“I’ll touch base with you before I plan any interviews,” Dwight confirmed, switching screens easily as he began to enter the names into one of the software programs that he’d designed to ferret out information from various public sources. “There’s at least twenty names on this list. Give me a few hours to establish a plan on how to best proceed.”
Linc nodded, shifting back from the table. He let the gentlemen continue their job as he made his way out of the conference room. The bullpen was basically an open layout with several desks, with offices lining three of the walls. To the left of him was the front window that allowed an officer to address the public while maintaining a safety net in between them in the form of thick bullet proof glass. A quick glance toward Chaz’s office revealed that Dean had closed the door for a bit of privacy, but that was to be expected.
Linc didn’t need to speak with him right now, anyway.
“Good morning, Joanne,” Linc greeted after he’d rapped his knuckles on the edge of the doorframe. Joanne Butler was a civilian employee at the station who took care of the administrative paperwork. There were a couple other civilians, but their duties had been transferred to the hotline that Chaz had set up after realizing the scope of the investigation. “Could I speak with you for a moment?”
Her frustration flashed across her sharp features. The reading glasses perched on the end of her nose didn’t help soften her agitation, either. Her irritation was warranted. Additional work had been transferred to her desk with no end in sight.
The hotline had initially been shut down after the arrest of Oliver Stevens, giving Joanne her staff back temporarily. She’d just gotten them into a normal routine once again when Pamala Griffith’s murder had Will Fenro, Angie Norman, and Chloe Reynolds shifted back to answering calls on the hotline.
“We can do it later today,” Linc reasoned, knowing that Joanne was now attempting to do the work of three people once again. Granted, the other employees did continue to help in some respect, but she’d still been put under enormous pressure. “It’s not a—”
“Wait,” Joanne said with a tired sigh, grabbing a cup from her desk. The string of a teabag hung over the edge, but she tossed it in the garbage can before walking around her desk. “I was in around six o’clock this morning. I didn’t get much sleep. I knew Pam from our knitting club, and…well, I still can’t believe that she’s gone.”
Linc had heard Chaz mention to Dean that he’d reached out to Joanne before she heard the tragic news from someone else. Winter Heights might have a population of fifteen thousand or so residents, but a lot of people knew one another either from school, church, or a myriad of social gatherings.
“We’re doing everything in our power to get her justice.” Linc figured Joanne didn’t want platitudes, but there was only so much that a person could say in this situation. He also wouldn’t promise her anything that they might not be able to deliver on. While he was confident that they would flush the unsub out of hiding at some point, it was never guaranteed. “I was actually wondering if you remember Aaron Rockwell.”
Linc had done the math, and Joanne had been working at the station back when Quinn had been in high school. He was assuming that Joanne had known most of the parties involved, and he was looking for an impartial opinion on the players.
“Oh, that poor family,” Joanne said with a shake of her head. He stepped back so that she could exit her office, holding his breath slightly as her perfume was quite heavy. They fell into step as they made their way back to the kitchen. “Gilda and Samuel were completely devastated when Aaron died. Are you asking about him because of Quinn?”
Linc wanted to tread carefully through this conversation, because he didn’t want anything to get back to Mr. and Mrs. Rockwell that could reopen old wounds. He owed that to Quinn for her honesty.
“In a manner of speaking,” Linc replied, allowing Joanne to enter the kitchen first.
The burnt odor of coffee masked her perfume a bit.
He poured himself some coffee while Joanne went about heating up some water in the microwave. Everyone in town, as well as nationally, was well aware that the unsub had reached out to Quinn. Her podcast was getting national recognition, and he assumed that the latest murder and subsequent release of Oliver Stevens had only brought more attention to her live shows every weekday afternoon.
“I do know that Aaron and Quinn dated back in high school.” Joanne reached into the cupboard for the box of teabags that she kept at the station. Her glasses fell from her face, only to be caught by the chain attached to the sides. They were now dangling from her neck. “I’m not sure what you’re hoping to uncover, but they were always together. Gilda was constantly going on about how afraid she was that they would rush into something at such a young age.”
“Aaron was planning on attending the community college, right?”
“Yes.” Joanne opened the door to the microwave before it could beep. “Quinn was going out of state. I think she got a scholarship or something, if I remember correctly. Anyway, there was a get-together with some of their friends one night out at the cliffs. It was a very popular hangout, even from way back when I was in school. After Aaron’s accident, just about everyone that age began to use the old lighthouse instead.”
“Did the deputy or sheriff who investigated the accident ever say why Aaron was so close to the edge of the cliffs when there was an incoming storm?” Linc didn’t bring up the fact that the party had been downplayed in the report. Joanne still referred to twenty or thirty high schoolers as a get-together after all these years. “I can only imagine the high winds that night would have been quite dangerous.”
“I don’t believe it was ever really mentioned, but you know how teenagers can be. Deputy Denney was very close friends with the Rockwells, you know.” Joanne had unwrapped her teabag and was dunking it in the hot water as she recalled the past events. “The sheriff should have had someone else write up the report, but Deputy Denney wouldn’t hear of it. He wanted to be the contact person between the coroner’s report and the Rockwells.”
