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“Go.”
Samuel pounded on the door. No answer. No movement. “Let’s try around back.”
In the backyard, a naked bulb over a slab of concrete illuminated a landmine of tools strewn on the ground, an abandoned mower, and an assortment of straggly lawn chairs. Another light peeked through open curtains to the kitchen. Daniel peered in, then ducked down. A man sat at a table that held a scale, a couple boxes of baggies, and various other paraphernalia. He had his head back like he’d nodded off.
“He’s dead.” Samuel jerked his Glock from his holster and grabbed the doorknob. He smashed his shoulder into the wood. The door gave with a groan.
Daniel followed him in and crossed the kitchen in two strides. He could put two fingers on the man’s neck. The guy had a large hole in the center of his forehead. Blood and brain tissue had seeped down his back onto the chair and pooled on the floor below him. “Where’s that backup?” Sirens roared in the distance as if in answer to the question. Daniel eased toward the kitchen door, trying not to inhale the odor of gunpowder, urine, and dirty dishes. “I suppose that’s Seth Jordan?”
“So where’s Mica?” Samuel strode from the kitchen, Daniel right behind him as they sweep the hallway, dining room and then hit the living room. The place had been trashed. Overturned chairs lamps, broken glass, littered the floor.
“Overkill?” Daniel pointed at the spray of bullet holes that decorated the walls of the living room. Posters of The Doors and Jimmy Hendrix had been ripped to shreds by repeated blasts. “Somebody was having a good time.”
“Yeah—” A moan fractured Samuel’s response.
A woman lay facedown at the foot of the stairs. Daniel got to her first.
“I’ll clear upstairs.” Samuel took the stairs two at a time, his gun trained ahead of him.
Daniel touched the woman’s neck. The pulse was thready and fading. “Mica? Mica Jordan?”
She gasped. A tiny bubble of red saliva burst on her lips. “Help me, please, please help me.”
“Hang on. An ambulance is on its way.” Blood soaked her shirt and pooled under her. She would bleed out before help arrived. Daniel darted into the kitchen, grabbed dish towels from the counter, and raced back into the hallway. He dropped to his knees and applied pressure. “Hold on, Mica, just hold on. Can you tell me who did this to you?”
Her eyes were closed, but she mumbled a response. He leaned in, trying to hear/. Blood soaked the towel at an alarming rate. “Mica, stay with me. Who did this?”
“He wanted the stuff.” Her blood-covered fingers sought his and contracted in a tight, painful squeeze. “We didn’t have it. Juice . . .”
“Juice Morin shot you?”
“No. No, his stuff . . . not here. They wanted . . . the stuff.”
“Who, Mica, who?”
She sighed and stopped talking.
Chapter Eighteen
Alex tugged his ringing cell phone from his pocket and stopped in front of the building that housed the Department of Family and Protective Services. A slight chill hung in the morning air despite the sun’s peeking through drifting clouds. Monday morning rush-hour traffic had delayed him longer than he’d hoped. Sarge’s name popped up on the Caller ID.
As usual Samuel eliminated the preliminaries. “You’re gonna have to work fast. Macon is on my back about the three cases you haven’t closed. And we picked up two more last night with Seth and Mica Jordan.”
“Did you tell him the Jane Doe death ties into to a kidnapping and a drug ring and that could even include the bodies last night?” Alex couldn’t contain his irritation. Of course, Samuel had told him. Lieutenant Macon was under pressure from the higher-ups over a steadily declining closure rate on homicide cases. Instead of recognizing the result of too few detectives, a growing population, and a steady increase in violent crime, the brass wanted the eleven homicide detectives on staff to work miracles.
“I’m down staff with Deborah and Ray both out.” Sarge’s tone was stiff. “At least, since Ray is still in town, he can help unofficially with Benny’s kidnapping and that frees me up to work here, but we can’t let the backlog grow.”
“I’ll be back as soon as I can, boss.” Alex grabbed the door and jerked it open. “Coop says the judge won’t give us a search warrant on Chavez’s property. He wasn’t impressed with the Sunday night barbecue scenario. We’ve got to keep working this or Chavez will get away with murder. And he’s connected to Benny’s kidnapping. We still need to run down the lead on the PI who worked the missing persons case for him.”
“Just—wait a sec—” Samuel’s voice became muffled. A second later he was back. “Gotta go. Macon wants me in his office. Keep me posted at all times. And get back here as soon as you can.”
Dead air hissed in Alex’s ear. Fine. He focused on his mission.
They needed more evidence to nail Chavez—something to connect him to Juice Morin after they both were released from jail. If they had something to hold over his head, they might be able to get him to talk about Morin. And it would give them time to prove the skeletal remains belonged to Nina Chavez.
Alex freewheeled past the image of the other four Chavez children. The file said two girls, twins, who’d been nine when they went missing. If they were alive, they’d be fourteen now. And the two boys, twelve and ten.
If they were alive.
