No Trace

By C. R. Alvarez

Random commuters are picked up across Phoenix by a city bus. It thens heads north and disappears without a trace. The passengers on the bus have no idea where they are being taken or why they have been hijacked. They only know their lives are in jeopardy and they must find a way to escape.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jan 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9798350935578

Book preview

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No Trace

©2023, C. R. Alvarez

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

ISBN: 979-8-35093-556-1

ISBN eBook: 979-8-35093-557-8

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

CHAPTER FIFTY

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

He stood in the shadows, hat pulled low, hooded sweatshirt tight around his chin. It was cold out; the night chill of the desert. Stomping his feet quietly to keep them warm, he blew on his hands and rubbed them together. She had to be arriving soon. The wait had been long.

Sally hummed quietly to herself as she meandered her way through the long line of buses, sipping her coffee and bopping to music that played on her AirPods. Her large breasts swayed ponderously to the rhythm of her movements and her big butt jiggled as she dipped and danced.

Arriving at her bus, she stepped up the stairs and pushed her body into the sagging, cushioned seat. Pushing the button, the old diesel engine coughed to life and sat idling like a waking beast. The heater blew cold air, and she leaned back in her seat to wait for everything to warm up.

The man in black pulled the sweatshirt up over his nose to escape the black diesel fumes and then carefully made his way toward the front of the bus. Tapping on the glass folding door, he startled the voluptuous black woman. She gasped, her hand rising to lay on her bosom as if she could slow her pattering heart. Without thinking, she grabbed the handle and swung the door open.

Bus ain’t running yet. Whatcha doing in the yard? Her voice was deep and had a Southern sweetness to it.

The man climbed the three steps and raised a gun into her face. It had a slender plastic bottle attached to the muzzle; a simple, homemade suppressor. Before she could open her mouth and scream, he put a bullet into her lower forehead, right between her eyes. A black hole appeared leaking ruby-red blood. The light in her chocolate-colored eyes dimmed and, as she sagged forward, he caught her, stumbling under her massive weight.

Letting the pistol drop to the floor, he grabbed her shoulders and yanked her from the seat, twisting her toward the back of the bus. Placing his hands in her damp armpits, he dragged her to the back and then stopped before the bathroom door. He opened it and then heaving, shoving and swearing a bit, he wedged her up onto the toilet of the tiny cubicle and pressed shut the door so she didn’t tumble out.

For a long half-minute, he stood still, catching his breath and glancing around at the other buses. No alarms sounded, no shouts of distress at what had just occurred on Bus 82. All was quiet.

Moving back toward the front, he picked up his gun and then popped his head out the open doors and waved at the deep shadows. Like a wraith from a dark chasm, another man appeared and hopped onto the bus with him. He was also dressed in black and moved silently to the back, sitting down in the last seat, his arms crossed, his head angled forward.

The first man slid behind the wheel, pulling the seat forward several inches and grabbed the handle, letting the door slide closed. Without further delay, he gently prodded the clutch and gas pedal and the huge bus rumbled out of its parking space. He aimed it out of the bus depot and had it on the street rolling toward the East-Valley of Phoenix within seconds. There were thirteen stops he had to make and all had to occur like a choreographed dance. This was his bus now and every minute counted. The dispatcher had been paid well to ignore Bus 82 for two hours, but that did not mean someone else might wonder what was going on with the wayward bus. The rambling route he would take would at first cause confusion and then gradual panic as the morning wore on. Hopefully, he had enough time before a call to 911 occurred. The driver needed to be heading north with his precious load before there was a police alert. He could not fail his employer.

CHAPTER TWO

TYLER

It was a Thursday night and he had already had a long week. Tyler Cooper snugged up to the bar and took a sip of his cold beer. The liquid slid down his throat like a melting ice cube and he closed his eyes at the delicious taste of the amber liquid. His brown hair was tousled and needed a trim, his oval face claimed a two-day-old, unshaven look. Brown eyes peered across the bar at the country band setting up in the far corner and he smiled and nodded at his luck for live music tonight.

A diesel mechanic by trade, he loved the outdoors and looked forward to a long hike in the crisp fall air Saturday morning. His six-foot frame was tight muscle and slender from working the huge diesel engines and hours of running, gym workouts and hiking.

A young woman, maybe less than legal age, approached the bar and nudged his shoulder as she signaled the bartender. Ordering a beer, she then turned to him and gave a lovely smile in his direction.

Have you heard this band before?

No, but looking forward to it.

They’re real country but not that beer-bucket trashy sound. She tossed her honey-brown hair off her shoulders baring a long slender neck. I’m Jen. She offered her well-manicured hand.

Tyler. Her beer came and he flicked at his bill for the bartender to add it to his.

Well, Tyler… Her voice was low and had a slight lilt of an accent. Thanks for the beer. May I sit next to you?

Tyler slid over one seat and she came around the bar stool, leaning a hand on his thigh as she hopped deftly onto the cushion. They leaned into each other as the music erupted in a loud, bass-driven introduction and shared details of their lives.

