Profile of Retribution: FBI Profiler Romantic Suspense (Profile Series #3) (17 page)

Chapter Thirty-two

Tate

Pulling up in front of the house at the address that Wayne Griffin had given him, Cameron sat in his car and punched in Robynn’s number one more time. He listened to the call go straight to voice mail, just like the five he’d placed before it. Damn it. If the woman thought he was going to easily give her up, she was mistaken. She brought out feelings in him that had lain dormant for way too long. The more she pushed him away, the more he wanted her.

Soon an IMPD Crown Victoria parked in front of him, and Wayne eased out of the car. Indianapolis Detective Wayne Griffin was a short, stocky man, whose lined face was in a perpetual scowl that he was currently aiming toward Cameron, who rolled down his driver-side window.

Nodding at Wayne, he glanced at the aging home that sported a piece of plywood over one window and looked empty. “Are you sure this is where Tate Green is living?”

“Of course, I’m sure. Just talked to him last week. I can’t believe we’re bothering him with your vandalism crap. Tate’s a good kid. Just hasn’t had the best of breaks in his life.”

Cameron got out of his vehicle. “Are you talking about his mother or sister?”

“Both. The kid took it hard when the Lucas assholes killed his little sister. Blamed himself. Tate had to drop out of college to take care of his mother.”

“What’s wrong with his mother?”

“Her love affair with booze and pain pills caught up with her. She’s got cirrhosis of the liver. Not expected to live much longer.”

“That’s too bad.”

Following Wayne up the sidewalk to the house, Cameron took a quick look around the neighborhood. It looked like a place where criminal activity was the norm, rather than the exception. The houses surrounding the Tate home were in various stages of disrepair, with weeds and litter in the front yards instead of mowed grass. A couple of teenagers, cigarettes in hand, watched them curiously from the two-story across the street.

A football scholarship got Tate Green out of here where poverty and crime were the status quo. His sister’s murder and mother’s health dragged him back. Despite the fact Tate was a suspect, Cameron felt sorry for him. His chance for a bright future had been snatched away, starting with the murder of his sister by the Lucas brothers. But how much did he hold their parents responsible?

Wayne hit a heavy fist on the door a couple of times before it was opened by a good-looking, muscular guy in his twenties who had to be Tate Green. He immediately shook Wayne’s hand, ignoring Cameron’s presence.

“Good to see you, Wayne. You’re just in time to help me get Mom up to her room.” Cameron noted the two were on a first name basis.

Tate led them to the living room where his mother lay sprawled out on the sofa next to an end table piled high with prescription pill bottles. Mrs. Tate was conscious, but appeared weak and disoriented, her skin yellow with jaundice, her ankles swollen twice their size. Wayne and Tate lifted her to a sitting position, and then upright. With her arms across their shoulders, they helped her up the staircase while Cameron stayed behind.

He took the opportunity to look around. The living room was littered with old newspapers, and the television was tuned to the news. In the dining room, a small table and chair set, a china hutch filled with a collection of salt and pepper shakers, and a gun case filled the small room to capacity. The gun case held a pump-action Remington twenty-gauge shotgun, and a Glock semi-automatic.

“I see you’ve found my vast gun collection.” Tate’s voice dripped with sarcasm as Cameron turned to face him. “I assume you’re Sergeant Chase from Shawnee County. Wayne said you wanted to interview me about my sister’s killers. Why don’t we talk in the living room and get it over with.”

Settling in the living room, Cameron sat in the only chair while Wayne and Tate occupied the sofa.

“Tate, Detective Griffin may have told you that I’m investigating some acts of vandalism against Bradley and Tisha Lucas, the parents of the teenaged boys who killed your sister.”

“And what would I have to do with that?”

“If someone tortured and killed someone I loved, I’d want to rip their heads off. And if I couldn’t do that, I’d focus my anger on the people who raised them.”

