Autumn Secrets (Seasons Pass Book 4)

by Susan C. Muller

  Lola roared to life the instant he turned the key. She was as anxious to get started as he was. Two blocks later, Noah saw a bodega. Closed for the night.

  A block after that was a bank. The ATM was inside the locked foyer, but visible through the glass. Conner made a note of the name and address of each place so they could start on a warrant for any surveillance footage first thing in the morning.

  Circling back on the other side of the lot, they found a gas station/convenience store still open. On the off chance they had a video and were willing to share without a warrant, he and Conner went in.

  The camera was mounted in plain sight as a deterrent, but according to the clerk had been broken since he started working there six months ago.

  Conner snapped his memo book closed as they stood under the store overhang and watched a sudden shower spring up. “What’d ya say, partner? Go back and stand in the rain while they load the body into the bus or wait till tomorrow and see what the doc has to say?”

  Noah glanced at his watch. “Everybody’s gone by now. Let’s head home. I’ll start work on the warrants tonight and email the info to your computer at work. You can tweak it in the morning and run it past the Lieu. We’ll take it to a judge and head for these stores as soon as the ink’s dry.”

  “You don’t want to go to the morgue first?”

  He never wanted to go to the morgue. “Tired as Doc looked, he won’t get to her autopsy before mid-afternoon. We’ll have plenty of chance to serve the warrants first. Any spare time we’ll spend looking for the cheerleader.” Identifying one of the earlier victims didn’t seem as urgent as it had that morning.

  When he’d first gotten up, he’d bitched because they didn’t have any leads to follow. Now they had more than they could manage.

  Why didn’t that make him feel any better?

  Even Sweet Pea had fallen asleep by the time Noah switched off his computer. The warrant information was as detailed as he could make it.

  If he was asking to search someone’s house, a judge might balk. But for copies of surveillance videos? He didn’t foresee any problems.

  Not even if he had to go in front of Hard Ass Hargity.

  The numerals on his phone flipped over to 11:14. Too late to call Laurel. This was the first time he’d missed since they reconnected last weekend.

  Only a few days, but funny how he already missed hearing her voice before he turned in for the night.

  She’d certainly understand. Especially since it was all over the evening news. He’d hoped for another day before the media vultures picked up on the story.

  The pressure would start the minute the Chief got to the office, bellowing about how he was up half the night with irate phone calls.

  Bullshit. Everyone knew he transferred all calls to his assistant after 7:30. He needed his beauty sleep to look good in front of the cameras. Oops, too late. He should have gone to bed about 1985.

  Maybe their friendly FBI Agent, Lincoln Montgomery should take over the on-camera news conferences. Not only could he put together two sentences without tripping over his tongue, he had a face made for TV.

  Not like his lieutenant. With those eyebrows, Jansen looked like a Cro-Magnon throwback. Who was he kidding? The Chief lived for the limelight. He’d never pass up an opportunity to have his picture taken.

  Usually with his foot in his mouth.

  While that might give Noah perverse personal pleasure, it didn’t help the department. So now the pressure ramped up to solve this case. Not only to get some murdering bastard off the streets, but to save face for the department before the Chief made all cops everywhere look like imbeciles.

  Way to add tension to a job that was already stressful.

  Other than that, he’d had only one email all evening. Apparently Doc had stayed late to finish the autopsy. He’d hoped for something, anything, that would lead to her killer. But no such luck. Nothing in it was a surprise.

  The girl was approximately eighteen. She had been strangled. Her wrists showed signs of restraints. And she’d been washed clean. There was only one slight difference. Her stomach contents showed the remains of a date.

  Did that mean the killer didn’t keep her as long for some reason? Or had she eaten the date immediately before her abduction?

  No way to know. And did it make any difference?

  Noah switched off his computer, let Sweet Pea out for a final run, and called it a night.

  Maybe they’d catch a break tomorrow.

  “Daugherty. Crawford. My office. Now.” Lieutenant Jansen’s voice was like a cup of cold water in Noah’s face.

  It had to be something bad. He hadn’t had time to screw up this morning.

  Conner glanced his way and shrugged. Whatever it was, his partner didn’t know either.

  The squad room grew deathly silent as the occupant of every desk turned their head to see what disaster was about to befall them.

  Noah jumped up and banged his knee on an open desk drawer, driving a sharp pain into the bone. Tingles traveled up and down his leg. Several choice curse words found their way to the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed them down.

  Things were about to get serious. He didn’t need to make them worse.

  The Lieu stepped back and opened his door wider to allow Conner and him to enter. A visitor was sitting in the best guest chair—the one saved for VIPs. One glance and Noah’s heart skipped several beats before slamming into his rib cage and trying to crawl up his throat.

  And he thought facing the Chief was the worst thing that could happen.

  A head of Don King hair and a face even a mother would have trouble loving turned toward him.

  “Detectives.” The Lieu nodded toward his guest. “You remember R. J. Perry from the Houston Chronicle.”

  Fuck. Noah remembered him. He’d just hoped never to see him again. And if the son-of-a-bitch made the slightest reference to the story he’d put him on the track of, he’d make the reporter’s life so miserable he’d beg for an assignment covering polar bear hunting in the Arctic.

