Autumn Secrets (Seasons Pass Book 4)

by Susan C. Muller

  This stuff hadn’t been as hard when she was in her twenties. Guys came around like the proverbial bus, one every fifteen minutes. She’d pick one and pass on another for no more reason than the mood she was in.

  When Paul showed up, her father not-so-subtly pushed her in his direction. Her mother invited him to spend Christmas day with them. Her sister oohed and aahed over her great catch. They couldn’t all be wrong, could they?

  Hopefully she was smarter now. Knew how easy it was to make a horrendous mistake.

  She hit the speaker key and let Noah’s voice fill the room. “Only if you’re sure it won’t interfere with your day job, because there’s no rush on this. Say, did you meet Lefty Bob while we were working on Crystal’s case?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “As another lefty, you’ll get a kick out of what that idiot did at work today. He’s too cheap to buy business cards, so he designs his own on the computer and prints off a page worth at a time. Then he cuts them up to fit in his wallet. Except the station only has right handed scissors. I didn’t even know there was a difference.”

  “Oh, yes. There’s a big difference. If you use your left hand, your fingers don’t fit through the holes in the handle. If you use your right hand, you usually manage to crumple up whatever you’re cutting and turn it into a wadded mess.”

  “I got that idea. Lefty’s fingers were stuck in the handle and he flicked his hand, trying to get them out, when the scissors came loose, flew across the room right in front of the Lieu and stuck into the wall. Another inch and they would have trimmed the boss’s eyebrows, which would have been a blessing for all of us.”

  “Am I correct in guessing somewhere in your office, there’s a Righty Bob?”

  “Naw. There used to be a Bob, but he retired years ago. You know how it is. Once you have a nickname, you’re stuck with it.”

  “So what’s your nickname?” This should be interesting. What would his friends call him?

  “I’ve been called plenty of names, but usually by someone I’m arresting. I occasionally call Conner Choirboy, but I’ll do that to his face. He seems to think it’s a compliment. In a way, I guess it is. What about you? Did you ever have a nickname?”

  “A friend in high school used to call me Klutz. If it could be stubbed, bruised, or broken, I’m your gal. I swear inanimate objects spring to life just to jump out and trip me.”

  “I’ll have to remember to be careful around you.”

  “Oh, yes. I’ve been known to stomp on toes or splash coffee on anyone close by. Do you have more how cheap is he Lefty Bob stories?”

  “Enough to fill a bookstore.”

  They talked for fifteen more minutes, and each word was easier than the last. In no time they were laughing and interrupting each other.

  Maybe she could learn to do this dating thing—if that’s what this was—without feeling like a total fool.

  Conner carried the running stroller into the house as gently as humanly possible and lifted the sleeping baby.

  Jeannie stepped out of the kitchen, her eyes wide. A tinge of fear coated her whisper. “She’s not crying. Is she alright?”

  He mouthed, fine, and inclined his head toward the nursery where he practically tiptoed to the crib and laid Betsy next to the velveteen rabbit that had been Noah’s gift to his Godchild.

  Jeannie hovered over the sleeping baby. Checking her breathing? He tugged on her arm, pulling her out of the room before she woke Betsy. The baby monitor was on but unnecessary. If she woke, people in Pasadena would hear her crying.

  “She simply…went to sleep?” The wonder in Jeannie’s voice made him smile. Tough to manage in his exhausted state.

  “Do you think maybe that doctor actually knew what he was talking about?”

  Jeannie swatted his arm. “I feel like a terrible mother, putting a timer on her feedings and taking her off while she’s still nursing.”

  “How do you think I felt? Jogging down the block with her screaming. You wouldn’t believe the looks I got from strangers. But she stopped after five minutes. Even the books say don’t overfeed. Use rhythmic motions and sounds to sooth.”

  “Promise me you didn’t sing to her.”

  He wasn’t an idiot. He didn’t want the neighbors and Betsy crying. “Nope. Only the sound of the tires on the sidewalk and a breeze through the trees. Another few weeks and it’ll be too dark to run after supper. I’ll have to take her to the park where they have lighted paths.”

