by Terry Odell
“From the B and B? Really?”
“A few Is to dot, Ts to cross, but I’m pretty sure it’s him. I’ll explain it all over dinner when you get home.” By then, he should be able to come up with a way to explain—and downplay—all the other events without being accused of being too manly-macho.
He disconnected, feeling more in control than he had since he’d arrived at the Yardumians’. Solomon knocked on his door and, as usual, walked in and took a seat. “I think we might have another puzzle piece.”
“I hope it’s the last one,” Gordon said. “I’d love to be able to close the file on this one.”
“You know how Wardell was insisting he was Doctor McGregor? Well, I was doing his intake form and he came up with a new name.”
“Let me guess,” Gordon said. “Albert DeSalvo.”
Solomon’s mouth popped open. “How did you know?”
“When I interviewed Metcalf, he said Wardell did this total immersion thing when he was preparing for a role. I asked him what play Wardell was studying for. He didn’t know the title, but he said Midnight Rover, or something with Midnight, and that the character’s name was something like Silver. It clicked while I was going over his interview. Should have put the pieces together sooner. I was almost too late.”
“Midnight Rambler,” Solomon said. “Rolling Stones, 1969. About the Boston Strangler.”
“Albert DeSalvo confessed to being the Strangler, but there are those who don’t think he did all of them.”
“Right,” Solomon said. “Didn’t fit the serial killer profile. Too many different victim types, different MOs. Found a pair of pantyhose in Wardell’s pocket.”
“Murder weapon in some of the strangulations,” Gordon said. “None with a purple scarf, as I recall. Or a pillow.”
“I asked Wardell about that. Since his research showed DeSalvo had confessed, he didn’t seem to mind following suit. Said he was improvising, but he wanted to try again to get it right.”
“Give any reason why he chose his uncle?” Gordon asked. “The Boston Strangler’s victims were all women.”
Solomon shook his head. “None that he’s willing to divulge. It might be because he’s still inside out about Roni. Might think killing a woman would be like killing her. Or maybe he was practicing on his uncle—the man wouldn’t have suspected anything, would have let Wardell get close. But what I want to know is how did Wardell know he’d find Metcalf at the clinic?”
Gordon tossed Metcalf’s cell phone on the table. “Looked at his call history. His last call was to a burn phone, which happens to have the same number as the one you took from Orrin Wardell. I pressed Metcalf, and he admitted he’d called Wardell to warn him to stay away from Mapleton, that I was a cop and I’d shot him. Said they were taking him to the clinic.”
“But Wardell didn’t take that advice?” Solomon said.
“No. But I’m sure when he’s questioned further, he’ll say he was trying to get rid of Metcalf as a loose end. Or another rehearsal for his damn play.” Gordon shoved Metcalf’s phone into an evidence envelope. Someone knocked on the door.
Solomon opened it to a deputy sheriff. “Here for two prisoners,” the deputy said.
“They’re all yours,” Gordon said.
Solomon rose. “I can handle it.”
“No, I want the pleasure of seeing them off.” Gordon led the deputy to the holding cell. Solomon followed.
After making sure the paperwork was in perfect order, Gordon watched the deputy put the men into his van, and didn’t breathe until they were on their way. He turned to Solomon. “Just between you and me, I was ready to kick their balls into their throats.”
“Don’t suppose you have an adult beverage in your office,” Solomon said. “I could use a drink.”
“I might be able to find something,” Gordon said.
In his office, the men toasted the successful conclusion of the case with two fingers of a single malt Gordon had stashed in a file drawer. “Got this for Christmas two years ago,” Gordon said. “Never got around to taking it home.”
“For which I’m grateful,” Solomon said. “This has been one wonky case. You think we’ll pin the uncle’s murder on Wardell?”
“Not our case,” Gordon said. “It’ll go to Telluride. Let them figure it out. Their murder trumps our attempted murder. And the burglary,” he added. “I’m pretty sure we’ll nail Wardell for that one, once he gets back to being Orrin Wardell again. I think we’ve got a good case already.”
“How? We never got his prints upstairs at Angie’s.”
“Maybe not, but there was one more thing that made me suspect the good Doctor McGregor was really Orrin Wardell.”
“And that was?” Solomon asked.
“He’s wearing my sneakers,” Gordon said.
Solomon laughed. He stood, strolled to the white board, where Gordon had added the new information. Blackhawks’s name still had a question mark beside it. “Think they’ll get Wardell to explain what Blackhawk was doing in the Yardumian’s cabin?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Gordon said.
“Which is?”
Gordon took another sip of the single malt. Damn, if he’d known how good it was, he’d never have stashed it away this long. “Wardell went to the extreme, trying to forgive Blackhawk for being the driver of the car when Roni was killed. Accepted that it wasn’t Jase’s fault, tried to assuage his friend’s guilt. Made friends at the facility, invited him to tag along on outings. Maybe this was the first. Maybe he thought he’d be able to use Blackhawk as an alibi for when Wardell killed his uncle. I’m sure the shrinks will have a field day with this one.”
