Picking up his pace slightly, Reed took three steps down a narrow corridor before the office opened wide to the right. The rest of the space becoming visible, he could see Grimes seated behind his desk. Dressed in a fleece pullover, he was leaning forward with his elbows resting on the front edge, his mouth drawn into a tight line.
Across from him were two men Reed had worked with many times before. Both dressed in their standard-issue black uniforms, Senior Officer Derek Greene was seated in the left visitor chair that Reed had used earlier in the day.
Just a few years past forty, his hair was not quite to the point of allowing some gray, the locks shorn close to his skull. Just the first signs of fine lines were starting to show up, the sole blemishes on his caramel-colored skin.
Beside him was his training assignee – at least for the next few weeks – Adam Gilchrist. By far the junior man in the room, his features were full, hints of baby fat still present. His thick hair was dark, his cheeks ruddy.
All three turned toward Reed and Billie as they entered, Gilchrist surprised, the other two focused on the call.
“Mr. Vance,” Grimes said, “Detective Reed Mattox, the lead on this case, just walked in. I’ll allow him to answer the question.”
Upon hearing the name, Reed put together that he was the owner of the house he’d just been to, Della having given it to him in their earlier conversation. Nodding his thanks to Grimes for the handoff, he walked to the edge of the desk. Pressing his thighs against the edge of it, he leaned forward slightly, raising his voice.
“Mr. Vance, this is Detective Mattox, thank you for speaking with us tonight. I understand you are out of the state right now?”
“Yes,” Vance replied, “my wife and I winter in Sarasota. We’re actually set to return next Wednesday. Is Della okay?”
A few feet away, Gilchrist made a notation of what the man was saying.
Again, Reed recognized the man’s question about Della, and he could respect his concern. Based strictly on tone in the first thirty seconds, he seemed to have genuine alarm.
A fact that, unfortunately, he couldn’t always attribute to the witnesses he spoke to.
He also knew that if he answered the question just yet, it would only spawn more, all laced with a growing level of hysteria.
“When was the last time you spoke with Della?” Reed asked.
“I, uh, gee,” Vance managed. “For me, maybe Christmas? I’ll be honest, we have arranged the place out back as an Airbnb, so we don’t talk that often when we’re away.”
Nodding, Reed said, “But you communicate?”
“We do. If there’s a problem, snow that needs removed, things like that.”
“And were there any problems?” Reed asked.
There was an audible exhalation as Reed glanced to Grimes, seeing the same look as earlier still fixed on his features. “The last thing I remember was a clogged drain we had to get snaked a couple of months ago.”
Pausing, Reed ran the information through his mind. A few months was quite a while, but it wasn’t an unheard of amount of time.
“And did you hire someone to come into her apartment and clear it?”
“No,” Vance said, “my brother-in-law lives a few miles away and stopped by. He does HVAC for a local contractor, the whole thing took five minutes.”
Pursing his lips slightly in frustration, Reed cast the line of thinking aside. No way would it be that easy.
“How long has Della been renting from you folks?”
“A while now,” Vance replied. “Ever since she started graduate school, so almost two years.”
“Ever any problems?” Reed asked.
“Never. We’ll be sorry to see her go, that’s for sure.”
Extending himself up to full height, Reed kept his lips pressed tight together. He looked over to Greene, the officer matching his gaze, Gilchrist continuing to transcribe beside him.
“How about her personal life?” Reed asked. “Any domestic troubles? Abusive partners?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” Vance said. “To be honest, she kept a pretty low profile. She worked a ton down at The Daily Grind, so between that and school...”
Pushing out a puff of air through his nose, Reed shifted his attention to the window opposite them. Knowing the parking lot was on the other side of it, at the moment all he could see was his own reflection, frustration visible on his features.
So far, all of the obvious questions had been asked and shot down pretty summarily. No jilted lovers, angry boyfriends, or leering repairmen. No troubles with neighbors or classmates.
Just a young woman busting her ass to get through school and be on her way, much like her clean files and even cleaner apartment would indicate.
Not the sort of person that was supposed to wake up somewhere in a box. Which made the elixir of emotions Reed was feeling all the more pronounced within him.
“So not much of a social life?” he said, his voice a bit lower as he thought through everything they’d just discussed.
“None at all,” Vance said. “To the point where, at times, it almost seemed a little odd. Even the times we invited her to gatherings we were having, very rarely did she stop by.”
Feeling his eyes narrow, Reed asked, “Was she anti-social?”
“Not at all. She’s a lovely girl. Very funny, very well-spoken. She just, sort of, keeps to herself.”
Raising both hands to his face, Reed rubbed them over his cheeks, as if trying to stimulate his mind into putting together the right sequence of questions. To form the line of inquiry that would allow something to shake loose.
Though, try as he might, nothing seemed to be coming to him.
“I’m sorry,” Vance said, drawing the attention of all four men back to the phone, “I hate to keep asking, but is Della okay?”
