Dragon lady moved behind the counter and flipped a switch, turning off the Open sign over the door. She turned toward Noah. “Sorry. We all booked today. Come back another time. Best to call first. Make an appointment.” She turned her back, letting them know they were dismissed.
Conner jotted down the name and address of the business before starting the car. “Hard to see how they can be booked up if they’re not even open.”
Noah looked up to see the woman watching them through the window. “If we did score an appointment, do you think we’d be offered a Happy Ending?”
The air conditioning gave a burp and sputtered to life as Conner pulled out of the parking lot. “All I know is tonight when Jeannie asked me what we did today, I’m not mentioning this place.”
“Want to drive around the block and see if she has the Open sign back on?”
“Nah. When we get back to the office, I’ll drop by Vice and give them this address. For now, let’s hit one more business before we break for lunch. I guess you’re going to want bar-b-que again.”
“No. I still have some I picked up on my way home from Austin last weekend.”
Shit. Shit. Shit. Had he said that? Conner didn’t seem to notice. He was busy driving. “How about we stop at that Vietnamese place for some pho?”
Conner flipped the air conditioning up a notch. “Sounds good to me. I’ll be hungry by then.”
Noah found the next closest business on his list and gave Siri the address. Maybe they’d have better luck with Sleeman Cement.
In one mile, exit right onto North Eldridge Parkway then take an immediate left.
Conner flipped on his blinker and changed lanes. “I looked this place up online. At least they seem to still be in business.”
“Surely someone there talked to a real live person. How else would they have known where to pour the cement?”
Your destination is on the right. You have reached your destination, mate.
God, he loved Siri. She could irritate Conner for him while he enjoyed the show.
Conner was right. Sleeman Cement Company was a thriving business. The office had several cars parked in front and a cement truck, its big barrel-shaped container turning, waited for them to pass before exiting. He pulled into a visitor’s parking spot near the door.
A film of cement dust rose with each step as they approached the building.
“May I help you?” A perky young receptionist greeted them from the front desk, her pink hair bouncing with every word. Maybe she was Mr. Assad’s future daughter-in-law.
“We’d like to speak to the manager, please.” Noah pulled back his coat, showing his badge.
The girl’s happy face fell faster than an overdone soufflé. She lifted the phone and punched a button. “Mr. Sleeman? There are two…officers here to see you.” She paused, keeping her eyes on her desk and her head lowered, as if they couldn’t hear the conversation if she wasn’t looking at them. “No, sir. I don’t.”
Her boss must have given the okay, because she ushered them to an office at the rear of the building.
A kid not long out of grade school stood behind a desk older than he was. “I’m Joel Sleeman. May I help you?”
While Conner explained what they were interested in learning, Noah wandered around the room, studying the photos.
Other than one portrait that must have been of the kid’s father—same pasty complexion, widow’s peak, and prominent ears—the photos were all of completed buildings. One notable exception was the building where the first victim was found.
Young Joel Sleeman scowled when Conner mentioned the address of the apartment. “I remember that place. If it hadn’t been for my bullheaded father, that job would have been the end of us. He had a hard-and-fast rule. Half the money up front and the rest before the next load was poured. If we showed up and they didn’t have the money ready, we left.”
The kid rubbed his chin, memories dancing behind his eyes. “I argued my head off. Told him we were losing customers. He said they knew the conditions before they hired us. Stubborn old coot. Collecting on that building was a fight every load, but because of him, it ended up costing us only half a load. A heavy hit, but one we could survive.”
Noah’s mood lifted. Now they were getting somewhere. “Do you remember who you dealt with on the project?”
“I didn’t deal with anyone. I had just graduated from college, a business degree clutched in my hot little hands. So of course he had me working outside, in the yard. Directing the loading.”
“What about your dad? Would he remember anything?”
“He had a stroke last year. He doesn’t talk, just sits on the sofa watching Wheel of Fortune.”
“Any paperwork? Records?”
“He didn’t bother with that. He knew the second time the owner changed names, the whole project was a lost cause.”
Frustration crept into Noah’s voice, but he bit it back. They couldn’t afford to give up too easily. “Is there anyone here who might remember the name of a person? Someone actually on the job site?”
“Luis has been here forever. He might remember. You lucked out. He’s yard manager now so he’ll be on site. I’ll call outside and get him.”
While they waited for Luis, Conner passed the time asking Joel about the different buildings pictured on the walls and where he went to college.
Sure, his partner was a nice guy and talked easily to strangers, a talent Noah lacked, but this was part of his method of dealing with witnesses. Ensuring they felt like part of the investigation and would be eager to help, while sizing them up in case they were hiding information.
Noah simply paced, trying to keep his expectations under control.
When Luis appeared, he could have passed for a ghost. Everything about him was gray—his skin, his hair, his clothes—all covered in a thin layer of cement dust.
“Sure, yeah. I know the place you’re talking about,” he said, his voice accented but easy to understand. “There were workers on the building, but we didn’t talk to them. There was one guy—the foreman, the owner, the architect—I don’t remember, but he was in charge. He had a simple name. Bill, Bob, Tim, Tom, I don’t know.”
