Last Girls Alive: A totally addictive crime thriller and mystery novel (Detective Katie Scott Book 4)

by Jennifer Chase

  “She must’ve known more than what she was telling us—and something we said upset her enough to make her take her own life.”

  “Maybe. She might have been hiding some issues too.”

  Katie sighed. “It’s possible.” She still wasn’t convinced.

  “We’ll know more later.”

  “I think Hugh Keller is looking like our main suspect at the moment,” said Katie adamantly, even though she wasn’t completely convinced. There was more to his story, she thought, as she studied her notes back at the office.

  “Aren’t there books written about guys like that?” McGaven concluded.

  “Absolutely. I couldn’t say if he’s a textbook ‘psychopath’ but he sure ticks the boxes of several traits: lack of remorse, lack of guilt, lack of impulse control, shallow, superficial, and such. His alibi sticks, but it’s still sketchy. He could have left and come back.”

  “Sounds like a dozen guys I trained with at the academy.”

  Katie laughed. “Yep, the military too.” She perused her notes and began writing. Looking at her list again, she said, “When can we get into that bookstore?”

  “I’m going to call back Mr. Holmes tomorrow to see if we can take a look at those books. I tried the library, the Internet, and other mystery stores and can’t get a copy. If these books were so important to the killer—and that’s a BIG if—it was a small print-run of the series.”

  “You know, these girls were like family and they seemed to have distinct positions—like a hierarchy,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s like they each had a part. It’s small but there’s a pattern for a special group. All distinct. All serve a purpose. Could this be what the killer is attracted to? These girls, this family, their strengths and weaknesses. Is it something he wanted? Or hated?” Katie said as she wrote it out for viewing.

  Candace Harlan—leader, everyone looked up to, respected (best friends with Tanis)

  Mary Rodriguez—the loudest, and would fight for her sisters. Enforcer?

  Tanis Jones—quiet, least combative, but took the punishment for all the girls (best friends with Candace)

  Heather Lawson—the cheerleader, always positive, wanted to be part of the group.

  Terry Slaughter—lots of aliases. Not sure of her identity—she didn’t open up as much as the other girls, but was involved in some of the fights with Shelly McDonald that required the police.

  Karen Beck—deceased. Most likely to commit suicide and she did. Depression? Other mental illness? Not much information.

  “Interesting clarification.”

  “And where does Carol Harlan fit in?”

  “And, why did someone attack us and basically try to kill us?”

  Katie turned to McGaven. “Do you think they were trying to kill us—or scare us?”

  “It seemed pretty serious to me.”

  “Yes, but they could have killed us in the house. Shot us. Ambushed us.”

  “Locking us in that metal storage was an ambush,” he said.

  “Ambush, or opportunity?”

  McGaven remained quiet as he studied the board.

  “What’s the status of Jerry…”

  “Jerry Weaver.”

  “Yes.”

  “I put another call in to him and sent him an email.”

  “We haven’t received copies of any of the reports on the girls yet?”

  “Nope.”

  “So we’re back to square one, even after the event on Saturday,” McGaven said with doubt in his voice.

  “Remember, Gav, even when there is no evidence found at a crime scene, it’s still evidence.”

  He smiled.

  “My big question is—who is the guy in the black hoodie who keeps showing up?”

  “Do you think he’s followed you before?”

  “I don’t know—I actually don’t think so,” she said slowly. “He seems to hang out at the places of interest for the investigations. The mansion and the new neighborhood when we looked for Amy Striker.”

  “Why?”

  “That is the question.”

  “What about that piece of paper in your locker?”

  “I don’t know,” she said slowly. “It doesn’t make sense. I’ve been thinking about it a lot. What does this company have to do with the Harlan sisters or Mary Rodriguez? Was it a message for us to go to that container? To bring what to our attention? The house? The crime scene? Or just scare the crap out of us? Like a warning?”

  “It could just mean nothing—something to throw us off the trail,” he said. “It could be just as simple as that.”

  “I still think that if we find Candace Harlan—everything will fall neatly into place. Well, maybe not neatly, but it will set this investigation on a straighter path.”

  “Do you really think that one: she’s alive; and two: we would be able to find her if she doesn’t want to be found?”

  Pacing around the small office, Katie said with conviction, “Both homicides of Carol Harlan and Mary Rodriguez stem from the Harlan sisters—something about them or revolving around them. There’s a reason, a secret, something we’re not seeing.” She read the murder board one more time. “And where are you on Sara and Jonathan McKinzie?” She turned to McGaven.

  “I’ve been trying to search for them through other means,” said McGaven. “I’m assuming that they have money and do a lot of charity work, so I’m seeing where they’ve been and that might help us find them.”

  Katie nodded. It was important to talk to the McKinzies and find out exactly why they donated that mansion to this particular cause.

  As Katie exited the police building, she was looking forward to going home and being with Chad and Cisco. Her body was still sore and she really noticed it after she had been sitting at a desk for several hours.

  Her cell phone buzzed and the message said: Jerry Weaver is waiting for you at administration.

