most of the sound. He looked around Tracey’s room a
little longer, but finding nothing else of immediate
interest, he headed back toward the living room. He was
just about to sit down when Shannon walked into the
room. “I apologize. Mary stays here sometimes. She is
experiencing some financial difficulties and I am trying
to help her out.”
Tom nodded. “I understand completely. Does Mary
—I’m sorry, I didn’t catch her last name—did she know
Tracey?”
Shannon hesitated, her eyes darting toward the
hallway. As Tom followed her gaze, his eyes fell upon a
whole lot of woman walking toward them. Mary
Whatever-Her-Last-Name-Might-Be could have been a
linebacker on a men’s football team. She sported
cropped, prematurely graying hair, exposing all too
clearly a face that didn’t match her gender. Her
cheekbones were chiseled and her eyes were small and
dark brown; her pencil-thin lips accentuated the harsh
look that fit perfectly with her large frame. At a good six
feet of height, Mary appeared to have more muscle mass
than Tom did. She was dressed in cut-off denim shorts
that didn’t flatter her legs at all, and a faded red T-shirt
of unknown brand. “I overheard you while I was
walking out of my room, Lieutenant. Yes, I knew
Tracey. It’s very unfortunate—her death, I mean.”
“How long have you known Ms. Newman, Ms…?”
“Townsend. Mary Townsend. Not too long. Tracey
was already Shannon’s roommate when we started
seeing each other.”
Tom saw Shannon blush a deep shade of crimson,
but he pretended not to notice the younger woman’s
discomfort. “Where do you live, Ms. Townsend?”
Mary plopped on the couch without much etiquette.
“I live here now. Shannon is helping me through a rough
spot.”
“I see.” Tom replied and saw the two women
looking at each other. He pulled two business cards out
of his pocket and handed one to each of them. “If you
remember anything else, please call me at any of the
numbers on the card.” He stood up and headed toward
the front entrance. Shannon followed him to open the
door. “Thank you for coming by, Lieutenant.”
Tom nodded. “Duty, Ms. Brinkley. I am sorry for
your loss.”
Shannon bit on her lower lip and swallowed
audibly. Tears welled in her eyes. “Thank you. I have
her mother’s mobile number. I think I will call…and
maybe I will go by and see her parents today.”
Tom went outside and, when he was sliding into in
his car, realized he had not obtained any contact
information for the linebacker. He thought about
returning to the apartment to ask, but he was in a rush to
talk to Brad Johnson; he also needed to make a few
phone calls, to locate Frank Newman and the mysterious
Jack Little. As he drove off, mentally running through
his to-do list, he never noticed that someone was
watching him.
#
Brad Johnson pulled the last box out of the truck
and ran a hand over his short blond hair while he waited
for Darryl Stedman to come help him carry the load into
the warehouse. A buzzing sound from his back pocket
alerted him to a text message, so he looked at his phone
and saw that the message was from Shannon.
“Call me. It’s important.” Brad looked at the time,
glad that his lunch break was only about an hour away.
He hoped to be done with these boxes before then—
nothing like carrying heavy boxes on a full stomach. He
needed to text Shannon back, but as soon as he started
typing, Darryl—an African American man of about 45
with a happy smile and a sunny disposition—came
outside, and Brad returned his phone to his pocket. He
and Darryl worked relentlessly for the next half-hour,
during which time his phone buzzed at least six times.
What could possibly be so pressing that it couldn’t wait?
If he really wanted to, he could reply—but part of him
didn’t want to know what Shannon had to say. He
suspected she wanted to talk about Tracey, and right
now really wasn’t the time. He was ready to leave and
go to lunch, when he heard his name on the speaker:
“Brad Johnson, line one!”
Assuming that it was his supervisor checking on the
status of the order, he walked to the wall phone and
pressed the first button. “Brad Johnson.”
“What the hell is wrong with you? Why aren’t you
answering my messages?” Shannon’s voice came
through as a hiss.
“I’m working, Shannon. It’s been a busy morning.
And why are you calling me at work? You know my
boss doesn’t like personal calls, unless there is an
emergency.”
Shannon’s voice sounded frantic. “This
is an
emergency, you idiot! A detective with RPD came by
earlier. They found Tracey’s body.”
Brad closed his eyes and swallowed hard. His throat
suddenly felt constricted; he was struggling to breathe.
His legs felt weak, too, and for a moment he had to lean
against the wall to steady himself.
“When?”
“He didn’t say, but he questioned me…and Mary.”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing. What could I say?”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I am sure!
