Free Breaking Creed by Alex Kava Page A

drug hit?”
    She pulled out the photo of the victim’s left shoulder blade and set it on top.
    “A tattoo? That’s your proof?”
    She pulled out the photocopy of the crumpled, bloody driver’s license and laid it next to the tattoo, as if they were cards in a deck and she was presenting him with a blackjack.
    “A driver’s license? Why are you wasting my time with this, Agent O’Dell? It looks like you have plenty of pieces to the puzzle, so you might be able to do what I sent you to do— investigate .”
    She stood still, watching him and trying to determine whether or not he already knew any of this. Had she jumped to conclusions?
    “You’re making a serious judgment on poor”—he sorted through the pages again to find the man’s name—“Trevor Bagley.”
    “Are you saying this isn’t a hit by a drug cartel?”
    “I have no idea, Agent O’Dell.” But he didn’t look up at her. There was something he still wasn’t telling her. “I suggest you go do your job and find out.”
    “Stan Wenhoff believes Bagley was restrained . . . tied down. There are ligature marks on his wrists and ankles. He thinks he spent some time lying on a mound of fire ants. His entire back”—she pointed out the photocopy—“is covered in tiny pustules.”
    Kunze winced. “And why don’t you think this is the work of a serial killer?”
    She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Crossed her arms over her chest.
    “I don’t know that for sure.”
    “That’s right, you don’t. I suggest you get back to work, Agent O’Dell.”
    When she didn’t move he looked up at her and pointed to the door.
    “Please shut it on your way out.” He pulled a file from his stack, shoving aside the pages she had placed on his desk and dismissing her with an exaggerated sigh of frustration.
    She turned and left.

15
    HARTSFIELD-JACKSON ATLANTA INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
    R YDER C REED never thought he’d actually be anxious to go back to searching for dead bodies. He was, however, certain he was finished with drugs. Hannah had promised this would be the last day, at least for a while.
    They had been at it for hours. He’d refused to let Grace work on the tarmac today because of the heat. So instead of inspecting checked luggage before it made its way to baggage claim, they were inside the international terminal. They had been walking up and down Concourse F as hundreds of passengers arrived and were processed.
    Creed kept Grace moving through the federal inspection station, along the carousels where the assortment of suitcases, duffel bags, backpacks, and boxes rode conveyor belts. He and Grace weaved through and circled around them and the security checkpoint, then they started the same route all over again.
    His badge and Grace’s vest gave them access to anywhere they chose to go with barely a nod or a glance from the U.S. Customs and Border Protection officers. By now, Creed and Grace were well known. Even Grace recognized some of her favorite CBP officers, especially those who had given her treats or stopped to pet her. Both were things Creed did not appreciate people doing with his dogs while they were working, but Grace was an exception. The high-energy Jack Russell needed more interaction to keep her from getting bored.
    In assignments like this, a dog handler’s top priority was to keep the dog engaged and motivated. A dog that tired from being in the same place and only ran through the motions would be antsy to leave and might miss an alert. The dog should never consider it work. It was supposed to be fun and interesting.
    Creed remembered his marine unit sergeant drilling it into him: “Make the search more exciting than pee on a tree.” Whatever the dog wants and needs, the dog gets.
    The marines even gave their canine comrades a military rank one notch above their handlers to reinforce that the dogs receive and deserve respect. It was something that Creed kept in the forefront of his mind, and something he made