by Skyla Madi
“You ever think about cuttin’ back on the caffeine?”
Harry glanced at his friend then went back to staring at the wall in front of them. “What about the unsolved?”
“Same MO. Blunt force trauma to the back of the head, but the woman had dark hair.”
“Yeah. No connection to Hardin that we know of.” Harry looked into his empty Timmy H cup, like he could will more coffee to appear.
“I know. But these recent killings might be related. Maybe you should do a little more digging on this Chelsea Rand girl.” Cedric pointed to the girl’s picture with his cane and tapped the news print photo.
“I thought about that, but now I have a more pressing matter. Grace.”
“Yeah, I know, she’s pissed at you.”
“Not that. She was attacked, and I think by the same man who committed these murders.” He mumbled a curse; he missed his daughter.
“Shit!” Cedric exclaimed. “I assume since you’re standing here, she’s all right.”
“Yeah. Funny thing is she knew the guy, or met him once.”
“Where’s your daughter hanging out these days?”
“Watch it.” Harry narrowed his eyes at his friend.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean anything.”
“Forget it,” Harry said. “We ran his name and came up with nothing. Either it’s an alias or he’s completely off the grid. A ghost.”
“Not likely,” Cedric countered. “Do me a favor and check the old case files on that Rand girl. Maybe something will look differently now.” He stabbed the floor with his walking stick on the way back to his recliner. Harry stepped closer to the news clippings on the wall for a better look. He read one of the articles about Chelsea Rand. It was before her body had been found and she was still a missing person. The headline read,
WOMAN MISSING SINCE TUESDAY.
“You said you were thinking about the suspect, Hardin?”
“Yeah about that. I don’t think he did it but I think the murderer knows him,” Cedric said.
“Why, you think he’s targeting him? Except how do you explain the tips we received?”
“I’m not looking at that. And besides, you already mentioned you think they were both from the ex-wife with an agenda.” Cedric popped up the footrest on the Laz-E-Boy.
“Yeah, but I may be reconsidering my earlier position.”
“Oh bullshit, Harry. Talk to your suspect. Find out if he knew Chelsea Rand. If he did then decide.”
“I hate it when you make sense. And why didn’t you become a cop again?”
“I decided to go to prison instead. Thought it’d be fun.”
Harry had no idea how Cedric had forgiven him for putting him in prison.
“Sit down, Harry. Tell me why Gracie’s mad at you, again.”
“What are you, my shrink now?” Harry tilted his head back. “Fine.” He flopped down on the sofa, the plastic cover creaking beneath him. He briefly wondered if he needed to bathe after, or wash his hands. “You don’t have sex on this thing, do you?”
“Why do you think there’s a cover on it?”
Harry cringed. Cedric laughed. “Gotcha, didn’t I? No, I don’t have sex on my couch. I’m not that limber.”
Harry sighed. “She found out about my women.”
“How?”
“Natalie.”
“Oh, I like her. Go on.”
Harry glared at the man. “Anyway, now she won’t talk to me. Neither of them.”
“Since when do you care about what Natalie thinks?”
“She was Annie’s best friend. I think about her sometimes. Uh, I mean, I…whatever.” He couldn’t look his friend in the eye.
Cedric shook his head and laughed under his breath. “What’s wrong with Natalie or you, that you can’t admit you have a thing for the po’ woman?”
“What makes you think I have a thing for her?”
Cedric glared at him. “You.”
“Me? What are you talking about?” Harry picked lint off his pants.
“Never mind. So Grace…”
“Won’t except my calls.”
“Good. About time you stood on your own two feet. Got her so crazy, worrying about you all the time.”
“Worried about me?”
“Yeah, you. All them birthday celebrations for her dead mama. How would that not mess with her head? I’d been worried about you too, if I didn’t know what you was up to all these years.”
