Hollow Ground Read online

  Hollow Ground

  An Edgar Vincent Thriller Book 3

  Hannibal Adofo

  Hollow Ground

  by Hannibal Adofo

  www.hannibaladofo.com

  Copyright © 2019 Hannibal Adofo

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under the copyright reserved above, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  From The Author

  Also by Hannibal Adofo

  1

  Kelly Moretti, in all of her sixteen years, the age where kids get into trouble and make the worst of the worst decisions, knew full well how her parents would feel if they caught her with her tongue down her boyfriend’s throat.

  The two stumbled in through the back door of her home in the pristine neighborhood of Clarendon Hills, Illinois, and began tearing at each other’s clothes before they fell into the kitchen and then leaned against the kitchen counters to finish the job.

  “You can’t stay long,” Kelly said between hot and heavy kisses. “My mom and little brother will be home soon.”

  Aiden gave a cocky smile and ran a hand through the thick the curly locks that fell just past his ears. “I thought your parents liked me.”

  He edged her softly toward the marble countertops, lifted her, and placed her on counter nearest the microwave.

  “They do like you,” Kelly kissed him some more. “You just can’t stay long, okay?”

  Aiden groaned. “Come on, babe…”

  “No,” Kelly said, pulling herself back. “Five more minutes. Then you have to go. Okay?” She stared him deep in his eyes, her stern gaze telling Aiden the decision she made was final. But Kelly, as he was knows

  Aiden took a moment to cool himself down and expressed his frustrations through physical cues. Most of them meant for Kelly to notice. She’s always been a sucker for his puppy dog pouting routine. The smile he normally has turned down into a frown His eyes full of disappointment as if his world was going to come to an end. It moved her so much she thought, hell, what’s a couple of minutes?

  They began kissing again, moving from the kitchen upstairs to Kelly’s bedroom, both of them on fire with that heated and eager passion that young people in their prime were prone to experience regardless of the consequence.

  After some near misses with his zipper and a few of her buttons. True to her word, after five more minutes, Kelly pulled herself off Aiden, caught her breath, and then shooed her boyfriend out the window of her second-floor bedroom before sitting at her desk, plugging in her earbuds and listening to her mix of 80’s music. The rpm of the songs in sync with the beating of her heart. The smile that she has on her face as wide as her playlist.

  “Did you have a good night?” Monica Moretti asked her twelve-year-old son.

  Eric consumed with a game on his cell phone, barely heard a word of what she was saying; he adjusted the ball cap for his little league team. The mighty mights. A name that suited them well.

  “Did you see that play that Danny and I made?” Eric said, looking up from his phone with enthusiasm in his eyes.

  Monica felt a surge of pride as she recalled the key moments of her son’s game. “Of course, I was watching, sweetheart. You played your heart out!”

  “Just wish Dad could have been there.”

  “I know, honey. We got it all on tape, though. Dad will see it tonight when he gets home from the game.”

  Eric made a puttering noise with his lips—the same thing his father did in times of frustration or distress. “No one calls it tape anymore, Mom,” he said. “Everything is digital.”

  “That’s right, she said. You’re a smart kid, Eric.”

  “I just don’t understand why Dad couldn’t come,” he continued. “The game was so epic!”

  “He had to work, Eric. He tried to get out of it. Believe me. Dad’s just had to work extra hard lately. You know he wanted to be there at the game. He needs to close this deal, and then he’ll be home a lot more. I promise.”

  Monica was sure that her son knew his father was supportive. He came to nearly every game that Eric had played in the past. But tonight’s game was different because as his mother stated before, he had truly played his heart out and her husband had missed it.

  It is what it is. Monica thought.

  And she knew his father would be proud when he saw the video.

  Monica could still sense her son’s disappointment and decided to employ a surefire tactic. “How does a pint of ice cream sound, kiddo?”

  Eric lit up like Christmas had come a few months early. “You picked some up from the store?” he said, perching forward in his seat and tossing his phone to the side when he heard the mention of sweets.

  Monica nodded. “Mhmm,” she said. “Got that rocky road flavor that you like.”

  Eric shot his fists up in the air. “Heck, yes!” he hollered. “Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!”

  Monica held up a finger. “Get showered first and put your stuff away before you do. Got it?”

  “I will!” Eric said. “I promise! Thank you, Mom!”

  Monica reached behind and tickled her boy with a free hand as she made the final turn onto their driveway, beaming proudly and thanking the heavens for the family she had raised.

  Kelly Moretti threw the door open with such force it slammed against the opposite wall. She ran from her house, releasing a bloodcurdling scream and uncontrollably sobbing as she darted out into the center of the street as far and fast as her feet could carry her before she fell to her knees.

