by Mary Burton
9:00 p.m.
Elijah woke and slipped from the bed where Maura was sleeping. He pulled on his pants, grabbed his phone, and in the great room, he sat on the floor, legs crossed, and opened the app he had installed days ago. The app attached to a surveillance camera that should now be hidden in Ann’s house. He put in his earbuds and turned up the volume.
On screen, he watched Nate lying on the couch, a book close to his face. There was a crumpled bag of chips on the coffee table and a half-empty cup of lemonade. The boy looked comfortable, lost in the words.
“Nate, time to wrap it up.” Ann came around the corner and was drying her hands on a checkered dish towel. She picked up the bag of chips and carefully sealed the top. “Come on. You need to brush your teeth and wash your face.”
Nate’s gaze stayed locked on the page. “Mom, can I read five more minutes?”
“I’ve said yes to your last four five-minute requests. That puts us twenty minutes past bedtime.”
“I can do math.”
“Good. Then you can count the steps to your bedroom and the number of times you brush your teeth.” She gently lifted his feet and set them on the ground.
Nate carefully placed his bookmark between the pages and closed the book. “I don’t need that much sleep.”
“You do.”
“I’m ten.”
“Still growing, pal.” She coaxed him to standing and followed him down the hallway.
Elijah had only the one camera in position, so for the next few minutes, he could only listen to the distant banter of their conversation. He could not make out the precise words, but Nate still sounded annoyed, while Ann’s tone remained steady. No screaming. No hitting. No threats. Just loving.
He drew in a breath. The boy loved his mother, and to take him away from her would be cruel. If she had given any hints that she was like his mother, he would have yanked the boy out of the house a year ago.
But he was not cruel. He did not want to hurt the boy.
From his pocket he fished out the paper detailing the DNA results. There was a 99.9 percent chance that the boy was his. He was a father. And he had rights.
But more than that, he understood Nate’s mind. He understood that he would need someone like him one day to guide him and show him that when the dark thoughts began, there were ways to control and manage them. Whether Ann liked it or not, he needed to be in Nate’s life.
Footsteps had him raising his gaze to see Maura wearing one of his shirts. “What are you doing?”
“Checking the camera,” he said.
She yawned and smiled. “It’s working?”
“Yes. But I wish you had time to put out the other two.”
“It was too risky,” she said. “Ann kept coming in the room, checking on me.” She sat beside him on the floor. The lone fastened shirt button could not prevent the fabric from flopping open, revealing the curve of her full breasts. “I can go back. I made a point not to unpack all the boxes.”
“How did you leave it with Ann?”
“We’re the best buds.” She leaned her head on his shoulder. “She appreciates the extra hand.”
He shrugged, coaxing her head off. “I wish there was another camera.”
“Like I said, I can go back.”
He rose and crossed to the kitchen, retrieving a cold seltzer for himself.
She followed, her lips curling into a pout. “You’re really mad at me.”
“Disappointed is more like it.”
A sly smile curled her lips as she unfastened the button nestled between her breasts. “I can make it up to you.”
“There has to be more to us than sex.”
“Why?” She slid off the shirt.
He found his irritation growing. “If you don’t know the answer, then it’s pointless for me to explain.”
Color rose in her cheeks. “What can I do to fix it between us? I really like you, and I’ll do anything.”
He drank from the can, savoring the cool liquid in his throat. Draining it, he carefully set the can on the counter.
“Do you want more cameras in her house? I can make that happen.”
“I want that and your help with Paul Thompson,” he said.
Her expression stilled. “Him? Why?”
“I want access to his story notes.”
“What makes you think he’ll trust me?” she asked.
Elijah moved toward her and cupped her breast, twisting her nipple until she squirmed. “You have talents that I do not have. You’re clever.”
“You want me to sleep with him?” she asked.
“I want you to talk to him. Get the information any way you can.”
Her brow knotted. “A.k.a. sex.”
He tipped her chin up and stared deep into her eyes. He had assumed she was highly intelligent, but now he wondered if the insecurity that ran deep in her was going to undercut it all. He kissed her on the lips. “Is that a problem?”
“Am I now one of your Fireflies?” she challenged.
“Do you want to be?” There were those who needed a sense of belonging. They wanted someone else calling the shots so they could abdicate responsibility for their lives.
She ran her tongue over her lips. “And if I don’t do this?”
“I only have people in my life that serve a purpose.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What purpose does Ann serve?”
“That’s none of your business.” He tucked a curl behind her ear, noting her hair was blonder than it had been. “Did you change your hair?”
She curled a blond strand around her finger. “Do you like it?”
“I do.”
“I thought you would prefer it if I looked more like her.”
He understood the reference. “I do.”
She slid her hands down his belly to the clasp of his jeans. “And?”
“Plant another camera and get the information from Thompson.”
“And then we’ll be fine?” she asked.
“Yes,” he lied.
“I’ll find him first thing in the morning.”
“What’s wrong with now?” he asked.
“Now? I thought maybe we could go for another round.”
He shook his head, stepping back. “I have things to do, and I need to be alone.”
