Signature: A David Wolf Mystery (David Wolf Mystery Thriller Series Book 9)

by Jeff Carson

  “Charming,” Luke said.

  “Storage units don’t have to be charming.”

  “You remember Mr. Wilcox, do you?” Hannigan asked.

  Ken smiled at him. “Well, yeah. What, am I going to forget after two years? Especially after he screwed me over like that.”

  He kept walking, stepped down the stairs and fished open the door. It yawned open, revealing a dark carpet and tiny kitchenette off to the side. “After you.” He smiled and winked at Luke.

  Luke hesitated at the top of the stairs. “So, how exactly did Fred Wilcox screw you over?”

  Ken looked at Luke, then up to Hannigan and Wolf. “Are you guys putting me on right now? Didn’t we already go over this? Oh right, I guess you guys are feds. Feds don’t talk with other agencies, is that it?”

  Luke frowned. “I’m not following you.”

  “Like I told that cop before, he just moved out. Disappeared and stopped paying rent. Never said anything to me. Not that he said much to begin with.”

  “You talked to the police before today?” Luke asked.

  “Yeah. Right after he left. They were asking about him.”

  “The La Plata County Sheriff’s office?”

  “Yeah. Well, it was a single cop I should say. Called me on the phone, asking about Fred, wanted to come see his property, so I came and met him here. That’s when I figured out he’d skipped town on me. Place was all trashed. Had a broken window, glass on the floor. The fat bastard.”

  “What was the cop’s name?” Wolf asked.

  Ken thought about it and threw up his hands. “I don’t know.”

  “Deputy Attakai?” Luke asked.

  The landlord shook his head. “Seriously. I couldn’t remember if you put that gun to my head. But don’t get any ideas.”

  “Did this guy have a badge and a uniform on?” Hannigan asked. He pointed at Wolf. “Or was he dressed like him.”

  “Had a uniform on and everything.” Ken smiled. “You guys are kind of freaking me out right now. Was that a real cop I was talking to? What the hell’s going on here?”

  Luke stepped down the stairs and made to get by. “Don’t worry about it.”

  Wolf followed her, with Hannigan taking up the rear.

  The air inside was hot and stagnant. The electric burners in the kitchenette were blackened with soot. A microwave stood on a countertop, the door of it hanging askew. The space where a refrigerator once stood was empty with mouse droppings in its place. The air had a vague smell that was hard to put a finger on.

  “Smells like boiled ass,” Hannigan said.

  “Ha. Yeah, well, smells better than when I came in here that first time with the cop. Fred was a pig. So what’s the big deal about him, anyway? Cops are after him, he skips town. What’s he a serial murderer or something?”

  Wolf chose his words. “What did you and the police officer discuss that day? What was he looking for?”

  Ken smiled, let it really settle onto his face. “What’s going on here? Seriously.” His face dropped. “Can I please see your badge up close?”

  Wolf rolled his eyes and plucked his badge from his belt.

  Ken bent near and nodded. “Rocky Points. They … shit, that girl got murdered up there. FBI agents? A detective from Rocky Points? Jesus H. mother, are you guys … wait a minute …”

  Hannigan slapped a huge hand on the man’s shoulder.

  Ken flinched and ducked out of the big man’s grip.

  “Just answer the questions we shoot your way, eh Ken?” Hannigan winked. “What was he looking for? The cop, when he came over that day. Was he searching the house? Was he asking you specific questions? Can you remember? It would really help us out.”

  Ken back stepped.

  “What did he look like?” Hannigan stepped toward him.

  “Uh … he was dark haired. Looked like an Indian. You know, feather, not dot.”

  “And what did he say?”

  Ken shook his head. “Can’t remember.”

  “You want to know the truth?” Hannigan said. “The cop was probably a fake.”

  His face turned white. “What?”

  Hannigan nodded. “Serious as a heart attack. But there’s nothing to worry about. Unless he told you something that he’ll want to keep secret. Maybe he …” the agent made a contemplative face and let his sentence die.

