Detective Jack Stratton Box Set Read online

  “It’s not okay. I shouldn’t… I got it good. I’m just…”

  “Jack. I’ve always been one hundred percent straight with you, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m no therapist, but the first seven years of your life were pretty horrific. Life after that wasn’t always a picnic either. You’ve had it tougher than most. You tried to bury all that pain like it didn’t happen and it doesn’t bother you. But that’s like trying to bury toxic waste in your backyard. It doesn’t work. It will kill you.”

  “What do you mean? How do I let it out?”

  “That stuff happened. You can’t bury it. You have to face it so that you can process it.”

  “How?” Jack whispered, more to himself than to his dad.

  “It’ll come. Just let it.”

  “But Dad, I get… I get so angry…”

  “Jack, I know you don’t want to hear this, but you have to face your demons. Yeah, you got knocked down, but wipe your nose and get up.”

  Jack nodded, as if Ted was right beside him, looking into his eyes, giving him strength.

  “Don’t tell Mom, all right?”

  “I won’t. If I did, she’d come up there and kick your butt for being such a baby.”

  Jack laughed at the very thought of it. He’d never even heard her yell. Both of them laughed for a couple of minutes, and as Jack’s head started hurting less, he realized he was better off calling his dad in the middle of the night than talking to a therapist any day. He blew his nose lustily.

  “So, Dad, what’s your favorite movie?”

  “The Seven Samurai.”

  “The one where the samurai help out the farmers?”

  “Yes. Listen, Jack, if you’re going to do what I think you’re going to do… please be careful.” Ted sounded worried.

  “I will. I’m not afraid of a fight, Dad.”

  “Well, I’ve known that for a long time. So I guess my advice would be, if you’re going to fight, fight to win.”

  31

  Following the Bread Crumbs

  Early the next morning, Jack watched as Replacement checked her makeup in the hall mirror. Jack hardly recognized her. She’d come back that morning with her hair trimmed and colored much darker brown, almost black. Her business look was sealed with a blue skirt and blouse, lipstick, and eyeliner.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’ll be back in a few hours. I told you about a computer job I have—well, I used to have it. I do their website, and they need me again. The extra money will help out around here.”

  Jack was busy deflecting this flurry of news, while taking in the new, possibly improved but certainly transformed Replacement, and was unprepared for her request to use the car.

  “The car? You mean my car?” Jack groaned, but tossed her the keys. “Now I’m trapped.”

  “I won’t be late. Mrs. Stevens is right downstairs. ’Bye.” She winked and headed out the door.

  Jack flexed his wrist; his arm felt fine. Next, he tested his leg.

  Yeah, still hurts like hell.

  The bruise on his thigh was fading, but the muscles still throbbed. He forced himself to walk normally into the kitchen. After filling a large cup with coffee, he headed back to the computer. No reason not to work.

  He sat down and propped his leg up on a little footstool under the desk. The computer beeped as he logged in to the police database to look for the guy from the video again. He pulled up the mug shots and limited them by gender, race, age, and arrests, but the list was still huge. He took a swig of coffee and forced himself to stop and think.

  Too many results. Narrow the field.

  He flipped back to the video file and stared at it. “XPC 15 Interview — Part 1. Date Created: December 19.”

  Michelle died on the twenty-first.

  Jack switched over to the Internet and searched for information about “date created” on video files. He found an article that helpfully explained, “Date Created is the date the file was copied. When you copy a file, you create a copy of the file in the new location.”

  So the nineteenth is when Michelle copied the file to her phone, not when the video was recorded.

  He continued to read. “Date Modified is the last time the file was changed or modified. Moving or copying does not affect the Date Modified.”

  The date recorded by the computer when the file was last modified—probably the date the video was recorded.

  He opened the video and pulled up the file properties. The date modified was October 20—one year ago.

  Bingo.

  He switched back to the mug shots. To narrow results, he’d been searching for recent mug shots. Now he widened his search to include arrest records from over a year ago. Male, white, twenties, meth.

  Yes.

  Charlie Harding, the man from the video, was on the first page. His age was given as twenty-three.

  He looked forty.

  Charlie had been arrested a number of times, always for drinking, drugs, or… because it was cold. Being homeless in winter meant you had to get creative. If the shelters were full, there was a real danger of freezing to death, so you might try to get yourself arrested for a warm bed and some food. Trespassing or shoplifting was the usual MO.

  Someone had reported Charlie missing in December. Jack frowned. Did it take two months for someone to figure out that he was gone? The person who reported him missing was named Hank Foster. Under “Relationship,” the file said, “Sponsor.”

  Must be AA.

  There was an address and number listed for Hank. Jack knew he should call first, but it would be just as easy to swing by, and he preferred that, for surprise value.

  He got up, grabbed his jacket, and headed for the door—but then stopped.

  No car. Great.

  Throwing his jacket down, he went back and reread the missing person report. Hank Foster mentioned “substance abuse issues” on Charlie’s report. That much was obvious already from the arrest records.

  Jack leaned over, grabbed the phone, and dialed. A man answered.

