by Kylie Brant
With Jerry on his heels, Ryder walked through the door. He was only two steps inside before the smell hit him. The unmistakable scent of decomposing flesh. He followed it through the doorway of the kitchen into the next room.
Joe Bush had been a tall man. The bare foot they’d seen from the porch was attached to a long leg encased in denim, topped by a plaid shirt, which was now marred by the sort of blood loss associated with massive trauma.
The deputy carefully skirted the body and did a check of the rest of the rooms. Ryder crouched near the corpse. Two bullets had caught the man center mass. Another had likely shattered his knee. He’d seen enough dead bodies to gauge this one as no more than two days old. A spear of frustration stabbed through him. None of the questions he’d wanted to put to the man were going to get answered now. He rose and radioed it in and then summoned the local coroner before putting in a call to SBI Agent Sweeney at the command center, where the task force members gathered. He knew the man would already be there.
The agent came on the line. “Where are you? When I came in this morning, they said you hadn’t arrived yet.”
“I got a call that had nothing to do with the Aldeen case.” He took a few steps away from the body and acknowledged Garza’s wave when he came back into the area. The deputy had cleared the premises. “Then I followed up on one of the Fristol substitute employees we hadn’t interviewed yet. He was supposed to be on vacation. We found him at home, with a couple of bullets in his chest. He’s probably been dead less than forty-eight hours.”
The agent cursed. “Is there any sign of a connection to Aldeen?”
“Not yet.” Spying the computer on a nearby table, Ryder crossed to it and pulled a latex glove from his pocket to don before touching the space bar. The screen lit up. He went to the history, and his brows came together when he saw it’d been cleared.
“Call me if you find a link.”
Promising to do so, Ryder disconnected. He was feeling slightly more friendly toward the agent than he had the first few hours after they’d met. The agencies joining together for the task force brought a mixture of personalities. Ryder focused on getting results, and the extra manpower was helping achieve them far faster than his office could have done on its own.
“Type up the paperwork,” he told his deputy. “Besides the search, we’ll need warrants on his cell phone, financials, and electronics. I’m going to take a look around the property.” Their entry would qualify as exigent circumstances, since they’d seen the body inside the home.
Jerry followed Ryder out of the house, and they parted ways at the base of the steps. The official vehicle held the laptop the deputy would need for typing and submitting the requests. Ryder studied the back of the home. The half-open back door signaled something entirely different than their initial assumption. It was probably how the killer departed. Ryder slowly circled to the front without finding any signs of forced entry. Which suggested Bush knew his attacker and let him in.
Ryder crossed to the single-stall garage. It boasted a small window on both sides. When he pressed his face against the panes, he could make out the shape of a vehicle but not the make or model. He went back to his car for a Maglite and headed back to the garage with it. The beam lit up the interior of the structure. A jolt went through him.
He didn’t know what kind of vehicle the substitute custodian drove. But the one housed inside this building looked an awful lot like the one Aldeen had driven off the Fristol property.
“It’s the car Aldeen used for his escape,” Ryder informed Sweeney and FBI Special Agent Quinn Tolliver as they donned latex gloves and joined him in the garage. In an odd sort of synchronicity, their arrival had almost exactly coincided with the warrants. Once Ryder had the paperwork in hand, he’d called in his criminal investigation deputies. The medical examiner had come and gone in the intervening time. The body was on its way to the morgue. “Bush drove a ten-year-old Impala. His plates, and those on Aldeen’s original vehicle, are there.” He pointed to the pile in the corner of the garage where they’d been discarded.
“So the escapee has Bush’s car with a third set of plates on it.” Tolliver put words to the obvious.
Ryder nodded, careful to keep his frustration in check. The state troopers had a description of the vehicle used in the escape, but they wouldn’t have stopped a matching car if the plates didn’t match the BOLO.
“Dumb to leave the plates for us to see. He could have had us chasing our tails looking out for two different licenses. Now we know we don’t have the plate number he’s using on Bush’s vehicle,” Agent Sweeney said. He sipped from a go-cup he must have picked up on the way over.
