It might be small, but it was no less a victory.
“I’ve got the splice ready to send.” Deweese was fixed on the image on his screen. “They must have taken the Washington Baum Bridge across the sound to South Croatan to get to the house in Nags Head.”
Same route she and Parker had been taking. There weren’t any other direct roads. “Are there any cameras on those highways?”
They all just stared at her. Okay. Dumb question. “What have you got, Deweese?”
He was playing with the video. “I just reversed it to an hour and half or so earlier. I can see the guy pull into that spot in the vehicle and get out, but he’s behind another couple when he goes to the entrance. Can’t see his face at all.”
Miranda watched the footage as the detective spoke. The guy sure looked like he was purposely staying out of view. This was him.
This was their killer.
Now all they had to do was figure out who he was. And where he was hiding now.
From the spot where he’d been observing everything, Parker came to her side and touched her arm. “I don’t believe there’s much more to be done tonight.”
She looked up at the clock. He was right. It was getting late and these people were going on fumes.
“Okay, everyone. Let’s wrap things up for tonight. Go home, get some sleep and come back tomorrow ready to find this guy.”
She glanced up at Parker.
He was wearing that patient look of his.
“Oh, and good work.”
Everyone started to throw away their trash, pack up, and head out.
Miranda spotted Smith sneaking out with Wesson without saying goodnight. She couldn’t figure her out.
Everyone had gone and they were waiting for Deweese to turn out the lights when there was a knock on the back door.
Instinctively Miranda’s hand moved toward her weapon. But no, some attacker wouldn’t knock on the back door of a police station.
With a frown of curiosity, Deweese walked over to the door and opened it. “Can I help you?”
A large man with linebacker shoulders stood at the entry.
He wore a light blue jersey with “Carolina” printed on it in white letters. His jeans were baggy and his athletic shoes were dirty and worn at the toes. Thick wavy hair fell almost to his shoulders.
He scanned them with sullen gray eyes for a moment then gestured toward the walkway. “I tried the front, but the door is locked, so I came around here.”
“What do you need, sir?” Deweese said in his best cop voice.
“I heard about that murder on the news? That young woman who was killed in that ocean front house?”
Miranda folded her arms. “What about it?”
“I work for East Seaside Properties, ma’am. I think I might know something about what happened.”
Chapter Eighteen
With Parker at her side looking as skeptical as she felt, Miranda followed their guest down the hall while Deweese led the way.
Past the break room, the detective opened a door and switched on a light inside a standard-looking interrogation room. It contained the requisite table and four hard, uncomfortable metal chairs. The walls were painted a pale blue, a similar shade to the man’s jersey, which made part of him seem to disappear as he took a seat at the far end.
“Would you like something to drink?” Deweese offered after introducing everyone.
Standard police warm-up question, Miranda thought, taking a seat along the table’s side, while Parker positioned himself in the corner where he could observe.
“No, thanks,” said the man as he ran a hand over his face. “I just don’t know where to begin.”
Deweese set down a clipboard he’d picked up on the stroll over and sat at the far end of the table. “Why don’t you start by giving us your name, sir?”
“Grover. Grover Ulman.”
Miranda studied the man’s frame, trying to compare it to the dark figure she’d seen in the video a few moments ago. There might have been some similarities. The hair was longer, but maybe he’d used gel or a band. The basic body shape, maybe. But that video just wasn’t clear enough to tell.
Ulman looked to be at least in his mid-forties, with a lined leathery-skinned face, a knobby nose, a large jaw, and thick overgrown eyebrows.
“And you work for East Seaside Properties?” she asked.
“Yes. Six years now. Molly and me—that’s my wife—we came here for a visit one summer and fell in love with the place. I was good with my hands, so I applied.”
“And your position is—?”
“I do routine maintenance for the company’s rental properties. I take care of the heating and A/C, replace light bulbs, do painting and plumbing. Molly, she was a Vacation Specialist. She was always better with people than me.”
Miranda glanced over at Deweese. He was writing everything down on a form.
“Was?” she asked.
Ulman spread his big hands out on the table before him. His knuckles were large and knobby. Miranda noticed a small cut along his thumb.
“We separated a year ago,” he said. “She wanted kids, and I couldn’t—well, she went back to her folks in Asheville.” He stared down at his fingers, the muscles in his face tight.
They were getting way off-track. “When was the last time you were at the house where the incident occurred Friday night?”
“The day before. On Thursday. Miss Mae said a guest and his family was coming in for Thanksgiving next week.”
“Miss Mae?”
“That’s what everyone calls the property manager. Her real name is Marilyn Little.”
“I see.” The name Wesson had given her earlier.
“Anyway, I went to the property Wednesday to check things over. I found one of the toilets was running, but I had to get a fill valve to fix it. I came back the next day to replace the part. The cleaning folks came in shortly after I arrived.”
And wiped everything down. “Did you notice anything unusual?”
“Unusual? No, everything seemed pretty normal. That’s a real nice house. Everyone who stays there loves it.”
