Page 8 of What’s Left of Us (What Left #3)

“We’re really taking his word for this?” Jensen asks me, sitting in the passenger seat as we follow the route that Finley found. “You think there’s anything there?”

“I think we’re stupid if we don’t at least check it,” I tell him, turning when he points. We’ve turned off the highway and we’re into the backwoods. There’s been a couple random homes along the drive, all looking in different variations of run down, and this is a decent way from Vinny’s cabin.

Vinny. Jo. Alastair. Those three haunt my dreams, but there’s no one to talk to about this. I should talk to the married couple, but for the most part I’ve been so busy the last six days I’ve barely had time to sleep. Never mind anything else.

“Spend the night.”

“This is it,” Jensen says, adjusting in the seat to grab his gun. There’s three undercovers and a SWAT team behind us because despite Alastair’s admission, he couldn’t tell me if there was anyone else in the house.

“I didn't see anyone, but I could hear things,” he explains. “In the crawl space downstairs I could hear her steps. Only one set of feet from what I could tell. But it looked like someone else lived there once. Someone my size anyway. There was mail addressed to James Nunes.”

I’ve set Finley on that to do some digging. She should have something soon.

As we pull in, the cars surrounding us, my phone goes off. Jensen pauses as Soto’s name flashes across my screen, and I hit the speaker button instead of opening the door. “Soto.”

“James Nunes disappeared in early 1991,” she says, cutting right to the chase.

“Born February 27, 1968, he worked as a construction worker for the county and resided in Tallahassee until he was twenty. Then he moved to this address and that’s the last we see of him.

He married in 1988 and it looks like the couple constantly had martial troubles.

In 1990 Nunes lost his job and there’s no record of his employment after that. This is his last known address.”

“He had a wife?” I ask. “Where is she?”

“Diana Nunes,” Soto says through the phone. “She was a teacher down in Tallahassee and commuted to work. She quit over the summer between school years and never returned. She seems to have vanished as well.”

“If these people haven’t had activity since the 90’s how do they still have a house in their name?” Jensen asks.

“The bills are paid through direct deposit from James’ checking account each month,” she explains.

“Looks like autopay was set up some years ago and they are still getting payments in. The accounts were rerouted for payment in the late 90s through another company…” Her voice trails off, and I wait for several seconds before she continues. “Citrus Designs.”

“So they’re doing something,” I reason. “Look into the company.”

“I can’t tell you what they were doing” Soto explains.

“There’s no further work history, doctors appointments, social presence, nothing.

The bills are paid but these two are ghosts.

I’ve got it on my list right now to search Citrus Designs but just searching it so far pulls up nothing. It might be a shell company.”

I exchange glances with Jensen at that. “Time to find out why.”

I end the call as we hop out of the car, and I force everything except the matter at hand out of my head. The bulletproof vest attaches easily enough over my chest, Jensen already steps ahead of me. SWAT will handle the initial sweep, and we’re to follow.

At the moment, we don’t think there will be any other hostages here. Alastair made it sound like he was the only living person on the property besides Porscha. And she didn’t make it sound like anyone was here.

“You found my house?” she sing-songed over the call I made to the women’s prison. “It was always mine, you know. Be sure you don’t mess up the place.”

Before walking into the scene, I take stock of the people immediately around us.

There’s no direct neighbors to worry about, and after going over Alastair’s statements we’re fairly certain there won’t be anyone on the premises but we want to be sure.

We’ll do an initial sweep, and there’s an ambulance here on standby in case we do uncover someone hidden.

I have both Briggs and Soto notified in case we call with information that we need handled ASAP.

Truthfully, I’m hoping this wasn’t a dumping ground for Porscha and there aren’t going to be many, if any, bodies.

I just need to get all the pieces together so I can see a complete picture. Maybe then things will make sense.

“On my count,” the radio in my ear says, and I follow to take my position behind the SWAT team. They will take care of a preliminary sweep looking for hostages, and after that we can analyze.

That’s why Tyler is sitting at the woman’s prison with Gabe right now. If we find something crucial she’s going to question Porscha. It’s not a job I envy. The few times I’ve had to talk to her since her arrest, they haven’t been fun.

