Pepper knew that plenty of scam artists operated at the edge of the roofing business. He’d heard his dad talk about them. They were bottom-feeder grifters who roamed the U.S. preying on senior citizens—giving lowball quotes, taking deposit checks and then never returning to do any work. By the time the homeowner called the police, the scammers were hundreds of miles away.
“I tried to give this to the officer at the desk. He told me to keep it. That a detective would be in touch if they wanted more information from me.” She tapped her large envelope.
“You tried to give him what?” asked Pepper, a bit confused.
The woman opened the envelope and slid out a large watercolor painting of a man.
It was better than amateur. But since it was a watercolor, the image had a strange, fluid quality. Except the man’s eyes. The eyes were very specific—brown, intense and a bit crazy. Pepper got the sense that if he ever saw eyes like those again, he’d be able to recognize them. The man had mussed brown hair and didn’t have on a green hat like the Bailey boy witnessed.
“This is the man you saw…in the roofing van?”
“Absolutely. Took me three tries to get him right. I’m so worried you won’t catch him. If this could help…”
Pepper didn’t know what Detective Sweeney would say if Pepper delivered a watercolor painting from one of the hundreds of citizens who meant well, but probably had no useful info to solve the case. Just well-intended false leads.
“I called the police hotline that Thursday night,” the woman said. “Who ever heard of a roofing van that didn’t have a pile of ladders on top? But no one has even contacted me yet…”
Pepper felt bad for the woman. She was just trying to help, like him. It didn’t matter that the New Albion police were working through hundreds of civilian tips and it all took time. Every lead mattered until they proved it was a dead end, right?
“I’ll give it to Detective Kevin Sweeney,” he promised her. “He’s our lead detective on the case. Why don’t you write your name, address and phone number on the envelope?”
The woman exhaled, closed her eyes and put her hand to her nose. “Finally,” she said in a quiet voice.
Pepper saw tears welling up in her eyes.
Detective Kevin Sweeney wasn’t around, so Pepper leaned into his database work. He finished inputting eighteen old cases, about as much as he could do in one burst without dying of boredom, then tried to find the detective again. He wanted to deliver the painting and hopefully learn any breaking news in the investigation.
Pepper found Sweeney in the officers’ bullpen, sitting in a cubicle, typing into a computer. His suit was wrinkled and his hair was standing up in the back.
“You look like you could use some coffee,” Pepper said.
Sweeney gave him a weary smile. “Hey, young Ryan! That sounds great—unless you’ve got something stronger?”
Pepper returned in two minutes with a mug of hot, freshly brewed coffee.
The detective took it gratefully.
“This is for you too,” Pepper said, handing over the woman’s watercolor painting. He explained how he’d gotten it.
Pepper wondered if Sweeney would just throw it in the garbage. He didn’t. He took it out, studied it and said “Huh.” Then he leaned it against the back wall of the cubicle desk, like a parent might display their kid’s art.
Emboldened, Pepper shared further with Sweeney.
“I was talking to one of Emma Addison’s friends yesterday,” he said. “She told me she thinks Scooter McCord is the Snatcher. One of the managers at Sandy’s Restaurant? You must be looking at him already.”
“Kid, I shouldn’t talk much about our suspects. Nothing personal.” Sweeney sighed. “But yeah, we’re looking at McCord. He was off work Saturday afternoon and doesn’t much of an alibi. Same for Thursday night when Emma Bailey was snatched. He called in sick.
“If you’re a detective someday, you’ll see how this really works. The public jumps to tell us who did it, like your artist…” He waved at the watercolor painting. “Or Emma Addison’s friend. Everybody has a theory—what we need is evidence. And so far we have diddly squat.”
That news was like a stomach punch to Pepper. Emma Bailey had been missing for four days. Emma Addison for two days. The clock was ticking badly…
The detective took another sip of his coffee and stretched. “Besides, McCord doesn’t have any history of trouble. We ran him through every database and we got zip. No arrests. Not even a speeding ticket. So as far as we can prove, Mr. McCord is an upstanding citizen.”
