Say Goodbye (Romantic Suspense #25) - Karen Rose Page 0,205

pointed out to the street. “I was standing there yesterday with another agent. We were in tactical gear, but . . . damn. We were just standing there.”

Rodriguez grunted. “You’re charmed, kid. Either he didn’t see you or he didn’t want to risk shooting, knowing we were all there. Come on. Let’s keep going.”

They continued searching, ending up in the garage. Tom pointed to the hair dryer sitting atop a chest freezer. “What do you think?”

Rodriguez made a face. “That we need to open the freezer.” He picked up the hair dryer and lifted the freezer’s lid. “Fucking hell.”

Tom stared down into the face of the homeowner. “Nelson Smythe.” The body was covered in a blanket of ice—except for the face.

“What the hell?” Rodriguez asked. “His face is, like, thawed.”

“The wife got a few texts from her husband’s phone this weekend,” Tom said. “I think he was using the man’s face to unlock his phone.”

“I thought you needed open eyes. Open and alive eyes.”

“Not with all phones.” Tom sighed. “I’ll call the body in.”

GRANITE BAY, CALIFORNIA

MONDAY, MAY 29, 12:05 P.M.

“Fuck.” DJ gripped the Civic’s wheel, yanking back into his lane after nearly veering into oncoming traffic. The loud blaring sound coming from his cell had scared him to death. It was one of those Amber Alert tones that made everyone race to silence their phones.

But a glance at the screen showed it was not an Amber Alert. It was an alert from the pink camera he’d set up in Smythe’s spare bedroom.

Fucking hell. The camera had picked up audio nearby.

He hit the alert flag on his locked screen and held the phone to his face to unlock it. What he heard when he tapped the app icon made his blood run cold.

“This window has a view of the Sokolovs’ street,” a man called out. “He’s got a camera set up. He’s been sleeping in here. Printers are here, too, including a 3D printer.”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“I found a lot of hair in the trash can. I think he shaved his hair off,” a second man answered.

“We’ll have to update the BOLO,” the first guy said.

“Already done.” There was a slight pause before the second guy said, “He can’t see the Sokolovs’ front door from here, but he could see all the vehicular traffic.”

“And the foot traffic. That spot, right there? I was standing there yesterday with another agent. We were in tactical gear, but . . . damn. We were just standing there.”

The second guy grunted. “You’re charmed, kid. Either he didn’t see you or he didn’t want to risk shooting, knowing we were all there. Come on. Let’s keep going.”

“Stay calm,” DJ muttered. “Stay calm. Think.”

He glanced in his rearview, his heart racing faster when he spied two cruisers behind him. They hadn’t been there before. Neither had the two nondescript black sedans.

You got sloppy, he snarled to himself. You stopped watching.

Because he’d thought himself safe. Because he’d disabled the Civic’s GPS.

How had they found him? A search of all the houses?

“Fuck.” Don’t panic. Think.

It didn’t matter at this point how they’d found him. They had. He needed to ditch this car. He looked around, searching for a way out.

His gaze fell on the box on the floorboard of the passenger side. It still had a few sticks. He leaned sideways and grabbed four sticks. They were bigger than the stick he’d used in the radio station package, but smaller than the ones he’d used in the package he’d dropped off at the courier, bound for the Sokolov house first thing in the morning.

It would be enough to cause a panic, giving him time to ditch the Civic and find another ride.

If not . . . he’d have to shoot his way out. He patted his pocket, relieved to find he still carried Nelson Smythe’s engraved lighter. He set the sticks upright in the cup holder and waited until he had the exact right moment.

He saw it a minute later when a city bus came to a lumbering stop in front of him. Just ahead was a strip mall.

Go, go, go. He floored the gas pedal, forcing a car out of his way so that he just slipped around the bus. He lit the first stick and started to count.

The fuse was two inches long, so he had five seconds.

He rolled the window down. Four, three.

He tossed the first stick out the window, unable to quell his grin when it exploded right on schedule.

People started screaming and cars came