by L. K. Hill
“So what are you thinking?” Gabe asked.
She spread her hands. “I honestly have no idea. It’s just gotta be more than your basic drug transaction going on in there.”
Gabe glanced to the side of her face, and she thought he was examining at the wall behind her, until he said, “Did they give you the bruises?”
She clapped a hand to the side of her neck—she’d completely forgotten about that—and pulled her hair forward to cover it. Which was stupid because he’d probably been staring at the bruises since he arrived.
She didn’t bother to answer, and Gabe rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Again, why didn’t you tell me this? I can help you look into this kind of thing, Kyra.”
“You can?”
He gave her an exasperated look. “I’m a cop.”
She rolled her eyes. “I know that. But you still have to get warrants and stuff, right? It’s a deserted warehouse, but I’m pretty sure it’s still private property. How would that conversation have gone? Hey, Detective. So I’ve been trespassing recently. Got chased away by homicidal psychopaths. Can you do me a favor and see what they’re guarding? Oh and, by the way, if it’s worth my while, I’m totally gonna trespass again.”
Gabe rolled his eyes, though the corners of his mouth had turned up. “We aren’t talking about storming the place with a SWAT team. I can look into it other ways that don’t require legalities. At the very least I could figure out who owns the place.”
“That’s a matter of public record,” Kyra said.
Gabe raised an eyebrow. “So you know who owns it?”
“I haven’t gotten over to the courthouse to check yet. My point is, I didn’t need you to do that.”
His eyebrows jumped.
“I didn’t mean to sound harsh,” she said quickly. “You asked me why I didn’t tell you. I just mean, it didn’t occur to me. Until I know more about it, I wasn’t going to. Most things I can do on my own.” When he continued to gaze steadily down at her, she shrugged. “Force of habit.”
Gabe took a deep breath. “Okay, but there are some things I can look into more easily, and some things I can do that you can’t. From now on, bring stuff like this to me. Let me help you.” He glanced worriedly at her hair-covered neck again. “You’ll probably have to run fewer marathons through the Slip Mire.”
That made her smile. After a moment, she nodded. “Okay.”
He seemed mollified. “Okay then.” He glanced over at the bedside clock. It read 9:24. “You have your conference call at 9:30?”
She nodded.
“I’ll let you get to it, then. I need to get to work anyway.”
He got up and she followed him to the door. After stepping into the hallway, he turned. “I’ll be in touch when I know something about the warehouse.”
“Thank you.” She held up the key. “And for this.”
“Of course. Now that you have a key to my place, you might as well start calling me Gabe.” He stared at her a moment longer, and she thought he wanted to say something else. He shook himself. “Be careful out there. I know I say that a lot, but I mean it. And lock your door.”
Warmth pooled in her chest unbidden, and she smiled. “I always do.”
He smiled back, then disappeared.
She latched the door behind him and turned to lean against it, thinking. If it were possible to tell Jane about this—a key to a handsome, single detective’s home, in case Kyra needed it to escape danger—her sister could write entire romance novels out of material like that. Chuckling at the thought, Kyra crossed the room to once again pick up the phone.
Chapter 14
With a sigh, Kyra turned her head away from the warehouse to relieve the ache forming in her neck. She’d been staring at the warehouse for hours now. Her neck and back and shoulders ached. She knew she’d have to leave before long or else risk more serious strains that could keep her in her hotel room for days.
She’d observed the comings and goings without being observed herself. After talking to Gabe, it occurred to her she hadn’t actually done much observation of the warehouse. With Josie, she’d staked out his place for weeks before putting her plan into action. She kept getting into hot water at the warehouse because she entered before knowing enough about the situation. She’d arrived at 10:30 p.m. and watched until now. It felt like a waste of time, not actually doing anything. She’d gathered a lot of information, though. She had no idea what any of it meant, but at least it would be something to talk to Gabe about. Not that she wanted a reason to call him or anything. Of course not.
From the vantage point she’d chosen, she could see the three main entrances to the warehouse clearly. Smaller entrances led in at the back, but from what she could tell, they weren’t used. Those doors were covered with cobwebs, the dirt around them utterly undisturbed, and their hinges so heavily rusted that, Kyra suspected if they opened at all, it would only be with a great deal of effort and metallic squealing.
Just as on the first night she’d happened across it, several groups of people—all of whom staggered like strung-out junkies, the kind of people who would follow anyone and do anything for the shallow promise of a fix—were led into the warehouse. No matter what time it was, or which entrance they used, three or four armed guards always came out to meet them. The guards looked formidable, and anything but pleasant, yet they appeared to treat the junkies with kindness, ushering them inside with what from this distance Kyra could only describe as conciliatory gestures and words. She couldn’t hear them, of course, but their words calmed the high-strung Mirelings. No easy feat.
Kyra kept an eye on the window with the tear in its inside cover as well. From there, she observed several different colors of light, and the shadows shifted often, but not enough to give her any idea of what was happening inside.
Pulling out her phone, she clicked it on. Just after 2.am. Hours yet until sunrise. She sighed, bored. She’d long since gotten used to being up all night and sleeping during the day, so she wasn’t particularly tired, but if things didn’t get more interesting soon, she might fall asleep.
