No Going Back (Sawyer Brooks)

by T. R. Ragan

  “Is it true someone wearing a black wig was seen leaving the premises?” Lexi asked.

  Detective Hughes nodded. “Correct. The witness lives across the street. She’s getting up there in age, so I’m not sure how reliable she is.” He looked at Sawyer. “I was told you’ve been working on the Black Wigs story for a while now. What are your thoughts?”

  Caught off guard, it took Sawyer a second to pull herself together. “It’s true. I have been researching and writing about the Black Wigs for months now. Something that stands out is that the vigilantes work as a team. Lexi and I interviewed Brad Vicente at the prison earlier today, and he confirmed this when he said four or five women were in his house for days. In the case of Myles Davenport, the man attending his ten-year reunion, the video shows multiple women wearing identical wigs as they take Myles Davenport captive.”

  Detective Hughes rocked back on his heels. “What about Nick Calderon’s murder? Do you believe that was the work of the Black Wigs?”

  “No,” Sawyer said. “I don’t. Just like this case, it seems only one person was seen coming and going on the security camera.” She shrugged. “But I’m not a detective, and my opinion is based on what little I’ve been told.”

  “Anything else?” Detective Perez asked, sarcasm lining his voice.

  His attitude grated on her nerves. “Yes,” Sawyer said. “I guess there is something else. The Black Wigs abduct their targets and take them to a secret destination.”

  “Not true in the case of Brad Vicente,” Lexi said smugly. “He was bound and tortured for days inside his own home.”

  “True,” Sawyer said, wondering why Lexi would bring her along and then try to undermine her.

  “Even the best-laid plans can go awry,” Detective Hughes said.

  Sawyer smiled at the detective. “Exactly. Instead of abducting Brad Vicente, something might have gone wrong, which set the Black Wigs’ Plan B into motion.”

  Detective Hughes nodded. “The woman’s teammates, or whatever you want to call them, could have been watching and waiting. They followed him home, rescued their friend, and decided it was too risky to move Brad Vicente from his residence.”

  “That’s an interesting theory,” Detective Perez said.

  “All of this is just conjecture at this point,” Lexi chimed in.

  Detective Perez rubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe the Black Wigs are still tweaking their MO as they go along. Maybe they’ve decided it’s more efficient to work independently.”

  Lexi nodded her agreement. “The only victim we know for sure who was actually abducted—as seen on video outside the high school—was Myles Davenport. Days later, he was found dead in the woods near Barrett Pass Road.”

  Sawyer stepped to the side to make room for a tech who was using barricade tape to establish the perimeter of the crime scene.

  A young man in his twenties with a camera hanging around his neck called out to Detective Hughes, letting him know he was finished unless there were additional shots needed. Detective Hughes took the photographer to the side to discuss.

  Once Detective Hughes walked away, Sawyer had a good view of the medical examiner hovering over the body lying on the cement floor next to the Buick’s rusty tailpipe. She walked closer and watched the ME pull a plastic bag from her box of goodies and use a pair of tweezers to collect evidence from the man’s pale, bloated face.

  “Is that a strand of hair?” Sawyer asked.

  Before the ME could say a word, Detective Perez came up to stand beside her and told her it was time for her and Lexi to leave.

  Sawyer noticed broken glass, nuts and bolts, and a shovel on the ground near the path where someone might enter the garage from the house. There was also a shoe and a sock, tossed aside haphazardly. She glanced at the dead man’s feet and saw that he wore only one shoe. Just like Nick Calderon. Her heart rate elevated. “Why is he wearing only one shoe?”

  The detective followed her gaze. “Let’s leave the questions to the examiner and investigators.”

  She looked at him then. Really looked at him. Although she’d proven time and time again that she was on his side, he didn’t like her, and she really didn’t understand why. Annoyed, she made sure to hold in her anger. “Whatever happened to Otto Radley?” she asked in a random moment of bravado.

  “Nobody knows,” he said. “He could be anywhere.”

