It wasn’t white, so I knew it wasn’t Jones’ getaway car.
No, it was a black hybrid. A suit jacket hung in the back window.
“What is it?” Riley asked.
I shook my head. “I don’t know. There’s something about his car . . .”
“A lot of people drive cars like that.”
“I know. I can’t put my finger on it.”
“You don’t think Dale is involved in this in some way, do you? He’s a stand up cop.”
I shrugged. “I’m not drawing any conclusions. I’m just trying to find the truth.” I dropped the curtain and plopped back down on the dining room chair. Riley brought me a cup of coffee, and I took a sip. It was black, but I didn’t care.
I didn’t argue when Riley set two bowls of cereal on the table, either. They weren’t the sugarcoated, fruity kind that I liked. No, this was healthy with lots of fiber and whole grains.
It would do.
“Tell me about Jones’ family,” I said. “Please.”
“What about them?” He took a bite of his cereal.
“How did they react when he was arrested?”
“They stood by him at first. They denied that Jones was guilty, said he couldn’t hurt a fly. According to his wife Julie, he couldn’t even spank his kids. But as the evidence came out in the trial, Julie changed her mind. She actually came to me and offered up more evidence.”
“She didn’t have to do that.”
Riley shook his head. “No, she didn’t. But she felt an obligation to the families of the victims.”
“Have you heard anything about Julie since the trial?”
He ran a hand through his hair. “I know they divorced. Last I heard Julie was dating someone else and they’d moved away from California, somewhere they could start fresh.”
“I wonder if the children ever talk to their dad?”
“I doubt it. They were upset, as you can imagine.”
“Maybe Milton Jones blames you for taking away his family. Maybe that’s why he’s targeting both of us right now and not just you.”
“Sounds like a good theory to me.”
I leaned back and nibbled on my nail in thought. It had about as much flavor as Riley’s cereal. “What about his victims? Do you remember how he chose them? What was his method?”
“They were all similar to his older sister. I think I mentioned that to you before. Young, thin, bossy.”
“But how did he pick them? Did he meet them somewhere? Did he stake out college campuses? Were they all waitresses? Was it all simply random?”
“No, he was purposeful, which is part of what made him more scary. He was a sociologist. All of the women had some connection to his studies. He had access to their files. They were oldest children and often had careers where they were in charge.”
I shook my head as I tried to make sense of things. “This is what I don’t understand. He snatched Clarice, who had a connection to me. He snatched Rose, who had a connection to both of us. But what about Nichole, the first woman he snatched? Why her?”
“Good question.” He pulled out his laptop and began tapping at the keys. Finally, he turned the screen toward me. It was a news article on Nichole Brown. “She was 24 years old. Single. Lived with her family in Norfolk. She was the manager at a temp agency.”
I looked at him. “Temp agency? Did you ever use her at the law firm?”
He shook his head. “She doesn’t look familiar.”
“What about while you were out of town? Could Mary Lou have called her in?”
“She wouldn’t do that without my approval.”
“She has a connection to you or me somehow.” I stood and started pacing. “I mean, this guy’s M.O. is all over the place. You said he was meticulous. Meticulous people aren’t random. What about Mr. Sears? Milton Jones never killed a man. If he did, he sure didn’t leave his body at home for the police to find. His method is to abduct, kill, and to leave the body somewhere to make a statement.”
“You’re right. Something’s off.”
“If we can figure out Nicole’s connection, maybe we can find our killer.”
“Maybe we should go talk to her family.”
I nodded. “It’s worth a shot.”
CHAPTER 30
Nichole’s parents lived in an upper middle class house located on the Lafayette River. In other words, it was a prime piece of real estate in a desirable area of town.
I straightened my outfit as I waited for someone to come to the door. A woman with bobbed brown hair and pink-rimmed eyes answered several minutes after we rang the bell. She didn’t open the door all the way, but peered around from the other side.
“Are you reporters? Because we’re not doing interviews.”
Riley shook his head. “We’re not with the media. My name is Riley Thomas. I prosecuted Milton Jones back in California and now I’m helping with the investigation here.”
A slight smile tugged at her lips, and she opened the door wider. “Riley Thomas. Wouldn’t Nichole have loved to meet you.”
Riley tilted his head. “Come again?”
Mrs. Brown stepped back. “Come in and I’ll explain. Get out of the blistering heat.”
We stepped onto a marble entryway. Mrs. Brown motioned for us to follow her past the dining room, office, and a formal living room. Finally she stopped at a cozy-looking breakfast nook. The way the sun flooded inside through the curtains made everything seem happy and cheerful. “Would you like some tea?”
We both declined.
She sat across from us at a glass-topped table, moisture filling her eyes. “I still can’t believe she’s gone.”
“We’re so sorry about what’s happened,” Riley started. “All we want to do is to catch the person who did this and make sure he does his time.”
Mrs. Brown sucked in a deep breath and seemed to pull her tears back for a moment. “Anything I can do to help. You have questions?”
I licked my lips. “You said your daughter would have loved to have met Riley?” That was the burning question on my mind.
