Killing Chase (16 page)

Saturday, March 24, 2012

Warm rain from a midmorning
spring thunderstorm lashed the double-paned windows outside Anna’s bedroom, and thunder boomed in the distance as I stood up from her king-size, cherry sleigh bed and walked naked to her master bath.

“Come back to bed, Chase,” she whined. I looked back at her as she tracked me with bedroom eyes through loose strands of black hair that created an erotic mask of sorts. Her naked body shifted under the sheets and exposed her right breast.

“I can see that you want to,” she added, as she cast her eyes toward my midsection.

“Anna dear, it’s already ten in the morning. What do you say we clean each other up in that big shower of yours? If I don’t get up now, I’ll feel worthless the rest of the day. Besides, I’m making you breakfast this morning.”

She’d met me at the door to her modest two-story home yesterday evening with a kiss, wearing only a simple, cream-colored bathrobe. As I sat at her kitchen counter and watched her cook dinner, the sash that held her robe in place became increasingly looser as the dinner preparations progressed. We caught up over a bottle of chilled Moscato, and she flirted by provocatively dipping her finger in a cabernet sauce she was preparing, and licking it off while smiling at me. As she pulled the pan-roasted veal chops from the oven, the sash came undone, and I knew this dinner would be like none I had experienced. Anna was uninhibited, while at the same time sweet and tender—a girl next door who feared nothing. I wondered, not for the first time, why she was so into me.

“So make me lunch later and let me have you for breakfast,” she said, clearly pleased at her choice of words. Her pull was strong, and I fought the urge to rejoin her. I put on a robe she’d provided and sat in a black leather club chair near her bed instead.

“Anna, I’m not good at this relationship stuff, so I’m not sure if this is the appropriate time to ask this or not, but where do you see this going?”

She smiled at me. “Chase, I like you. Okay? There is a connection with you. It is not something I can explain; it is something I feel. You seem like a good man, regardless of your past. I trust you. Maybe in time we will both discover that we are not compatible, but I would like to give us both time to figure that out, if that is okay with you?”

I trust you.

“You make a very convincing argument, counselor,” I smiled, while I felt like a fraud on the inside. “I like you too, Anna. You are smart, beautiful, and a welcome breath of fresh air to me.”

Two listening devices were now active in her house thanks to my late-night exploits. Once she had fallen asleep, I planted one behind the nightstand on my side of her bed, and the other I placed downstairs in her study. I felt sick to my stomach at this invasion of her privacy. Inexperienced as I was at relationships, I was sure this was not the key to a long-lasting one.

“So will you be staying with me in my cabin on our little cruise to New York next week, or do we need to keep us quiet for now?”

“To be honest, Chase, I love the thought of sneaking into your cabin in the middle of the night and screwing your brains out,” she said in her sultry voice.

“It does seem a little more naughty, Ms. Petrov,” I agreed. “So what is this trip all about? My father has been very secretive regarding it. All I know is that Mr. Durov is bringing some people to train on some newfangled feature his boat will have.”

“Mr. Durov has been quiet as well. Perhaps we will both find out together. The ‘not knowing’ builds the excitement level, no?”

No.

“Do you know who these people are?” I asked.

“They must be involved somehow in his mining business,” she surmised.

“It just seems so quick after Viktoria’s death and his own painful injury. Is he up to this, physically and mentally?”

“Mr. Durov is a very resilient man. Perhaps this is his way of coping. Returning to the scene of the crime, so to speak.”

“We all deal with things differently, I guess. How has he been?”

“From our few discussions, I could sense that he is still distraught about Viktoria’s death, but Mr. Durov has always been an impatient man.

“Impatient, how?”

“Chase, I do not wish to waste our time discussing my employer, but I will take you up on that offer of a shower,” she said, as she exited the covers in all her naked glory, took me by the hand, and led me to the Shower Promised Land. We spent the first fifteen minutes rubbing an oval-shaped Dove soap bar over every inch of each other’s body below the chin line, and the next fifteen engaged in our own version of shower geometry. After a very late breakfast of pancakes, bacon, and fresh berries, I reluctantly left, promising to return Sunday afternoon.

***

Four doors down from Anna’s house, a Wilmington Utilities box van sat with an orange traffic cone placed in front. Jessica was in the driver’s seat, and she shook her head slowly from side to side as I drove by. She must have been the lucky one listening in.

Jenna texted me five minutes later:

Devices active, but not as active as you apparently. Get some rest, will talk later.

I deleted the text and sat the phone down when it began ringing. The number displayed on my Caller ID was from California. My first thought was,
how did my mom get my number?
However, the voice on the other end was neither my mom nor female. In fact, it was creepy and disconcerting.

