by Sean Platt
Forget that these people were harassing a woman and her innocent child.
Only ratings mattered. If the public demanded you stand in front of a house and put on a sideshow, you fucking stood in front of a house and put on a sideshow, no matter whose life you might ruin.
They parked in the driveway behind a blue SUV, and a patrol car with a deputy keeping watch over Paul’s wife and daughter.
Mike and Mal approached Deputy Childress, a barrel-chested former boxer turned deputy in his fifties. He had a tight afro and big, thick black-framed glasses. Deputies called him Smiles because it had been years since one had found his face.
“Hey, Sam,” Mike said. “Just wanted to follow up on last night’s interview with the wife.”
“Sure thing. Hey, Mal. You back on the force?”
She smiled. “Not officially yet. But this one’s doing everything he can to get me back, though.”
“Hasn’t been the same without you,” Sam said, almost smiling.
“So, how’s it going here? Media staying away?”
“They try, but she doesn’t want to talk.”
“How is she?” Mal asked. “And her daughter?”
“Shaken. And pissed that our guys left a mess for her to clean.”
Mal followed Mike to the front door, standing behind him as he rang the bell.
After a moment, a woman peered through the curtains in the window next to the front door.
Mike flashed his badge, even though they’d spoken last night. “I just have a few follow-up questions, Ms. Dodd. Won’t be but a minute.”
Mal heard Rachel unlocking the door, two locks and a security chain.
The door opened a bit, revealing a nervous-looking brunette, eying Mike and then Mal. “Come in,” she said, her voice raspy and eyes red.
“Thank you for your time, Ms. Dodd. My partner’s sick today, so I brought my former partner, Mallory.”
Mal noticed that Mike was careful not to misrepresent her as a detective. Nor did he offer her full name — a good decision as it was only a matter of time before the media picked up that Paul Dodd wasn’t just a suspect in the disappearance of Jessi Price.
Rachel led them through her living room, where her media center drawers were pulled out and laying on the floor. Games, tech, and cables were scattered everywhere, remnants of last night’s search. She took them past the kitchen, where drawers had also been pulled out, many still littering the floor, then sat at the dining room table.
“I’m sorry about the mess. Would you like some help putting everything back in place?”
Rachel complained rather than answering Mal. “They took my computer. They took all of our family videos. They took my daughter’s Nintendo! Did they really need to take her Nintendo?”
It wasn’t as if the detectives stormed in and took her stuff by force. They’d asked for permission, and she had consented. But Mal wasn’t about to argue. Rachel likely felt helpless, overwhelmed, as though swept in a tide being carried to sea. It was more important to listen, let her feel understood.
Mal said, “We’ll get the Nintendo back to you as soon as possible, Ms. Dodd. The same with your other stuff. Did the deputies explain why they needed these things?”
“I … don’t remember. The past twelve hours are all tornado and fog.”
“We want to check under every stone, to see if there’s anything that might tell us where Paul took Jessi Price.”
“He definitely has her?”
“Yes, forensics came back this morning with a positive match on hairs found at the scene. We’ve got an APB for him and his vehicle. Amber alerts, too. But we don’t have a clue as to where he went.”
“Oh God,” she said, head crumbling into her hands, crying.
Mal looked up and saw Rachel’s daughter, Lily, standing at the foot of the stairs, wrapped in a blanket.
Rachel turned to her. “Are you done napping, Lily Bear?”
“Yes,” she said, coming toward them.
Mal watched the girl approach, holding her blanket tightly around her. She thought of how Ashley used to carry a security blanket when she was a bit younger than Lily. Her “wubbie.”
“Hi,” Mal said as the girl stood beside Rachel, hugging her.
“Hi,” she said, her voice soft. The girl’s eyes were red, just like her mom’s. Mal wondered how much she knew about why the sheriff’s department was looking for her father. Did she know what he did? Or was her mom keeping her in the dark as a gentle mercy?
