“You’re a contributing factor.”
“You’re the one she looks up to.”
“But you’re the one she wants to be.”
It was a scary thought. Her cell phone vibrated. It was Erce, calling her back.
“The Charger is owned by a local hoodlum named Arlen Ray Childress,” the special agent said. “He’s got a rap sheet, including arrests for trespassing and peddling weed. His current address is Saint Augustine Beach. I’ll text you the info.”
“Great. Are you free right now?” Daniels asked.
“I am. Would you like me to assist you with the bust?”
“I would. I want to leave the local cops out of it. I spoke with a Detective Sykes earlier, and he wasn’t up front with me. I don’t trust him.”
“That’s not good. Is the sheriff’s department somehow involved?”
“I don’t know what to think, I just know Sykes lied to me. The police don’t respect outside authority, so I don’t feel any obligation to include them.”
“I hear you. Let me round up a team. We should be there in forty minutes, depending on traffic. I’ll call you when we get close.”
“Thanks, Erce.”
She ended the call. Jon stood beside her, staring at the spot in the driveway where Nolan’s vehicle had been parked. The pieces of the puzzle didn’t fit, and Jon was trying to put them together. She could almost hear the gears shifting in his head.
“Making any headway?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I do know one thing,” he said.
“And what pray tell is that?”
“This is all about your father’s money. There’s no other explanation.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because a pair of Russian gangsters is involved. In my experience, the only thing Russian criminals care about is money. They’re obsessed with it. If we can figure out where the money that disappeared from your father’s bank accounts went, we’ll have a clearer picture as to what’s going on here.”
Jon was being diplomatic. He’d just said that her dad had been involved with the Russians. There was no hiding from it anymore, as difficult as it was to accept. Her father had gotten himself in trouble, and it was up to them to clean up the mess.
“Let’s go nail Arlen Childress,” she said.
Part Two
The Curse of the Sacred Cat
Chapter 10
Saint Augustine Beach was an oasis of glittering sand, with a smattering of high-rise condos upsetting the otherwise unmatched beauty. They drove for miles without seeing another vehicle. Lancaster was playing navigator, his cell phone clutched in his hand.
“Our turn is coming up,” he said.
“This is pretty desolate,” Beth said, manning the wheel. “Childress lives on Ridgeway, right?”
“Correct. My phone says the street is up ahead. Do you see a sign?”
“No, but I do see an unmarked road. Maybe that’s it.”
They came to the turn. Lancaster stared out his window at the downed street sign lying in the tall grass on the side of the road. The sign said RIDGEWAY AVENUE and appeared to have been ripped out of the ground with a piece of heavy machinery.
“This is the place,” he said.
Daniels made the turn and drove at a crawl. The street was shaded by a canopy of trees, the branches dripping Spanish moss. They passed a mailbox with the address. Arlen Childress lived in a gray shingle house with a sagging front porch. A narrow dirt driveway snaked around the side of the house to the back of the property.
“I don’t see the Charger,” Beth said.
“It’s probably parked in a garage in back,” he said. “Turn around up ahead, and do another drive-by. Maybe I can spot it.”
“How do you know there’s a garage in back?”
“You can’t live this close to the ocean and leave your car outside,” he explained. “The salt water will destroy the finish.”
“You learn something new every day.”
She turned around and drove past the house again. Lancaster lowered his window and stuck his head out. As they passed, he spotted a converted barn behind the house, with a vehicle parked in front of it. It was the Charger.
“Bingo,” he said.
Beth drove back to the highway, and parked in the shadow of a boarded-up building on the side of the road. She texted Phillips, and got an immediate reply.
“Erce and his team are a few minutes away,” she said. “I’ve got a question for you. Why would someone go pull up a street sign? What’s the purpose?”
“I’ve heard of people stealing street signs, and putting them in their houses,” he said. “But the Ridgeway sign got thrown in the grass. Makes no sense.”
“Another puzzle for the pile.”
“That’s one way to look at it.”
They got out and stood in the shade. A minute later, an SUV pulled up, and Phillips jumped out. He was over six foot and didn’t appear to carry an ounce of body fat. He’d brought four agents along for the ride. The trunks were popped, and the agents suited up. Phillips tossed each of them a bulky bulletproof vest.
“We’ve got helmets, if you want them,” Phillips said. “Can’t be too careful.”
“I’ll take you up on that,” Beth said.
“So will I,” Lancaster said.
They suited up. The helmets had thick, transparent face shields, and were similar to those Lancaster had worn in the navy. The sun was brutal, and sweat poured down his face and soaked his collar.
“We did a drive-by of the suspect’s house,” Beth said. “The Charger’s parked in back, so we’re assuming he’s somewhere on the property. The street sign was ripped out of the ground, so you’ll need to follow us.”
“Do you think he ripped it out?” Phillips asked.
“Hard to know. Why?”
“His rap sheet made him sound like a druggie. He might be unstable.”
“We’ll soon find out. Ready when you are.”
They drove to the suspect’s house and parked on the street. Both vehicles emptied. Phillips and his team were armed with Mossberg tactical shotguns, which were absolutely lethal at close range. If Arlen Childress resisted, he’d pay for it with his life.
The agents fanned out across the front lawn. Lancaster and Beth went up the creaky front steps and saw the front door open before they had a chance to knock. An elderly man with a snow-white beard and teeth stained from chewing tobacco stared at them. Behind him, an old woman sat in a rocking chair, her face frozen in time.
“Oh my Lord, what has he done now,” the old man muttered.
“FBI,” Beth said. “We’re looking for Arlen Childress. Is he home?”
“Arlen’s out back,” the old man said. “He lives in the garage.”
“Are you his father?”
“Grandfather. My name’s Adin.”
“We need to speak with your grandson. One of these agents is going to come inside your house, to be with you and your wife. It’s for your own safety.”
“My wife has dementia, and doesn’t take kindly to strangers. She might start yelling. Once that happens, I can’t calm her down.”
This wasn’t good. If they didn’t send an agent into the house, Adin might send his grandson a text, and alert him that a pack of FBI agents was looking for him.
“Does your wife yell often?” Lancaster asked.
“A couple of times a day,” the old man said. “Why?”
“So your grandson is used to hearing it.”
“You could say that.”
To Beth he said, “Send the agent inside. It won’t send up any red flags.”
Beth motioned to one of the agents on the lawn, who hustled up the steps and moved past Adin into the house. When the old man started to object, Beth threatened to handcuff him, and toss him in the SUV. The old man shut up fast.