I nodded. “I’ll check the garage and backyard.”
Tom took the stairs while I opened the garage. An old school black Jeep was parked inside. Wherever Ian went, he hadn’t taken his car.
I strolled along the garage, which was jam-packed with hardware, including weapons. Everything appeared untouched. This was not your run-of-the-mill burglary case. If someone hurt or took this man, they didn’t want anything that belonged to him, just the guy himself.
“Coast is clear upstairs. All the rooms are empty,” Tom shouted from the second floor.
I ambled from the garage to the balcony doors. I stopped cold when I noticed what should have stood out to me from the beginning—a slight gap in the glass door. It was open. Rather than using the handle and fucking up potential fingerprints, I curled the fabric of my sleeve over my fingers as I pushed the door gently open. The garden’s layout was simple. It was a square space with a patch of grass and some outdoor furniture arranged randomly on one side.
And smack in the middle of the garden, arms and feet poked out of the ground.
I repeat—human feet.
Well, shit.
“Tom,” I barked, “Don’t come out here. And don’t touch anything on your way down.”
He knew the drill and it was unlikely that he would, but I wanted to err on the safe side. I flicked my phone, about to call 911. And Tom, who never was very good at taking orders, stood beside me five seconds later, his face screwed in repulsion and agony as the horror show in front of us became clear to him.
“I told you not to come here,” I hissed out. No part of me desired to see him emotionally destroyed by this.
“And you thought I’d listen? I wanted to see wha… Oh, shit.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
There was a long beat in which he digested what had happened.
“They half-assed the burial.” He swallowed.
“Or deliberately botched it.”
Tom took his phone out and called 911, and our local FBI friend, Chris. This was definitely retaliation.
The arms and legs were purple and blue—and unmistakably those of an elderly male. Ian had been this way for over twenty-four hours.
“Feds and the police are on their way,” Tom announced, turning around and bracing his hands on his knees. He sounded faraway. Deep in thought. I imagined it was hard for him. I liked Ian, too. But it was never a difficulty for me to say goodbye to people. I’d done it more times than I could count. Moving between foster homes, institutes, units. Death, specifically, did not faze me in the least. It was just another station in life. The last one, to be exact.
Tom could still make connections. Even friendships.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Tom asked. I felt his shoulder brush against mine as he joined me near the shallow grave. He seemed to be alternating between wanting to throw up to wanting to do something about what we’d just discovered.
“Too soon to tell,” I ground out, shoving my hands into my front pockets. “But the initial signs are there. The burial method is haphazard. Whoever did this wanted to send a message, not conceal a body. And unless we find strangulation or bullet wounds…well, he could’ve been buried alive.”
Chechen burial.
Parts of the body were visible for all to see—on purpose. The person was normally buried alive, for extra torture. This was something I was familiar with, as I had worked in the Los Angeles area with Ian himself before retiring, and the local Bratva was fond of getting rid of people that way.
I also knew this from my days in Chicago, when the Italians and Russians tried to slaughter one another on a weekly basis.
“This is bullshit,” I gritted out. “I’m sorry. I know you were close.”
Iwassorry. I just wasn’t sure what that meant.
“You want to tell me it stirs nothing in you?” Tom pushed my chest suddenly, baring his teeth. He was angry. He needed to redirect that anger at someone. And right now, that someone was me.
I didn’t know what else there was to be said. I had not wished death upon Ian Holmes. I didn’t wish death upon most people, despite my misanthropic tendencies.
“That’s it?” Tom spat out.