No End of Bad Guys

by Jeff Buick

  “Sidebar,” he said. “I’ll let you know if anything comes from it.”

  Daniels was going to press him, but decided to let it go. “Department resources, don’t waste them.”

  Bobby watched her walk away. Stacey knew what it was like on the street and she gave her detectives a free rein, providing they produced. Bobby’s solve rate was high, and that got him even more latitude. He picked up the phone, checked Cedric White’s file for the number, and dialed.

  “Mr. White,” he said when the man answered. “Detective Greco here. I’d like to stop by your house. I have a couple of questions.”

  “You can ask me over the phone, detective.” White’s voice was businesslike.

  “I’d prefer to meet.”

  Silence, then, “All right. I’m at home now if you want to drop by.”

  “Now is fine. See you in half an hour.”

  Bobby spent a few minutes reviewing the camera locations and times, then slipped the file in his briefcase and headed out. He was going to be fifteen minutes late, which was exactly what he wanted. Precisely thirty minutes from hanging up the phone White would be waiting for his doorbell to ring, and when it didn’t his mind would start to churn. His palms would get damp, his throat dry, and he would begin to question whether he had his story straight. Doubt would creep in and that could lead to mistakes. All Bobby needed was one slip-up to crack open the case.

  Almost an hour had passed when he arrived at Cedric White’s townhouse. It took the suspect way too long to answer the door, which Bobby took as a sign the man was rattled. White was making him wait, hoping it would show a lack of interest, like he’d forgotten a homicide detective was coming over. Hardly.

  “Detective Greco, please come in.”

  Cedric White was dressed in jeans and a white, short sleeve cotton shirt. Underneath, Bobby could see a lean frame and taut muscles. The man was in better shape than he first appeared, and likely very strong for his size. The condo smelled fresh and sunlight poured in through a large picture window in the living room. White motioned to an armchair and sat down on a striped couch. A coffee cup was sitting on the end table and White picked it up. A wisp of steam escaped as he took a sip.

  “What can I help you with?” he asked.

  “It’s the Buchanan case,” Bobby said, digging in his pocket for his notebook. They both understood why he was there, but it wore on the suspect to hear it. He checked his notes, which was only for White’s benefit—he knew every word on the page. “I wanted to run over your drive home that night.”

  “We’ve already done that, detective.” He looked irritated. “At the station, which was anything but pleasant.”

  It was meant to be unpleasant, asshole.

  “Yes, of course, but I’m still a bit unsure on a couple of things.”

  “Such as?”

  “We have your SUV passing a camera on Westchester Drive, at the intersection with Mount Vernon Parkway. The next time we picked up your vehicle on CCTV was thirty-one minutes later on Underoak Drive.” Bobby paused and closed his notebook. “I drove the route between those two points and it took thirteen minutes. I’d like to know why it took you eighteen minutes longer.”

  Cedric White looked royally pissed off. “That’s the same question you asked me at the police station.”

  Bobby waited for him to continue, but he didn’t. “Well, I must have forgotten to write down your answer. Please answer the question.”

  Under Bobby’s calm exterior he felt a slow boil begin. It could have been one of his girls—Sarah or Lizzie—taken, violated, murdered. He was sitting six feet from a man he was convinced was a monster, and he wanted to grab the bastard by the neck and choke the truth out of him.

  “I was driving around, detective. I might have stopped for groceries. I can’t remember.” White set his cup in its saucer. “I think I’d feel better if my lawyer was present.”

  Bobby nodded. “Which store?”

  White smiled. “Aren’t you supposed to stop asking questions when I ask for my lawyer?”

  “It’s a simple question, Mr. White.”

  No, it isn’t, it’s a very important question and you’re an idiot if you answer it.

  “Possibly Nature’s Garden off North Orlando Avenue. I stop there on occasion.” White stood. “I think we’re done here.”

  “Sure.” Bobby didn’t move for a few seconds, then said, “My apologies for bothering you at home. We’re working hard on this case and need to eliminate people—pare the list of suspects down, so to speak. It’s unfortunate you can’t remember what happened that night. It would help to scratch you off the list.”

