Killer in Sight (A Tom Lackey Mystery)

by Sandra Carrington-Smith

  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