Leaning forward, Tate’s jaw clenched, his eyes slightly narrowed. “That’s not me. Now if you were talking about Evan and Devan Lucas, it’d be another story. Wish they were alive. Nothing would give me more pleasure than to torture them like they tortured my sister. I’d do it slowly and ignore their pleas to just end their worthless lives. But that pleasure was denied me, now wasn’t it? The psychopaths got off easy, dying before they could be arrested and put through the court system. Now I’ll spend the rest of my life guessing what they did to my sister before they murdered her and dumped her down some ravine like she was trash.”

“That’s a lot of anger, Tate. Are you sure some of it didn’t spill over onto the parents?”

Glaring at him, Tate said, “Never thought about their parents until now.”

“Why not? Aren’t parents supposed to be role models for kids? Didn’t you ever wonder why Evan and Devan turned out the way they did?”

“I’m not a shrink. Maybe you should get one to answer that question.”

Cameron changed gears. “I saw the twenty-gauge in your gun case. What do you hunt with it?”

“Deer during hunting season and sometimes rabbits. Used to do it for fun with my buddies, but now I hunt to put meat on the table. Working in retail isn’t the most lucrative job around, but it’s all I could find in this lousy economy.”

“Sounds like you’re just the guy to have access to animal blood, like that covering the large rock thrown through Tisha and Bradley Lucas’ front window on April 10.”

A vein near Tate’s right eye bulged as his face grew red. “That’s bullshit! I’d never do anything like that.”

“Now, Tate, let’s calm down,” said Wayne, with a worried expression that made Cameron cringe. Whose side was he on?

“That’s odd you should say that, since I found in your criminal record an assault charge. Wasn’t that you who broke the nose of that reporter from Crime Scene Network?”

“Yeah, I did that. He had it coming. It was right after the murder and the sonofabitch and his cameraman camped outside the house like damn hungry vultures. After my sister’s funeral, he peppered anyone who approached the house with questions until I went outside and asked him to leave. That was just what he wanted. He told his cameraman to focus on me, and then he asked me why my seventeen-year-old sister was selling her body to truckers in the first place. Wasn’t she just asking for it? That’s when I punched him, and if my uncle hadn’t pulled me off, I would have done more damage to the asshole.”

Cameron leaned back in his chair. “Oh, I’d say you did enough damage. From what I hear, the reporter’s lower jaw and left cheek were fractured, and his jaw was wired shut for ten weeks.”

Tate went silent and stared at his feet.

“So no, I don’t think the thought of you hurling a bloody rock through the Lucas couple’s window is bullshit. I think a guy with a temper like yours might do a lot of things. So where were you the night of April 10?”

Pulling out an iPhone, Tate opened a calendar app and then responded, “I took Mom to a doctor appointment at three. That evening I worked my shift at Best Buy. Ask my supervisor.”

“Don’t think I won’t. On April 17, someone set fire to the Lucas mailbox. Was that you, Tate? Did you think that would buy you a little payback for what their sons did to your sister?”

“No. It wasn’t me. That date is my birthday, and some guys from the team surprised me with a party.”

“Then you won’t mind providing me a list of their names with phone numbers.”

A woman’s scream, followed by a loud thud, echoed from the floor above. Tate Green leapt to his feet and raced up the stairs. He called down for Wayne to help him with his mother.

While the two were upstairs, Cameron took the opportunity to check out the Green’s garage, looking for red paint. Not only was there no red paint, there were no cans of any type. The garage was so clean, it looked sterile. Who keeps a garage that clean?

He made it back inside just in time to see Tate and Wayne descend the stairs.

“I think I have enough information for now, Tate. I’ll call you or come over if I need more.”

Cameron had opened his vehicle’s door, when he heard Wayne’s voice.

“Hey, did you have to be so hard on him?”

“You’re kidding, right? He’s a fucking suspect. Oh, and thanks for your support in there. Who are you? A detective or his dad?”

Wayne shrugged his shoulders. “I didn’t do anything.”

“That’s the point. By the way, I won’t need you to babysit me as I interview the rest of
your
families.”

