Winter Song (Seasons Pass Book 1)
Page 2
Noah hiked across the feeder-road and through the underpass, cradling the Styrofoam cup in both hands for warmth, occasionally sipping a brew so foul, most would have tossed it away in disgust. He’d be willing to swear in court they had fished used oil filters out of the trash to do double duty in the coffee pot.
The air was so cold, it hurt to breathe. How did people live in climates where this was normal winter weather? At least this norther would pass in a few days. If it froze again this year, it wouldn’t last long. He’d spent two winters in New York when he was young. It was exciting, but not anything he’d ever want to do again.
Forty-five minutes later, every shop inspected for occupants or security cameras, he joined his partner at the auto parts store. If he’d been cold before, he was frozen now. His feet were wet and his nose running. That heavy coat was sounding better and better. No, it would feel like a straitjacket inside of an hour.
The employees sat in the break room, fidgeting. Their shift was over, and one glance said they wanted out. Taking one person at a time, he and Conner interviewed all four workers. Three were in the back at the time of the shooting, leaving one at the counter, facing the street. Like the gas station attendant, he claimed the windows were too fogged to see anything.
Unless the security tape showed something, this was another dead end.
The wind had died down and the sleet stopped a few hours earlier, but the temperature had dropped several degrees by the time they left Auto Zone. Conner pulled his coat tighter and headed for the car, but Noah stopped him. “Take a look up and down this street, then check the other side and tell me if you notice any difference.”
The two men trudged through the underpass to the west side of the feeder road. Conner didn’t speak, but studied the businesses carefully. He even stood in the street and scrutinized the freeway before crossing back to the east side and checking it again.
“West side’s a lot darker. None of the businesses have bright lights, and the nearest streetlight on the freeway is out. The pavement’s dry next to that dumpster. Something kept the sleet off that spot. A car sure could hide there and wait unnoticed. Then pull out when the right vehicle came around the corner. And that’s the route she’d probably have taken, according to the address on her drivers license.”
The wind whipped Noah’s hair and he raised his voice to be heard over the horns and shouts and sirens. “Then why the job on the east side? Auto Zone and ExxonMobil both have security cameras, and the bank has one on the ATM. All three of those places are brightly lit, and the strip center hasn’t taken down their Christmas lights.”
“Something happened. Another car came by, he couldn’t make his shot, he got nervous. I don’t know. But he got up his nerve and tried again on the east side without all the planning.”
“Why didn’t he try to catch up? What else is different?” Noah waited while Conner chewed on the problem. He didn’t have to wait long.
“The city limits. It’s too early to know for sure, but maybe he wanted to do it in Bellaire and didn’t realize the line didn’t run straight. Can’t say I blame him. Without a Homicide department, Bellaire’s no match for us.”
Noah started for the car, breath-frost trailing behind him. “Don’t fault Bellaire. Working a little of everything makes a well-rounded detective. They may not have as much specialized experience as we do, but they’re sharp and have a smaller case load. But you’re on the right track. I’ll bet my left nut the perp wanted to do the job in Bellaire, and when we figure out why, we’ll be a long way toward knowing who.”
The Hudsons’ home was only a few blocks from the crime scene but a world away from the noise and traffic of the freeway. Extensive outdoor lighting showed off a manicured lawn rolling up to a two story stucco eyesore that was big enough to hold Noah’s house, yard and car with room left over to host a gala for three hundred of his closest friends.
The click of Conner’s seatbelt unfastening pulled Noah from his study of the house. He put his hand on his partner’s sleeve. “I’ll give you back your left nut if he asks how to contact the victims’ fund about paying for the funeral.”
Conner gave an I’ll-take-that-bet chuckle. “Your loss.”
Noah removed his gum, wrapped it in paper and tossed it into the car’s litter bag. “Let’s go see what Gary has to say and where he thinks his wife is,” he paused to check his watch, “at quarter till eleven on the nastiest night of the year.”
