Say Goodbye Read online

  “She’s a bad motherfucker,” Tom commented as they stopped outside Dixie’s studio.

  “She really is. I’m glad you’re not a person who thinks that women can’t be evil.”

  “Oh, I know they can. My aunt Dana had a female serial killer terrorize her women’s shelter, back when I was a teenager. That woman had no soul. She burned our house down and even hit my mother with a car, trying to kill her.”

  “Oh my God! Was your mother okay?”

  “Yes, thankfully. My mom is pretty resilient. You ready to talk to Dixie?”

  “I’m ready to try. She may not talk to us if she’s been doing tats for the Chicos, as it would be a violation of her parole, but hopefully she’ll let something useful slip.”

  The inside of the studio was what Tom expected. He’d never gotten a tattoo himself but had accompanied Liza when she’d gotten hers. This place was clean and the buzzing sound of the needles was almost soothing.

  Behind the counter stood a man wearing a short-sleeved button-down shirt and a paisley tie. Both forearms bore colorful sleeves. “Can I help you?” he asked, giving them a suspicious look.

  “We’re here to see Dixie Serratt,” Croft said, without showing her badge.

  The man sighed. “Dixie!” he called. “You got POs here again.” He looked back at them with a mild sneer. “You people just won’t leave her alone, will you?”

  A tiny woman with tats covering nearly every inch of skin appeared from the back of the shop. “What?” she asked rudely. “Who are you? What happened to O’Leary?”

  “We’re not parole officers,” Croft said. “I’m Special Agent Croft and this is Special Agent Hunter. We’d like to ask you some questions.”

  Tom was watching Dixie carefully. She’d stiffened, her expression briefly telegraphing that she was considering running.

  Croft tilted her head toward Tom. “He’ll just chase you, Miss Serratt. And he’s young enough and his legs are long enough to catch you.”

  Dixie drew a breath and let it out. “Fine. We’re just talking, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Tom said. Unless you’ve done something illegal.

  “Then come with me.” They followed her to one of the unoccupied rooms, where she gestured at the two chairs.

  Croft sat, the picture of calm. Tom sat, kind of wishing that Dixie had run. He had a lot of pent-up energy he would have liked to expel.

  “Chinese Cobras, also known as Chicos,” Croft said, and Dixie flinched.

  “You don’t start out throwin’ softballs, do you, lady? I don’t have nothin’ to do with them.”

  “But you have,” Tom said. “In the past?”

  “In the far past,” Dixie claimed. “Way far. I got nothin’ for you guys.” She was halfway to the curtain separating the room from the hallway when Croft stopped her in her tracks.

  “You are required to cooperate with law enforcement, Miss Serratt. Otherwise you’re violating your parole. We’d appreciate your help.”

  Dixie turned to confront them, face hard and fists clenched harder. “Right. Like I have a fuckin’ choice.” She rolled her eyes but plopped down on a stool.

  Croft pulled a photo of DJ Belmont from her pocket. It was the still Tom had printed from the office building surveillance video. “This guy. You seen him?”

  Dixie snatched the photo and peered down at it. Tom could see the moment that she recognized DJ’s face. And that she briefly considered denying that recognition. “Yeah.” She returned the photo to Croft and settled herself in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest.

  Croft just smiled, unperturbed. “When did you first see him?”

  “The night I did his tat.”

  Tom noted it on his tablet. “When was that, ma’am?”

  “You can cut the ‘ma’am’ bullshit, buddy. You think you can butter me up?”

  Tom didn’t rise to the bait. “When was that, ma’am?” he repeated.

  Dixie’s shoulders slumped. “Has to have been at least five years. I don’t know his name, so don’t ask. They paid cash, so don’t ask about receipts, either.”

  “Five years is a long time ago,” Croft remarked. “Was there something about him that made you recall his face after so much time?”

  Dixie looked away, but not before a spark of fear flickered in her eyes.

  “Did he hurt you, ma’am?” Tom asked kindly. “Or threaten you?”

