Fight Dirty Read online

  “Where?” she asked.

  “There’s an old gas station down the road from my office. Meet me behind it, say half an hour?”

  She glanced at the clock. Ten after one. “I’ll be there.”

  He hung up without saying good-bye.

  Morgan grabbed the surveillance gear: glasses, pen, and small stack of pennies. She debated calling Jenna, decided against it. Jenna would just tell her not to go—or worse, show up and ruin everything.

  Greene was hiding something, and Morgan was determined to find out what.

  Better that she handle Greene herself. Alone.

  The Red Shirts dragged Micah back into the commons room and threw him onto the floor. It took every ounce of his strength, but Micah heaved himself up onto his knees. He hauled in one breath, then another, his kaleidoscope vision slowly returning to normal.

  Garish banners with ReNew’s cheerful logo of a sunrise covered the walls of the windowless commons room, mocking him from above. “ReNew your Mind. ReNew your Body. ReNew your Spirit,” they said. “ReNew your Faith. ReNew is your Path to Salvation. ReNew brings Redemption. ReNew is the Way!”

  If he had the energy, he’d choke on the irony. He focused on the crowd before him. Khaki-clad No Names gathered, all kneeling in a semicircle facing him. Surrounding them were the Red Shirts. No one advanced to the upper levels of the ReNew program and earned the right to wear the coveted red polo top with its sunrise emblem embroidered over their heart unless they were a true believer, intent on doing whatever it took to help their fellow sinners walk the ReNew path to righteousness.

  Deidre strode back and forth behind him. “That’s right, Micah Chase. Kneel before your peers. Have you anything to say to make things right with them?”

  Micah had only been at ReNew for three months—most of these kids had been here a year or more—but he knew better than to say anything. Words, twisted and turned back on her target, were Deidre’s favorite ammunition.

  He knelt in silence, trying not to let the pain racking his limbs show. He hated to give her even that small satisfaction. Slowly, cautiously, he flexed each of his fingers. They all still worked, just hurt like hell.

  “Such a shame,” Deidre said, stopping as if overcome with sorrow. But her tone was more gleeful than anything. “You’d made it all the way to Level Four. I’m sending you back. You walk the Path from Step Zero.”

  Whatever. Wasn’t like they were going to let him ever advance to Level Seven—the first Red Shirt level. Hell, he wasn’t even sure if they were ever going to let him out of this hellhole. The judge had sentenced him to ninety days, and those had been up over a week ago without any word from the outside world.

  At night when he lay alone on his thin mattress in the boys’ dorm, surrounded by muffled sniffles and loud snoring, sometimes Micah wondered if anyone at home even remembered he was still here. Had his mothers forgotten him? Abandoned him?

  Did they even know he was alive?

  Deidre clapped her hands and the crowd of No Names, fifty kids aged twelve to seventeen, began chanting his name. Not in a nice way, either.

  She knelt beside Micah, whispered seductively in his ear. “Hear them? I can make them do anything I want. They’re just a crowd, Micah. A mob. Rabble. Not worthy of your suffering. Tell me who really stole the bread, and I’ll take care of you.” She riffled her fingers through his hair—it’d grown long, three months without being cut.

  No way was he ever going to betray Tommy. The kid was new here, one of the youngest among them. He didn’t understand the rules; all he’d known was he was hungry and there was extra food on the Red Shirts’ table.

  “Told you,” he muttered. “I stole your damn bread. Tasted real good, too.”

  Deidre twisted her fingers in his hair, yanked hard, hard enough to pull a clump from his scalp. He couldn’t hide his wince of pain.

  She stood, paced some more as the No Names continued yelling his name, now prodded by the Red Shirts. Then she waved them to silence.

  “Micah Chase, you are accused of lying. What is the punishment for breaking a Commandment?” She pointed to a Level Two.

  The girl cowered, not meeting Micah’s gaze. “Cornering,” she whispered.