Chapter Twenty-Four
The call between Della Snow and Detective Mattox was so, so much greater than The Scorekeeper could have ever envisioned. Not in his most fanciful dreams did he ever lay awake at night, thinking how things would go, and imagine something so powerful.
He’d expected wanton fear, even abject terror, but the display the girl had put on was nothing short of masterful. If it had occurred in a movie, it would have won an Academy Award. If there had been a tape recording of the call, it would win a Grammy for Best Spoken Word performance.
Even now, a half-hour after the fact, the hairs on The Scorekeeper’s arms stood on end. Adrenaline pulsated through his system. What had happened wasn’t his intention, but he couldn’t say he was unhappy about it.
After everything, that was what the night was all about. He could only hope that by the time it was over, she wasn’t the only one a little worse for the wear.
Not once in the time since the call had The Scorekeeper managed to sit down, his spirits much too high to even consider stopping. Pacing back and forth across the plush rug in the middle of the floor, he tried to push aside the feelings of elation that were gripping him. When it became clear that that wouldn’t work, he tried to merely compartmentalize them, nudging them just far enough to the side where he could maintain a second line of thought.
Could begin to work through the next step in the progression.
Even though every detail of what would take place had already been plotted out, he still needed to focus. As most every bad cliché about fighting and war and any related topic loved to point out, no initial strategy ever survived contact with the enemy. He had to stay honed in, monitoring what was happening, reacting in the best ways possible.
Continuing his incessant movement, The Scorekeeper spun the laptop on the coffee table around so it was facing him. At the top was the same small black window as before, a series of green lights rising and falling in quick order.
After the brief break, while Mattox was off trying to trace the call, he had apparently returned. Likely right now, he and his team were scouring the place, looking for any signs of The Scorekeeper’s passing.
They wouldn’t, of course, because there weren’t any to find. Every last hair from his body had been shaved away, every inch of exposed skin save his cheeks and eyes covered as he made his way inside.
It was a unique look for sure, the type that earned him the occasional gawker, but it wasn’t like it was anything he wasn’t used to. If anything, at least this way it clouded what they were staring at, giving them a choice on where to focus.
And it wasn’t like it wouldn’t all be worth it. Now and especially come morning, when the culmination of his plan would be revealed.
Pulling up the top window representing Della Snow’s apartment, he clicked on the red X in the corner, closing it forever. Already he knew that Mattox had been by the place, that it was now crawling with techs.
Nothing further to be gained from monitoring them, he brought the next one up in order. Staring at it, the lights strewn across the screen all dark, The Scorekeeper smiled again. Knowing what place the line of lights represented, he let the corners of his mouth peel back, stained teeth underscoring his lips.
The next stop would be fun. It wouldn’t be nearly as uneventful as the first, a test on multiple fronts to see just how good his opponent was. If the media was right to put so much trust in him, or if he was just another in a long line of cocksure punks the department liked to cycle through.
Leaving the smile in place, The Scorekeeper circled across the room. Far nicer than what he was used to, he paused, taking in his surroundings, almost sad he couldn’t stick around and enjoy the place for a few days.
Just as fast, he pushed the thought away. Grabbing up a ballcap and a jacket, he put both on, glancing just once into the mirror before snatching up his keys and heading for the door.
It would be a while before the lights on the next window were activated.
Might as well take a moment to enjoy the show in the meantime.
Chapter Twenty-Five
In the wake of the phone call with Vance, Reed had retreated away from Grimes’s desk. He had positioned himself against the narrow table along the side wall, the sole piece of anything in the office that could be construed as a personal touch.
Leaning against it, his arms were folded over his torso, Billie lowered to her haunches beside him. Picking up on the charged atmosphere in the room, her ears stood at attention on her head, following the conversation at hand with each word that was said.
“Thank you both for coming and for tracking down Vance,” Reed said, directing his comments to the officers sitting on the far side of the desk. “I’m sure the captain brought you up to speed, but this is promising to be a crazy night.”
In the corner, Gilchrist merely nodded, the tablet before him balanced on one knee.
“Have you talked to the girl again recently?” Greene asked.
Recalling the conversation that took place in Deke’s basement, lines appeared around Reed’s eyes as he winced. “We did. And, it went about as bad as you’d expect it to.”
“Hysteria?” Greene asked.
“And personal injury,” Reed said, leaving it at that, seeing the same response he’d just had on the man’s face.
Shifting his focus over to Grimes, Reed asked, “Any luck getting through to Dr. Mehdi?”
“Not yet,” Grimes said. “Straight to voicemail three times. I left messages asking her to call me immediately, but at this point-“
“Probably off for the night,” Reed finished.
“Right,” Grimes said. “But I’ll keep trying.”
“How long before Della calls again?” Gilchrist asked.
Sliding his phone from his rear pants pocket, Reed thumbed the screen to life. Reading the illuminated digits, he said, “Maybe five to seven minutes. I keep telling her to check in every twenty or thirty, but she has to turn the device off between calls to save battery, so it’s not exact.”
“How much does she have?” Greene asked.
