Afterward, she drove back to town, focusing her thoughts on the one case she could investigate. She’d promised Dean she wouldn’t do anything involving the Reaper case. But she hadn’t promised not to try to find out what had happened to Lady.
She desperately wanted to know which sick bastard had slaughtered that poor, sweet dog.
It occurred to her for only a moment that the cases were connected. Psychos like the Reaper didn’t waste time scaring off small-town sheriffs with sick pranks. Even Dean had realized that right away. Whoever had done it probably hadn’t even intended to scare her. He’d just wanted to hurt her. To pay her back for something. To call her a bitch and to underscore the point as graphically as possible.
The list of people in this town who had a grudge against her wasn’t exactly as long as her arm, but it probably reached her elbow. Once she’d mentally drawn up that list, including some of the men she’d undoubtedly pissed off at the tavern the previous afternoon, she canvassed the area, trying to narrow it down. Her closest neighbors—the ones she trusted to keep this under wraps—had been devastated to hear about what had happened, and any one of them would have helped if they could, but they hadn’t been able to give her any leads that might help her investigation.
The mailman, who lived up the street, said everything had been just fine at noon, when he’d dropped her mail in the slot. Meaning the creep had to have done his nasty work between then and when she’d gotten home.
Broad daylight on a sunny Saturday, and nobody had seen or heard a thing.
It wasn’t hard to figure that he had parked on the quiet lane running behind the neighborhood, and approached her house through the thick woods running behind it. Easy enough for him to climb over the low fence, shielded from view by the huge evergreens that had attracted her to the area in the first place. A quick dash down the side of the house, hugging the late-afternoon shadows, and he’d be at her door. The porch was hidden from the street by the out-of-control hedges she never had a chance to cut back. He could have taken his time then.
Bastard.
After striking out with the neighbors, she’d worked out her frustration by cutting back those stupid hedges. She’d pushed herself brutally, until her arms and neck were scratched deeply enough to draw blood. And until some of the rage began to leave her.
Last night, in Dean’s arms, she’d been crushed. Now she was just damn furious.
By late in the afternoon, knowing she was going to have to go talk to some of the people who might have it in for her, she got into her squad car and headed downtown. But instead of going to the station, she detoured to Tanner Road, long considered the “wrong side of the tracks” in Hope Valley.
The Flanagan house had probably been beautiful when it was new. An old Victorian, it still exhibited graceful lines and genteel porches. But those lines were blurred by thirty years of dried, peeling paint, and the porches were falling off the sides.
Mitch and Mike’s father had lots of recriminations and a ton of blame for others when it came to his sorry lot in life.
Parking in the driveway and approaching the door, she saw the man eyeing her warily from the open garage. He’d been poking under the open hood of a rust bucket disguised as a pickup, complete with gun rack and Confederate flag on the back. Classy.
“What do you want?”
“I’d like to talk to Mike.”
He immediately hunched, his fists clenching at his sides. Damn, she didn’t want to bring the man’s wrath on the kid if Mike was innocent. But she needed to question him, because leaving a dead dog on her porch seemed like exactly the atrocity an angry, violent teenage boy would commit.
Still, there was a chance he hadn’t done it. “He’s not in any trouble,” she muttered, wondering how Mr. Flanagan didn’t hear the insincerity in her voice. “He just might have seen something that could help with a case I’m investigating.”
She’d promised Dean she wouldn’t investigate. But Dean didn’t know Mr. Flanagan. Or his beefy fists. And if she had to use the other case to get Mike alone for questioning, without setting him up for a beating from his father as soon as she left, she’d do it.
“You sure he didn’t do nothin’?”
No. She wasn’t. Nor, however, was she sure he had. “I just need to talk to him.”
“About that trashy Zimmerman girl?”
She wasn’t wearing her uniform. But she could still convey her office with a look. The disdainful one she gave him obviously came through loud and clear. He mumbled something, then hauled himself up the steps. Opening the door, he yelled for his son.
