Cold Dark Places (Cady Maddix Mystery Book 1)

by Kylie Brant

  “Um, I can’t be sure. I believe the set I have is hers.”

  “Have you ever come in the side door?”

  “No, always the front. Why?”

  Miguel looked at Cady. “The dead bolt on the side entrance looks new to me.”

  “Oh dear.” DuPrey dug inside his coat pocket for a handkerchief to mop his face. “I’m glad you suggested bringing a police officer, Marshal,” he told Cady.

  “Tell him to have the doorknob of the side entry—and this closet door—dusted for prints,” she said gravely. “You might discover the intruder’s identity that way.”

  “An excellent idea. I never would have expected to find someone squatting in here. Why, there’s no heat! No water or electricity! I had all of those services turned off when Selma went into the nursing home.”

  Cady stilled. Of course, he would have. Her eyes were drawn to the twin bed in the corner of the room. It was made, although not as neatly as Selma’s. The bed in the third bedroom had been stripped. This one was piled high with covers. “I assume you shut off landline phone services as well.”

  “Yes, of course. Everything. This is just terrible,” he muttered.

  She and Miguel exchanged a glance. Bizarre, was what it was. How were weekly calls being made to this home’s number if it hadn’t been working for a year? “When you have the police department dusting for prints, make sure they do the phone receiver as well.”

  It was after seven before Cady began heading home. The effects of her early morning call from Gant were beginning to catch up with her. After the search of the Lewis home, she and Miguel had spent the rest of the day running down two of the other contacts on Aldeen’s list. Then they’d attempted to track down Sheila Preston, to no avail.

  When her cell rang, she glanced at the screen, unsurprised to see the caller’s identity. “Sheriff,” she said by way of answering, scowling at the driver in the next lane whose vehicle was drifting over the centerline. “Must be important. A call instead of a text.” They’d exchanged messages a couple of times throughout the day, keeping each other apprised of their findings.

  “I’m on my way home. It’s illegal to text and drive in the state of North Carolina, Marshal.”

  “I think I heard that somewhere.” The yawn caught her by surprise. Maybe she was more tired than she’d realized. “Any news?” The Highway Patrol had pulled back on the roadblocks hours ago, he’d informed her earlier. They couldn’t be used long-term, given the sheer manpower they required. Not to mention the inconvenience they presented to the public. A criminally insane child killer would be damn inconvenient, too, Cady thought sourly, navigating an exit off the highway. But Aldeen could be holed up somewhere, waiting for the scrutiny to die down before hitting the road.

  “Nothing helpful. There are no cameras in the infirmary due to patient privacy, but there are some in the hallway outside of it. We discovered the two nurses on duty had been absent for almost thirty minutes, including during the time Aldeen walked out of there. But after hours of interviewing them individually, they both admitted they were . . . uh . . . sexually preoccupied with each other in the storage closet.”

  “Convenient timing,” she noted.

  “Isn’t it, though. I wanted to let you know your advice panned out.”

  Her interest piqued, Cady said, “I don’t recall giving you any advice.”

  “What you said about the MP3 player.” Her mind blanked for a moment. He added helpfully, “About how you found your fugitive through his favorite country music singer.”

  Memory filtered back. “You listened to Aldeen’s music?”

  “IT had the password, since they took care of the downloads. One of my deputies let it play while he was working with the HR department today. He discovered a lot of the songs started out as music but then switched to speech.”

  Nonplussed, Cady straightened in her seat. “Like . . . an audiobook or something?”

  “Or something.” She could hear the weariness in his voice, and she recalled he’d been on scene at Fristol well before she had last night. “At first I thought it was an audiobook with a really boring narrator. Not that I’ve ever listened to one, but . . . the more I heard, the more it sounded like a doctor talking about a patient. I had Director Isaacson listen to a few minutes of the recording, and he agreed they could be progress notes.”

  “Like the doctors mentioned today.” A moment later Cady braked as a deer with an impressive rack bounded out of the ditch and across four lanes of traffic. She released her breath slowly as she accelerated again. The animals were a constant hazard on rural roads. “Are they notes from Aldeen’s sessions?”