“What’d he look like?”
“Like a guy. Hard hat, work boots, yellow safety vest. It was a long time ago.”
“Was he white? Black? Hispanic? Asian?”
Luis didn’t answer.
“North Korean? Maori?”
That earned him a fuck-you stare.
“I had to translate, so not Hispanic. I’m thinking white, clean cut, management looking, so probably no facial hair.”
A warm sense of triumph spread through Noah’s chest. Sometimes Conner’s ‘Let’s be friends’ method worked. Sometimes his ‘I’m not your friend’ method worked. That’s why they made good partners.
He had the guy cooperating. Now wasn’t the time to stop. “Tall, short, fat, thin?”
“I’ll check with my guys when they get in this evening. Maybe one of them will know.”
“Can either of you give me a date? Exactly how long ago was this?”
Joel rubbed his baby-face. “I was straight out of college, so I’d have been twenty-two? I’m thirty-two now so I’m guessing ten years.”
That kid is four years younger than I am? What’d he have hidden in that desk drawer, the key to the fountain of youth? Maybe that’s what happened when you spent your days sitting behind a desk in a business your father built instead of tramping around vacant fields, stepping on dead bodies.
Luis shrugged, sending up a puff of cement particles that settled on Noah, making his nose itch. “My Gracia started kindergarten that year. I dropped her at school on my way to work every day. She had her Quinceanera last summer. So, yeah, about ten years.”
Noah handed both Luis and Joel his card with instructions to call if they had anything to add, but didn’t expect them to.
Didn’t matter if they called him, he’d call them. Assad, Jumbo, Sleeman, Luis, a
nd anyone else they talked to would receive a reminder call, tonight, tomorrow, and the day after until they had something useful to tell him, some nugget of information, anything that gave them a starting point.
Conner pulled out of the parking lot in a cloud of dust. “I’m worried we’re wasting our time asking about the derelict apartment building. We should be concentrating on the vacant lot and the victims.”
“You’re right. They’re more important. But we have learned one thing of value today. The apartment construction was going on at the same time as the first set of murders. That’s quite a coincidence.”
Conner was silent for a few minutes. Concentrating on his driving or thinking? When he spoke, his voice barely covered the sound of the engine, but held a certain strength. “I don’t believe in coincidence.”
“I tend to agree with you. That’s why I say we keep the lot and victims on the front burner, but don’t forget about the building.”
“You haven’t heard anything from Doc or the Feebies? I’m beginning to lose faith in our federal friends.”
Noah checked his phone for the hundredth time. Maybe he hadn’t heard it over Siri’s directions. “Nope. No text. No email. No phone call. Nothing from Montgomery, Doc M, or Earl who promised to let me know if anything showed up at the office. My faith’s a little shaky right now too, but chasing down these businesses is all we have to go on for the moment.”
“It’s frustrating, knowing that lowlife is out there laughing at us.”
Noah bit the inside of his lip. That kind of thinking would get them nowhere. “I prefer thinking of him as quaking in his boots, knowing who’s coming after him.”
Less than a week, and due to a major apartment fire, a terrorist attack in a foreign city he’d never heard of, and a complete lack of progress made by the two idiots who were in charge of the investigation, the story was already relegated to a back page.
Was that good or bad?
Didn’t people realize they were under attack right here? On their own streets? That he was their only hope?
Did they think he was doing this for himself? No. He wasn’t a monster, attacking innocents. He was working for them.
Not that he didn’t enjoy his work, that’s what made him so good at it, but he was the garbage man, taking out the trash. The cleaner, sanitizing their neighborhoods.
Making the streets safer for their impressionable children and easily-tempted husbands.
Maybe it was time he stepped forward. Reaped the rewards for his efforts. Let them know who they were dealing with.
The media. Not those two bumbling Inspector Clouseaus. They couldn’t find their shoes on their own feet.
He’d have to be careful. Keep his identity hidden. He liked Houston. He’d made friends here. Or at least they thought he was their friend. He had a good job supervising other men while they did the heavy lifting. And he had his own money. No longer completely hobbled to the threats and whims of his father’s purse strings and his stepmother’s vengeance. Only using it as a backup, a cushion, a safety net in case of emergency.
His life here was arranged, orderly. He didn’t want to move on. He’d done that too many times already.
He smoothed down his hair, and with that familiar movement a sense of calm washed over him.
He’d send a letter to the newspaper explaining everything. All he needed was a name to call himself. That fool reporter wrote about The Killing Field Murders. That referred to the vacant lot, not him.
He needed a signature that was powerful. Like The Son of Sam, or The Zodiac Killer.
A name that struck fear in the soul of the depraved and raised hope in the hearts of the righteous.
He’d think of something. And when he did, he’d strike up a one-way correspondence with that Chronicle reporter he’d seen hanging around the crime scene, R. J. Perry.
When people realized the service he performed, he’d get the respect he deserved.
Sweet Pea met Noah at the door, doing her happy dance. She wagged her tail, leapt into the air, twirled around, and jumped from foot to foot in a miniature version of twerking.