“Dumb? Or showing off?” This from Tolliver. “Each would say something different about the inmate.”
“He was smart enough to avoid capture for at least six violent crimes for years,” Ryder said shortly. Regardless of Aldeen’s mental illness, he possessed the skills to pass as normal in public. He’d done just that for too long before justice caught up with him. It’d be a mistake to underestimate him. “Based upon what his psychiatrist told us, the man’s IQ is well above average. He’s thumbing his nose at us, I expect. Just a little reminder we have no idea what his resources are.” Ryder stared at the plates as if they held some answers. “The working assumption now is he had two accomplices, Preston and Bush. But there’s another guy figuring into the equation. One Aldeen probably doesn’t realize we know about.”
“The one who hacked the old lady’s phone.”
“The mysterious Raymond.” Ryder had looked the vehicle over but found nothing of interest in it. Preston’s fingerprints might eventually be discovered, but they already had a video image of her driving the escape vehicle onto Fristol property. And they knew Aldeen had escaped in it, so finding his prints or DNA would be superfluous.
A thought occurred then. “Maybe Aldeen had an ulterior motive for leaving the licenses. They announce his presence here, and why would he want to tie himself to a dead body? Because by doing so, he also wraps up Bush and Preston in a nice neat little bow for us as his two accessories. ‘No need to look elsewhere, folks. I’m giving away my coconspirators right here.’” Downright insulting, is what it is, Ryder mused. But it meant they were a step ahead of the escapee in one way. They knew about the stranger who’d pretended to be Selma Lewis’s great-nephew. And it was looking like Aldeen was shielding the man.
They needed to figure out why.
“Damn coincidental that Preston and Bush both took vacation just prior to the escape,” Tolliver noted.
“If they thought that gave them plausible deniability,” Sweeney said as he pulled open a car door and stuck his head in, “they’d be wrong.”
The FBI agent looked thoughtful. “So Bush could have smuggled the contraband inside Fristol. Everything Aldeen would need to walk out. The uniform. Shoes. Jacket. ID.”
“Someone else had to convert the audio files,” Ryder said. “There’s no equipment inside Bush’s house to do so.” They needed a deeper dive into the custodian’s background. His friends, contacts, skills . . . the list of tasks continued to grow while answers remained in short supply.
“Maybe Preston was responsible for the files,” FBI Special Agent Tolliver suggested. “We know she supplied the vehicle. And Aldeen had to get the gun and a change of clothes from someone.”
“Or perhaps the mystery man who hacked into Lewis’s phone line provided the necessities. He had to have been the one speaking regularly to the inmate.” Which told Ryder whoever Raymond was, either he couldn’t get clearance to be on Fristol’s patient contact list or he didn’t want to leave evidence of his link to Aldeen. The man could have been the one who’d gotten Sheila Preston involved.
Tolliver approached the car to peer into the open trunk. “You found nothing in it?”
Ryder shook his head. “I’ve got my investigative team inside the house. They’ll comb the vehicle, but I didn’t see anything. I’m betting it’s a rental, so it s
houldn’t be difficult to trace the company and find out who obtained it.”
He was already laying odds the person would be Sheila Preston.
Ryder was just pulling into Canton’s city limits when Deputy Logan Middleton called. He’d dispatched the man to follow up on Frederick Bancroft, the ringleader arrested a few days ago for trespassing on the Pullman property. Ryder had gotten phone calls from not one but two county supervisors in recent days, both reminding him of the importance of Pullman Industries in the area. Which was why he’d dealt with the fire this morning himself. But with the Fristol escape pulling him in too many directions, he had to delegate.
“Hey, Ry, it’s Logan.”
“Did you touch base with Bancroft?” Ryder slowed as he entered the town, glancing at the GPS on his dash to guide him to Cindy Preston’s home.
“I did. Not a likable guy.”
A brief mental image flashed into his mind of the combative Bancroft, pugnacious jaw jutted as he’d shouted hateful remarks. “Nope. You’re saying spending the night in jail didn’t accomplish an attitude adjustment?”