  “We think not. Although the patient is never referred to by name, a few times the doctor uses the pronouns she and her. Which would mean Aldeen got his hands on another patient’s files. There is a section holding female patients at Fristol. We discovered the audio was narrated by a text-to-speech voice.”

  Cady digested the information for a moment. It made sense. Paper files were being digitized everywhere. And even if the patient records had still been paper, they’d be easily scanned to a computer and converted to audio.

  “I had a duplicate file sent to Isaacson,” Ryder continued. “He’ll share it with the other doctors to see if they recognize the patient being discussed.”

  “Someone had to procure those files. If IT was in charge of the downloads, how did the hidden files make their way to Aldeen’s MP3 player?”

  “How indeed.” Ryder sounded exhausted. “I wondered if the same person responsible for the notes and files was also the accessory on the inside. We’re looking hard at the employees in the tech office.”

  “How many of these files are there?”

  “We’re not sure yet. But it appears to be a lot. If we can figure out who converted them, we might get another lead on Aldeen’s whereabouts.”

  Interesting, Cady mused. But ultimately not helpful until they came up with the name of the patient. Ryder’s next words echoed her thoughts.

  “But that’s not the reason for my call. I wanted to ask if you’ve found Sheila Preston.”

  “Ah.” She blinked her lights at an oncoming car with its brights on, to no discernible effect. “We struck out. We tried her home in King’s Mountain. She wasn’t there. We got a warrant to go through her place. Closets and dressers were partially emptied, and there were no suitcases in the house. Her employer says she put in for vacation a month ago and that she’ll be off for a week. None of her neighbors and coworkers recalled Preston talking about where she was going. One of her daughters goes to childcare. The other is in school. Both the childcare provider and the school officials said Preston told them she didn’t know when the kids would return.”

  “She may be running. We’re slowly getting through the security feed from all the cameras in the days preceding the escape. Preston is the source of the vehicle Aldeen used to get away. She drove the car in, parked in the employee lot, and left a couple of hours later with another visitor.”

  A spear of adrenaline pierced Cady’s exhaustion. “I’d say that puts her at the top of the suspect list.”

  “We need to talk to her,” Ryder agreed. “But Aldeen would have required more assistance than she could have provided. Visitors and patients are closely monitored. I don’t see how she could have smuggled a uniform and ID into Fristol. And she certainly wouldn’t have had the freedom to access the infirmary. Fristol’s background check revealed Sheila Preston’s mother lives in Canton. One of us will interview the woman. Maybe Preston headed there. Any luck with the banker or attorney on Aldeen’s list?”

  There was something vaguely intimate about the rumble of a masculine voice in her ear as she drove, shrouded in darkness. The thought made her uncomfortable. Her relationships were unencumbered. Certainly not the type where she exchanged casual phone calls, as evidenced by the awkward exchange early this morning with Gabe.

  “No.” Belatedly, her attention returned to the conversation.
“They both hid behind the usual wall of confidentiality.” Aldeen’s last contact with his attorney was shortly after he’d landed at Fristol. The interactions with the banker were more frequent, but nothing in the last couple of months. “Both were advised to call us if they hear from him.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll continue to alert you of the progress on our end. We should be getting a more organized dissemination of investigative results up and running soon. And . . . I’m home.” The relief was evident in his voice. “Got a cold beer and a steak waiting for me in the refrigerator. The way I’m feeling, I might forgo the steak.”

  “Now you’re just being mean.” She’d be lucky to have time to make a salad before calling it a night, but the beer was tempting. “I’ll keep you updated tomorrow.”

  After promising to do the same, Ryder disconnected, leaving Cady to mull over the information he’d shared for the rest of her drive. Why would Aldeen have someone else’s progress notes on his player? It didn’t make sense to her. She recalled one class she’d taken in college on abnormal psychology. Everything a deviant offender did reflected his wants. His needs. She puzzled over it the rest of the way home. But as she slowed to pull into her gravel drive, she was no closer to an answer.

