Page 30 of Retribution
“What’s this?” I call out as he turns to leave.
“DNA up from Phoenix,” he calls back over his shoulder as he lets the door close behind him.
Collapsing in the chair, I watch Chase reaching up to add another photo to a board.Fuck, he’s hot,I think to myself, watching the play of muscles ripple across his back. Nice ass, too.
When I met him three days ago, my vagina took notice. Now the bitch is jumping up and down like a cheerleader whenever I see him.
Down, girl.It’s been way too fucking long since I’ve been laid, and he’s a hottie. Turning, he catches me checking out his ass, and a deep red thrush blooms across my face as I bury my head in one of the files, hoping the earth swallows me.
Peeking up over the top of the file, he gives me a wink, and I internally roll my eyes at myself.You’re an adult, Susannah. Own it. Ask him out already.My vagina does a handstand at the thought of getting him in a bed.Fuck that. Just lay me across the table already.
Shut up.
Dutch is sitting back in her chair, gaze ping-ponging between the two of us, brows raised as she watches our miserable attempts at flirtation. Shaking her head, chuckling under her breath, she goes back to the files in front of us when Timmy? Tommy? Jimmy? Fuck, whatever the intern’s name is comes running back in.
“There’s been an explosion!” he pants out, hands on his knees before he straightens.
“Just now?” Dutch asks, pulling herself to her feet.
“Nah. Just got the call from Flagstaff PD. Happened a couple of days ago.”
Frowning, I exchange glances with Dutch. “Why are we being called in?”
“There are bodies. Like, a lot of bodies,” he explains. “Several are children. The police think it’s a trafficking organization, and they want you to handle it. I’ve sent the coordinates and details to your phone.”
“Thanks, Tommy,” Dutch says, grabbing her gun and badge off a nearby table. I follow suit, trailing Dutch out the door.
“Think this is connected to our killer?” I ask her as we climb into my car. Dutch’s bike is hot as fuck, but I’m not riding behind her to a crime scene.
“Makes sense,” she replies distractedly as she searches her phone for the information Tommy sent. “Okay, turn left onto 17 and head south. It’s about two miles out of Flagstaff. Looks like a private residence.”
Following her directions, it doesn’t take long before we’re there. A high wall, about eight feet or so, surrounds a gated private driveway, which currently is blocked by a police cruiser. Showing my badge to the officer on duty, he moves his car, allowing us to drive through. Another mile brings us to the large secluded house, nestled amongst the pines.
The house, three stories tall, is a white adobe structure with a Spanish tiled roof. There’s a foreboding feeling about it, and I wonder what it would tell us if it could talk. The coroner’s van is parked out front, along with an ambulance, its lights off, sirens quiet.
Another officer stands at the front door, gesturing us to come on up. Slamming the car doors behind us, we make our way up the steps, shaking hands with Detective Kim Latham, who comes out of the house to greet us.
“Thanks for coming,” she says as she shakes our hands. “This is a little out of our league here. I think it’s better if you’re able to take the case over. Unfortunately, we don’t have the resources for it.”
Dutch nods. “Not a problem. What are we looking at?”
Detective Latham looks a little green. “There’s seven bodies in total, three adults and four children. Agents, I—” she stops a moment, clearing her throat. “I’ve seen some messed up shit in my time, but this? This is something I’ll never unsee. The children—” she shudders. “Come see for yourself.”
“When was the blast reported?” I ask.
“Around seven-thirty p.m. three days ago,” the detective replies.
Frowning, I ask, “Why has it taken so long? The bodies are still here, not in the morgue?”
“We got two different calls about the blast. Someone took out part of the northern wall, big enough to get a car through. You can see how remote this location is. There’s nothing around here. A couple of campers heard the blast, but couldn’t give us much of a description, it took this long for us to locate the site. As soon as we saw the crime scene, we knew we had to phone the feds in.”
“Alrighty, let’s get a move on,” Dutch says, and Detective Latham leads the way into the house.
An hour later and I’m wishing I was still back in Chicago. Even in the afternoon sun, the inside of the house is dark, the stench of death, decay, and fear palpable. There’s blood everywhere. A headless body sits at a dining table, plates of rotting food set out before it. The head tossed in a corner, its face frozen on a scream.
Another body sits on a sofa, his stomach torn open, organs littering the floor. A woman sits on a bed, her intestines spilled out across her lap.
And then there are the children. Jesus. I’m not sure I can handle this. Dutch is silent as she walks beside me, her face growing darker and darker as we go through the house. The basement is the worst; two dead children, molding cups, bloodstained chains and whips, toys that no children should play with.