“That’s right. She wrote a paper on you.” She let out a sad laugh. “She went to school to be a paralegal. They had to pick a prosecutor to feature for one of their assignments. This was during the Milton Jones trial. She picked you. She said you were handsome.”
Nichole Brown did have a connection to Riley. How did Milton Jones learn of it, though?
“Nichole worked at a temp agency, correct? She didn’t end up as a paralegal?” I asked.
Mrs. Brown nodded. “She wasn’t a student or academically-minded, and no one could force her to be. Even going to school for a shortened degree like the one required to become a paralegal seemed to be too much for her. All she was interested in was boys and socializing. I hate to say it, but it was the truth.”
“What did she do after she dropped out of school?” Riley asked.
“She started a blog and got this job with the temp agency. She was actually good at managing people. Being the oldest, being bossy came naturally to her.”
Riley leaned forward. “Did you say blog?”
Mrs. Brown nodded. “That’s right. She loved blogging, especially about the popular court cases of the moment. You know, Jodi Arias, Caylee Anthony, George Zimmerman. At least her time in school did her some good. She learned the ins and outs of the legal system.”
“Did she ever blog about Riley?” I asked.
Mrs. Brown tilted her head. “You know, now that you mentioned it, she might have. She followed the Milton Jones case very carefully. It wouldn’t surprise me.”
“Could we see her blog? Do you mind?” Riley leaned forward.
“Not at all.” She stood. “One moment.”
As soon as she disappeared, Riley and I looked at each other. “This just keeps getting crazier and crazier all the time,” I whispered.
“Tell me about it. There was a connection the whole time. I wonder if the police know.”
“They very well
could, and they just haven’t told us. When’s your next task force meeting?”
Riley shrugged. “They said they’d call me in when they needed me. Of course, I talk to them nearly every day, so anything they need to know from me, I’ve already told them. Offering information is really my only role on the team.”
Mrs. Brown appeared with a laptop. She typed something, and then turned the screen toward us. “Here it is. She called her blog ‘Brown Nosing.’ Clever, I always thought.”
Riley scrolled through the entries. “Is there any way we can search her posts?”
“I think there’s a search box at the top right of the screen.”
Riley typed in “Milton Jones” and pages of results followed.
I’d certainly say that Nichole was following the Milton Jones case and that she was following Riley’s social life. There were tons of entries about Riley and all of his astute qualities.
Somehow, Milton Jones had discovered these blog posts.
That meant, this blog had ultimately led to Nichole’s abduction. I bet she never foresaw herself becoming a part of the news story like this.
“I know this is going to sound like a strange question, but did Nichole ever have any contact with Milton Jones?” I asked.
“Contact with Milton Jones? No. Why would you ask such a thing?”
I kept my voice soft. “Just a familiar thread we’ve been following. I’m sorry. I just had to know.”
Mrs. Brown shook her head. “No, she was a good girl.” A sob escaped. She tried to subdue it with a hand over her mouth. It did no good. “And now that man is doing horrible things to her! If there’s anything you can do to help find her, please do it. Please!”
***
Mrs. Brown’s desperate request echoed in my head as I walked from her home to my van. Just as I pulled open the driver side door, my cell phone rang. It was Bill McCormick.
His words tumbled into each other, his normal “radio mode” voice gone. “He just called for you again.”
“Milton Jones? Is he on the radio now?” I slipped inside and started to reach for the dials.
“No, he left you a message. We didn’t have the chance to make Jones’ call live.”
My hand dropped back into my lap. “Well, what did he say?”
“He said if you want answers, he’ll be at Zombie Fest tonight.”
“Zombie Fest?” That was tonight, wasn’t it? How could I have forgotten? It was probably a good thing his call wasn’t on the air. That would have created wide spread panic. “Thanks for letting me know, Bill.”
I hung up and realized that Riley was staring at me. “He left you a message?”
I nodded and filled him in.
He shook his head. “I don’t like this.” Riley had said that a lot lately.
“Me neither.”
“It’s like he’s trying to lure you out.”
I tried to suppress a shudder that desperately wanted to rush through my every muscle and limb. It didn’t work. Why did Jones want me there tonight?
I pushed those thoughts aside and called Adams. I explained what had happened, realizing that I’d had more conversations with the detective this week than I had my best friend. A sad reality.
“You need to stay away from Zombie Fest, Gabby.” Adams’ voice sounded as serious as I’d ever heard it.
I nibbled on my bottom lip for a moment. “I want to be there.”
“That’s not a good idea, Gabby,” Adams said.
“He’s going to be there. He’s going to be looking for me. This is our chance to get him, Detective.”
“It’s risky.”
“You can have your men there. I can be wired. If you can grab him, maybe we’ll find those women.”
“Or it could go terribly wrong.”
His words were a grim reminder. He spoke the truth. Things could veer off plan. In a situation like this, not going according to plan could mean life or death.
“It’s worth the risk if it means catching Jones.”
He didn’t say anything for a minute. “Go back to your apartment. I’ll meet you there and we’ll talk more.”
I’d go back there. But there was one place I wanted to stop first.
I thought I knew what happened to the names on our mailboxes.