“Hmm…”
“Yeah, hmm.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Mikey
The doorbell to Ink Addiction chimed and Mikey inwardly groaned. He ducked behind the curtain toward the back of the shop. Through a gap he watched Detective Harry Hunter survey the parlor until he spotted the glass top counter and Mandy.
Her bright smile greeted him. “What can we help you with today?”
“Looking for Mikey Hardin. Is he here?”
Please don’t tell him I’m here.
“Yeah, he’s in the back.” She nodded in Mikey’s direction.
Dammit.
“Mike!” she shouted. Her feet padded toward him. “Mike…”
He came out of his hiding spot and nearly ran into her.
Her face flushed. “Oh…this guy is here to see—”
“I heard.”
Mandy returned to her post behind the counter as Hunter joined Mikey back by his work station, a cup of coffee in his hand.
“Hardin, need to have a word with you.”
What now?
“All right.” He waved him over. “We’ll need to make this quick, got another tattoo to do in twenty minutes.”
“This won’t take long. I’ll come right out with it. Do you know a Chelsea Rand?” Hunter scrutinized Mikey’s face.
“No, can’t say I do. Is there a reason you’re asking about her?”
“She was found murdered.”
“Another one? Shit, when?”
Harry sipped his coffee, eyeing Mikey over the rim of the cup. “About a year ago.”
“And you think I had something to do with it?” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “When is this nightmare going to end?” he muttered under his breath.
“What’s that?” Hunter asked.
“Nothing. When did you say she was killed?”
“A year ago. You didn’t know her?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Do you keep records of your customers?”
“Clients. Yes, but names only unless they pay with a credit card. Sometimes emails.”
“You wouldn’t happen to have the list handy or on a computer, would you?”
Mikey walked behind the curtain where he’d tried hiding from the detective. Hunter followed him.
He sat down at a glass top desk with chrome legs and began tapping on the laptop keyboard. He entered the name into the search function of the scheduling program. Chelsea Rand came up, along with her email address used for newsletters with the dates and times of all her appointments. Hunter leaned over his shoulder.
“How come I see her name?” the detective asked.
“I guess a Chelsea Rand did get a tat here, but I wasn’t the one who worked on her.” Mikey pointed next to the dates and times and at the name of the artist who did the actual tattoo. The last date entered for her was over a year old and Needles had worked on her then.
Harry stepped away from the desk. “Can you print that out?”
“No problem. I wouldn’t want to obstruct justice or anything.” They waited for the printer to warm up and spit out the list. Mikey handed the sheet of paper to Harry. “Tell me something, Detective, are you any closer to catching whoever killed those girls?”
“That’s what I’m here to find out.” Harry scanned the printed schedule. “Is this Eric who tattooed Chelsea around?”
“Yep. Needles,” Mikey called over his shoulder, keeping his eyes on Harry, “this detective wants to talk to you, man.”
Needles Ned was hunched over the drawing table
against the back wall of the shop. He swiveled his stool and looked over. “Sure. No problem.” He stood and joined them by Mikey’s station.
Harry cleared his throat before speaking. “This list says you worked on a Chelsea Rand on May fourteenth, two thousand and fifteen.”
Needles held his hand out for the paper. Harry handed it to him. “May have. I don’t remember the name.”
“Let me refresh your memory.” Harry showed Ned a photo from his phone.
Mikey looked at the picture too and didn’t recognize the girl at all. Ned closed his eyes for a moment as if trying to remember the girl.
Ned pursed his lips and shrugged. “Still don’t remember her.”
“Are you sure?” Harry persisted. “Says on that piece of paper you worked on her four different times within six months.”
“Don’t know what to tell ya, Detective. See a lot of faces and it’s been a year since she’s been in here.”
Harry sighed heavily and grabbed the list out of Ned’s hands. “Thanks for your help.”
“Well, let me know if you need anything else,” Mikey said. There was no tattoo to be done in twenty minutes; he’d lied to get rid of the cop quicker.
“Don’t worry, I will,” Harry said. “Are you sure you don’t remember her? Either of you?”