“Hello, Chase.”

“Who is this?”

“Who this is . . . is not important. What
is
important is that you listen closely. If you care for Bailey, you will cease your little investigation. I’m sure you would hate it if anything happened to her. There are forces at play here that you can’t begin to understand or defend against. Choose your decision wisely. Bailey’s life depends on it. Good day, Mr. Hampton.”

The call ended and I started to shake with a mix of fear and anger. How did this man even have my phone number? I hit redial and a message came on immediately: “The number you have dialed is not in service. Please check the number and try again.”

I raced southbound on the Wilmington Highway and on my third call to Bailey, cop lights flashed in my rearview mirror.
Damn.
I pulled off to the side of the highway, ended the call to Bailey, and shot a quick text off to Jenna:

Pulled over- speeding, Bailey in danger

“License and registration please?” said the officer. He was young, medium height, and lean. Dark-mirrored sunglasses combined with light-brown pants and a darker brown shirt completed the uniform. The nametag said Sparrow and he smelled of spearmint gum. The most important thing I could see was that the patch on his shoulder said Brunswick County Sheriff’s Office, instead of Foggy Harbor PD.

“I apologize for speeding, Officer Sparrow,” I admitted, as I handed over my ID and insurance card.

“Hang tight, Mr. Hampton. Let me run you through the system, write your ticket, and we’ll have you on your way soon.”

Fat chance.

When I could see that Officer Sparrow was back in his vehicle, I speed-dialed Jenna, put the phone on speaker, and sat it down next to me in the passenger seat. Bugged car or not, I needed to talk to her. She answered on the second ring.

“Chase, what’s going on?”

“Male caller told me to stop my little investigation. Said Bailey’s life depended on it. So I hauled ass, got pulled over, and Officer Sparrow from the Brunswick County Sheriff’s Office is in his car running my license through the system. I don’t know what’s going to happen, but he’s probably taking me in. What’s most important is that you find Bailey. She isn’t answering her phone, but it could be because she found me snooping in her office Friday afternoon after she left, and she’s still pissed. Don’t worry. I played it off as if I were looking for a book.”

“Shit,” she said. “I’ll call Schmidt and get him working on your problem, and we’ll see if we can locate her. Hang tight, we’ll try and get you out.”

“I’m leaving the phone on so you can hear what’s happening. Just don’t say anything.”

Officer Sparrow approached cautiously five minutes later with his hand on the butt of his service weapon.

“Mr. Hampton, I’m going to need you to step out of the vehicle slowly and place your hands on the hood. No sudden movements, okay?” he said cautiously.

“Yes sir.”

“I have to take you in. This may or may not be a parole violation. That will be determined at a later date.”

“Just doing your job, Officer Sparrow, I understand.” He placed handcuffs on me and placed me in the back of his cruiser.

“What happened to your Mustang? Looks like someone hit it with buckshot.”

“Some people were not as happy as I was about my parole,” I lied.

Ten days since my release from Ashmore and I was already headed back to jail.

“Hampton, you’re out,” bellowed an
overweight guard, as he waddled up to the cell door and pawed a large ring of keys attached to his belt loop. I stood up slowly from my seated position against the back wall of the small, smelly holding cell, stretched, and silently thanked Agent Schmidt for my release. To get to the door, I had to maneuver around not one, but two puddles of vomit that had been stewing for about three hours.

It was three a.m., and the cell had steadily filled with all manner of male debris beginning around nine p.m.  Fully half of the thirty men in the cell were sleeping off a night of alcohol-induced regret, while the other half eyed each other warily, sleeping with one eye open. It was going on twelve hours since I had been deposited in this dank, wretched place. Dinner was a skinny apple, baloney sandwich, and greasy bits of potato chips. I maintained my role as the Candyman and gave it away to a nervous, redheaded man who kept muttering, “oh my God, oh my God.”
Oh my God.

A sleep-deprived sergeant processed me out and handed me my phone, keys, and wallet. He pointed to a door and said I was free to go. The Mustang was parked in a well-lit back parking lot, and I could see the familiar silhouette of a man leaning against it as I inhaled the cool, early morning air.

“Detective Reigart, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Mr. Hampton, it seems you have friends in high places. Mind telling me what’s going on?”

“I’m just as shocked at my release as you are. I didn’t realize that you work for Brunswick County, sir.”

“I got a call from a friend. A little professional courtesy between departments. What happened to your car? Looks like it’s been in a war zone.”

