The Collective Read Online Free
Author: Jack Rogan
over a speed bump. A spotlighted sign announced they were entering Manatee Village, which made Voss roll her eyes. Manatees were the ugliest, laziest creatures in the ocean, the couch potatoes of the sea. They weren’t cute like seals or sea lions—just big, fat things that lolled in the water like the cows they were named for, but without the benefit of providing milk or cheeseburgers.
“Who lives out here?” Josh asked.
“Good question,” Voss said.
But the exchange had been rhetorical. They both knew who lived in Manatee Village—a development of faux-adobe-looking single-family homes with inground swimming pools and lanais that let the bugs in but kept the alligators out. Old people who retired to Florida lived in condo and townhouse developments, and people born and raised in Fort Myers couldn’t afford homes like this. The last time Voss had been through the city’s downtown, she’d been left with the impression of a place teetering between resurgence and total collapse, and neither fate seemed more or less likely than the other.
No, the people in Manatee Village weren’t from here. Theywere young professionals, mostly with families, who had moved to Florida for the sake of their jobs, working with startup companies when the economy had been surging and now hanging on by the skin of their teeth.
As they drove through Manatee Village, half of the pastel faux-dobe homes had either FOR SALE or FORECLOSURE signs in front.
Blue lights flashed ghost shadows against the houses at the corner of Periwinkle Lane. Voss turned right and let the Mercedes roll toward the riot of vehicles jammed up and down the block. Nearest were the news vans—only two for now, but in the days to come there would be many more.
“I’m surprised nobody’s sent a helicopter yet,” Josh said.
Voss guided the rental car between the vans. “I’m not. It’s Fort Myers. Besides, it’s dark out. If someone’s going to pay for a chopper, it’ll be tomorrow when the sun’s up. They’ll probably dangle Nancy Grace from a bungee cord with a microphone and let her prey on the neighbors.”
“Stop. You’re scaring me.”
Neither of them smiled at the joke. When there were dead children involved, nothing was funny.
Just past the news vans, the road had been blocked by a pair of Fort Myers police cars parked nose to nose, each manned by a single uniformed officer. As Voss and Josh rolled up in the Mercedes, the cop on the left stood at attention, chin high, and strode over to them, rolling his shoulders like a boxer about to deliver the final blow.
“I’m sorry, ma’am—” the young cop began.
Voss flashed her ID. “Homeland Security. Let us through, please.”
The kid managed to keep his composure long enough to take a closer look at her ID, then nodded in deference. “Yes, ma’am.”
He stepped back onto the sidewalk even as he waved to the other cop to let them through. The man—a slightly older version of the tanned, fit kid who’d stopped them—jumped into his cruiser and backed it into a driveway to let them pass.
Voss almost expected Josh to make some innuendo-ladencomment about the young cop’s obedience, but he remained silent, staring straight ahead. She was glad. He might actually have made her laugh, and it wasn’t a night for laughter.
She guided the Mercedes past another Fort Myers police cruiser, then a couple of Florida State Police cars, and finally parked at the back of a cluster of unmarked sedans. The center of attention was 23 Periwinkle Lane, which looked indistinguishable from the other homes in the development. A brightly colored FOR SALE sign had been planted on the lawn, and Voss felt a pang of sorrow. The murdered family would never have another home.
FBI agents and state police investigators combed the yard with flashlights. In the open garage, gloved techs were going over a red Mustang like it had just crash-landed in Area 51. Half a dozen grim-looking men and women clustered in the
“Who lives out here?” Josh asked.
“Good question,” Voss said.
But the exchange had been rhetorical. They both knew who lived in Manatee Village—a development of faux-adobe-looking single-family homes with inground swimming pools and lanais that let the bugs in but kept the alligators out. Old people who retired to Florida lived in condo and townhouse developments, and people born and raised in Fort Myers couldn’t afford homes like this. The last time Voss had been through the city’s downtown, she’d been left with the impression of a place teetering between resurgence and total collapse, and neither fate seemed more or less likely than the other.
No, the people in Manatee Village weren’t from here. Theywere young professionals, mostly with families, who had moved to Florida for the sake of their jobs, working with startup companies when the economy had been surging and now hanging on by the skin of their teeth.
As they drove through Manatee Village, half of the pastel faux-dobe homes had either FOR SALE or FORECLOSURE signs in front.
Blue lights flashed ghost shadows against the houses at the corner of Periwinkle Lane. Voss turned right and let the Mercedes roll toward the riot of vehicles jammed up and down the block. Nearest were the news vans—only two for now, but in the days to come there would be many more.
“I’m surprised nobody’s sent a helicopter yet,” Josh said.
Voss guided the rental car between the vans. “I’m not. It’s Fort Myers. Besides, it’s dark out. If someone’s going to pay for a chopper, it’ll be tomorrow when the sun’s up. They’ll probably dangle Nancy Grace from a bungee cord with a microphone and let her prey on the neighbors.”
“Stop. You’re scaring me.”
Neither of them smiled at the joke. When there were dead children involved, nothing was funny.
Just past the news vans, the road had been blocked by a pair of Fort Myers police cars parked nose to nose, each manned by a single uniformed officer. As Voss and Josh rolled up in the Mercedes, the cop on the left stood at attention, chin high, and strode over to them, rolling his shoulders like a boxer about to deliver the final blow.
“I’m sorry, ma’am—” the young cop began.
Voss flashed her ID. “Homeland Security. Let us through, please.”
The kid managed to keep his composure long enough to take a closer look at her ID, then nodded in deference. “Yes, ma’am.”
He stepped back onto the sidewalk even as he waved to the other cop to let them through. The man—a slightly older version of the tanned, fit kid who’d stopped them—jumped into his cruiser and backed it into a driveway to let them pass.
Voss almost expected Josh to make some innuendo-ladencomment about the young cop’s obedience, but he remained silent, staring straight ahead. She was glad. He might actually have made her laugh, and it wasn’t a night for laughter.
She guided the Mercedes past another Fort Myers police cruiser, then a couple of Florida State Police cars, and finally parked at the back of a cluster of unmarked sedans. The center of attention was 23 Periwinkle Lane, which looked indistinguishable from the other homes in the development. A brightly colored FOR SALE sign had been planted on the lawn, and Voss felt a pang of sorrow. The murdered family would never have another home.
FBI agents and state police investigators combed the yard with flashlights. In the open garage, gloved techs were going over a red Mustang like it had just crash-landed in Area 51. Half a dozen grim-looking men and women clustered in the
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