Watch Her Vanish: An absolutely gripping mystery thriller (Rockwell and Decker Book 1)

by Ellery A Kane

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “I hate this place,” JB said, as the control officer checked their IDs and buzzed them through the main gate and into Crescent Bay State Prison.

  Will sensed a change in the air today. A tension, taut as a tripwire. Even the guards’ eyes darted at them as they passed. Like they had something to hide. Back at the turnoff on Pine Grove Road, there had been at least half a dozen media vans parked in the ditch, reporters lingering outside, with their microphones at the ready. Sharks circling a story. The same way they’d done with him, camped out on the doorstep of his building in Noe Valley—the night before the trial, the night of, the night after—waiting for the money shot.

  “It’s not high on my list either,” Will admitted, inhaling the rank aroma of men who’d lost hope. He could pick them out as they walked the long hallway, shuffling along with no sense of purpose or direction. He wondered if his brother had fared any better at Valley View. The only time he’d visited, Ben had refused to see him, and he’d been the one traipsing back to his car, head hung low. Until he’d gotten good and angry.

  “Smells worse than my college frat house.” JB pointed up ahead. “Thank God. We’re almost there.”

  It had been Will’s idea to skip the formal interrogation and to meet Drake in the warden’s office instead. Let’s get him thinking he’s not a suspect. That we’re here picking his brain as an expert. He’ll eat that right up. Maybe he didn’t have a degree from Stanford, or the fancy extra letters after his name, or an attaboy from the FBI, but he knew Drake’s weakness. The thing he adored above all else: himself.

  Warden Blevins had relocated the office between the chapel and the Education Department, when he’d taken the reins a few years back. Before that, the warden presided over Crescent Bay from the outside. From the row of administrative offices, where you didn’t have to clear the control booth or assault your nose with prison stench. The warden had told Will the move brought him closer to the people he served. Which sounded like a load of political bullshit, especially with the fancy key card lock on the door. The only one like it as far as Will could see.

  Warden Blevins stood inside waiting for them. He reminded Will of a pencil, tall and thin and ordinary. The in-between kind of kid who would’ve mostly been ignored. “Good morning, Detectives. Control let me know you were on the way. Devere’s already in place.”

  “What did you tell him?” Will asked.

  “Nothing. Exactly as you asked me to.” The warden squinted at Will’s face, where the bruise on his jaw had turned a lovely blend of day-after blue and purple.

  “Let him marinate for a minute,” JB said. “We’ll check out the security footage and that rules infraction you said our victim wrote yesterday.”

  “Whatever you’d like.” He led them down a corridor, past a nondescript door with a familiar female officer stationed outside. Will did a double-take before he remembered. Maryann Murdock had a twin—Morgan? Mia? Melody? Melody. That sounded right. A twin who worked as a correctional officer. He guessed Drake sat behind the door she guarded, stewing. The longer, the better.

  “As I told your partner yesterday, our security cameras have been glitching lately. Every time it rains, we get static in B and C Block. Drake’s got a single cell over in C—C22—so I’m afraid the cameras won’t tell you much. But you’re welcome to look. I already pulled last night’s footage for you.”

  Warden Blevins pointed to the desk, to a single photocopied page. “That’s the 115 Laura typed up. I haven’t had a chance to do much with it yet. She requested Drake be unassigned from the kitchen.”

  JB scrolled through the footage, grumbling to himself, as Will paced behind him. He felt like a prizefighter waiting for a rematch. Even though he’d won the last go-round, it hadn’t felt like a knockout since slippery Drake had managed to bob and weave his way around the death penalty.

  “You tryin’ to wear a hole in the floor?” JB patted the seat next to him. “Why don’t you put that energy to use? You’re makin’ me nervous.”

  Will obliged, flopping into the chair with a sigh. The cameras showed a steady image of the C Block hallway, cells C20 through C30 on either side. “Get to the early morning footage. Chet said she’d been dead a few hours at most.”

  When the ticker reached 4:00 a.m., JB hit play. They stared at the screen till Will’s eyes began to blur. Till JB cursed under his breath.

  “Nothing,” he said. “Not an officer. Not a rat. Not even a goddamn cockroach.”