  “What?” Ken stepped forward. “Wait, he … he just met me out front like you guys did. We walked back here, to the door, and he made me stay back while he went to the door. Yeah, I remember. The window was busted and the door was unlocked. And then nobody answered. He looked in the windows, I remember he pulled his gun and went in.”

  Luke squinted. “The window was busted and the door was unlocked? Did it look like somebody had broken in?”

  “I guess. But I’m not sure why somebody would break into a shithole like this. There was trash everywhere, dirty clothes. Nothing for anyone to take. I figured he locked himself out and had to break himself back in.”

  Luke nodded. “What did the cop do when he came in?”

  “He searched the place pretty good. Upturned everything.” Ken pointed to the single room off the kitchenette. “Searched his bedroom, which is right here.”

  The bedroom was six by eight feet at most. Dark, no windows. Inside there were boxes and skis and mountain bikes leaning against all of it.

  “They use it for storage now.” Ken pointed toward a small inset. “I remember the cop searched in there. That was his closet. All I know is, whatever he was looking for, he didn’t find it. He left here empty handed and kind of pissed off. I remember that. And I was pissed off too. I had broken glass everywhere. Place was trashed.”

  Wolf flicked on his cell phone light and ran the beam around the room. It looked normal enough as a storage space, dismal as a dungeon for somewhere to live. Just the kind of place a serial killer would be at home with his tormented thoughts.

  He stood still, trying to picture Fred Wilcox living in it—the day to day weirdness that took place, the nightly rituals of a serial killer—and decided it was too disturbing to meditate on. He thought of the picture of Wilcox Luke had shown on the big screen in the situation room—those black hole eyes. If these walls could talk, Wolf wasn’t sure he’d want to listen.

  “The cop left with nothing?” Wolf asked.

  “Yeah, nothing.”

  “And Fred Wilcox never came back?”

  “I don’t think so. I called him repeatedly after that. He never answered and looked like he never returned. Never paid any rent again, that’s for sure. Just disappeared. I had to get my guys to come in and clean the place out.”

  Wolf walked to the front door. There was a tall, skinny window right next to it. “This the window you were talking about?”

  Ken nodded.

  Wolf walked outside into the blazing sun.

  Luke and Hannigan were close behind, and a minute later they said their goodbyes to Ken the landlord and walked to their cars.

  “I need to eat,” Hannigan declared.

  Luke looked at her watch. “It’s 2:40. I set up a meeting with the funeral home guy at 3. You’ll have to wait.”

  Hannigan’s jaw flexed.

  Wolf was starting to feel the effects of going non-stop for almost three days and needed food too.

  “What’d you guys think about that?” Luke asked.

  “I think it was Attakai who came searching the place,” Hannigan said. “Said he was dark-skinned, Native American looking. Sounds like Attakai to me.”

  She looked at Wolf. “What are you thinking?”

  He stared into the near distance, seeing none of the parked cars and high trees on the Durango back street. “If Attakai was here, then he knew it was Fred Wilcox who was the killer. That either means he was working with him all along …”

  “Or he figured out who the killer was,” Luke said.

  Wolf nodded.

  “That’s what I was thinking, too. And what about that broken win
dow?” she asked. “Is that something?”

  “Broken windows and unlocked doors usually mean break-in,” Hannigan said. “Who did it and why? Those are other questions.”

  “And for what?” Wolf asked.

  Chapter 22

  Dispatch do you copy?” Patterson lowered the radio and then raised it again. “Dispatch do you copy?”

  The speaker crackled, and then for a split second there was noise—it could have been a woman’s voice or a beep—and then it was gone.

  “Dispatch, this is unit 14, do you copy?”

  No answer.

  Rachette blew air through his lips. “Put it down, you aren’t going to get anything up here.”

  Up here was dozens of miles north of Rocky Points in the Cave Creek wilderness area. The dirt road they were on swerved between hills topped by smooth granite outcroppings that looked like sculptures in the mid-day sun.