  He’d never mentioned to Conner the report he’d slipped Perry, but the subsequent newspaper articles were hard to ignore, and his partner was anything but dumb.

  “Nice to see you again, Mr. Perry.” Conner’s words were warm, but his tone was cold.

  Noah simply nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

  “Mr. Perry has been kind enough to bring us a copy of some interesting information he acquired on our recent murders.” Jansen’s face was a mask, allowing no hint of emotion to slip through.

  Perry unclasped a manila envelope and a plastic baggie with a sheet of computer paper and its matching envelope fell onto the Lieu’s desk. The slight thump was a hammer in Noah’s chest.

  That fucking strangler was writing letters to the paper?

  “Unfortunately, several people touched this before it reached my desk and I realized what it was. I immediately took pains to see it was preserved. I didn’t receive it in time to make the morning edition but it will appear in full on our website and tomorrow’s paper. You may certainly keep this. I made copies.”

  Of course he made fucking copies. He’s a lowlife newsman. Now he’ll probably write a book and get rich off other people’s misery.

  Jansen cleared his throat and it sounded like an overloaded freight train heading up a hill. He didn’t make it to lieutenant by being a wuss. “We would prefer that you kept this confidential while we complete our investigation. No point in giving this…person…the notoriety he obviously wants. Plus, we need time to study this communication. Pull every ounce of information from it possible.”

  Perry had the nerve to smile. “I’m sure you would prefer that. Not going to happen.”

  “I can take this to court. Get an injunction.” Jansen’s voice still had a low, threatening rumble.

  “Good luck with that. No judge who hopes to be re-elected would ever stomp on freedom of the press. I’ll tell you what I will do for you. I’ll hold off
until morning. That’ll give you time to get started before the poop hits the propeller.”

  Mr. Big-Hearted. Acting so full of compassion, understanding. He’d never have made that offer without the prior approval of his boss. And that guy’s boss. No, he needed the time to do the research necessary for a proper, award-worthy, feature. Not to mention, online articles didn’t sell newspapers and opened the door for TV to be first on the air with the juicy scoop.

  Jansen motioned for Noah and Conner to stay behind after Perry left. A totally unnecessary move. Noah wasn’t stirring until he’d studied that letter.

  Without removing the protective baggie, he slid the note under the Lieu’s desk lamp for a closer look. There was nothing extraordinary about the letter itself.

  Printed on standard computer paper. The lab could probably tell them the brand of paper and printer.

  Mailed in a four-by-nine white envelope with a peel and stick flap. No DNA there.

  Addressed to R. J. Perry at the Chronicle, but no return address. Probably used the same computer.

  One of those self-sticking Forever stamps. Again, no DNA.

  The cancellation stamp read “South Houston,” but that didn’t mean a thing except that the perp probably lived anywhere but South Houston.

  Noah smoothed the plastic and began to read.

  My Dear Mr. Perry,

  The cops can’t be trusted. They neither do their job nor tell the truth. So I put my faith in you and a free press.

  Our fair city, and many others in this great country, are overrun with filth. Harlots walk the streets in broad daylight, poisoning the minds of impressionable children and tempting husbands away from their faithful wives.

  Loving homes are destroyed. Families are ripped apart. Children become pawns in a never ending game of pass the blame.

  Young boys grow up with a twisted sense of morality.

  Innocent girls are tainted with sin.

  Don’t look to our police force for help. Greed and glory blind them.

  The power of politics is all they know. Their leaders are corrupt so they are corrupt.

  Who can you turn to in these trying times?

  Who can you depend on to do what is right no matter the cost?

  Who will clean your streets? Collect your garbage? Take out your trash? Who will teach a lesson to those who use their charms for evil purposes?

  Who will protect those driven mad with temptation?

  I will.

  I have been anointed your defender.

  Do not look for me for you will not find me. I am both invisible and invincible. I have walked through fire and come out unscathed.

  I pass you on crowded streets, yet you do not see me.

  But I am always there.

  In case you doubt my sincerity, return to the place we first met. I have left you a gift.

  The Sanitizer.

  “Holy shit! Who does this guy think he is, Batman?” Noah slammed the letter onto the Lieu’s desk. “We have to get Perry back in here. Ask him if anyone spoke to him at the first crime scene. See if he’s being followed.”

  “Relax, I’ve already done that and the answer is a resounding No.”

  “How do we know he’s telling the truth? He’s a reporter. He can’t be trusted.”

  Jansen sat for the first time since he’d called Noah and Conner into his office. “Of course he’s lying. That’s why I have Lefty Bob tailing him.”

  Conner was struggling to get a decent photograph of the letter inside its plastic baggie when he stopped and glowered at Jansen. “What about his fingerprints? We know he touched the letter.”

  “He claims we have them. He’s in the system.”

  Noah’s head popped up. “What? He has a record? Do we know for what? Is there any chance he’s the Sanitizer?”

  “Why do you think I have him under surveillance?”

  “It’ll take more than one person.” Frustration was building in Noah’s chest. He wanted to get out there and chase the reporter down.