  “No,” Dixie said, but too quickly. “I didn’t want to do the tat. I was done with that life. But he’d been sent by his boss and he wasn’t leaving until he got one. It was some kind of initiation thing, I think.” She swallowed. “I didn’t want to do it.”

  “But he forced you to,” Croft said sympathetically.

  Dixie simply shook her head, making it clear she’d said all she would on the topic.

  “You mentioned this man’s boss,” Tom said. “Who was he?”

  Dixie paled, shaking her head harder. “Haul me in for breaking parole if you want to. I’ll be safer back in prison.”

  Croft frowned, holding up DJ’s photo. “Are you afraid of this man or his boss?”

  “Both.” The word was barely audible. Her skin had grown sweaty, her fear palpable. “Mostly his boss.”

  “What did he do?” Tom asked.

  She held out her arms wordlessly. Tattooed vines covered her skin, but there were areas where the ink hadn’t taken as well. Scars. Round, about a centimeter in diameter.

  Tom’s stomach roiled, because he recognized those scars. He had several. His biological father had given them to him, trying to make Tom into a man. He’d been six years old. He could still smell the tobacco. And the burning skin.

  Someone had held Dixie Serratt down and burned her skin with cigarettes. He found himself unable to speak and was grateful when Croft stepped in.

  “This boss person did this to you?” she asked. “With cigarettes?”

  “Yeah, because I didn’t want to do any more tats for his boys. The next time one of his boys came in, I said yes.”

  Tom blew out a breath, trying to get hold of himself. “Can you tell us anything about him?”

  Dixie’s eyes narrowed, like she saw his reaction and understood. “No. He’s a big deal in these parts. Dig into the Chicos and his name will come up. Talk to the high school kids. They know the dealers. The dealers know him.”

  “Thank you,” Tom said, somehow keeping his voice level.

  “When was the last tat you did for them?” Croft asked.

  “Three years ago. Right before I went in again.” She grimaced. “I drove when I was high. My fault.” She dug in her pocket and pulled out an NA chip. “Two years sober. I’m trying to get my life right, but I draw the line at having my throat slit or getting a needle full of heart medicine.”

  Tom’s eyes widened and Dixie’s slammed shut.

  “Shit,” she muttered, covering her face with her hands. “I’m done talking to you. Please go.”

  Croft glanced over at him, then gestured at the curtain with a tilt of her head. “Thank you, Miss Serratt. We’ll leave our cards here on the table. If you think of anything else or receive any threats from the Chicos or their associates, please call. We’ll see ourselves out.”

  Tom waited until they were both in the SUV to lean his head back and close his eyes. “Fucking hell,” he whispered.

  “You gonna tell me what got you going in there?” Croft asked.

  “My biological father was abusive. I know what it feels like to get those scars.”

  “Ah, shit, Hunter,” Croft murmured. “Good to know. For what it’s worth, you rallied well. So. You believed her?”

  “I did. She’s no angel, but I don’t think she was lying today. I didn’t want to force her to talk. Felt like we wouldn’t have anywhere to go in the future if we shoved her over the edge.”r />
  “Good instincts. I was in the same place. At least now we can confirm that DJ has a Chicos tat, like the little girl described. If we can track down other gang members, we might be able to find out where he’s hiding.”

  The mention of Abigail made Tom think of Liza. Not now. “Where to?”

  “The local precinct. They might know where the Chicos hang out. I agree with waiting to grab both DJ and Pastor until we know where Eden is, but we need to keep tabs on DJ until then. Mercy’s life depends on it.”

  “We’re one hundred percent on the same page.” Tom had put the SUV into gear when his work phone buzzed. “Special Agent Hunter.”

  “Special Agent Hunter, this is Sergeant Farley with the Yuba City PD. I got your name from Sergeant Howell of SacPD. We have a crime scene you should see.”

  Howell was the guy they’d met on the rooftop the morning before. This has to be about Belmont. “Can I put you on speaker? I’m with my partner, Special Agent Croft.” The man agreed and Tom put his phone on the center console. “Agent Croft, we’ve got Sergeant Farley, Yuba City PD, on the line. What do you have?”

