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Rossiter kept his voice even. His eyes on Monck.
“Please.” Gesturing toward the sofa beyond Betty. “The time for petty bickering is over.”
“Not another step.” Monck’s tone went granite hard. “I’m declaring this a crime scene.”
“Then I’d like you both to come with us.”
“And why would we do that?”
“To prevent the loss of thousands of innocent lives. Trust me. There is no time to lose.”
7:10 P.M.
While driving, Monck called his unit, asked for a constable named Sith. Stoked on anger and adrenaline, he didn’t even try for polite.
“I’ve got a BOLO riding for a white male, late thirties, name Calvin Cloke. FBI special agent. Any eyes on this guy?”
“Not yet, sir.”
“No credit card charge? Cell phone use? Nothing?”
“No, sir. The guy’s ghosting big-time.”
“Shake the goddam bushes and find him! Anyone even suspects they’ve seen a hair of Cloke’s ass, I want to know.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I need a deep toss of a home on Karst Way.” Monck provided the address. “Owner is one Joe Benjamin.”
“Looking for what?” Sith’s uncertain voice sputtered back over the speaker.
“Signs of Cloke. Signs of Galloway, Palke, Bonner. Signs that a goddam serial killer lived in the dump!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then we lock the place down. No one in, no one out except CSU. Got it?”
“Got it.”
Glancing sideways, he twirled a bionic finger at my phone. “Maybe someone will stop by to pick up the dog.”
“Dog? Should the team take precautions?”
“No.”
Understanding Monck’s directive, I searched for then dialed the number for the potcake center to request collection and disposal of the canine corpse. I figured no one would answer at that hour, but that I could leave a message.
I was wrong. The operator who picked up was extremely obliging.And devastated to learn of the dear dog’s passing. I suspected the woman had never met Betty.
7:30 P.M.
Twenty minutes after leaving Karst Way we joined Rossiter and Reid in a second-floor mini-suite at the Sea Breeze Resort on Sandcastle Road. Though not oceanfront, the place boasted a pool and free beach shuttle. And had flourishing populations of mildew and mold.
More important, the place had an FBI-friendly price point. As Rossiter had quipped upon our arrival, the bureau rolls three-star all the way.
We entered a portion of the “suite” containing two queen beds, a bureau and matching nightstand, a Lilliputian flat screen, and a lamp with mounded conch shells forming its base. Dingy gray tile on the floor.
An open door to the far right revealed a minuscule bath. I spotted no Speed Stick, Brylcreem, or Gillette foamy on the counter. No bottle of the Dior Sauvage in which Rossiter must have bathed.