Mikey made an exasperated noise. “Yep.”
Ned grumbled and went back to the drawing table.
Harry eyed Mikey for a pregnant moment. “Do me a favor and call me if you remember anything.”
“Will do. Goodnight, Detective.”
Harry wandered toward the front exit, pausing to look at the wall of tattoo designs before deciding he’d seen enough and left the shop.
What the hell was that all about? Mikey had no idea someone named Chelsea Rand even existed. The girl in the photo didn’t look familiar at all. If she had been in there, Mikey must’ve been out or too busy with another client to notice. Not that he would have remembered her anyway.
He entered Chelsea Rand into the computer again and noted the dates and times then did a search using the dates for his activity, starting with the most recent.
“What the fuck?”
Cody Pollard. He’d been working on that asshole at the time the girl was in the shop. Mikey sat back in the chair. He tried to recall the day.
Shit.
Now he remembered; this was the first time Cody had been in Ink Addiction. He’d worn a green polo shirt and khaki pants, hardly the free-spirited type to get a tat. But when he’d pulled off his shirt, numerous designs were tattooed in random spots all over his torso, front and back. As Mikey worked on Cody’s latest ink, the guy sat so still, he had to wonder if the bastard had any nerve endings. He also didn’t make a sound.
Mikey fished his wallet out of his back pocket and threw Hunter’s business card on the desk. After he punched in the cell number, he paused. There were three things Mikey knew. Grace had been attacked by Cody. Hunter came in asking about a Chelsea Rand, a murder victim, and Cody had been in the same place at the same time as her. Was there a connection or was this merely a coincidence?
He rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. Maybe he should call the police station instead of bothering Hunter. On the other hand, Cody obviously was prone to violence. Fuck it. He hit the green circle on his iPhone to complete the call and was immediately sent to voice mail.
Mikey listened to the ridiculously long generic greeting then disconnected the call.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Harry
“Grace, please, when you get this message, call me. I only want to talk.” Harry hung up the phone before he started groveling again. He hated that his daughter was angry with him. Sure, it was his own fault, but two weeks had gone by and she still wasn’t taking his calls. He would have stopped over her apartment if Natalie hadn’t told him Grace was now staying at her new boyfriend’s house until Cody was apprehended.
Harry had been so desperate for company he went over to Natalie’s and apologized for being such a shit to her all these years. He actually felt relieved and they had the most open conversation they ever had with one another. They even shared a few laughs, although the whole time he wondered if she knew how he felt about her.
The walk down the hall to his bedroom seemed further than usual. Today had been tiring and he’d still had no luck in discovering Cody Pollard’s true identity. The video feed from the bank revealed only a blurry glimpse of the suspect, not even enough for the Feds to use their facial recognition software. Clever bastard knew how not to be seen. He remained behind Grace during the assault or had his back to the camera. His daughter fought him off better than he’d expected. Harry couldn’t have been prouder or more terrified in his life. The jolt to his heart as he watched the events unfold would be enough to make a defibrillator jealous.
Harry sat on the end of his bed, took his shoes off, then crawled up to the pillows and laid down. He didn’t bother with his clothes.
His phone rang somewhere in the distance as his eyes closed. He didn’t care. Tomorrow was Sunday, his only day off, and he was going to take full advantage of the day. And sleep.
***
SUNDAY
6:00 p.m.
The kitchen inside Cynthia Hardin’s home looked like it had never been used. Even in the dim light shining down from the cabinets above, he saw a thin layer of dust coating the countertops. The killer swiped his rubber gloved finger across the dark quartz countertop. He examined the dust stuck to the latex.
Silently, he walked from room to room using a flashlight he’d found in one of the drawers next to the refrigerator. He climbed the stairs and ignored the portraits leading up toward the bedrooms.
The first room on his left, with an open door, was decorated like a child’s room. ‘Brayden’ was painted on a wooden plaque hanging on the door handle by a curly wire. The killer scoffed quietly.
