The Devil's Spare Change 2 Malone Brothers Page 2

  Sean gave his uncle a smile and a smart salute. “Yes, sir!”

  The women laughed as Dan scowled at him. “Little brat,” he scoffed in a tone that was nothing but affectionate for his youngest nephew.

  Sean returned with a big bowl of salad and a basket of warm, sliced bread and placed them on the table. Taking a seat across from Grace, he bowed his head as Dan asked for God’s blessing for their meal.

  As Jinx snored softly from his spot under Dan’s chair, the conversation at dinner consisted mostly of Grace and Sean relating what had been going on in their lives since they’d last seen each other. Sean told her how he’d received his master’s degree in criminal justice while in the Army. After he was accepted into the FBI academy in Quantico, he put in for, and received, his honorable discharge. “I’ve spent my entire career, so far, in Jacksonville, Florida. But I put in for a transfer to be near my new niece or nephew.”

  Grace nodded as she swallow a sip of wine. “Dan told me KC got married and his wife is pregnant. That’s great. I can’t wait to meet them. I barely knew KC since he was seventeen when you all came to live with Dan, and then he took off for the Navy the following year. Since I was nine then, and only here visiting Bonnie during the summers and on holidays, I knew you and Brian better.”

  Sean thought back to his teenage years. He had been fourteen and his brother Brian sixteen when their parents were suddenly taken away from them. The couple had been flying to Hawaii to celebrate their twentieth anniversary when the plane crashed shortly after takeoff, killing all 194 souls on board. Dan, a widower with no children of his own, had taken the three boys in to finish raising them as his brother and his wife had—with rules, sternness, and a lot of love. He may have been thrown unexpectedly into the role of parent, but Dan Malone had fully accepted the responsibility and the boys had flourished. Despite the tragedy in their formative years, the three boys had grown up to be respectable men, each serving in a different branch of the military. KC had chosen a career in the Navy, and Sean and Brian had both gone into law enforcement after stints in the Army and Marines, respectively. Their uncle couldn’t be prouder of them and was always bragging about their accomplishments to anyone willing to listen.

  Bringing his thoughts back to the present, Sean told Grace, “Well, you’ll see KC and Moriah in two weeks for Easter, since they’re coming here. Bonnie invited us all for dinner—God bless her and her fantastic cooking.” He chuckled, giving the older woman a quick look filled with fondness. “You’ll see Brian, too. He’s a detective with the state troopers now and lives near Elizabeth City.”

  “Good for him,” Grace replied, then added enthusiastically, “I can’t wait to see him.”

  Sean silently gritted his teeth. He remembering teasing his older brother when it had been obvious the prepubescent Grace had an enormous crush on Brian. Now, though, the thought of Grace and Brian together bothered the hell out of him. Did she still have an infatuation for the middle Malone brother? He sure as hell hoped not.

  The rest of the evening went by quickly, but comfortably, and Sean’s guests left just after 10:00 p.m. Three hours later, he was sound asleep having a very erotic dream about a woman who looked, not surprisingly, exactly like Grace Whitman, and she was doing incredible things to him with her mouth and hands. But for some reason, there was an annoying telephone ringing in the background of his dream. It was making it hard for him to concentrate on what his fantasy woman was doing to him.

  His eyes opened, and he realized the ringing was coming from his cell phone on the nightstand next to him. Groaning at the untimely interruption and the fact that he was harder than he had been in a long time, he grabbed the phone and answered it without looking at the caller ID.

  “Who the hell is this?” he growled.

  There was a pause and then, “Sean? It’s Sheriff Griffin. Sorry to wake you.”

  “Matt?” He glanced at the bedside clock. One fifteen in the morning. A brush of fear swept over him. “What’s wrong? Is it Uncle Dan?”

  “No! No! Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” the sheriff apologized. “But I need your professional assistance. Dan told me you were staying at the beach house. I’m out on a homicide and I think we have a major problem on our hands. I’d appreciate it if you could come take a look.”