He opened the car door and stopped, one foot on the pavement. “Fuck, I hate this part of the job.” Notifying loved ones sucked. If they were taken by surprise, their grief was a kick in the gut. If they were involved, watching them pretend was ten times worse.
Conner clicked the key fob and grunted in agreement.
The yard may have been well lit, but the house was dark. An upstairs window glowed and the frosted glass in the front entrance showed a thin line of light seeping from under a closed door near the back of the house. No welcoming light had been left on for a returning wife. He wouldn’t have wanted anyone he loved coming home to such an unfriendly place.
Conner stomped his feet on the mat and smoothed his hair. “How do you want to play this, grieving widower or prime suspect?”
The darkened house sent a be-on-your-toes warning down Noah’s spine. “I’d like to get a feel for him first. Let’s give him some rope. See if he makes a noose before we do the official notification business.”
He rang the bell and waited. By the time he’d counted to ten, the light increased and footsteps sounded on a wooden floor. Hard-soled shoes, not slippers or bare feet. He glanced at Conner and raised his eyebrows. “Think he’s expecting someone?” he mouthed.
The door flew open and a middle-aged man stood on the other side. He carried twenty extra pounds, and his hairline had retreated several inches. Otherwise, he looked in good shape for his age. He’d removed his suit coat and tie and rolled his sleeves part way up with a knife-edged crease, but could have been ready to leave for the office with three minutes’ notice.
He stood in the doorway and stared at the two men. He didn’t move or speak, only blinked several times.
“Mr. Hudson?” Noah waited a beat, but the man didn’t answer. “I’m Detective Daugherty from the Houston Police Department, and this is my partner, Detective Crawford. May we come in?” He held his badge in his left hand, keeping his right hand loose and near his weapon.
The man shook his head as if clearing it. Noah had seen better acting at his niece’s grade school play.
Another moment passed before the man stepped back and opened the door wider. “Of course, of course. I expected to see my wife, that’s all. I thought she must have her hands full and couldn’t open the door.” His voice was too pleasant, too welcoming, too accepting.
Noah’s bullshit antenna activated instantly.
He expected his wife to come in the front door? No one but trick-or-treaters and mourners had ever come to Noah’s front door. If the bell rang, it wasn’t someone he wanted to see.
The man led the way through the house, flipping on lights as he went, and stopping in an ornate room containing furniture Noah was afraid to sit on. “Make yourselves comfortable, gentlemen. I’ll be right back.”
Noah glanced at Conner and narrowed his eyes. He’d never knocked on anyone’s door, day or night, who didn’t ask why he was there before inviting him in.
There was no way Noah would ever be comfortable in that room, but he lowered himself into the sturdiest chair he could find. Conner shrugged and sat on a small sofa that had a curved back at one end and a seat extending another two feet with no back rest. He tried several different positions before giving up and taking the most uncomfortable looking chair Noah had ever seen.
At the far end of the room, a grand piano gleamed under multiple coats of furniture polish. A pang of guilt hit Noah as he thought of the old upright sitting in his living room, dusty and unused, with one temperamental key that he’d never gotten around to having repaired.
Mr. Hudson returned, followed by a maid carrying an ornate silver tray containing china cups filled with coffee. Cream and sugar containers matched the flowered pattern of the cups. After the burnt sludge from the ExxonMobil station, it smelled like Heaven. The maid hovered as each man fixed his coffee, then she placed the tray on a piece of furniture Noah hadn’t realized was a table and left the room.
Noah inhaled the rich brew and eyed the cup, worried he might crush the delicate porcelain if he gripped it too tightly. Where am I supposed to put my fingers? Not through that tiny handle.
“Now, what can I help you gentlemen with on such a cold night? I always like to assist the police whenever I can. Another donation? Buy some more vests? You could have just called. I would have had my secretary send a check.” Mr. Hudson sat on the sofa Conner had vacated. He leaned back into the corner and stretched his legs down the cushion.
Smooth. He’s already managed to tell us we’re rubes while he’s a wealthy sophisticate with connections in the department.
