Near You

by Mary Burton

  He picked up the Scott transcript.

  Thompson: Thanks for seeing me today.

  Scott: Sure.

  Thompson: As I said on the phone, I’m doing a podcast about Elijah.

  Scott: You’re going to expose him, I hope. Send him back to prison.

  Thompson: His conviction was overturned.

  Scott: Don’t be fooled. He’s not innocent. It’s a matter of time before he sets more fires. Or kills. I’ve seen the way he looks at me.

  Thompson: You think he resents you for your guilty conviction?

  Scott: I know he does.

  Thompson: Are you worried for your safety?

  Scott: I used to be, but not so much anymore.

  Thompson: Why not?

  Scott: Doesn’t matter.

  He picked up Thompson’s backpack, and as tempted as he was to pull out the laptop, his warrant did not allow it. Right now, defying the warrant was not worth losing a case.

  A knock on the motel room door pulled Bryce’s attention toward it. The deputy, a stout man with salt-and-pepper hair and a full mustache, jabbed his thumb over his shoulder toward the parking lot. “The tech says you’ll want to see this.”

  “Right.” As he left the room, he said to the deputy, “Stay here and don’t let anyone in but the forensic techs. Tell whoever has the camera to photograph everything in sight. I don’t know how long we’ll have access to the room, and I want something to refer back to.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Bryce strode across the lot as the technician lifted a knife. “Where did you find that?”

  “It was in the trunk wrapped in a hand towel. As you can see, there’s dried blood on the handle and the blade.”

  Bryce inspected the blade, noting its pointed edge had broken at the tip and resembled the metal shard found in Nena Lassiter’s sternum. This rough field examination would not be enough to prove this was the murder weapon. But once the evidence was processed off the knife, then the experts could compare the weapon to the wounds.

  Why would Thompson kill the women he had interviewed? Why be so careless handling a victim’s car stocked with evidence? Either Thompson was not that smart after all, or someone had set him up.

  Either way, Bryce understood one truth: Thompson had interviewed four dead women as well scheduled an interview with Ann, and in his mind that put Ann in the crosshairs of a killer.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Missoula, Montana

  Thursday, August 26

  2:00 p.m.

  Bryce drove to the police station and apprised Gideon of what he had found in the motel room and the abandoned car. Together, they went into the interview room where Thompson had been left with a cup of coffee and a pack of crackers.

  Thompson rose the instant they entered. “I’ve been sitting here for hours. What the hell is going on?”

  “I apologize for the delay,” Gideon said. “We’re trying to wrap our brains around what’s going on here ourselves.”

  He motioned for Thompson to retake his seat and then sat across from him. Bryce pulled his chair out and sat at the end of the table, his chair angled so he faced Thompson.

  “Let’s start at the top,” Bryce said, leaning back in his chair. “You produce podcasts featuring crimes, and you chose to profile Elijah Weston. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long have you been creating productions like this?” Gideon asked.

  “Five years. This is my tenth major project.”

  “You’re well known?” Bryce asked.

  “In the world of podcasts, I have a solid reputation.”

  “What drew you to Weston’s case?” Bryce asked.

  “What’s not to love about the story?” he asked. “Ten years in prison, and he not only got his bachelor’s degree, but he collected a group of thirteen women who were totally dedicated to him. He has kind of a Charles Manson vibe that makes me think he’s not as innocent as anyone thinks.”

  “How many Fireflies have you interviewed?” Bryce asked.

  “Four.”

  “They are?”

  “Judy Monroe, Sarah Cameron, Dana Riley, and Nena Lassiter.”

  “Judy Monroe lives in Tennessee, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “When did you interview her?” Gideon asked.

  “Late February or March. I’d need my notes to give the exact date. She told me about the Fireflies.”

  “Have you communicated with Ms. Monroe lately?” Bryce asked.

  “Not for several weeks.”

  “When’s the last time you communicated with Nena Lassiter?”

  “A week ago, maybe. If you give me my phone, I can check texts. Why was Nena’s car parked outside my motel? Was she looking for me? Is she some kind of stalker?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Gideon said.

  Thompson arched a brow and leaned forward. “Her car is here, so I’d assume she’s in town. Have you asked her?”

  “We’ll get to that,” Bryce said. “What does Carla look like?”

  “Dark-brown hair, blue eyes, cute. Nothing extraordinary. Normally, I wouldn’t have bothered, but she was willing, and I figured what the hell. I woke up to Sergeant Bryce pounding on my door.”

  “What was the name of the bar where you met Carla?” Gideon asked.

  “The Silver Maverick.”

  “Did you talk to anyone at the bar who might remember you?” Gideon asked.

  “The bartender. I chatted her up a little bit.”

  “Would you be willing to give us a DNA sample so we can exclude yours from whatever DNA we find in the car?” Gideon asked.

  “If it’s Nena’s car, then I was in it,” he said, frowning. “She likes to drive, so we drove around in her car while I interviewed her. Look, I don’t know what angle you two are playing, but I’ve done enough podcasts to know you don’t give the cops shit without an attorney.”

  “Did you get ahold of your attorney?” Bryce asked.

