Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 102903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
“Sure, I can squirt,” she eventually says, clearing her throat and adding a little pretend moan into the mix. “I can squirt like a . . . like a fire hose. Someone call 911 because my juice box is about to erupt like a geyser.”
Shane and I share a glance and a chuckle before something makes him pull his phone out of his pocket. He shows me the screen. Incoming Call: Booth. I take off my headphones, pushing out of my chair and opening the door to the van to climb out yet again. I dial Booth on my phone and put it to my ear, waiting through three rings before he picks it up.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Booth. Just calling you back for Shane. He’s in the middle of listening to a tap.”
“Gotcha. I just wanted to let you guys know we got the in-depth tox back on Heather Turnwat, and it’s not just any run-of-the-mill fent. It’s the good shit. Carfentanil.”
Carfentanil is one of the most potent, most expensive, and most valuable fentanyls on the illicit market. It’s ten thousand times stronger than morphine and around a hundred times stronger than fentanyl. It was originally developed to use on fucking elephants, so you can imagine, for a human, it only takes a minuscule amount to be lethal.
“Carfentanil?” I blink. “Just like in Gwen Bridges’s case.”
“Yep,” he confirms. “I’m no detective, but if I had to put money on it, I’d say the same person is behind both murders.”
Not many people have access to carfentanil. And the people who do are usually in drug cartels that like to cut it with other shit to get their money’s worth. It’s at complete odds with the nature of both Heather’s and Gwen’s deaths. Whoever did this wanted them dead, and they wanted them dead quickly.
“You find anything else?”
“Nope,” Booth says, a little dejected. “No DNA under the nails, just some textile fibers, and absolutely no trace DNA anywhere else on the body from a third party, and no signs of SA. These moves are calculated, not violent or done by force.”
At this point, these cases mirror each other so much it feels like someone was just copying and pasting.
“Okay, thanks. Anything on the Bellevue case?”
The Bellevue case involves a fifty-five-year-old man found dead in his home. He had two gunshots to the head.
“Preliminary DNA on the victim is looking promising. You and Shane just have to find a suspect so we have something to compare it to.”
“Oh yeah.” I chuckle. “The easy part.”
“You know how it goes, Dom.” Booth laughs. “I just handle the bodies. You do the rest.”
Shaking my head, I kick a pebble across the sidewalk and watch it bounce off the red brick at the bottom of CMA’s building. “Thanks, Booth.”
“You bet. Talk later.”
The call ends, and I climb back into the van, shutting the door behind me. Shane is jotting something down on his pad and then slides it over to me on the desk.
I sit down and pick up the pad, scanning his notes about three CMA callers on our list—a list that’s now ballooned to twenty-one possible suspects.
Brian Haskell
Background came back clean.
Wilkins said he was very cooperative and alibied out.
Haskell, a CMA caller, had acted just strange enough to justify a trace and background check. Honestly, I’m not surprised he alibied out when Wilkins brought him to the station for questioning.
Felix Lewis
Clean background. Wilkins working on bringing him in for questioning.
P.S. He’s rich, bitch. Owns Platinum Nash.
My head jerks back a little in surprise at the insight. Platinum Nash is one of the most popular country music labels in the country, and this odd dude, who’s a fairly frequent caller to the Ruby line, is the damn CEO. It really shows that you never know what people do behind closed doors.
Waylon Hades
615-415-5555
Run a background.
Waylon. This guy’s calls into the Ruby have been the most disturbing yet. So much so that I can remember very specific vile things he’s said to Hannah. With a trace, DFU managed to get us his legal name and phone number so we can run a full background check on him.
I pull my laptop toward me and open it up, signing into the police database and typing in the information. My style is of the hunt-and-peck variety, and I blame it on the fact that I don’t do the whole computer thing all day every day.
I lean back in my chair as the background sweep runs, and the screen populates with Waylon’s information.
An address in Cookeville and a job at the Philips plant in Smyrna don’t tell me much—other than the fact that his long-ass commute every morning is a real kick in the balls.
He has no criminal record other than an ungodly number of traffic tickets, and his credit has been swirling the toilet for a while now. That’s not a total shock, though—I mean, he is spending money on Call Me Anytime on a fairly regular basis.