“These officers are here to ask a few questions. But they’ll be leaving soon, and then we can make lunch.”
Lily looked at Mike, then at Mal. “Why do you want to know so much about my Dad?”
Mal blinked. She looked at Mike, then back at Rachel. She wasn’t about to tell the girl anything that Lily’s mother didn’t want her to know.
Mike said, “We’re just trying to find him so we can ask him some questions.”
“What kind of questions?”
“We think he might know where a little girl is. A little girl about your age who went missing, and whose family wants her back.”
“Is she one of his students?”
“I’ll tell you later, sweetie,” Rachel said. “But for right now, can you help me out and start putting the stuff away in my bedroom?”
“Okay.” Lily sighed, clearly not wanting to leave the dining room or the discussion.
“Thank you,” Rachel said.
“Bye!” Mal waved.
The girl waved back then headed slowly up the stairs.
After she was gone, Mal leaned close to Rachel and said, “He has the girl. The only question is how long until he kills her.”
Rachel’s eyes went wide. “Kill? He could never kill a child.”
Mal wanted to disabuse the woman of this lie. Wanted to tell her that not only had he killed her daughter, but he’d also been sending gifts and stalking her ever since.
But telling her that much could screw up the interview. So she told her just enough. “We have reason to believe that he’s already killed.”
“What? No. Who?”
“We can’t go into that as it’s an active investigation. Let me just say that we have credible evidence that he’s done this before, and that he’s about to do it again if we can’t find him. Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”
“What? You think he called me? I haven’t spoken to him in more than a year. He hates me.”
“All the more reason to help us find him.”
“What do you mean?”
“We have a deputy posted outside your house in case he comes back, but we can’t keep him there forever. The sooner we find your ex-husband, the sooner you and Lily will be safe. The sooner we can return Jessi Price to her family. Does he have any summer homes or friends with houses he might be staying at?”
Rachel shook her head. “No, not that I know of.”
“How about family? We’ve got …” Mal fished the notebook from her jacket and glanced at it. “He has a sister, right? In Portland? Any other relatives?”
“No, she’s all he had. And he hasn’t spoken to her in forever.”
Mal picked up on something in Rachel’s voice, in her eyes. Maybe the same something that Mike had sensed last night, but couldn’t extract.
“Why hasn’t he spoken to her?”
Rachel looked at Mike, then Mal. “Do I need to go through this again? I already told the private detective. Don’t you all share info?”
Mike leaned forward. “What private detective?”
“Um, his name was Cole Houser. He was working on behalf of Jessi Price’s family.”
Mal looked at Mike. He gave a subtle shake of his head to indicate that he’d never heard of any Cole Houser.
“When did you talk to him?”
“Yesterday.”
The day Paul’s house blew up. A coincidence? Mal didn’t think so.
“What did he look like?”
“Um. A black man, late thirties, mayb
e early forties. Very short hair. Good looking. Broad shoulders and arms. He had that look that some male cops and military have.”
“What look is that?” Mal asked.
“I dunno, stoic?”
“I’m not sure we’ve met him yet,” Mal said. “Everything is so hectic right now. I don’t want to be a pain, but could you please tell us what you told him?”
Rachel got up, grabbed a Diet Coke from the fridge, and offered one to both Mike and Mal. They declined. She sat back down, took a drink, then told a story about Paul Dodd being abused as a kid by a neighbor named Wes Richards. The man had molested both Paul and his younger sister, Katie, then Katie told her mother and wound up sending Wes to prison.
Judging from Mike’s expression, and the way he was sitting forward on the edge of his seat, scribbling into his notebook, he hadn’t heard any of this last night.
After Rachel finished her tale, Mal asked, “Do they still speak?”
“I don’t think so. Two and a half years ago was the first I ever heard of the man. For all I know, Paul could’ve made him up to get me feeling sorry for him. He didn’t want me turning him into the cops.”
Mike asked, “Do you think he was lying?”
