Deadly Getaway

by Laura Bradford

  Mitch tapped the top of the counter quickly. “Thanks, man.” He turned in the direction of the staircase and stopped. “What are you waiting for, Brad? Let’s go.”

  He took the stairs two at a time as he headed toward the third floor, Brad in tow.

  “This better be good,” Brad mumbled under his breath as they rounded the second-floor landing and continued on.

  Mitch chose to ignore Brad, to focus on the task at hand. Mark’s desire to talk to him was intriguing. He just hoped it paid off with something important.

  When they reached the third-floor landing, he half jogged down the hall searching for the correct door.

  “Here we go. Room 312.” He raised his fist and pounded. “Mark?”

  The door jerked open.

  “Detective Burns! I’ve been looking for you. I’ve got something you need to see.”

  “I heard. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Good. C’mon in.” Mark stepped to the side to allow Mitch and Brad to enter the room.

  “So what’s this about, Mark?” Mitch strode over to the window and turned, his hand resting on his holster.

  “This!” Mark pulled a round black object from his chest of drawers. “It was Pete’s.”

  Mitch reached for the high-tech compass that Mark held out, flipped it over in his hands.

  “How’d you get this?”

  “I was in the hearth room the other night, trying to warm up after skiing, and I bumped into that idiot, Josh.”

  “Josh?”

  Mitch looked quickly at Brad. “Josh. Josh Cummings. He’s one of the orienteering club members. The one with the temper.”

  “Temper? That’s putting it lightly. The guy’s a first-class idiot.” Mark squared his shoulders and puffed out his chest. “He basically attacked me when I won the competition. Kept telling me I must have cheated. And instead of getting on him, the other guys starting laying into me. Told me to walk away from him.”

  Mitch looked down at the compass again, turned it over in his hands, studied every inch of the tool. A tool that Josh was convinced would have made the difference between winning and losing the orienteering competition.

  “I’d have won with that compass.”

  “Anyway, he comes over to me the other night like he’d done nothing wrong. Like we were best buds or something,” Mark continued. “I didn’t want to cause a scene in front of the other guests who were huddled around the fire, so I tried my best to ignore him.”

  Mitch looked up. “Then what?”

  “He tells me he needs gloves, that he lost his somewhere. Told me his hands were getting frostbite.” Mark crossed his arms in front of his chest. “But you know what? They didn’t have that red and puffy look skin gets when it’s been exposed to the elements.”

  “And?”

  “He asked me if I had an extra pair of gloves to spare. I told him no. But some poor slob next to me offered him a pair.”

  Mitch ran his hand across his eyes and over his hair, waited for Mark to get to the compass part but knew better than to rush an interview.

  “Josh said he didn’t like to take charity so he gave the guy a compass in return.” Mark pointed to the compass in Mitch’s hand. “That compass.”

  “So how’d you get it?” Brad stretched his arms above his head and yawned.

  “As soon as Josh headed up to his room, I asked the guy if I could see the compass. Recognized it as Pete’s right away. He’d shown it to me that first morning. It’s top of the line. It even has two-second dampening.”

  “Two-second dampening? What’s that?” Brad asked.

  “It’s the time it takes for the compass needle to settle. Most take at least four. It gives you a two-second advantage every time you take a reading,” Mitch explained.

  “Very good, Detective,” Mark said. “Anyway, as soon as I got my hands on that compass my antennae went up.”

  Mitch studied Mark’s face, looked for any indication he was trying to pull something. But he saw nothing that raised suspicion.

  “Keep going.”

  “I saw Josh in the lobby the next morning and asked him about the compass. He acted like I had two heads, insisted he didn’t know what I was talking about.”

  Mitch stared at Mark. “You mean he pretended he hadn’t traded the compass the night before?”

  “You got it. But that’s not all. He actually said Pete’s senseless death was on my neck.”

  “What?”

  “He said Pete’s death was senseless—because of me.”

