"Understood. I’m still trying to figure out what his motive to torture is. It could be sadistic pleasure, but it could say something about the victim too—information he might have wanted.”
“You’ll figure it out. And Isla?" Kate's voice softened slightly. "Be careful. We don't know enough about this guy yet to predict his behavior. Don't take chances."
The call ended, and Isla stood for a moment, organizing her thoughts. They had a suspect, a motive, the specialized knowledge to commit the crime. They were building a case. This was good, solid investigative work.
So why did something still feel off?
CHAPTER SEVEN
The address they had for Russ Bellamy led them to a duplex in the Lakeside neighborhood, a working-class area where vinyl-sided houses sat close together under mature trees that had shed their leaves months ago. Isla pulled the Bureau sedan to the curb two houses down, noting the Ford F-150 parked in the driveway—gray, matching the registration records, license plate confirmed.
"He's home," James said, unbuttoning his coat for easier access to his weapon.
Isla did the same, her hand automatically checking that her Glock was secure in its holster. The tactical support team Kate had requested was staged three blocks away, ready to move in if needed, but Isla wanted to approach this carefully. If Bellamy was their killer, she didn't want to spook him. If he wasn't—and that doubt still nagged at her—she didn't want to come in with overwhelming force against someone who might just be a fired employee with poor judgment.
"Morrison's team is covering the back exit," James confirmed, checking his phone. "We're good to go."
They approached the duplex on foot, their breath forming clouds in the December air. The building was older, probably from the sixties, with peeling paint and a sagging front porch that needed repair. Bellamy's unit was on the left side, marked by a faded brass "A" next to the door.
Isla knocked firmly. "Russ Bellamy? FBI. We need to talk to you."
Silence from inside. She knocked again, louder this time.
"Mr. Bellamy, this is Special Agent Rivers with the FBI. We know you're home. Your truck is in the driveway. Please come to the door."
Still nothing. Isla exchanged a glance with James, who'd positioned himself slightly to the side of the door, his hand resting near his weapon. She was about to knock a third time when she heard movement inside—quick footsteps, a muffled curse, then the sound of something crashing.
"He's running," James said, already moving.
Isla grabbed her radio. "Suspect is fleeing. Morrison, cover the back—"
The door suddenly burst open, and Russ Bellamy exploded onto the porch. He was smaller than Isla had expected from his photos—maybe five-eight, wiry build, wearing sweatpants and a stained T-shirt. His eyes were wide with panic as he tried to dart past her.
Isla moved on instinct, years of training taking over. She stepped into his path and caught his arm, using his momentum against him to spin him toward the porch railing. "FBI! Stop running!"
Bellamy tried to wrench free, his free hand scrabbling for purchase on the railing. James was there in an instant, his considerable size and strength making the struggle brief. Within seconds, they had Bellamy face-down on the porch, James's knee in his back while Isla cuffed his hands behind him.
"Don't move," James ordered, his voice carrying the authority of someone who'd done this hundreds of times as a detective. "You're making this worse for yourself."
"I didn't do anything!" Bellamy's voice was high-pitched, breathing rapid. "I swear to god, I didn't—whatever you think I did, you're wrong!"
Isla pulled him to his feet, noting the tremor in his hands and the sweat on his forehead despite the cold. Fear, yes, but also something else. Guilt, maybe. Or just the panic of someone who'd been caught doing something they shouldn't.
"Russ Bellamy, you're being detained for questioning regarding the death of David Langford," Isla said, reading him his rights. "You have the right to remain silent..."
She finished the Miranda warning while James radioed Morrison to stand down from the back exit. Bellamy had slumped against the porch railing, his face pale, his breathing still coming too fast.
"David Langford?" he said, his voice cracking. "He's dead?"
Isla studied his reaction carefully. Shock seemed genuine, but she'd seen plenty of convincing performances before. "You didn't know?"
"No! Jesus, no, I—" Bellamy looked between them, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. "I haven't talked to David in months. Not since..." He trailed off.
"Not since he filed a formal complaint against you," James supplied. "Among others."
Bellamy's face flushed. "That complaint was bullshit. I never—look, can we talk inside? The neighbors are already nosy enough without giving them a show."
Isla glanced at the windows of the adjoining duplex, where she could indeed see a curtain twitching. "Inside is fine. But we're going to clear your apartment first. Any weapons inside? Anything we should know about?"
