Cold Dark Places (Cady Maddix Mystery Book 1)

by Kylie Brant

  Ryder looked at Jenny, who was climbing up into her dad’s lap, and a chill prickled at the base of his neck. Near misses. If Danny hadn’t refused to leave his sister . . . if Joe’s cell phone records had arrived a couple of hours earlier . . .

  They appeared destined to remain a step behind Samuel Aldeen. Ryder tamped down his rising frustration and thanked the family. Walking a short distance away, he used the radio to confer with his team, who were spread across the property and beyond.

  They’d search the area more thoroughly, but they hadn’t found a vehicle yet. Ryder was willing to bet they’d missed their chance at the fugitive.

  Mingled with his disappointment was a flicker of curiosity. Aldeen had obviously had the means to leave the county. Or even the state. Ryder found himself hoping that Eryn Pullman wasn’t what was keeping the man in the area.

  Cady

  The nightmare was a montage of disconnected movie clips, one melding with the next in a Technicolored display. Cady’s mom, one hand to her bloody mouth, huddled on the kitchen floor in the nightgown that matched her daughter’s. Her husband standing menacingly over her, his features blurry and indistinct. Cady’s fingers closing around the grip of the gun. The weight of it in her hand. The explosion of sound. The spattering of crimson.

  She tossed in the bed as she attempted to claw her way to consciousness. The image gave way to another. Bo chasing her to the cabin, one hand covering the wound she’d inflicted. You fucking whore! I’ll kill you! And then her grandfather appeared, shoving her struggling body down the cellar steps to the waiting well of darkness. You get what you deserve in this life, girlie. Next time you’ll think twice about taking something don’t belong to you.

  Eryn Pullman’s face superimposed over the scene. I’m not a fan of small, damp, enclosed places.

  Cady opened her eyes, heart hammering, lungs heaving, the smell of dirt and mold still in her nostrils. She raised a hand to her head and winced when it grazed her eye. The events of yesterday filtered back. When she struggled to sit up, the action brought a synchronized chorus of pain. She gave herself a minute to adjust, beating back the remnants of panic still fluttering in her chest.

  She stood gingerly. In a masterful understatement, the ER doctor had told her to expect some stiffness today. He hadn’t mentioned that all the muscles in her body would stage a minor rebellion at the slightest movement. Gritting her teeth, she shuffled to the bathroom and adjusted the shower to a temperature just shy of hellfire and let the scalding spray pummel her muscles into submission.

  Arms braced on the shower walls, Cady tried to empty her mind as she waited until the water began to chill before she stepped out and dried off. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror then and stared in horror.

  Well, shit. She patted her face dry cautiously. She could open her right eye only to a slit, which was a modicum of improvement over yesterday. The deep red welts on her face had begun changing to blue by last night and had completed their metamorphosis to navy and purple by morning. She looked like she’d gotten in the ring with a prizefighter and narrowly crawled away with her life.

  Which, she thought darkly as she cautiously toweled her hair, isn’t such a stretch.

  Dressing and breakfast required a bit more time and care, but by eight she was up and carefully walking to her car, her face partially shielded by sunglasses.

  Three hours later she was heading home from Waynesville with a three- or four-year-old German shepherd mix sharing the front seat with her. It would be difficult to say which of them was warier.

  “Okay, the locksmith is due any minute. I’m probably going to have to chain you up while he’s here, but not every day. You’ve got a big fenced-in yard.” Or will have, Cady thought, after I install the gates Dorothy promised.

  The dog stared at Cady with what looked an awful lot like doubt. She heartily reciprocated the emotion. What did she know about caring for a pet? Her mom had struggled to keep a rented roof over their head, and too often they’d ended up living with Alma. And later on, after she’d been foisted on a grandfather she barely knew, Cady hadn’t been in the habit of asking for favors.

  When she pulled up to her place, her good eye widened. Dorothy had not only had the gates delivered; she’d had them installed. Although the fiscally frugal landlady would undoubtedly charge her for the service, Cady’s muscles wept with gratitude.