  Her small bungalow rental was on the eastern outskirts of Waynesville, its location a nod toward the short distance to Alma’s cabin and her commute to Asheville. She pulled the Jeep to a stop behind her car, which was parked beneath the attached carport. Grabbing her purse, she got out, locked the vehicle, and headed toward the house.

  Its tiny covered front porch had appealed to her when the landlady showed her the place. It at least offered the space for a rocker and a small table when, in warm weather, she got the very infrequent chance to sit outside and enjoy the solitude. The nearest home was a quarter mile away, obscured by the brush and volunteer trees rimming the property.

  The security light came on as she climbed the porch steps. She found the key to the house on her key ring and fit it into the lock of the front door. Pushing it open, she stepped inside.

  Then stopped still, disturbed by something she could only sense.

  Cady drew her weapon and flipped on the light inside the doorway, scanning the area carefully. It wasn’t a large home. Two bedrooms. One-story. She studied the adjoining living area, searching for whatever had set her nerves jangling.

  The room looked just as she’d left it. The comfortable couch held only a throw she hadn’t bothered to refold the last time she’d used it. A book she’d been trying to read lay facedown on the coffee table. Her gaze traveled across the room to the flat-screen TV and to the double set of bookshelves flanking it. She saw nothing out of place.

  Continuing through the room, she didn’t lower her weapon. If anything, the itch at her nape was getting stronger. The kitchen was straight ahead, separated from the living room by a counter big enough for two stools. She drew closer to it. Stopped and turned around again.

  Her gaze settled on the bookcases. They were crowded with rows of books in back, a few pictures and other items arranged in front of them. One of the photos was slightly out of place, as if it had been picked up and then replaced carelessly. A marksmanship award she’d won last year sat a bit crookedly on its stand.

  The center rooms were flanked with a bedroom on each side. Cady’s room with the attached bath was on the right. She turned on another light, which would illuminate the doorways of the adjoining rooms. Moving toward her bedroom first, she could see through the crack behind the opened door. No one was hiding behind it. With a feeling of déjà vu, she searched it much as she had the Lewis house earlier that day, checking closets, doorways, the bathroom, and under the bed. Then she did the same with the second room before finally drawing a breath and holstering her weapon.

  Maybe she’d overreacted. Cady stood in the living room, ill at ease. She was tired. And Gabe had still been here when she’d left. Maybe he was the reason things were out of place.

  Trying to put her lingering apprehension to rest, she took off her boots and coat and put them, with her purse, in the tiny hall closet. After locking the front door, she crossed to her bedroom again, already unbuckling her holster. She’d change and then hunt up the beer Talbot had made her thirsty for. If she felt ambitious, maybe she’d make a . . .

  It jumped out at her now that she wasn’t looking for it. The top drawer in her dresser wasn’t quite closed. A small thing, but coupled with the ever-so-slightly displaced items in the other room, her earlier foreboding rushed back tenfold. Someone had been inside her house. It was more than instinct that told her that. One didn’t spend most of their childhood living in other people’s homes without learning to be freakishly tidy. She’d had to hide her possessions when they lived at Alma’s or one of her cousins would have filched them. Her grandfather had regarded untidiness as a character flaw. And punished it accordingly.

  She doubted Gabe would have had any interest in her underwear. Cady crossed to the dresser, pulled open the drawer. The disarray was subtle, but apparent. The thought of someone being in her house, touching her things, had a hot flame of anger licking down her spine.

  The beer forgotten, she checked the back door in the kitchen. Found the lock secured. On a mission now, she searched the house more thoroughly, focusing on the windows in all of the rooms. In the spare bedroom, she found what she was looking for. Nerves knotted in her stomach.

  The inside latch had been unlocked.

  Resecuring it, she went to the back door and unlocked it before switching on the security light mounted next to the screen door. She pulled out her cell and turned on the flashlight app before stepping outside onto the small cracked cement porch. She made her way to the window she’d found unlocked and shone her light over the old storm covering it.