  At 4:45 a.m., the screen flickered in and out a few times until it went to static. JB kept scrolling until the image returned. 5:57 a.m. Just in time for 6 a.m. count. Drake had been there, grinning like the Cheshire cat.

  “The footage I watched from early Thursday morning was similar. Except the picture went out around midnight and came back around 4 a.m. No sign of anything suspicious. If he did it, he had help.”

  JB shook his head. “If he did it, he had the timing of an atomic clock.”

  “Well, he certainly had the motive.” Will read aloud from the document Laura had signed. “‘Devere reported to work late on 12/16… was previously counseled about failing to report to his work assignment on 12/2, 12/3, and 12/11. When I tried to address Devere’s behavior, he became belligerent and argumentative. I repeatedly told him to return to his cell… called me a “fat bitch” in front of other inmates. Devere has created a hostile work environment… fear for my safety… request that he be reassigned from the kitchen immediately.’”

  JB hoisted himself from the chair with a groan and summoned Will to follow. “So you say this guy’s a psychopath, huh?”

  Will didn’t hold back his sly grin. Knowing Drake waited in the other room, he figured he probably wouldn’t smile for the rest of the day. Best to enjoy it. “Does a donkey have a shadow?”

  “Touché, City Boy. Touché.”

  Warden Blevins led them back to the nondescript door, where Melody Murdock nodded at them.

  “He’s all yours,” the warden said. “Officer Murdock will be right outside if you need anything. Have fun.”

  Fun? Will couldn’t remember when he last had fun. Testifying against your own brother in a murder case has a way of sucking the fun from your life. His fun tank had been bone-dry for years now. Until last night’s dinner with Olivia. That had been fun. For the split second it lasted.

  Will lingered in the doorway and let JB lead the way into the office. He wanted to watch the scene play out, to study Drake’s reactions from a distance. To catalogue his movements like a scientist examining a spider in a glass box.

  One desk, large and plain and barren, stanchioned in the center of the room. Drake already seated behind it in the standard blue jumpsuit, his hands shackled in front of him, steady and waiting. As Will looked on, Drake tracked JB to the first chair. The second chair remained empty.

  A pair of eyes met Will’s. Shifty and glinting. But the life in them existed only on the surface. Pinpricks of light darting across a deep, dead lake. If someone asked him to point to evil, Will would pick those eyes out of a lineup.

  He stepped inside and shut the door behind him. Game time.

  “You must be here about the murders.” Drake spoke before Will. Before introductions. Before he’d even had time to sit down. “Took you long enough. The whole prison has been talking about me. How I snuck out of this shithole and offed those ladies. It’s about time you came to hear it from the horse’s mouth.”

  Will kept his face a blank slate. As usual, Drake had surprised him, left him riding shotgun when he should’ve been in the driver’s seat. Time to think fast, recover quick. But his mind felt slow, burdened. He wished he’d taken JB up on that third cup of coffee.

  “I suppose you want to confess then,” Will said. “Detective Benson and I are happy to oblige.”

  Drake’s laugh went right through him, an icepick to the heart. “Confess? Where’s the fun in that? Besides, I’m as much a victim as anybody.”

  “You?
A victim?” JB scoffed. “How’s that?”

  “Well, Pops, let me tell ya. Somebody stole my royalties. My hard-earned money. And the women at the shelter depend on me. I haven’t told anybody out of respect for Ms. McMillan. Especially since I figure it was her scheming husband who did it. But now, somebody’s spreading lies about me.”

  “Are they lies?” Will asked. “It’s not such a stretch. You wrote a book about it.”

  “Ah. You read it. Did you leave me a review?”

  “Yeah. One word.” Will’s anger throbbed beneath his skin. “Wannabe.”

  “That’s not what Heather Hoffman told me. She’s a reporter for the Fog Harbor Gazette. They want to do a feature about me when the second book comes out.”

  “If it ever comes out. Bonnie’s dead. And everybody else sees you for what you really are. A talentless hack.”

  “Well, think whatever you want to. But if I needed Bonnie so badly, why did I kill her? It blows your ridiculous premise out of the water, Detective.”

  Will scowled at him, still catching up. Was that a confession or a denial?