When Mike stepped outside, she watched for any sign of guilt on his face. She saw bloodshot eyes, a haggard frown, and a hint of a bruise on his cheek. She also saw a glimmer of fear. But it was not fear of her.
“What’d you do, boy?”
“As I told your dad,” she said, stepping forward, “you’re not in any trouble.” Yet. “I wanted to ask you if you saw anything that might help with a case I’m investigating.”
He nodded quickly, his head jerking up and down, all evidence of that cocky little prick at the doughnut shop gone. Which just made her despise his father even more. Thank heaven Mitch had escaped this nightmare. He’d done what he could to help his kid brother, though not going so far as pressing charges against his father.
A deep kernel of pity for the boy made Stacey hope Mike someday got out, too. But her pity extended only so far, and was conditioned on whether he’d left that horrid surprise for her on her porch.
“Will you excuse us?” she said to the father.
“Maybe I don’t want to.”
Eyeing Mike, she turned her head enough so his father couldn’t see and mouthed, Get rid of him.
Paling, the kid shoved his hands in his pockets. “It’s okay, Dad. It’s all good.” She could see the wheels churning in his head. “Coach says scouts like it when you get involved with the community. And I want to help if I can.”
Yeah, uh, bullshit.
But given that the only thing Mr. Flanagan had any pride in was his son’s ability on the football field, the line worked. He returned to the garage, leaving them alone.
“You’re not here about the other day?” Mike immediately asked.
Stacey shook her head once. “I really do want to talk to you about a case I’m working. But first I need to ask you something. Where were you yesterday?”
The kid showed no sign of guilt. “Practice. Coach was pissed about how we did last week and made good on his threat to make us come in on weekends.”
“What time?”
“Around ten. He worked us for hours. It was dark by the time we left.”
No wonder the kid looked bleary-eyed and bruised.
“He wants the state championship this year.” Sneering toward the garage, Mike muttered, “It’s my ticket outta this hellhole.”
“The coach will confirm that?”
“Sure. We never left the field. We got five-minute piss breaks and ten for lunch. That was it.”
The school was a good distance from her house. So if the coach and other players backed up his story, it eliminated Mike as the one who’d killed the dog. She wasn’t stupid enough to take his word for it, but the alibi was easily checked, so she had to assume he was telling the truth. A weight lifted off her shoulders that she hadn’t said anything to his dad about the real reason for her visit. “Okay.”
“Are we done?” He looked up and down the street, as if worried some of his thug buddies would see him cooperating with the cops.
“No.” Letting him know she was aware he’d tried to buy beer at Dick’s that March night when Lisa had disappeared, she asked, “Do you remember that night?”
He put his hands up, palms out. “Hey, he didn’t sell me any. And I wasn’t the only one trying it, not by a long shot.”
“I’m not accusing you of anything, and I’m not busting your chops about trying to buy beer. I just want to know if you saw anything. Did you han
g around outside, or come back after you got thrown out? See anyone suspicious in the parking lot who might have been paying particular attention to Lisa?”
Mike, finally realizing she truly was here for another reason, crossed his arms. “Mitch hauled my ass home and dumped me in the driveway at around midnight.”
Mitch had been at the tavern? The bar owner had said he’d had the teen thrown out; he just hadn’t mentioned who had done the throwing.
Why hadn’t her trusted deputy mentioned it? Maybe at first, when everybody had thought Lisa had skipped town, he hadn’t thought it relevant. But now, knowing she was murdered, he should absolutely have said something.
“What did you do afterward?” she asked, not wanting Mike to realize how stunned she was by the tidbit he’d inadvertently provided.
“Nothin’. Stayed home. Isn’t that what all nice, wholesome teenagers are supposed to do?”
He wouldn’t know a wholesome teenager if he landed on one.
