Terry Odell - Mapleton 01 - Deadly Secrets

by Terry Odell

  “No problem, Chief. You want ‘em now?”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  While Ozzie collected the paperwork, Gordon ran through the possibilities. Someone had killed Franklin. It seemed logical to assume there was a prearranged meet.

  Megan had driven by shortly before that happened. Maybe she’d remember another car on the road. He grabbed a napkin from the dispenser and started making notes. Angie might remember the customers. She interacted with them more than Ozzie did.

  He cast his glance to the ceiling again. Was she asleep? Should he disturb her? She was normally at work before five a.m., and he doubted she’d taken her normal mid-day break given all that was going on.

  As if in answer, a door slammed above, followed by a quiet thudding of footfalls. Angie appeared from the restroom alcove, breathless, barefoot, and clad in a plaid flannel robe. “Gordon. I heard you talking. I think someone’s been in my apartment.”

  ###

  Justin stood at the window and watched ribbons of red and white light move along the distant highway. People rushing to and from destinations, while he felt as if he were stuck with a flat and out of gas at the same time.

  He thought of his grandparents, their faces as they gazed at each other over a glass of champagne, and knew it was time to put the metaphorical car in gear and get on the road.

  Megan set down the phone. “Twenty to thirty minutes,” she said. “I’ve been in hotels all over, and room service always says ‘twenty to thirty minutes.’”

  He heard the forced lightness in her tone, which didn’t match the worry in her eyes. She moved to the window, staring into the distance for a few heartbeats. Then, in typical Megan fashion, she switched gears.

  “So, the guy who grabbed me is the same one who broke into Rose and Sam’s, and Vintage Duds, and killed Mrs. Bedford. And you think he wants to kill me, or Rose, or Sam, or all three of us? Or are you included, too?”

  He left the window and flopped into one of the easy chairs. “You ever heard of Heinrich Kaestner?”

  The abrupt change of subject didn’t faze her. She shook her head. “Doesn’t ring a bell. Should I?”

  “I don’t know. Wait here.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Down to my room. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  “Better hurry.” She gave a poor imitation of a jaunty smile. “Just your luck, dinner will be early and you’ll be stuck with cold chicken.”

  “Five minutes, tops. Promise.”

  “Should there be a secret knock?” she asked, a little more cocky Megan in her tone.

  “How about you look through the peephole?”

  As soon as he left, he heard the deadbolt snick home, and the security lock flipped in place. In his room, a twin to Megan’s, but with two double beds instead of the king, he found his suitcase on the luggage rack. He dumped everything onto the bed, then punched the voicemail on his cell while he folded back the lining at the bottom of the case.

  “I’ve got nothing for you,” the message said. “Tick, tick, tick.” Hearing the voice tied Justin’s stomach in knots. He pressed the code to delete the message. Drawing a shaky breath, he found the papers where he’d hidden them. He debated a quick shower, but he’d seen the fear in Megan’s eyes. How she hadn’t wanted him to leave her alone, but wouldn’t admit it.

  Would she want him to spend the night in her room? Or would she prefer to stay with him? He looked at the beds again. Didn’t matter. He had other places to be, other things to do.

  He snagged the complimentary bottles of water from the night table. Giving himself a silent pep talk, he went to Megan’s room. “It’s me,” he said, tapping on the door. He had half a mind to step out of peephole range, or cover it with his thumb, but now was definitely not the time for payback. He wasn’t eight anymore, he reminded himself.

  The locks released, and Megan opened the door. She’d washed her face, and he got a subtle whiff of her perfume. There was an air of confidence surrounding her as well. As if she’d taken some sort of action.

  He noticed her cell phone on the desk next to her purse. He thought she’d agreed not to call anyone.

  Slow down. Don’t jump to conclusions. She might have received a call, not made one.

  “Everything all right?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Rose and Sam called. They wanted to let us know they’re getting the royal treatment in the restaurant, and to thank us again. I haven’t heard Rose sound so happy in such a long time. For herself, you know what I mean. Not for someone else.” She picked up her cell and eyed the display. “Damn, I forgot to pack the charger.”

