A deputy trudged over. “What did you find?”
“Shell casings.” Bree took out her phone and photographed the casings and their relative positions. She recorded their GPS location with her phone. Finally, she used tweezers to put the casings in an evidence bag.
Straightening, she shoved the bag into her pocket. She had evidence that a gun was fired at the cabin. Now all she needed was a body and a shooter.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Monday afternoon, Matt shook snow out of his eyes as he lifted the dog out of the SUV. “Easy, Brody. You sprained your shoulder. The vet said no more jumping down out of the truck.”
Matt was going to need a ramp. The shepherd weighed ninety pounds, and he did not like being carried. Matt set him carefully on the driveway. Brody limped into the house.
As they entered the kitchen, Greta whined and dug at the door of her crate. After Brody was settled in his dog bed, Matt grabbed a leash and freed Greta. The black dog jumped on Matt and lunged for Brody.
“Fuss.” Matt commanded her to heel, but she was too excited and full of energy to be obedient. He snapped the leash to her collar. “Brody can’t play today.”
He took her into the bedroom and changed into running clothes. When he turned around, Greta was chewing something.
“What do you have?” Matt pried open her mouth and extracted a chewed-up sock. “That was fast.”
He opened the garbage can with the foot pedal and tossed the soggy mess into it. Then he grabbed a jacket, gloves, and a hat and led her from the house. Luckily, the snow wasn’t yet accumulating on the roads, and a half-hour run settled her down.
For now.
Matt returned to the house, gave Greta a chew bone, and showered. He dressed and spent the next half hour reviewing Eli’s social media history. He had accounts on both Facebook and Twitter. Eli’s Facebook page saw little activity—a few pictures a week of Eli with friends, grinning selfies, an occasional random dog picture. The Facebook account was very tame.
Matt switched to Twitter. A few posts in, he double-checked to make sure he had the right Eli Whitney. The profile photo was the same person, but his Twitter account was completely different. Unlike the three-a-week, PG-rated Facebook posts, Eli posted to Twitter multiple times a day, more than enough to provide a sense of his daily activities. Matt scrolled through photos. Eli clearly liked to party. Matt sighed at a photo of Eli chugging a beer bong.
Didn’t Eli know future employers would look at these pictures?
Matt scrolled to Eli’s weekend activity. He made fun of a girl with crooked teeth and posted a pic of a guy with saggy pants bending over to pick up his backpack at a bus stop on campus. Eli captioned that photo ANOTHER EPISODE IN THE PHIL MCCRACKEN FILES. In yet another picture, Eli mocked a homeless man sleeping in a doorway.
So, Eli was a good grandson, but he was also juvenile, and he could be an ass. Saturday evening, he posted a photo of himself doing shots, pregaming for a party at an address on Oak Street. Anyone who followed his Twitter feed knew where Eli had been going on Saturday night. Matt made a note to verify the location. Eli even posted when he called for a rideshare. No one needed to stalk Eli. He practically posted his agenda.
Matt’s phone rang. The display read SCARLET FALLS PD.
He answered the call. “Matt Flynn here.”
“This is Detective Stella Dane returning your call.”
Matt had left her a message earlier. “Thank you. I wanted to talk to you about Eli Whitney.”
“How do you know Eli?” she asked in a wary voice.
“His grandmother is a friend of the family. She asked me to look into the case,” Matt said. “I used to be a sheriff’s deputy with Randolph County.” Local agencies often cooperated, but Matt didn’t remember ever working with Detective Dane.
“I’m at the station now if you want to drop by,” she said. “I’ll be here for about an hour.”
“I’ll be there in fifteen.” Matt returned a tired Greta to her crate. Brody was asleep on his dog bed, his pain meds clearly kicking in. “Be back soon,” he said to the dogs on his way out. “Be good.”
At the Scarlet Falls Police Station, the desk sergeant recognized Matt from his days at the sheriff’s department. Matt flashed his ID, but the sergeant waved it away. “Go on in.”