She wasn’t sure she believed him. Mike’s cocky attitude was back again, now that his father was out of earshot and he’d realized Stacey wasn’t going to rat him out for the crap he’d pulled at the doughnut shop. Frankly, she wondered why he’d been worried. From what she knew about Mr. Flanagan, he’d probably have some kind of that’s-my-boy macho reaction to the news that his kid had been leading a gang of boys in frightening a teenage girl. Mr. Flanagan was the type who’d laugh if his sons beat up other kids, who’d had them out hunting out-of-season by the age of four, who’d been horrified when Mitch had decided to be a cop. Father of the year.
Mike suddenly smiled. A nasty, knowing smile. “You want to know what was up with Lisa? Man, that girl was drunk as shit, dancing with every guy like she’d give it up right there on one of the pool tables. My dick of a brother tried to get her to leave with us, but she laughed in his face. He sure was pissed.”
She kept her face blank. Mitch hadn’t just been there; he hadn’t merely seen Lisa in passing. He’d interacted with her. And nobody at the tavern had thought to mention that.
Could be they figured she already knew, since Mitch worked for her. Or could be they were scared to mention it, knowing how highly Stacey thought of her chief deputy.
Whatever reason, she needed to find out exactly what had happened between Mitch and Lisa—both that night, and before it.
Damn. Yet another name to add to her list of people to question. Mitch, her brother, his best buddy. That list was growing more personal by the minute.
And more disturbing.
CHAPTER 11
FROM ALL REPORTS, Amber Torrington had been a snotty, mean-spirited teen, liked only by her parents, because they had to, and by her boyfriend, because she put out.
Maybe because she was only missing, not officially dead, those who knew her felt free to speak badly about her. Her so-called friends, her boss at the clothing shop, the security guard who’d heard her shouting at her boss from five stores away—they’d all sung a familiar refrain. Spoiled brat, vicious temper. Not generally liked.
Dean tucked away each bit of information as he accompanied the local police conducting interviews Sunday. Each confirmation of what she’d been like convinced him that Amber’s personality was significant to the investigation. The reason niggled at the back of his brain.
“Girl’s address says the family’s rich. Once again, he didn’t make any effort to grab somebody who wouldn’t be missed,” Mulrooney commented as they walked toward the mall security office. Stokes strode on the other side of him, carrying an evidence bag containing the spent .22 shell casings they’d found in the tree line skirting the upscale shopping mecca. She would take them back to D.C. for analysis. None of them had any doubt they’d prove to be from the same rifle as the third case, when the cameras had also been shot out.
“No, he didn’t,” Dean muttered. “Or to even pick up her phone, or move her car.”
“Either he was in a hurry, or he thought he was covered by shooting out the cameras and overhead lights.” Out of shape, Mulrooney huffed a little as the three of them strode through the quiet mall, which was pretty empty on this summer Sunday afternoon. Well, empty except for the media crews busily sniffing for any dirt and broadcasting the slightest unconfirmed detail to the world.
“He couldn’t count on having a lot of time for the guards to check out the department store alarm,” Dean said. The one the unsub had, undoubtedly, caused.
Jackie finished his thought. “Or even that they’d all go. One of them might very well have done his damn job and stayed behind.”
Funny how quickly the three of them had landed on the same page. They had fallen into an immediate rhythm on this, their first major case. Every idea was considered, its merits debated, all with professional respect it had taken years to earn in ViCAP. Blackstone’s CATs were already becoming a team, right down to Lily and Brandon, whose phones had to be growing out of their ears by now with all the phone calls they’d shared.
Mulrooney said, “If one had stayed behind, maybe he’d have noticed the feeds from the other end of the mall going out one by one and come to investigate before the unsub had time to subdue Amber.”
Possible. But the guy had worked fast. And he was an excellent shot.
Made him wonder if Stan Freed owned a rifle. Made him doubly wonder just what kind of weapons Warren Lee kept stockpiled out at his place.
“You notice how he picked a real piece of work this time?” Mulrooney asked.