At the end of the hallway a closed door stood between him and Cynthia. He’d been in her house before, therefore, he knew this was the master bedroom. He wondered if the child’s father had ever lived in the house, not that he couldn’t have discovered this on his own, he simply hadn’t bothered with the meaningless detail.
He set his sledgehammer down on its head and used both hands to turn the knob. Although there was no real reason to open the door this way, it seemed logical to him. He slipped inside the room like a shadow, careful not to bang the hammer into anything. He approached the en suite bathroom. The shower was on.
Buzz. Buzz.
The killer turned his head to the sound of a cell vibrating on the glass topped night table. He picked up the Samsung Galaxy. The caller ID read, ‘Asshole’. Tapping ‘ignore’, he lifted up his disposable rain poncho to pocket the phone.
He slinked inside the bathroom. Cynthia was in the shower, her back turned to him. Water splashed the plastic shower curtain and the bottom of the tub. Steam fogged up the mirror above the sink.
The disposable poncho itched around his ears but he endured his discomfort in favor of not getting his clothes and hair all dirty. He slid the curtain over slowly. Cynthia turned and screamed. The killer shoved her back; she slipped on the soapy water standing in the tub, cracking her head on the tile behind her. With a moan she slumped to the bottom. Her eyes shut and opened again, the lids fluttering.
Adrenaline rushed through his veins, a state of euphoria settling in.
“No. Oh my God. Help!” Cynthia tried to paw away from him. He gripped one of her ankles and wrenched her over the smooth lip of the tub and onto the floor. She grunted. A streak of blood ran down the inside of the shower. She rolled to her stomach and crawled away.
“Oh God…noooo!” Her voice sounded tiny.
Grabbing her by the back of the hair, the killer slammed her face first into the ceramic floor. Thick globs of blood gushed from her nose. She lay still, the fight gone.
The killer gripped the heavy mallet in both hands, mid-shaft. He sucked in a breath and swung the end of t
he sledgehammer above his head. The steel came down and met the back of Cynthia’s skull with a crack. Blood splattered all over the front of him. He didn’t flinch, only closed his eyes to keep his vision from being compromised. The woman didn’t make a sound. She never regained consciousness.
Steel hit the fractured bone again. More blood and bits of skull flew out from where the hammer connected. He swung again, this time the sound wasn’t of bone breaking but a sickening thud and a squish. The killer breathed hard, sweat dripping from his face. He stepped back with the hammer clutched in both hands.
With one arm he swiped at all of the clutter from around the sink. Perfume bottles, hairsprays, and Estee Lauder cosmetics clattered and lay broken on the floor.
He cranked the faucet on and ran the hammer under the flow starting at the head. Reddish water filled the sink. Using his palms, he rubbed the handle to dislodge stubborn globs of blood and brain bits. Most of the proof washed down the drain. He couldn’t do anything about trace evidence but he liked to keep his tool clean to the naked eye. His gloved hands, face, and neck were the next things he attended to. Once he was satisfied, he carefully drew the slicker over his head, balled it up, and tossed the poncho into the tub. Water pelted the plastic. Normally he would take everything he brought to a crime scene with him, but tonight he didn’t have the luxury. He’d made sure not to leave any fingerprints.
The phone vibrated in his back pocket. He read the front, ‘Asshole’. He shook his head. “She’s not taking any calls,” he said to himself and pressed “end” to stop the ringing.
Thirty seconds later, there was a chirp signaling a voice mail. The doorbell rang. He picked up his sledgehammer and exited the room, crept down the hall to another spare bedroom, and looked down on the front porch. Mikey and his son stood outside. The bell rang again. Cynthia’s ex-husband swore.
“Well, shit,” resounded up. “Looks like your mom’s not home, kid. What do you think? You wanna stay and wait in the car?”
“I dunno. She should be home.” The son shrugged.