“Well, hello to you, too, Pea. Are you glad to see me or do you just need to go outside?”
When the Yorkie didn’t answer, he scooped her up in one hand and scratched the silky fur behind her ears and on top of her head.
He opened the door and sat on the stoop while she made her rounds of the backyard, checking for intruders. A spot in the corner where a neighbor’s cat liked to visit got special attention.
Noah slumped forward: elbows on his knees, chin in his hands. The day certainly hadn’t earned a spot in the win column.
The next three businesses he and Conner had visited yielded no new information. Doc M called, but they already knew the fingerprints on victim number one—the one found in the abandoned apartment—didn’t match any known person, so discovering her DNA couldn’t be matched came as no surprise.
The fingerprints on victim number two, the one whose grave Noah had stumbled into, should be available by tomorrow. Fingerprints and DNA on the remaining women would probably dribble in, one or two at a time.
On the plus side, Mr. Assad had called. His son promised to come over on Wednesday and get the box of papers down from the attic.
Luis hadn’t called yet, but that was a case of no news is good news. As long as he hadn’t stated no one in his crew remembered the foreman guy, there was still hope.
As for Lincoln Montgomery, the FBI agent had let him down. Sure, he’d been pulled off the case to help with a terrorist attack in France that had killed two American college students and he’d emailed a shit ton of papers listing corporations involved in the bankruptcy of the apartment building, but now what?
Earl was off for the week, getting checked out by his doctor, the department doctor, the insurance company doctor, the union doctor, and a barber in a white coat who happened to be walking past.
He and Conner had three choices. They could waste a day driving around town asking questions no one remembered the answers to. They could stay in the office and waste a day on the computer. Or they could split up and waste a day doing both. No matter what they did, tomorrow was likely to be a wasted day.
If only he had something, anything, to sink his teeth into.
Surprisingly, the thought didn’t depress him the way it would have only a few months ago. Sooner or later, they’d find the douchebag. If not this week then next, or the week after or the year after.
He’d never let this case go no matter how long it took. And he was too stubborn to die before it was solved.
Something else nagged at the back of his mind. As much as he wanted this guy, would move mountains to find him, he finally understood. This was his job, not his life.
Seeing Laurel again had sparked something deep inside him. A hope for the future. He wasn’t a fool. He realized he barely knew her. She might not be the one.
But she was definitely worth trying for.
Noah stood and whistled Sweet Pea inside for dinner. After he fed the dog, maybe he’d call Laurel.
Would calling two nights in a row be pushing things?
Laurel had just finished painting her toenails—a sparkly blue because the color made her smile—and was fanning them with a magazine when her cell rang. She hobbled on her heels to the kitchen table and swiped answer without looking.
She’d avoided her mother’s calls all day and she might as well get the conversation over with even though she knew exactly how it would go.
Yes, she was still working for Royce Elkins even though he was a nouveaux riches, who only hired her for her name and to get even with Peter. Yes, he paid her well, but no, she couldn’t loan her mother any money. Yes, her sister’s—new car was beautiful, kid was a genius, husband was brilliant, home was gorgeous, vacation photos were to die for. Yes, she was sure she couldn’t loan her mother any money.
She didn’t bother with pleasantries, simply muttered, “Yeah?”
&nbs
p; “Laurel?”
At the sound of the deep male voice she fumbled the phone, dropping it on her cat, causing the black and white tom to let out a screech and run under the sofa.
“Are you okay? Is this a good time to talk?”
“Hi, Noah. I’m fine. Just dropped the phone on Harvey.”
“If you have company I can call another time.”
“My cat. Harvey. I named him after the invisible rabbit in that movie because you never see him until you step on him.”
“The Jimmy Stewart movie. I saw it on TMC a couple of months ago.”
“I saw it too, and that’s when I got him. He’s a rescue that allows me to feed him and clean his litter box. I think he’s warming up to me. He gets close enough for me to hand him a treat and occasionally scratch behind his ears. He wouldn’t do that when I brought him home.”
“Sounds like my relationship with Sweet Pea. My dog. It took her three months to do more than walk past me after Betsy died.” He stopped abruptly.
Now what? Should she ask about his wife or keep talking about the dog? The dog was a safer subject. “But she got past it, right?”
“Oh yeah. She’s in my lap right now. I’ll bet Harvey will in time, too.”
“I’m counting on that, but if nothing else, I saved his life and gave him a warm home and plenty of food.”
“That’s worth remembering. How was your day? You said you’d be busy.”
“I was. No good fairy came in did my job for me while I was gone. Plus my boss left me a list of busy-work tasks to keep me occupied while he’s gone.”
“Don’t worry about checking out that news story. Your job comes first.”
“Are you kidding? I’d been planning to bring a book, maybe do my Christmas shopping online. This might be the only interesting thing I do all week.” Was he brushing her off or being considerate? Decoding, over the phone, with someone you didn’t know well yet was tough. She needed a Rosetta Stone for the newly divorced. A Dummies Guide to Dating for the Over Thirty Set.
Autumn Secrets (Seasons Pass Book 4) Page 10