***
Fifteen minutes later, we stood on Freddy Mansfield’s doorstep and rang his bell. When he opened the door and spotted us, he tried to shut us out. Riley stuck his foot out to stop him and grabbed his shirt before he could escape.
“We need to talk,” Riley muttered.
Freddy’s eyes widened. “About . . . about wh—what?”
“About Thursday night,” I filled him in.
“I was here. All night. No alibi, but you can check my computer logs.”
“You were at our apartment building,” I said.
His eyes became even wider. “Why would you think that? I don’t even know where you live.”
“A computer guru like you could figure it out.” Riley still kept a tight fist on the man’s shirt. “We can do this the easy way or we can do it the hard way. The hard way involves calling the cops and them taking you down to the station to be questioned.”
Freddy raised his hands. “Okay, okay. I’ll talk.”
Whew. I hadn’t had to pull out my gun. I was becoming like Lara Croft: Tomb Raider, minus the tight clothes and lifeless, stiff personality.
“You stole the name off of Riley’s mailbox and my mailbox. Why?” I knew the answer. I wanted to hear him say it.
He stared until finally his shoulders slumped in defeat. “It could get me major money.”
“You were the one who tried to get into Riley’s apartment.”
He shrugged. “I just wanted to take a quick look. I wasn’t going to hurt anyone. Maybe I would just take one of your photos. Maybe some deodorant. Nothing that was a big deal.”
“That’s breaking and entering! It’s stealing!” Riley’s face reddened.
This whole Milton Jones case was becoming a circus.
“It’s the little things that can sometimes bring the most money,” Freddy insisted.
I shook my head in disgust. “You’re the one who knocked that cop out.”
He said nothing.
“Let me guess. You were able to trade one of the items you were auctioning for the drug. I’m sure people would jump through hoops to get some of those ‘collector’s’ items.” Everything was starting to make sense.
I could tell by the way his pupils widened and his lips parted that I’d guessed correctly.
“No one was supposed to get hurt. You wouldn’t understand. I need more product. Milton Jones is hot right now, and people are willing to pay big time for anything related to his case.”
“And you’re willing to do anything to get that money,” I mumbled. “It’s reprehensible.”
“A guy’s gotta do what a guy’s gotta do to make a living.”
Riley let him go. “I think you’re scum. A murderer? Not really. But one of the most vile people I’ve met, nonetheless.”
As we walked back to my van—yes, I’d driven this time—I noticed the decorative plate around my license plate was missing. Sierra had given it to me, and it had said, “Keep Calm, and Investigate On.”
How much did I want to bet that Freddy had taken that at some point as well?
CHAPTER 31
“I don’t want you doing this.” Riley stood in front of me with his hands on his hips and his eyes lined with worry. “There are so many things that could go wrong. You’re going to be exactly where Jones wants you to be. You’re going to be playing his game, and he’s going to be controlling all of the cards. It’s not going to end well.”
Since a police officer was applying white makeup to my face in an effort to zombie-fy me, I couldn’t escape Riley’s closing argument in his case against me.
I sat in a dining room chair, which faced the window for lighting purposes, in Riley’s apartment. I closed my eyes as m
ore makeup was applied. There were so many police officers in the apartment right now, it was practically a donut shop.
I didn’t say anything in response to Riley. I knew I couldn’t change his mind on this, so why bother and try?
Finally, Riley stopped staring at me—I could feel his gaze leave me, even with my eyes closed—and addressed Parker. “Can’t you talk her out of this? Tell her what a bad idea it is? Insist she stay far away?”
Great, he was trying to persuade the jury now.
Parker shrugged. “You don’t really think she’s going to listen to me, do you?”
Riley sighed. “Gabby—”
As they put the final powder puff to my cheeks, I stood. “It’s going to be fine, Riley. I’m going to be careful. You’re going to be with me.”
I resisted the urge to bat my eyelashes and make the words drip with sugary sweetness. Because, despite how sappy my words sounded, they were true. I did feel safer with Riley nearby.
He stepped closer, probably to get my attention. It worked. Electricity crackled between us and caused me to suck in a breath.
He leaned down until we were practically nose-to-nose. “We both have targets on our backs.”
I stepped back before his plan worked and I actually started listening to him. I paced instead and kept my gaze averted so I could focus. “Milton Jones doesn’t use guns. He’s not going to shoot us. He’ll try to abduct us.” The words really weren’t that comforting.
“That’s not entirely true,” Parker said. He hung out against the door, twirling his toothpick. He did that when he wanted a cigarette. “We know that’s what he does to women, but he’s veering off of his M.O. like a meth addict in rehab. Who knows what he’ll do next.”
I wanted to throw a book at Parker. Maybe a tomato or a cream pie. I settled for a dirty look instead.
He shrugged and continued to twirl the toothpick in his mouth. “It’s true.”
I couldn’t think about that right now. I had to concentrate on the things I could control, and right now that meant finding out more information.
“How many people are expected to turn out for this event tonight?” I asked.
The Scum of All Fears: Squeaky Clean Mysteries, Book 5 Page 17