Rachel shrugged, defeated. It looked like she was trying not to cry. “Well, apparently I don’t know Paul all that well if what you say is true, about him taking Jessi Price and maybe being a murderer.”
Mal tried fishing for more information, but Rachel was exhausted and seemed to be empty.
“Thank you for your help,” Mal said, standing. “Because of you, we might be able to save Jessi Price.”
Rachel reached out and hugged her. Mal was startled but managed not to show it. She hugged the woman back, awkwardly embracing the wife of the man who had murdered her daughter. The woman might have stopped all of this before Paul ever touched Ashley if only she’d had the courage to turn him in.
Mal couldn’t understand why Rachel hadn’t said something sooner. Had she been worried that turning Paul in would have ruined his life, or perhaps her and her daughter’s life? Was she afraid that people would whisper as they passed.
Oh, there goes the pedophile’s wife. How could she not have known? I wonder if he touched their daughter.
Rachel’s fear, or weakness, allowed Paul to become the monster who killed Mal’s daughter, and had now taken another girl. Everything would be different now had she acted then.
But she hadn’t.
And as much as Mal sympathized with the woman, she could not erase the residue of anger she still felt for her.
Rachel pulled away and said, “Good luck finding Jessi.”
Mal followed Mike out of the house and to their car. He was on the phone, likely with Gloria judging from his tone.
She got in the car and waited. He stood outside, still talking. Something big must be happening, judging from the way Mike was getting increasingly animated, waving his hands and talking louder.
A few minutes later he got in and keyed the ignition. “They found Paul’s Infiniti.”
“What? Where?”
“At the shop. Went in yesterday morning. Mechanic said he saw Paul on the news, with the APB, and figured we ought to know he’s not driving his car.”
Mike pulled away from Rachel’s house.
“Shit,” Mal said. So now what? He obviously couldn’t ask a neighbor to take him and his victim somewhere, right? Does he have another vehicle? Remember, he picked up Ashley and Rebecca in what they thought was an unmarked cop car. He could’ve bought one at auction.”
“Not that we know of. Gloria’s checking with the local cab companies and ride sharing services to see if he’s called.”
“And you don’t have anything from his cell, right?” Mal assumed that they didn’t; otherwise, they’d be triangulating his position and closing in, rather than asking Paul’s ex-wife where he might be.
“No, he hasn’t used his cell since yesterday. Likely ditched the SIM card. Probably using a burner.”
“So, what now?” Mal asked.
“What do you think of this Wes guy?”
“He’s worth looking into. Maybe if we can get his cell records, we can find out if Paul is calling him from another number. We get the number to his burner then triangulate to find him.”
“You’re assuming he’s calling him and not texting with some anonymous service.”
“True. But it’s still worth a shot. I mean, he’s not careless, but he’s also not a cutting-edge hacker. He used a coffee shop to break into my security site, leading us to him in the first place. I’m thinking he’s only moderately tech proficient, and maybe dumb enough to use a phone to contact Wes.”
“Let’s hope. So, you think we ought to head up there?”
“Oh, you want me to go with you?”
“Well, look how much you got out of Rachel.”
“True. I am good.” Mal smiled. “You sure you don’t want to check with the boss?”
“She already said yes.”
“Really?”
“I guess we must be desperate,” Mike joked.
Mal punched him hard in the arm. “Just drive.”
* * * *
CHAPTER 45 - JASPER PARISH
For a man who went to jail for raping children, Wes Richards had done embarrassingly well for himself. His waterfront home was in The Oasis, gated on one side with sand on the other, an hour south of Creek County.
Getting in was simple enough, using the dial pad at the unmanned gate to punch in the emergency code shared by most gated communities.
From there, Jasper drove to the man’s house, parked in front, and pulled out a bouquet of flowers. Then he rang the doorbell and waited.
Wes peered out what looked like a living room window, saw Jasper’s flowers and delivery cap, then moments later opened the door.