  Lights flickered throughout the neighborhood as her neighbors called mobile security who sent a cruiser to check out the commotion.

  Eddie, the security guard who worked the neighborhood watch of the private, gated community, saw the figure of a young woman rushing toward the headlights of his vehicle as he slowed to a stop and got out of the car. “Miss!” he said, having heard the girl’s cries from at least a block away. “Are you all right?”

  Kelly Moretti came into full view and stopped directly in front of the vehicle's headlights. Her hands, hair, and her clothes soaked with blood.

  She collapsed on his car, leaving bloodied handprints on the hood. “They’re dead! Oh, my God! They’re all dead! Please! Help me! God, please help me!”

  Eddie cradled the girl, the blood from her clothes transferring to his. “Where? Who? Who’s dead?”

  Kelly crooked a finger back in the direction of her house, and her eyes went wide, like the devil himself was waiting.

  “My family.” She said, through fits and uncontrolled sobs. “My mother… My brother. They’re all dead.”

  2

  Clarendon Hills was a peaceful and affluent comm
unity whose crime rate was so low it was practically nonexistent. Home to the well to do, residents of Clarendon Hills paid top dollar for privacy, exclusivity, and the comfort of living in a place where you never had to worry about running into a problem bigger than a parking ticket, where everything had a hefty price to purchase, and no one batted an eye at the amount.

  But that was before the robberies started.

  It started as minor vandalism, then a couple of vehicle break-ins, before coming to a standstill after the events at the Moretti’s played out an hour earlier.

  Vincent had become somewhat of a rock star after solving a string of bizarre crimes in his adopted town of Hollow Green. The crimes ranged from a series of brutal homicides to cover-ups by members of the state’s attorney’s office, who attempted to use Vincent as their patsy—but that was a story for another time.

  Vincent, now a revered and reputed investigator, found himself being recruited by towns outside of Hollow Green mainly to teach the lessons he had learned during his tenure, in the hopes that his brain and intuition would somehow rub off on other cops. Especially those with aspirations of being a detective.

  From television spots to radio interviews to the prospect of writing a book on his experiences, Edgar Vincent was currently in the midst of his fifth lecture for the week inside the banquet hall of Clarendon Hills Country Club.

  “I’ll leave you with this,” Vincent said from the podium with a gaggle of wide eyes staring back at him as he was wrapping up his speech and feeling anxious to make the trip home. “And this is a conversation I’ve had repeatedly with many of my colleagues.” He took a deep breath. “Crime prevention comes down to analytics, to evidence, to facts. That is how crimes are solved. That is how law enforcement wins. But to know when a subject is lying, to know where the truth lies and which evidence speaks to the facts is a matter of gut instinct. That’s right, ladies and gentleman—your gut. I speak to that inexplicable, age-old sense that tells us which door is the right one to go through, to know what a lie is and what is the truth. Rely on the facts but listen to yourselves. Listen to your instincts, and, I promise you—they will never fail you. Thank you so much for your time.”

  A round of applause erupted as Vincent moved away from the podium. He spent the aftermath shaking hands and exchanging cards with dozens of people either kissing ass or genuinely eager to meet him before he finally found an out and began making his way for the doors that led to the parking lot.

  Thank God that’s over.

  “Well done, detective,” he heard a voice from somewhere close to the exit.

  Vincent turned around and laid eyes on a barrel-chested man with a bushy beard, hands in pockets and an official look about him that all cops worth their salt seem to possess.

  “Thank you,” Vincent said, extending a hand. “I don’t believe I caught your name.”

  “Don Hawkins,” the man said, shaking Vincent’s hand. “I’m with the Clarendon Hills Sheriff’s Department.” He looked around. “Can I speak to you in private?”

  Vincent pondered the request, eager to return home for a late dinner and a phone call with his daughter—yet work always seemed to claim his time somehow.

  He motioned for Hawkins to lead the way.

  “Is this official Police business?” Vincent asked. “Or a social call?”

  Hawkins led him down a secluded hallway, away from the banquet hall and any curious ears. “I’m afraid this is all business,” he said solemnly. “There’s been a murder.”

  Of course.

  Vincent said. “When was this?”

  “About an hour ago,” Hawkins said. “About three miles from here, in one of our more affluent neighborhoods.”

  “I thought Clarendon was all affluent.”

  Hawkins shook his head. “Look,” he said, “I’m going to cut right to the chase. We have a situation right now, and our chief detective wants your eyes on it.”

  “Mine?”

  “Yes, sir. We all know you. We’re all aware of your reputation. She thinks it’d be foolish to not get a professional opinion from someone such as yourself while you’re in town.” Hawkins held up a hand. “But this is merely a request. That’s all. If you don’t have the time, we completely understand.”