  “Yes. He doesn’t do criminal work. He’s a contract lawyer.”

  Bryce sighed, careful that he did not allow his personal distaste for the man to cloud his judgment. “I’m sure Detective Bailey can give you the names of local criminal defense attorneys to call.”

  “My guy is trying to find a local name,” Thompson countered. “Look, I didn’t do anything other than interview these women.”

  “Well, then we need to prove that,” Bryce said.

  “We’re not trying to make this tough on you, Mr. Thompson,” Gideon said easily. “But like you said, you’ve done enough of these podcasts to know we have to press in cases like this.”

  “What kind of case is it?” Thompson demanded.

  “Lassiter’s car was spotted near a murder scene several days ago and then found in your motel parking lot.”

  Thompson scooted to the edge of his chair. “A murder scene? Who the hell was killed? And where the hell is Nena?”

  “Just to confirm, you did interview Edith Scott?” Gideon asked.

  “About a week ago,” Thompson said. “Are you telling me she’s dead?”

  “Yes, she is,” Gideon said. “As are Dana Riley, Nena Lassiter, and Sarah Cameron.”

  “What the hell!” He held up both hands. “I haven’t hurt anybody.”

  “When’s the last time you saw Dana?” Bryce asked.

  “I haven’t seen Dana in six or seven weeks,” he countered.

  “Which is about the time she was killed,” Bryce said carefully. “We only just identified her body.”

  Thompson ran his hands through his hair, the color fading from his face. “I don’t know what the hell is going on, but I haven’t hurt anyone.”

  “Like I said, a DNA swab can help us eliminate you,” Bryce said.

  “And like I said, I was in that car. I need to call my attorney again in Nashville.”

  “I’ll get you a phone,” Gideon said.

  “Shit. How much is this going to cos
t me?” Thompson said.

  Gideon shook his head. “When I got divorced, it cost me an arm and a leg. I can’t imagine what this mess is going to run you.”

  “I’ve investigated enough cases to know cops screw up investigations all the time,” Thompson said.

  Neither spoke as they stared at him.

  “They come into a case with an idea of who the killer is, and then they find evidence to support it. Confirmation bias. And it’s easy to pin a case on an outsider like me.”

  “Call this Carla woman you hooked up with,” Bryce said easily. “She might be able to clear up a couple of questions.”

  “I don’t have her number!” Thompson shouted.

  “All right, I’ll get your phone so you can call your expensive lawyer,” Gideon said. “Along with pencil and paper.”

  “I’ll grab you another coffee and more crackers,” Bryce offered. “It might be a long day.”

  They left, and when the door closed, Gideon looked at Bryce. “What do you think?”

  “He’s doing a good job of acting innocent,” Bryce said.

  “Isn’t part of his job to be an actor?”

  “I hear ya. And he’s been around enough police stations and read enough files to know what to expect.”

  “Let’s let him make a few calls, figure out what this is going to cost him, and then he might be open to sharing his files and the interviews he conducted for this podcast,” Bryce said. “Considering the threat insinuated to Ann, he can stew all day.”

  “Did you find anything in his room?” Gideon asked.

  “Lists of the Fireflies, which we already knew he had. The real gold will be the recordings on his computer, but the warrant does not cover it. It’ll be a lot simpler if he opens it for us.”

  “Don’t count on it,” Gideon said.

  “The car should have been towed to the forensic bay by now. Pulling it apart is priority number one. While Boy Wonder dials for attorneys, I’m going to watch the techs work on the car. You never know.”

  “Keep me posted.”

  “Back at you.”

  Elijah sat back and stared at the two cameras that captured Ann’s living room. He replayed the morning footage, watching as Ann got the boy off to school. He had been pleased to see Nate shove the copy of Huckleberry Finn in his backpack.

  His doorbell rang, surging annoyance through him, which only doubled when he glanced in the peephole and saw Maura standing on his porch. She had been fun and useful, but she was now growing irritating. He had not been clear about what he wanted, but the time had come for him to set her straight.

  When he opened the door, her red lips widened into a grin, and she held up a brown paper bag. “I have burgers and news you’re going to want to hear.”

  She kissed him on the lips and then slipped past him. “I was not sure what kind of burger you liked, so I got plain with all the condiments tossed in the bag. Also got two cheeseburgers. Can’t go wrong either way.”

  Her words buzzed around his head like flies. What kept him quiet was her announcement of news. “Sounds great.”

  She moved into the kitchen with a familiarity that was unsettling. The more comfortable he allowed her to become, the harder it would be to extricate her. “I’ve tried several burger shops since I arrived in Missoula, and this one is my favorite.”

  “You never said why you came to Missoula,” he said.

  “Needed a change.” She checked the cabinets and found two plates. “I pointed the car west, and here I am.”

  He wished he could read her thoughts. “What’s the news?”

  “I met with Paul Thompson last night.”

  “That was fast.”

  “I went by his motel, but he was leaving. I followed him, and he ended up in a bar. He’s a good-looking man. I wanted to have sex with him, but I paid a girl to sleep with him.”

  “Really?”