“We’re here about your wife, Mr. Hudson.” He glanced at his notes, as if he had to remind himself. “Crystal, isn’t it?”
Hudson gave an exaggerated sigh. “What is it now? She didn’t get another ticket, did she? I should have known better than to buy her a red car. It brings out the worst in her driving. She speeds, weaves in and out of traffic and thinks a yellow light means ‘go faster.’ Well, this time she’ll have to attend one of those defensive driving classes. I’m not paying the ticket until she does.”
Conner finished his coffee and set the cup on something that might have been a table. The room was warm, and Noah’s feet were beginning to thaw. He unbuttoned his coat and glanced at Conner. Beads of sweat were breaking out on his forehead and he tugged at his shirt collar. Noah tried to hide a smile as he noticed the edge of Conner’s long underwear peeking out from his pant leg.
“Where is your wife now, Mr. Hudson?” Noah kept his voice calm, casual. Just your normal everyday conversation with two detectives in the middle of the night, visiting.
“Lord only knows. She has different classes on different nights. I don’t have any idea what tonight’s is. Then she goes shopping or has drinks with whoever else is in that class. She gets bored at night because I’m so often working. Like tonight, I’ve been on a conference call to Japan. You have to be available when your customers are awake.”
Good one, he slipped in his alibi before we even asked.
Enough of this pussyfooting around. “Mr. Hudson, I’m sorry to inform you a red BMW registered to you was damaged earlier this evening, and the woman driving was killed. We suspect it might have been your wife and we need someone to make a positive identification.”
Hudson’s eyes went wide, and his mouth formed an O shape. He set his coffee down with an exaggerated tremble, causing the cup to rattle and slosh coffee into the saucer. “You must be mistaken. Crystal liked to push the speed limit, sure, but the car has air bags and she always wore her seatbelt unless she was headed to a party and didn’t want to wrinkle her dress.”
Noah kept his eyes on Hudson. He hadn’t even made an ID and he was already speaking of her in the past tense. “It wasn’t a traffic accident, Mr. Hudson. Did your wife have any enemies that you know of?”
“Crystal? Heavens, no. She shopped, she lunched, she took classes. You think someone shot her because she played better tennis?”
Conner leaned forward in his chair. “Shot? Why do you say that? We never mentioned she was shot.”
Hudson jerked toward Conner, knocking over his coffee cup. At least this time his surprise didn’t look staged. “Well, you said enemies. It’s hard to poison someone while they’re driving. I naturally thought of a gun. Is that what happened? Did she cut someone off in traffic and they retaliated?”
Five minutes and the man had already accepted his wife’s death, provided himself with an alibi and solved the crime.
“Why don’t we try to get a positive ID before we speculate?” Noah stood and motioned
Hudson to follow. He’d witnessed enough phony concern. “If you’ll come with us, we’ll drive you downtown and you can view the body.”
“The body,” Hudson said, a hiccup hiding in his voice. “That sounds so cold.” For a moment, he actually seemed shaken.
Conner drove and Hudson sat in the back, staring silently at the floor. Noah twisted in his seat to face him, but any questions he asked went unanswered.
At the morgue, Noah led Hudson to the family viewing area. The room, which was kept ten degrees too cold in the summer, was now too hot and someone’s attempt to cover the chemical odor with flowery deodorizer had failed miserably. Conner left in search of an aide to bring the body around.
The aide arrived and placed the body with the damaged half of her face away from the window. With all the blood washed away and her hair smoothed down, it was almost possible to believe she was sleeping.
If you didn’t look too closely.
Hudson placed his hand on the window and leaned his forehead against the glass. Noah turned his head and let Conner do the observing. The scene was too familiar, the pain still too raw. Noah unconsciously twisted the gold band he now wore on his right hand.
“Is that your wife’s body, Mr. Hudson?” Conner softened his voice, smoothing the sharp edges off the worst words in the world.