A soft, clear sound reached her ears. It took her three seconds to process it. As understanding dawned, chills ran up her spine, making the hair on her arms and the back of her neck stand up.
It was a scream. Soft, because it came from inside the warehouse. Jumping up onto her toes, but staying in a squat, she leaned out of her hiding place to get a better view. Nothing moved. Not a thing had changed. Other than her breathing becoming erratic. She told herself to be calm, but it took a full ten minutes to bring her heartbeat down again.
It had been a single, muffled cry in the night. One most of the world hadn’t perceived and couldn’t attest to. Confirmation of ominous things happening inside. Kyra waited at rapt attention, straining to observe what would come next.
An hour later, she’d neither heard nor seen anything new. No more screams. No more groups of Mirelings being ushered in. Kyra got the feeling there would not be any more activity tonight. Her eyelids felt heavy and, though sunup was still hours away, she wanted to be safely in her hotel again before the sky began to lighten. Besides, it would give her plenty of time to walk slowly on the way back. She did better thinking while walking than while sitting still.
As she made her way through the dark, silent alleys of the Slip Mire, she mulled over everything she’d seen. It still amounted to nothing. She knew no more of what was going on in there than she had twenty-four hours ago. No idea if this Manny person was her Manny. The only reliable she’d made was that, while many people went in, none ever came out. And that scream. She shivered.
They might sleep in there until daylight, then leave. That was the problem with only coming out at night: she couldn’t be sure of anything happening during the hours she didn’t dare be there. Perhaps tomorrow night she would go back and find a hiding place that would conceal her during the day as well as the night, but still afford a decent view of the warehouse. She would bring enough food and
water to sustain her for a twenty-four-hour period of observation.
Deciding it was a good plan, she plodded on.
How to get inside unseen? She didn’t think the back side of the warehouse was an option. The unused entrances made too much noise, and the front ones had guards. She doubted any of the high windows opened at all, and if they did, she would immediately be seen if she tried to slip through.
In the silence of the Mire, even her soft, padded footfalls sounded loud. From somewhere up ahead, a strange sound reached her ears. She didn’t know what it was—a wheezing sound, accompanied by rapid thudding—but she pressed herself down into the shadows of the alley. Up ahead, the alley dead-ended in a T where it met a perpendicular passage. Kyra would be forced to turn either left or right when she reached the T. A figure—a man, she thought, though terribly thin, and obviously out of shape by the sound of his breathing—rushed past.
Could someone be chasing him? No Mireling would run like that, otherwise. The Mire was a place of creeping, slinking, shadowy movements. It never occurred to her before that one ever ran in the Mire. So why was this guy?
Kyra waited a slow count of thirty after the man passed. Stillness. Silence. She crept forward warily, ready to spring back to the shadows at the slightest sound. Everything was quiet when she reached the T junction. Looking in the direction the man had run, she saw nothing. He was long gone. Everything in direction he’d come from hunched, dark and muted, too. Her heart pounded against her rib cage. Something strange was at work. She could feel it.
She should go left, following him, as it were, to get back to her hotel, but curiosity scratched at her. Besides, she didn’t like turning her back on whatever sent the man running and risk it coming up behind her. Her hands shook with anxiety, but they would either way now, so she might as well investigate. With hours until dawn, she could spare twenty minutes. She turned right and made her way down the passage.
She followed the alley for more than ten minutes, until it let out onto what, for the Slip Mire, was a slightly wider-than-usual street. She’d come miles from the Carmichael district, which meant fewer warehouses, but a row of small ones sat in front of her. Evenly-spaced sconce-type lights with clear, clean fixtures, which made the light orange for a wonder, perched on the outside of the warehouses. Though still seedy by most people’s standards, this was actually a more respectable part of town. She could tell because businesses seemed to function here during daylight hours, rather than just being vacant, abandoned buildings. This must be the far east side of the Slip Mire. She didn’t come here often, and wasn’t as familiar with it as with the rest of the city. Nothing gave any clue as to what had frightened the man. Only silence, emptiness, and stillness. She shivered, and not because of the chill in the air. She suddenly felt like the only person on earth.
She decided she wouldn’t find anything—whatever scared the man had either departed, or was a figment of a drug-induced hallucination—when something caught her eye. The largest warehouse of the three, though still not nearly as big as the one she’d staked out in the Carmichael district, sat on the corner. It looked to be in reasonable repair. Palettes stacked alongside it and well-worn grooves in the gravel that led to both the entrances as well as a loading dock pointed to it being used for something during the day. Not odd, by itself, but the fact that one of its doors stood open was.
If in use, the warehouse should be locked up tight after sundown. No one would leave goods unsecured in the Slip Mire, respectable part of town or no. Perhaps the man she’d seen had been squatting inside. He looked like a typical homeless Mireling. Maybe he’d broken in and been sleeping there. Someone like him would run if found and chased off. But shouldn’t his pursuers still be here? If they’d left, wouldn’t they have shut the door?