  She pulled over to open the gates—which was going to be a big pain in the butt on a daily basis—and then got into the vehicle again. Drove through them and stopped to close them behind her.

  The Jeep was under the carport. She parked behind it, got out, and went to the passenger side to open the door for the dog. He just looked at her. “Really? This place looks worse than the shelter I rescued you from? C’mon.” She took hold of his new collar, complete with tags attesting to his shots, and guided him from the vehicle. Leaving him to check out his new home, she unlocked the front door and did a walk-through to ensure the intruder hadn’t returned in her absence. Then she hauled in the supplies she’d bought for the animal, who didn’t seem as happy as one might think about being released from a three-by-four cage.

  The property was a beehive of activity for the next couple of hours. On the heels of the locksmith was the delivery from the store from which she’d bought the doggie Taj Mahal. The doghouse was roomy and heated, with a piece of canvas over the door to keep out the wind and chill. She’d gotten two beds and dog dishes, one for outdoors and the other for inside. Just as it wasn’t fair to keep him locked up all day, Cady didn’t figure it was right to make him spend all of his time outdoors. Unless his manners dictated otherwise. He’d proven his watchdog capabilities by incessantly barking and lunging as far as the chain would allow while strangers encroached upon his newly marked territory.

  While keeping her only good eye on the action, she texted Miguel. What’s going on today? Minutes later his reply appeared. You’re on leave all day so what does it matter?

  Smart-ass. Heading to Cisco’s in Charlotte this afternoon. Meet me there at 5. She’d made a few phone calls on the way home from town. The pizza place where Preston had claimed she’d worked with Aldeen twenty-three years earlier remained under its original ownership, and the owner appeared most nights from five to eight.

  You mean tomorrow. Because you’re not on duty today. Gant’s orders.

  Duty? I’m going for the pizza.

  There was no response, but Cady didn’t need one. Once the locksmith and doghouse guy were finished, the canine—who really needed a name—would be released from his chain and given his first opportunity to protect the property in her absence. Allen Gant might have ordered her off official duty today, but he couldn’t control where she ate.

  Cady was unsurprised to find Miguel waiting for her at the door to the restaurant. Although it was barely five, several tables were already filled. A cheerful middle-aged woman led them to their table and handed them menus, promising a waitress would be with them shortly. Cady looked across the expanse of the red-and-white checkered tablecloth at the other marshal. “How was your day, dear?”

  “Getting blown up didn’t make you funnier.” He was already perusing the menu selections. “Yelp reviews on this place are great. I’ve never been here, and I’m a pizza connoisseur.”

  “Being a human garbage can doesn’t elevate you to connoisseur status.”

  He looked affronted. “I eat very healthy. My body is a temple.”

  “Given the tales of your social life, I’d guess more of an amusement park.”

  “Time off has not been good for you,” he observed, considering her more closely. “Although those sunglasses probably are. If your eye is the shade of the rest of those bruises, do all these diners a favor and don’t remove them.”

  “It is and I won’t.” The walls of the place caught her attention then. Rows and rows of framed photographs seemed to cover every square inch of them. She got up to get a closer look.

  There were celeb
rities shaking hands with the owner, often with a compliment written beneath the frame. She recognized a few athletes and a couple of singers, but there were more pictured people whom she didn’t know, which wasn’t surprising. She didn’t keep up with popular culture or local politics.

  Cady was intrigued to see the same man appear in each of the photos. The owner of the place, she assumed. In the progression of images, his hair turned from black to peppered to full gray and then white. Several photos depicted what she imagined were family celebrations. Cady only turned away from them when the waitress showed up at their table. She returned to her seat to place her order for a soft drink.

  “Fast service.”

  “She probably thought you were a terrorist.” Miguel was still studying the menu.

  “Whatever works.” When the waitress returned with their drinks, Cady smiled and asked, “Is the owner in tonight?”

  “He is,” the girl answered. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen, with a talent for hair and makeup that still eluded Cady. “Poppa Cisco is here for a few hours most days. Are you a friend of his?”