“Did you notice anyone in the area you hadn’t seen before?” Miranda pressed.
Lines creased in his well-tanned face. “No, not really. Mrs. Kennicutt was on the porch with her cat. She lives two doors down.”
The neighbor who’d complained about the noise.
“Most everyone else is gone. We have some other properties there that are empty now, as well. This is the slow season. Things will pick up again in the spring when the weather turns warm.”
“So I understand. And what was it you came here to tell us?”
“Well now, that’s just the thing.” He tapped the table with a forefinger. “It was actually Tuesday that I was going to check out that house, but when I swung by the office to get the keys, they weren’t there.”
“What do you mean?”
“Miss Mae keeps them in a locked drawer. Only the East Seaside employees have access to them. But when I went to get them, they weren’t there.”
“They weren’t in the drawer?”
“Nope. I figured the cleaning crew had them that day and had forgotten to mark it on the schedule, so I went to another property instead. The keys were back in the drawer on Wednesday, so that’s when I did my first check. I got them again on Thursday. When the cleaning crew came in that day, I wondered why the keys were missing on Tuesday. They usually don’t take more than a day. But then it slipped my mind until I heard Angela Tremblay’s report on the news.”
Was that how their killer got into the place? Had he taken the key and made a copy? Had to be.
“Mr. Ulman, what kind of vehicle do you drive?”
Again he seemed confused by the question. “A Chevy pickup. Why?”
Whatever the car on that video was, it certainly wasn’t a pickup truck. “Do you own any other vehicles?”
“No. Haven’t needed one since Molly left.” There was a sudde
n defensiveness in his tone.
“And you have no idea who took the keys from the drawer on Tuesday.”
“Not a clue.”
Miranda sat back. She wished they could keep this guy in custody, but they didn’t have enough evidence. She looked up at Parker. “Do you have any other questions?”
“You’ve covered them.”
She turned to Deweese. “You?”
“No. I’ve got everything down here. Would you mind looking this over and signing it, Mr. Ulman?” He turned his clipboard around and slid it across the table.
“No, not at all.” He took the board, read it over, scrawled his name across the bottom.
Deweese got to his feet. “Unless you can think of anything else to tell, we’re done here.”
Ulman rose and handed the officer the clipboard. “That’s all I had to say. Except that I hope you catch that killer soon. It was awful what happened to that young woman.”
“We hope to do just that. Thank you for your time.” Deweese walked the man out of the station.
As they went down the hall, Miranda joined Parker in his dark corner. “Do you think he’s a suspect?” she asked quietly.
He shook his head. “He doesn’t fit.”
She didn’t think so, either.
Once again they joined Deweese at the back door. “We need to get a list of everyone who had access to that drawer at East Seaside Properties. Can you work on that tomorrow?” Miranda said.
Deweese nodded. “First thing.”
“Let me know if anything pops. Parker and I are going to pay a visit to that doctor Josie Yearwood was seeing.”
Chapter Nineteen
As soon as they got back to the B&B, Miranda hit the shower. Letting the hot steamy water pound over her sore muscles, she closed her eyes and let the facts of the case run through her mind.
Josie Yearwood had in fact been on a date Friday night and had gotten into her escort’s car after her last meal at the Bayside Manor. The car was a dark sedan with as yet unknown plates. The killer had probably taken her straight to that house along the ocean front. And he very likely was familiar with the rental company who managed the house. He might have taken the keys from the manager’s drawer and returned them later.
And even with all that information, they were no closer to finding the guy than yesterday. They had no clue who he was. He was clever enough not to leave any trace of himself behind.
Just as the frustration began to mount inside her, undoing the work of the shower, she felt Parker step in behind her.
He reached for a cloth and began to rub soap over her shoulders.
“What are you doing?”
“Washing your back. Do you want me to stop?”
“Not if you want to take another breath.”
His low laugh caressed her ears as his lips found her neck and began sending mind-numbing tingles through her whole body.
“You’re distracting me from my work.”
“You need to let it go for a while.”
“I need to find that killer before he gets to one of the ‘others’.”
“You can’t do that if you’re not rested. Isn’t that what you told your team?”
She twisted her neck around, trying to give him a dirty look. “How did they become my team, anyway? You’re the one who should be in charge.”
“But you’re the one they’re looking to now for leadership.” He nibbled at her shoulder while his hands moved over her flesh.
He was so infuriating. And just now, his fingers running up her sides were maddening. She might be in charge, but Parker was the one in control. Always.
And because she’d learned to love him for that instead of fight him, she closed her eyes and let the water rush over her. Leaning her head back as he worked his way to her front, she relaxed and surrendered to his magic.
Chapter Twenty
Cindy Smith climbed the two steps of the raw wood porch in front of the tiny three-bedroom house with the big bay window. She’d always liked the home she’d lived in during her last year of high school—the home she’d returned to when she quit the Parker Agency. It was painted a calming sea green and was nestled in a cozy neighborhood a few miles north of the police station. She’d always felt safe here.
