Блейк Пирс - Once Trapped

She had silently slipped Morgan an FBI card, but had never heard from her.

I guess she finally wants help, Riley thought, picturing the thin, elegant, but timid woman she’d seen in Andrew Farrell’s mansion.

But Riley wondered—what was she going to be able to do for anybody under her present circumstances?

In fact, the last thing in the world Riley needed right now was another problem to solve.

The waiting operator asked, “Do you want me to put the call through?”

Riley hesitated for a second, then said, “Yes, please.”

In a moment, she heard the sound of a woman’s voice.

“Hello, is this Special Agent Riley Paige?”

Now it occurred to her—she couldn’t remember Morgan having said a single word while she’d been there. She’d seemed too terrified of her husband to even speak.

But she didn’t sound terrified right now.

In fact, she sounded rather happy.

Is this just a social call? Riley wondered.

“Yes, this is Riley Paige,” she said.

“Well, I just thought I owed you a call. You were very kind to me that day when you visited our home, and you left me your card, and you seemed to be anxious about me. I just wanted to let you know, you don’t need to worry about me anymore. Everything is going to be fine now.”

Riley breathed a little easier.

“I’m glad to hear that,” she said. “Did you leave him? Are you getting a divorce?”

“No,” Morgan said cheerfully. “I killed the bastard.”

Riley sat down in the nearest chair, her mind reeling as the woman’s words echoed in her mind.

“I killed the bastard.”

Had Morgan really just said that?

Then Morgan asked, “Agent Paige, are you still there?”

“I’m still here,” Riley said. “Tell me what happened.”

Morgan still sounded eerily calm.

“The thing is, I’m not sure exactly. I’ve been rather doped up lately, and I tend not to remember things I do. But I killed him, all right. I’m looking right down at his body lying in bed, and he’s got knife wounds all over him, and he bled a lot. It looks like I did it with a sharp kitchen knife. The knife is lying right next to him.”

Riley struggled to make sense of what she was hearing.

She remembered how unhealthily thin Morgan had looked. Riley had been sure that she was anorexic. Riley knew better than most people how hard it was to stab a person to death. Was Morgan even physically capable of doing such a thing?

She heard Morgan sigh.

“I hate to impose, but I honestly don’t know what to do next. I wonder if you could help me.”

“Have you told anybody else? Have you called the police?”

“No.”

Riley stammered, “I’ll … I’ll get right on it.”

“Oh, thank you so much.”

Riley was about to tell Morgan to stay on the line while she made a separate call on her own cell phone. But Morgan hung up.

Riley sat there staring into space for a moment. She heard Jilly ask, “Mom, is something wrong?”

Riley looked and saw that Jilly seemed deeply concerned.

She said, “Nothing to concern yourself about, honey.”

Then she grabbed her cell phone and called the police in Atlanta.

Officer Jared Ruhl felt bored and restless as he rode in the passenger seat next to Sergeant Dylan Petrie. It was night, and they were patrolling one of the richest neighborhoods in Atlanta—an area where there was seldom any criminal activity. Ruhl was new to the force, and he was hungry for a taste of action.

Ruhl had all the respect in the world for his African-American partner and mentor. Sergeant Petrie had been on the force for twenty years or more, and he was one of the most seasoned and experienced cops around.

So why are they wasting us on this beat? Ruhl wondered.

As if in reply to his unspoken question, a female voice sputtered over the scanner …

“Four-Frank-thirteen, do you copy?”

Ruhl’s senses sharpened to hear their own vehicle’s identification.

Petrie answered, “Copy, go ahead.”

The dispatcher hesitated, as if she didn’t quite believe what she was about to say.

Then she said, “We have a possible one-eighty-seven in the Farrell home. Go to the scene.”

Ruhl’s mouth dropped open, and he saw Petrie’s eyes widen with surprise. Ruhl knew that 187 was the code for a homicide.

At Andrew Farrell’s place? Ruhl wondered.

He couldn’t believe his ears, and Petrie looked as though he couldn’t either.

“Say again,” Petrie said.

“A possible 187 in the Farrell home. Can you get there?”

Ruhl saw Petrie squint with perplexity.

“Yeah,” Petrie said. “Who is the suspect?”

The dispatcher hesitated again, then said, “Mrs. Farrell.”

Petrie gasped aloud and shook his head.

“Uh … is this a joke?” he said.

“No joke.”

“Who’s my RP?” Petrie asked.

What does that mean? Ruhl asked himself.

Oh, yeah …

It meant, “Who reported the crime?”

The dispatcher replied, “A BAU agent called it in from Phoenix, Arizona. I know how strange that sounds, but …”

The dispatcher fell silent.

Petrie said, “Code Three response?”

Ruhl knew that Petrie was asking whether to use flashing lights and a siren.

The dispatcher asked, “How close are you to the location?”

“Less than a minute,” Petrie said.

“Better keep quiet then. This whole thing is …”

Her voice faded away again. Ruhl guessed she was concerned that they not draw too much attention to themselves. Whatever was really going on in this luxurious and privileged neighborhood, it was surely best to keep the media out of the loop for as long as they could.

Finally the dispatcher said, “Look, just check it out, OK?”

“Copy,” Petrie said. “We’re on our way.”

Petrie pushed the accelerator and they sped along the quiet street.

Ruhl stared in astonishment as they approached the Farrell mansion. This was the closest he’d ever been to it. The house sprawled in all directions, and it looked to him more like a country club than anybody’s home. The exterior was carefully lit—for protection, no doubt, but also probably to show off its arches and columns and great windows.

Petrie parked the car in the circular drive and stopped the engine. He and Ruhl got out and strode up to the huge front entrance. Petrie rang the doorbell.

After a few moments, a tall, lean man opened the door. Ruhl guessed from his fancy tuxedo-like outfit and his stern, officious expression that he was the family butler.

He looked surprised to see the two police officers—and not at all pleased.

“May I ask what this is all about?” he asked.

The butler didn’t seem to have any idea that there might be trouble inside that mansion.

Petrie glanced at Ruhl, who sensed what his mentor was thinking …

Just a false alarm.

Probably a prank call.

Petrie said to the butler, “Could we speak with Mr. Farrell, please?”

The butler smiled in a supercilious manner.

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” he said. “The master is fast asleep, and I have very strict orders—”

Petrie interrupted, “We have reason to be worried about his safety.”

The butler’s eyebrows rose.

“Really?” he said. “I’ll look in on him, if you insist. I’ll try not to waken him. I assure you, he would complain quite vociferously.”

Petrie didn’t ask permission for him and Ruhl to follow the butler into the house. The place was vast inside, with rows of marble columns that eventually led to a red-carpeted staircase with curved, fancy banisters. Ruhl found it harder and harder to believe that anybody could actually live here. It seemed more like a movie set.