  “Hi, I’m looking for Hank Foster.” He smiled. In an interview course, he’d learned that people could hear a smile in your voice, even on the phone.

  “You got him. How can I help?”

  “My name is Jack Stratton. I’m a police officer with the Darrington County Sheriff’s Office and I’m calling about the missing person report that you filed.”

  “Oh, okay. What do you want to know about her?”

  Her? Jack paused.

  “Hank, I’d like to swing by and speak with you. Are you still located on Pine Hill?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Will you be around…” Jack tried to think if Replacement had said when she’d be back. “This evening?”

  “It depends how late. I have an AA meeting at eight o’clock, and it can run late.”

  “Could I meet you there?”

  “It’s at the VFW out near Houton’s Pond. Do you have any more information about Tiffany?”

  Tiffany? Another missing person? One guy files two different missing person reports?

  “I’ll see you after your meeting. Hank, can you confirm Tiffany’s middle name?”

  “Tiffany Marie.”

  Jack thanked him and hung up the phone. First and middle name were enough to reference the case without arousing Hank’s suspicion. Tiffany McAllister had gone missing in July, five months prior to Michelle, and Hank had filed the report a few weeks ago.

  Looks like he was a little late in reporting her missing, too.

  They had already found her body a few days before Hank filed the report and the medical examiner had originally listed her as a Jane Doe. Cause of death: meth overdose, injected. The cleaning crew had found her behind the Imperial Motor Lodge, a popular hangout for prostitutes.

  Jack switched programs and ran Tiffany’s information. Age: nineteen. Prostitution and drug arrests scrolled up the screen. He printed out the report and then p
ulled up her picture. She looked younger than nineteen. And ashamed. With her short brown hair and green eyes, she could have passed for Replacement’s little sister.

  Next, Jack ran Hank Foster. The man had done time for assault and armed robbery fifteen years ago. He had arrests for drugs and pimping at that time, too. Jack continued to type. Assault on girlfriend. Assault on a police officer. Hank had served five years and gotten five years’ probation.

  Habitual offender. Now he files two missing person reports?

  Hoping Replacement would be back in time, Jack printed out Charlie Harding’s mug shot and pushed the mouse away. His head pounded and he wanted a drink but knew that was the last thing he needed. With a groan, he grabbed Tiffany’s report from the printer, walked over to the couch, and stretched out.

  A few minutes later, the papers fell to the floor as Jack fell asleep.

  32

  Girl Jacked

  IRAQ

  Jack’s shirt clung to him like a damp towel. He shifted his assault rifle in his hands and continued to scan the crowd.

  A lot of people moved by the checkpoint. The families going home chattered back and forth. Apart from the heat, the feeling was upbeat.

  Jack turned to Chandler. “Are you hot?”

  “Yeah.” A cocky grin spread across his big friend’s face as he nodded his head. “That’s what all the ladies say.”

  “Shut up.”

  “You shut up,” Chandler shot back. “It’s two hundred degrees out. What a stupid question. I’m about to spontaneously combust.” He laughed and finished off another bottle of Gatorade.

  Jack turned to look at the approaching crowd. Something was wrong. People talked all around, but a strange pocket of silence approached them. He scanned the faces and found the source of the silence. A woman dressed in a black burqa walked with a little girl dressed in the same head-to-toe shroud. He could only see their eyes.

  Of course, many women wore burqas, but there was something wrong with this pair. The mother kept the girl at arm’s length as they walked.

  “Chandler. One o’clock.” Jack nodded toward the approaching pair.

  Chandler’s smile vanished as he watched them approach.

  “The mother is freaked.” Jack’s chin tipped up. “Maybe she’s being forced to wear a vest and is trying to keep the little girl out of the way.”

  “Can we separate them?” Chandler walked toward the edge of the crowd. “I can get the girl.”

  “No. You’ll be too close.”

  Chandler shook his head and kept moving.

  Jack moved forward and to the right.

  The crowd shied away from the pair, and a pocket formed around mother and daughter. Judging by her height, the girl was five or six years old. Her rich brown eyes gleamed. She looked happy; she had no idea she was in danger. The mother’s eyes darted all over, but she never looked directly at Jack.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw Chandler make his move. He wanted to scream at him to stop, but he knew there was no stopping his friend. Chandler took two huge strides, scooped the little girl up in his arms, and headed back to the checkpoint.

  “Stop!” Jack commanded the mother in both Arabic and English. “Hands up!”

  The mother watched Chandler carry her daughter away before turning to look at Jack. He saw her eyes change from fear to relief—and then from relief to hate.

  “Hands up!” he shouted again as the crowd scrambled for safety. With his finger on the trigger, Jack hesitated. He’d never shot a woman before.

  She raised her arms up slowly.

  Then Jack realized his mistake.

  He saw the large hands of a man.

  It wasn’t a mother worried for her daughter. It was a man worried for his own safety, and scared because it was the little girl who’d been forced to wear the suicide vest.

  “Chandler!” Jack yelled.

  Chandler looked over, the little girl cradled in his big arms. His eyes met Jack’s for a second before the white flash.