She shoved out a breath. “Okay. I’ll get what you want, but then you’re going to owe me.”
“We’ll see about that.”
With Nate sleeping soundly, Ann made herself a cup of tea and settled on the couch in the living room. Looking around the uncluttered space made her feel good. No more piles of boxes that required multiple searches when she wanted a pen or a paper clip.
She blew on the hot tea, savoring the sweet clover scents drifting to her nose. As she reached for the notes she had made on the case, her front doorbell rang. She walked to the door and glanced through the peephole to see Maura. Surprised, she opened the door. “Is everything all right?”
“I forgot my phone. I left it on the bookshelf. Impossible to live without it. Can I come in? I’ll be quick.”
“Sure.” Ann stepped aside and watched as Maura walked directly to the bookshelf and then knelt as she reached by a book on the end. She hesitated only a moment and then rose, her phone in hand. “Here it is. Thank you so much!”
“Thank you for your help today, Maura. Have anyone call me for a reference.”
“Let’s not be strangers. I’d love to grab a drink with you sometime,” Maura said.
“Sounds like a deal.”
Maura held up the phone. “I’ve got to get going. I’m meeting a friend at a bar.”
“Have a great time.”
Maura’s gaze broadened. “I always do.”
Maura watched Paul Thompson leave his motel room, and she followed him when he drove to the Silver Maverick bar. She did not approach him but leaned against a wall in a darkened corner. The music pulsed and blended with the chatter of people as he sat at the bar. Elijah wanted her to use s
ex to get to Thompson, but he had not said she couldn’t use a surrogate.
Maura looked around the room and spotted a woman with dark hair and a tightly fitting red dress. The woman had not the expectant gaze of a woman searching for a man but the hawkish glare of a sex worker hunting for a client.
Maura pushed off the wall and approached the woman. “What’s your name?”
“Carla.” The woman looked her over. “What do you want?”
Out of her pocket, she fished the two hundred Ann had given her earlier and a small vial of white powder. “There’s a man at the bar. I want you to give him a good time and slip him this.”
Carla arched a brow as she followed Maura’s gaze to Thompson as he ordered a drink. “Why?”
“It’s an easy two hundred. And he’s an ex-boyfriend that deserves a little payback.”
“What’s in the vial? I don’t want to kill anyone.”
“Rohypnol. He’ll sleep like a baby and wake up with a hangover in the morning.”
“If he passes out before the sex?” Carla asked.
“Then it’s less work for you. I’ll be watching the room. When you leave his room, leave the door unlocked.”
Carla took the money and the vial. “Okay.”
Maura watched Carla signal the bartender for a drink, and as she reached for it, she brushed Thompson’s shoulder. She grinned at him and leaned over to whisper something in his ear, as if sharing a secret. For a moment Maura thought Carla had sold her out, but he laughed. She laughed. More drinks were ordered.
Fifteen minutes later, Thompson and Carla left. When he was out cold, Maura would copy his notes for Elijah.
“More than one way to skin a cat,” she whispered.
I truly do not like to hurt people.
As I trace the outline of Nena Lassiter’s face, I accept that pain is a necessary evil. It makes us stronger. It makes us better people. And it has been a part of the world since humans first walked the earth. Man discovered fire and inevitably got burned by it. Women have endured pain during childbirth. Athletes have pushed through pain to break records.
I do not like pain, but if great things are going to happen, then it is unavoidable. And as the saying goes, no pain, no gain.
“Don’t worry, Ann,” I whisper as I push open the door. “When our time comes, I promise to end it as quickly as I can.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Missoula, Montana
Thursday, August 26
6:00 a.m.
Showered, shaved, and dressed for work, Bryce received a text from Gideon, alerting him to check his email in-box. He filled a large cup of coffee and drank half before he refilled it and then moved through the silent house to his study. Flipping on the light, he slid behind his desk, and while his computer clawed its way through the slow internet connection, he drank his coffee. When he had decided to live at the ranch more often, he had accepted the high cost of the big satellite dish that enabled internet service. On a good day it provided enough connection for him to function.
He found Gideon’s email and clicked. There were three attachments, each identified by the source’s location.
The first was a doorbell camera located across the street from Edith Scott’s house. It was easy to miss the hooded figure in the darkness at first. The individual moved quickly in the night’s inky black, tested a front window, and then hurried around to the back of the house, out of the camera’s range.
He opened the next file, which captured the figure prying open the sliding glass door and slipping into Scott’s house. No lights came on, and there was only the flicker of movement in front of the kitchen window. And then nothing but stillness for almost a half hour.
“What are you waiting for?” he muttered. There had been no signs of struggle in the house, so the killer had surprised Edith. She had no defensive wounds. There were also no signs in the house that anything had been taken. So, what was the killer doing?
He imagined the man standing in the dark, lurking close to Edith while she slept. Was it a game? Did the killer enjoy the private knowledge that he was about to kill his next victim?
And then the patio door eased open and the figure moved outside, careful to close the door behind him, leaving everything as it had been found. The lack of disturbance had been part of the reason Edith had not been found for three days.