More discouraged than before, Pepper headed back to his drunk tank office. Too many suspects, not enough resources. Sweeney would need some luck.
Pepper worked for another hour, his mind half on the database and half on Scooter McCord.
At lunchtime, Pepper decided to try to scare up a little good luck for Detective Sweeney. He drove to McCord’s home address, to see what he could see.
Detective Sweeney and the other officers working the case couldn’t be everywhere. What’s the worst that could happen? If Pepper saw anything suspicious, he could anonymously call in a tip. Maybe from one of the few remaining pay phones in town. He knew there was one in the Star Market and one on the corner by the Gulf station up on Route 28.
McCord lived in a small Cape-style house on Clapper Street. He rented, according to the records Pepper had accessed.
A dirty yellow Jeep YJ was in the driveway, so McCord was probably home.
Pepper sat in his truck about half a block down the street, eating a roast beef sandwich he’d grabbed on the way to his stakeout, trying to decide how long he could wait and what else he could do.
He considered calling Delaney. He wanted to pick right back up where they’d left off yesterday afternoon. Which just brought up the bigger question—stick to his old college plans and walk away from her in August, or was he actually considering throwing his old plans out the window?
He tried to think about it objectively. If he stuck with his original plan to head off to Harvard, he’d hopefully play hockey and scrape through his classes and graduate. Then what, fall into the police officer rut like everyone else in his family? No, Pepper’s crime-fighting efforts would be limited to this one situation, for the two Emmas’ sake. Then never again…
Pepper hoped someone caught the Greenhead Snatcher ASAP and that the Emmas were miraculously unharmed. He knew it wasn’t likely after this many days. Hopefully, the ransom note was a sign they would make it home alive.
He wondered if the families or the police received a follow-up to the ransom note. He’d try to find out when he got back to the station.
After fifteen minutes, Scooter McCord walked out his front door, a baseball cap covering his bright red hair. He climbed in his Jeep and fired it up, its engine rumbling loudly. He backed out and drove away past Pepper’s truck—Pepper had scooched down again to avoid being seen.
Should he follow him? Or should he take this chance to snoop around McCord’s property?
Pepper mentally flipped a coin and decided to check out the property. He didn’t know how long he would have, but it was too good of an opportunity to pass up.
Sadly leaving the second half of his sandwich in his truck, he walked up to McCord’s front door and rang the bell. Just in case someone else was home.
No one answered.
Pepper peered in the front window. Nothing.
A high chain-link fence protected the backyard and its gate was closed but not locked. He slipped it open and walked in, closing it quietly behind him.
It was a fairly big, messy yard. It had a brick patio with weeds growing through the cracks. Three plastic Adirondack chairs were arranged in a rough triangle around a small, cheap-looking wooden table.
Across the lawn was a small shed. The kind big enough for a lawnmower and other yard equipment.
There was also a dog house. It was half the size of the shed.
But the dog house got Pe
pper’s attention because he saw a long, black nose sticking out of its open doorway. The snout was flat on the ground, like the dog was sleeping. Or dead?
It looked like the thick, wet black nose of a Doberman pinscher.
Perfect.
Pepper tiptoed to the house’s sliding door and peeped in. He saw a basic, out-of-date kitchen.
He tugged at the door. Miraculously, it scratched open. He swallowed and tiptoed in.
Think about the Emmas. Do this for the Emmas.
Pepper entered, trying not to think about the laws he was breaking.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Pepper saw nothing of interest in the kitchen or the living room. The living room was almost bare. It only held a television perched on a cardboard box and another plastic Adirondack chair, which matched the three outside on the back patio.
In the bedroom, Pepper saw an enormous Scottish flag, a thick white X across a blue background, hung over the bed. And a pair of silver handcuffs hung from one bedpost.
But he saw no sign of the missing Emmas or anything that even hinted Scooter McCord was the Greenhead Snatcher. Other than possibly the handcuffs? But Scooter might be into kinky stuff, nothing to do with kidnappings…
He tentatively opened the dresser drawers, looking for…what? A taser? Pictures of the two Emmas? He felt ridiculous.