Chapter Thirty-three

The Argument

It was nearly dark, but light enough so Tisha could see heavy gray storm clouds gathering strength in the distance. The air was heavy and charged with electricity, as a blinding white jag of lightning speared across the sky.

She’d checked the door and window locks two times upstairs and down, or was it three? After investigating the new security system with the instructions Bradley left behind, Tisha decided to leave the damn thing off. Only a Mensa member would understand those directions.

Cursing Bradley, she poured herself a glass of Pinot, and dialed the hotel number in New Orleans and asked for her husband’s room. He answered on the first ring. “You lying bastard!” she shouted. “You said the maniac had stopped. You conveniently left out the part about how he vandalized your office with red paint.”

Bradley exhaled deeply. “
Who
told you that?”

“Does it matter? The point is
you
should have told me. What kind of a husband leaves his wife alone for four days with a maniac on the loose? Who does that?”

“Just calm down, Tisha. You’re acting paranoid and crazy.”

“How dare you call me paranoid!”

He lowered his voice and talked softly. “You’re safe, and you’re going to be fine.”

“And you know that, how?”

“I don’t think he’s out to harm us or he would have already. He’s a chicken-shit vandal. If he was going to kill us, he could have shot us instead of throwing that bloody rock.”

“Oh, is that your official analysis? Since when are you an expert on criminal behavior? You’re an architect, not Joe Kenda on
Homicide Hunter
!”

Bradley expelled an exaggerated sigh, making Tisha want to reach through the phone to slap him. He acted as if she were an errant child he had to reign in.

“Tisha, for the last time, you’re safe and you’re going to be fine. If locked doors and windows and a new security system aren’t enough to make you feel protected, I left my Sig Sauer in the first drawer of my bedside table.”

“What good does that do me? I don’t know how to shoot it.”

“That’s your own fault. I’ve asked you to go with me to the shooting range many times, and you’ve refused.”

“Go to hell.”

“On that note, I’ll say good-night. I’m late for dinner.” He slammed down the receiver, thus cutting off the barrage of obscenities Tisha had for him.

Chapter Thirty-four

First Night Alone

At three in the morning, the world was an eerily quiet place, especially out in the country where the Lucas couple lived. The storms had passed, soaking the ground, and lobbing a few tree branches in its wake. The house was dark, as he knew it would be. He’d followed the mister to the airport, and if his luggage was an indication, he’d be gone for several days, at least. So he had Tisha Lucas all to himself and oh, what fun he had planned for her.

Using the key he had made, David109 slipped into the house and then froze for several seconds, waiting to see if the alarm went off. When it didn’t, he soundlessly explored the first floor of the house, knowing that Mrs. Lucas was undoubtedly asleep upstairs in her bedroom. Guided by a small flashlight, he crept through each room seeking details of the lives led by the parents of killers. He memorized the floor plan and where each piece of furniture was placed. He’d need this information for future visits. And there
would
be future visits.

Once he was satisfied with his findings on the first floor, he moved to the lower floor. Basements often held a family’s secrets. A dozen boxes were neatly stacked in a corner. Turning on a ceiling light, he found a folding chair in a closet, sat down,and used his pocket knife to slit the tape securing the top and went through every item in the first box. He didn’t stop until he searched the last box. Soon he pushed back in his chair and smiled, feeling a deep sense of satisfaction. He picked up the last box and headed upstairs, knowing exactly what he needed to do. Like he always said, payback is a bitch.

Once he finished his task, he slipped on a black ski mask and crept up the stairs to the Lucas bedroom. Illuminated by a night light, Tisha Lucas lay spread-eagle on her bed wearing the same clothing he saw her wearing earlier in the day when she retrieved her mail. Her mouth open, she breathed deeply and her eyelids fluttered, as if she were having a bad dream. Little did she know her worst nightmare stood in her bedroom watching her sleep. On her bedside table was an empty bottle of pricey wine and an overturned wine glass.