“Makes as much sense as anything.” Solomon tapped the part of the board displaying the unsolved pickup truck homicide. “This one’s not our case, either, Chief, but the Boston Strangler connection reminds me of our Deadbeat Dad serial killer. Different victim types, but they have their deadbeatedness in common. Different MOs. That’s the sticky part, but I’m going to look into it.”
“Catching Orrin Wardell wasn’t enough for you?”
“Hell, you caught him, Chief. I just did the paperwork. And, speaking of said paperwork, I have a lot more of it to deal with before I can go home tonight.”
Solomon went off to finish his paperwork, and Gordon opened a folder Laurie had left on his desk. A grant application for an in-vehicle computer system. Filled out in full. A sticky pointed him to where he was supposed to sign.
He scrawled his name, sat back, and grinned.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54<
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Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
A Note From the Author
Acknowledgments
Bonus Content
About the Author
Other Kindle Books by Terry Odell
A Note From the Author
I hope you enjoyed reading this book. One thing readers can do to let an author know they’ve enjoyed a book is to pass the word along. If you’re willing to let your friends know you think they might like the book, or tweet about it, or post it to your social media sites, that would be wonderful. Also, the best way to help readers find authors is to post a brief review. If you have a minute, I’d appreciate it if you’d go to the site where you bought this book, or any review site such as Goodreads, and let others know you liked it.
Be sure to read on for Bonus Content.
Thanks!
Terry
Acknowledgments
First, thanks to Dan who tolerates my neglect when I’m spending time with my characters.
I’d like to thank everyone whose generosity sharing their expertise has helped make this novel as accurate as possible. Errors are either mine, or they’re liberties taken for the sake of the story. The beauty of fiction is we can make things up.
First and always, my critique partners, Karla and Steve who keep me on the straight and narrow.
To Frank and Susan Ganzhorn, Dr. Thomas Cummings, and CJ Lyons for medical advice.
To Wally Lind and the gang at Crimescene Writers. Wes and Orb, you stepped up as well. Same goes for Tom Fuller. I can always count on you guys. You, too, Lee Lofland.
Brian Harris, thanks for the CSP help. And more thanks to Sherryl and Dick Nelson for their help with the snowshoe scenes. More thanks to Greg Lafelice and Joe Collins for sharing their firefighting knowledge. Detective Sean Goings also helped with police procedures.
And lastly, I’m grateful for the sharp editorial eyes of Brittiany Koren, and the creativity of my cover artist, Dave Fymbo.
Bonus Content
A peek at Finding Sarah, book 1 in the Pine Hills Police series.
Sarah Tucker’s hands shook with anger as she fumbled the keys into the lock of That Special Something. Bad enough the bus driver stopped beside a puddle the size of Crater Lake, which she cleared despite the restrictions of her skirt and pumps, thank you very much. But when that headbanger in the heavy metal-blasting SUV had sped by, any satisfaction at her nimble footwork disappeared in a dousing of muddy water.
The cheerful jingle of the boutique’s door chimes did nothing for her mood. Sarah rushed to her small office behind the glass sales counter and shrugged out of her coat to assess her wardrobe damage. She had an appointment with Mr. Ebersold at the bank to discuss her loan application. She couldn’t go home and change, and the last thing she wanted was to look like she actually needed a loan. If you needed money, you couldn’t get it, but if you had it, they’d give you whatever you asked for. She dampened some paper towels and daubed at her mud-spattered shoes and stockings.
Enough negative thoughts. Sarah hung up her keys and tossed her instant soup packet into the basket by her coffeepot. Another gourmet lunch. At a knock on the door, she checked her watch. It wasn’t quite ten, but she’d open for a possible sale. Patting her windblown hair into place, she hurried to the front door.
Christopher Westmoreland stood there, looking impeccable as always. No headbanger would dare splash water on his perfectly creased black trousers. His strawberry-blond hair wouldn’t dare blow in the wind.
“Chris. What brings you to town?” She stepped back into the store and toward the register. “I’m getting ready to open, but if you need anything, I’ll be glad to get it for you.” As if he’d actually buy something.
“Not today. I’ve got some appointments over in Salem. Thought I’d say hello before I head out.” He strolled to the counter and leaned over its glass top, close enough for Sarah to smell his sandalwood aftershave and the cinnamon gum he chewed. “You haven’t returned any of my calls. I know things have been tough since David … died. I want to help. Why won’t you let me? For old times’ sake?”
Memories of David crashed over her. It had been more than a year, but the pain lay right beneath the surface, waiting for her to drop her guard. She shoved her emotions back into that metal strongbox in her brain, slammed the lid and turned the key. She was no longer Sarah, David’s wife. Or Sarah the daughter, or Sarah the high school sweetheart. She was Just Plain Sarah.
