by Leigh Lennon
“Yes, I have. It was the first thing that swirled through my senses, the day I picked you up as you cried into Jules’s body.”
This causes me to smile, but as soon as I have the urge to throw my arms around him, the doors from the various buildings fly open, and my mind clears. “So why did you want to know about my perfume?” I ask.
I’m expecting so many different replies. But when he says, “The murderer has been close enough to you that he described how you smelled.” This is not what I’m expecting.
Am I being selfish? These thoughts rattle through my mind while my English professor drones on about the syllabus. Wells has not left my side, watching everyone with the utmost scrutiny when they come within ten feet of me. I bet, like myself, he’s watching everyone’s nostrils to see if they are taking in my aroma.
I haven’t been on high alert, not since being here, but also, my interaction with people has been so limited. I try to think, beyond Greenlyn, who’s been around me, and when my mind pulls up a big fat zero, I begin to break out in a sweat.
Wells’s phone vibrates, and a low slew of curse words can be heard under his breath. “Hold tight. I’ll be back.” But before he leaves, I see the name of the person calling him, Leela Cesarea, and my body, already betraying me with sweats, begins to shake in anger.
I know the name, hell, the greater Pacific Northwest knows the name. I’ve not brought her up because their fling was over, according to his Facebook page. He never advertised it much, and neither had she, but he’d posted in a relationship, and with my stalking, I’d gotten good at figuring out who it was.
I stay in my seat, my mind back on the basic grammar as I complete a take-home test to show me my strengths and weakness in this class. With a whoosh of air, I’m expecting my police angel to sit down next to me, but when I look over, it’s Kenzie.
“Hey, hon, we’ve gotta go. Wells is outside.” She begins to pack up my bag for me, pulling at my syllabus and placing my binder in it. “Come on, honey.” Kenzie’s a sweet woman, yet certainly not one to be messed with. She pulls at my elbow and urges me out of the room.
I spot Wells right away, and he’s on a mission to get to me as he runs to empty the space between us. “Come on, sweetheart, we’ve got to hurry.”
“Wells?” My heart begins to pound. Have they found the man? I’m out of breath and can’t form the words.
“The media has caught wind of the story, and an old friend of mine gave me the heads-up. They’re on their way to the university to bombard you, and I don’t want you in the spotlight.” What if they come after Wells? I can’t entertain this thought.
“Your old girlfriend was the one to break the story?” Am I mad, jealous, or scared? Who knows, but I’m every way of pissed off, this is more than just my life. Poor Greenlyn had to move, and thankfully the university is paying the offset of a single room.
“Someone has done some digging on me, I see. So let’s table this to discuss at a better time. I don’t want you bombarded.”
In my almost run to keep up with him, we make it to his car. Opening the passenger door for me, I love the almost chivalrous nature of this man. Even in life and death cases or that of a mob of reporters about to descend on us.
I buckle myself when Wells turns on his car, whipping out of the parking spot immediately. “Now, do you want to tell me what that little jealous comment was about?”
Oh, on top of chivalry, I guess we’re going to dissect my comment about Leela Cesarea. “I saw her name and just got a little predatorial,” I admit, and his little grin has me smiling, too.
“What has you all happy over there?” I ask.
“You’ve been catfishing me, haven’t you?”
I begin to put on my Academy award-winning persona to lie straight through my teeth. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Bullshit, but I’ll say it’s cute.” His hand touches my knee, and we ride in peaceful comfort like this on the way back to his house.
“What do you want for lunch since we’re here for the day?” he asks, rounding the corner to enter the guest room.
“Mal, sweetheart, I’m making a turkey, ham, and salami sandwich, would you like one? Or I can make you anything, really.”
I’m half thinking of the psycho, remembering a memory from the past, and when I answer, it’s the reason I ask for something different. “Do you have ramen?” My mom used to make it for me whenever I was down. She only let me have it once in a while. She was not one to let us splurge on anything that wasn’t healthy or organic. But when I was sick, all bets were off.
“I’m a bachelor. It’s safe to say I have it.” He drops a kiss on my forehead and leaves me to myself for now.
I never asked for this, but it continues to happen to me.
I pull out my phone to check on Greenlyn when another text pops up out of nowhere.
Blocked number: I know where you are. You think you can run from me? No, you can’t. You never will be able to. We’re meant to be. The cop saved you for only one reason—us being reunited.
My lip begins to quake, but I shove from the bed, not in fear of this man anymore, but pure fury. I’m taking this anger, this issue, and recycling it for good. I’ll take it, learn how to fight, and take back my life for once and for all.
“Mal, sweetheart, what’s wrong?” I stand, giving the phone to Wells.
“How the fuck did he get your number?” My hands are steady. “You’re too calm. Are you all right?”
“It’s time I fight back, this son of a bitch has taken too much of my life, so yeah, I’m okay. He’s not taking one more thing from me.”
He pulls me in his arms. “Hell, Mal, could you be any stronger?” I don’t feel strong, or at least I haven’t thought I was, though I’d told myself this several times since coming back to Seattle.