  Mitch closed his eyes briefly, recalled the conversation he’d had with Dan Friar the morning of the search.

  “His name’s Josh. Got real pissy when Mark won yesterday. Started cursing and kicking at the snow. It was really kind of funny.”

  Mitch opened his eyes.

  “ . . . he was hollerin’ about his ex-wife and how she was draining him . . .”

  Was it possible that Josh had murdered Pete in an effort to win?

  Mitch thought back to the interview with Josh. The way he’d been adamant about the compass being the difference between winning and losing.

  If he’d killed Pete, stolen the compass, and still lost, he’d be outraged. Killing Pete would have been for nothing.

  He looked at Mark. “How did he phrase that statement about Pete’s death again?”

  “He said Pete’s death was senseless—because of me.”

  Bingo!

  He raised his hand to his mouth, pulled it across his lips. During his interview with Josh and Dan, Josh had said he had what he needed to win. And he believed the compass was Pete’s magic bullet.

  But if Josh had killed Pete, why would he have killed Annie? And Merlin?

  Unless . . .

  “Do you know where Josh is now?”

  Mark nodded. “Holed up in his room down the hall.”

  Mitch ran through the host of scenarios playing in his head. If his gut was right, Josh was a one-timer and, therefore, the lesser of two evils.

  “Can you help me out, Mark?”

  “What do you need?”

  “Can you keep an eye on Josh? Make sure he doesn’t stray too far?”

  Mark pushed off the wall. “I can do that if you want. But I can also help investigate that fire last night too.”

  “I’ll let you know on the fire, but right now I need the help with Josh.” Mitch patted the redhead’s shoulder as he headed toward the door. “Brad, let’s go.”

  “Where are we going now?”

  “The station,” Mitch snapped.

  When they stepped into the hallway and pulled Mark’s door shut behind them, Brad stopped. “What’s going on, Mitch?”

  Mitch lowered his voice to a near whisper. “Pete Garner wasn’t a victim of the serial killer. Annie and Merlin were.”

  “Huh?”

  “We’re dealing with two different killers, Brad.”

  11:00 a.m.

  “Oh, Elise, I didn’t want this picture to cause you pain. I just wanted you to know that I know.” Sophie’s hand moved across Elise’s back in a wide circle.

  “Who is that?”

  Elise raised her head just enough to look into Jonathan’s bewildered face.

  “That’s me,” she said, her voice quiet and raspy.

  “You?” Jonathan gently turned the photograph just enough that he could see the faces more clearly.

  “Yes.”

  “You were young.”

  She nodded. “I was nine.”

  “Is that your parents and your brother?”

  “No. That’s my aunt and uncle. And my cousin, Ray.”

  “Did something happen to them?”

  She traced her aunt’s outline with her finger. “About a year after this was taken. Aunt Faye died at home.”

  Her eyes focused on little Ray—his beaming face and ocean-blue eyes. He’d been such a nice kid. A gentle old soul trapped in a child’s body.

  “How?”

  The words poured from her
mouth, their meaning hollow to her own ears. “My Uncle Ken had a hot rod he was restoring in the garage. He’d been messing with it before he left for work. He forgot to turn it off.”

  Jonathan spoke, his voice quiet, yet strong. “Carbon monoxide poisoning?”

  “Yes.”

  He sighed. “Poor guy. I bet his life’s been hell since then.”

  “He’s made sure of that,” Elise whispered.

  “What do you mean?”

  “My whole family. Faye’s whole family. They all turned against him. Said his negligence was unforgivable. No one realized that their lack of forgiveness didn’t come close to his feelings toward himself.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He’s here. On Mackinac,” Sophie interjected in a hushed voice.

  “Is that what you’ve been keeping from Mitch?” Jonathan asked quietly.

  Elise nodded.

  “But why?”