  “She’s coming up on three months. Maybe she’ll have outgrown the colic by then.”

  If only. He wasn’t sure which was harder, listening to his daughter cry and being unable to calm her or watching his wife ache for the same reason.

  Conner stood at the window, staring into space, but Jeannie turned toward the bedroom. “Whatever the reason, Betsy’s not crying now and she could be in ten minutes. I’m going to bed while I can. You coming?”

  “In a minute. I was just thinking.” Something he hadn’t had a chance to do lately. Not with this case and Betsy’s colic and money worries and life in general.

  Jeannie slipped behind him, putting her arms around his waist and nuzzling her head between his shoulder blades. “What has you so worried you don’t want to come to bed with me?”

  Whoa. Where did she get that idea? And how fast could he correct it? He swung around and planted a kiss on the top of her head. “Nothing is that important. I’m right behind you.”

  She held up her hand. “No. Tell me. I want to know what’s on your mind. Is it the Killing Field case?”

  “I can’t lie. It’s the worst case I’ve ever worked. Ever will work, I hope. And it will probably keep me up nights before it’s solved. But I was thinking about Noah. He’s started being secretive again. He slipped out of the office during the middle of the day without telling me where he was going. He went to Austin last weekend and lied to me about it.”

  “He got past the anniversary of Betsy’s death without any problems I could see. That’s the date I was worried about. And he’s seemed fine the last few times he came over. Does he act depressed like he did last year?”

  “No. He actually looked happy Monday morning. That’s why I asked about his weekend.”

  “Then he’s earned some privacy. We’ve watched his every move for too long. He’s a big boy. Let him be. He saved my life and he saved Betsy. You know I love him like a brother, but I don’t want him in my bedroom.”

  He could live with that. There was plenty of time to worry about Noah another day. Right now, Jeannie’s hair looked like it hadn’t been washed or brushed in days. She had on stretched-out yoga pants. And she smelled like a cross between baby puke and breast milk.

  And she’d never looked sexier since the day he first met her.

  Damn. Conner must have gotten laid last night.

  Noah watched as Conner, goofy grin plastered across his face, loped into the office carrying a cardboard container with four Starbucks coffees.

  He set one on his own desk, handed one to Noah, one to Lefty Bob, and hesitated at Earl’s empty desk before shrugging and giving the last one to Lieutenant Jansen, who was standing in the door of his office, his wooly eyebrows knitted in a frown.

  The Lieu took a sip and nodded toward his office. “Daugherty. Crawford. May I have a word with you, please?”

  Shit. Not good when Jansen was polite. When the Lieu was brusque, almost rude, it meant he was in a rush. Give him the facts and move on. When he said “Please” he was in a bad mood. Probably getting grief from up above. Or from his wife. Which would be better for him and Connor in this instance.

  “I came in to find a memo from the Chief on my desk. What the fuck the man was doing wandering around the station that late I have no idea. Probably had a fight with his wife.” Jansen stuck his lower lip out like a petulant teenager.

  Holy Shit! The Lieu was in trouble at the office and at home. It would take more than a free coffee to improve his mood. He shot Conner a
get-ready-for-a-long-day look, but the idiot was still smiling.

  Jansen placed his coffee on the corner of his desk, untouched except for the first sip. “Seems he checked the murder book for the Killing Fields last night and didn’t find it to his liking. You two got a break with that terrorist attack in France, but that was two days ago and the media’s forgotten about it. Now they’re back to focusing on us. We gave you the cadaver dogs. What more do you want? Do I need to turn this over to Lefty Bob Hernandez?”

  Oh. Hell. No. This was his case now and he didn’t plan to let it go. It wouldn’t be a case without him. He found the third body and insisted there were more. No one took a case away from him.