  “If you’ll give me five minutes, I’ll arrange that. Hard to do when he’s standing in front of you.”

  Noah started to pace the room. Making a list of needed actions. “We’ve got to get copies of every newscast. Not only the film they showed on air, but every frame they shot. If Perry talked to anyone, I want to know about it. If he didn’t, I want to know that, too.”

  “Again, give me five minutes to start making phone calls. Now, you two guys have a warrant waiting to be served.”

  The Lieu had to be kidding. Drop their first solid lead for some lame-ass videos? “We need to get on this. See what Perry’s record says.”

  “Believe it or not, I still remember how to look up a rap sheet. Now, get out there and pick up those surveillance videos. While you’re gone, Crime Scene can be analyzing the letter. See what they can learn. Lift all available fingerprints. By the time you get back, maybe we’ll have something to work with.”

  Well, damn, they finally had a suspect. And it was R. J. Perry. Who would have believed it?

  It galled Noah to admit the Lieu was right. When he and Conner got back from picking up the videos, Crime Scene still hadn’t finished analyzing the letter.

  The bodega owner had bent over backwards to be helpful. He pulled the surveillance video from its compartment without even asking for a warrant. “You let me know if you need anything else. I’m always happy to help la policia.”

  The man tried to push fresh fruit and vegetables on the partners, but Noah refused. Conner took two ears of sweet corn but insisted on paying for them.

  The bank was a different story. The manager was friendly, polite, yet insisted on seeing the warrant. He then called his boss. He called the head office. He called the security company.

  The result was a tie. No win. No loss. He was happy to turn over the video, but it was kept off premises. Come back on Monday and he’d have it for them.

  The drive back to the office from the bank took fifteen minutes. Noah wasn’t sure what Conner was thinking about, but he spent the time plotting the perfect revenge for those who delayed releasing vital information while a serial killer roamed the city.

  Slowly sinking in quicksand while your rescuer finished his lunch? Waiting on death row for the governor’s pardon? Spending eternity in Hell running on a treadmill with a bottle of water barely out of reach?

  He had finally decided on being caught in a riptide and swimming for shore while the current pulled you farther away when they reached Headquarters.

  Once inside, Noah got two diet Cokes from the vending machine while Conner set up the bodega videos.

  “This copy starts on Monday. He could have taken her then, but I’m guessing it was Tuesday evening or night. Kept her till the early morning hours on Thursday. She hadn’t been in the ground more than a few hours when we found her.” Conner fiddled with the control knobs and the screen lit up.

  The bodega owner had positioned the camera to show the sidewalk in front of his store. The bins of fruits and vegetables he’d set out were clearly visible. A section of the street heading east was in view, but westbound traffic could only be seen in quick glimpses between cars.

  Conner paused the video constantly, listing every car that passed, noting the time, and his best guess at color. Difficult from the grainy black and white film.

  Noah was the car guy and offered his opinion on make and model when possible. Otherwise Conner wrote sedan, pickup, SUV, panel truck. In that neighborhood, there weren’t any late model sports cars.

  At 3:26 a.m. on Thursday morning, more than an hour since the last car passed, a white panel van drove past the bodega in the direction of the Killing Field.

  Thirty-seven minutes later, it drove past again. Going the other direction.

  “Let’s start over from the beginning and see if he’s been by before.”

  “I have almost two dozen light-colored vans listed as passing. Not sure how we’re going to know if it’s the same one.” Conner tappe
d the list he’d been keeping.

  “This one’s got a different rim on the rear driver’s side tire.” The color was the same, but the shape was slightly different.

  Conner peered at the paused video. “Dang. I never noticed that. Good eye.”

  “Put up the picture of the van leaving the scene. See if we can find any distinguishing marks on the passenger side.”

  Five minutes later, Conner had printed off two copies each of both sides of the van. “What’s this mark here? Near the back. Is it rust?”

  “Could be. Kind of small but if we can get a good angle we might be able to see it.”

  Noah rolled his head from side to side, stretching his neck. This was it. He could feel it. The trick now was to stay calm, not get excited and miss something.

  The video started early Monday morning. The bodega owner set out his bins of produce, cars rolled by, customers shopped, the sun went down, and the owner brought his bins inside and closed for the night.

  Seven panel vans passed, but they were the wrong model or lacked the correct markings.

  Tuesday morning’s video started the same way. The bins went up, people shopped, trucks passed but not the right one, and the sun began to set. Traffic and pedestrians thinned to almost nothing. The owner came out and began to close for the night.

  “Stop right there,” Noah shouted. “It’s our victim.”

  “How do you know? You can barely see her. The owner’s in the way. Sure, she’s short and has long dark hair, but this is an Hispanic neighborhood. That description fits half the women who’ve shopped there.”

  “He tried to talk her into buying some dates. Look, he gives her one to taste.”

  “Son-of-a-bitch.” Conner seldom cursed at all, and Noah had never heard him use that term. “Her last meal. Doc found the remains of a date in her stomach.”

  Noah reached across his partner and pressed the play button.

  Seventeen seconds later, the white van drove past.

  Where was the fucking bank video when you needed it? Two blocks down the street. Was she still walking? How long did it take the van to cover that distance?