  The explosion knocked Jack to his knees. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t see clearly, and his ears rang. His fingers clawed the ground in front of him. The hard, dry ground turned soft…

  He opened his eyes and stared down at gray carpet with black flecks. He gazed at the pattern; he was sure he’d seen it before but couldn’t place where.

  The funeral home.

  He was at the funeral home where they’d held Michelle’s service. Chandler stood at the rear, near an open coffin. He wore his dress uniform, and tears rolled down his face. His arm was around Michelle’s shoulder. She wore her long hair pulled back, and she had on a simple charcoal dress. She glanced at Jack, and she was crying, too.

  Jack staggered forward. They were both gazing into a coffin. It was purple and white with pink flowers.

  Aunt Haddie? No…

  It felt as though he was walking through knee-deep mud as he forced himself to keep moving forward. Chandler glared back at him, and Michelle wept.

  “My babies!”

  The cry behind him caused him to turn around.

  Aunt Haddie, tiny and frail, stood in the doorway of the funeral home.

  “My babies,” she cried again as she held her hands out, walking toward him. “All of my babies are gone.”

  Jack turned back around and raced to the coffin. Replacement’s body lay inside. Her emerald-green eyes were gray and lifeless. Her mouth was frozen in a twisted scream. Her eyes had been taped open.

  “Alice, no! Alice! ”

  Replacement was shaking him. She said something, but he couldn’t hear clearly. His trembling hands gripped the back of his head. He gasped for air.

  Replacement held his shoulders at arm’s length. “Jack? It’s just a dream. You were dreaming.”

  Jack grabbed her and pulled her close, crushing her to his chest. It was a long moment before his breathing quieted, and he straightened his arms and looked at her.

  “You’re okay,” Jack muttered. “It was just a dream.” He stood up, swaying like a drunken sailor.

  Replacement looked up at him. “I walked in and you were… yelling my name.”

  He shuffled into the kitchen and looked at the clock. Eight fifteen. “I need my car.” He rubbed his eyes.

  “What? Why? I was going to borrow it tomorrow, too.”

  “That’s okay. I’m meeting a guy tonight. Hey, how’s the website job going?” He tried to smile.

  “Good. They need some updates.” Replacement followed him into the kitchen. “Nothing big. Who are you meeting with?”

  “Guy’s name is Hank Foster. The guy on the video was Charlie Harding, and Hank reported him missing.”

  “Good work. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine. The problem is that Hank Foster also reported a girl named Tiffany McAllister missing five months ago.”

  “He reported both of them missing? And you’re sure you have the guy from the video?”

  “Yeah, it’s him. But I need to ask Hank about Tiffany first. She showed up dead. Then I’ll ask about Charlie. Keys?”

  She handed him the keys, and he grabbed his jacket.

  “What about your crutches?”

  “I need to strengthen the leg,” he called back.

  Replacement followed him out the door and hurried to catch up to him.

  “You’re not coming,” Jack said. “Go get something to eat.”

  “What? No. I’ll drive.”

  “No.” Jack stopped and turned to her. “You can’t come. Don’t even try.”

  “I can help.” She raised herself up on her toes.

  “No. Listen. It’s not happening.” Jack shut his eyes, and the images from his dream flashed into view. “Seriously, no.” Jack tried to soften his voice, but it still came out cold and angry.

  She didn’t say anything, just turned and went back into the apartment.

  Jack pulled up in front of the small VFW hall, where twenty to thirty cars were in the parking lot. He he
aded for the main door and scanned the faces of the people outside and on the porch, smoking cigarettes. Foster’s last mug shot was ten years old, and it was dark out, but Foster didn’t appear to be among the smokers, who all gave him covert glances as he passed.

  Jack opened the door to a medium-size room with folding chairs set up in neat rows. Less than a quarter of them were occupied. Your typical AA meeting. He picked a half-empty row and sat down.

  A man at the front was speaking about how he stayed sober. Jack didn’t pay too much attention to him at first. He’d spotted a man seated three rows from the front, next to a column, and he was pretty sure he was looking at Hank Foster.

  “How many people right now want a drink?” the man at the front said. Hands shot up all over the room, and the man speaking raised his own hand. “I do, too. The problem is, I won’t stop. I’ll just keep going. I drink because I’m a drunk.”

  The man had everyone’s attention now, including Jack’s. “There’s only one way I’ve stayed sober. How? Myself? Get real. That self-righteous crap doesn’t keep you sober. I know what power is, and it ain’t me; it’s God, pure and simple. He keeps me on track one day at a time, moment by moment. But He expects you to step up—twelve steps exactly. Don’t drink, work the program, and ask for help. That’s how I’ve stayed sober for fifteen years.”

  Jack shifted in his seat. If he’d been honest, he would have raised his hand when the guy asked who wanted a drink.

  After the man finished speaking, there was a small round of applause, and an older man rose and moved to the podium. “Ten-minute break. Smoke ’em if you got ’em.”

  While people filed out, Jack’s eyes followed Foster, who rose and shook a woman’s hand. After a few minutes, Foster headed for the back door, and Jack followed him onto the big porch where the smokers congregated.

  “Hank?”