  Laying her credentials on the table, Cady said, “No, but I’m sure I’ll be part of his fan club after we sample his pizza. We’d like to talk to him about some employees he had a long time ago.”

  “Um . . . I’ll tell him.” She rushed away.

  “Why’d you have to scare her before we put our order in?”

  “She’ll be back.”

  Cady’s prediction proved prophetic. Not only did the girl return in under ten minutes, she did so with an older man in tow. Cady recognized him from his appearance in most of the pictures on the wall.

  “You are with the Marshals Service, my granddaughter tells me.” The man was small and compact, with an enviable full head of white hair. “I am Francesco Romano. Like the cheese.”

  She and Miguel smiled, as they were supposed to.

  “Here, though, I’m Poppa Cisco. What is it I can do for the Marshals today?”

  “We’d like to ask you a few questions, if you can spare the time.”

  His gaze shifted to the kitchen behind him. “If they can’t survive without me for a few minutes, I haven’t trained them well.” He pulled out a chair and sat down, looking from Cady to Miguel quizzically.

  “I have a couple of pictures to show you of people who worked for you twenty-three years ago,” Cady said.

  The man’s bushy eyebrows rose. “Now you’re testing my memory. The employees . . . they come and go. So many college kids back then. As my grandchildren got old enough I mostly hired family for many years. Now Bella”—he nodded at the girl who had waited on them—“she’s the youngest. Perhaps I will soon have to hire the great-grandchildren. But let’s see.”

  Cady had printed recent pictures of Aldeen and Preston before she left the house. She reached into her coat now and withdrew them to put in front of the man, who pulled glasses from the pocket of his white shirt and settled them on his nose. He studied the photos for a moment before shaking his head. “Maybe yes, maybe no. It’s hard to tell after not seeing them for so many years. What are their names?”

  “Samuel Aldeen and Sheila Preston.”

  Romano’s lips tightened. “Those I recognize. He’s the horrible man who hurt those children years ago. I remember her name only because I was contacted once by the security people from where this man was locked up. I had to verify they had worked here so she could be allowed to visit him. I ask you, who would want contact with a monster like him?”

  “How were you able to verify they worked here?” Miguel asked. “It was quite a while ago.”

  “You see my walls.” Cisco waved to the array of photographs. “Life is people and people are memories. I keep my memories close by taking pictures, you see?”

  A flicker of excitement lit in Cady’s veins. “Did you ever take pictures of your employees?”

  “Of course. We had Christmas parties, and there were many photos.” His chair scraped as he rose. “They wouldn’t be on the walls. I keep them in scrapbooks. That’s what I had to consult when security called. Let me fetch them.”

  Cady watched him go and then looked at Miguel. “I almost forgot to tell you. I had a voice mail from Ryder Talbot. The Haywood County sheriff.” She must have missed his call in the midst of the commotion at her house this afternoon. “There was a sighting of Aldeen this morning.”

  Miguel nodded. “Highway Patrol is out in force looking for the car he stole from Joe Bush’s house.” He’d obviously read the task force updates. “SBI sent a forensic artist to work with the witness. They’re currently deciding whether to release it to the public.”

  Weighing the benefit to the case was always tricky. “Supposed sightings will quadruple.” And probably overwhelm the staff monitoring the tip line the task force set up. On the other hand, if Aldeen was still in the area, the information couldn’t be kept from the public. “Do you have a copy of the forensic sketch?” It hadn’t been attached to the message she’d received.

  Her partner nodded and brought it up on his cell and then held it out to her. Cady studied it. The escapee had made minor changes. Shaved his head. Begun to grow a beard. He would have altered his looks again by now, so if the sketch was released, it would no longer match the man’s appearance.

  But there was only so much to be done to disguise facial features. Obviously, the witness who’d seen Aldeen hadn’t recognized him. Others might.

  “The sheriff’s department and local police departments are all over the surrounding area where he was last seen. Allen sent Chester and Quimby.” Miguel’s expression was resentful. “I had to spend the afternoon in-house.”