  White didn’t move or speak.

  Bobby tucked his notebook in his pocket and pushed himself out of the chair. “You have a good eye for design. Most men wouldn’t have a striped sofa, but it works.” He could have cared less, but commenting on it gave him an excuse to look about more closely. “I have a terrible eye for these things.”

  “I had an interior designer help me,” White said, his voice cold.

  Bobby scanned the room intently as he walked to the door. The pillows were tucked into the corners of the sofa, the bric-a-brac on the shelves was arranged in groups of three and the photos of White traveling the world solo were turned at just the right angle. The room was staged. The only thing out of place was a Dyson vacuum cleaner in one corner. Bobby glanced at the clear plastic part where the dirt collected—it was empty.

  Jesus, he thought, who lives like this?

  “Thanks for seeing me on short notice,” Bobby said.

  The door closed behind him and Bobby walked back to his car, convinced Cedric White was his guy. He leaned against the front quarter panel and stared at the condo. It was a two-story corner unit and one of seven in a block that fronted onto the street. The entire complex, built in the 1970’s, was at least eighty units and had been well cared for over the years. Paint was fresh, fencing new, and the well-tended landscape beds were filled with fresh bark chips. Bobby had pulled the sale history on White’s condo and found he’d purchased it eleven years ago when prices were at their peak. If it was any consolation, White had likely overpaid.

  White’s neighbor pulled into the complex and turned into her driveway. Bobby recognized her from their interview nine days ago. She glanced at him as she drove past but there wasn’t a hint of recognition. She had described White as nice enough, but a bit of a loner. Which was usually how people described serial killers after they were uncovered.

  It started to rain as Bobby settled into his car and drove back to the station. In some ways the Buchanan case was a typical murder investigation. They had a missing girl, a suspect, and motivation. That much was normal. But there was no body and homicide had been brought in solely on the presumption she was dead. Then there was the lack of solid evidence directly tying the suspect to the victim. Bobby had managed to get a warrant to search White’s SUV, but had come up empty. There was nothing to indicate Jocelyn had ever been in the vehicle, not even a hair. When he’d tried for a warrant for the condo he’d been quickly shut down. According to the judge, without trace evidence proving she had been in White’s vehicle there was no logical link to the girl being in his residence.

  When he pulled into the station the rain had picked up and he ran to the entrance, shaking the water off his jacket as the door slammed shut behind him. There was a note on his desk from the assistant who had run the ID check on Alyssa Vaughn. Please come see me. He found Jaylene in her cubicle at her computer.

  “What’s up with Vaughn?” he asked.

  Jaylene picked up a thin file and handed it to him. “She’s not legit.”

  Bobby hesitated in opening the file. “Really. How so?”

  “There are eleven women named Alyssa Vaughn in the continental US. You indicated her age to be about forty, give or take. That narrows the number to three. Two of them are in California and the other is in Montana. I checked with the IRS and they all filed taxes in their respective j
urisdictions last year. You said she claimed to have moved here from Arizona, but there is no record of an Alyssa Vaughn there, or in Florida. Ever.”

  “Well done, Jaylene,” Bobby said. “Thanks.”

  “No problem.”

  Bobby headed for his office with mixed emotions. He felt a bit smug that his suspicions had panned out, but was not at all happy that Sarah was on the same team as Vaughn’s daughter. He needed to sort this out. It was looking like the days were numbered for Alyssa Vaughn, or whoever the hell she was.

  chapter three

  Bobby cruised into Stacey Daniels’ office and plopped down in one of her guest chairs. She was typing and didn’t look up for a minute, then sat back and acknowledged him with a hard stare. It was quitting time and she didn’t need anything hot dropped on her desk.

  “I need a warrant,” he said.

  “Cedric White’s place?”

  “Yup.”

  She shook her head. “Bobby, we tried once already and couldn’t get one. Nothing’s changed.”

  “Get a different judge. One who doesn’t like middle-age pedophiles who murder innocent teens.”