Pausing for a moment to consider, Reed raised his eyebrows. “I actually don’t know. I keep making a point to tell her to save it, but I don’t know exactly where it stands. I’ll be sure to on the next call.”
The room fell silent for a moment as Reed considered it, making a mental notation to do just that. He cursed himself twice in silence for having not already, this the sort of thing that could very well be her undoing.
Keeping in touch throughout the evening was nice, but he had to be sure to have the ability to contact her later if needed.
“Any luck on the trace?” Grimes asked.
His eyes still glazed as he thought, Reed waited a moment before snapping himself awake. Jerking his attention toward Grimes, he said, “No, unfortunately. Deke said the line was being blocked, wasn’t coming up with anything. He’s still working on it, though. Seems to think he can have something for me soon.”
Offering a short grunt, Grimes nodded, the folds of skin under his neck folding and unfolding. “If there’s anything there-“
“He’ll be the one to find it,” Reed agreed. “I also stopped by and introduced Earl to the crime scene. He took a look at the message scrawled on the screen and said he’s going to send over some digitals of it for us.
“I don’t know how much good it will do, but figured we could get someone to take a look at the handwriting for us.”
Leaning forward, Grimes grabbed up a pencil from the desk before him. Scribbling down a note, he nodded, and said, “Can do. Like you said, might not amount to much, but it’s worth looking into.”
Raising his phone again, Reed looked at the clock, running the math in his head. Just an hour and a half had passed since the first call came in, but it felt like so much more than that. What had started as a relatively quiet evening had been turned on its head, a steady drip of adrenaline and anxiety spurring Reed forward every moment since.
In that time, he had also brought in more than a half-dozen people, with the promise of many more lingering on the horizon.
“What do you need us to do right now?” Greene asked.
His focus still down on the phone in his hand, Reed opened his mouth to respond. Pausing, he considered the question, trying to put things into order.
Thus far, there had been a clear sequence to how things were supposed to play out. An ordering that had allowed him to keep moving, one task leading into the next.
Now, the moment had arrived where he needed to slow down and actually assess how the next few steps played out.
Which was what made it all the more surprising when the faceplate on his phone lit up, pushing all such thoughts from mind.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The initial sweep of fear had passed. All-consuming, it had seized Della Snow’s entire body, rendering her unable to do much beyond cry and fight for air. So encompassing, it had left her nearly motionless, each new realization bringing another layer to the hell she was in.
If the planted phone hadn’t begun to ring, ripping her from that state, there’s no telling how long it might have lasted. Which, now looking back on it, was probably the point. Not just to provide her the thinnest of threads to cling to, a tiny lifeline to the outside world, dangling hope just beyond reach, but to ensure she played her part to the fullest.
What that was, or even who was behind it, she hadn’t yet managed to unravel.
But she was starting to have a vague idea.
Even through the first couple of calls with the detective, the bated breath periods of waiting in between, she had existed in a state of suspended fear. She hadn’t been able to think clearly, or really even much at all.
Instead, she had merely existed, drifting through a place much like the semi-trance that lies between being asleep and awake. Counting seconds the entire time, she had clung to the phone in her hands, waiting for someone to call with the news she was so desperate to hear.
News that it had become apparent in the last call wasn’t coming, replaced by the realization that she wasn’t just sitting in a parlor somewhere, part of somebody’s macabre fantasy. She was
already in the ground. It was all but over.
The phone calls, whatever else might happen in the coming hours, they were nothing more than elaborate parts in a ruse. Measures of insisting she – and the detective, and whoever else might get pulled in – stayed sucked into the sick game that was being played.
The cumulation of which was the reason the fear had passed, giving way to complete fury. Passing through her with the intensity of the incoming tide, it had rippled in one wave after another. It had cocooned her in wrath, helping her to ignore the pain of her hands and wrists as she lashed out.
Now, in the wake of it, there was only numbness. On the literal front, it was brought about by the metacarpals and phalanges she knew were shattered in her hands. Through the cracks, bone marrow had seeped into her system, deadening all natural responses.
Soon enough, the effect would pass. In its place would be complete agony. Swelling would push in from every angle, making their fragile positioning all the worse.
As if there was a way for that to even be possible.
In a larger sense, the numbness stemmed from a sense of detachment. With her head turned to the side, Della could feel the pull of dried tears on her face, the salt drawing her skin taut. She was aware of the wood continuing to rub against her bare bottom and shoulder blades.
But none of it really mattered. All that did was the state she currently found herself in, what it really meant.
Things like the fact that she would never get to do the things she’d wanted. Like travel to Europe. Or visit Macau. Or get married and have children.
At the age of twenty-four, she’d been hearing for a solid decade that she was young. That she had time to do whatever she wanted. To be careful not to jump into anything or tie herself down yet.
This was the time to work hard, to set herself up for the future she deserved. A future she had sacrificed her entire present to get to. One that now would never come to pass.
Allowing her head to loll a bit further to the side, Della felt her cheek press against the wood beneath her. Cool to the touch, it passed through her skin, sending a tremor the length of her body.
The Scorekeeper Page 8