  Sean sat up, the last of his dream fading quickly from his head. He climbed out of bed. “Where are you?” Whatever Matt needed help with, it didn’t sound good. In fact, the man actually sounded scared.

  “Do you remember how to get to Red Maple Park?”

  “Yeah.” He pulled a clean, unripped pair of jeans out of the middle dresser drawer.

  “Well, when you get here, follow the lights.” The sheriff paused again as he cleared his throat. “And Sean?”

  “What?”

  “I hope you have an empty stomach.”

  Fuck.

  CHAPTER

  2

  Twenty minutes later, Sean pulled his new, black Mustang into the playground parking lot. Top of the line and fully loaded, the vehicle was a gift to himself for his birthday last month, and he loved it with pure, male pride. He was immediately stopped by a young sheriff’s deputy he’d never met before on his visits to Whisper. The uniformed man looked more like a teenager playing dress up, yet his name tag read Deputy J.R. Peterson. Rolling down his window, Sean flashed his FBI identification. “Sheriff Griffin is expecting me.”

  The thin man’s head bobbed up and down until Sean thought it would fly off its perch. “Yes, sir. He told me to look out for you. I’m not sure you want to drive that nice car to the crime scene, though. It’s down that dirt trail.” The deputy pointed to his right at a wide walking path leading into the heavy foliage.

  “How far into the woods are they?”

  “About a half mile, sir.” Peterson appeared more impressed with Sean’s ride than he was at being in the presence of an FBI agent, eyeing the sleek, long lines of the Mustang. The deputy was practically slobbering.

  Pulling the car into a parking space, Sean popped the trunk release before climbing out and engaging the locks, not wanting to tempt the deputy into taking a closer look. The kid would probably drool all over the gray, leather seats. He retrieved a Maglite flashlight from the trunk before slamming it shut and striding toward the trail.

  A short walk in, after passing several patrol cars and two county Bureau of Criminal Investigation vans, he came across another deputy, this one holding a clipboard. Again he presented his ID. The deputy had Sean sign in to the crime scene and pointed to where the sheriff and several other men stood, although it was hard to miss them. The area was lit up with overly bright, crime scene lights. Matt Griffin spotted him and hurried over. He looked like he’d just rolled out of bed and thrown on his sneakers, sweatpants, and T-shirt, which was covered by his department-issued navy jacket.

  “Thanks for coming, Sean.” He approached with his right hand extended. Griffin was in his early fifties with salt-and-pepper hair, and was only an inch shorter than Sean’s six-foot-three frame. The older man had known the Malone boys for most of their lives and was impressed the three of them had turned into such fine men after tragically losing their parents. Tom and Megan Malone would have been proud of them—their uncle sure was.

  Sean shook his hand. “No problem. What’s going on?”

  A grim expression fell over the lawman’s face. “Female homicide victim. Third one in the past three months.”

  Shit. “Serial?”

  “Yeah, no doubt about it, but come take a look for yourself.” Matt led him from the trail to the roped off area. Several crime scene techs were marking off potential evidence on the other side of the yellow “Crime Scene—Do Not Cross” tape.

  The sheriff handed Sean a pair of latex gloves and paper booties, and then put the same on himself. “We can walk in over here. BCI has already completed the grid search in this area.”

  Sean followed in the man’s footsteps to where the female corpse lay supine on a
pile of leaves and pine needles. They stopped about a foot away from her shoeless feet, and he took in the repulsive scene. The victim’s eyes were open, bearing a look of horror glazed over by death. She was naked and spread eagle. Ligature marks were prominent on her neck, but the thing which stood out the most was the bloody word “slut” carved into her torso.

  He tried to swallow the revulsion from his suddenly dry mouth. “Same as the other two?”

  Matt nodded. “Yup. His signatures are exactly the same. Don’t know who this one is yet, but the other two were in their twenties, blonde, and good-looking before this fucking psycho got ahold of them. Coroner says the cutting was done while they were alive.”

  “Raped?”

  “The first two weren’t. Have to see what the ME says about this one.”