“When did they find her?”
“He didn’t say, exactly. A few days ago, I think. Her
family is here in Raleigh. I gave the detective your
mobile phone number and your work number.”
“Why on earth would you do that?”
“He asked. He was going to find out sooner or later,
anyway. I have to go. Call me after you talk to him.”
“Yeah…I will.” Brad hung up without even saying
goodbye. He couldn’t believe his name had come up—
what would happen if they found out? He returned the
handset to the wall and headed inside to clock out for
lunch. When he got to his car, he laid his head back
against the seat and took a deep breath. He had a lot at
stake. He needed to come up with a plan, or he would
have no choice but to face the consequences of his
actions.
#
Tom was eating lunch when the phone rang. Before
going to visit Brad Johnson at work, he wanted to make
some calls to locate Tracey’s father, and he needed to
find out more about Jack Little. He had picked up a
burger and fries on his way to the office and, although
he wanted to make the calls before lunch, the enticing
aroma wafting from the bag was more than he could
resist. He heard the phone just as his teeth sank into the
gooey goodness, and a litany of profanities exploded in
his head; for a moment he thought of not answering.
After all, nobody had seen him come in, and he could
pretend he was still out. He would have gladly sold his
soul to the devil for a mere ten minutes to just sit back
and enjoy his lunch, but it wasn’t meant to be. He
picked up the phone and growled his last name into it.
“Lackey!”
His tone didn’t bother Parker, whose attitude on a
good day was far worse than anything Tom could ever
deliver.
“Lackey, it’s Parker. I just got the report from the
lab. The shoeprint found in the cabin is of a man’s work
boot. The print in the cabin was too smeared to really
get a clear name of the brand, but our tech believes that
the boots could be Redwing steel toes, size nine and a
half or ten. The other print we found in the woods near
the body is consistent with the same type of footwear.
We found another set of prints—aside from Tracey’s—
right where the body was found, but they could belong
to someone else not related to the killing: maybe another
jogger who went through there earlier in the day. There
is no evidence suggesting that Tracey was attacked by
more than one person.”
“So our guy is a blue collar. That narrows down the
list a bit, possibly. Probably not one of the doctors she
was working with—those boots are for heavy-duty
work.”
Parker agreed. “Yeah. Definitely.”
“I found out that Tracey’s biological father is not the
guy who came with her mother. I guess her parents were
divorced. I also found out the name of her latest
boyfriend, and the name of another guy she used to see.
Can you run a check on these two men? I need to go see
Brad Johnson, the current—more or less—boyfriend,
before he gets out of work. I’m not sure what time his
shift ends.”
“I’ll run the checks and call you if I find out
anything important.”
“Good. I’ll count on it, thanks.” Before Parker could
reply, Tom hung up and inhaled the fries that were
already getting cold.
As he drove through downtown, Tom thought about
Shannon and her girlfriend. They surely were a strange
couple. Did they know anything? Shannon seemed to be
aware of several things Tom was sure he hadn’t
mentioned, yet she appeared genuinely heartbroken
when told about her friend’s demise. She seemed
anxious around her linebacker lover, and Tom wondered
if the relationship was abusive—after all, hadn’t one of
Shannon’s eyes appeared bruised?
Absorbed as he was in his thoughts, Tom drove
automatically, his familiarity with the city serving as a
GPS even if he wasn’t paying particular attention to the
road. He turned right on Maywood, slowing as he
looked for the Caldwell & Sons warehouse on the left.
The building appeared worn out, its large, barred
windows and unevenly-colored bricks giving Tom the
sensation that he was headed toward an old prison or an
abandoned orphanage. He pulled into an unmarked spot
on the gravel lot. The air was oppressively humid today,
and he looked forward to stepping inside. A pretty
blonde greeted him when he entered; Tom couldn’t help
but notice the contrast between this lovely young person
and the older woman who hovered over her shoulder.
“Good afternoon. May I help you?” The young
woman smiled politely as she addressed Tom. The older
woman looked in his direction, but after one glance, her
eyes returned to the documents she was perusing.
Beauty and the beast…
“Yes, thanks,” Tom said, flashing a smile and his
identification. “I am Lieutenant Lackey, with the
Raleigh Police department. Is Bradley Johnson in, by
any chance?”
The sound of Tom’s words jerked the older
woman’s head up from the papers she was clutching.
She appeared suddenly interested, but said nothing;
rather, she fixed her small brown eyes on Tom and
stretched her long, thin neck to look at his badge. The
younger woman—an innocent-seeming creature around
25 years of age, with soft hazel eyes and doll-like
features—glimpsed quickly at Tom’s badge and picked
up the phone. “I think he should be back from lunch by
now. Let me call his department.”