The final camera captured the grainy image of a car driving slowly through the neighborhood. The lights were off, and the vehicle rolled carefully around the corner and into obscurity.
The first two videos had not told him much. The killer was midsize, but beyond that he had no clue about race, age, or even sex. But the last video offered the needle in the haystack. The vehicle’s license plate.
Bryce reached for his phone and texted.
Bryce: I know you saw this.
Gideon: The plates belong to a vehicle registered to Nena Lassiter. BOLO issued an hour ago.
Bryce: Any hits?
Gideon: Located the car fifteen minutes ago. See you on scene.
The Missoula address belonged to a motel on the outskirts of town. It was an hour’s drive from the ranch, but if he pressed it, he could shave ten minutes off the time.
Fifty-five minutes later, Bryce pulled up in front of the motel right at 7:30 a.m. There were three cop cars parked by the blue four-door sedan now roped off by yellow crime scene tape.
Bryce parked and strode toward Gideon, who stood by his vehicle. “Have you opened it yet?”
Gideon shook his head. “Not yet. The forensic team is five minutes out. I don’t want to overlook or inadvertently ruin a single bit of evidence.”
“Have you had a look inside?” Bryce asked.
“I walked around the vehicle. There’s trash inside, clothes on the floor, and a suitcase. Doesn’t look like much.”
“Oh, it’s very important.” Bryce fished gloves from his pocket, slid them on as he noted a TOWING ENFORCED sign. “How long has the car been in the lot?”
“According to the motel manager, it appeared sometime last night. The manager usually gives cars twenty-four hours before he tows. Said his lot is rarely full and ninety-five percent of the time the car is gone before he calls for the tow.”
“What’s the deal with this motel?” Bryce asked. “What kind of guests?”
“It’s moderately priced and just a few miles from city center, so it attracts travelers on a budget. I’ve not had a call out here in a few years. A pimp and a sex worker fighting over drugs.”
“Mind if I have a look inside the car?” Bryce asked.
“Be my guest.”
Bryce crossed the lot and ducked under the yellow tape. He peered inside the driver’s-side window, noting the purse on the floor, the scattered snack wrappers, and the discarded, wrinkled shirt on the front seat. In the back seat green garbage bags were filled with what looked like clothes, scattered fast-food wrappers, and several sets of shoes.
The forensic van appeared, and the two technicians immediately set up a worktable and over it a tent. The first tech, a tall, slim woman in her early thirties, slid on gloves and boots and reached for a camera. She methodically worked her way around the car, shooting the nondescript vehicle from all angles.
Bryce walked to the manager’s office and up to the counter, where he found a stout man wearing a yellow collared shirt, blue slacks, and a name badge that read MIKE. His hair was long but combed back and tied at the base of his neck.
“Mike, I’m Sergeant Bryce McCabe with Montana Highway Patrol. I guess you know we’re interested in that vehicle.”
Mike looked past Bryce to the flash of the forensic tech’s camera. “Yes, sir, and I’ve searched all the records of my residents, and no guest has registered that car.”
“You told Detective Bailey the car has been here less than twenty-four hours.”
“Now that I consider it, the car might have been here a little longer. I was off the last few nights, and I’m the one that calls in the tows.”
<
br /> “No one else has the authority?” Bryce asked.
“I used to let the night managers call, but a few got carried away. Our residents are supposed to register all cars, but if a family member or friend joins them after check-in, the car doesn’t always get listed. Tow the wrong car, and you’ll hear about it on Yelp for five years.”
“How many rooms do you have on-site?” Bryce asked.
“Fifty,” Mike said.
“And your occupancy rate?”
“We’re at eighty percent. We have ten vacant rooms.”
“Do you have a list of your current residents?” Bryce asked.
“I told Detective Bailey that I’ll need a warrant before I hand out that information. He said he’d have it in the hour.”
“Well, then I suppose I’ll just have to go door to door. This early, I’ll wake up a few folks, but that’s the way it goes.”
“Do you have to wake up guests?” Mike asked. “It’s just an abandoned car. Christ, I’ll pay the towing if you want to take it somewhere else.”
“Can’t do that,” Bryce said. “That car is part of a crime scene now.”
“Crime scene? I read the property reports for the last few days, and I can promise you there was no mention of any crime,” Mike said.
“The crime happened across town, but that car was spotted near the original scene, and that connects it to this investigation,” Bryce explained.
“I didn’t know a scene could move.”
“It certainly can move to multiple locations. Do you have surveillance cameras on this lot?”
“There’s one in this office. It captures the front entrance to the lot, but not the back.”
“I’ll need that footage.”
“As soon as you get me that warrant,” he said.
Bryce tamped down his irritation. “You’ll be the first man I come looking for when we have it.” As he left the office, he strode directly toward the first room on the ground floor. He pounded on the door, stood to the side, and announced, “Police.”
There was a rustle of the curtains by the large glass window, and then the door opened to a man wearing jeans and a T-shirt. His hair was tousled, his feet bare, and his shoulders slightly slouched.
Bryce identified himself and held up his badge. “Sorry to wake you. What is your name, sir?”