  “What’s your theory, then?” JB asked. “Enlighten us.”

  Drake kicked back in his chair, flung a greasy strand of hair from his eyes with one dramatic head whip, and grinned. “You’re smart, Pops. A helluva lot smarter than your partner here. Ask the expert. That’s brilliant. Do I get a finder’s fee if I help bag this guy?”

  “Of course,” Will said. “You get to stay here in these fabulous digs and eat three meals a day and watch free cable TV every day for the rest of your life.”

  “Don’t listen to my partner. He’s just jealous.” JB leaned in conspiratorially, and Will wondered if he’d underestimated the old guy. “He’s an aspiring writer. Go figure. Listen, Drake. You help us. We help you. You know, I have an old friend at a big-bank movie studio in LA. Maybe he’d be willing to take a look at your book. See if it merits the big screen.”

  “Alright. I’ll bite. Benicio del Toro. That’s who I want for Hawk.”

  JB slapped his knee. “Loved that guy in The Usual Suspects. Sounds like you’ve got some Hollywood instincts, man. I’ll be sure to let my friend know.”

  Surely, a sophisticated con man like Drake would see right through his partner’s BS. “So, what can I help you with, Detective? Means? Motive? A criminal profile?”

  “What’s this?” Will slid a photograph of the garrote across the table.

  “Looks like a homemade weapon. The kind you’d use to strangle somebody. What do they call it again?” He puzzled for a moment. “A garrote! That’s right. I researched those when I was writing Bird of Prey. Never used one though. I didn’t see the need. Too impersonal. I liked the feel of—”

  “Do you recognize it?” Will interrupted. He wouldn’t let Drake get off on reliving his crimes the way he’d done the first time. When Drake had finally confessed, he’d spent a solid twelve hours detailing exactly how he’d raped and strangled each victim. Right down to the delicate snap of the hyoid bone.

  “I didn’t make it, if that’s what you’re getting at. But I can guess what it’s made from. Looks to me like a jumpsuit like this one and a set of rolling pin handles.”

  “Like the ones you stole from the kitchen, you mean?”

  JB flashed his palm at Will to settle him. “Easy, partner. I thought you said that particular rules infraction was adjudicated not guilty. Don’t go harassin’ the poor man. You know what I’m curious about, Drake. If you wanted to murder somebody outside these prison walls, like your character, Hawk, do you think you could do it? Get past the cameras and the fences and the guards?”

  “Purely hypothetical, right?”

  “Just two fishin’ buddies shootin’ the shit.”

  “Well, there ain’t much I can’t do. You can ask Detective Decker about that. The cameras are easy. Everybody knows there’s blind spots, and the damn things don’t work a lick in the rain. I wouldn’t even bother with the fences. I’d find a tunnel or dig one myself. Like those two renegades who escaped from Clinton Correctional a few years back. That’s what Hawk does in the book. The guards… now that one’s tricky ’cause those bastards are everywhere. But that’s kind of the best thing about them. All you need is one in your pocket and you’re good to go.”

  JB nodded, impressed. “So you’re saying it’s not that hard then?”

  “I didn’t say that. It’s a lot like writing a novel. It all depends on how motivated you are. I’ll tell you what I see here. Somebody is pretty damn motivated to see me take the fall.”

  “And who might that be?” JB asked. “Who should we be looking at?”

  “The list is long, my friend. Tommy Rigsby, for one. That guy knows I snitched on him to the goon squad. He told me once that he’d see me leave prison in a body bag. James McMillan. For obvious reasons. Ole Handsy Hank Wickersham. Hell, I’ll bet the warden would like to see the state stick a needle in my arm too.”

  “The warden?” Will asked.

  A knock at the door, and Warden Blevins poked his head inside. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Detectives, but it seems we overlooked a priority ducat. Drake’s got his mandatory TB test down at the medical clinic. Can’t be rescheduled.”

  He stepped the rest of the way in, followed closely by Officer Murdock. Stone-faced, she motioned for Drake to come forward.

  “Wait.” Will stood too, crowding the small room. “I want to see his boots.”

  “His what?” Warden Blevins asked.

