“Must have been fun.”
“It was.” Matt wondered if Bree had any good family memories. Probably not. How was she not bitter about her past?
She turned in a circle, her hands on her hips. “Do you know how many rooms are in this building?”
“The lodge has twenty-four rooms, but there are a few outbuildings.”
“I’d love to call deputies to assist in the search. But I can’t justify the overtime unless we find something. My staff is stretched to its limit.”
“We can manage,” Matt said.
“You know the layout. How do you want to proceed?”
“Basically, the main building is a rectangle, with the lobby and reception desk in the center. Rooms are on both floors on this side.” He gestured to a long hallway that opened off the lobby. “On the other side, there’s a game room downstairs, and a restaurant on the second level.”
“One wing at a time then.”
“Let’s see if there’s a master key anywhere.” Matt headed for the registration desk. “The resort prided itself on its old-fashioned charm. Real keys. Not electronic locks.”
“I haven’t seen a real hotel key in . . .” Bree’s voice trailed off. “Actually, I’ve never seen one.”
Matt went behind the counter. The detailed mahogany still looked solid. A thick layer of dust and debris covered every surface. He rooted through the drawers, then went into the back office. He found the master key in a filing cabinet drawer and returned to Bree.
“We’ll start upstairs.”
Bree gestured for him to lead the way.
A curving staircase led to the second floor. Matt stopped at the top. A long hallway stretched out on either side of the landing, with a row of doors on one side.
“All the rooms face the lake?” Bree asked.
“Yes.” Matt counted the doors. “The owner used to say there wasn’t a bad view in the house.”
The first door sagged open.
“Someone kicked in this door at some point.” Bree went in first, one hand on her weapon. She glanced into the bathroom on her way in.
Matt followed her into the empty room. “Looks like the furniture and fixtures were sold off.” Which would make the search go faster.
“How did the property become abandoned?”
“The owner died. Turned out he’d been in massive debt. He’d been sick his last ten years. The resort was pretty run-down. Seems like the bank has given up on selling it.”
Bree stepped over an empty vodka bottle on her way out of the room. “There’s no shortage of lakefront land up here.”
“Right. The property value doesn’t support knocking the buildings down for an alternative use.”
“Nor is it worth the money it would take to fix it up.” Bree gave a used condom on the carpet a wide berth. “People are gross.”
They worked their way down the hall. With no furnishings, a few glances cleared each room on the second floor. What had once been a beautiful restaurant with outdoor seating on an expansive deck and a stunning view of the sunset over the water was a dirty, depressing space. They cleared the guest and game rooms on the first floor. The vacant lodge had clearly been used for drinking, drugs, and sex. They found more liquor bottles, beer cans, condoms, needles, a crack pipe, and other assorted trash.
Back in the lobby, Matt headed for the doors that led to the rear of the resort. He opened the french doors and walked outside onto the wooden deck. Three steps led down to the recreational area. The pool held several feet of frozen water. Trash and leaves dotted the ice. Closer to the lake, rows of broken and half-rotted Adirondack chairs were lined up facing the waterfront. Tall weeds poked out of the snow. A dock extended fifty feet onto the lake. On the left side of the property, tucked under the trees, was a long, low garage. A large storage shed sat on the right, closer to the dock.
Bree stopped on the bottom step. “More footprints.”
The tracks crisscrossed the rear lawn back and forth between the outbuildings, the dock, and the lodge.
Bree veered toward the storage building and dock. Matt followed her tracks, so they minimized the disturbance to the existing footprints.
The roof had caved in, and the door was missing. Matt glanced inside. “They used to store everything in there, from fishing rods and kayaks to ice skates.” But now it was a big, empty space.
They left the storage building and walked out onto the dock.
“I didn’t realize how close we are to the boat ramp. You can see it from here.” Bree pointed. “And the campground is just across the water. From here it’s easier to see how close they are to each other.”
“Maybe the killer has a connection to the lake. Maybe he lives on it or spent a lot of time on it.”
Bree shielded her eyes with one gloved hand. “Someone could have cut a hole in the ice and slipped the body into the lake. The hole would have refrozen by now.”
Matt scanned the lake. “There’s no one out here to see.”
“Except the two girls illegally living at the campground.”
“Harper had the matchbox for the inn,” Matt said. “Maybe she’s the killer. She could have faked being shot and planted the shell casings.”
“It would explain why there’s no blood at the cabin,” Bree agreed.
“What about the man who just attacked you?”
“She could have a partner.”
They turned and walked back to land. Matt set out toward the garage with Bree close behind him. All four overhead doors were down. Tire tracks led into the first bay. Matt stooped, grabbed the handle, and lifted the door manually. The hairs on the back of his neck lifted. “That went up awfully smoothly.”
Bree drew her gun. “Should be a rusty mess after all these years.”
Matt sniffed. “I smell oil.”
The garage was one big, open space with a solid concrete floor. Fifteen feet away, a chair stood near the rear wall. On the floor around it were cut pieces of rope and used strips of duct tape. The floor next to the chair was splattered with a dark substance, with a clear area roughly the size of a human in the middle.
Matt froze. Next to him, Bree inhaled sharply. They walked closer.