  “A homicide. Victim is Minnie Ellis, seventy-five, Caucasian. Found by her friend this morning, dead in her bed. There are signs of forced entry. The night before last, Mrs. Ellis told her friend that she suspected her neighbor of fishy business. Nobody is answering at the house next door. It appears to be empty, but we found trash in the can on the curb. Dusted a beer can for prints and came up with a match. Seems Mrs. Ellis’s neighbor’s prints were also found on a railing of a rooftop yesterday morning at Sergeant Howell’s crime scene. DJ Belmont. Ring a bell?”

  “Can you text me the address?” Tom asked, his pulse ticking up. “We’re on our way.”

  THIRTEEN

  YUBA CITY, CALIFORNIA

  THURSDAY, MAY 25, 12:00 P.M.

  We’re looking for Sergeant Farley,” Croft said when they got to Minnie Ellis’s home in Yuba City. She held out her badge, as did Tom. “Special Agents Croft and Hunter.”

  The uniformed officer standing guard at the front door frowned. “Hunter? Tom Hunter?”

  Tom knew that the cop had recognized him from his pro days, but Croft seemed oblivious. “Farley is expecting us,” she said tartly.

  The cop blushed. “It’s just that I—Never mind. Here are your booties. Follow me.”

  Slipping the booties over his shoes, Tom gave the man a smile. “She’s not a basketball fan.”

  The cop laughed. “Well, I am. Miss seeing you on the court. Didn’t know you were . . .” He gestured at Tom’s badge. “You know.”

  Tom lips twitched. “I know.”

  Croft finished putting on her booties with a frown. “Really? You have fans?”

  “Only a few,” Tom said.

  “A few,” the officer agreed with sham gravity.

  She sighed. “Officer, can you just take us to Sergeant Farley?”

  “Of course.” He led them to a bedroom, where Farley stood next to a CSU tech standing on a stepladder, pulling something from the ceiling. “Sergeant Farley? The FBI is here, sir.”

  Farley turned, his expression sour. “Hunter and Croft, right? Okay, this went from bad to worse. The victim, Minnie Ellis, was found in her bed by her friend, like I told you. I’ll show you the rush job the killer did to repair the broken door frame. Might have passed muster if the friend hadn’t made a fuss. ME found a needle prick in the victim’s arm.” He touched the inside of his elbow. “They’ll test for the usual heart-stoppers. Again, it might have passed muster as natural causes without the friend’s testimony. And now this.” He pointed to the CSU tech.

  Tom walked as close as he could without knocking the tech off the ladder. The tech held a small wireless camera. “Was it active?”

  “Still is. We might be able to trace the signal. Or not,” he added when the red light on the device suddenly died. “Looks like we were made. Dammit.”

  “Dammit indeed,” Tom agreed with a scowl. “Maybe we can get prints off it.”

  “Maybe,” the tech said, huffing in frustration. “There are cameras in every room. Including the bathroom.”

  “Who spies on a seventy-five-year-old woman?” Croft asked. “In her bathroom?”

  “Good question,” Farley said. “Somebody’s been watching her. From the dust on the camera lens, it’s likely been for a while. We don’t know who planted them, but the neighbor is a suspect in her death based on her friend’s statement, like I told you on the phone. We went to question him, which was when we found his trash.”

  “This guy had a sniper rifle on that rooftop yesterday,” Tom said. “He could have shot Mrs. Ellis, but he must not have wanted the attention, so he tried to make it look like a natural death.”

  “That’s what I think.” Farley checked his phone. “Excellent. We got a warrant for the house next door. I assume you want to join me?”

  “You assume correctly,” Croft said. “Lead the way.”

  The four of them moved through the house toward the kitchen. All of the walls were covered in photographs. Mrs. Ellis had a lot of grandchildren who seemed to love her. Plastic containers of cookies sat piled on the kitchen table along with several pies, all with little name tags.

  “She loved with food,” Tom said. “Has her family been notified?”

  “Her son,” Farley replied. “He was supposed to get one of the pies. The other says ‘Johnny.’ Her friend says that’s the neighbor’s name.”