She was a graduate of Arizona State hoping to continue her education with a grad-assistantship at the university to get her Masters in Psychology. Jen explained that the only way she could ever hope to be employable as a licensed psychologist was if she received her Masters and then Doctorate. It was a long and expensive road ahead of her.

Tyler liked listening to her energetic and hopeful view on her future and was soon enjoying two, three and four beers. Their hands touched each other’s arms and then thighs as Tyler explained that he was a mechanic at a good company and had come to the bar just to relax for the night.

The band played on, the night grew late and still, the couple talked and continued to drink. It was about one in the morning when they decided to go back to Tyler’s downtown apartment only a few blocks away.

Jen excused herself to freshen up in the bathroom and when she was in the stall, she took out the small package of white powder and, on the metal toilet paper top, dumped out an ample quantity. With a barrette from her purse, she separated the cocaine into four thin lines and then, using a small straw that came with the bag, quickly snorted them up into her nose; two lines in each nostril. The stimulating high shot right to her head and she leaned back, exhaling with relief. Cleaning up her nose area and washing out her mouth at the sink, she smiled at her pinpoint pupils. This was turning into a much better night than she had been paid for, she thought, as she made her way back to the bar and the handsome man.

The couple weaved their way down the dark city streets and into an older building, giggling and laughing at shared secrets in the only way drunks do. Tyler had to try two times to open his second floor apartment door causing them to laugh harder at their plight.

Crashing into the small living area, they were all lips, hands and flailing arms disrobing as the door swung shut. Tyler drew up Jen’s shirt catching the clothing on her hair clasp causing them both to laugh at their inebriation. He pushed her toward his bedroom, and they stumbled and collapsed onto the bed. His hands roamed freely, and she responded with unguarded lust.

Let me just go freshen up a little while you get us a couple more beers, okay? Jen lay a hand on his naked chest.

Sure. He flopped over and padded to the small kitchenette.

Jen got up, stood swaying for a minute until her equilibrium settled and then walked into the bathroom. She pulled the bag of coke from her open pants pocket and dumped a copious amount on the counter. Dividing it into four fat lines, she took her small straw and snorted each into her nose. The high in her cranking up with each line. A tightness in her chest made her gasp, but then she could only feel the explosive euphoria. The cocaine awoke her sexual urges and she rubbed her pubic ridge hard. If she didn’t stop touching her clitoris right this second she would probably orgasm and not even need Mr. Tyler, she thought with a giggle and a toss of her wavy hair. That was not her job though. She had to make him late for work.

Back in Tyler’s bedroom she pounced on his long body as he lounged, waiting for her. They kissed with increasing passion, bodies writhing with the release they both sought. Her coming brought a scream from within that also brought sharp gasping pain to her chest. It didn’t matter. She rode each peak over and over and then crashed facedown onto the mattress, spent like a rag doll thrown to the ground.

Tyler relaxed into the mind-numbing sleep of the drunk and spent afterglow of sex. Silence settled over the couple with only a faraway honk of a car disturbing the night.

CHAPTER THREE

Opening bleary eyes early the next morning, Tyler wondered why he had drank so much. With a slow tilt to his head, he saw that the girl, Jen, was still present in his bed and sleeping. He rolled over carefully and settled his feet on the floor as he sat up, holding his pounding head.

Damn, it’s gonna be a long day, he muttered and then jostled the woman to get her moving.

Staggering into the bathroom, he stared at his haggard face and then started the shower. Five minutes later, he pulled on jeans and a work t-shirt and then called to his bed partner.

Jen, I’ll make coffee. You gotta get moving. He called loudly and then went into the kitchen to get the coffee brewing.

Taking a box of cereal from the shelf, he opened it and munched on a handful as the coffee dripped into his cup. Grabbing two Advil, he popped them into his mouth as he swigged a gulp of hot coffee. Cocking his head, he realized he still didn’t hear the shower running.

Walking back in the bedroom, he went to the woman’s side of the bed and jostled her hard. She didn’t move or moan. He bent down and called to her.

Jen! Shoving hard on her shoulder.

Still no movement. Pulling the bedcover off, Tyler pushed her honey brown hair off her face and as he did, his fingers caressed her face. It was cold. A horrible feeling dropped his stomach and he pressed two fingers into her neck. Nothing but cold.

Tyler staggered backwards and fell on his butt as realization took hold. Like a crab on a beach, he scrambled backwards until he hit the wall and then covered his mouth in horror. The woman in his bed was dead. He didn’t even know her last name.

Holy Shit… He whispered and sat frozen in horror.

It was at least five minutes later before he roused himself and looked around for his phone. Finding it on his nightstand, he fingered 911 and then just stood there, staring at the dead woman.

911. What is your emergency?

She’s dead… he whispered in shock.

Sir, what did you say?

The woman I brought home from the bar is dead…in my bed…Holy Shit! She’s fucking dead. Tyler couldn’t stop himself from rambling.

Sir, I have your phone number as 623-555-1745. Is this correct? Are you calling from your home?

It’s apartment 3D, 17543 Jefferson Street.

Okay, I have dispatched a car and ambulance to your address. They should be there in five minutes.