She eyed her mother’s potted plants sitting along the ledge. Some were still alive. Her mother had a green thumb.
As quietly as she could, she unlocked the front door and shut it behind her.
“You’re getting home late.”
She sighed. There was no hiding from her mother.
She followed the sound of her voice to the living room with its homespun furniture and potbellied stove that served as a fireplace. As always, her mother was sitting in her rocking chair in the corner, a knitting project in her lap.
“Had to work, Mom,” she told her.
“I understand,” she said, deftly working the needles. “Are you close to catching that horrible man?”
Her shoulders sank. “I don’t know. Everyone’s doing the best they can.”
“I know you are, sweetie.” Her mother stopped knitting and put her hands in her lap. “I just can’t help worrying about you. You’ve never had to face anything like this.”
Not since she’d come home from Atlanta. Not that she’d had any dangerous cases there. She wasn’t like Steele. But she might have been if she’d finished her training.
“Don’t worry, Mom. I’m not getting into anything dangerous. I’ll be okay.”
“I hope so, honey. Do you need any dinner?”
“No, thanks. They had food at the station. I’m really tired and I need to be there early tomorrow. I’m heading off for bed.” She leaned over and kissed her mother’s cheek.
“All right, dear.”
She started toward the hall. “Cindy?”
“Yes, Mom?”
“Your father would be proud of you.”
“Thanks.”
She went down the hall, took a quick shower and got into bed. She was dead tired, but too depressed to sleep.
How had she ever gotten involved with this case? She’d wanted to bare her soul to Wesson when she drove her to the B&B tonight, but ended up talking about clothes and shoes instead. Though the only time she got to wear nice outfits was when she was off duty, they remained a passion. She and Wesson had had that in common. It was the main reason they’d hit it off when they met at the Agency.
But now? Wesson was working under Steele. She couldn’t believe it, though it made sense. Wesson had always been serious about being a detective.
Rolling over, Cindy thought about those words on the wall of that house. She thought about the body. Shivers went through her. She closed her eyes, trying to block out the images. But she couldn’t. The guilt wouldn’t let her.
She’d known her.
Not at first. Not even after the ID came back from her fingerprints. It was when she’d gone to tell Mrs. Yearwood her granddaughter was dead. The kindly woman had ushered her into her living room and she’d noticed the picture of Josie on the mantelpiece.
Miss Dare County.
Suddenly she’d remembered her from high school. Her parents had moved to Manteo from Murfreesboro before her father got a job in Nags Head. She’d spent her junior year at the high school there. Josie had been a Senior. The most popular girl in school. She had an entourage of other girls who were in her clique. Those she favored. Cindy hadn’t made the cut.
And then there were the boys. Lots of them. Some of them told stories about how they’d been with Josie when they hadn’t. Others drooled when she came down the hall. All of them longed for a chance to go out with the Beauty Queen. But Josie was very selective. Only the cream of the crop made the cut. And there were many who didn’t. Josie called them her “rejects.”
Cindy had an idea about that, but it was too silly for words.
No, she wasn’t the sharp detective here. That was Steele’s place, and Wesson wasn’t far behind. And Mr. Parker? No one could t
ouch him.
She rolled over and put the pillow over her head, trying to block out her own thoughts.
Why did she have to be the one who found that body? Why did this gruesome murder have to happen here? Why did she have to work with Parker and Steele again? She had no answers.
All she knew, was she hoped this case would be over soon.
Chapter Twenty-One
Before they were dressed the next morning, Miranda’s cell went off. It was Becker.
She snatched the phone the off the nightstand. “Have you got the guy Josie Yearwood went out with Friday night?”
She heard him groan. “Sorry, Steele. Wish I did.”
She groaned back. “The tag number of the car she got into?”
“No luck with that either, sorry.” He sounded like he used to when he got a question wrong in training.
She pressed a palm to her head. She was pressuring him too hard, getting her hopes up too high.
It wasn’t fair to him.
She glanced over at Parker. Clad in dark business slacks, he stood at the antique dresser buttoning his white dress shirt. A dark brow raised, he gave her a look that said, “Stay calm and keep your head.”
She was trying to.
“I’ve got something else, though,” Becker said in a brighter tone.
She cleared her throat and forced herself to sound collected. “Oh? What?”
“A name popped on the facial recognition app. You know, that third photo Yearwood posted of herself? The one with the guy her business partner didn’t recognize?”
The one that wasn’t her ex-husband or Dr. Kugel. “Right. Who is he?”
“His name’s Ernest Price. Lives in an area out there called Wanchese. I managed to dig around and get his address.”
“Great. Send me the data.”
“Already on its way. I’ll get back to working with Officer Hill as soon as I drop the kids off at school. Joanie can’t today. She’s having another sick bout.”
Oh, no. “That’s too bad. Is she going to be okay?”
Becker’s sigh was back. “We’re going to the doctor tomorrow. I know he’s going to tell her to stop working so hard. And to stop worrying.”
Roses from My Killer Page 10