  “She made him a pie and he killed her?” Croft demanded incredulously. “What an asshole.”

  Tom barked out a surprised laugh. “Well, yeah. But we already knew that,” he said, joining Farley at the kitchen door. The door frame had been spackled and sanded. It wasn’t an awful job. “I might not have noticed that if I wasn’t looking.”

  “Which was his intent.” Farley shot an amused glance at Croft. “Him being an asshole.”

  Croft wasn’t offended. “My opinion stands. Let’s check the house next door. Who owns it?”

  Farley checked his notes. “Mr. Johnny Derby. My men are waiting on me to open Mr. Derby’s door. Garvin, you’re to continue securing the crime scene.”

  The officer who’d recognized Tom seemed disappointed, but didn’t argue. “Yes, sir.”

  DJ Belmont’s house was similar to the one they’d just left, except for the broken front door. The two officers who’d busted it were rubbing their shoulders. “Ready for you, sir.”

  “He owns a house,” Croft muttered under her breath as they walked through the kitchen.

  “He was the only one to leave—” Tom stopped himself from saying Eden. “Looks like he kept a separate life.” But sterile. There were no photographs or any personal belongings.

  “But why?” Croft pressed. “Did he just flop here on the weekends?”

  “Maybe.” On a hunch, he checked the corners of the ceiling. Yep. That was what he’d thought. “But look at that.” He pointed to a camera, similar to the one they’d found in Mrs. Ellis’s house.

  “Why?” Farley asked. “Was someone spying on him while he was spying on the old lady?”

  Tom remembered what Dixie Serratt had said about DJ’s boss. “Or his boss distrusts him.”

  Farley gave him a sharp look. “Care to explain that?”

  Croft had made the connection. “We have information that the suspect has a Chicos tattoo.”

  Farley blinked. “Oh shit. That drug gang is here? In my town?”

  “So it would seem,” Croft said. “And his boss is not a kind individual. I’d have your Latent team dust every damn inch of this place. You might get a lucky hit.”

  “I will,” Farley said grimly. “Thank you. Let’s check out his bedroom.”

  The first bedroom had a queen-sized bed that appeared to have been slept in recently, but the closets were empty.

&
nbsp; Like Liza’s closets. Tom’s chest squeezed hard. Dammit. Not now. He forced thoughts of Liza from his mind. Focus on your damn job, Hunter.

  Tom took the second bedroom, which appeared to have been used as an office. There were three dust-free areas on the desk. Two were about the size of a printer, and the third might have been a laptop. “He took his electronics with him.” He sniffed the air. “Do you smell that?”

  Croft inhaled through her nose, then frowned. “Waffles?”

  “It’s the 3D filament,” Tom told her. “It’s derived from corn. Smells like waffles.”

  “So your theory about the license plate holds water.” She smiled at him. “Nice job, rookie.”

  “It also means that he was running the 3D printer recently. Maybe last night. He’s probably made new license plates.”

  “I figured he would,” Croft said grimly. “The BOLO on the box truck is worthless now.”

  “Sergeant Farley.” One of the uniformed officers was standing in the doorway. “There’s something in the basement you want to see. Or not see. Maybe just smell.”

  Tom had followed Farley one step down the basement stairs when he smelled it. “Whoa.” The skunky odor of weed became stronger as he descended the stairs. But the basement was empty. “They moved it out.”

  “It was on pallets,” the officer said, shining his flashlight at the disturbances in the dust. “Looks like they had a significant stash, even if the pallets were only stacked one high. But there are scrapes along the walls where a second level of pallets might have sat.”

  “Good work,” Farley said. His phone buzzed. “Excuse me. I need to take this. It’s my clerk.” He walked toward a door to the side yard, checking his signal. “Yes?” he answered, then listened. “You got a warrant started?” Then he smiled. “Good job. Yes, I’ll bring you a milkshake. Yes, it’ll be chocolate.” He ended the call and returned to Tom and Croft. “The house next door is owned by an Oakland couple. Their tenant’s name also is Mr. Derby, and I have a very smart clerk. When she saw the name, she immediately started another warrant.”