SWAT breaks down the rickety front door and the team moves in, guns at the ready and an outside patrol spreads out in case anyone tries to run off. I follow them inside, Jensen just behind me, and stare into the place that Porscha allegedly kept Alastair.

It smells like hell in here, like there’s layers of mildew and sewage inside the dwelling. It’s small, and SWAT makes quick work of the place. We barely have time to step into the kitchen area before the leader calls ‘clear’ and the dwelling is deemed safe.

Well, safe enough. Wrinkling my nose, I exchange a glance with Jensen who looks as excited as I feel. “It doesn’t stink like death.”

“But it does stink,” I agree. Reaching over, I fiddle with the light switch but nothing works. “If this is Porscha’s home base she didn’t take the time to care about cleanliness. See if we can find a breaker box to turn the lights on. If the bills are paid the electricity should work.”

“It can’t be Porscha’s primary residence,” Jensen says, looking around. “This place is disgusting. Porsche is a maniac but she looked well groomed when we caught her. Hair brushed, decent clothes, she even smelled nice. There’s no way she was cleaning up here.”

Nodding, I glance at the officer climbing back up a set of stairs. The whole house has a cramped feeling, with narrow hallways and low ceilings. The steps downward are unusually steep. “Agent, you’ll want to see this.”

He gestures for us to go down the steps, probably because there’s little to no room here, and Jensen follows behind me as I holster my gun.

As we descend the steps, a damp, rotting smell of mildew fills the air, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the wood down here is starting to decay.

It’s much darker, and I have to switch on my flashlight just to see.

We have to crouch at the bottom of the stairs—the ceiling down here barely clears six feet.

Before I can finish that thought, I’m distracted as the lights flicker on, a single exposed bulb dangling from a wire in the center of the room.

I switch off my flashlight and glance over at Jensen, meeting his eyes.

The room down here is full of weird shit. There are shirts, dresses, belts, a whole assortment of things hung on a rope across the ceiling that makes the space feel even smaller. “Trophies.”

Jensen nods as I glance back at him. None of the clothing is clean. There are dark marks on some of the items, rips in others. “From the victims we know about?”

I shrug. “We didn’t ever see any articles of clothing missing. Nothing was ever reported by the families.”

“But there’s… what? Twenty-something different pieces here? None of them are the same size. Look at the labels.”

I take his word for it, because stooping like this is already making my back ache. “There are at least twenty-two victims. Let’s bring forensics down here to photograph the space before anything is moved.”

My gaze settles on the only other thing down here, making my heart clench as I stare at it.

It looks like an old hospital bed, one of those dinosaurs that used to sit in peoples homes for end of life care.

But the frame is bent and dinged in odd places, and the mattress is missing.

There’s a piece of thin wood and foam like a yoga mat in its place, making me wrinkle my nose. This looks horrid.

Beside the bed is a hospital monitor, one of the machines I’ve seen doctors hook patients up to. There’s a broken needle and IV, and what appears to be a catheter. Across the fake mattress, there’s a large, dark stain.

“Boss,” Jensen says, drawing my attention. We’ve had gloves on since they kicked in the doors, and he picks something up off the floor before holding it up to me.

A knife. It’s got a coppery tint to it, and given the stain on the foam I wouldn’t be surprised if this is the weapon that wounded Alastair. He did relay several times both to his attending doctors and my agents that Porscha stabbed him. That’s what caused the infection.

Come to think of it, he had a blood soaked bandage when I first walked into the cabin.

At the time I was taking everything in, and I hadn’t realized that the injury was so close to his hip.

He never gave any indication when I walked in that the wound hurt so bad he couldn’t have sex but maybe he was running on pure adrenaline, trying to make the most of his time before the arrest.

A shiver dances down my spine at the words Alastair said when I walked in, and it’s played on repeat too many times in my dreams: Come over here, Agent. I don’t bite, unless you’re into that.

Death row or not, I am so screwed when it comes to that man. Like Jo and Vinny, I’ve fallen into his snare, and I’m not fighting hard enough to escape it.

“I think he removed these himself,” Jensen goes on, oblivious to the turmoil in my head.

“It fits with his statement,” I agree. “He said he escaped when she left him here.”