Nan Dixon - Undercover With The Heiress

Plastic bags lay scattered on the floor. Drug residue covered tables lining a wall. An empty garbage can was tipped on its side. Apparently, the dealers had left in a hurry. If they were lucky, they might find prints.

The medical examiner knelt next to a second body.

Six-one or six-two. Male. Caucasian. Must run 220.

“Hey, O’Malley.” Kaden stared at the dried blood on the floor. “Do you have a cause of death?”

“GSW. All three bodies.” The medical examiner glanced up. “How are you, Farrell?”

“Frustrated we can’t shut this ring down.”

The FBI had been chasing Heather Bole and Thaddeus Magnussen for months trying to stem the flow of drugs coming through Georgia and Florida.

He nodded at the vic’s bloated face. “At least Magnussen’s no longer terrorizing the streets. Don’t suppose we got lucky and Heather Bole is here somewhere?”

“Not here. We’ll check the blood type and see if there’s more than our victims.” She shifted. “Need to show you something.”

O’Malley rolled the body onto his side, using her head to point. “Check out the streaks under the body.”

“Is that blood?” Kaden backed up to get the full picture. “It looks like something was dragged out from under him as he bled out. Did he fall on something?”

She shrugged. “Maybe a someone. We found this beneath the body.”

She held up an evidence bag. It contained a bloodstained sneaker. Pink. Small. No laces. Fluff filled the shoe’s ratty Velcro.

“Damn it. A kid was here.” He swallowed.

“Yeah.” O’Malley waved over her assistant. “This one’s ready for the lab.”

Kaden unclenched his teeth. A kid. A little girl by the look of the shoe. He would check the file, but he thought Heather had a daughter who was young. Three? Four? The task force had gotten that intel but hadn’t been able to get the kid to safety.

His granddad had rescued him. Now, getting children away from their criminal, drug dealing parents was his life’s mission. He would save the kid and put Heather Bole behind bars.

July

“ANOTHER DEAD END.” Kaden slammed down the conference room phone in the Atlanta FBI office. “Two months and every time someone spots Heather Bole, she vanishes.”

The partial print at the triple-murder site had a 75 percent chance of being Bole’s. It was enough to bring her in for questioning. If they found her.

“We’re hearing rumors Bole has partnered with Hector Salvez.” His boss rubbed his short dark hair. “Hector’s a hothead. That might make Heather easier to find.”

Roger leaned back in his chair and it let out a loud screech.

The noise crawled down Kaden’s spine. “Not soon enough.”

“Is this about the daughter? Are you worried she’s in danger?” Roger asked.

“Kids shouldn’t grow up in that environment.” Kaden rolled his neck and the vertebrae clicked.

Saving kids from the drug life was why he’d joined the FBI, why he was on the task force. If he could rid this part of the world of drugs and dealers, he’d be content. “Heather is moving...a lot. Could be Magnussen’s brother is seeking revenge.”

“Maybe.” Roger’s chair squealed again. “Maybe they’ll all kill each other and make our lives easier.”

“DEA has a witness that swears Bole had her kid with her before the shootings.” Kaden tugged on his tie. “She and Rasmussen ran together for five years. Now what’s Bole up to?”

“Taking over?” Roger held up the picture of the blood streaks. “If Heather shot him, it was pretty damn cold to shoot her partner with her kid in the room.”

“Five years ago she was a two-bit dealer in Atlanta. Then she moved to rural Georgia and started cooking meth.” Kaden tossed his empty coffee cup into the trash. “Breaking Bad has made people think cookin’ is easy money.”

Roger shook his head. “We’ll catch her eventually.”

Kaden nodded. But this case involved a kid. For weeks he’d worked the streets, talking to as many of Heather’s associates as possible. The other task force members had worked their own connections. Nada. Unless Bole was traveling on a fake ID, she had to be in the area.

Or she’d been dumped at sea. Always a possibility on the coast. He wasn’t worried about Heather, but the kid, Isabella, didn’t deserve this.

Roger tapped the table. “I need updates on your other cases.”

Kaden nodded and they discussed his active cases.

As they were wrapping up, Kaden’s cell rang. He peered at the unknown number.

“Go ahead,” Roger said.

“Kaden Farrell,” he answered.

“Hi, Kaden. This is Abby Fitzgerald. Your grandfather works for my family’s B and B.”

His heart gave a loud thump. “Is everything all right?”

“Nigel fell off a ladder. We’re at Memorial Health Center in Savannah.”

“Is he all right?” He clenched his phone. His grandfather was his only family.

“He’s getting X-rays right now.” Her soft drawl did nothing to soothe the panic racing through his chest. “They suspect he broke his hip.”

Crap. Broken hip? “I’ll be right down. What hospital again?”

She repeated the name while he scribbled.

“He didn’t lose consciousness,” she said. “But I thought you would want to know.”

“Thank you. I’m leaving right now.” He hung up and filled in Roger.

“Go.” Roger waved him away. “I’ll let you know if we hear anything new.”

Kaden rushed to his apartment. He grabbed his go bag, threw in his laptop and Dopp kit, and headed out of Atlanta.

Traffic on I-75 was bumper-to-bumper. Even the left-hand lane, void of trucks, barely moved at the speed limit. He longed to go hot and let the sirens get him to his grandfather.

Nigel had saved him. Pulled him away from his useless parents and shown him he could have a normal life. A life that didn’t require moving all the time and keeping an eye out for cops or DEA agents.

The miles crawled by. He merged onto I-16, hoping traffic would ease. No luck. Container trucks filled the right-hand lane, heading to the port of Savannah. He hit the radio and tuned into CNN, then the BBC, trying to knock out the voices in his head that were warning him he might lose his last family member. Even deep breaths didn’t ease the tightness in his chest.

Clutching the steering wheel, he exited on the 516. A broken hip at his grandfather’s age could be deadly. When he got to Waters Avenue and then Lexington, he exhaled. Finally.

He scouted the full ER parking deck. His fingers drummed the steering wheel. On the second pass, a car backed out and he grabbed the spot.

Dashing to the ER receptionist desk, he said, “I’m looking for Nigel Ganders.”

The young man searched. “He was just admitted.”

Kaden followed the directions to the correct floor, stopping at the nursing station to verify his grandfather’s room number. His heart pounded as he pushed open the door. And found a roomful of strangers.

“Kaden?” Granddad waved a finger at the three redheaded women in the room. “Who called my grandson for something this piddling?”

“I did.” One of the women shook her finger back in Granddad’s face. “He’s your emergency contact. Of course I called him.”

Granddad stared at Kaden. Then he touched his heart.

Tears threatened to spill from Kaden’s eyes. It had always been their signal. When Kaden had been playing basketball or giving a speech, it had been that small gesture that let him know Granddad loved and was proud of him.

The woman with a ponytail walked over, holding out her hand. “Hi, I’m Abby Fitzgerald. I called.”

“Nice to meet you.” Kaden’s response was automatic, but he stared at his grandfather. Nigel’s gray eyes were bright and his posture straight. His full head of white hair was as tidy as if he was heading to church instead of lying injured in a hospital bed.