  “We’ve been making progress, sir.” Conner finally spoke up. About time, too. The paper-jockey was in charge of the murder book. “We’ve found the store that sold the money order paying taxes on the land and should have a copy of that by Thursday. We’re following up on leads to a man who worked for the owners of the apartment building and hope to have his name later today. Give me an hour and the book will be up-to-date. As soon as Doc M sends us more information on the victims, our progress will pick up speed.”

  Actually, Doc had sent a text claiming to have some additional information on one of the bodies, but Noah didn’t see any reason to mention that now. No point making Conner look bad because he came in late looking like a frat boy on Sunday morning. He’d stood up and taken the hit on the murder book.

  Jansen crossed behind his desk and settled himself in the ergo-dynamically designed chair Noah coveted. “Get to it, then. I’ve got enough work to do without riding herd on you two dickheads.”

  Aaand the boss was back to his grouchy self. Maybe the day wouldn’t be too bad after all.

  Noah left Conner at the office, working on the murder book, while he headed for the morgue. Lola knew the way by now.

  When he pushed open the door to room three, Doc M was up to his elbows in what had once been a woman. Lefty Bob stood to the side, taking notes.

  “That’s not another one of my victims, is it?” Could the boss have gone behind his back and pulled in Lefty?

  “No. I believe this is what you and Detective Hernandez call an open and shut case.” The old ghoul had the nerve to laugh as he sewed up the body.

  Noah couldn’t tell if Lefty Bob was laughing behind his mask—as if a piece of white paper could block the smell—but there was definitely a hint of a chuckle in his voice. “We already have the husband in custody. They were playing for the club couples championship when she had the nerve to question his backswing, his choice of club, and his parentage. When SWAT broke down the door, he was cleaning the blood off his putter and her body was still warm.”

  Noah took another look at the divot missing from the side of her head and knew it wasn’t one of his strangler cases. “What’d ya call me over here for then, Doc? To help Lefty Bob fill out the paperwork?”

  “Due to my years of experience, dedication to hard work, and the promise of overtime pay, I have information on two of your victims.”

  Now he was talking. “Spit it out. Don’t make me come after you.”

  Doc offered him a steely glare. He’d been a fighter in his younger days and had the broken nose to prove it. “I have managed to acquire fingerprints on Kathy—”

  “You’ve identified her?” Wow. That was quick work. Even for the doc.

  “Out of respect for the women, I’ve assigned them names instead of numbers. Remember, they go from longest dead to most recent. I’ve named them Anna, Bertha, Cloe, Danni, Elsa, Fran, Grace, Hattie, Inez, Joyce, Kathy, and Lucy.”

  Damn. He should have thought of that.

  “We already had fingerprints and DNA for Lucy. Now I have the prints for Kathy and Joyce. I’ve sent the prints and DNA samples to Lincoln to put on the FBI data base.”

  Good. The FBI had better contacts than HPD.

  “I discovered one thing I overlooked in Joyce. She had a spiral fracture of her left humerus.”

  Noah blinked, running through the names of bones until the doc pointed to his upper arm.

  Shouldn’t Doc have noticed that sooner? “You told me her right wrist was broken, but her left arm also? Did he do that on purpose to keep her from escaping?”

  “No, it was broken before, when she was a kid. Not your usual slip-and-fall fracture. Caused by more of a twisting motion. Along with a couple of ribs. I didn’t see it until the x-rays came back. Either she was an incompetent athlete, which I don’t believe due to her musculature, or she was abused as a child.”

  Noah’s heart dropped. The poor kid never had a chance.

  Hard to see how that was any help in solving the case, but it was more than they had yesterday.

  “That’s not the reason I asked you to come by. I could have emailed you that information.”

  Exactly what Noah was thinking.

  “I checked out the dental records you gave me before we sent the impressions to the forensic dentist. I’m no expert, and the x-rays you gave me were made when she was still a growing girl, but to me, they could be a match for the woman I named Cloe. There’s a possibility she’s Felicia Vickers. As you seemed to have an interest in the case, I wanted to notify you personally, although I would appreciate it if you didn’t make this public until it’s official. I could easily be wrong. After all this time, what difference will a week make?”

