“Ma’am?” one of the officers called from the kitchen. “There’s no postmark on the wrapping. It wasn’t mailed. Did you see who dropped it off?”
“No.” Isabel drifted through the room, stuffing some things in an overnight bag. “Bill, the concierge downstairs might’ve. He brought the box up to my apartment.”
“We’ll need his statement and prints, too,” Officer Lewis said.
Since Isabel was in no condition to get behind the wheel, Dutch drove her and McQueen in his truck. At the station, he stopped out front.
“Go inside with McQueen,” Dutch said. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
She stiffened. “Where are you going?”
Taking her hand in his, he said, “I need to make this stop.”
Her eyes widened with understanding and she shook her head. “Don’t go. He’s dangerous.”
“Not as dangerous as I can be.” Ellis had no idea who he was messing with and it was time he learned. “It’s okay,” he reassured her in a gentle tone. “I won’t be gone long.”
Worry didn’t leave Isabel’s eyes, but she nodded. “Be careful. He got his orange belt in Krav Maga,” she said as if that made Chad a lethal weapon. “I don’t want him to hurt you.”
If anyone was going to get hurt, it’d be Chad. By the time Dutch was finished, Chad would wish he had a second degree black belt. “Don’t set foot outside the station. Don’t go anywhere without me.”
She nodded again, opened the door and slipped out of the car. McQueen followed. Once she disappeared inside, Dutch sped off.
The wings of cold, black rage beat through him and thanks to the file from Agent Rogers, he knew exactly where to find Chad Ellis.
* * *
IN HIS BRENTWOOD OFFICE, Chad sat behind his desk, working at his computer. Business was doing better than ever at the funeral parlor as well as with biohazard remediation, thanks to the rise in crime. If he could send every murderer in the area a thank-you note, he would.
Shouting from the front of the building had him swiveling around in his chair to see what all the ruckus was about.
Horatio “Dutch” Haas was charging down the hallway, headed straight for Chad’s office.
Chad hit the intercom button for his secretary. She was fifty-something, loyal as the day was long and had been with him from the beginning. Jill sat as a gatekeeper at a desk in front of his office.
“Don’t try to stop him,” Chad said. “Round up the boys—have them hurry on over. Then grab your phone and record everything. No audio.”
“Okay,” Jill said. Her gaze bounced up to Haas as she hung up and called the lounge, where his workers hung out between cleaning assignments.
At least five men were in the building, not that he needed or wanted them to intervene. He was stacking the deck of witnesses in his favor.
Dutch kicked open his office door, splintering the frame.
What melodramatic machismo. Chad suppressed an eye roll and stifled a chuckle. Playing the part of the victim meant he needed to appear frightened and intimidated on the video.
“How dare you,” Chad said. “Who do you think you are barging in here like this?”
“You sick bastard!” Dutch stalked up to the desk, planted his palms on the surface and leaned over, bringing them eye level. “Did it make you feel like a big man to send a butchered pig’s head to Isabel? You’re a twisted monster.”
“What?”
Rage boiled in Dutch’s face as he swept everything off Chad’s desk onto the floor. He stormed around, grabbed Chad by the lapels of his suit jacket, snatched him out of the chair and slammed him against the wall.
“Are you going to look me in the eye and deny sending it to Isabel?”
Hell, yeah. Not because he didn’t do it, even though he hadn’t, but deny, deny, deny was the second rule he lived by.
Rule number one—don’t get caught.
Glancing over Dutch’s shoulder, he saw Jill filming everything and the guys who worked for him gathering around the front of the office.
Chad raised his palms and pinched his features into those of a man terrified for his life. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t send her anything.”
But he wished like hell he had. Damn, that was a good one. Why hadn’t he thought of it?
“You’re a lying sack of garbage.” Dutch lifted his fist. “I ought to—”
“What?” Chad asked, maintaining his frightened expression for the camera and witnesses, but lowering his voice, taunting Haas. “Hit me? Go ahead. Beat me. Kick my teeth