  “Oma called on your cell?”

  “Yes. Is that a problem? She said she didn’t want to go find a hotel house phone.” Megan sucked in a breath. “You think someone’s tracking our phones?”

  He shook his head. “No, I strongly doubt that. The cops can do it, and the phone company records will show where the phone is, but it’s not as easy as it is on television.”

  She took one of the water bottles from him and tapped it against his. “One last time. You done good. But we’ve got more important things to talk about now, don’t we?”

  “That we do.” He extended the printouts he’d brought with him. “Have you heard anything about this?”

  She took them, unfolding them as she walked to the bed. She flipped on the bedside light and studied the first page. Sinking onto the bed, she stared at him with an expression somewhere between blank and puzzled. “Who’s Henry Carpenter?”

  “How’s your German?” he asked.

  “Rusty,” she said. “I picked up enough to get the gist of what Rose and Sam were talking about, but I never spoke it. Why are you asking?”

  “Kaestner can be translated as a joiner, or furniture maker,” he said.

  “Or Carpenter,” she said, the connection clear on her face. “And the Americanized version of Heinrich is Henry. So you think Heinrich Kaestner and Henry Carpenter are the same person. Why is that important?”

  A knock on the door, followed by “Room Service” cut off his response.

  “Wow,” Megan said. “Eighteen minutes. Points for the kitchen.”

  They agreed to postpone further discussion of the Heinrich-Henry question until after their meal. “No need to spoil your digestion with unhappy thoughts,” Oma had always said. Justin eyed his plate. Not a lot of happy going on.

  Judging from the way Megan twirled her pasta Alfredo, her wrist seemed well on the way to recovery. Nothing wrong with her appetite, either. He washed down a mouthful of over-broiled chicken with a glass of water and poked at his steamed green beans.

  “Rose would pitch a fit if she saw that meal,” Megan said. She set down her fork and wiped her mouth. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

  “Go ahead. As long as I reserve the right not to answer.”

  She gestured to his plate. “It’s obvious your…eating habits…have changed. So have you. When? Why?”

  “Second year of college. I got sick of being Jumbo Justin,” he said. “Not that anyone called me that anymore, but that’s how I saw myself.”

  “Oh, God, I’m sorry. Kids are so cruel.”

  “I never blamed anyone. You know Oma. Fat-and-healthy is one word to her. If you don’t eat her food, you don’t love her. “

  “Yeah, I definitely can relate,” Megan said.

  “Same went for my mom. Don’t get the wrong idea. I had a decent childhood, but my folks were always busy. So I ate for comfort, because I thought food would make me happy. Seeing me eat certainly made them happy.” He tackled a few lettuce leaves from his salad. “And, I wasn’t blessed with your metabolism. I got mine from my father. If I ate like that—” he used his fork to point to her plate—“I’d be Jumbo Justin again. I separated food from happiness, started eating healthy and working out, and felt a lot better. But it’s a constant struggle, and being in Mapleton doesn’t help.”

  “Dieting is definitely a lost cause
where Rose is concerned.” Megan moved her pasta plate to the side and put a slice of chocolate cake in front of her. “Want to share?” she said, eyeing his half-eaten chicken breast. “Maybe the hotel has a fitness center and you can work it off.”

  “No, thanks,” he said.

  She forked up a mouthful of cake, and he was flooded with the desire to savor a chocolate-flavored kiss. “You sure?” she said. “It’s really good.”

  “I have no doubt. But I don’t have the time to work it off—not on top of everything else I’ve been eating since I got here.”

  “I do a few miles on the treadmill, maybe three times a week,” she said around another mouthful of cake.

  “Running’s not my first choice, but I can do it anywhere, so I carry running shoes when I travel.”

  “So what is your routine of choice?”

  “I swim,” he said.

  Her cake-laden fork stopped halfway to her mouth. “Swim? But—you never—”

  He felt heat rise to his neck. “Which is why I took it up. I had to prove something to myself. That I could get past it.”

  “Past what?”

