The Watched (CSI Reilly Steel #4) Read online

  THE WATCHED

  Reilly Steel #4

  Casey Hill

  Copyright Casey Hill 2013

  The right of Casey Hill to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author. You must not circulate this book in any format.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  PROLOGUE

  It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. It always worked like a charm in the movies – put some chloroform on a rag, hold it over the person’s mouth and out they went.

  Too bad this wasn’t the movies.

  First of all the fat bastard remained conscious and fought back, almost landing a punch before being silenced with a rock. Then the skinny bitch made some weird snoring sounds before she stopped breathing altogether.

  Apparently the quantity of chloroform in relation to the weight of the person it was being used on was an important factor. Too little didn’t work and too much could kill. Again, not something discussed in the movies. Lesson learned.

  He had always been a quick study. Dragging the mismatched couple behind some rocks, he waited for another couple to pass along the narrow stretch of secluded beach. He wasn’t picky; all that mattered was that he got one male and one female. He preferred they both be in their twenties but they could be a little older, just as long as they could pass for younger in the right conditions.

  He sat on a large rock staring at the sea for half an hour, just another tourist relaxing in the spring sunshine. To add to the image of an easy-going beach bum, he’d even draped a damp beach towel beside him on the rock – though it wasn’t damp with seawater.

  This part of the beach was too rough for sunbathing, but a well-worn path cut through the rocks, making it perfect for couples looking for some privacy. A salty breeze blew in off of the gulf, cooling the sweat on his skin. He didn’t mind waiting; thrived on it actually, felt his mind sharpen when the wits of those around him became muddled and foggy.

  He heard them first and turned as they came around the bend, their arrival interrupting his musing. He was pleasantly surprised; two perfectly chiseled blonds: Surfer Ken and Big Boobs Barbie looking so cosy with their arms around each other, with golden tans and matching black swim gear. With the way the rocks hemmed in the sandy path, they had no choice but to walk within inches of where he sat, and he greeted them with a lazy, deceptively uninterested nod of his head.

  Then, the moment their backs were to him, he sprang. He’d doused the ends of the towel in the right amount of chloroform this time, and quick as a flash he grabbed it and shoved it into their faces.

  It still didn’t work instantly like in the movies, but between the narrow confines of the path, the shock of the unexpected attack and the way the victims were wrapped so closely together, they barely had time to struggle before the solvent completed its work.

  As soon as their bodies stopped twitching, he pulled back the towel and checked their pulses. Still alive. Perfect.

  He couldn’t help but smile. He’d got it right on the second take, and after that was even able to get them into the bed of his truck with relative ease. Not that it was actually his truck.

  The vehicle rumbled to life with a quick twist and then he was on his way. As he drove, he wondered if he should find himself a theme song, something to play in the background while he worked.

  Turning on his radio, he selected a classic rock station, and turned the volume up as loud as it would go. He grimaced at the music; he wasn’t a fan. Rock had no finesse.

  Then, distracted by flashing lights in his rearview mirror, he turned off the radio, the wail of a siren filling the cab of the truck. Damn. The pickup truck he’d ‘borrowed’ was twenty years old and in no shape to outrun a police car. He had no choice but to pull over.

  Damn it again. For all of his carefully laid plans, he’d gone and got himself pulled over for speeding. He chastised himself for the rookie mistake, but some of his frustration faded as he realized only one police officer seemed to be in the car. Maybe the situation was still salvageable.

  He watched in his side mirror as the beefy cop exited his car and immediately reacted to muffled sounds coming from the truck bed. OK, so maybe he hadn’t got the dosage down as well as he’d thought.

  The officer put his hand on his sidearm and cautiously approached the rear of the vehicle. ‘Hello,’ he called out, ‘this is the police. Is there anyone under the tarp?’

  Not pausing to check underneath, the officer drew his gun and pointed it at the driver’s side window. ‘Sir, I’m going to ask you to please step out with your hands over your head.’

  He wished he had a gun of his own, but it had never crossed his mind to bring one. He wasn’t a killer, after all; he was an artist. That first attempt at the beach had been an accident. But he also wasn’t a quitter, and wouldn’t back down from an obstacle, no matter how tricky the solution.

  Tenacity, drive, ambition – weren’t those qualities what separated the mundane from the great?

  The one thing the pickup truck’s cab did have going for it was a wide, sliding rear window. It’d been open when he’d nabbed the vehicle and had since tried to close it with no success. Now he was thankful for the malfunction.

  He started to open his door, then with the cop’s full attention on that he grabbed the bottle of chloroform from his bag and, with just the quickest of glances to aim, tossed the remaining contents of the bottle at the officer’s face.

  The cop screamed and gurgled as the chemical burned his eyes and throat, but the man didn’t pay any attention. He had more important things to worry about.

