If She Feared (A Kate Wise Mystery—Book 6)

by Blake Pierce

  Because DeMarco had already checked into a room the night before, Kate got her own room. The two said good night right away, though Kate felt an uncharacteristic draw to go to the bar just across the street. It had been a long, stressful day, and she could go for a glass of wine. But she fought the urge and went straight to her room. There, she checked her phone and saw that she had a missed call and two texts from Allen. They came as no surprise; she had seen and heard them coming in all afternoon.

  The first message read: I know your work is important. Just once, though, I’d like to share mine with you. If we’re going to remain together, this trip could be important for both of us.

  The message did not make her angry or upset in any way. She was actually indifferent to it. She knew she could be quite selfish when it came to work. Allen knew it, too. And he usually took it like a champ. But now, especially after the last case and the time they had spent together afterward, things were different. They were closer now. There was something more between them. Love…sure. But something else, too. Something else that made Kate think about the rest of her life.

  The second text read: Here’s the deal. Meeting went very well. Headed out for drinks in a bit. Plan on getting toasted. Want to talk to you, but maybe we do our own thing tonight. If I get truly toasted, maybe you’ll get a mushy phone call or a weird selfie from me. Take care.

  One thing she had learned about Allen was that when he got wordy in texts or said a lot of “like” or “um” in conversation, he was hiding his true feelings. So what those two texts told her was that there would likely be some damage control to handle when she got back home.

  Kate changed into her pajama pants and a T-shirt before settling into bed. She was tired, but did not think she’d be able to go to sleep right away. She ended up being right. She spent too much time thinking about the crime scenes and the victims. She felt there were a lot of clues hiding in plain sight—connections that maybe weren’t solid but were heavily implied.

  After a while, she looked at the bedside clock and saw that it was 11:20. She sighed, sat up, and said: “To hell with it.”

  She kept the T-shirt on but slipped into her jeans—the only other pants she had packed other than what she had worn that day. She grabbed the car keys, which DeMarco had gladly allowed her to keep, and headed back down to the lobby. Kate stepped out into the night, got into the car, and headed east.

  It took less than two minutes to reach the last row of motels and houses before she came to the edge of the lake. She found a public access parking lot, parked, and got out. Smiling like a little girl, she kicked her shoes off as she neared the access pier that led down to the soft sand that bordered the lake. It was a far cry from the beach trip she and Allen had taken, but she was a firm believer that sand between the toes—be it from a lake or a beach—was some weird form of therapy.

  She took a few steps out into the sand, relishing the feel of it on her feet. She sat down on the sand, looking into the sheet of darkness stretched out over the lake. Her mind wanted to drift to romantic and uplifting things—perhaps sharing this moment with Allen, or wondering how old Michelle would be when Melissa finally took her to a lake or ocean or body of water other than the YMCA pool.

  But her mind was too focused on the case. All her mind could center on as she stared out into that darkness was trying to come up with some sort of a profile for their killer.

  The fact that he was hanging the women spoke volumes about him. This was not going to be a timid man. This would be a killer who put thought into what he was doing. Maybe he didn’t necessarily take pride in it, but he needed it to be a display of some sort rather than a simple murder. History and academy studies told her that killers who put some element of the dramatic or artistic in their work usually had some sort of trauma or emotional scarring in their past. And emotional killers tended to be the most dangerous. Logic and reasoning became just shadows in a world that was littered with reasons to kill.

  She also assumed the killer didn’t know the women personally. The fact that each victim had been a real estate agent meant that he was choosing them because of their profession. One or two could be passed off as a coincidence, but three pointed toward the victims being purposefully chosen. She wondered if the killer had been homeless at some point in his life or if he was acting out against people who worked to purchase larger, more expensive homes.

  One of the first things Kate had wondered after seeing the first crime scene and hearing the report details was that the killer could possibly be someone from another real estate agency. But now that they had a dead agent from each of three local real estate agencies in the area, that theory was effectively ruled out.

  It had also played out that the same-owner theory had fallen through. Had Donald Dewalt owned the house that Dhayna Tsui had been killed in, that would have obviously been a clear link, providing them somewhere to dig. But now Kate felt as if they were starting over at square one. She ran over the things she felt certain of in her mind, each item punctuated by a crashing wave in front of her. She checked each one off in her mind, creating a list and trying to tie it to a profile.

  He’s a local because he’s familiar with the real estate agencies and current listings.

  He’s attacking the women with something hard, hitting them in the head and then hanging them in foyer areas, as close to the front of the house as he can.

  He’s not afraid to attack in the middle of the day, in broad daylight; that likely means he’s not feeling guilt or shame for what he is doing.

  So far, he’s only gone after female agents.

  It was a scant list, but it was better than nothing. And the more Kate let it sink in, the more she thought something there might be able to lead them in the right direction.