  “Being scared to death of the water. You couldn’t tell?”

  She ducked her head. “I thought it was because you didn’t want to be seen in a bathing suit.”

  “I could have handled that. No, it happened a few years before that, when my family went on vacation to California and went to the beach. I’d never seen so much water. I started playing with some other kids, building drip castles, dodging the waves.”

  “Sounds like a good experience.”

  “Oh, it was. I knew I wasn’t supposed to go out past my knees, but I wanted to stay with the other kids. At the time, the surf wasn’t all that high and I was jumping the breakers with everyone else. I was totally unaware of the currents, that I was slowly drifting down the beach.

  “I ended up nowhere near where my parents were sunbathing, and in the surfer section. A huge wave knocked me down, pulled me under. I didn’t know which way was up. I panicked. I tried to shout, but choked on a mouthful of salt water. I didn’t remember anything until I was on the beach, throwing up half the ocean. I didn’t have my glasses. I was totally disoriented. Couldn’t find my parents, or even tell the lifeguards where they were.” He shrugged. “It kind of put me off water sports.”

  “You could have told me,” Megan said. “I’d have understood.”

  He shook his head. “You say that now, with an adult’s hindsight. When you were six, it would have been one more thing to tease me about. I didn’t need ‘scaredy-cat’ added to the epithets you already had for me.”

  Her face turned pink. “You’re probably right. But, as Rose and Sam say, ‘The past is the past.’ Are you happy now? I mean, except for the fact that someone might be bent on killing us.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Gordon rushed to Angie’s side, gripped her by the shoulders, and thrust her toward Ozzie. “Behind the counter. Down. Both of you.”

  Ozzie wrapped his massive arm around Angie and dragged her behind the counter.

  Following the rule he’d established at their briefing, Gordon radioed Dispatch for backup. “Roll a unit to cover the entrance to Angie Mead’s apartment. Two officers. One in back, the other in the diner with me.”

  “On it, Chief,” Connie said. Seconds later, she was on the line. “Solomon and a deputy will be there in three.”

  “Roger.”

  Gordon unsnapped his holster, his hand resting on the butt of his Glock. Taking a cleansing breath, he stood flat against the wall in the alcove and flipped the switch to illuminate the inner stairwell leading up to Angie’s apartment. No sounds came from above.

  “Angie. Did you sense anyone was in there with you?” You’d think with all her feelings, if she had company, she’d have been aware of it on some psychic level.

  “No,” she said in a shaky voice. “But it’s not like I routinely check under the bed or behind the couch.”

  “What about smells? Perfume? Aftershave? Cigarette smoke?”

  “No.”

  “What made you think someone had been there?” So help him, if she said one word about ghosts, he’d whack her.

  She emerged from behind the counter, Ozzie close beside her. “There must have been signs that registered on a subconscious level, but I didn’t want to stick around and check them out. Not when I heard you down here. I figured you could do that.”

  He apparently failed to keep the skepticism out of his expression, because she crossed her arms across her chest. “Come on. Don’t tell me you’ve never had the feeling someone’s watching you? Or you’re thinking about someone, and they call on the phone right that minute?” She caught Gordon in a steely stare. “Or the way you can tell when someone’s hiding something when you question them? You don’t think about how you know, you get that…feeling.”

  He wasn’t going to debate that now. Cops learned to read body language and facial expressions, see red flags waving. Angie could believe in her forms of communication. He preferred things he could point to. “I suppose,” he said. Meanwhile, he needed more information.

  “Ozzie,” he said. “You happen to notice anyone head for the restrooms and not come back?” The rear entrance to Angie’s apartment was through a small storage room next to the restrooms, clearly marked “Employees Only.”

  “Can’t say that I did.”

  “Angie, anyone else have a key to your place?” Gordon asked.

  “Not really.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I leave a spare key down here, on a hook in the kitchen. Donna goes up sometimes on her breaks. Especially now. Her son and his wife are staying with her with the new grandbaby, and she needs a nap more than lunch. But she always tells me. And she puts the key back.”