Tom waited while the woman dialed an internal
extension, and scoped out the area while she was on the
phone. The room looked much warmer and more up-todate than the exterior of the building, and Tom’s eyes fell on a ficus plant near the window which appeared to
be well taken care of—surely by the young maiden,
since he suspected the old hag would turn the green
leaves to stone with just one look. The furniture was
traditional without looking stuffy; the large window let
in enough light to make the place appear bright and
cheerful.
“Yes…okay, Terence. I will tell him.” The soft,
almost childlike voice of the receptionist brought him
back to the moment. The young woman hung up the
phone and made eye contact. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant. I
just spoke with Brad’s supervisor, and he informed me
that Brad left a short while ago—stomach upset.”
“Too bad. Well, thank you for your help, anyway.”
Tom said as he took a card from the pocket of his jacket
and placed it on the woman’s desk. “I can reach him at
home, but should you see him before I do, please let him
know I am looking for him, and that he can try me at
any of the numbers listed on this card. I just need to ask
him a few questions.”
The young woman picked up the card, transferring
it to a small tray on her desk. “I certainly will. Have a
wonderful day.”
Shortly after Tom left, the young blonde—Shirley
was her name—stood up from her chair and stretched.
“Goodness! I feel completely stiff. Yvonne, would you
mind the phones for a second while I use the restroom?”
The older woman nodded without smiling or
looking in her direction, but as soon as Shirley entered
the hallway leading to the ladies’ room, she went
quickly to Shirley’s desk and picked up the card.
Securing it inside a pocket, Yvonne returned to her desk
and put on a good show of working on payroll. She
needed to talk to the Lieutenant before Brad did. It was
time for that son-of-a-bitch to pay his dues.
Chapter 7
Rose Howard’s hands shook as she accepted the
tissue her husband—noticing her distress—passed to
her. She dried her eyes quickly and took a deep breath,
while she tried to regain enough strength to talk without
bursting into tears. She had slept through most of the
past 48 hours, her sedative-induced dreams a puzzle of
disjointed images produced by her mind in an attempt to
make sense of everything that happened. A cup of coffee
Mike Howard brought upstairs earlier sat untouched on
the table near the window, and a print of blooming sage
on the wall right above it seemed far too peaceful in a
room wher
e the air felt impregnated with agony and
finality.
“I am sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Howard,” Tom said
gently to the woman who appeared to have aged fifteen
years in the course of two days, “we routinely conduct
questioning at the station, but your husband mentioned
that you didn’t feel up to going out, so I took the liberty
of dropping by.”
Rose nodded, her eyes fixed toward the window.
Her husband came to her rescue and spoke for her.
“Thank you Lieutenant. We really appreciate you
coming by. My wife is very weak and it is very nice of
you to take the time to accommodate us. What can we
help you with?”
Tom sat on the chair by the desk and pulled a note
from the inside pocket of his jacket. “Has Tracey ever
mentioned a man by the name of Jack Little?”
Rose gasped and her husband immediately reached
out to touch her shoulder in support.
“Was it Jack?” Rose’s eyes widened as she waited
for a response from Tom. Her cheeks, which had been
ghostly white until a few seconds before were now on
fire, and her voice burst out in a shriek. “Did he kill
her?! Tracey was scared of him.”
“How long was he acquainted with Tracey, Mrs.
Howard? Have you ever met him?”
“Tracey met him at the hospital. He was one of the
people who landscape the grounds there. We met him
twice while visiting. He was obsessed with Tracey, and
when she broke up the relationship he went crazy. He
started following her, and he regularly parked near her
apartment to watch her come and go. There was
something wrong with him, Lieutenant. I wouldn’t
doubt that he could do something horrible…like…
like…” Rose couldn’t finish the sentence. Tears
streamed down her face and wet the collar of her gray
shirt. For a few moments, her sobs were the only audible
sound in the room.
“We don’t know if Mr. Little is responsible, Mrs.
Howard. We found some letters he sent to Tracey which
she kept in a box in her closet, so we consider him a
person of interest but so far no evidence has connected
him to the case.”
Rose looked down. Her hope of nailing her
daughter’s killer was murdered in its infancy by the
words of the Lieutenant.
“Do you know where we could find him, Mrs.
Howard?”
“I don’t know, Lieutenant. I know that when she
Killer in Sight (A Tom Lackey Mystery) Page 8
