High Risk by G.K. Parks (thriller book recommendations txt) 📗

me. From here, he turned to look into the rear of the armored truck. It wasn’t supposed to be that easy to get inside one of those. “Two guards. That means there must have been another one or two inside the truck. Did they make the 9-1-1 call?”

The officer shrugged. “Ask the sarge.”

Brad nodded and led the way past the bodies to Sergeant Chambliss, who stood just outside the police tape. He sipped coffee from a paper cup and rubbed his eyes. When he saw us approach, he drained his cup and handed the empty to a nearby rookie.

“Are you sure you’re first responders?” Chambliss glanced at his watch. “You’re a couple hours too late.” He looked down at my partner’s softball pants. “At least tell me we kicked some firefighter ass.”

“I don’t know. We only made it three innings.”

“Damn. Nothing good’s gonna come from today.” Chambliss blew out a breath. “All right. So here’s the kicker. The dispensary,” he pointed to the building surrounded by crime scene tape, “is protected by Moonlight Security. The night guard got off duty at eight a.m. The armored truck pickup came a little late today, after the night watchman had already gone home. We don’t know anything yet, but that’s one hell of a coinkydink. It’s a good thing you detectives are here to figure that out, huh?”

I narrowed my eyes at the sarcasm, but Brad let it roll off his back. “What about the armored truck company and the guards inside?” he asked.

“They’re all dead.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Brad said. “If two of the armored truck guys went in to collect the money, what happened to the guards who remained inside the truck?”

Chambliss swallowed. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

Fourteen

I checked the inside of the shop, but nothing looked like it had been taken or disturbed. The sign on the desk insisted cash-only, and given the nature of the shop, I wasn’t surprised. According to LockBox, the truck company, cash was picked up by armored truck every Saturday before the start of business. They had several other dispensaries on their route, along with other cash-only businesses. By the time they made it here, they should have had close to an entire pallet in the back of the truck, roughly one hundred million dollars, except the original truck had broken down. So LockBox sent an empty truck to make this pickup while they emptied out the other truck and had it towed for repair.

“Our killer has the worst luck ever,” Fennel said, stepping into the main room. “Did you find anything?”

“Nope. Nothing’s been disturbed. Do you think this could be another inside job? I contacted Moonlight Security, and Mr. McFarland told me Jonathan Gardner used to work as a night watchman here before he got transferred to Star Cleaners. That gives us a solid connection.”

Fennel bit his lip and stared into the room he just came from. “The dispensary has a ton of security cameras. They’re all working. Two LockBox guards came in, the owner opened the safe, they unloaded it onto two separate, locked carts, and they wheeled it out of the shop.”

“Okay, so the shooter didn’t enter the store. He’s not an idiot.”

“No, I guess not.” But a question itched at Fennel’s mind.

“You want to know how the alarm got triggered if everything appeared to be on the up and up.”

He pointed at me. “Bingo.”

“What about the owner? Could he have hit the alarm when he saw the shooter?”

“I haven’t found any big red button that says press in case of an emergency, but there might be one.” He got onto his hands and knees and peered underneath the counter. “Anything on the walls?”

“No.” And now I wondered how the alarm had gotten tripped. “Let’s have someone bring Mr. McFarland in for questioning, along with the night watchman. Two businesses protected by Moonlight Security were hit in the last two days. That has to mean something.”

“Besides the fact they have lousy security?” Fennel stood up and wiped his palms on his pants. “Have you checked out the truck yet?”

“Just a brief glance. CSU’s checking for GSR and blood.” I marched out of the fragrant shop and knelt down beside one of the tarps. The medical examiner wasn’t in any hurry to move the bodies. I didn’t know if that was because he slept in on Saturday mornings or if it was because he was short-staffed on account of one of his assistant’s watching the softball game.

Beneath the tarp, blood had congealed around the man’s head and chest. Just like Jonathan Gardner, he’d been shot in the face at close range. But unlike Gardner, this guard had made a move for his gun. The strap was open, and his weapon was missing. According to the crime techs, they’d found it a few inches from his body. It had recently been fired, with two bullets missing from the clip.

“The vest would have saved his life if the asshole hadn’t shot him in the head,” Fennel said from behind me. He pointed to two bullet holes in the guy’s shirt with the silver slugs poking out from beneath the torn material.

“At least he tried to shoot back.”

Fennel studied the ground, careful to maneuver around the markers, but he didn’t find any blood drops. At least none that had been marked. “Looks like he missed.”

He went to the second tarp, this one much closer to the rear of the truck. “Same thing here. Two shots to the chest. One to the head.”

“Nice grouping.”

“You’re thinking our killer’s been trained?”

“Maybe.” I didn’t know what to think, except this had to stop before more people died. I rubbed my mouth, replaced the tarp, and said a silent prayer. Were these two robbery-homicides connected?

While my partner spoke to the officers and crime techs, I walked