“Someone was tied to the chair.” Bree stopped a few feet away from the dark substance on the concrete. “Looks like blood, brain matter, maybe even some bone.” She glanced up at the cinder block wall. “Cast-off spatter.”
Dark blobs of congealed blood and gore dotted the wall.
“So, maybe this is where our victim was killed.”
“Could be.” Bree straightened and turned to face the chair again. “The killer could have tied him to the chair and shot him.”
“Then he laid him on the floor and bashed him with the hammer.” Matt considered her theory. “It’s weird.”
“The whole case is bizarre. It’s the definition of overkill.” Bree pulled her phone out of her pocket. She called for a forensics team and a few deputies. “The first step is to analyze the substance on the walls and make sure it’s what we think it is.”
“It is.” Matt had seen enough crime scenes. “I guess the blood could be paint or rust, but those spots are definitely brain matter and bone fragments.”
“The county needs to add forensics techs.” Bree glanced back at the stained concrete. “Next we’ll see if the tire tracks and footprints match the ones from the boat ramp and campground, and have the DNA of the victim matched to the biological evidence at this scene.”
Bree and Matt used their camera phones to take pictures of the garage. Two deputies arrived to secure the scene. The CSI unit parked behind the deputies’ cruisers. The forensics techs started with a Rapid Stain Identification kit and confirmed the dark red substance was human blood.
“Then we assume this is a murder scene.” Bree instructed her men to start a crime scene log.
The techs unloaded cameras and equipment and got to work.
Bree left the garage. “The techs know their job. They don’t need me
hanging over their shoulders. I’ve seen what I need to see.”
“Where are you going?” Matt quickened his pace to keep up with her. She was a head shorter than him but moved quickly when she was focused.
“To the station. Are you going to keep looking for Eli?”
“Yes. But I’m out of leads.” Matt had no access to Eli’s phone or room or bank accounts. “And I keep trying to figure out how the shooting Alyssa called in might be related to the dead body, and the possibility that the body is Brian O’Neil.”
“So far, the only link is Grey Lake.” Bree climbed into her vehicle, leaving the door open. “You’re welcome to observe my interview with Alyssa.”
Matt stood next to her vehicle. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” Instead of starting the engine, she turned toward him. “I like working together.”
“Yeah. Me too,” Matt said. In two cases, they’d achieved the working rhythm of long-term partners.
Bree rubbed her eye. When she lowered her hand, her expression was bleak and lonely. Matt wanted to step closer, to touch her, to let her know with a physical connection that she wasn’t alone. But he couldn’t do that here. Frustrated, he curled his hand into a fist.
“Follow me back to the station?” she asked.
“Anywhere,” he said in a voice too low for anyone else to hear.
Her gaze jerked up to meet his. Her mouth didn’t move, but her eyes smiled.
Matt stepped back. “I’ll see you there.”
He drove his own SUV back to the sheriff’s station. He parked next to her SUV behind the building, and they entered through the back door.
Once in her office, Bree took off her jacket and hung it on the coat-tree in the corner. “I called Detective Dane on the way over here. She agrees we need to meet.”
“Does she want to keep Eli’s case?”
“She didn’t say. I think we can work together.”
The sheriff could demand to take it over. Eli’s disappearance was likely related to her murder case. But that wasn’t Bree’s style. She was a team player.
Bree gathered a notebook and pen from her desk. “I’m going to talk to Alyssa. I’d like you to watch from the monitoring room with Todd. I want your take on her.”
“All right.” Matt went into the hall. Bree was a few steps behind him. He headed for the monitoring room.
Yelling sounded from the back hallway. A few seconds and wall thumps later, Deputies Oscar and Rogers wrestled a huge man through the door. Six four and three hundred pounds, he was dressed in a studded leather jacket, ripped black jeans, and biker boots.
“Asshole!” he yelled at Rogers. “These cuffs are cutting off my circulation.”
“Sit.” Rogers pointed to the restraint bench.
“Fuck you!” the man spat in his face.
“We need the monster cuffs.” Deputy Oscar stepped closer. He yanked the biker’s handcuffed wrists higher behind his back, chicken-winging his arms and forcing him onto his toes.
Rogers wiped his face with his sleeve. His cheeks were flushed bright red, and a vein throbbed on the side of his neck. His hand went to the Taser on his duty belt.
The biker caught the movement and settled down, but his molars clamped tight and he glared at the deputies with resentment.
Oscar maneuvered the biker toward the bench. Bolted into the floor, the metal bench had rings to secure arrestees’ handcuffs. One second the biker’s ass was halfway to the bench, the next he was roaring to his feet and tossing deputies aside like the Hulk. One handcuff swung from his wrist. The other hand was loose.
He slammed his shoulder into Oscar and knocked him on his butt. Rogers lunged for an arm. The biker threw a punch. Rogers ducked, but the dangling handcuff struck him in the face. Blood spurted from the cut, and he stumbled backward.
Matt automatically moved toward the melee, but Bree had been closer. She was already beelining for the fight. He saw the confrontation coming but knew it would be over before he could intervene. He held his breath. Bree and the biker were going to collide.