  First and foremost, it made her think of the easy access to the home. The killer was having no problem getting into these homes, which made Kate think of the electrician, poor Travis Fields. It made her wonder what other sorts of people had access to the houses at the same times they were being shown to potential buyers.

  It also made her wonder if any potential buyers had visited all three homes. And if so, had they stuck with one agency or had they shopped around to all three?

  Once she started picking at that thread, she felt like it could unravel on and on forever. And when you were looking for the answers to some very hard questions, an unraveling thread could be a very good thing.

  She wasn’t sure how long she sat in the sand, peering into the darkness and watching the murky movements of the water, but when she stood to her feet and glanced at her watch, it was 12:16. She brushed the sand from her backside as she headed back to the walkway. She gave the dark water one last glance and continued on to the parking lot.

  ***

  The following morning, Kate and DeMarco showed up at the offices of Lakeside Realty as soon as the doors opened. When Brett Towers arrived and unlocked the door, he didn’t bother hiding the frown that crept across his face.

  “It’s early,” he complained as he opened the door. Still, ever the gentleman, he held the door open for Kate and DeMarco as they entered the office.

  “I know,” Kate said. “But we only have a few questions…just a few bits of information we were hoping you could help us with. I assume you’ve heard the news about Dhayna Tsui?”

  “I have. And I’ve also heard about how you think it’s necessary to essentially take money out of my pocket by putting a freeze on all real estate showings until this is all over with.”

  “That’s true,” Kate said. “So the quicker we wrap it, the sooner you can get back to work. So if you could help us gather up some of this information, you’d be helping to push things along.”

  They followed him to his desk in the back of the large open office area. He plopped down in his chair and turned on his laptop. “What sort of information are you looking for?” he asked.

  “I need the names and professions of anyone who was allowed into the house on Hammermi
ll Street in the week or so prior to Tamara Bateman’s death. Painters, electricians, cleaners, other agents, everything you can get me.”

  “That should actually be fairly simple. I’ll have to check the records, but I can have it for you pretty quickly.”

  “How’s the whole thing work?” DeMarco asked. “If one agency has the property listed, another one can’t show it, too, right?”

  “Yeah. Unless there’s some weird segregation of the house itself and the property it sits on.”

  “So in other words,” Kate said, wanting to clarify, “because Lakeside has the house on Hammermill listed, Crest Realty or Davis and Hopper can’t show it?”

  “That’s right. Once a seller signs with one agency, they can only list it with another agency once that contract expires, or if there is due cause for them to terminate.”

  He began hunting around in his laptop, moving with expert speed. He started to nod as he clicked along. “Yeah, there’s quite a few names here that I can send you. I’ve got three people who saw the house with us, then one electrician, a carpet guy that went in for an estimate, the county appraiser…yeah, it’s a long list.”

  “Is that normal?” Kate asked.

  “Yeah. I mean, if there was damage to a house, the list could be very long. Painters, carpenters, gutter installers, you name it. The Hammermill house was in good shape, though. All things considered, this list isn’t anything out of the ordinary.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Towers,” DeMarco said. “We’ll leave you alone for now. You think you could compile that list and text it to me?”

  “Sure thing. Give me about ten more minutes.”

  Kate and DeMarco took their leave. Even though it was still early, Kate felt that the day was going to be a busy one. But that was fine with Kate. She’d much rather have an overwhelming list of potential leads than no direction whatsoever. She felt a stirring of excitement with the possibilities. If the other two agencies could provide lists the size and scope of the one Brett Towers was putting together for them, they might have their work cut out for them.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  He sipped from his coffee, watching the house from behind the steering wheel. It was a stunning morning, the sun bright but not too hot. It shone down on the casual little neighborhood as if it were the spotlight from a play, the lighting crew bringing this one little block into the light. He grinned as he watched the door open.

  The woman who came out was very pretty. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail. She had a face that could have been on TV and a body that could have been in any number of men’s magazines. Out of the ones he had been following so far, she was easily the prettiest. He wasn’t sure how old she was. Surely no older than forty.

  As he watched the house, a man came out behind her. He said something—he could not tell what because he was parked four houses down—and chased after her. The woman smiled, turned around, and wrapped her arms around him. The kiss they then shared was a bit much out in the front yard on a weekday morning. Still, he smiled. It was a kiss that made him think the couple he was currently watching might have quite a fun afternoon when she arrived back home.

  The kiss broke and when the woman turned away and headed for her car, the man slapped her playfully on her perfectly sculpted backside. Behind the steering wheel, coffee in hand, he continued smiling. It was a whimsical little scene, a great way to start the day, he supposed.

  He wondered if his parents had ever enjoyed one another in such a way. He barely remembered his father, and what he did remember was not good. But whenever his mother had spoken about his father, she would sort of light up. She would never admit that she missed him and he only once heard her say that she had loved his father, but he hoped they had shared some days like the one this couple was currently having.