But in the second drawer, Pepper found something odd. It was a UK passport with Scooter’s picture, but the name was wrong—it said Harris Ross. Under the passport was a printout of a British Airways flight itinerary for Harris Ross to fly to Edinburgh Airport on Monday next week. Bizarre.
Had Scooter legally changed his name? Or was the passport a fake? Was the flight an innocent trip or an escape plan?
A loud rumbling sound outside interrupted Pepper’s thoughts. The noise stopped.
Shit! Scooter must be home!
Pepper shoved the itinerary and passport back into the drawer and shut it. Then he raced for the kitchen sliding door.
He pulled it closed behind him, maybe a little too loud. Because Pepper saw the big, wet nose in the doghouse lift from the ground and two big dark eyes opened and saw him. Yep, it was a fully-grown Doberman pinscher.
The dog stepped from its doghouse. It wasn’t on a chain. It shook furiously. To Pepper, the dog looked pissed to be woken up. And it looked even more pissed that Pepper was standing in its yard.
He gingerly picked up one of the plastic Adirondack chairs, the hair rising on the back of his neck. “Good boy,” he whispered. He looked back over his shoulder to see if McCord had come into the kitchen yet. He would instantly see Pepper when he arrived.
The dog gave a long, spine-chilling growl, which changed to a fierce barking. Then the dog bounded toward Pepper, its eyes like black pools. Its yellow teeth bared. It was a freaking monster.
Pepper sprang into motion a moment after the dog. He didn’t run for the gate leading to the driveway, because that’s where McCord might be standing. He ran toward the back of the fence, reaching it in four strides. If Coach Bullard could see him now, he’d never call him “Pylon” again. Pepper flew, tossing the chair back over his shoulder at the oncoming dog.
But the big Doberman flew faster. It had twice the distance to cover, but it easily knocked the plastic lawn chair from its path and reached Pepper as he was midair, halfway up the six-foot chain-link fence. The dog grabbed the back of his left shoe—his black work shoe—and sank in his monster teeth as Pepper pulled himself up. Pepper desperately wiggled free of the shoe and the dog, tumbling over the top of the fence and landing in a heap of weeds and old plastic flower pots. The pots shattered under him, stabbing into his back.
The dog wasn’t done. It wanted to kill him.
It took running leaps at the fence and its feet reached the top, scrambling wildly, but the beast didn’t have leverage to get over. It tried twice more, then gave up, sitting down and grabbing Pepper’s lost shoe in its big mouth. It started tearing the shoe to pieces.
Pepper didn’t stay to watch. He rolled to his feet, rubbing his lower back to see if any pieces of plastic pot were protruding from it. Despite the pain, he found nothing.
He limped away through McCord’s neighbor’s backyard, around the side of the house (no fence, no damned dog!) and to the street. An older man with white hair and an impressive beer belly stood in his driveway across the street, watching Pepper limp past.
Pepper waved to him. Nothing to see here.
The man stared until Pepper finally turned the corner, apparently having a low opinion of strangers limping around his neighborhood with only one shoe.
Snob…
Pepper was back at work at the New Albion Police Station, rubbing his chewed-up ankle and trying to keep his sneakers hidden from view (he didn’t own a second pair of shoes).
What was up with McCord having a UK passport under the name Harris Ross? Pepper entered that info into his Bailey file in the database. Then he reviewed everything in the file.
He still believed Casper Yelle was the more likely suspect. He knew Detective Sweeney was still trying to unravel Yelle’s alibis for the times of the kidnappings. For example, he’d applied for a search warrant to check the surveillance tapes to confirm Yelle had left work at Johnson Precision Machining when he’d claimed on the evening Emma Bailey was snatched.
Pepper knew one of the big frustrations for detectives was the time needed to do things by the book. To make sure they not only solved crimes, but built cases which would hold up in court.
It seemed unfair to Pepper that the legal steps took so long when time was short. He wished he could do something to either break or confirm Yelle’s alibi from Thursday. Anything to help Detective Sweeney.