  Everyone hated Cornering. It wasn’t the isolation of being forced to kneel, your forehead touching a corner of the cinder-block commons room, elbows stretched behind your head so they each touched a wall. Not the pain, either, although after an hour or so, your shoulders and knees screamed in agony.

  It was the boredom. You saw nothing but grey wall, you didn’t speak, and no one was allowed to speak to you. If you fell asleep or even closed your eyes, the Red Shirts guarding you would prod you back into position and another hour would be added to your sentence.

  “Eight hours in the corner,” Deidre pronounced sentence.

  The No Names gasped in dismay. The Red Shirts grinned. They knew Micah would never make it that long—no one had. And each of them wanted to be the one guarding him when he failed.

  Micah grinned right back at them. He didn’t like Cornering, but he had a secret weapon: his art. As he imagined covering wide open stretches with color and shapes, it kept him focused on something other than pain and exhaustion. They hadn’t broken him yet; he wasn’t about to give Deidre the satisfaction of breaking him now.

  Not when he was getting out of here. Any day his mothers would be coming for him. He had to believe that, hold on to that. And when they did, when they heard about what went on in here—talk about divine retribution. ReNew had no idea who they were dealing with. His mothers would take this Lord of the Flies hellhole and tear it down brick by brick.

  Deidre sensed his rebellion. She stood in front of him, hands on her hips. “And eight more hours for stealing,” she said with a sneer. She whipped around, facing the cowering No Names. “Unless someone wants to come forward and confess their crime.” She softened her tone. “It’s all right. If you confess, you’ll set Micah free and your only penance will be Gifting a meal.”

  Ha. Gifting a meal translated to watching Red Shirts eat your food while you went hungry.

  “No one?” She scanned the crowd in their khaki pants and shirts. Silence thudded as everyone’s gaze hit the floor. Deidre glowered down at Micah once more. “Last chance, Micah Chase.”

  He smiled up at her. Show no fear; that was the best way to handle Deidre when she was in a rage like this. Times like this he missed Bree. She’d been a calming influence on Deidre, on them all.

  “Fine.” She whirled back to the No Names. “The sixteen hours that Micah Chase is in the corner will be sixteen hours of fasting and prayer for all of you. No one sleeps, no one eats, no one leaves this room until Micah Chase has served his sentence or someone comes forward, confesses, and begs for repentance.”

  She nodded to the Red Shirts. They dragged Micah to the corner and positioned him. Stress position the army called it, Micah remembered from reading about Guantánamo and Abu Ghraib. Used to break down enemy combatants, get them to confess anything.

  He risked a glance over his shoulders at the terrified No Names watching. Gave them a smile of encouragement: I’m not breaking, don’t any of you.

  A Red Shirt punched him in the spine and forced him to face the grey, featureless corner. Then he rammed a broomstick down the back of Micah’s shirt, adjusting it to keep Micah’s spine rigid, no chance of relaxing.

  Only sixteen hours to go, Micah thought, creating a fresh canvas in his mind. Easy time.

  CHAPTER 24

  It was a struggle for Nick to remain clinical as he re-created BreeAnna Greene’s death. His own daughter’s face kept flashing in his vision.

  He imagined the parents, waking to find BreeAnna. The howl of anguish, the horrified screams, thundering footsteps racing to reach their child, even though by the time they arrived it would have been obvious it was too late.
/>   He shook himself, covered by glancing once more at the autopsy report. The ME hadn’t been able to pinpoint the time of death beyond the window of time between when BreeAnna had said good night to her parents, around 10:00 p.m., and when her father woke and found her at 1:24 the next morning.

  “No note?” he asked Andre even though he knew one hadn’t been found.

  “Not unless the parents are holding out on us.”

  Nick looked up at Andre’s tone. The former marine was an excellent judge of people. “You think that might be the case?”

  Andre shrugged. “They’re both lying to us. Just haven’t figured out what about. Yet.”