  He dropped the empty bottle into the truck bed, turned back around and put the truck into gear. The tires spun as he reversed and swung around toward the officer, knocking him to the ground. He didn’t hesitate as he drove forward over the cop’s head, grinding it into the asphalt with a vicious turn of the wheel and a bit of extra gas. He knew that the area would soon be swarming with police officers and briefly considered finding a new location for the rest of his project. One glance toward the descending sun eliminated that possibility.

  No time for any more mistakes.

  Thanks to that son of a bitch now he was going to have to rush. And everyone knew what they said about rushing perfection.

  The blond cried and pleaded for her life as he yanked her off the truck bed.

  He frowned, wishing he’d thought of gagging her when he’d hogtied her. Not that her screams weren’t perfect; they really were. He was just afraid she’d wear out her voice.

  He dragged her a half-dozen feet to a large tree he’d selected a few hours ago, leaving her there for a moment before returning with some heavy chain. He bound her feet to the tree, then removed the rope that connected her wrists to her ankles. She wriggled, trying to move her body, but the effects of the chloroform made her movements sluggish. He wrapped the second length of chain around her still-bound wrists and secured the other end to the hitch of his pickup truck. Taking a moment to eye up the length, he then climbed back into the driver’s seat. He inched forward, just enough to tighten the slack in the chain, and then stopped.

  She was screaming uncontrollably now, justifiably terrified and no doubt guessing what was going to happen. He really needed to put a stop to that noise though – she should conserve her energy. He’d be pissed at going to all of this trouble to make things just right only to
have the main attraction screw it up by passing out from exhaustion before the real fun began.

  The man walked over to Blondie and crouched next to her. He leaned down and whispered in her ear, ‘If you care about that guy you came with, you’ll shut the hell up.’

  ‘Please don’t hurt us,’ she pleaded, eyes wide and full of fear. He saw a bit of a spark in them too; a rebellion that meant she was a fighter, even when begging for her life. That was good. He needed someone who wasn’t going to just give up and go along with what was about to happen. ‘I’ll do anything you want.’

  ‘I just want you to stop screaming.’

  She quieted, the occasional whimper escaping, but he didn’t care about that. It didn’t take much energy to whimper.

  Satisfied, he returned to his male victim. This one didn’t need to be gagged. The first thing he’d done after knocking them out was to stitch the guy’s lips together with heavy black thread. He didn’t get to scream at all.

  He was heavier than he looked though, certainly heavier than Blondie in any case, and fought like a crazed pig while being pulled out of the truck. All that flailing had sent the empty chloroform bottle bouncing around the truck bed. There were only a few drops left.

  It took some shaking, but he got every last drop onto the victim’s shirt and then pulled it up over the struggling man’s nose. Moments later, the guy passed out again, much to the man’s relief. This was turning out to be much more physically demanding than he’d anticipated.

  Dragging the guy up to the cab of the truck, he wrestled his deadweight body into the driver’s seat. In the back of his mind, he was very aware of time passing, knowing that any moment the mess he’d left back on the main road could lead to his discovery.

  But again, art can’t be rushed.

  Using the always-useful duct tape, he bound his victim’s hands to the steering wheel and his feet to the accelerator. The remote-controlled wireless webcam went on the dashboard. He turned the radio back on and frowned, wishing he had more time to find the right music to underscore the scene. But as so often happened to even the greatest, he was out of time.

  He grabbed two wooden wedges from behind the seat and shoved them in front of both front tires. After making sure they were secure enough to prevent an accident, he put the truck in drive. As long as the guy didn’t move, Blondie would be just fine.

  Then, closing the driver’s door, he took out a cellphone, leisurely dialing 911. When the operator answered, he spoke, his tone as frenzied as his expression was serene. ‘Oh man, I think he’s going to kill her. You have to send a squad car out here. Hell, send frickin’ SWAT. The guy’s beating the crap out of some girl – oh, shit, he just pulled a gun on her. And he’s making her – just hurry!’

  He dropped the cellphone on the ground and walked away, imagining what it would be like for the main players to realize what was going on and what was about to happen. They’d be so excited to know they were going to be such an indelible part of history.

  He knew he was.

  The man hurried on, wanting a front-row seat for the big reveal.

  CHAPTER 1

  EIGHT DAYS EARLIER

  Reilly Steel parked the Garda Forensic Unit van alongside the curb near an apartment complex in West Dublin.

  Another day, another crime scene. She looked out the window to see that there were several emergency services vehicles parked outside the main doorway of the complex, and the area immediately around the entryway was cordoned off with crime scene tape. The building seemed to be part of a multi-use development of commercial units on the ground floor below residential apartments rising five or six stories high.

  Getting out of the van, Reilly grabbed the kitbag containing her dust suit and forensic toolbox from the back seat and headed in the direction of the doorway.

  A growing crowd of onlookers stood behind the tape, waiting for something to happen so they could post it up on Twitter or YouTube, she thought darkly, wondering why everything – including (and perhaps especially?) people’s misfortunes – needed to be recorded and shared around the world for entertainment purposes.