It’s as though he can read my thoughts. “I know what you’re thinking, but you’re wrong. Every other person would crumple under all that’s happened to you.”
His hand soothes my hair, pulling me as tight into his body as he can get me. “I feel like I can do anything with you next to me,” I say.
I won’t shed another tear for the man whose mission it is to ruin my life. “Well, that’s a good thing because I don’t plan on going anywhere, sweetie.”
I let out a small chuckle. “I thought I’d graduated to sweetheart.”
“Yeah, that’s true, but you will always be my sweetie, deep down.”
He holds me tight for several minutes, and in his embrace, I’m me, Malia Strickland, ready to take on the world. I’ll take on this fucking psychopath to live the life I deserve, the one Annie, Gracie, and Cabe weren’t able to live.
Our moment together is interrupted when his phone begins to ring. He reaches for it and my hand, tugging me into the living space. “Shanahan,” he barks out.
“Yeah, Higgie, I was about to call you. Malia got a text from the fucker. Oh, shit. Yeah. But I don’t want to let her out of my sight. No, I haven’t had a chance to tell her everything. Good job. See you soon.”
I’m on the couch, watching him pace back and forth as he had been when he was on the phone.
“What’s up?” I ask as if this is the new normal in my life, if it’s as ordinary as getting ready to go to a movie.
“Yeah, so the victims from two nights ago and the victim from last night, they all had very similar floor plans to yours. Both houses have the same builder, and the same main floor plan with some slight modifications,” he begins. “It’s as though he’s looking for similar houses, more than similar families. If the family configuration is not right, he just brings in dummies.”
I’m making sense of all of this, one piece of information at a time. “You said a victim from last night. So an entire family was not killed.”
“Well, he brought in mannequins like before. There was one adult male victim, but he had been the only one.”
I slap my hand over my mouth. “Holy shit.”
“Yeah, so we have the owner of the construction company coming on in, and Higgie is scouring the employee database.”
My stomach begins to growl.
He doesn’t miss this, pulling me by the hands off the couch. “And because I can’t make you ramen noodles right now, your hungry stomach will have to settle for some drive-through.”
“Can I have a roast beef sandwich?” I ask.
“You can have whatever your little heart desires, sweetheart.”
I insist on buying a couple of sandwiches for Higgie; he has to be starving. And on top of it all, the media is in front of the station when we pull up. I try to shield Stewart’s lunch as Wells tries to shield me.
A familiar face approaches Wells and me when she mouths, “I’m sorry,” to my man. I whip my face to Wells, who gives her a sympathetic smile.
“Is it true, Detective, there’s been a copycat case for the Strickland murders from over eleven years ago?”
He ignores her, opening the door to the station, as the officers, who are assigned to me, block the entrance of the media into the precinct. He ushers me upstairs, but when he touches me, he must sense I stiffen.
“She was only doing her job. She knows a lot about me and my obsession with this case, my obsession with you, and she’s not using it for personal gain, so there’s that.”
I’ve never thought of this before, that anyone close to him would know about his involvement in this case, when he gently escorts me by the shoulder into a conference room.
“Listen, Mal.” His eyes are heated, but not with anger. They are heated for me, and it stirs something within me, too. My stomach clenches, but in the best of ways. “I’ve been with other women. Not a ton, but I was looking for someone I could call mine for life.” He stops, pulling out a seat, sitting down. I follow suit. “I love you. I want you. I promise, if there’s a snake in the midst, I’ll take care of them, but Leela Cesarea isn’t one of them. She’ll be fair.”
I cross my arms, and he’s worn me down. With a grin on my face, I counter, “So how many other women do I need to worry about?”
He shakes his head at me. “Hell, you’re trouble.” It’s not a question, just a statement.
“Yep, and you’ll find out soon just how much trouble I’ll really be one day.”
He curses under his breath, a slight smirk covering his face. Before I can respond, Stewart pops his head in. “The owner of the construction company is here. You ready?” He directs his question to Wells. I show him the bag of roast beef sandwiches from my favorite drive-through. “Oh, hell, you’re a godsend, Mal.” He whips the bag from my reach. “Wells, if you don’t keep her around, I will.”
“The fuck you will.” Wells winks at me. “And, Higgie, she’s not going anywhere.”
Chapter 23
Wells
“Thanks for coming down and making time for us,” I begin, walking into a separate conference room, from where Malia and I had been. It’s one we use for interviews with witnesses and not persons of interest.
“I certainly didn’t have a choice in the matter,” the older man belts out, pushing his seat back to sit down. Johnson Wallard, sixty-six, has a full head of black hair, not something a man his age has naturally. His large beer belly makes it impossible to scoot all the way in.
“Well, I appreciate it all the same.” I begin by being cordial. He could be a jackass, and we’d get nothing. You catch more flies with honey than you do with vinegar.
He doesn’t respond, and Stewart lets out a large exhale of air—yeah, the kid is already frustrated. This will be fun. “Okay, so let’s get started.” I slide over the two pictures of the houses where the copycat murders have taken place. “Do you recognize these two houses?”
“Um, yeah, they’re the Evergreen plans of some of my custom build houses,” he begins, leaving it at that.
