Say Goodbye (Romantic Suspense #25) - Karen Rose Page 0,163

good citizen. DJ approached the driver’s window, his own silenced gun drawn. He didn’t want to draw attention with more gunfire.

“Hands on the steering wheel!” he barked. But the young woman behind the wheel wasn’t obeying. She was holding her damn phone. Recording him.

For fuck’s sake.

“I haven’t done anything wrong,” she started. “I’m recording you for my own protection and I will be talking to your supervi—”

Reaching into the car, DJ grabbed her phone, dropped it to the asphalt, and shot it. The screen splintered. He kicked it under the tire.

“Ohmygod!” the woman screeched. “You can’t—”

DJ opened her door, pulled her out, and dragged her to the cruiser. He tossed her in the back seat and shot her in the head, then shot her a second time. Just to be sure. He took off the cop’s shirt and threw it over her face. The cop’s vest and gun belt he kept.

Then he got into her car and drove away. Drawing a breath, he exhaled, his pulse slowly returning to normal. “Not exactly what I’d planned,” he said aloud, “but it turned out okay.”

He’d acquired a new vehicle and he knew that the SUVs had been making runs to the airport. The Sokolovs were entertaining company—quite a lot of company, based on the number of times the SUVs had passed by his camera’s checkpoint.

One less SUV now, he thought, a laugh bubbling from his throat as he passed the SUV he’d been following, still on the shoulder on the other side of the road. A man stood at the back bumper, talking on his cell phone while examining the extensive damage done by DJ’s truck.

DJ had been just quick enough. No fewer than ten cruisers came tearing up the opposite side of the road, sirens blaring, headed for the crime scene.

As soon as he was clear of the hubbub, he’d find a place to pull over and disengage the Honda’s GPS and change the license plate. Then he’d return to his comfy bed and keep searching for Kowalski’s kid.

He needed access to Kowalski’s weapon reserves now more than ever. Something was going on at the Sokolovs’ house and he needed to take advantage of whatever that was.

ROCKLIN, CALIFORNIA

SATURDAY, MAY 27, 9:30 P.M.

Tom scowled at the bulletin board on the wall of his home office. The board was half filled with photos, maps, and documents he’d gathered in the month he’d been searching for Eden. He had aerial maps of the sites listed in the notebook they’d found in Ephraim Burton’s safe-deposit box. He had photos of Kowalski and his family, photos of DJ and Waylon that he’d taken at Joni Belmont’s house, and photos of DJ Belmont’s two victims.

The two who they knew of, anyway—Minnie Ellis and Penny Gaynor. Belmont had no compunction about murdering in cold blood. It was more than likely that he’d killed others and their bodies hadn’t been found yet. Or ever would be.

But the photos, maps, and documents didn’t represent progress and Tom was frustrated. He had nothing new after hours spent searching for DJ Belmont. Searching for Kowalski.

Irritated and tired, he took a break from searching for the two men to try searching for Pastor’s wife, who supposedly lived in Modesto with her architect husband.

He knew that the woman wouldn’t likely be able to tell them where to find Eden. She’d run from the cult twenty-five years before. But Tom was curious. He wanted to know how Eden had begun and how they’d managed to hold on to power for so long. He was curious about what kind of woman would marry Waylon Belmont only to divorce him for Pastor.

Was she a criminal, too? Or had she been manipulated like everyone else?

Unfortunately, he hadn’t found any architects in Modesto with a wife named Margo.

He’d had only one true success in all the hours he’d spent searching. He tacked the photo of eighteen-year-old William Holly—a.k.a. Boaz Travis—next to a photo he’d found in the archives of an L.A. newspaper. The photo featured Pastor, his wife, and their twins, five years old at the time, and had been taken for a Christmas newsletter the year before he’d been accused of embezzling tens of thousands of dollars from his church.

The quality of the photo wasn’t good. The original had been photocopied for the newsletter before being included in the newspaper article, and the result was dark and grainy. It had been one of the few articles that Tom had been able to find on the investigation into Pastor’s