Matt passed a few empty cubicles. Detective Dane looked up from her computer as he approached. She was tall with black hair and assessing cop eyes. Despite her heavy sweater, she looked cold. She wrapped both hands around a steaming mug. A half-eaten deli sandwich sat on a plate in front of her.
He held out a hand and introduced himself. “Call me Matt. Thanks for agreeing to speak with me.”
“Stella.” She half stood to shake his hand. “I asked around. You check out.” Sitting, she waved at her food. “Excuse me for eating.”
“Please go ahead. Long day?”
She sighed. “Yes. I’d been working a string of residential burglaries nonstop before I caught the Whitney case.”
“How did the search go this morning?”
Instead of answering, she asked, “What do you know about Eli’s disappearance?” Then she took a bite of her sandwich and waited for him to respond.
Matt settled into the chair next to her desk. “That he left a party late Saturday night and never got home, and that he used a rideshare app.”
She swallowed. “The rideshare driver he called after the party said he was a no-show.”
“Was the party on Oak Street?”
“Yes.” She gave him the house number, which matched the address Eli had given on Twitter. “The party was large enough that the street was clogged. When Eli left, he summoned his ride from a block away, according to the rideshare app GPS.” She wiped her hands on a napkin, picked up her phone, and pulled up a map. “Here is the house.” She moved the screen slightly. “Here’s where he requested a ride.” She moved the screen an additional two blocks. “And here’s where his cell phone was found last night on the banks of the Scarlet River.”
“That’s why you had the dogs out this morning.” Matt sat back.
“Yes.” The detective drank her coffee. “The lake is frozen, but the river is only partially iced over. If he fell in . . .”
Then he’s probably dead.
“Did you hear about the body found in Grey Lake today?” Matt asked.
“I did, but the ME removed the remains from the scene before I could get there.” Stella zoomed out on her map. “The body’s location is a fair distance from the riverbank where the cell phone was found. I don’t see how the current could have carried the body that far. Then again, we didn’t find anything at all. I had three dogs out there. If there was scent, they would have located it. Maybe the boy was never on the riverbank. Maybe the phone was stolen or dropped there.”
“My K-9 found the body in Grey Lake.”
Stella’s gaze snapped up from her phone. “But you’re not a deputy anymore.”
“That’s correct. I was just helping out.”
Stella took in that bit of information with a slight lift of one brow. “Then you know the body can’t be ID’d visually.”
“Yes. He doesn’t have a face. Does his grandmother know about the body?” Matt didn’t want to think of Mrs. Whitney getting the news that her grandson had died, let alone learning about what had been done to the body.
“I don’t know,” Stella said. “I took over the case late last night, after the cell phone turned up. I tried to reach Mrs. Whitney early this morning, when we started the search, but she didn’t answer her phone. I plan to drive to her house as soon as I hear from the ME. His family doctor is here in town, so Dr. Jones will have his medical records.”
“If it’s Eli, please let me make sure someone is there when you tell Mrs. Whitney. He’s her only family.”
“I will. Thank you.”
“What other leads have you found?” Matt realized she’d had the case for less than twenty-four hours, but the first day of the investi
gation was critical.
“None. We canvassed the neighborhood of the party. No one remembers seeing him. Eli lives in an apartment on the north side of the university. Two of his roommates were home when I stopped by. Eli’s best friend, Christian Crone, was sick in bed during the party. He has no alibi. Dustin Lock was with his girlfriend all night. The girlfriend verified his story, but she lives alone, and no one saw them at her place. So, take that for what it’s worth. I didn’t get any glaring sense that Christian, Dustin, or Dustin’s girlfriend were lying, but you never know. The third roommate, Brian O’Neil, is visiting his mother. He hasn’t been around all week. I called his cell number and left a message last night. He hasn’t responded.”
“What did you think of the roommates?” Matt asked.
“None have criminal records.” The detective pursed her lips. “They’re all good-looking, athletic, popular. They like girls and partying more than going to class.”
“You’ve just described a quarter of the university population.”