  Few people lived here, and those that did made due without modern amenities such as cell phones, satellite reception, or cable service. Patterson had driven these roads a few times before, but never this far in.

  “You know we’re going to find him now.” Rachette smiled, turning a corner too fast.

  She hung up the radio and grabbed the ceiling bar as they bounced through a pothole. Pulling out her cell phone, she checked her reception again.

  “Just relax,” he said.

  Patterson ignored him and checked the laptop. “Nothing.”

  “Oh damn, we can’t post a selfie when we’re up here?”

  She slid him a look.

  “That’s why we like working up here in the Rocky Mountains, right? The remoteness. How do you think they did it twenty years ago?” He looked at her seriously. “You ever made a traffic stop without radio?”

  “I have, and I didn’t like it.”

  They turned a corner and the narrow valley widened to an open meadow surrounded by dense forest. It was like the sky had opened up, and she watched as the screen of the laptop flickered.

  “There, we have contact.”

  “Well, good. I was about to shit myself.”

  She took out her phone and checked the reception. There was one bar, but it also had an X next to it, which was never a sign of reliable cell service.

  “Seriously you have to …” He straightened in his seat so fast his head almost hit the ceiling. Slamming on the brakes, the SUV drifted sideways as Rachette skidded to a stop.

  “What?” She followed his gaze out the windshield and saw it immediately. A sedan parked in front of a single story house at the edge of the woods, the sun gleaming off the maroon paint job.

  “You-are-shitting-me.” Rachette leaned forward. “That’s it, right?”

  Patterson had the photos on her phone but she already memorized them. The dent in the right rear bumper. The chrome strip around the lower part of the car scraped at the front. “That’s it.”

  Rachette picked up the radio and put it to his lips. “Dispatch, do you copy?”

  No answer.

  “What’s your phone say?”

  She lifted her screen. “No service. It had a bar a few seconds ago.” She twisted in her seat. “Back up a few.”

  “He’s outside.”

  She turned back to the windshield.

  A man, the man, was walking out of his house and making for the rear of his car, stopping at the trunk and opening it.

  He was just as Wolf had described him: long black hair, burly beard that was on the ratty-looking side of the spectrum. He wore a dirty white tee shirt and dirty jeans. Just like Wolf had told her, he was overweight, but not heavy.

  “That him?” Rachette had his gun on the steering wheel, pointed out the windshield.

  She nodded, her hands and feet starting to tingle. Her heart was bumping inside her ribs and she realized she was holding her breath.

  “That him?” Rachette asked, this time almost yelling at her.

  “Yeah. That’s … the guy fits Wolf’s description, and that’s the car for sure.”

  “It’s Wilcox, right? That’s him.”

  “Looks like it.”

  A cloud of dust from Rachette’s stop had passed them and was floating across the meadow, straight for the car and the man, who now had his head was down in the trunk. He appeared again and slammed it, making way for the driver’s side door.

  “He’s leaving.” Rachette whispered as if the guy could hear them.

  Opening his door, the man gave them a double take and paused—one foot in, one foot out of his car.

  Even through the dust, Patterson could see the surprise on Wilcox’s face before he sat down and shut the door.

  Was it Wilcox? She thought Wilcox was fat. In his driver’s license photo, he looked fat, with a thick neck and shoulders. If it was him, he’d definitely lost some weight, which was possible. The photo had been taken six years ago.

  “He’s just driving away.” Rachette let off the gas and eased forward.

  There was a dirt clearing in front of the house, and the maroon sedan swung around in a half-circle and bounced its way toward the dirt road.

  The side windows were tinted, so it was impossible to see what Wilcox was doing or where he was looking.

  The sedan came to a complete stop at the dirt road, and then without much hesitation it swung in their direction and started driving.

  Her heart raced faster. The world tunneled down to the glared windshield coming at them.

  “What do we do?” Rachette asked. “I’m gonna block him.”

  She nodded. “Yeah. We have to. Do it!”

