I spear my fingers through my hair in frustration. “Yeah. I got it, man. It’s not a complicated plan. What’s with the third degree?”
“I’m not asking if you understand the plan, Reed. I’m simply ensuring you’re on board before we go inside and pitch it to the team.” His wrinkled cheek quivers, thanks to his shit-eating grin. “I’d hate to be accused of forcing you into an uncomfortable situation. Hanging around a beautiful woman and all. I know how much you hate people.”
An agitated groan escapes me. “Argh. Thanks for your concern, dick. Let’s go fucking talk to the team.”
After the last few days of fact-finding, interviews, and chasing leads, the full task force is convening to review details from all the home invasion investigations to ensure we’re on the same page.
In total, eight homes were hit, which we believe were committed by the same perps. Four homes in Florida, two in Louisiana, one in Missouri, and one in North Carolina. In each case, a pair of individuals entered the house, assaulted andrestrained the occupants, then proceeded to trash the home. Nothing was stolen from any of the scenes. It seems to be violence and vandalism for the sake of intimidation.
Most notably, at each scene, the perps fired a series of bullets into a wall. If the home had family photos, those were hit. Otherwise, it was the bedroom wall of the homeowner’s child. Mrs. Ross’ assumption that they were threatening to harm her family if they had to return was spot on.
Shooting at a wall is a bizarre calling card, but it’s odd enough to stand out and will help with prosecution once the time comes. Ballistics on the bullets and casings found at the scenes show the same gun was used for all instances.
Unfortunately, not all the victims were as lucky as Mrs. Ross.
During the Mississippi home invasion, the homeowner was shot when he pulled his gun on the intruders. He’s still in the ICU nearly two weeks later. His spouse works as a craps dealer at a riverboat casino.
In one of the South Florida cases, the victim took a rough hit to the head. Last we heard, she has only a twenty-five percent chance of surviving. Her husband works as a floorman—sort of a step down from the Pit Boss—at a casino on a tribal reservation.
Those who fought back got it far worse than those who were relatively compliant, like Mrs. Ross. That isn’t always true of violent crime. Sometimes fighting back is the only thing that saves your life.
Sadly, there isn’t a magic formula for knowing which approach is best when something horrific like this happens.
Most criminals don’t play by any rules.
With the first wave of investigation complete, we need time to pool our clues so we can identify the path to the bad guys. Since in all cases, someone in the home worked at a casino, we’re operating under the assumption that these acts of violence were committed to force them into complying with an unknown crimeinvolving the casinos—theft, intel gathering for a heist, or flat-out cheating.
Given how shaken up some of the victims have been, I’d say it’s working.
Lila’s potential involvement is still dangling in the back of my mind, rattling like a fucking wind chime in a hurricane. The only thing is, there was no evidence of a home invasion at her place. I saw no signs of violence. No bullet holes in a wall. And she never called the cops to report anything.
While I’m relieved she wasn’t attacked, suspicion floods through my veins.
If Lila isn’t a victim, could she be a perpetrator?
Is that why she jumped when Silas called on the night of the key swipe dick grab?
It’s one possible explanation.
A few years ago, that thought wouldneverhave crossed my mind. But now? Things have changed.
And not for the better.
Lila Kent isn’t the sweet, innocent woman I once believed her to be. She’s just like everyone else.
With the right motivation, anyone is capable of horrific things—even her.
Andrews turns off the ignition and reaches for the door handle. “Okay. Let’s roll.”
We head into the regional FBI office in relative silence. Before entering the briefing room, he pauses in front of the door.“Assuming this goes as we plan, try not to fall in love with the person of interest. You’ll end up the laughingstock of the division, which will reflect poorly on me. I don’t need that in my life this close to retirement.”
I flip him off.
Mentally.
“Very funny.”
“I feel responsible for you, kid. Like my little peacock, growing his feathers and learning to strut.”