  The entrance to the building was understated: a large gray-framed door with frosted glass and a wall-mounted intercom on the right-hand side. The door had been propped open by a Garda traffic cone. Reilly hurried through the entryway and was struck by the pungent aroma of some kind of herb or spice – tamarind, she decided – likely coming from the Indian restaurant that had taken up residence in one of the commercial units.

  ‘Reilly Steel, GFU.’ She offered her ID to the officer standing sentry at the lift.

  ‘Morning, Miss Steel,’ he replied with a smile, not bothering to check her identification badge. Reilly was used to getting appreciative looks; the California blond thing just seemed to do it for most men. But notwithstanding appearances, she knew that she’d long since proved herself to the Irish force since taking up her role at the GFU three years ago. Not that she’d ever felt she needed to prove herself to anyone – her investigative record spoke for itself, but boys will be boys. Cops especially.

  Her track record at the San Francisco FBI field office and Quantico-trained background was the reason she’d been offered the job in the first place, but lately she was beginning to question whether the move away from the US had been the right one.

  It had been at first, when her dad was going through such a dark phase in his life, and the Dublin position meant that Reilly would be able to keep an eye on him firsthand when he moved to the city to be closer to his roots. But in the ensuing years Mike Steel had banished his demons, given up the bottle and completely turned his life around, so much so that he was currently vacationing in the US with his current lady-friend. Reilly had received a postcard from him only yesterday, its sun-filled, carefree imagery completely incongruous with the damp, gray and bitterly cold Dublin weather.

  She had returned home after work, struggling against strong biting winds as she tried to open the heavy old Victorian door serving as the entryway to her building in Ranelagh, while trying to keep her shopping bag from being snatched out of her hands by the stormy gusts. In the three years she’d been in the city, she’d slowly come to realize that springtime in Ireland was pretty much the same as any other time of year, bleak and miserable.

  Among some white and brown official-looking mail that all looked like payment demands was a brief flash of color. Reaching down, she’d scooped up the envelopes and sought out the postcard upon which ‘Greetings from Santa Barbara’ was emblazoned diagonally across four cloudless images. The scenery was instantly (and painfully) recognizable: a golden Pacific sunset, an old-fashioned wooden pier, a sandy beach and the old town area. Keenly aware of the dark skies and worsening storm battering the windows around her, Reilly had felt more than a little tortured as she turned the card over to read the message inscribed.

  Hey honey, just a note to let you know we’re alive. The party went great – really nice to see all the boys again. We’re on our way down the 101 at the moment in a soft-top, no less! Weather’s getting warmer as we head south. Maura really loves Cali and it’s been great to revisit some old haunts. Hope all’s good with you. Call you soon for a catch up, OK?

  Lots of love, Dad and Maura

  A retired firefighter, Mike had gone back to the States to attend the retirement bash of a colleague from his old job and, while Reilly was pleased to hear that her dad was having fun, what she wouldn’t give for a snazzy convertible, some warm sunshine, blue skies and the open road . . .

  Turning her attentions back to the job at hand, she waited for the uniform to point her in the right direction. ‘Third floor. Stairwell is the last door on the right.’ He gestured down the well-lit corridor lined with post boxes. ‘Do you need somebody to give you a hand with that?’ he asked then, indicating her heavy-looking kitbag.

  She hid a smile. ‘Thanks, but I’ll manage. The rest of my team will be here shortly and we’ll be processing that lift first so we can get it up and run
ning again. Make sure no one goes near it in the meantime.’

  ‘Of course.’ The officer nodded as Reilly made for the timber door that led to the stairwell.

  She began to move quickly up the stairs before suddenly starting to feel out of breath, acutely aware of how her carb-filled Irish diet and declining opportunities for exercise were starting to creep up on her. She cursed herself for the ready-meal mac ’n’ cheese she’d ‘cooked’ for dinner the night before. At the time, she’d considered it a little taster of home, when in reality back in the US she’d never touched the stuff.

  Reilly felt a long way from the person she’d been upon first crossing the Atlantic to take up this job. Back then she’d enjoyed picking up in-season fruit and veg at farmers’ markets or the local organic shops close to where she lived in Ranelagh, and had relished trying out different recipes with unfamiliar ingredients. When had it all changed, she wondered now? When had she gone from embracing the gastronomic (and indeed cultural) differences to feeling alienated by them?

  By the time Reilly got to the doorway that led to the third floor she felt like she’d just run a marathon. Pathetic for someone who used to pound out fifteen miles straight and barely break a sweat. The inevitable guilt descended as she was reminded of more leisurely pursuits, but lately there hadn’t been much time for non-work activities of any kind.

  Not only was she getting old, she admitted dourly, thinking about the recent non-existent celebrations for her thirty-third birthday, but she was getting soft with it and lately in particular could feel herself starting to lose her edge. Not good for a CSI investigator and certainly not one who was responsible for the smooth running of the forensic operational center on behalf of the Irish police force.

  As she pushed through the door with her shoulder she swore to herself that she’d head out for a proper run when she got home later, regardless of the weather.