  “I’d have done it, but you and I have been seen together. Figured you wouldn’t want anything connecting back to you.”

  He remained silent.

  “Does it make you jealous that I said I wanted to sleep with him?”

  “Maybe.” It didn’t, but she seemed to equate love with jealousy.

  She unwrapped a burger. “I’d totally have hooked up with him.”

  He offered a frown, knowing that was what she expected.

  “But it wouldn’t have been like it is with us,” she said quickly.

  There was no us. “Did you learn anything?”

  “Oh, I sure did.” She was teasing this out as long as she could.

  Like it or not, he had to play along. She served him a burger, and he took a bite, pretending he was not full and that he liked it.

  “My girl, Carla, slipped Thompson Rohypnol, he passed out, and she left his motel room door slightly ajar.” She dug a stack of papers from her purse. “I took pictures of Thompson’s notes and printed them out.”

  Elijah’s attention shifted to the printouts.

  “His story might have started off with last year’s fires, but his focus is all squarely on you now, baby. He’s talked to four Fireflies.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re a mystery, darling. And many think you really are guilty of the College Fire.”

  That specter would follow him forever. But ghosts were the least of his concerns. “What’s his angle?”

  “He wants to turn you into the next big villain of the podcast world. He sees you as the master puppeteer of the Fireflies. A kind of a Charles Manson character.”

  He thought about Nate and how a story like that would affect him. “Is that what you think?”

  She set her burger down and kissed him. “You did convince me to hide those cameras in Ann’s house. And I paid a woman to have sex with Thompson.”

  Suddenly, he was disgusted with her. “You can’t prove that.”

  Her smile dimmed slightly. “You asked me to do both.”

  “Your word against mine.”

  She managed a little-girl pout that looked ridiculous. “Why are you acting like this?”

  “I’m not acting like anything. You’re suggesting I’m some kind of evil mastermind.”

  “I didn’t say that.” She looked startled. “That’s what Paul Thompson said in his notes.”

  “But you believe it.”

  “It’s kind of true, don’t you think?” she asked. “I read about that woman from last year. She was willing to do anything for you.”

  “She made her own choices, just like you made yours.”

  She frowned. “To please you.”

  Elijah wiped his hands on a paper towel. “It’s time you leave.”

  “Why?”

  “I have a study session.”

  “Is school that important?” she demanded.

  “It’s everything.”

  “What is it with men and their work? They pretend like it’s their world, but it’s just an excuse to hide from their true feelings.”

  “Maybe you’ve never been that important to any man,” he said.

  She scowled. “That’s a shitty thing to say.”

  “Maybe. But you need to leave.”

  She frowned as if she would fight him, and then she grabbed her purse and stomped out of the house, slamming the door behind her. He locked it.

  The truth was none of the Fireflies or the one-night stands could please him for very long. They were all disposable, and all were more trouble than they were worth in the end. And as much as he wanted to forget them and their smiling faces, they would not leave him alone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Missoula, Montana

  Thursday, August 26

  4:00 p.m.

  Ann arrived at the Beech Street house to find her Realtor and the prospective buyers standing in the driveway. They were early, but that did not ease her sense that she was somehow behind and needed to catch up.

  She parked and, as she got out of the car, summoned a smile. “Am I late?”

  “N
o,” the Realtor said. “We’re early. The buyers just flew in, and we came straight here from the airport.”

  Ann dug keys from her purse. “We just finished deep cleaning yesterday, so you’ll find the place in top shape.” As she shoved her key into the lock, her phone rang. Bryce’s name appeared on her display.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “Go ahead and show yourselves around.”

  She turned from the group and walked several paces away. “What’s up? I’m meeting with a Realtor now.”

  As if she had not spoken, he said, “We found Nena Lassiter’s car and have discovered evidence that connects all the murders. The car’s been towed to the forensic warehouse, which is where I am now. I think you should be here.”

  She looked back at the house and watched as the Realtor escorted the couple inside. “Have you found anything?”

  “I’d like another set of eyes on the vehicle as we go through it.”

  She sensed he had found a great deal but was not willing to discuss it over the phone. “All right. I can be there in a half hour.”

  “You remember the address?”

  “Yes.” Ann worked her house key off her ring and approached the Realtor, who stood alone in the living room as the couple walked around. “I have an emergency. Can I give you this key and leave this to you?”

  “I’m their agent, not yours.”

  “I know. My agent is supposed to set out the lockbox today. And I would not ask you otherwise, but I have to go.”

  The Realtor held out her hand. “What do you want me to do with the key when we’re finished?”

  “There’s a planter out front. It’s gray and white.” The flowers she had planted in it had died over a year ago. “Just slip it under the pot, and I’ll come back and get it.”

  “Sure.” As Ann turned, the Realtor asked, “The couple mentioned they might like some of the furniture. How do you feel about all that?”

  A smart person would have been a savvier negotiator. But in all honesty, she was donating every stick of furniture. “Make me an offer.”

  “For how much extra?” the Realtor asked.

  The idea of dealing with whatever furniture did not sell suddenly felt like too much. “How about free of charge. I don’t want any of it.”