“All right, then. Can you explain what you mean by the Evergreen plan of your custom build houses?”
He sighs, loud, and his breath carries and almost knocks me over. “I have several types of businesses. I create vinyl villages and custom homes from the plans up. It’s how I started, but I needed something between these two plans for those unable to build from the ground up.” He brings the plans closer. “This here, as you know, is the Evergreen. It’s the middle range in my custom floor plans. If someone has a plot of land they want to build on, they pick between ten plans, and then from there, we reconfigure it to their needs. The normal Evergreen is 3500 square feet with four large bedrooms. Let’s say there’s a family who’s bigger, we can make the four bedrooms into five by taking a little off every room, so the bedrooms are smaller, but all their young ’uns have separate rooms. Also, some like a formal dining room while others want it as an office. Some may want a back porch or a sunroom. These are options we give, plus we given them more custom choices, where we scratch an idea and come up with a new plan. This costs more, but it’s still cheaper than an out-and-out custom home because we have the supplies on hand.”
This man, who I had thought would be a pain in my ass, is a bit more cooperative, but I see the pride in his work ethic and what he’s built, which I can use to get more information from him.
“These houses are at least ten years old, but I can go back into my records once I get back to the office.”
“Do you remember these builds at all?” Higgie asks.
“Let me think.” He puts on his reading glasses, looking at the addresses. “Yeah, I tend to remember this part of the business. It’s my livelihood, and I love doing what I do.” He looks further. “Let’s see, this house,” he points at the Mastiille home, “had a sunroom, if I remember right, and they wanted the eat-in kitchen bumped out. They also took some square feet from the master bedroom downstairs to make a larger living room. They told me they loved to host parties. And upstairs, they wanted two bedrooms, but a big open loft, for a hangout area for their kids. The original owners, I believe their names were the Mast…something or others.”
His memory is good, and he describes the house from top to bottom.
He directs his attention to the next picture. “And this house, the couple fought about what they wanted through the whole process. I would be surprised if they were still married. The Halston’s.” This is the last name of the male victim from last night. “They didn’t change the plan. They left it pretty basic, but he didn’t want a sunroom, which saved him money.”
With his memory, I hoped he would know the crew. “How about the men you have? Can you tell me who worked on these houses?”
“Ah, hell, that part, I’m afraid, I’m too old to remember,” the old man gives me a weak smile, “but my wife, the backbone of my business, kept meticulous records. See, I didn’t have one crew per house, I had a crew that rotated, doing the same thing, like foundation, beginning, middle, and end. It’s what my missus called them because she wasn’t technical but ran a tight ship. She didn’t put up with tardies or goofing off. She took care of that side for me, so all I had to do was make sure my houses were our customers' dream homes. Now, with her passing and all last year, my son-in-law manages it. But he’s out on sites all day.”
Just get him chatting about his business, and this man is very helpful. “I’m so sorry to hear about your loss.” He gives me an appreciative nod. “Could we get those records? I mean, I can get a court order, if that’s what you would like.”
“Ah, no reason for that, and sorry for busting your balls earlier. I’m old and cantankerous.”
This makes us both laugh, and he leaves after shaking my hand.
“I’m going to follow him to his office in West Seattle to pick up those files personally,” Stewart says. I can’t get a read on my partner, but I trust his instincts.
I think I can almost take a breather. I return to my desk, only to see the forensic reports from Annie’s journal and Mr. Halston’s murder sitting on top of my calendar.
Picking it up, I see it verifies his death had been twenty-four hours earlier, and
the sick fucker had used Mr. Halston’s blood to write the message for me. Opening the file with Annie’s journal, forensics verify the writing is Annie’s from evidence collected after the murder. Comparing it to some samples they kept proves this journal was her thoughts, and what makes my skin crawl, it was her last thoughts.
I haven’t had a chance to read through her journal completely. My past twenty-four hours have been busy, walking two crime scenes, being Mal’s escort, and finally admitting I love this girl I saved, and it has stopped me from getting caught up on everything.
I hear laughter floating from Vanessa’s office and recognize it as Malia’s. Twisting my entire body around, I wasn’t sure where she had gone when I left her to interview our cantankerous old man.
Hearing her laughter causes my heart to swell with pride, pride to be able to call her mine.
I let her be for a couple of minutes, reading over the report, for any flags, anything that could give us a lead. In the summary of the journal, it shows that she never refers to her boyfriend by his name, only him, but the person of interest all these years, Smith Turner, had been listed separately.
I continue to comb through the data, and any information Don Halston’s case can show. It’s starting to jumble all together in my mind when I push from my feet to take a breather.
I make my way to Vanessa’s office where the laughter has died, and Mal sits on the couch away from Vanessa’s desk, reading a book, while Vanessa is on her computer. “What’s going on in here?” I ask.
“Oh, hey,” Malia utters, straightening up and stretching her hands. “Vanessa came and found me, asking if I wanted a break from prying eyes.”
Vanessa shrugs her noncommittal answer. “So, I saw your notes and the interview with the construction owner. He sure remembers a lot of facts.”