  The wooden storm was held in place by one-inch clips that had to be turned to a vertical position before removing it. Her grandfather’s house had had the same type of outer windows. Years of painting and weather had made them difficult to remove.

  She shined the narrow beam of light afforded by the cell’s flashlight along the bottom of the window. The clips were in place. But she could see where the old paint had been scraped next to them, as if they had recently been forced into a vertical position before being locked again.

  It would be difficult to miss the fresh pry marks at both bottom corners of the window.

  She shifted the beam to the ground, but there were no indentations there. No footprints. With daytime temperatures hovering in the forties and twenty-degree drops at night, the ground was too hard to leave impressions.

  But she could imagine the scene that had taken place sometime while she was away today. A person standing right in this spot, loosening the storm so it would be easy to remove at a later time. A time of his choosing.

  When Cady might be inside the home.

  Eryn: Then

  “Where’s Mama?”

  Mary Jane looked up from the floor she was scrubbing. “She’s talking to your Uncle Bill. You need to get yourself back to your studies, missy.”

  Eryn ventured farther into the kitchen. “I’m hungry.” She wasn’t. Or, at least, only a little. But she was bored. She was tired of the pile of textbooks, worksheets, and library books. Sick of the amount of time she was expected to just sit there, every day, working alone. There were computer programs, but they didn’t interest her right now, either.

  “You just had lunch an hour ago. Grab an apple, then shoo. I’ve got work to do, even if you think you don’t.”

  Eryn went to the pile of fruit in a bowl on the table and selected a piece, then backed out of the room. It was no use to argue with Mary Jane. Mama said she had a will of iron. Eryn didn’t know where the older woman hid it. She was thin and bony. Anyone who hugged her would get jabbed by one of those bones, probably. Eryn didn’t know for sure because Mary Jane wasn’t the hugging type. Mama was, sometimes, when she wasn’t sleepy or cross. Especially those times when she was excited about goi
ng out for the night or away for the weekend. Then Mama always hugged, squeezing tight so Eryn could tell how good she smelled. Sometimes she danced Eryn around the room for a few steps, laughing.

  Dragging her feet, Eryn headed back to the study where she had school. Not the big gross one Uncle Bill used for his office, with all the animal heads staring down with their dead glass eyes. That room gave Eryn the creeps. She thought maybe spending too much time in it might be the reason Uncle Bill always had the pinched, worried expression he wore a lot of the time. He seemed to have the look a lot more since Henry’s mom was letting him spend more time here. Probably because Henry was mean and a jerk. He should worry everyone.

  Her classroom was in the other wing. The rooms there didn’t get used much. Her pace slowed. It was time for art class. Almost, anyway. And she didn’t want to wait. She’d have to, if Mama stayed cooped up with Uncle Bill for too long.

  Eryn came to a stop. Then she backed up until she could see the closed door to the office. With a quick glance around she saw she was alone. She wondered what Mama and Uncle Bill were talking about in there. Stupid grown-up stuff, probably.

  Maybe they’re talking about you.

  She shook her head impatiently. No, they’re not, she mentally argued. She’d learned long ago not to answer the voices out loud. People looked at her strange when she did. Kids at school had made fun of her. The teachers had gotten scared eyes.

  I bet they are. Why don’t you check? Use your special place.

  Eryn cast another look about and then walked quietly to the small room on the other side of the office wall. At least Mama said it used to be a room, a long time ago, but Eryn’s grandparents had turned it into a closet. The knob was cold beneath her fingers when she pulled it open and slipped inside. Even with all the coats and shoes and boots, there was still plenty of room in it. And it wasn’t dark. Not really. There was a large vent in the back corner where she could crouch on the floor and listen. Two strips of light shone, one under the door, and the other through another vent, high on the wall. Henry had locked her inside once, but it hadn’t been scary because it was daytime. He’d gotten in trouble for it, though, when Eryn had told Mama. She smiled a little at the memory.