  “Oh,” she murmured. McGaven had already left ten minutes ago, but she needed to get the reports. She texted her reply: Be there in five.

  Thirty-Five

  Monday 1725 hours

  Katie decided to walk to the community entrance in the administrative building of the Pine Valley Sheriff’s Department. Since it was after 5 p.m., the receptionist had to unlock the door for anyone needing to get inside. There was usually someone there until 6 p.m.

  Katie approached the two large doors and tapped on the glass. A friendly receptionist by the name of Dana unlocked the door for her. “Hi, Detective.”

  Katie walked inside. “Thanks, Dana.” She looked around and didn’t see anyone, but there was a briefcase, jacket, and files on one of the chairs. “Where is he?”

  “I think the restroom,” Dana said, returning through an unmarked door to get to the main reception desk.

  Katie glanced at her watch and waited.

  She heard a loud rush of water as the men’s room door opened. A man adjusting his glasses walked through and hesitated, then quickly tried to tuck his shirt into his pants. There was a large wet spot at the top of his shirt where he had obviously tried to remove a stain, with little luck.

  “Mr. Weaver?” said Katie.

  He looked up and said, “Yes, you’re Detective Scott? Oh, I was expecting a Deputy McGavnor.”

  “McGaven, Deputy McGaven,” she corrected. “And yes, I’m Detective Scott. Nice to meet you.”

  “Yes, indeed,” he said and extended his hand.

  Katie immediately noticed that his palm was hot and sweaty.

  He stared at her for a moment.

  “Do you have some paperwork for us?”

  “Oh, yes, of course. I’m sorry, it has been the busiest and somewhat worst day today. And it’s only Monday. I had to visit sixteen locations—sixteen cases. There just aren’t enough hours in a day—and I still have to visit four more.” He fumbled through his briefcase for a full minute, and then went to the files, shuffling, sorting, and putting paperwork in the correct orde
r. “You don’t want to hear about all that, I’m sure.”

  Katie watched with mild amusement, wanting to get home. “It’s Monday for all of us.” She didn’t know what else to say.

  “Ah, here we go. I made copies of everything I could find about the Elm Hill Foster Home. There might be some pages missing, but I assure you everything you might need is there.” He handed Katie a stack of papers clipped with a large metal fastener.

  Katie thumbed through them briefly just to make sure it was what McGaven had requested. There were reports, some handwritten, others typed, from the visits to the mansion. “It looks great, Mr. Weaver. You know, you didn’t have to drive here personally. You could have scanned them and emailed, or had them couriered.”

  “Oh, but that’s so impersonal. I thought if you had any questions I could answer them for you in person. I apologize for taking this long,” he said, dropping paperwork from one of the files. It sprayed the eight-and-a-half-by-eleven sheets across the floor.

  “Here, let me help you,” said Katie not knowing what else to do.

  “Thank you.”

  They picked up all the pieces of paper and he returned them to the folder.

  Katie thought about the house with the secret stairway entrance and said, “Actually, you could answer a couple of things for me.”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you remember the mansion well?”

  “I deal with many cases, but the Elm Hill Mansion definitely left a lasting impression.”

  “What was your overall impression of the girls and Mrs. McDonald?”

  “Every time I made an appointment, things were tidy and the girls were behaving. I knew it was a show, but I was never able to get what I needed for the reports. At that time, we weren’t allowed to do unannounced visits.”

  “I see. What about the police reports?”

  “Now that was different. Every time the police were dispatched, I had to come out and speak with everyone. It became almost routine, and seemed like every week, or every other week—like clockwork.”

  “Did you notice anything that alerted you to abuse or psychological damage?”

  “There was only one girl that I worried about, and tried to get Mrs. McDonald to get her to talk to a counselor.”

  “Karen Beck?”

  “Karen, no. I was talking about Candace… Candace Harlan.”

  That assessment struck Katie as strange because of everything that she’d heard about her. “I thought that Candace was the strongest of the bunch, the one that the other girls looked up to?”

  “Oh, that’s true. But what has probably been overlooked by others is that she was a troubled girl who suffered from dramatic changes in mood, grand highs and depressing lows. I suspected that she might be bipolar. I’ve seen many people who suffer the same.”

  “Bipolar?” said Katie.

  “That was one of my thoughts, but she didn’t want to talk to anyone. Me or anyone else. We couldn’t make her talk—she’d just go mute if we brought it up.”

  “What about the other girls?”

  “Mmmm,” he mumbled, thinking about it. “They were typical teenage girls with the added stresses of being in the foster care system. It’s not easy. There’s a lot of resentment, abandonment and anger issues that get thrown into the mix. Sometimes it’s difficult to separate everything to get to the main issue.”

  “I see,” said Katie. “My partner and I will go over these reports and if there are any questions, we’ll call you.”

  Jerry Weaver put the loose files back in his briefcase and then he made notes on what looked like a sign-in sheet. “Okay, then. It was nice meeting you, Detective.”

  “Likewise.”