  Sean forced his eyes away from the mutilated torso and did a full head to toe inspection of the victim. “What’s that on her forehead?”

  “His other signature. A penny.”

  Taking a step closer, Sean squatted near the victim’s head. Making sure he didn’t disturb the body, he inspected the shiny coin. It was face up and placed directly in the center of her forehead. Shaking his head, he stood and told Matt he’d seen enough for the moment. They silently retraced their steps out of the crime scene.

  “Who found her?” Sean asked.

  “A local woman walking her dogs.”

  His eyes narrowed. “This late?”

  The older lawman shrugged. “Lives two blocks away and works the evening shift at a restaurant. Owns two pit bulls, so she’s not afraid to walk the trail at night. The dogs pulled her this way, guess they smelled the body, and that’s when she saw it. She was really shaken up so I had one of the deputies take her home after she gave her statement.”

  Sean nodded. “Where’s the coroner?”

  Lifting his arm, Griffin glanced at his military-styled watch. “There was a multiple fatality accident on the expressway. Dispatch said someone was on their way here about five minutes ago.

  “Listen, I know you’re on vacation from the bureau before starting your new position, but I was wondering if you could get yourself assigned to us. You know the area and apparently have a great track record for solving cases.”

  Sean grimaced. “Uncle Dan’s been bragging again, huh?”

  “You got it.” He leaned against one of the patrol cars. “Anyway, neither of my two lead detectives on this were available tonight. Brad Lynch is in D.C. at his son’s wedding. You remember Jack Lynch, right? I think he was in your class.”

  “Yeah, I remember him and his dad. Last time I saw Brad though, he was still in patrol. What’s Jack doing these days?”

  Griffin scratched his head. “Besides getting married? He’s a doctor now. Cardiologist, I think. And from what Brad says, he’s doing very well for himself.”

  Nodding, Sean brought the conversation back on track. “Who else do you have on this?”

  “Brad’s partner, Dave Farrell, but the idiot fell off a fucking ladder yesterday afternoon getting his daughter’s kitten out of a tree. The kitten survived, Dave’s ankle didn’t. He needs surgery and will be out for the next few weeks. Brad is back on Tuesday. In the meantime, I’m taking the lead on this until he returns. I’ll call him in the morning and fill him in.”

  Any further conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the coroner’s black van. Two men got out and one approached the sheriff while the other walked to the rear of the van and opened the back doors.

  “You’re starting to make my life hell, Matt,” the gray-haired coroner said as he reached them.

  Griffin chuckled wryly and held out his hand. “Sorry to bother you, Pete.”

  “Sure you are.” There was no mistaking the sarcasm as the man shook the sheriff’s hand. “Who’s this?” he asked curiously, tilting his head toward Sean.

  “Sean Malone,” Matt answered. “Special Agent with the FBI, and a friend. Sean, this is our head coroner, Dr. Peter Hansen.”

  The two men exchanged hellos and shook hands. Pete wasted no more time and started his inquiry. “Is it another one?”

  “Yeah,” Griffin replied.

  “Terrific. Where do these fucking psychos come from?”

  The sheriff snorted. “If I knew that, I’d be rich and famous.”

  Sean waited until the coroner and his assistant stepped over to the crime scene, then turned to Matt. “Call my supervisor in the morning.” He took a business card out of his wallet and asked to borrow a pen. After scribbling his new boss’s name and the main office number on the back, he handed the card and pen to the sheriff. “Special Agent in Charge Clay Osbourne. He’s a good guy. I worked with him in Jacksonville for a few years before he got promoted. Tell him you’re requesting me and why. He might assign someone else to work with me, but since I don’t know anyone else in the unit yet, your guess is as good as mine on who it’ll be.” He paused and glanced back over to the buzzing crime scene. “Well, if there’s nothing more for me to see, I’ll head home. When should I meet you at the station? I want to go over everything you’ve got on the other two cases.”

  Running a hand through his hair, Griffin sighed heavily. “Make it noon. I won’t be out of here for another hour or so and I’m running on fumes. I’ll have Pete wait for us before he starts the autopsy.”

