First to Kill

BBR, Nathan told himself.

Burned beyond recognition.

James Ortega.

Chapter 8

Fifteen minutes later, two FBI vehicles left the scene. Nathan, Harv, and Larry Gifford were in the lead with Bruce Henning and the Bridgestones following. Holly stayed behind with the two SWAT agents to secure the cabin until an FBI forensic team and the Sacramento County ME arrived.

It was a somber, quiet ride down a granite canyon under a red and orange sunrise. Nobody felt like talking. Back in Sacramento, Gifford took the J Street exit for the Hyatt Regency while Henning’s vehicle kept going south on I-5. Henning flashed his brake lights twice and Gifford flashed his high beams in return.

Good riddance, thought Nathan. The Bridgestone cousins were human debris. He still couldn’t get over the condition of their farmhouse. It had been like an indoor landfill, except the garage, which he’d fully expected to be as filthy as the house. Think, damn it. He tried to clear his mind and concentrate on the garage, but couldn’t do it. His mind was shutting down due to sleep deprivation. Sitting next to him, Harv looked in roughly the same shape.

As if reading his thoughts, Gifford asked, “How much sleep have you guys had in the last forty-eight hours?”

“Not too much,” Nathan said.

“Do yourselves a favor and get some shut-eye at the hotel. You’re no good to anyone in your present condition. We’ll call you as soon as we know anything.”

“Thanks, Larry.”

Gifford dropped them off under the portico of the Hyatt just after nine in the morning. As the bellman retrieved their bags from the trunk, they shook hands with Gifford and waved as he pulled away. They staggered up to the counter and checked into adjoining rooms on the sixth floor overlooking Capitol Park. At their rooms, Nathan slipped the bellman a twenty, dialed the operator, and asked to have their calls forwarded to voice mail.

* * *

When Nathan awoke, the message light was blinking on the nightstand phone. He picked it up and hit the retrieve button. It was from Holly, asking for a return call. He dialed Harv’s room.

“Get any sleep?” Nathan asked.

“Four hours. You?”

“About the same. I’ve got a message to call Holly.”

“Two minutes,” Harv said.

Nathan used the head, splashed some water on his face, and stared into the mirror. That damned garage, he’d awakened still thinking about it. For some reason he couldn’t get it out of his head. What was bugging him? The tools? The Enduro?

He answered the soft knock on the adjoining room door and Harv stepped through. Without sitting down, he punched nine, waited for the dial tone, and called Holly Simpson’s cell.

“Holly Simpson.”

“Holly, it’s Nathan. I have you on speaker. Harv’s with me.”

“The news is not good. It was James Ortega. The ME confirmed his identity from dental records. I just found out ten minutes ago. He’d been subjected to severe blunt-force trauma. Six of his fingers were missing. They found smoke residue in his lungs.” Her voice cracked. “Nathan, they burned him alive.”

He squinted and looked at his partner. Harv’s jaw started working.

“You still there?” she asked.

“I’m really sorry, Holly.”

“We wouldn’t have found him this quickly without your help. I never thanked you guys last night.”

“I kept hoping we’d find him alive, dehydrated and hungry, but alive.”

“Me too.”

“We’ll tell the family.”

“I appreciate it. I have to go. It’s a real mess over here. Call me later?”

“I will.” He hung up and looked at Harv. No words were necessary.

The situation had just turned personal. This isn’t over, you lousy shit birds. This isn’t over atall, not by a long shot. He knew their call to Frank Ortega was going to be an emotional train wreck. Although Frank had suspected his grandson was dead, having it confirmed was another matter. Until you had absolute proof, there was always a glimmer of hope, however small. Now there was none. James Ortega, third- generation FBI, was dead, killed in the line of duty. No, not just killed. Tortured, humiliated, and burned alive by two cold-blooded thugs. It made Nathan sick to his stomach thinking about what James Ortega must have gone through. Wasn’t there even the tiniest speck of humanity left in the Bridgestones? They could’ve easily killed him first. A hard blow to the head. A bullet to the temple. A slit throat. A plastic bag over his head. Anything. Why burn him alive? Why? It was a message. Loud and clear, with no chance of being misunderstood: Mess with us and you’ll die badly.

Nathan looked at Harv. “We should call Ortega. Want me to do it?”

“No.” Harv reached into his pocket and pulled out a small piece of paper. He stared at the phone number.

“Harv?”

“I’m okay.”

But Nathan knew his friend wasn’t okay. Far from it. Nathan walked into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Dark blue eyes stared back. With his teeth clenched, he balled his hands into fists so tight they hurt from the pressure. Had James Ortega pleaded at the end? Had he begged to be killed first? Had they looked at each other in mock sympathy and then laughed at the request before tossing the match? Had they stayed and listened to his screams of agony?

He drove his fist into the mirror.

It shattered into a thousand pieces.

He staggered back and sat on the edge of the tub. Damn those assholes.

Harv appeared at the bathroom door. “Lemme see that hand.”

Like an automaton, Nathan held it up, allowing Harv to remove the small shards of glass from his flesh. Blood was already running down his fingers and dripping onto the marble floor. Harv wet a washcloth and dabbed the damaged skin before wiping the blood from the floor. “We’d better get you a couple bandages. You okay?”

Nathan nodded.

“Sit tight.”

From the bathroom, Nathan listened as Harv called the front desk and reported an accident. He asked for a first-aid kit and maintenance man for the broken mirror.

“Come on,” Harv said. “Let’s get some chow in you. We haven’t eaten in over eighteen hours. I’ll order room service. The usual? Various hors d’oeuvres?”

Nathan nodded. “Sorry about the mirror.”

Harv forced a smile. “You beat me to it.” He sat Nathan down on the bed and wrapped the washcloth around the damaged knuckles.

“We have to get these guys, Harv. No matter what it takes.”

“Count on it. Any ideas where we should start?”

“Yeah, I’m thinking we follow the money, the cash we didn’t already find. We’ll start with the visitation logs from the Castle. I want to know who visited Ernie Bridgestone.”

“An old girlfriend?”

“Maybe. Let’s also work on getting the names of people Leonard knew in northern Iraq. On the drive up to the cabin, I told Holly he might even have someone on the inside of a financial institution to launder their money. We’ll be looking for someone who’s living beyond his means. Someone who’s living within a one-day drive, maybe Reno or