Linc noticed that Joanne didn’t bring up Quinn as the conversation progressed, as well as Nick Rockwell. Had anyone else been listening in on their conversation, it might not seem that Joanne had helped him understand the situation better. They’d be dead wrong, because what wasn’t said in this situation was more important than what had actually been conveyed.
“I appreciate your time, Joanne,” Linc said from where he was leaning against the far counter of the kitchen. She’d gone ahead and added a bit of sugar to her tea, taking her concoction with her as she headed for the open doorway. “I know how busy you are being short-staffed.”
“It will be worth it when you catch that son of a bitch,” Joanne muttered, passing by Chaz as he came into the kitchen.
“Are we still confident that Tamara Johnson was the first victim?” Chaz asked, although he waited for Joanne to disappear around the corner. Linc stood a little over six feet, but the sheriff towered over everyone at the station. Six-four might be common on a basketball court, but not so much among law officers. “Evans found something that might be of interest to you.”
They had all been combing through old case files involving women whose cause of death was by stabbing, though they’d come up with no connection to the recent string of murders. It was his experience that the first kill by an unsub was where one would find the most mistakes made that could ultimately lead to an arrest.
“Tamara Johnson was at the pub a few weeks before her death,” Linc predicted, waiting for Chaz to acknowledge that he’d presumed correctly. Linc kept Tamara’s file right next to his laptop. The answer was inside that folder. He just had to find it. “Run that by Dean. He’ll want to position Evans back into the crowd at the pub. Also, tell Evans that he needs to find out who the regulars are, especially those who sit at the bar, pay in cash, and keep to themselves. I’ve got something I need to follow up on, but I’ll be back into the office this afternoon.”
“I hate when you steal my thunder,” Chaz muttered, not really meaning it. The sheriff honestly didn’t care who got credit for an arrest in this case, as long as the widows of this town were safe once again. “Yes, Tamara Johnson was at the pub for lunch. The reason we missed the purchase of the meal on her financial reports was due to her credit card reporting the pub as a generic point-of-service purchase. The business name wasn’t listed, like it was on the other victims’ reports.”
“Good work,” Linc said, saluting the sheriff with his mug. He then drained the contents and placed the used cup into the dishwasher. Someone on night duty always made sure to run it after the day shift was gone so that there were clean cups to be had by morning. “While I’m out, I’m also going to swing by Tamara Johnson’s old residence. I want to canvass the area in person one more time.”
“Sheriff Hopkins?”
Chaz turned in the doorway, revealing Chloe Reynolds. She’d been working the hotline this morning. Nine-five percent of the calls amounted to nothing less than a waste of time, with some of the more unique citizens claiming that miniature alien clowns were at fault for the murders to psychics claiming that the murderer preferred the color blue. It certainly wasn’t a job task that Linc envied, but the other five percent actually needed to be followed up by a deputy.
“Yes, Chloe?” Chaz responded, shifting so that she could also address Linc.
“Mrs. Wolcott called into the hotline a few minutes ago.”
Chloe handed Chaz a piece of paper with all the details.
“She lives across the street from Pamala Griffith’s house. Apparently, she was visiting her sister in Pennsylvania when everything happened. She said she didn’t want to dial 911 over something that she wasn’t sure was just her imagination, but she recalled the hotline number since we made it easy to remember. She claims that half of her lunchmeat in the fridge is gone, along with an equal amount of her cheddar cheese.” Chloe held up a hand before Chaz could ask any questions. “I know she can be forgetful at times, but she then mentioned the curtain.”
“The curtain?” Linc had a feeling that his plans to speak with Deputy Denney might have to be put on hold. “Please tell me that it’s the curtain that covers the front bay window of her home that faces Pamala Griffith’s house.”
“That’s the one,” Chloe said with a satisfied nod, even though there was remorse in her expression. She was friends with Pamala’s daughter, so this particular murder hit close to home. “I’ll have a forensics team meet you out there.”
Linc and Chaz didn’t waste time as they made their way out of the kitchen and into the bullpen. Linc paused long enough to barge into the sheriff’s office, not caring that Dean was putting out political fires. His gesture was enough to let Dean know they finally had a break in the case that could lead to solid DNA evidence.
It was about damn time, too.
The killer had finally made a mistake.
Chapter Eleven
Quinn entered the pub, grateful when the heat from one of the overhead blowers rushed down to greet her. There was another cold front moving in, bringing with it snow, freezing temperatures, and blistering winds. The brunt of it wasn’t supposed to hit until tonight, but the brisk coastal breeze must not have gotten the meteorologist’s memo.
“Hey, Quinn,” Bright greeted, walking past her as he pulled on a glove.
She nodded when she realized that he wasn’t going to stop to make idle chitchat. He had a determined expression on his face, telling her that he had things to do and places to be. She understood that sentiment, and she’d gotten all the information she could from Katie this morning. Her friend had even promised to send her footage of Mrs. Wolcott’s house.
It wasn’t like the lead agent on the case was going to release a statement anytime soon.
As for Linc, Quinn didn’t want him to believe that she’d only spoken to him last night as a way of securing a source. He’d never be useful as one, anyway. He was too guarded.
