Howard, who shoved Louis down and slammed the hood again. Louis shrieked in pain. Howard smiled. He liked this part of the job. Morrison heard something crunch that time.
Howard pulled Louis back out from under the hood. He had several broken teeth, which explained the crunch. He was drooling blood.
“You sure you never saw anyone wearing handcuffs?”
Then it all came spilling out. “I shaw him, I shaw him,” Louis said, his mouth full of mush.
“Where’d he go?”
“I doan know,” Louis said, tears rolling down his cheeks now. “I doan know!”
“You’re not lying to me again, are you?”
Louis shook his head violently, sending blood drops flying. Morrison flinched back with distaste. “I shwear to Gaa,” Louis said.
Morrison believed him. He really sold it.
But it made no difference. He’d seen their faces, and knew they were asking about Beck. They couldn’t take the chance. No loose ends. They’d promised.
Morrison nodded, and Howard pushed him back into the engine compartment. This time Louis was practically weeping, waiting for the metal to crack his skull one more time.
But Morrison wasn’t cruel like Howard. He didn’t let the other agent slam the hood down again.
He just took out his 9mm and put a bullet into the back of Louis’s head.
They left the body in the garage. Howard stopped at the cash register, opened it, and took out the money inside. In this neighborhood, Metro PD wouldn’t look any further for a motive than that. Case closed.
They walked back to the car.
“You should have let me talk to him some more,” Howard said. “He could have told us where Beck went.”
“He didn’t know,” Morrison replied. “He was telling the truth.”
“So how are we going to find him?”
Morrison got behind the wheel. His arm still hurt like hell, but he had no intention of letting Howard drive. Guy was a maniac.
“Come on,” Morrison said. “He’s a shrink. How long before he goes running to the police? Where else is he going to go?”
Chapter 11
Susan pulled up to the Scotts’ house. It was located in what an optimistic real-estate agent would call “a neighborhood in transition.” There were some decent restaurants nearby mixed with cheap delivery joints and empty storefronts. Most of the windows still had bars on them.
“So what do we do?” Susan asked.
Beck sat in the car for a moment. Good question. They hadn’t been able to call Jennifer Scott—her number was in Beck’s notes, back in his office, and it was unlisted. So there was only one thing to do.
“Let’s go up.”
Susan hesitated. “You realize that if you’re right, there could be someone waiting there already.”
Beck had thought of that. But he didn’t see any alternative. “Well,” he said, opening the car door, “let’s hope I really am delusional, then.”
Beck got out of the car and walked up the sidewalk.
He started walking toward the Scotts’ house, a crumbling, single-family home.
Then he had to stop as his head began spinning again. He was sweating. It was warm out, but not that warm. He’d pushed himself too hard today.
Susan noticed. “You need a minute? Or a doctor?”
Beck grimaced. “I’ve got you.”
He expected a sarcastic comeback. Instead, she put her hand on his arm. “Yes,” she said. “You do.”
Beck caught his breath and touched her hand. His head was still pounding, but he felt better.
They walked to the Scotts’ front door.
Beck knocked. The door creaked open at his touch. It was unlocked. It was barely even closed.
He looked at Susan. She shrugged. Quietly, they walked inside.
The door opened into a short hallway—only a couple of feet—before a living room and kitchen area. There was another short hallway branching off the living room, probably leading to a bedroom. Beck could see a door at the end of the short hall. It was closed.
On the inside, the house was tiny and cramped, but spotless. The thin gray carpet was peeling from the floor, but it had recently been vacuumed within an inch of its life. Bargain furniture was placed in front of a flatscreen on the wall, and a laptop computer sat open on a small dining table.
Beck walked over to the laptop. It was powered on and running a screen saver showing pictures from Kevin Scott’s photos. Beck watched the pictures dissolve, one into another, souvenirs from a life cut short just a couple of hours ago.
In one photo, Scott was grinning with a group of other men, all in camouflage, gathered for a group shot in the middle of some desert in the Middle East. They all looked