  “Your boots,” Will repeated to Drake. “Let’s see ’em.”

  Drake looked smug as he returned to the chair, leaned back, and lifted his right foot. It landed on the desk with a thump. “Correct-Tex,” he said. “Like half the inmates in this joint.”

  “Size?”

  “Big.”

  “Not your ego, asshole. The boots.”

  Warden Blevins groaned. “Tell him your shoe size, Devere.”

  “Ten. Wanna know the color of my underwear too, Decker?” Drake made his way toward the door, escorted by Officer Murdock. She pushed him ahead, jostling with him when he slowed to face Will. “Or I guess you could just ask your mom. She’s seen them a few times.”

  The insult bounced off Will’s armor made thick by years of working patrol in downtown San Francisco. But he still relished the grunt Drake made as Officer Murdock shoved him into the corridor. He stumbled forward and into the wall.

  “We’re going to need those boots,” Will told the warden.

  Drake spit out a laugh. “For what? You makin’ a shrine?”

  “I’m making a murder case.”

  “Hmph. Good luck with that.”

  Warden Blevins nodded at Officer Murdock.

  “Take ’em off, Devere.” With a hint of pleasure in her hard-as-nails voice, she unlaced the boots. Drake kicked them off, mad-dogging Will and JB. “Keep moving,” she told him, with a push to the back for good measure.

  “Don’t go leavin’ the state, though,” JB called after him, chuckling as he collected the boots. “We’ll be back.”

  Warden Blevins waited until Drake disappeared out the main door and into the hallway. “We’ll get you the lists you wanted of all the officers on duty in C Block on the nights of the murders and the inmate workers assigned to the kitchen under Laura’s supervision. I’ll have my secretary fax that over to the station.”

  “TB test?” Will asked. “That really couldn’t wait?”

  “Prison regulations, Detective. I apologize. You will be happy to know we tossed Devere’s house while he was in here, and Christmas came early. We found a little something you might be interested in.”

  Will waited, expectantly, as the warden simpered.

  “Are we in a goddamn Nancy Drew novel?” JB muttered. “Lay it on us, Warden.”

  “I always did like Nancy. A real spitfire.” Warden Blevins smacked JB on the shoulder, grinning. “It’s a cell phone. And it’s all yours as soon as IGI takes a crack at it.”

  �
�IGI?” JB asked, puzzling.

  “Institutional Gang Investigators, Detective. Our goon squad, as we affectionately call them.”

  “What’s that noise?” Will pushed past the warden and toward the sudden raised voices coming from the hall. In prison, yelling can mean a lot of things. An inmate getting called out. A fight. A shanking. A breakdown. A nightmare. A staff assault. A riot. Whatever it is, it’s never good. Will knew that much.

  He flung open the door and ran in the direction of the commotion, through the raucous group of inmates who had already gathered to watch the show.

  Officer Murdock pinned Drake to the wall, striking him in the flank with her baton. He spun around, grabbing for it, as she reached for her body alarm. Next to them, another fight had kicked off between two Latino inmates. They rolled on the floor, fists flying. The alarm sounded. It meant stop. But nobody did.

  Will grabbed for his gun at his waist before he remembered he didn’t have it. He wasn’t allowed to. He’d left it, as always, at the guard tower.

  A woman cried out. He looked up and saw her caught, frozen in the middle of the fray.

  “Olivia!”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Olivia couldn’t hear a thing. Only the snare drum of her heartbeat and the white noise of panic above it. Morrie was marooned in his wheelchair on the side of the runway. Stuck like a sputtered-out jalopy, his eyes panicked. Olivia ran toward him, dodging the fists and flying elbows of the Oaktown Boys and their rivals, Los Diabolitos.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, her voice high and breathy.

  He nodded his head up and down so fast Olivia feared he’d pull a muscle. She pushed Morrie ahead until they reached a wall of men. With nowhere to go, she backed him up against the wall and stood in front of him, trying to make herself invisible.

  Something wet splattered against her hand, and she cried out once more as splash of blood ran like a river down her thumb and spotted the folder she carried. The inmate nearest her wore the same color all over his battered face. He struggled to his knees, flailing his fists like he could still win, then went down in a heap.