Sarah met his pale green eyes, the ones she’d found so irresistible in high school. “We’ve been through this before. I need to do it on my own. I can manage without your money.” Even though he’d promised “no strings”, Sarah knew if she took a dime from him, she’d be attached with monofilament line. The kind that cut when you tried to break it.
“Are you sure? You look like you haven’t slept in a month. And your hair. Why did you cut it?”
“Well, thanks for making my morning.” Sarah fluffed her cropped do-it-yourself haircut. “It’s easier this way.”
“How about dinner tonight? Come on, Sarah. We’re friends, right?” His eyebrows lifted in expectation.
Dinner with Chris or five-for-a-dollar ramen noodles at home? Accepting dinner wouldn’t be selling out, would it? “Maybe. Call me later, okay?”
“Great. See you.” He turned to leave, a broad smile on his face.
“I said, ‘maybe’, remember?” Sarah walked him to the door and flipped the sign from “Closed” to “Open”. She rearranged the crystal in the front window to catch the light and dusted the brightly colored pottery, shifting a pot, turning a vase so its pattern was visible from the street. Once she was satisfied with the effect, she meandered through the shop, adjusting animal carvings and moving a display of stationery to a roll-top desk.
An hour later, Sarah refused to let the lack of customers bother her. Easter was approaching, then Mother’s Day, and throngs of people would descend upon That Special Something to find the perfect gift. Throng? Right now, she’d settle for a trickle.
The door chimed. Sarah assessed the well-dressed woman who entered the shop. Probably in her sixties, with a large designer purse draped over one shoulder. A hat with ribbon trim and black leather gloves made her a bit old-fashioned and out of place for the tiny Oregon town, but a customer was a customer. Sarah gave the woman her biggest smile and stepped out from behind the counter. “Good morning, ma’am. Welcome to That Special Something. Are you looking for anything in particular?”
“My niece is getting married. I thought I might find something out of the ordinary here.” Her voice was clipped, with a touch of sophisticated arrogance that said she was used to getting her way.
“Unique gifts are my specialty.” Sarah motioned to a display of crystal. “Perhaps she’d like these hand-painted wine goblets? Or some of these Egyptian perfume bottles?”
“Thank you. I’ll browse for a while, if you don’t mind.”
“Take your time. I’m Sarah. Feel free to ask any questions.” Fighting the urge to follow her customer around, Sarah retreated and let the woman roam the shop.
The way Chris had referred to David’s death churned through her thoughts. That horrible pause. The same one everyone used. But Sarah knew it had been an accident. David would never commit suicide. This afternoon, she’d get a loan from the bank and rehire the private investigator, or find a better one. The investigator would get the police to reopen the case and they’d find out it wasn’t suicide. Then she’d get the insurance money, which would pay off the loan and the shop would be safe. It made perfect sense. And maybe it would eliminate some of the guilt.
Sarah dragged her thoughts to the present, straightened her shoulders, and found her professional smile again. Her customer was studying some silver picture frames. Expensive ones. She thought about how hard it had been to get Anjolie to display her work in the shop, that her creations were too good for a mere boutique.
She telegraphed mental messages to her customer—Please, show Anjolie she was wrong. Buy one. Buy six.
The woman set the frame down and turned away.
Sarah wouldn’t let her disappointment show. “Can I show you something else?”
The woman strolled back and fingered the frames again. “You know, I like this one.” She picked up the most expensive one, the one with the lacy pattern of roses and leaves. “And I think I’ll take the matching vase over there.”
Not good to let a customer see you jumping up and down clapping your hands. Instead, Sarah called up her most professional tone. “Excellent choices, ma’am. Would you like them gift-wrapped?”
“No, thank you. But if you have gift boxes, I would appreciate it.”
Sarah ducked beneath the counter for the boxes, calculating what the sale would mean to her bottom line. When she rose, she stared into a gun barrel.
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Keep reading for a look at When Danger Calls.
Here’s a look at When Danger Calls, Book 1 in the Blackthorne, Inc. series
Some cakewalk. A routine mission turned into a straight-to-video movie. To Ryan Harper, it smelled rotten—even more rotten than the garbage piled in the alleyway they’d trekked through to get here.
Senses on alert, Ryan cast a furtive glance over his shoulder. He waited beside Alvarez while the wizened man unlocked the warehouse door. Alvarez clicked on a light. Two feral cats yowled and hissed, then bolted outside.
Ryan stepped into the hot, stuffy room. Grime covered the sealed windows, and the ammonia stench of cat piss filled his nostrils. Why didn’t any of his assignments include rooms with air conditioning? Instead, they sent him to a deserted neighborhood in Panama—one the jungle desperately wanted to reclaim. “Where are the files, Señor Alvarez?”
“Here,” Alvarez said around the cigar stub that seemed permanently clamped between his teeth. He closed the door behind them. “I show you everything. You have the money?”