It was odd to look across the pub and see the booth he usually sat in occupied by someone else. She’d gotten used to his presence, which she only just now realized had given her a sense of false security.
She’d managed this long on her own though, and she didn’t plan on changing her routine one bit.
Quinn made her way to her usual booth, grateful that she’d gotten to the pub early enough that it still sat empty. She set her backpack on the seat so that she could remove her winter gear. Once she’d stuffed her gloves into the pockets of her jacket, she opted to keep the scarf. The window to the pub might be thick, but it still let the cold seep in on blustery days.
“The usual?” Rhonda called out, her voice coming from behind the bar. “I’ll put it in for you. Brandon called out sick…again.”
Quinn lifted her hand and gave Rhonda the okay signal. The lunch crowd was just arriving, which meant that she’d have to pick up the slack of taking orders until someone else came in to cover the waiter’s shift. He was on thin ice with Bright, as far as Quinn could gather from the rather heated lectures of job responsibility.
It wouldn’t surprise her to see someone new on the job come Monday.
She took her time setting up her laptop, plugging in her earbuds, and connecting to the bar’s guest Wi-Fi network. The first thing she did was check her email, looking for the footage that Katie had promised her. It wasn’t there, but there was a message from Roger requesting an article for tomorrow’s paper. She’d work on it through lunch, already coming up with the headline in regard to how The Widow Taker had taken advantage of an empty house.
Was Linc already at the station, altering the profile?
He’d never mentioned that The Widow Taker would be so bold as to break into a house and monitor a widow’s comings and goings. Granted, Pamala Griffith had been sick for over a week. She’d basically stayed at home that entire time, so was this a change in the killer’s MO? It sounded ludicrous that he might not be bold enough to do something so innocuous when he did so in order to kill in cold blood.
Maybe she was finally getting a grip on of this profiling thing.
“Here you go,” Rhonda said as Quinn took one of her earbuds out. She’d caught movement in her peripheral vision when the bartender had lifted a section of the counter to deliver a tray of drinks to different tables on this side of the pub. “One large Coke. Your soup should be out in a minute.”
“I’m surprised Bright left you by yourself.” Quinn picked up the straw that had been set on the table. She unwrapped it and stuck one end of it in between the floating ice cubes. “There’s quite a crowd for it only being eleven-thirty in the morning.”
“It’s Friday,” Rhonda replied with a shrug, as if to say the hectic start to the weekend was no big deal. “Bright’s helping Paul bring in two dart boards to add to the back wall. The league is growing, and the boards we have back there now just weren’t enough. I’ll sweet talk Paul into filling in for Brandon until he takes over his manager duties at two.”
“Isn’t Paul’s wife due any day now?” Quinn asked, having heard Bright and Rhonda giving the man a hard time about his midnight pickle and ice cream runs. “He mentioned they finished their Lamaze class last week.”
“Another month, but that’s why he’ll say yes to working some extra hours,” Rhonda reasoned, shifting the tray of drinks to maintain an easier hold on it. “It takes a lot of money to raise a passel of kids nowadays. You’d think Brandon would want all the hours he could get since he has a son of his own, but the man doesn’t have a responsible bone in his body.”
Quinn hadn’t known that Brandon had a son. Then again, the waiter was a couple years younger than she was. All he talked about when delivering her food was wanting to move west and become an actor. He was the type who had trouble adjusting to adulthood, and it was hard to imagine him with a child of his own.
“I’ve got to deliver the rest of these drinks,” Rhonda said, nodding toward the next booth over. “I’ll be out
with your soup soon.”
Quinn didn’t put in her earbud as she scanned the pub. She’d been extra cautious ever since The Widow Taker had broken into her home. Did she know him? Had he been watching her from afar when he’d sent her those texts?
A string of expletives had her removing the other earbud and setting them on the table. She hurried to help Bright and Paul as they came inside the door, having dropped one of the smaller boxes. She assumed they were a selection of new darts.
“Thanks,” Bright said with a huff, lowering the bigger boxes so that she could store the smaller one on top. “We decided to do this in one trip.”
“You make us sound like those men who refuse to make two trips to the car for groceries,” Paul muttered, angling his boxes so that he didn’t run into the couple trying to pass him to grab a nearby table. His coat jacket had melting flurries on the shoulder, telling Quinn that the meteorologist had been way off on when the latest stormfront would arrive. “I’ll have you know that I opted for two trips, but Bright wasn’t going back outside in this weather.”
“I’ll have you know that I—”
Rhonda interrupted Bright’s denial that he was one of those men who needed to prove his masculinity with a strength check. She was waving at Paul from behind the bar in her attempt at getting him to clock in earlier than his regular shift.
“Brandon called off again, didn’t he?” Paul asked Bright with a groan, the two of them maneuvering the boxes through the tables toward the back. “You know that we have to find someone who takes his job…”
Paul’s voice faded into the midst of the crowd as Quinn turned to head back to her booth. She hadn’t gone far, but she slowed her last few steps as she thought back to the text that she’d received on her new phone from The Widow Taker.
The Isolated Widow (The Widow Taker Book 2) Page 10