She whipped her expandable baton from her belt. With a quick flick of her wrist, she opened it parallel to her leg, then raised it vertically in front of her face. Leading with the baton, her hands assumed a ready position just in front of her chin, elbows tucked close to her body.
The biker zeroed in on the movement and charged her like a bull. When she kept coming at him, surprise filled his face. He tried to stop, bailing on their game of chicken. But it was too late. His momentum carried him forward.
And Bree was ready.
She angled away from his line of movement. She pivoted on the ball of her foot and twisted at the hip. The baton snapped forward, striking the outside of the biker’s upper arm, then back and down to sweep his legs out from under his body. The two blows happened in rapid-fire succession. The giant biker went down like the spring arm of a mousetrap. He rolled to his side and vomited on the floor. The smell of sour beer filled the room.
“Cuff him!” Bree said.
“Yes, ma’am.” Rogers stepped forward with a pair of extra-large handcuffs. He snapped the new cuffs onto the biker’s wrists, then removed the smaller pair. “Get up.” The man groaned and retched again. Rogers kicked him in the thigh. “I said, get up.”
Bree nearly vibrated with anger, but her voice was measured. “What is this man being arrested for?”
“Drunk and disorderly,” Rogers said.
Bree snapped out commands like a seasoned drill sergeant. She directed two gawking deputies to transfer the suspect to the county jail. “We can’t safely detain him here. He can wait for his arraignment in a concrete cell.”
The sheriff’s station had only two small holding cells.
Bree pinned Oscar with a piercing glare. “Get that cleaned up.”
“I’m not the fucking janitor,” Oscar grumbled.
Bree turned to Oscar and spoke in a very quiet, yet perfectly enunciated voice. “My office. Now.” She pointed at Rogers. “You’re next.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Bree felt like a high school principal, with one troublesome student in her office and another waiting outside the door. She sat behind her desk. Deputy Oscar glared at her from a guest chair. Bree said nothing.
Oscar squirmed within the first thirty seconds. By the minute marker, he couldn’t keep his mouth shut any longer. His jaw shot forward. “I’m not the janitor.” His tone was still petulant, but more whiny than white-hot angry now.
“Clearly not.” Bree held his gaze with unflinching attention. “The janitor didn’t lose control of his prisoner.”
The rage slowly drained from his face. Oscar swallowed, as if he knew he’d pushed the line.
“There will be no outbursts like that ever again. Nor do I ever want to see another sloppy restraint technique. We have procedures for a reason. You will register for the next defensive tactics refresher class.”
He opened his mouth to argue.
Bree cut him off before he made the situation worse for himself. “Your other option is a written reprimand and a defensive tactics refresher class.”
His mouth snapped shut. They both knew he was behind on his required continued training hours.
“Yes. Ma’am,” Oscar said through clenched molars.
“Get to work cleaning up that vomit. Send in Rogers on your way out.”
He rushed from her office. Rogers entered and began to walk back and forth in front of her desk. Oscar had been sullen, but Rogers was agitated.
“What was that about?” Not wanting to be at a height disadvantage, Bree got up and perched on the corner of her desk.
Rogers paced the area in front of her. “What?”
“You kicked the suspect while he was down.”
Rogers’s shoulder did a jerky shrug. “He was out of control. I subdued him.”
“He had already been subdued.” Bree reached deep for patience. “And restrained. He was on the floor, properly handcuffed, throwing u
p. The threat had passed except the risk of getting vomit on your shoes.”
“You hit him with a baton!” Rogers’s adrenaline was still flowing.
“I hope you know the difference between stopping an immediate threat and using unnecessary force.”
“It’s Oscar’s fault. He let him out of the cuffs. Why didn’t you yell at him?”
“I’m not yelling at anyone,” Bree said. “I’ve already dealt with Oscar. We’re discussing your actions.”
Bree studied him. Rogers was more than angry. Leadership might be new to her, but her instincts told her there was something else going on here. “You had the same reaction when we took Alyssa into custody.”
“She had an ax.” Roger turned and stomped across the small room again.
“Which she’d already dropped.”
Rogers didn’t respond. Maybe he needed training? The previous sheriff—Bree was beginning to think of him as Voldemort—had been old-school. She had no doubt he’d set an example of rationalizing, maybe even encouraging, the use of excessive force in a teach them a lesson way. “Enroll in the next use of force training class.”
The department had been shorthanded for a long time, and ongoing training hours had been one of the sacrifices made to keep patrol shifts staffed. A deputy couldn’t be in training and on the street at the same time. But a good law enforcement team needed regular training.
“I don’t need a class.”
“This isn’t multiple choice.” Bree lifted an eyebrow. “What I saw out there was a pissed-off deputy. You can’t stop feeling emotions, but you can stop acting on them. Or worse even yet—reacting. We are supposed to be the professionals. If we can’t keep control of ourselves, we lose control of the situation. We need to keep a clear head. Sometimes that is damned hard, especially when some scumbag spits in your face or urinates in the back of your patrol car.” Yep, that had happened to Bree. She lowered her voice even further. “Or when your heart is hammering so hard all you can hear is the echo of your own pulse.”
See Her Die Page 13