  Vincent thought it over. It was late. He was tired. He had been running around Hollow Green and every neighboring town for the past few months, and his free time was limited to half-hour increments scattered throughout the day, usually spent making up for lost meals and an abundance of self-reflection that left him feeling the slightest bit down on himself.

  But at the end of the day Vincent was nothing if not a detective, and if someone said there was a murder that needed working—he was damn sure going to work it.

  He motioned for Hawkins to lead the way.

  3

  “We have two victims,” Hawkins said as he led Vincent toward the Moretti household. The entire area was cordoned off with tape, soaked with red and blue hues from the emergency lights, and alive with the hustle and bustle of police officers of different ranks and attire. “A mother and her son.”

  “Ages?” Vincent asked as they stepped under the tape.

  “Twelve and forty-three. Weapon used seems to be a serrated knife. There’s a daughter, Kelly, who saw everything. We have her waiting in one of the squad cars.”

  Vincent took note of the Cape Cod design of the house as they moved closer to the front door. “Let’s check the scene first. Then we’ll question her. How’s she holding up?”

  “Not well.”

  They walked inside as one of the uniformed officers lifted the yellow tape over their heads, Vincent picked up on the copper smell of blood from the foyer.

  Inside the house were several crime scene technicians—collecting evidence, taking pictures, and making sure that no one was tampering with anything.

  To the immediate right was the living room—plush and comfortable. To the left was the kitchen, and beyond that, another left, was the stairwell leading up the second floor—and both spaces were completely soaked with blood.

  In the center of the kitchen floor, and peppered with stab wounds, was a woman, her body contorted and curled in a fetal position.

  “Name?” Vincent asked as he examined her.

  “Monica Moretti,” Hawkins said as Vincent noted the trail of blood left behind her.

  “There was definitely a struggle,” Vincent said, seeing bloody handprints all over everything.

  “We got a lot of forensic evidence here.” Hawkins pointed to different places. “Handprints. Clothing fibers.”

  Vincent noted. “Usually helps. Anything missing from the home?”

  “Television,” Hawkins said. “Some jewelry. The furniture in the parents’ bedroom was overturned and the other rooms in the house were also ransacked. Maybe it was a robbery gone sour? Maybe our family got home earlier than expected and our suspect got rid of the witnesses.”

  Vincent took his time as he examined Monica’s body, taking into account that everything stretching from the kitchen to the stairwell—including the carpets, floors, and railings—were painted with arterial spray.

  The attack was both violent and unforgiving.

  Vincent was like a hawk, smelling, sensing, and feeling the space around him.

  He shook his head. “This isn’t a robbery.”

  He moved toward the stairwell, snagging a pair of shoe covers from one of the crime scene techs, who then showed him how and where to walk to get up the stairs to the second floor. It was painstaking—the entire carpet looked like a Jackson Pollock painting, with ruby-red hues as its base.

  “So the ransacking was a cover-up?” Hawkins asked Vincent, following close behind him.

  This guy is already thinking too far ahead.

  He’s not that seasoned.

  “Gotta check the other rooms first,” Vincent said. “But it’s possible.”

  He hung a left at the stairs. Two bedrooms were on his right. The bathroom was s
traight ahead—a blood smear curved directly out of it and to Vincent’s right, toward the bedroom closest to the stairs.

  He stepped over the blood trail soaked thickly into the fibers of the carpeted floors and moved toward the bedroom, needing a moment to adjust to the sight of the twelve-year-old boy stuffed into a bathtub that looked like it had been doused with red paint.

  Vincent was used to it. But it still got him upset. He had seen a lot of crime scenes in his career, and this one was starting to become the most heinous.

  He looked at the boy’s body, his arms covering his face in a defensive posture, a plethora of puncture wounds covering him from temple to toes, his eyelids wide open with a dilated set of pupils that had no doubt been witness to countless horrors in the last few minutes of the boy’s life.

  “Awful,” Hawkins shook his head. “Just awful…”

  Vincent examined the boy and then followed the blood trail leading to the bedroom near the stairs. “Odd,” he remarked.

  Hawkins perked up. “How so?”

  Vincent took another moment to calculate, sizing up the crime scene again to double-check his deductions. “Looks like the boy was in the bathroom when these people came into the house.”

  “People?” Hawkins said.

  “Two, I think. Depending on the entry point.”

  Hawkins tapped a foot on the bathroom tile. “Garage door was ajar when we arrived,” he said. “Kelly Moretti says that she fled the garage door and out into the street, but she only saw one attacker.”