Okay… Tyler whispered and let the phone fall from his hands as if they had suddenly gone numb. His legs collapsed and he fell back against the wall once again.

He had no idea how long he sat before there was banging at his door. Staggering to his feet, he moved like a robot to the door and flung it open. Two paramedics, two uniformed officers and a detective entered without hesitation.

Where’s the woman?

Tyler just pointed at his bedroom and then went and plopped down on his couch. This was crazy. Impossible. How could this woman he had just picked up in a bar be dead? How? Why?

The detective returned to the living room and stood before the stunned man. He had a small notebook in his hand and a stub of a pencil. Tyler looked up slowly and gazed, without seeing, at the man standing before him.

My name is Detective Shroeder. The man wore an inexpensive grey suit, white shirt, open at the neck and worn, black soft-soled shoes. He waited for the man to respond. After thirty seconds, he cleared his throat.

What is your name? The detective pressed, flicking a dark, brown lock of hair from his long face.

Tyler Cooper.

Can you tell me what happened?

Tyler slowly shook his head. I met her at the Mark 5 bar last night. We talked ’til the band closed down and then came back here. She was fine. How can she be dead? Bewilderment and denial filled his voice.

What’s her name?

Jen.

Jennifer, what?

I have no idea. Tyler mumbled in misery. He had brought a woman home, fooled around and fallen asleep. He didn’t want to know her last name. It was a one-night stand. Nothing more.

So just a pick-up?

Tyler could only nod miserably. This was a nightmare. He had truly enjoyed this woman’s attention and yet didn’t even know her last name. He glanced up as a stretcher and medical examiner entered with two more officers. The detective bobbed his head toward the bedroom.

Just sit right there, Mr. Cooper. The detective motioned for one of the officers to stand by the door and then disappeared into the bedroom.

Detective Michael Shroeder stared at the dead woman as the coroner checked her vitals, moved her head and then using a tiny pencil-like flashlight flicked it up her nose and into her mouth. He stood back up and glanced at the homicide detective. He gently rolled the woman onto her back and lifted each arm, studying her skin at her inner elbow joint and then checked her legs and feet. He straightened back up and pressed his lips together.

Drug overdose resulting in a heart attack would be my first guess. She has track marks in between her toes and her septum has holes in it as big as the ocean. No bruising around her neck or petechiae in her eyes. Her teeth are blackening so I’d say a meth addict. Time of death probably around three.

The guy just picked up the wrong hooker, then?

Won’t know for sure until I do an autopsy, Mike. He stopped and glanced at the dead woman. But I think the guy has just shit luck.

Detective Shroeder nodded as his phone rang. Glancing at the name, he excused himself as he answered. Why are you calling? he demanded as he walked outside the apartment into the shadowy hall.

What the hell is going on? You’re at the address of one of our pick-ups.

No shit! The hooker you hired is dead in his bed.

There was a long silence and then the voice cleared his throat. We need that man.

Yes, I know. Mike wanted to curse at the man on the other end but held his tongue. He was being paid very good money for this pickup. And he could not screw it up.

The hooker that had been hired was supposed to make Tyler Cooper late for work, not die in the bed. He was only supposed to monitor the pickups for the next couple hours and make sure everyone got on. If there was a problem with one of the people on the route, he would dispatch himself to that stop and make sure the passenger got on Bus 82. Simple idea, but already there was a problem.

The bus will be there in twenty minutes.

Don’t know if I can release the guy in twenty fucking minutes. Mike growled, losing his patience.

Make it happen. There was a void of silence as the man hung up.

Mike pocketed his phone and walked back into the apartment. He moved back toward the bedroom where the EMT’s were zippering the dead woman into a black bag.

Techs are on the way to fingerprint the scene.

Is that necessary? Mike blurted before he could stop himself.

You okay, Mike? The medical examiner placed a hand on his arm.

Yeah, yeah. Sorry. The detective shrugged knowing that the whole apartment would be analyzed, dissected and fingerprinted. It was standard operating procedure, but he didn’t have time for that. Or rather Tyler Cooper didn’t.

Mike walked back into the living room where the man still sat. He stared at the shocked look on his face and then sat gently down in front of him.

We believe your girlfriend of the night was a hooker and died from an overdose and heart attack.

No…No…That’s not what she said. Tyler glanced miserably at the man. She said she was a student at the university.

Her fingerprints that we ran say otherwise, Mr. Cooper.

Huh?

She’s a hooker. Three priors and one outstanding warrant for breaking and entering.

No…No, that’s not right.

I’m sorry. Mike paused and waited for the man to look at him. The crime scene geeks are on their way to fingerprint your apartment and make sure we aren’t missing anything. In the meantime, we need a breathalyzer, blood draw and your fingerprints. Are you okay with all that?

Tyler bobbed his head in defeat, his face showing only misery and disbelief. He was prodded and told to blow hard, then an EMT took a sample of his blood. Next, he held out his hand for a scan of his fingerprints. All of it right there in his apartment where a dead woman lay. She was dead, deceased, gone, perished. How could it be?

Mike was breaching about a dozen different rules not taking him to the