The detective snorted. “You’re probably right.”
“Have you searched Eli’s phone?”
“Yes. I looked through his recent calls and texts. Didn’t see anything abnormal. No threats or conflicts. He’s a party boy and has a mean sense of humor. Yet he seems to be very attentive to his grandmother.”
“No one is perfect,” Matt said.
“Have you seen his social media accounts?”
“You mean Twitter?” Matt asked.
“Yeah.” She frowned.
Matt shrugged. “Clearly, Eli can be an ass, but there’s nothing violent there. I suspect he thinks he’s hilarious.”
Stella nodded. “Mostly he texts back and forth with his roommates. There’s some communication with a young woman named Sariah Scott. From her texts with Eli, she doesn’t seem as hung up on him as he is on her. She referred to him as ‘cute but immature.’ Eli invited her to go to the party with him, but she turned him down.” Stella finished her sandwich and washed it down with the end of her coffee.
“How do you think his phone ended up on the riverbank?”
“I don’t know.” Stella shook her head. “But I’ve found no sign of foul play. I heard from multiple people that once Eli starts drinking, he doesn’t know when to stop. I’m more concerned that he passed out somewhere in the cold or fell in the river.”
Either way, Matt thought there was a fair chance that the body Brody had found was Eli.
CHAPTER NINE
It was three in the afternoon before Bree headed back to the station. She turned on her wipers to clear the snowflakes falling on her windshield. She had questions for Alyssa. Lots of them. She made a mental game plan for her interview, but her head felt heavy. Having missed lunch and spent too many hours in the cold, she’d burned every calorie from her protein bar. The twenty-minute drive seemed longer. She parked behind the sheriff’s station and went inside. Her administrative assistant, Marge, showed up in the doorway of her office before Bree even got her jacket off.
Marge was about sixty, with dyed brown hair and drawn-on eyebrows. In her cardigans and sensible shoes, she looked like everyone’s grandma—a deceptive appearance. On the outside she might be soft all over, but inside, she was pure titanium.
Marge had a steaming bowl in her hands. “I assume you haven’t eaten.”
“You are correct.” Bree took off her jacket and Kevlar vest and hung them on a peg.
“Sit.” Marge set the bowl on her desk. She held up a hand. “I know you’re in a rush to question that girl, but you’ll be sharper if you take ten minutes to eat.”
“I’m not going to protest.” Bree sat behind her desk. “I’m starving. Thank you.”
“You are very welcome.” Marge reached into the pocket of her cardigan and produced three small packages of crackers. She handed them over. “Do you want coffee or water or both?”
“Both would be wonderful.” Bree picked up the spoon and started on the soup, which was vegetable beef. She booted up her computer and ate while it chugged to life.
Bree opened a pack of crackers and crumbled them into her soup. “Where is Alyssa?”
“Interview room two,” Marge said.
“Has she eaten?” Bree worried about the girl. She looked malnourished. Had Rogers been right? Was the girl a drug addict? She hadn’t had any of the other physical signs: bad skin, rotted teeth, nervous tics. But homelessness and drugs often went together.
Marge raised an offended brow. “Of course I fed her. I gave her soup and a sandwich. She could also use a shower and clean clothes, but we don’t have a locker room for women in this building.”
“We need to fix that,” Bree said between spoonfuls. She waved at a pile of folders containing job applications on the corner of her desk. “Some of the deputies I intend to hire will be female.”
Marge smiled. “I don’t know how you’ll squeeze another locker room into this tiny building. We’re already busting at the seams.”
It was true. The men’s locker room didn’t even have room for all the men. The facilities hadn’t been upgraded since avocado-colored carpet was trendy. The sheriff’s station resembled the set of a 1970s cop show, all worn wood, cracked linoleum, and lopsided file cabinets.
Marge’s face turned thoughtful. “Maybe that’s how we’ll get our building upgraded.”
Bree opened a second pack of crackers. “I’m not following?” Bree’s brain was fully engaged with her new case.