  Not true, she thought. Then she straightened and said, “Before Sean Palmer was injured, he gave me a flash drive with a clip of home video taken outside an apartment at night. The images show a dark, shadowy man who looks a lot like Otto Radley approaching a woman sitting on a park bench. She could be wearing a wig. Before the video ends, another woman with the same short black hair appears, and they all appear to be wrestling on the ground.”

  “Where is the video now?”

  “I brought it to a digital enhancement shop, hoping they could enhance the video.”

  Detective Perez did not look happy with her. She wasn’t sure she cared, and yet she scolded herself for letting him get to her. Two steps forward and ten steps backward, Sawyer thought.

  “How long have you had this video in your possession?”

  “About as long as you’ve had it.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “I brought the original flash drive to the station ten days ago. You weren’t there, so I left it with the person at the front desk.” There, she thought. Chew on that. “I know you’re busy, but if you do get a chance to look at it, you’ll see the video appears to have been taken at night from an upper-story apartment in West Sacramento. It’s grainy, shadowy, but when a big guy like Otto Radley makes an appearance, he’s hard to miss.”

  Detective Hughes returned to tell Detective Perez he was heading inside the house.

  Lexi had just finished talking to the ME when she asked Detective Hughes if it would be all right if they talked to a few neighbors before they took off.

  “Absolutely,” he said, prompting Detective Perez to release a heavy sigh. “I’ve already talked to the closest neighbors, including the witness, Trudy Carriger, across the street.” Detective Hughes pointed at the blue-gray house with the white trim. “She’s getting up there in age, most likely doesn’t see well since she thought I looked like a shorter George Clooney, but she’s all we’ve got. If it’ll help you with your story, then have at it.”

  Both Detective Hughes and Perez headed for the front entry.

  Sawyer watched them go. She liked Detective Hughes. He seemed reasonable and helpful and kind. Detective Perez, on the other hand, had a major chip on his shoulder. She was about to tell Lexi about the missing shoe and sock on both Nick Calderon and Bruce Ward, but decided against it when Lexi attacked her.

  “What were you thinking back there?” Lexi asked as they walked to the end of the driveway. “When they ask for your opinion, they don’t really want it. It’s not professional.”

  Sawyer chuckled. “Detective Hughes asked me for my opinion, and I gave it to him. Nothing wrong with that.”

  “We’re supposed to blend in with scenery, do our best to stay out of their way.”

  Sawyer stopped walking. “I don’t appreciate being lectured. You and the others wanted nothing to do with this story, but I agreed to let you help out. If you don’t like the way I interact with people, then we have a problem. Maybe it would be in your best interest to get out now before I bring you down with me.”

  Lexi drew in a long breath. “I’ll take this side of the street,” she said, pointing to her left. “You take the other side.”

  “Sure.”

  No sooner had Lexi walked off and Sawyer crossed the road than she heard someone hissing at her. It took Sawyer a second to see an elderly woman peeking her head through the front door of the blue-gray house with white trim. Trudy Carriger, the witness Detective Hughes had mentioned, used one frail hand to gesture for Sawyer to come her way.

  “What can I help you with?” Sawyer asked.

 
“I’ve been watching you people from my kitchen window. Are you the journalist from Sacramento . . . The one who found that poor little girl?”

  “Sawyer Brooks. Nice to meet you.”

  “Trudy Carriger,” the woman said, offering a thin-skinned hand mottled with brown spots. “I’m the one who called the police to check on Bruce.”

  “How did you know to call?”

  “Come on in out of the cold, and I’ll warm you up with some tea and tell you what happened. Maybe you could mention my name in the paper.”

  Although it was a balmy night with clear skies and Sawyer wasn’t cold, she said, “I would love some tea.” Inside, the smell of cinnamon and apple pie wafted through the well-kept house.

  Trudy Carriger ushered her to a couch with a blue floral design. Sawyer took a seat and hardly had time to absorb all the little knickknacks spread across every tabletop before Trudy returned with a silver tray. Her hand shook, making the porcelain rattle as she handed Sawyer a vintage, teal-blue teacup and saucer.

  “I hope you like hibiscus tea. I sprinkled a little ginger on top.”

  “Smells wonderful. If you don’t mind, we’ll need to get right down to business.” Sawyer sipped her tea, told Trudy it was delicious, then pulled out a notebook and pen.