“Uh-huh.” He’d definitely noticed. And suddenly the detail that had been nagging at the back of his brain clicked in. He stopped suddenly, right in the middle of the mall. “In the other cases, Jackie, you said the interviews on the previous victims all hinted that they were difficult.”
Jackie nodded. “Yeah. They were headstrong. Which I took to mean bitchy.”
Just like Amber. There was the connection. “We’ve been thinking they were different from Lisa only because of their financial and social situations, not their personalities.”
Mulrooney saw, too. “Meaning he must have known what each of them was like.”
Dean nodded. “Yes. But how would he know that about them?”
“Unless he’d been studying them.”
Bingo.
They knew that in another case a friend had come forward about a strange man watching the victim weeks before she’d disappeared. They’d already suspected he had to have picked out his victims in advance based on proximity and circumstance. Now they knew it was more than that.
He’d actually gotten to know them, and perhaps targeted them for their personalities.
“He’s been inside this mall.” Dean started walking again, his gait quicker this time.
Mulrooney and Stokes matched his pace. “Probably even within the last few weeks,” Jackie said, “since he knew she’d be working Friday night.”
He’d followed Amber. Stalked her. He’d chosen her, made his plans, and then waited for the right moment, the right auction, to make her his next victim. He knew her schedule and her habits.
“He might very well be on a mall security tape from one of his previous visits,” Dean said.
“You think he believes he’s doing the world a favor by killing mean girls?” Mulrooney asked as they passed a cluster of giddy young shoppers.
“Lisa wasn’t a mean girl,” Jackie murmured. “She was a lost girl.”
A sad, abused lost girl whose father had died and whose mother might as well have, too, for all the care she took to protect her daughter.
“Right,” Mulrooney said. “She was pathetic. He was experimenting. Then on to the main events. The challenges: successful women, attractive women, family women.”
None of whom, apparently, had been nice women.
Reaching the mall office, they met up with the head of security, a guy named Baker, who’d been playing a game of cover-my-ass since the minute they’d arrived. With good reason.
He’d neglected to check out a surveillance came
ra covering the back of the mall, which had stopped working Friday around five. That camera might have revealed the unsub lurking near the Dumpsters, the loading dock, or the nearly hidden employees-only entrance of the store where Amber worked.
He’d left the video surveillance room unattended because of an alarm at one end of the mall, bringing his entire security team with him for what had turned out to be a broken glass door, shot through from a distance.
Finally, he hadn’t bothered to check out the car left overnight in the parking lot, despite all the other unusual activities in the mall that night. The asshole had decided some kids were playing pranks, shooting off a BB gun. Frigging moron. He deserved to be fired.
But for now, they needed his cooperation.
“How long do you keep the mall security tapes?” Dean asked the man the moment they strode into his office.
“They recycle every twenty-four hours.”
Damn.
Seeing Dean’s frustration, the man mumbled, “But there’s a backup. The files dump to a server that holds on to them for a week before automatically purging them.”
One week. Would the unsub have risked stalking his victim within a week of taking her?
Mulrooney had obviously had the same thought. Lowering his voice, he murmured, “The auction came up quicker than anybody expected.”
Meaning he might have moved up his schedule. Accelerating could have made him sloppy. Made him take risks. “And he knew she’d be working,” Dean muttered, figuring the store wouldn’t have made up the schedule more than two weeks in advance.
It was worth a shot.
“We need those backups,” he told the guard. “Right now.”
HE SHOWED UP at her house late that night.
Stacey had just gone to bed when she heard a car pull into her driveway. Two possibilities immediately came to mind: Dean. Or the bastard who’d killed Lady. One had her wishing she’d worn something at least a little attractive to bed, rather than a long Ravens jersey and gym shorts. The other had her reaching for her nine-millimeter, which was right beside her, on her bedside table.
FADE TO BLACK - Thrilling Romantic Suspense - Book 1 of the BLACK CATS Series Page 21