Keeping to the shadows, Kyra crept closer. A bar of dim illumination spilled out through the doorway. Lights left on inside. From a dark alcove across the way, she watched the door for a full five minutes and listened. Nothing.
She crept up to the door.
Inside she could see tall palettes wrapped in shiny plastic. Nothing more. Pulling her gun from where it rested against her thigh, and with her heart pounding a rhythm against her sweatshirt, she slipped inside.
The interior was much less sinister than she’d expected. Dim lights illuminated the room with surprising clarity. Eight palettes of some product she couldn’t make out through the plastic wrap stood clustered together on one side of the room. The rest was mostly open space, with rough, un-sanded wooden tables built into the walls. Covered with tools, scales, and other measuring instruments, they were obviously stations to examine small packages before and after shipping. On the far side of the room sat a forklift.
Kyra scanned the room, not even sure what to look for. She glanced up to find a loft twenty feet above. Nothing in the room to suggest a ladder or other way up. Perhaps the loft could only be accessed from the outside. A black duffel bag of some kind hung several inches over the side of the loft, but she couldn’t hear or see any movement from above.
She supposed she’d better leave. There didn’t seem to be anything worth seeing, and she didn’t want anyone to catch her trespassing. Turning toward the door, she cast one last glance around the room…and froze. Her heart threw itself violently against her rib cage and her breathing deepened almost painfully. An object that looked suspiciously like a shoe stuck out from behind the forklift.
Paranoia dug its icy fingers into her neck, and she whirled around once, twice, three times, sure someone was watching. She found no one. Only an empty warehouse and the stillness already waiting for her when she arrived. Taking her gun firmly in both hands, slid her finger over the trigger, and moved slowly toward the forklift. More detail emerged from the gloom. The shoe hung off a leg. One that lay utterly motionless. Gritting her teeth, Kyra swung around to peer into the narrow space between the forklift and the wall.
A woman, thick-waisted and glassy eyed, stared up at the ceiling of the warehouse. Kyra didn’t have to touch her to tell she was dead. She didn’t look like a prostitute, but definitely a Mireling. Rumpled, faded, and mismatched clothing complimented her matted, unwashed hair. Sallow and unhealthy, her skin hung, showing she’d lived a predominantly unhealthy lifestyle.
Wincing, Kyra lowered her gun, turned from the body, and stalked toward the door. Outside, she bulled her way across the vacant street and into the darkest alley she could see. She power-walked until her eyes adjusted and she reached an alley she recognized, far enough from the warehouse to feel safe pausing. Leaning against the brick wall of the alley, her mind raced. She pulled out her cell phone to call Gabe, but stopped. She needed to think rationally. She was in no imminent danger that she could tell. No reason to waste a perfectly good cell phone by calling Gabe on it if she didn’t have to. The old man she’d seen running was across town by now. Of course, his small stature and wheezy breathing made him an unlikely candidate for the killer. Which meant the woman’s murderer might still be around.
Kyra had to call somebody.
She peered around and walked farther down the alley, until she came to an intersection. From there, she figured out where she was. One of the working pay phones was only a couple of miles from where she stood. Pushing the image of the dead woman’s staring eyes from her mind, she turned in the right direction and broke into a jog.
***
Gabe stared at the four folders laid out on his desk. He’d been reading them so long, the print looked blurry to his eyes. They were the case files of the three recent murders, plus the Mallory Butler case from six weeks earlier. They’d already let the D.A.’s office know what they’d found, and admonished them to drop the charges against Jace Anderson. Of course, so far into the process, they’d put up a stink, but it was Shaun’s headache, not his.
Gabe rubbed his eyes. Still nothing concrete connected the cases. Except for Kyra’s observations, they wouldn’t have been able to do it yet. Not even close. The MOs differed. No DNA or
fingerprints left at the scene. This guy was good.
It was surprising, considering the Mallory Butler murder. A man who would blitz attack a woman, especially in the middle of her encounter with another man, was some kind of twisted. By definition, he was impulsive. Disorganized. A killer of that kind shouldn’t be capable of high-level organization in his kills. This one was. The proof lay in the lack of evidence. The killer knew enough to outsmart the forensics of a crime scene. If not for Kyra, Gabe would have sworn on a stack of bibles they were committed by different killers.
Flipping the folders closed, Gabe’s eyes fell on the photo beneath them. The one of the cross he’d received in the mail with the words inscribed on the inside. Another reminder of the complete lack of progress in every part of his life. Nothing had come from combing over the earlier crosses Gabe received. He shouldn’t be disappointed—he hadn’t truly expected to find anything—but frustration still gnawed at him. After finding that the cross opened, he’d hoped the others would too. That they’d simply missed it before. None of them did. They were just normal crosses. This one was special. Why? This year represented twenty-five since Dillon’s disappearance. A nice, round number, but Gabe couldn’t think why it would be any more significant than the tenth or fifteenth or twentieth anniversary would have been.
He stared at the picture of the cross, feeling a headache coming on. When had his life become so…stagnant?
Beside them lay a transcript of Johnny Bronco’s statement. G-a-a-p. Gabe hadn’t found time to research what it could mean yet. Turning to his computer, he opened up his browser and typed it into the search engine.