Pepper’s phone buzzed with a text from Dennis Cole.
Ryan! Meet me Big Red Yard, 4pm. Got news about u no what
Huh. Either Brad St. John’s biker roommate had something exciting to tell him about a music opportunity, or else he was still digging around like a vigilante on the Snatcher case. Which Pepper still didn’t approve of, even though he’d been doing the same thing.
Pepper knew where the Big Red Yard was. It was the sort of industrial monstrosity which becomes a landmark for locals. Landscapers and other contractors with trucks and equipment rented space in its three-acre lot. He had even been in there once or twice, years ago.
Then he recalled that the Big Red Yard was next door to Johnston Precision Machining, the place where Casper Yelle worked. And Pepper got a big idea. He would meet up with Dennis Cole at four o’clock, but he’d investigate something else first…
Chapter Twenty-Three
Pepper parked at Johnston Precision Machining on Richards Road, an industrial street at the far edge of New Albion, around 3:30.
From the report he’d copied out of his dad’s file, Pepper knew Casper Yelle’s alibi for the Thursday night Emma Bailey was snatched. Yelle said he’d left work at the machine shop at exactly five, gone to Taco Bell and eaten there, then driven straight home to his apartment, where he stayed all night.
Pepper had figured out a simple way to prove whether the first part of Yelle’s alibi was true or a lie. Now he just had to have the guts to follow through.
The entrance had a big sign which said “Johnston Precision Machining—full service machining, welding and fabrication since 1978.” And below, in smaller letters, it said, “Our work is sometimes boring.”
“Ha!” laughed Pepper, entering.
In a small lobby with gray carpet and gray walls, Pepper found a very thin young woman with curly hair, possibly late twenties, sitting at the front desk. His first thought was she looked like a bird. The woman was typing on her computer and didn’t acknowledge him at first. After a long minute or two, she looked up.
Pepper gave her what he hoped was a winning smile and tried his line of bull crap. He said he’d been driving on Richards Road on Thursday afternoon when a truck pulled out of the Big Red Yard next door and clipped his vehicle. It’d drive
n off before he could get its license plate.
So he was hoping, he said, that Johnston Precision Machining’s security cameras had caught the accident. Would she mind if he looked for just a minute? Pepper wasn’t a great flirt, but he did his best, making strong eye contact and smiling again, while trying to look sad.
The bird lady didn’t fall for any of it. Ouch.
She said she wasn’t authorized to let anyone look at their security footage. She said she wished she could help him, but couldn’t. And that their camera didn’t cover much of the street, anyway.
She was already looking back at her computer, dismissing him. Pepper saw a reflection of her monitor in a framed picture behind her and saw she was losing at a game of solitaire.
Pepper sighed as heavily as he thought might be believable. “I have a thousand-dollar deductible for hit and runs,” he said, trying to sound pathetic. “I know you’re busy—could I pay you for your valuable time?” He held up two twenty-dollar bills and a ten. All the cash he had on him.
The bird woman studied him, then looked over her shoulder at a door with a small window. Pepper guessed the door led to the shop area where Casper Yelle and others did the machining work. But she plucked the money from his hand, and they were in business.
The woman pulled up the security footage on her computer, minimizing her game of solitaire as Pepper stepped around the counter to look over her shoulder at the monitor.
“Five o’clock Thursday on the button?” she confirmed with Pepper. He nodded to her, with one eye on the door with the little window.
She opened a file, fast-forwarded the video to 4:58, then hit “play.”
The image was of a wide-angle camera at the front of the business. It covered most of the parking lot and a sliver of Richards Road. Traffic flashed past, too fast to make out the cars’ details. Which made sense. The camera was there for the parking lot.
Pepper noticed the camera cut off the far back corner of the parking lot. Possibly a compromise because their camera didn’t have a wide enough angle lens to cover the entire lot. Or a second camera would have cost too much for the owner to bother. Either way, it was a blind spot. But Pepper was there for evidence of Casper Yelle and his tan Jeep Wrangler.
Kill Tide Page 12