  The woman sat in a simple straight-backed chair across from her and looked at Sawyer expectantly.

  “Detective Hughes said he already talked to you. Are you sure this won’t be too much in one day?”

  “Not at all. I don’t get many visitors.”

  Ah. The woman was lonely. “According to Detective Hughes, you witnessed someone leaving Bruce Ward’s house. Do you remember the time?”

  “Hmm. I know Bruce’s wife, Sandra, came home a little before five p.m. About forty-five minutes later, she was walking out of the house carrying an overnight bag and her purse when she climbed into her car and drove off.”

  “Any chance you know where she was going?”

  “No idea.”

  “Did you see the person with the wig arrive after that?”

  “No. Bruce Ward was dropped off by a coworker at six thirty. Bruce is a highway maintenance operator. He and Sandra only have one dependable car, so his friends take turns driving Bruce around.”

  Writing as fast as she could, Sawyer wondered if the woman stared out her kitchen window all day long. “And then you saw someone wearing a wig leave Bruce Ward’s house?”

  “Not until seven fifteen. I was washing dishes when I saw someone push through the side gate.”

  “Can you describe this person?”

  “He wore—”

  “He?”

  She nodded. “It was a man.”

  Sawyer’s eyes widened and her heart skipped a beat. “Are you sure?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t bet my life on it.” She entwined her fingers nervously. “He didn’t walk like a woman.”

  Sawyer’s tiny bubble of excitement burst. “How does a woman walk?”

  “You know . . . with a sway in the hips.”

  Sawyer clamped down on her disappointment. The woman was clearly confused. Just as Detective Hughes had said, she was getting up there in age. No reason to press her. She could always revisit the gender later. People she interviewed usually tired of questions quickly, and she wanted to keep it moving. “How tall would you say the intruder was?”

  Trudy pursed her lips and squinted her eyes as if that might help her remember. Sawyer stood and walked over to a bookshelf and pointed at the highest shelf. “That tall?”

  “Shorter than that.”

  Sawyer pointed to the next lowest shelf. “How about this tall?”

  Trudy shook her head. “I would say he was two shelves taller than you.” She clicked her tongue. “Maybe only one shelf taller than you.”

  “Okay. Good. Somewhere between five foot eight inches and five foot ten.” Sawyer returned to the couch. “Are you sure this person was wearing a wig?”

  “Absolutely. It was crooked. I could see lighter hair sticking out from the sides.”

  “Blond or light-brown hair underneath?”

  “Light brown . . . the color of wheat.”

  “Perfect.”

  “It looked to me like the wig was slipped on in a rush,” Trudy went on. “My friend Helen wears a wig, and she never gets it on straight.” Trudy used her hands to try to mimic how his hair looked. Finally, she picked up her napkin and placed it lopsided on her head.

  Sawyer smiled. The old lady was cute and sweet and kind, like her grandmother. “Other than the walk, did you notice anything else unusual?”

  Trudy seemed to ponder the question a moment before saying, “There was something—maybe a dragon—fire—there were flames on the front of his T-shirt.”

  “You think it was a dragon?” Sawyer made another note.

  “I’m not sure about the dragon. But the design looked like reddish-orange flames.”

  “Okay. You’re doing great. Did this person climb into a car and drive away?”

  “No. He just came out of the gate and walked away, keeping to the sidewalk.”

  “And that’s when you called the police?”

  Wide-eyed, she said, “I wish I had. But I didn’t. I figured he was a friend of Bruce’s and maybe they were working on his old car that he won’t let Sandra get rid of.”

  “So what made you call the police?”

  “Tomorrow is garbage day.”

  “Tomorrow is Saturday,” Sawyer pointed out.

  “Tomorrow is a special garbage day when they pick up bulk trash. Stuff that won’t fit into the regular bin. I knew Bruce had a lot of trash in his backyard, and I didn’t want him to miss the opportunity to get rid of the old tires and mattress he has back there. Sandra is always trying to get him to clean up the place, so I went to knock on the door, but before I got that far I heard a loud noise coming from inside his garage. It was a car engine. I went through the side gate and tried opening the door to the garage, but it was locked. After that, I went and knocked on the front door. I even rang the bell, but nobody answered so I came back here and called the police. It was almost eight p.m. by then.”