  “C’mon, Bobby, Judge Raymond was fair. He gave you a warrant for the vehicle and you got nothing from the search.”

  “Yeah, yeah. If she wasn’t in his car, how did she wind up in his condo. I know the logic.”

  “It’s solid.”

  They both knew Arthur Raymond was more than fair. He was an ace in the hole for Orlando Homicide, especially when the evidence for a warrant was on shaky ground.

  Bobby perked up. “Then tell him we have something new. White lied to me about where he was the night Jocelyn was abducted.”

  She shrugged. “He lied about that before. Said he didn’t remember.”

  “Well, he changed his story. He told me he was shopping for groceries at Nature’s Garden. We have the CCTV from that night and he wasn’t there.”

  She sat forward slightly. “He told you that? Exactly that?”

  “Yeah, exactly that. Then he asked for his lawyer.” Which wasn’t quite in the right order, but Bobby didn’t figure that would matter down the road.

  Daniels was quiet as she calculated the odds of getting Raymond to bend a bit. Finally she nodded. “Okay, I’ll try.” She glanced at her watch. “Tomorrow.”

  Bobby grinned. “Date tonight.”

  “He’s a nice guy, Bobby. If you see us together, don’t stop by our table.”

  “Get me my warrant and I’ll leave you alone. Otherwise…”

  She gave him a smile and the finger as he left. Stacey would go to the wall for his warrant this time and once he was in White’s house with legal grounds to rip it apart he would find something. Still, he couldn’t figure out why they had come up empty with White’s SUV. There should have been something—a hair, a fiber, Jocelyn’s fingerprint or her blood. But there wasn’t. For a moment, a flash of doubt flickered through his mind. Maybe White wasn’t the guy. How else could his vehicle be clean? The thought disappeared as quickly as it had come—White had grabbed her.

  Cedric White would keep until tomorrow. Right now, he had Alyssa Vaughn on his mind. He needed the woman’s fingerprints and had an idea how to get them. Vaughn drove a Mercedes sedan with gleaming black paint—perfect for lifting prints. All Bobby needed was the car and two minutes with nobody around and for that he required her address.

  Bobby called Janis from his cubicle and Sarah answered, excited when she heard her dad’s voice. “I got the best mark in the class for creative writing.”

  “What did you write?” Bobby asked.

  “A story about a fox. He’s a really smart fox that tricked a squirrel into coming down from the tree. Then he ate him. But I didn’t put that part in the story.”

  “Probably a good thing,” Bobby said.

  “I was thinking of you when I made him up.”

  Bobby wasn’t exactly sure how to take that, what with the fox being manipulative and a squirrel that didn’t do well in the relationship. “That’s sweet, doll. Is your mom around?”

  Janis came on the line. “Did she tell you about the fox story?”

  “Yeah, she has a great imagination.” Bobby said, wondering if Sarah had told Janis where the inspiration had come from. “Do me a favor?”

  “Sure.”

  “Email me the roster for Sarah’s team. I don’t have contact info for any of the parents.”

  “You don’t have a copy?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Okay, I’ll forward it to you in a few minutes.”

  They talked about the kids for a while, then Lizzie came on and gave him a ten-minute spiel on how she and mom had baked cookies and he should come over and eat some. When she was finally talked out, Bobby told her he loved her and hung up. He slipped into his coat and headed outside. The rain had stopped and the sky was clearing as dusk set in. The email from Janis arrived as he got in his car and he opened it and scrolled down. 1800 Via Palermo. He put the address in the GPS and started driving.

  Bobby had a sixth sense about people and had started down a lot of paths with nothing but a gut feel. There was no playbook for how it worked, but a slew of bad guys had ended up behind bars. It was both a blessing and a curse. Homicide cops were disciplined, they followed evidence trails to their conclusions and tried to keep emotion out of the equation. He subscribed to all those tenets, but when his spidey sense started to tingle, he paid attention. Stacey Daniels had learned to live with his idiosyncrasy, and when he came into her office and told her he had a feeling she usually let him run with it.