  “Sounds good. See you tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, Sean. I appreciate whatever help you can give us.”

  Sean gave the older man a fist bump and started the walk back toward his car. He doubted he would dream of anything except the dead woman for the rest of the night. Shit.

  CHAPTER

  3

  At ten minutes to twelve on Monday morning, Sean walked into the Dare County Sheriff’s Department, located in Manteo, wearing a gray sports jacket over a black T-shirt and a pair of jeans. His weapon, holstered on his hip, hidden by the jacket. He hadn’t planned on working for another few weeks, so his suits, along with most of his personal possessions, were in a storage unit he’d rented while waiting for his apartment to be ready. He’d have to stop by and grab a few of them if he was going to be officially working the case.

  He held his identification up to the bulletproof glass for the deputy at the front desk and was told Sheriff Griffin was already in his office waiting for him. The deputy slid a visitor’s tag through a slot in the window and pressed a hidden button under the desk. A buzzing noise sounded and he indicated for Sean to proceed through a wood and glass door a few feet to his left, which had been unlocked electronically. Halfway down the hallway on the left-hand side was the department’s detective bureau, and at this time of the day the room was brimming with activity. Some of the dozen or so detectives were at their desks, either going through reports or talking on the phone. Three others were sitting at a conference table in the middle of the room, leisurely eating a lunch of deli sandwiches, while in deep discussion over some case. It looked like almost every other detective bullpen Sean had ever walked into. He strode past the unit and entered the next door on his right. The lettering on the tinted glass read Sheriff Matthew C. Griffin. The secretary’s desk was empty so he approached the door to Griffin’s office and knocked. A deep “come in” was the immediate response.

  Sean opened the door and found a ragged looking Griffin, wearing his navy blue uniform and gold shield, sitting behind a large, oak desk burdened with files, paperwork, and a desktop computer. The office was large and comfortable. In addition to the desk and two upholstered guest chairs, there was a conference table surrounded by eight straight-backed chairs. Beyond the table were three six-foot-tall bookcases overflowing with law enforcement manuals, pictures of the sheriff with various dignitaries, deputies, and family members. Scattered amid all that were a variety of trophies and plaques won by, or presented to, Griffin over the years. A large flat screen TV on the same wall as the door completed the décor.

  “Welcome to my nightmare,” the sheriff said wryly.

  Sean stepped into the
room but didn’t sit. “Didn’t get much sleep, did you?”

  Stifling a yawn, Griffin didn’t verbally answer, but nodded his head.

  “Neither did I.”

  The older man stood and stretched his back. “I spoke to your boss about an hour ago and he said if you didn’t mind taking the case, he was okay with it. Told me they’re actually short staffed at the moment, so he’s glad you could help out. Also said to call him if you need more help, but for now, you’re it. I’m forming a task force and contacted the State PD. They’ll be sending two detectives over later for a two o’clock meeting. Lynch will be the lead on this when he gets back tomorrow morning.”

  Sean nodded. His SAC had called him right after hanging up with the sheriff and relayed the same information about him helping out on the case. It was also common for the State Bureau of Investigations to get involved in cases like this; they had more resources than the local guys. “Okay, where do you want to go from here? Reports or autopsy?”

  Grabbing a navy blue windbreaker from a hook on the wall behind him, Griffin pulled it on. “The morgue. Pete’s holding the post ’til we get there. He’s got a busy day and wasn’t too happy about waiting.”

  “Lead the way.”

  Twenty minutes later, they were signing into the county morgue located about five miles from Griffin’s office. Matt took a container of medicated vapor rub from his pocket, applied a small amount to his upper lip and offered some to Sean. Most experienced members of law enforcement used the trick to lessen the stench of death and make it a little more tolerable. Unfortunately, there were many times, depending on the decomposition of the body, when even that didn’t work. Sean had never lost his stomach at a postmortem, but had come close a few times. Over the years he had seen many agents and police officers run for a trash can; even the ones who thought they were too tough to toss their cookies. It was a humbling experience for most.