“Yes.” Hudson swallowed deeply and spun toward the two detectives. “Do you have the son-of-a-bitch who did this?”
Noah put his arm around Hudson’s shoulder and led him down the hall. “Not yet, sir. But we will.”
On the surface, his words may have sounded reassuring, but there was no mistaking the underlying threat.
Noah mounted the steps silently, but as soon as he turned the lock, he was met with a cacophony of yipping and growling. A tiny Yorkshire terrier backed away from him while curling her lips and baring her teeth.
“Hi, honey, I’m home. Nice to see you, too.” Noah said, tossing his keys on the kitchen table. He lowered himself onto the nearest chair. “You do realize I’m the one who feeds you, don’t you? And the one who cleans up your mess and takes you for walks.”
The dog fell silent but showed her teeth again when Noah reached out his hand.
“I swear, if you bite me one more time, you’ll never see another doggy treat.”
Noah sighed and pushed up from the chair. The dog watched from across the room as he opened a can of dog food and filled her dish. “If you’d eat the dry stuff I leave out, you wouldn’t be so hungry when I get home. It’s good stuff. You used to eat it all the time.”
The dog eyed her food bowl, but didn’t move toward it until Noah backed away. While she ate, Noah cleaned up the gifts she’d left on the kitchen floor and put out new papers. He didn’t even notice the smell anymore. “You get worse every day. You used to tolerate me. Hell, you used to like me.”
Once the dog finished eating, Noah scooped her up and held her in his lap. She stiffened but didn’t snap at him. “What am I going to do with you, Sweet Pea? If I knew someplace to take you where you’d be happy, believe me I would. But no one really wants an angry, barking, biting dog.”
Or an angry, grouchy man.
Sweet Pea wiggled free. Noah felt something warm on his leg and looked down to see a wet spot spreading down his slacks. What the fuck?
The day he was going to have to make the decision to put her down was getting closer, but so far he didn’t have the heart to do it. Noah let Sweet Pea out and waited while she made a quick circle of the yard, squatted and hurried back inside. At least the cold weather was good for something.
As she scooted past him, he glanced into his empty house and thought of Crystal Hudson slumped again
st her seat belt. It was going to be another long night.
The driver shivered as he stood at the window, watching the morning sun reveal a frozen landscape. The few fools who ventured out slipped and slid like they were on an ice rink. Good thing he didn’t need to leave the room for several hours.
Red numbers glowed on the clock beside his bed. Still time to catch the early news. Would the mark’s death be the lead story? Grabbing the remote, he flipped on the TV. If the Bellaire cops had connected her death to the others, he was in trouble. No, he’d been too clever. They’d never see the strings.
A portly, bald guy was finishing the weather with a special report about driving on ice-covered roads. Five minutes for him to say “Don’t do it.” When the bleached blonde came back on, a picture of the red BMW flashed on the screen behind her. He leaned forward to catch every word.
When she finished, he released a relieved sigh. The media seemed to be blaming the attack on road rage caused by icy streets. According to their report, more of it was likely to happen if people didn’t stay home till this front passed in a few days.
Stay home for a few days? He barked a short laugh. No one in Houston was going to admit they didn’t know how to drive on ice. They wouldn’t stay home a few hours, forget days. The ice, which had almost ruined everything, might turn out to be the perfect cover.
The cop they interviewed didn’t have a clue. They never did. Stupid civil servants. You get what you pay for, his mother always said. But the guy did seem familiar, or did all cops look alike? He chuckled at his own joke, his spirits rising. Payday was right around the corner, but outsmarting the cops was even more fun.
His heart slammed against his rib cage. Did the reporter just identify the man as an HPD detective? What happened to Bellaire, where were they? Had the car rolled into Houston? Even so, the shot was fired in Bellaire.
This was a cluster fuck if ever there was one.
Heat boiled inside his gut and he threw the remote across the room. It hit the wall with a smack and the back flew off, spilling batteries on the floor. Watching the batteries disappear under the bed was like watching his money roll away.