  Cady stifled a tiny flare of professional jealousy thinking of the other two marshals being in the middle of the action. “So the million-dollar question is, why is Aldeen still in the area?” The question had niggled at her ever since she’d read Talbot’s text.

  “It was Bush who made the arrangements for the cabin. Another way Aldeen used the man. Maybe he figured he wouldn’t get far if he ran so he holed up until the search was scaled back.”

  “Or maybe,” Cady said slowly as she spotted Cisco coming from the kitchen with an armful of scrapbooks, “there’s something keeping him in the area. Something undone or a payoff of some kind he’s waiting for.” Her stomach twisted. She hoped like hell that “something” didn’t include Eryn Pullman.

  The older man reached their table, out of breath, and set the books down heavily. They were dusty. Cady wondered where he’d kept them.

  “Twenty-three years, you said.” He thumped the book on top. “That would probably be this one, although I brought them all just in case. It spans a five-year period, but the pages are marked with names and dates. Some of the employees were just here to collect a check and then . . .” He made a dismissive gesture. “Others became like family. We were invited to their weddings, their children’s baptisms . . . life is people.”

  Cady felt a slight pang. He was the sort of man who would embrace strangers. Treat them like family. She could count her living relatives on one hand. And she was close to none but her mother. The contrast plucked at a chord buried deep inside. Something she didn’t care to contemplate.

  He flipped open the book and turned a few pages until he came to the one he was looking for. “Some stayed more than one year,” he murmured, putting his glasses on again to examine the dates under the pictures. “A few worked for us the entire time they were in college. Not all were students, of course, but at the time we were very popular with the college crowd. We were open all day back then. Not now. Momma and I are too old. They used to start filing in at noon. They’d eat lunch and then stay to study or drink.”

  Cady and Miguel dragged their chairs closer to the pages he had open. She recognized the restaurant in the photos, festively decorated in the trappings of the season. As she studied each picture intently, her gaze arrowed on a familiar face. It wasn’t one she’d expected to see.

&nbs
p; David Sutton. The man who had been seen at Selma Lewis’s house. The one who’d intercepted the calls to her number from Aldeen.

  Cady caught Miguel’s eye and pointed to the handsome, smiling man. Sutton’s face was split in a wide grin, his arm wrapped around an equally attractive blonde. Scanning the rest of the people in the picture, she spotted Aldeen and Preston among a few other faces.

  “Did David Sutton work here too?” She tapped his image.

  The owner followed the direction she was indicating and stared at the man’s face for a moment. “Not for long. Not that one. He didn’t like to take direction. Always wanted to do things his way. Like the girl.” Romano moved his gnarled finger to the blonde. “The parties were for employees only, but he brought his girlfriend. She hung out here all of the time while he worked for me. She brought a lot of her friends too. Good for business. But lots of drama. You know the type?”

  Cady did. “Do you mind if I take a picture?” When Cisco shook his head, she snapped a few photos on her cell, then indicated the woman with Sutton. “Do you know her name?” It didn’t appear beneath the photo. Likely because, as Cisco had said, the woman hadn’t belonged there.

  It all seemed a little too cozy. If Preston was on visiting terms with Aldeen and if Sutton was still friendly enough to be communicating with him through Lewis’s hacked phone line, perhaps the unidentified woman would be entangled in Aldeen’s circle as well. At the very least, she may have information leading them to Sutton.

  “Hmm. Now you really test me.” The restaurant owner closed his eyes. Pursed his lips. “There was something . . . later . . . something awful . . . but yes!” He snapped his fingers, his eyes opening as the memory he’d sought materialized. “She was murdered. It would have been a few years after this picture was taken. I can’t quite remember all the details. But her family was well off. It was in the papers. Pullman, that was her name. I don’t recall the rest of it.”

  Shock blazed through Cady. They’d struck out yesterday questioning William and Eryn Pullman about a possible link to Aldeen. Now here it was. Eryn’s deceased mother would have known most of the players in their investigation. Samuel Aldeen. Sheila Preston. And David Sutton.