  She hit the turret lights button and leaned back into the seat.

  Rachette put his gun on his lap and gunned the engine, cranked the wheel to the right and skidded to a halt so they were a perpendicular, blocking most of the road with Rachette’s side facing the oncoming car.

  Rachette popped his door and exited. She pulled on the handle and tried to jump out but was stuck.

  Seatbelt!

  Unbuckling herself, she got out, slammed the door, pulled her gun and leaned on the hood.

  As she did this she was vaguely aware of the sound of a revving engine, and then when she looked she realized the sedan was barreling at them.

  Rachette stood with raised gun shouting, “Sheriff’s department!”

  It kept coming.

  “Sheriff’s department! Stop! Right now stop!”

  The vehicle swung to the driver’s right, their left, and hugged the side of the road. She almost yelled shoot, but it was clear Wilcox meant to miss them completely.

  The sedan’s engine sputtered loud, dust kicking up behind it, the loose parts of the beat up vehicle rattling like an oncoming train.

  Rachette fired once, then twice. His aim was low, aiming toward the tires, she realized.

  Risky. If he popped the tires Wilcox might careen right into him.

  The man ducked out of sight behind the windshield, diving toward the passenger seat. The sedan followed the driver’s movement, jerking to the side and careening off the road.

  It left the ground for a moment as it leapt off the shoulder and down into the drainage depression.

  Engine roaring, with a loud squeak, the front of the car bounced upward out of the trench. Its momentum slowed by half as a spray of earth shot forward and the bumper ripped off. Bouncing back to its wheels, it coasted forward and slammed into a pine tree, coming to a stop.

  “Go!” Patterson knew the crash would have stunned the driver and they had precious few seconds to get a jump on him.

  Rachette looked like he was already thinking the same thing and at a full sprint.

  When they got there the engine sputtered and died, and a blast of steam hissed out of the hood.

  Guns drawn and aimed at the driver’s side door, they swung to the front of the car to get a clear view inside. The windshield had a crater in it where the man’s head must have connected. The glass was still in place but in a million pieces, looking like bludgeoned ice.
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  Rachette opened the door and aimed with an Isosceles stance. “Freeze!”

  The guy froze because he had no choice. Slumped over the center console, the man’s face was down and covered with his long hair. The back of his neck was exposed, revealing a rivulet of blood trickling down his skin.

  “Unnngh.” The man stirred.

  Rachette holstered his gun. “Cover me.” He shuffled into the open door and pulled the man upright, searching for weapons. “Clear. Help me.”

  They leaned the man out of the vehicle and yanked him free, dragging him to some shade alongside the road.

  The man was rocking side to side, making noises like he was having a nightmare.

  “Damn, he’s hurt bad,” Rachette said.

  She stepped over the man and cuffed his hands behind his back.

  After another fit of grunting, the guy seemed to go into a deep sleep.

  “Is he dead?” Rachette stepped back.

  She reached down and dug her fingers into his sweaty beard, feeling for a pulse. It was pumping fast and strong. “He’s okay.”

  They stood and looked at each other.

  “Well, we found him.” Rachette stared down, then turned to follow Patterson’s gaze.

  She was staring at the trunk. “He was in the trunk.”

  Rachette stepped over and popped the trunk lever inside the driver’s door.

  It swung up and bounced with a squeak.

  She walked to the rear, dread filling every cell in her body in anticipation of what they might find.

  It was filled with dirty clothing. Men’s clothing. Three empty plastic bags from the grocery store. A set of jumper cables and a lot of dirt.

  Rachette appeared next to her. “I’m not seeing anything out of the ordinary.”

  “We have to check the house.” She turned to look up the road. “He might have Lindsay Ellington in there.”

  Rachette nodded. “We can’t just leave him here.”

  They looked down.

  Rachette dug his hands in the man’s armpits and wrestled him into a seated position. “I thought he was supposed to weigh two-forty something.”

  She grabbed the man’s ankles and lifted, and they carried him to their SUV.