Jasper dropped the flowers and tazed Wes.
He rattled on the ground as Jasper kicked the door shut, flipped him over, and cuffed the fucker’s hands behind his back.
Jordyn waited outside. Jasper would make sure the house was clear before bringing her in.
“You don’t have to kill me,” Wes cried out. “If you want money, let me get to the safe. I’ll give you everything I’ve got.”
“Well, that sure is kind of you, sir. But I’m not here for your money.”
Wes kicked out at Jasper.
But Jasper cocked him across the back of his head with the taser, then pulled out his gun and aimed it at Wes. “Who else is in the house?”
Wes took a moment to answer. “No … nobody. It’s just me.”
Jasper wasn’t sure if he was stalling, trying to determine what answer was most likely to keep him alive, or covering for someone else.
“I’m gonna ask you one more time. If you’re lying, I will kill everyone in here. Who else is in the house? I don’t care if it’s a guinea pig or a person. I want names.”
Wes nodded, “It’s j-j-just me.”
“Okay, let’s take a walk.” Jasper pulled the man to his feet. “Where’s your kitchen?”
“Why?”
Jasper hit Wes in the head again. “Don’t ask. Do. Now take me to your kitchen. It’s fine if you wobble.”
Wes followed the order, leading Jasper through the immaculate house. The place was a museum, or at the very least a photo shoot. The ceilings were high, the walls were textured, and if the floor wasn’t marble, it was a decent approximation. The gourmet kitchen wasn’t just spacious; it seemed to have two of everything: two refrigerators and freezers, two islands, and two gorgeous cobalt blue Viking ranges. On the far side of the kitchen was a long glass table surrounded by eight black metal chairs. Everything was immaculate.
“Have a seat, Wes,” Jasper said, pointing to one of the chairs. “We’re gonna have a little talk. Answer my questions, and you get to live. If not, I’m afraid we’re going to get your nice, clean house very, very messy.”
Wes was cuffed and tied to the chair, naked from the waist
down, sobbing, as Jasper made a show of going through his kitchen drawers and pulling out one knife at a time, searching for the perfect one.
“Ah,” he said, pulling out an eight-inch Hanzo knife, “this one looks just right.”
“What do you want from me?”
“I already told you. I’m going to ask you some questions. And I need answers. Are you ready to answer me?”
He nodded, barely breathing a Yes.
“Hold on one second.” Jasper set the blade on the counter, then went back to the living room and opened the door for Jordyn.
“Where is he?”
“In the kitchen. Just hang back in here and listen. Let me know if you get any vibes.”
“Why can’t I go in?”
“He’s not exactly decent.”
“What are you doing?”
Jasper smiled. “Having some fun.”
Jordyn rolled her eyes. “Whatever you say.”
She sat on the couch and crossed her arms.
“Remember, don’t take off your hoodie or get hairs anywhere.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Jordyn was already annoyed that she couldn’t use her phone at the crime scene, and had to remove her SIM card to ensure they didn’t pop up on any cell tower tracking.
Jasper returned to the kitchen. Wes’s chair was about six inches closer to the counter.
Jasper looked at him and smiled. “Tsk, tsk, Mr. Richards. I can’t leave you alone for a second now, can I?”
Wes’s eyes widened as Jasper grabbed the blade and sliced him across the chest.
The wound wasn’t deep, just something to prove he meant business.
Wes screamed.
Jasper raised his fingers to his lips and told him to hush, or else.
Wes did as instructed, wincing.
“So, where did you get this knife?” Jasper asked, balancing it in his hand. “The weight is really well distributed. I like it. It’s hard to find a reliable blade. Where did you buy it?”
“I don’t know. It was a gift from a friend.”
“Well, you can tell your friend that he or she has exquisite taste in knives. Is he or she a chef?”
Wes looked annoyed, confused by Jasper's line of questioning. He shrugged. “He’s an amateur chef, yes.”
