across her eyes.

  Together, they studied the digital images on the laptop screen. She felt a sick déjà vu as she watched Richard invade the house, disarm the security system, climb the stairs, enter Anna’s room and return carrying the sleeping girl, as he’d done the night Jess had watched him from this very kitchen chair.

  “Dammit!” she muttered. She should have forced Betsy to turn Richard in last year. If she had, Betsy would be alive now; Anna wouldn’t be missing.

  “Look,” Schmidt pointed to the image.

  She shook off her scolding and watched Richard reach the bottom of the stairs, his body twisted to the right, toward the garage door this time instead of the back patio.

  Almost instantly, bright light flooded the foyer with the flip of a single switch at the base of the stairs.

  Camera three had captured the entire scene.

  Eerily, Betsy stood alive very near the same location she was laying dead now. “Richard!” her voice screeched like an outraged Valkyrie even from the laptop’s inadequate speakers. Jess winced.

  Anna awakened, looked around, sleepy-eyed, disoriented.

  “Daddy?” she said, as if she was surprised to be held in his arms. Which surely she was. He hadn’t seen her in fourteen months, and the last time was under harrowing circumstances.

  “Put her down, Richard! Don’t you dare take her out that door!” Betsy’s panicked screech instructed.

  “Okay.” He chuckled, changed direction and strode past her, toward the front door instead.

  Betsy grabbed his arm, jerking it from under Anna’s legs.

  Richard grasped the child tighter, held her close to his chest. Then, in a quick jerk, he yanked his right arm from Betsy’s grasp, reached around his back, slipped a .38 from his belt, and shot her twice. The entire maneuver swiftly executed, as if he’d practiced it until muscle memory supplied all needed direction.

  Betsy fell to the floor like a
crumpled doll.

  Anna screamed, “Mommy! Mommy!” and began to thrash wildly.

  Richard held onto the frightened girl despite her screaming, thrashing panic. He strode through the front door and out of camera range. Anna’s screams faded as he moved further away from the house.

  The screen next reflected the empty foyer captured by the fixed lens of camera three. The scene was grisly enough; the authentic sounds were overwhelmingly heartbreaking. Jess could hardly bear to hear it, but neither could she show her feelings to these men or turn away. Betsy endured the pain; Jess served merely to witness.

  After an excruciating lifetime of seconds, Betsy’s ever-fainter groans simply stopped.

  Moments of stunned silence followed from the gathered professionals.

  Schmidt laid a hand on Jess’s shoulder, perhaps as small comfort. “We’ll get a warrant and an APB. Any idea where he’s taken the girl?”

  Numb, she said, “He’s a Canadian citizen. Lives in Toronto. Wealthy.”

  Schmidt sighed, resignation showing in the slump of his shoulders. “If he gets her to Canada before we catch him, that’s a big problem.”

  “Why?”

  “Canada won’t extradite him for a crime that carries the death penalty. And we won’t waive the death penalty unless he pleads guilty and accepts a life sentence.”

  Jess’s despair suddenly overwhelmed her. She blinked back tears. “I can see that happening all right.”

  Schmidt nodded. “Sarcasm won’t help. There are some alternatives. None are perfect and they all take time.”

  “You’ll understand if I don’t think spending the next two years cutting through bureaucratic red tape to get Anna back through channels is a great solution.” Her voice broke. She took a few deep breaths to steady herself. Falling apart wouldn’t help Betsy. Or Anna. Or Peter. Jess tried desperately not to think about Peter.

  She cued up the last of the video again and checked the time stamp on the image. “He’s been gone more than six hours. By private plane, he could easily be in Toronto already.”