  The smile on his face felt odd. It was the first time he had not felt sad or filled with pain when thinking of his mother ever since her funeral. There was still a sting behind the thought of her, but it was almost numb now. It almost made sense. By God, he missed her.

  He missed how hard she had fought for them, trying to make sure he had the best possible future. He missed her optimism, although it had been annoying as hell at times.

  This terrible world had not treated her fairly. And none of it had been her fault. Most of it had come down to his father leaving, but the rest had been circumstantial. It had come down to a world that simply did not look favorably on people like his mother—people who had been dealt a shitty hand and tried to make do any way they possibly could.

  He was so sidetracked by thoughts of his mother that he nearly zoned out and missed the woman getting into her car and pulling away from the sidewalk. He let her get to the end of the block before he pulled out into the street. Really, though, he wasn’t too worried about keeping her in his sights. He knew where she was headed.

  What he was more interested in was where she might be going later in the day.

  He wondered if she would be showing houses today. He wondered if she’d have to be alone in any of them for some reason or another.

  As he took the same right turn she had taken just moments ago, he heard the piece of lumber jostle under his seat as if it, too, was anxious to know about the rest of her day.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  While Kate knew that her request to put a hold on all real estate showings was not a popular one, the agencies still seemed more than willing to assist her. By the time she and DeMarco arrived at the Estes police station, Davis and Hopper Realty had also compiled a list of people who had been given access to the property on Leander Drive a week leading up to Bea Faraday’s murder. DeMarco copied and pasted the names into the Notes app on her phone and printed it out from one of the station’s’ printer. While she was doing this, Kate revisited the map in the conference room and, with Sheriff Armstrong’s assistance, placed a third X in the vicinity of the murders.

  Kate studied the layout of streets and landmarks among the three X’s but could still see no discernable pattern. She felt that looking for a pattern might be wasted time but because it was such a small area, it had to be considered. Sure, she and DeMarco—along with the help of some of Estes’s finest—had searched the houses of interest yesterday and come up with no signs of a squatter or any traces of forced entry. But still, there had to be something she was missing.

  DeMarco came back into the room with the list of names to look over. She placed it on the edge of the table with a bit of flair, sighed, and crossed her arms. “This is a long list,” she said. “But I’ve already noticed that there are some duplicate entries. For instance, the same carpet company works for both agencies.”

  “Still no list from Crest Realty?” Kate asked.

  “None.”

  “They aren’t exactly known for their promptness,” Armstrong said. “We may have to press a bit harder to get anything from them.”

  “Well, we may as well start on the list then,” Kate said. She did not like the idea of spending the entire morning on the phone, but it had to be done.

  “Hey, wait a second,” DeMarco said. She was looking at the map again, from an angle at the edge of the table. “Sheriff Armstrong…what’s this little area here?”

  She was pointing to an expanse of land that sat to the right of the Leander Drive property and just above the Hammermill house. The third house, the latest one on the cul-de-sac on Magnolia Street and marked with a fresh X, sat on the other side of that expanse of land.

  “Locals call it Old Park Place,” Armstrong said. “There was a little park there for the longest time. I remember playing on it when I was a kid. A playground, a little garden space, and even a little pond. Look real hard on the map and you can see the pond.”

  “But it’s no longer open?” DeMarco said.

  “No. It closed down seven or eight years ago. The sad truth is, there’s just not a lot of kids in the community. And during the summer, ninety percent of the children in the area are more interested in heading t
o the lake. It wasn’t worth the cost and management to keep it up, so it was closed down and sort of went to ruin. Every now and then we’ll catch people drinking out there. Some kids necking from time to time. Our buddy Greg Seamster has been known to sleep there on occasion.”

  “When it was opened, were there trails and roads inside of it?” DeMarco asked.

  Kate knew where DeMarco was headed with her questions and admired her for it. It might be a bit of a stretch, but then again it might also help them find that pattern she had been looking for.

  “There were, yes. There’s a thin road that would barely be considered a two-lane that ran along the southern edge of it. It wasn’t even marked. And there’s a little nature trail that curved around the pond…”

  It was then that Armstrong also seemed to understand what DeMarco was getting at. They all looked at the map together, bending over in unison. To anyone who might randomly walk by the opened conference room door, the sight may have been comical.

  No one said anything because it had become obvious they were all saying the same thing. Kate nearly did but she wanted to give DeMarco the opportunity to see this hunch through. When she did pick it up, there was the slightest bit of excitement in her voice.

  “So on this map, there are no clearly defined roads or passages in and out of this chunk of land. But to someone passing through the area on foot, it could serve to connect a few of the nearby streets—sort of like a shortcut of kids were out walking or riding skateboards and bikes.”

  “That’s right,” Armstrong agreed. “I actually believe that some of the town maintenance crews use it as a kind of thoroughfare when they need to get a lot of work done in a short period of time.”