  She squeezed her eyes tightly against the tears. “Mitch’s dad was murdered when Mitch was in high school. It took years for the cops to find his killer. When they finally did, the guy pleaded insanity and bypassed jail time. That’s what’s made Mitch so passionate about people paying for their crimes. It’s why he became a cop. Normally I agree with his views, but in this case, I don’t. I’m not sure I want that between us.”

  Silence blanketed the tiny restaurant momentarily as Elise continued to cry. There was nothing they could say.

  Finally, Jonathan spoke. “And the boy? Was he in the house too?”

  “No. Thank God. He was at a friend’s house that day,” said Elise, sniffling. “His grandparents invoked their guardianship since Ken was not little Ray’s real father. Said they couldn’t trust someone so negligent with a child.”

  Jonathan sighed. “Man, he paid for his mistake, didn’t he?”

  “In spades. He loved Faye. Loved little Ray. He wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of his life loving them. And I truly believe that losing them was his punishment for being careless. And he’s had to live with that knowledge every day since. I can’t imagine a worse hell.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  1:30 p.m.

  The remnants of the newspaper building crackled under his feet as Mitch walked carefully through the area that was once the heart and soul of the Island News. A metal desk was one of the only identifiable objects that remained in this area, the deep piles of ash indicative of the wall-to-wall paper stacks Elise had described after her first visit.

  “See that right there? That’s where he started the fire,” Mitch said, pointing at a V pattern near the base of the north outer wall. “That’s a pour mark from the gasoline he used to start it.”

  “How do you know so damn much, Mitch?” Brad asked, squatting down for a closer look.

  “I took a class on arson investigation about a year ago. The chief thought it was a good idea to get me up and trained in case we needed it one day.”

  “Have you had to use it much?”

  “I haven’t used it at all. Until today.”

  Brad straightened up. “This room was just an inferno waiting to happen. I don’t think Merlin ever threw away a paper. He used to say that preserving the history of the island was up to him.”

  Mitch coughed. The smell of smoke still clung to everything in the building as well as to the air around it. “I’m sure all that paper made it burn faster and hotter, but with that gasoline and a wood building—it was gonna go. Regardless.”

  Brad stepped gingerly across a board. “I don’t think there’s much left to find in here.”

  “It doesn’t hurt to look around though. Turn things over, open some drawers.” Mitch stepped across a hole in the floor and headed toward the south side of the building. “I’m gonna take a look around Merlin’s room. Maybe I’ll find something in the daylight that we didn’t spot last night.”

  Mitch slowly picked his way over to the room where Merlin’s body had been found. They’d gotten to the fire before this area had been totally destroyed, but had been too late to save a sleeping Merlin from smoke inhalation.

  His eyes lingered on the bed, on the spot where they’d found Merlin’s body. He inhaled deeply and willed his mind not to think of the late-night burial under the snow. It was the part of police work that he hated. But when he could find answers and offer justice to the loved ones left behind, his choice of career was more than worth it.

  A small metal box inside a doorway caught his eye. A fire box.

  He jiggled the handle, prayed it was unlocked. But it wasn’t. His gaze skirted across what was left of Merlin’s dresser and came to rest on a sooty object beside the bed.

  A key ring.

  Mitch separated each individual key from the next until he came to a small key that looked to be about the right size. He slid it carefully into the lock and twisted, grinned at the catch sound.

  “Ta-da.”

  He flipped the lid back and looked inside. A passport, birth certificate, social security card, and other personal papers just about filled the entire box.

  He reached inside, removed each paper one at a time. At the bottom of the box he found a small wallet-size album.

  Closing his hand around the soft leather, Mitch rose slowly and headed back toward Brad.

  ~ ~ ~

  As they rounded the corner, Mitch saw someone waiting under the station’s front overhang.

  “Who’s that?” Brad asked.

  “Looks like Mark.”

  They pushed forward with their ski poles until they reached the base of the front step.

  “Hey, Mark. Did something come up with Josh?” Mitch unsnapped his boots and stepped onto the porch.