His deputy chuckled. “None I could see. He spent the first ten minutes complaining I had no right to talk to him. The next ten he recounted all of the reasons the effigy was justified, and the final few minutes claiming he had nothing to do with it. Short story . . . he’s alibied. I got the feeling he made sure of it before this all went down. He was attending a funeral in Cruso. I’ll follow up, of course, but I’m guessing he had someone else from his church do the dirty work.”
“Okay, verify his alibi. Then call the office and get the contact information for everyone who was protesting Eryn Pullman’s arrival home.”
“I’ll interview all of them,” Logan promised.
They disconnected just as the GPS was announcing Ryder’s arrival at his destination, a 1960s-era ranch-style home painted an unattractive dark brown. He walked swiftly to the front door and knocked. But he was saved from repeating the action by a man coming out of the neighboring house.
“Nobody home,” he called out to Ryder helpfully as he dragged a garbage container toward the end of his drive. “Cindy would be at work. Johnson’s Motor Supply on Main Street.”
“Thanks.” Ryder paused. “Does Ms. Preston live alone?”
“She has as long as I’ve lived here, so at least for ten years.” Concern filtered through the man’s expression. “Is anything wrong?”
“Nothing to worry about.” Getting back in his car, Ryder pulled away from the curb. He shouldn’t need GPS to find Main Street in a town of forty-two hundred. Twenty minutes later he was sitting across a table in the store’s employee lounge from Cindy Preston, a sixtysomething woman with improbable red hair and heavy makeup. She was peering uncomprehendingly at Ryder through a spiderweb of false lashes.
“I don’t understand? You said Sheila is okay? But you’re looking for her?” The woman’s inflection made every statement sound like a question.
“As far as I know, she’s fine,” Ryder assured her. He unzipped his jacket. The room was like an oven. “But I need to speak with her. She may have knowledge of a crime my office is investigating.”
Something flitted across the woman’s expression, there and gone too quickly for him to identify. She sat back a little in her chair. And when she spoke next her voice was decidedly cooler. “My daughter had some trouble with the law a while back. I’m not going to deny it. But she’s moved on. Her kids are her life now. She wouldn’t do anything to put them at risk.”
“Sheila took a week’s vacation a couple of days ago. She pulled one child out of school and the other from day care.” He could tell by Cindy’s widened eyes she hadn’t known that. His gut tightened. They weren’t going to find Sheila Preston hiding inside her mother’s home.
The woman recovered quickly. “Well, I guess a person has a right to go on vacation when they want.”
Ryder held up a hand. “Ma’am, we need to speak to her. If you know where she is—if you have any idea at all—you can help her by helping us.”
Cindy dug in her oversize purse for a tissue. Dabbed at her eyes. “I’m sorry, I don’t. I talk to both of my girls once a week, and Sheila never mentioned a thing about a vacation. Now that I think about it, she’s been a bit stressed. She said there’s been a lot of pressure at work.”
“Maybe she confided in your other daughter.”
“Julie? She’s married and lives in Mecklenburg. Near Charlotte? But I can’t believe she wouldn’t have mentioned anything to me if she knew. You leave her alone. I don’t want her dragged into some problem with Sheila. It’s not fair to Julie or her family.”
“I think she’d want to help her sister if she could, don’t you? I know my sister would.” Ryder gave her an encouraging smile. “If she thinks I have the tiniest problem, she’s on her white horse, galloping to the rescue. Bossing me the whole way too.”
Cindy chuckled a little and with a final swipe at her eyes she replaced the tissue in her purse. “You’re exactly right. Julie’s the oldest. Stuck her nose in Sheila’s business something awful ’til she got a family to focus on. Maybe . . . if Sheila had reached out, Julie would have tried to help.”
Ryder was betting on the same. He left Cindy Preston looking far more worried than he’d found her. Getting into his vehicle, he scrolled through the emails from his deputies updating him about their progress before finding Cady Maddix’s number.
Jerry Garza’s words flashed across his mind. It was a helluva thing when his little girl shot him dead.