  “Let’s take a look at BreeAnna’s rooms, and maybe we can find a clue.” Of the three rooms that made up BreeAnna’s suite, Nick decided that the music room would best reveal her personality, so he started there while Andre began next door in her study.

  Despite its owner being gone so long, the piano and recording equipment had been well cared for. Juanita simply doing her job? Or was she paying homage to the girl she hadn’t been able to help? Nick raised the lid on the piano. Nothing concealed there. Sheet music was on the stand, turned to a section in the center as if left half-played.

  He flipped to the front cover. Liszt’s Sonata in B Minor. A difficult piece. There were notations in two different handwritings. BreeAnna must have been working with an instructor. He added it to his list of people to contact, then flipped through the sheets of music, searching for any messages that weren’t related to performance. Nothing there or in any of the musical arrangements neatly stacked inside the piano seat.

  Nick trailed his fingers along the keys, releasing a stream of notes. With the doors closed and the window shut, the acoustics of the room felt solid. Not quite soundproof, but definitely private.

  He glanced at the computerized keyboard and recording equipment. If the piano was for work, maybe the keyboard was for play?

  The chair in front of the keyboard was a simple office chair, adjusted to BreeAnna’s height. He imagined her sitting, feet propped up on the lower bar so they didn’t dangle, headphones on, her world collapsed to the sounds of her music—a world she could create, bend to her will. That would be comforting to someone who didn’t feel in control of anything else in her life.

  He tried on her headset, feeling as if he was trespassing—a feeling that came with the job of prying into the private lives of his patients, exposing secrets they didn’t even know they kept from themselves. A flick of the switch labeled “Playback” and music filled his ears.

  Definitely not Liszt. This music was wild, imaginative, soaring yet also echoing with tones of despair. The composition was a bit clumsy, but he had a feeling that had more to do with BreeAnna’s lack of talent as a musician than anything else. It was clear she’d had a rich future as a composer. Despite the limitations of the keyboard, he could easily visualize the piece played by a full orchestra.

  He listened, sorrow weighing him down. What a waste. To lose such a talent, so young. Then the music stopped, the silence so jarring that Nick jerked upright.

  “Damn it.” BreeAnna’s voice came through clearly. There was the sound of her picking out a passage on the keyboard, trying different variations, then a discordant smashing of notes. “It was all so clear while I was there, why can’t I remember it? Maybe in the morning after I get some sleep. I need to practice what I’m going to tell Dad—I don’t understand why he wouldn’t listen to me tonight when I told him what was going on. I have to make him understand.”

  Deep, ominous chords punctuated her words. “It’s like they think because I was in there, I must be crazy and mixed-up. Even Mom—and she of all people knows that’s not true.”

  Nick hit the “Pause” button. Rewound and listened again. This was recorded the night BreeAnna died.

  “Everyone’s so afraid all the time,” she went on. “Mom’s afraid I’ll tell her secret. Dad worries about the business and all those lawsuits. It’s weird. I used to be afraid, too. Of the kids at school, of letting everyone down, not being good enough, but now—now I know what needs to be done, and for the first time that I can remember, I’m not afraid.”

  A sigh. “I hope Micah’s okay. I can’t wait to see his face when we get him and the others out of there. And Deidre, poor Deidre. I know she hates me for what I’ve done. She needs help. Tomorrow.” Her tone was one of determination. “Tomorrow, I’ll make Daddy listen. He knows judges, people who can make things happen.”

  More notes picked out, this time a whimsical version of “Over the Rainbow.”

  “Micah and the others will be back home where they belong. And then I can—”

  A faint sound interrupted her. There was a pause.

  “Who could that be?” she asked. There was the clatter of the headphones being set down.

  The sound quality changed as BreeAnna opened the music room’s door. A doorbell echoed through the foyer beyond. Followed by running footsteps as she raced down the hardwood stairs in her bare feet.

  Nick leaned forward, listening intently. Voices, unintelligible by the time they reverberated through the empty foyer to reach the microphone, but definitely there. Then silence for another minute until the sound-activated mic clicked off.