  Bobby checked the GPS—almost there. Vaughn lived in Winter Park, a tony neighborhood with manicured lawns and upscale houses that easily topped a million dollars. Bobby knew the street—he’d worked a murder a couple of blocks away—and he tried to shake off the image of the body, bloated and laced with bullet holes, floating in the swimming pool. A moment later Vaughn’s sprawling Cape Cod came into view, the landscape lighting flickering on as he rolled to a stop down the street. Bobby killed the engine, then turned the music on low and put the seat back a touch, settling in for a wait.

  It was almost two hours before there was any action. A girl, fourteen or fifteen, came walking up the block and cut across Vaughn’s driveway and knocked on the front door. Probably the babysitter, Bobby figured. He was right. Five minutes later the garage door opened and Vaughn’s Mercedes backed out. Bobby waited until the car was almost out of sight, then pulled away from the curb. He tucked in behind her, keeping a couple of cars between them, and followed her north into Maitland.

  Vaughn eventually turned into a narrow laneway behind a row of upscale shops and restaurants. She parked and got out, the lights on the car blinking as she locked it and strolled out to the street. When five minutes had passed with no sign of her, Bobby took his print kit out of the trunk and made his way through the dark to the Mercedes.

  The nearest streetlight was about eighty feet down the laneway. That would keep him from being noticed but it was also going to make it tough to see what he was doing. He reached the car and slipped between it and the brick wall, then waited to see if anyone was watching. With no sign of activity in the alley or the adjacent street, Bobby unzipped the bag and got to work. He opened the powder and shook some onto a small piece of cotton, then brushed it lightly on the door, near the driver’s side handle.

  “Shit,” he muttered. It was too dim to see if he had any usable prints. He surveyed the area again, then pulled out his phone and touched the flashlight app, revealing numerous hand and finger impressions. He leaned in, focusing hard to see if the prints had good ridges. A few did and he snapped off the light and got the tape from his kit. He laid it over the prints, then lifted it off and held it up to the streetlight. They looked good and he slid the tape in a protective cover and dropped it in his bag.

  A beam of light cut through the dark alley as a door creaked open and a man in a white chef’s apron appeared, cigarette in hand. He lea
ned against the doorjamb, flicked his lighter and lit the smoke, then pulled out his cell phone and stared at the screen.

  Bobby stood transfixed. The guy hadn’t seen him yet, but it was inevitable he would. There was no way he was going to smoke the entire cigarette without looking up. There were two ways to play this—wait for the cook to notice him or take the initiative.

  “Police,” he said, stepping out from behind the car and lifting his badge.

  “Holy shit.” The cook’s face registered total shock and he almost dropped his phone. “What the fuck.”

  “I need you to step back inside, sir.” Bobby kept moving toward him, the badge in plain sight.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Police business. I need you to go back inside.”

  “Something happening out here?”

  “Nothing that would concern you.” They were only a few feet apart now and the man was staring at the badge. Bobby slipped it back in his pocket before the guy could get his badge number. “Sir, I need you to clear this area now.”

  The cook hesitated, then dropped the cigarette and ground it out with his shoe. “Yeah, okay. I’m going.”

  The door clicked shut and Bobby hustled over to the Mercedes. “Fuck,” he hissed as he wiped the powder off the side of the car. The cook had seen his face, and if Vaughn was in the restaurant and heard something was going on in the alley, it could lead back to him. He stuffed the cotton in his bag and zipped it, then used the light on his phone to check and see if the side of the car was clean. There were a couple of powder spots and he wiped them with his sleeve before returning to his car. He had a line of sight on the entrance to the alley and waited for a few minutes to see if anyone came to check what was going on. No one showed up and Bobby breathed a bit easier. The last thing he needed was Alyssa Vaughn on her guard.

  Bobby drove straight back to the station and scanned the prints into his computer. The office was deserted, but it made no difference, without a case number he’d have to run the search himself anyway. Once they were on the system he checked the clarity of the ridges and hit enter. A pop up on the screen told him they had been submitted and were being cross-correlated against the database. Eight minutes later he had a match, and Vaughn’s face appeared on his screen.