  He picked up his jacket and briefcase and headed for the door.

  “Dana,” she said, alerting her to let the social worker out. To Weaver, she said, “I have a hypothetical question.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you think, in your opinion, that one of the five girls could be capable of murder?” Her words hung strangely in the air. Almost as if it were taboo to even ask such a question.

  “Detective, I’ve been doing this a while. I’ve worked with the most passive to the most aggressive children that were capable of committing murder. But with these girls? I just don’t see it.”

  “Okay, thank you, Mr. Weaver. I appreciate your time.”

  Jerry nodded his goodbye and left.

  Katie began to follow him out when she heard someone calling her name. Turning, she saw Undersheriff Dorothy Sullivan coming out the door. She tensed.

  “I thought that was you, Katie,” she said.

  “Hello, Undersheriff.”

  “Let’s have that lunch tomorrow. Are you free?”

  “I… yes, I think that would be fine.”

  “Good. I’ll text you around 1 p.m. and then we can meet at a restaurant?”

  “That would work.”

  “Great. I’m so excited to have some time to talk with you. Sheriff Scott has talked about you so much that I feel like I already know you.”

  “I hope not too much.”

  Laughing a bit too long, she said, “All flattering, I assure you.” Turning to leave, she added, “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  Thirty-Six

  Monday 1945 hours

  Katie walked through the front door and was immediately greeted by Cisco running in his usual circles, filled with doggie glee. “Hey, I missed you too.” She inhaled deeply and said, “What’s that amazing smell?”

  “Thought you’d never ask,” said Chad, in the kitchen. He met Katie in the living room and kissed her, then kissed her again. “You feeling okay?”

  “You don’t need to keep asking me. I’m fine…” She kissed him once more to prove it.

  “You look a bit tired, that’s all.”

  “Gav and I spent most of the day running all over the county interviewing people, but not getting any further.” She let out a sigh louder than she had anticipated.

  “Dinner will be ready in ten.”

  “Great. I’ll go change.”

  Katie went to her bedroom, followed closely by Cisco. She kicked her boots off and slipped out of her work clothes, opting for a more comfortable ensemble of loose pajamas and a hoodie.

  Suddenly, there was a crash—as Cisco bounced around the bedroom he had obviously knocked something over. She startled and then berated herself that she needed to relax and to stop being so jumpy. She looked to see what he had done and found that on a small table near the window, one of the framed photographs had tipped over. It was the one of her parents during a summer barbecue; they were laughing together and clearly were in love. She stared at the photo for a moment, remembering what summers were like living in this house as a teenager. Fighting back the tears, she missed them terribly and would give just about anything to have one more day with them.

  She sat down on the bed still holding the photo. Cisco jumped up next to her, pushing his nose against her arm. “You would have loved them,” she whispered. She thought about her parents all the time, but when she felt that she was taking on the world it seemed that she clung to their memory even more.

  “Hey,” said Chad at the doorway watching her closely. “You hungry?”

  Looking up, she smiled. “You bet, I’m starved. I skipped lunch today.”

  “Well, c’mon then.”

  Katie returned the photo to the table and followed Chad back to the kitchen.

  “Wow, you cooked all this?” she said, sitting down at the counter.

  Moving with a chef’s expert speed, he said, “Don’t forget, there are some of the best cooks around at the firehouse and I’ve been paying attention these days.”

  There were perfectly cooked filets wrapped in bacon with a special mushroom sauce, baked potatoes and green beans.

  Chad slid over a glass of wine.

  “You read my mind. I usually save wine for the weekends, but this hits the spot after today.”

  Katie made
herself comfortable on the couch as Cisco chose a chair to curl up in. After a wonderful meal and two glasses of wine, she was finally able to unwind, leaving the job and all the loose ends of the investigations at work.

  Chad draped a blanket over her and then snuggled up against her, trying to find a movie channel with something entertaining to watch that wasn’t about the police or fire department.

  “I get the feeling that you’re trying to loosen me up to take advantage of me,” she said.

  “That’s always the plan.”

  She laughed. “You know you don’t need to take care of me, right?”

  “Of course. But isn’t that what people who love each other do?”

  “Well…”

  “Well, what?”

  “I just don’t want you to see me as a needy type.”

  “What?” he said, looking at her. “Needy? That wouldn’t be the word I’d use to describe you.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “No, I guess I don’t.”

  “I don’t want you to have to take care of me every time I have a bad day. It’s give and take.”

  “There’s no keeping score here.”

  “I know. It’s just…”

  “How long have we known one another?”

  “A long time.”

  “Then why are you worrying about whether or not I should take care of you?”

  Katie pulled up the blanket, suddenly feeling a chill. It was more of a reaction from anxious energy and not the temperature in the room. “Things seem heavy, burdensome in my life right now and I don’t want to bring you down or make you feel less appreciated… because…”

  “You love me?” he finished, giving her that wide-eyed playful expression that she grew up with—she always found it difficult to resist.

  “Of course. More than you know.”

  “This is nice, right? And don’t you want every day to be like this—together?”