  Ozzie cleared his throat. “I found it by the register yesterday. Not the first time Donna’s forgotten. I took care of it.”

  Angie’s eyes widened.

  “Is it there now?” Gordon asked.

  Angie went to check. The front door chimes rang. Solomon appeared. “What do we have?”

  “Angie thinks someone might have been in her apartment. Given the recent events, I think it warrants checking out. The deputy in position in the alley?”

  “Yep. Nobody’s going to get by him.”

  Angie returned. “Key’s where it should be.”

  “Okay. Tell me. What am I going to see up there when I open the door? What’s the layout?”

  “There’s a small landing at the top of the stairs, then about three steps to my door. There’s a braided throw rug inside the door, a coat tree immediately to your right. Straight ahead is the living area. Back and to the right, there’s a small kitchenette separated by a low counter. The outside entry door is at the end of the kitchen. It was locked. The bedroom and bath are to the left.”

  Gordon nodded to Solomon. “Let’s do it.”

  “I’ll go up first.”

  “No. I will.” He stared at Solomon, who backed down. Gordon wasn’t going to lead from the rear. Besides, he told himself, there was nothing up there except whatever Angie’s overactive imagination had created. And their guy used a knife. Gordon had a gun. Which he unholstered and held at the ready.

  His heart hammered as he approached the narrow staircase, keeping his eye fixed on the door above. Well, he’d been grumbling about not doing enough street work. Here he was, about to clear an apartment. Of what? Killer, ghost, or nothing at all?

  “We’re sitting ducks here,” he said to Solomon. “Let’s rush it. I’ll go left, you go right.”

  “Gotcha.” Solomon said.

  “Police!” Gordon shouted. He thrust the door open. “Drop your weapon. Hands where I can see them.”

  Weapons raised, they burst into the room.

  Gordon scanned the space, which seemed empty at first glance. He moved quickly to the bedroom, doing a quick check for unwanted guests. That room, as well as the clo
set and bathroom, were as deserted as the living area. “Clear!”

  Solomon returned from the kitchen. “Clear in there, too. The back door’s deadbolted from the inside.”

  Gordon re-holstered his weapon. “You and your deputy partner can resume your duties. I’ll interview Angie.”

  Solomon’s mouth curved up in a grin. “Roger, Chief.”

  Gordon scowled. “Take the kitchen stairs down and let me know if you see anything, Officer Solomon.”

  Solomon flipped a snappy salute.

  “Go.” He waited for Solomon to leave, then threw the deadbolt. Taking time to peruse the small living quarters more closely, he absorbed the evidence of Angie’s presence. Family photos. Framed prize ribbons from the County Fair. Bookshelves filled with cookbooks. More on the small round table by her bed.

  He heard a soft mewing sound. A black-and-white cat perched on the windowsill above her bed. The sash window was partially open. Gordon crossed the room, noting the rumpled bed. Impulsively, he touched the sheets. Warm, exuding Angie’s scent.

  The cat mewed louder, then scampered past him, overturning the candlestick lamp on the bedside table. “Hi, there, fella. Are you the cause of Angie’s worries?” Gordon said. “Playing with things you shouldn’t be touching.”

  Funny, he’d never heard Angie mention a cat. The cat evaded his attempt to pick it up, so he left it and trotted downstairs to the diner. Ozzie and Angie popped up from behind the counter. Ozzie’s arm was still holding Angie in a protective embrace. His other hand gripped his pistol.

  “All clear,” Gordon said. “Ozzie, you can close up and go home. I’ll escort Angie upstairs, and she can show me what’s out of place.”

  “Sounds good. Chief, I’ve got those receipts here.” He plopped a manila envelope onto the counter.

  “Thanks,” Gordon said.

  “You going to be okay, Angie?” Ozzie said.

  “I’ll be fine.” Her bare toe traced a circle on the floor. “I might even have been dreaming. You know, one of those half-awake, half-asleep dreams where you’re doing normal stuff, and you think you’re awake. Not like a nightmare or that crazy kind where you show up at school for a test and you’re naked.”