“We can’t discriminate against female applicants, and we also can’t deny them equal access to facilities.”
“Marge, you’re a genius. How do we make it happen?” Bree had no illusions. Her administrative assistant knew way more about local politics than she did.
“You need to hold more press conferences, especially when you have a big case. The voters need to see you.”
“I hate politics almost as much as I hate being on TV.”
“That’s part of what makes you a good sheriff.” Marge’s gaze hardened. “But this county is still a man’s world, and they will stick together. You need the public on your side to even out the power dynamic. You say you don’t like politics, but keep in mind that you work for the people. They deserve to hear the truth from you before rumors get the information all wrong.”
“Thanks for the reminder.”
“Anytime. I’ll also work on a list of people you need to schmooze to get the building renovated.”
Bree groaned, and Marge chuckled on her way out of the office. By the time she returned a few minutes later, Bree had shoveled down the entire bowl of soup.
Marge set down a cup of coffee and a bottle of water. “What are you going to do with the girl after you question her?”
“I don’t know. Any ideas?” Bree pulled out her keyboard tray. On her desktop computer, she accessed Alyssa Vincent’s motor vehicle records. Her driver’s license photo was a match, and her driving record was clean. She’d never received a single ticket. An old 4Runner was registered in her name.
Marge shook her head. “We don’t have many homeless shelters nearby.”
“There’s one in Scarlet Falls.” Bree stood and stretched her back. Now that she’d eaten, her head felt clearer.
“Do you want me to call and see if they have space?”
“No.” Bree wanted to keep tabs on the girl. Alyssa was a witness, but she could also be a suspect. “I don’t know what I want to do with her yet. Thanks for the food.” Bree finished the water and took her coffee with her. She walked down the wood-paneled hallway toward the interview and conference rooms. She stopped in the break room and bought two packs of M&M’s and a Coke from the vending machine. Carrying them, she opened the door to the second room and went inside.
Alyssa sat at the table, her head resting on her arms. Her parka hung on the back of her chair. She lifted her head and blinked at the light. A line creased the side of her face.
“I can’t believe I fell asleep.” She rubbed her eyes. �
��I went from shaking to passed out in a few minutes.”
“The body releases stress hormones during a traumatic event. They rev you up enough to get through the event. But when it’s over, and they’re depleted, you crash.”
Instead of sitting on the other side of the table, Bree sat next to her and faced her—so she could better read her body language. She put down her coffee and set the Coke on the table in front of Alyssa. “Do you want water, coffee, or tea instead?”
“No, this is fine. Thanks.” Alyssa popped the top off the can.
Bree fished the M&M’s out of her pocket. She slid one bag across the table to Alyssa and opened the other. They sat and ate candy for a minute. Bree took her time settling into the interview. Alyssa wanted to talk. Bree could sense something ready to burst out of her.
Alyssa spun the pack of M&M’s around on the table in a slow circle.
“This interview will be recorded. That way I can go back and watch it for details I might have missed.”
Alyssa sniffed, and her head bobbed in a short nod.
Bree reached back and flipped a switch near the door. “This is Sheriff Bree Taggert interviewing Alyssa Vincent.” The video would be time-stamped.
“How long have you been homeless, Alyssa?” Bree asked.
“About a year.” She played with the edge of the candy package. “We were doing OK, me and my dad. But then he got cancer.” Her whole body sighed. “It was in his brain.” She paused, thinking. “He started chemo. The doctors wanted to hit the tumor hard. The treatment made him really sick and didn’t do anything for his cancer. It was like one day he was fine, and the next he was dying.” Her eyes welled up and tears began to run down her cheeks.
“I’m sorry that happened to you.” Bree got up, left the room, and got a box of tissues from the supply closet. “Where’s your mom?”
“She died when I was a baby. I don’t remember her.” Alyssa plucked a tissue from the box and dried her eyes. “My college money and all Dad’s savings went to pay his medical bills. We had insurance, but it didn’t cover everything. By the time he died, we were already being evicted from our apartment.”
See Her Die Page 6