Ryder’s fingers paused on the phone. What did such an early trauma do to a child? Maybe it all depended on how the adults around her handled it. He had a mental image of Cady at their first meeting. Cool. Competent. Closed off. She’d impressed him with her professionalism in his dealings with her so far. She’d obviously managed to put the early tragedy behind her.
But he knew from experience traumas were never forgotten. They had a way of hanging around, ready to ambush when you least expected it.
He finished putting the call through. Started his car and pulled away from the curb. There was a task force meeting in less than an hour. He couldn’t miss it.
She answered on the third ring. “Maddix.”
“Ryder Talbot.”
“I have caller ID,” she noted dryly.
He grinned. She didn’t suffer fools gladly. A trait he appreciated. “So you’ve got me in your contact list. I’m touched.”
“You just might be.” Her tone gave his words a different meaning. His smile grew wider. It’d been a long damn day, and there was no end in sight yet. “Do you have news?”
“You might consider it that.” Ryder filled her in on the events of the day, ending with his conversation with Cindy Preston.
There was a moment of silence when he finished before Cady said, “Aldeen obviously doesn’t think we know about the man calling himself Raymond.”
She’d cut right to the heart of the matter. “It gives us an advantage. Have you heard anything on the latents left in Selma Lewis’s house yet?”
“You’ll know when I do. Aldeen probably didn’t plan on the guy chatting with the neighbors, or living there—at least some of the time—since Lewis went to the nursing home.”
“The escapee might be protecting him. But if we get Raymond’s real name through his print, we might get the best lead yet on our fugitive.”
“They’re promising me later this afternoon or tomorrow at the latest for the results,” Cady said. “Not that I’ve been pushing.”
He smiled again. “Push away.” Passing the city limits, Ryder pressed on the accelerator. “Sheila Preston’s mother thinks she might have confided in her sister.”
Interest sounded in Cady’s voice. “She’s next on our list. We went by Sheila’s house and her place of employment again this morning. Talked to a few neighbors, and to some of her coworkers. Didn’t learn much.”
“Hopefully you’ll discover more from the sister than
we did from Bush.”
“I saw on the updates you found him dead this morning.” Her voice was grim. “Aldeen has been a step ahead since he escaped.”
“Bush was a loose end. We still might get something from his phone, computer, and financials, but it’s going to take a while.” The man’s phone had been password protected. The search of his house hadn’t turned up as much as a bank statement. Most people did their banking online these days. They’d be waiting on the state crime lab to retrieve all the information. “The sooner we track down Preston the better.” Ryder’s imagination might be working overtime, but he didn’t think so. “The ME estimated Bush has been dead thirty-six to forty-eight hours. Preston has been missing for at least as long.”
“You think she’s dead too?”
“If she isn’t now, she still might be in danger. She could have taken off because she knew we could link her to the car Aldeen used to escape. Or . . .”
Cady finished his thought. “. . . she may suspect someone will be coming for her.”
A buzz sounded. “I have another call coming in.”
“No problem. Miguel and I will head to Mecklenburg.”
As Cady hung up, Ryder answered the incoming call. It was Cal again. “Ryder, I won’t need to send a copy of that audio file to Rolling Acres Resort after all. I talked to a Dr. Patchett, who’s in charge over there, and played him a short clip. He recognized the patient right away, just from the content. Said he’d gone over the progress notes recently, prior to the patient’s release. He identified her as Eryn Pullman.”
Samuel
Samuel stepped outside his cabin and drew in a breath of fresh air. Most people didn’t realize freedom had its own smell, taste, and feel.
It started with sleeping as long as he wanted. Going to bed whenever he pleased. But the ability to move about, circumspectly, unsupervised . . . the wonder of it couldn’t be taken for granted.
Not to mention being liberated from the crew at Fristol who attempted nightly missions to whisk him off to a private room to steal blood and tissue samples. Fighting them off had been exhausting. He’d thwarted them by napping during the day in the common room with witnesses all around him and remaining vigilant at night.