  Noah opened his mouth, but didn’t have enough air to speak. Doc M had no idea.

  Noah’s phone chirped as he waited outside Headquarters for Conner. The number was unfamiliar but that didn’t matter considering how many of his business cards he’d passed out lately.

  He hit Accept. “Daugherty.”

  “This is Luis, from Sleeman Cement.”

  “Yes, Luis. Did any of your workers remember the name of the guy from the apartment building?”

  Conner opened the door and slid into Lola. He started to say something but Noah pointed to his phone.

  “Everyone agrees his name was Dick. They called him Big Dick because he was, you know, big and a dick. It was summer, late summer like July or August, and we were dying in the heat. But every time we needed him, he was AWOL. We’d find him sleeping in his truck with the air conditioning running.”

  Now they were getting somewhere. Maybe. “Any other description?” Big didn’t carry much weight with a jury.

  “He was white. Caucasian. No facial hair. Always had on sunglasses. He wore work type clothes, but nicer than ours. Pants pressed with a crease, shirt starched. You knew he was basically a suit playing dress-up.”

  “What about his truck. If you had to find it to wake him up, maybe you could identify it.”

  “One of those panel vans everybody has. A light color. Jose needed something—a screwdriver maybe—and he opened the back. It was full of brand new tools and construction equipment.”

  The information was flying in. One girl had a shitty childhood and a big guy named Dick worked on a construction site. They should wrap it up any day now.

  And oh yeah, the name of a victim he hadn’t mentioned to Conner yet.

  Noah switched off his phone and switched on his blinker.

  “What was that?” Conner asked.

  “Dick,” Noah snapped. Somehow, he couldn’t force himself to say more.

  Conner sat in silence as he maneuvered into traffic. From the expression on his face, the wheels in his head were spinning faster than the ones on Lola. “The construction foreman,” he finally answered.

  “Yep. A big guy. Looked like management but drove a light-colored panel van full of tools. Plus one of the victims was likely abused as a kid.”

  “Okay then. We might as well turn around and go back to the office. This one’s obviously solved.”

  Yep, my thoughts exactly.

  The bank that had foreclosed on the apartment building was less than ten minutes from Headquarters and Noah would have suggested walking but the sky was an ominous gray and spit out occasional fat drops of
rain, as if it couldn’t make up its mind what it wanted to do.

  Lola’s wipers were set on automatic and would shrrack, shrrack each time they wiped across the too-dry windshield, sometimes once and pause, sometimes twice and a longer pause.

  The combination of the irritating sound and the uneven rhythm had Noah ready to climb out the window and leave Lola with Conner no matter what the weather.

  They made it inside the bank two seconds before the deluge. Rain poured down in a solid sheet. The day had turned into night in the time it took the door to close behind them. Flashes of lightening lit the sky and thunder sent out shock waves that rattled glass.

  An air of nervous energy filled the lobby as customers tried to decide whether to run for their cars or wait out the storm. Free coffee and cookies won, and patrons rushed for the few available seats like a game of musical chairs.

  Noah approached an elegantly dressed black woman with a name tag that read Abby. “We’d like to speak to the manager, please.”

  Abby looked puzzled. “Are you applying for a loan or opening a new account?”

  “Neither. Hopefully talking to the person in charge.”

  “I can do a better job of steering you to the right person if I know what you need.” She was pleasant, smiling, but unable to fit them into one of her little boxes.

  Noah pushed his coat back far enough to let his badge peek out before allowing it drop back again. “I’m investigating a murder, twelve murders, and I’d like to speak to the person who has the power to give me the information I need.”

  Abby’s pupils doubled in size, becoming brown circles with a slight rim of white. She held up one finger before pirouetting and disappearing around the corner.

  Two minutes later, she reappeared and beckoned them closer. “Mr. Sheffield will see you now.”

  Inside the postage-stamp office, the rain drummed on the roof and splattered against the window, causing a reverberating echo.

  A teenager sat behind an almost wall-to-wall desk.