  There was nothing else recorded. He fiddled with the controls and was able to pull up a list of recordings. The last one, the only one from the date BreeAnna came home from ReNew, was listed as 10:21 p.m. Hours, maybe minutes, before she died.

  He removed the headset, stood, and walked to the window, squinting in the bright sun now aimed directly at him. BreeAnna hadn’t sounded suicidal nor had she exhibited the relaxation that some patients felt once they’d made up their mind to kill themselves.

  Instead she’d sounded determined. She had a mission—something to help the other kids at ReNew. Something she wanted her parents to help with.

  He turned and put his back to the sun, his shadow stretching out across the polished surface of the piano. Suddenly he had more questions than answers.

  Why had BreeAnna answered the door that night and not one of her parents?

  Who had she let into her house?

  Did she kill herself? Or was she murdered?

  Jenna sat in the empty Galloway and Stone offices surrounded by electronics: her two-screen desktop computer along with BreeAnna’s phone, laptop, and iPad. Morgan, as usual, was nowhere to be found now that Jenna could actually use her help and cyber expertise. So typical.

  She had verified most of Morgan’s information but still needed more, so she worked on correlating texts, e-mails, voice messages, and social media posts to and from BreeAnna with online postings from the people BreeAnna knew.

  Painting a portrait with data. Much better than the type of portrait Nick and Andre were trying to create by talking to Caren and the housekeeper. People lied, data didn’t.

  When she was a federal agent, Jenna hadn’t minded the fact that almost everyone she interviewed lied to her. Lying to a federal agent was against the law—a law she didn’t hesitate to use if the occasion warranted. Their lies became her weapons to get what she wanted.

  But this private sector stuff, being forced to make nice with the clients even as they lied to Jenna’s face? Not as much fun.

  At least not until she figured out a way to use those lies to her advantage, like with Greene earlier. She felt a flush of triumph at the memory of the way he’d given in to her demands. All that was left was deciding exactly how much it was going to cost him.

  Her phone rang. Andre.

  Jenna leaned back and sipped at her Diet Dr Pepper as she answered. “What’s up?”

  “We found something. Several somethings. Wanted to fill you in.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Nick’s voice came over the speaker. “BreeAnna was recording herself playing the piano on the night she died. The microphon
e caught the sound of a doorbell ringing and her going to answer it.”

  “At ten twenty-one,” Andre put in. “Just after the time her parents said they told her good night. Jenna, she was home alone. Her parents weren’t here.”

  Jenna straightened. Should she protect Greene, hide his lie? No. Andre and Nick were too smart; they’d already figured out most of it anyway.

  “They lied,” Andre continued. “To us and the police.”

  “Did you talk to the mom yet?” Jenna asked, wondering if Caren’s story would support what Greene had told her about where they’d been.

  “No. We wanted to see how you wanted to handle it. Should we confront her ourselves? Talk to the police?”

  “The police? Why get them involved?”

  “Don’t they need to know? Maybe reopen her case?”

  Andre had many useful skills, but he had no idea what really went on behind the scenes of a police investigation—not to mention how little in the way of time and resources local police had to devote to any one case. “You’ve been watching too much TV. In the real world, the police won’t open a closed investigation and overrule the medical examiner unless there’s hard evidence. More than a doorbell ringing.”

  “Nick says he hasn’t found any indication that BreeAnna was suicidal. And if the parents are lying to us and they weren’t home but someone else was here with her—”

  “You think she was murdered?” Jenna glanced at her computer and the evidence she’d gathered. Evidence that might insure Galloway and Stone’s future if she played her cards right. But only if Robert Greene stayed out of prison and his company remained successful.

  “Maybe.” Andre didn’t sound as certain as he had a few moments ago. “Don’t you?”

  “No. There are too many unanswered questions. It could have been a prank, or she might not have even answered the door, just went to see who it was and went back to whatever she was doing. Or, who knows, maybe BreeAnna’s late-night visitor told her something that made her kill herself.”