  Trudy’s face fell.

  “It’s okay. You did the right thing. Nobody could have saved him.”

  “Oh, I’m not worried about Bruce. Sandra will be glad he’s gone. I was just thinking how I wish I could get someone to haul all that junk from his backyard to the street before it’s too late.”

  Sawyer tried not to show her surprise since she wanted the woman to keep talking. “Sandra and Bruce don’t get along?”

  “He pushed her around once and bruised her good. She ran over here, and I called the police. That was a few years ago. She said she was going to leave him, but I think she was scared and had nowhere to go. I offered her a room, but she said it would only make things worse.”

  “Any chance Sandra could have been the one wearing the wig?”

  “Not a chance. I may be old, but I’m not dead and I’m certainly not blind. I’ve known Sandra for years. I know what she looks like. Besides, Sandra is short. I’d be surprised if she hit five foot two.”

  “So you have Sandra’s phone number?”

  Trudy nodded.

  After gathering Sandra’s work and cell number along with Trudy’s home phone number, Sawyer thanked her and headed outside just as Lexi was making her way back.

  “Were you just at the witness’s house?” Lexi asked.

  Sawyer nodded. “She wanted to talk, so I let her. I’ll give you a copy of my notes.”

  “No need. I’ll get a full report from Detective Hughes.”

  “What is wrong with you?” Sawyer asked. “Have I offended you in some way?”

  Lexi headed for her car.

  Sawyer stayed close on her heels.

  “You just do whatever you want, and somehow it always works out for you, doesn’t it?”

  “I follow my instincts, if that’s what you mean.”

  After they climbed in and b
uckled up, Lexi said, “I didn’t have to bring you along tonight, but I did.”

  “Thank you.”

  Lexi was a tough nut to crack. Passive aggressive at times. Helpful at times, and yet angry and resentful. The best thing Sawyer could do would be not to overreact. The drive home was spent in silence.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Early Saturday morning, Cleo paid the Lyft driver and then jumped out of the car and shut the door. As she made her way to the coffee shop on the corner, she found it strange that she wasn’t feeling nervous. She’d waited so long for this day to come, and it was finally here. It was her turn. Today was the day she would make Eddie Carter beg for his life.

  Cleo ordered a mocha with oat milk. Ten minutes later, she tossed out her empty Styrofoam cup, slipped her arms through the straps of her backpack, and walked two blocks to the twenty-four-hour gym. As she passed by the blue MINI Cooper parked on the side of the road, she saw Psycho behind the wheel, ready to go. She tipped her chin as she passed by. It was good to know she had backup in case anything went wrong.

  Eddie Carter’s charcoal-gray Ford Escape was parked beneath a tall oak with branches that spread out like a giant umbrella. With an abundance of confidence, she walked over to the vehicle and reached for the handle, surprised when the back door came right open. Nice. No need to use the nifty tools she’d bought to break in.

  She climbed into the car, shut the door, then hunkered down behind the driver’s seat. Her small size made it easy to get comfortable. She was wearing a baseball cap over the black wig and large polarized sunglasses instead of a mask. If Eddie decided to throw his gym bag in the back seat, she could have a problem. But she would deal with that when the time came.

  Crouched low, her Glock 43X loaded, she was ready to go.

  She’d thought about bringing Eddie to her apartment, where she could strap him to her husband’s favorite chair and use him as a dartboard. Fifty points for hitting him square in the forehead, twenty-five points per eyeball. Ten points for everything else.

  Her heart no longer galloped inside her chest. Her adrenaline should be off the charts, but it wasn’t. Maybe because she no longer had anything to live for.

  Her husband had finally gone through with his threat and taken the kids and left her. Understandable, considering the hell she’d put her family through. Most days, she couldn’t find the energy to get out of bed. When her husband found her searching the internet for ways to end her life, she hadn’t understood why he’d made such a big deal about it. She thought everybody googled that shit. Apparently not.