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No answer.
Before taking out the palm-sized pickpocketing kit in my shorts, I try the handle.
It twists open.
My shoulders tense. As quietly as possible, I swing open the door and enter.
The first thing that hits me is the smell. Of shit… and death. The next is a huge, slobbery, black-and-white Newfoundland.
I cut the dog off with a sweep of my body, guiding him so he’s up against the wall and not causing trouble. I pet him, trying to calm the distressed sounds he’s making. My hand comes away sticky with something too thick for slobber.
I bring it to my nose, sniff. I was right. Blood.
After confirming the dog is uninjured, I step into the main living area and scan with my Ruger.
Christ. It’s rank in here, and dark. The blinds are drawn. Even still, there’re lights on enough to see the man—dead, head wrapped in bubble wrap, strapped to a chair in the middle of the living room.
Gut in knots, heart pounding, I move past him and the kitchenette to make sure no one else is here. The throat-gagging stench seems to have become imbedded in the walls. I find the bedroom empty. The closet and bathroom—minus dog shit—also prove empty.
Back in the bedroom, I kick a leg under the bed for the box I’d spotted when looking to make sure no one was there.
It’s a drone box. Anemptydrone box.
At my side, the dog whines. I pet him and head back out to the other room. It’s no secret who the dead man I’m passing is. Judging by the long, black hair and distinctly Native American features—not to mention Justice’s exact nose, visible even under the bubble wrap—the corpse strapped to the artist’s chair is Cooper. And he’s been tortured to death.
Chicken wire pierces his face and down the flesh of his naked body. His mouth, filled by a thick leather ball gag, is split in small red fissures at the creases. Blood has pooled beneath the chair. A dog-sized bloodstain saturates the beige carpet.
Shaking, nauseous, I walk into the kitchenette. Taking slow, deep, steadying breaths, I call Leland.
He answers on the first ring. “And?”
Not even aHello. The man knows it’s bad news.
“Found Cooper. He’s dead. Someone tortured him.”
Leland does not react.
I continue, “Also, there’s a drone box here. I’m not sure how this is going to go down with the authorities. It’ll tie Justice to the bombings in a way that won’t be helpful.”
Leland barely pauses to absorb the news. “Clean off any of your prints. I’ll have someone there in twenty minutes to wipe the room.”
“We need a rescue here, too.”
“There’s someone there?”
“A dog.” A really nice dog. “Looks to be about two years old, male, and shaken up. I don’t want to leave him here.”
“I’ll send someone to get him, but you have to get out of there.”
I hang up. I’m not leaving the dog until someone arrives, but there’s no need to argue the point with him.
Holstering my gun, then covering my hand with the sleeve of my hoodie, I go through cabinets. I quickly find what I’m looking for. Opening two cans, I slap them into the empty dog dish by the fridge, and as the dog is eating big, sloppy mouthfuls, I refill his water bowl.
While the dog eats, I fish bleach from under the sink and begin to go over any evidence I’ve left. As I do, I get a better feel for who Cooper Ramsey was. An artist, for one. There’s an easel in one corner with a half-done picture of a Buddhist temple.
I recognize that temple. I’ve actually passed it on my way to the Mantua Academy campus. It’s a beautiful and colorful structure. Question is, was Justice’s father a Buddhist or just a fan of architecture?
And who would want to kill him? If not for the drone box and the torture, I’d say it was drug related. But drug deaths aren’t long, complicated sessions used to get information. It’s obvious from what happened here that someone wanted Cooper to tell them something. But what and why? And how does that tie into his supposed connection with the family traitor?