  “Nah. Talked to the kid at the front desk. He said Josh called down for something to help him sleep. Seems he was awake all night tossin’ and turnin’. Guess killing someone will do that to you.” Mark rubbed his gloved hands together. “So, thanks to whatever the kid gave him, he’s out cold. And I—”

  “What?”

  “Well, I sort of barricaded his door to make sure he couldn’t go anywhere before I got back.”

  “I didn’t hear that, okay?” Mitch unlocked the station door with the spare key Brad had loaned him and pushed the door open. “C’mon in for a minute.”

  “You guys look beat,” Mark said as he followed Mitch into the station.

  “We just spent the past hour picking through a burned-out building.” Brad peeled off his coat, dropped it on the chair in the waiting area, and headed toward the window behind his desk.

  “Geez, Brad, can’t you just leave the damn window shut for once?” Mitch shook his head as he watched his friend unlock the window and raise it about a foot.

  “If you want me to stay awake, you’re gonna have to deal with the window.” Brad dropped into his chair and kicked his feet up onto the desk.

  “I keep mine open too—even in the winter,” Mark said. “Only for me, I like the window open so I can listen to the outdoors.”

  Mitch turned and looked at Mark. “Listen to the outdoors?”

  “Yeah. You’d be amazed at the sounds you hear outside—even in a blizzard like this.”

  Mitch dropped into the extra desk chair and pushed a pen around his legal pad, pondering Mark’s words as his gaze stopped on Brad’s open window.

  “I like the window open so I can listen.”

  Listen.

  Mitch jumped up, ran to the window and looked outside, saw the large tree that provided an excellent shield for anyone who might be standing outside.

  Near the window.

  He turned slowly from the window and slammed his fist against the wall. “Damn it!”

  Brad pulled his feet from the desk, his face contorted with confusion. “What’s wrong?”

  “Your window, Brad. Your open window.” He didn’t know why it hadn’t dawned on him before now. It made perfect sense.

  “What about my window?”

  “Haven’t you found it odd how the killer
seemed to know things?”

  “Like . . .”

  “Like Annie and the fact that she could identify him. Like the fact that Merlin’s office might hold a key to his identity. For God’s sake, how stupid could we be?”

  “What are you saying?” Brad asked.

  Mitch ran his hand across his face. “The killer has known almost every move we’ve made.”

  “How?”

  “He was listening. Outside your window.”

  Brad dropped his head onto his desk as a string of obscenities filled the room.

  ~ ~ ~

  “I’m gonna head back to the hotel, make sure that loser is still sleeping.” Mark grabbed for his parka and stood. “What do you want me to do if he leaves the hotel?”

  Mitch moved his fist to the side of his mouth long enough to speak. “Follow him.”

  “You got it.”

  He watched as Mark headed for the door, determination in the man’s eyes. “Hey, Mark?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Jonathan’s a cop.”

  “Jonathan? The guy from my hotel?”

  “Yeah. We needed to keep that to ourselves for a while, sorry.”

  Mark shrugged.

  “I’m gonna be sending him over to pick up Josh shortly.”

  “Okay. Can I stay with them, see this through? For Pete?”

  Mitch nodded, ashamed of his faulty character assessment where Mark was concerned. “Sure.”

  Mark raised his hand in a salute and yanked the outer door open, a swirl of cold air rushing to fill the open space.

  “Do you think we can really count on him with this?”

  Mitch shifted his gaze from the closing door to Brad, willed himself to keep his frustration in check. Brad’s weird obsession with fresh air had given the killer the upper hand the last few days, forced Mitch to have to rely on the help of others.

  “We’ve got no other choice, Brad. We’ve got a skier who was killed for money. By a desperate guy who more than likely snapped in the moment. And then we’ve got a serial killer roaming the island who’s picking off people who threaten him. You tell me which one we need to concentrate on now.” His words were curt and angry, but he couldn’t hide his frustration any longer.