“As you told me last we spoke, some people wouldn’t be happy with my release. Looks like you were right. Might want to check with Danny Sullivan. I bought him a pitcher of beer Monday night at Shooters, and he dumped it on my head.”

“Why didn’t you report what happened to your car?”

“Detective, I’m just hoping this all dies down soon.”

“Why were you speeding today? Surely you knew what would happen if you got pulled over,” he said.

“Just worried about a loved one. My father is dying.” The two sentences were true, but had nothing to do with one another in this regard. I was just trying to get him off my back.

“Can I escort you home, Mr. Hampton? Make sure you’re safe?”

That wasn’t a bad idea, but I wasn’t going home first.

“Thank you sir, but I’ll be fine, and I’ll keep it under the speed limit.

“All right then, you take care.”

“Detective, why are you here at three something in the morning?”

“I was hoping you’d tell me, Chase,” he said.

“You must know something I don’t,” I said unconvincingly.

“I know that parolees who may or may not have violated parole are never released this quickly. It takes some serious pull for this to happen. Goodnight, Mr. Hampton.”

I watched him walk to his unmarked sedan parked just outside the gate, get in, and head back to wherever detectives go in the middle of the night.

It was a quarter to four in the morning when I knocked on Jenna’s door. She answered in her bathrobe, but I knew this encounter would not involve seductive cooking or shower geometry.

“Is Bailey okay?” I asked.

She nodded. “Christian stopped by posing as a Jehovah’s Witness. He tried to give her some literature, and she slammed the door in his face. Walk me through everything that happened.”

I rehashed the events after my arrest, and then I did something brave and ballsy; I made a demand. My first of two.

“We need to bring Bailey into this, for her safety. These people aren’t playing around, Jenna. We’ve seen what they’re capable of.”

“That’s a non-starter, Chase. Besides, Schmidt would never go for it. She’s an unknown entity.”

“She’s my sister and someone, ostensibly involved with Durov, is threatening her.”

“I’m sorry. Not gonna happen,” she said. I held my arms out in front at chest level and held my wrists together.

“What are you doing?” she said, annoyed.

“I’m done; put me back in.”

Please don’t, I’m bluffing.

“What do you mean, ‘I’m done’?”

“You know damn well what I mean. Put me back in prison. Either Bailey is clued in on the danger she’s in, or you put me back in. Simple as that, Jenna.”

“You can’t be serious?” she said incredulously.

“Try me. Goodnight, Agent Brighton; you know where to find me.” I opened the door to leave.

“Chase, wait,” she said. “Can we do this tomorrow? We . . . you, need to get some rest. It’ll be better if we call Schmidt in the morning, because right now, he’s just gonna be pissed about being woken up again. Especially after the hoops he went through to get you released.”

“Okay, you’re right Jenna, and I’m sorry to act this way, but I can’t have my sister out there as a sitting duck while I play spy.”

“I understand, and I’d probably be doing the same thing if I were in your shoes,” she admitted. She yawned and I yawned, and we tabled the issue for a few hours. Jenna retreated to her bedroom without an invitation to join or a
goodnight, Chase
. Back to the doghouse, cleverly disguised as an uncomfortable couch.

***

Detective Jay Reigart drove back to the Foggy Harbor Police Department and grabbed a stale cup of lukewarm coffee from the department’s break room. Walking into his cramped office, he rubbed his forehead and tired eyes. Foggy Harbor had always been a quiet, touristy town where people got along, and everyone knew everyone. Violent crime had always been extremely low, and killings of any kind were almost unheard of, with only four people killed at the hands of someone else in the past ten years. He’d solved three of the cases quite easily, including the death of Cam Tanner.

It was the fourth one that had him stumped. The murder of Kenny Jackson. So far, all evidence pointed to a drug deal gone bad, and that was the official word, but interviews of friends and family painted the picture of a hard-working kid who’d steered clear of the drug scene. Word on the street from his few informants was that no one had ever heard of him. Evidence from the crime scene was scarce, as there were no fingerprints, DNA or shell casings to process. Two bullets had been removed during the autopsy, and ballistics had determined the weapon was a common Smith and Wesson M&P 9, but this particular ballistic fingerprint didn’t have any matches in the National Integrated Ballistic Information Network.

Combine that with the word from his detective friend at the sheriff’s office about FBI involvement in the release of Chase Hampton, whose father just so happened to own the company Kenny Jackson worked at before his death, and his gut told him something big was going down. The lack of evidence was evidence in itself. It appeared more and more likely that a professional hit had taken Kenny down. Why Kenny Jackson, and to what end, were the two questions that kept him up at this god-awful early hour.