Twilight. But was it morning or evening?
He shone a light into the cellar. The brightness blinded her, and she put a hand up to shield her eyes. Heavy steps fell on the wooden stairs. The light moved off her face, and she lowered her hand to watch him descend. He carried a white bag down the steps.
She flinched as the scant light in the stairwell fell upon the oddly proportioned features, creating shadows that made his face even more terrifying. The Michael Myers mask sent an unreasonable spark of horror through her. She should be glad he wasn’t showing her his identity. As long as she couldn’t identify him, she had a chance. Hopefully, he wanted her for some reason that didn’t require her to die.
But her response to the mask was instinctual. The character represented murder and pain and terror.
He lifted a hand, the palm facing her in a stop gesture. Behind him, she saw that he’d left the doors open. Could she rush around him and escape?
She shifted her weight. Pain throbbed through her foot. Even if she got to the steps, she wouldn’t be able to outrun him. He’d catch her before she reached the top.
She couldn’t see his face, but she noted as many things about him as she could. He was over six feet tall and muscular. He wore khaki pants, boots, and a black jacket. A knife was sheathed on his belt. The mask covered his whole head, so she couldn’t see hair color. His eyes were far enough behind the holes in the mask that she couldn’t determine their color either.
“Why—” She tried to ask why he’d taken her, but her throat was too dry to speak, and the word came out as an unintelligible croak.
He stood still for a moment, facing her, his posture stiff. A cold pang gripped her empty belly. Her sore cheek throbbed. He knew how to hurt people.
“What do you want from me?” she wheezed, her teeth chattering as she spoke.
He took three steps forward and slapped her. The blow stunned her, both the speed of his hand and the sting of her already-bruised face.
“Shut up.” He spoke in a throaty whisper, odd and raspy, as if he was purposefully disguising his voice. He lifted the white bag. “Come here.”
She limped forward, feeling like a hungry dog that was regularly beaten but still relied on an abusive human for food. Like a feral animal, she drew closer to the smell of hot food in spite of the risk.
“Stand up straight,” he commanded.
She shifted her weight and winced.
He held the bag over her head, just out of reach. “Ask nicely.”
Olivia sensed that refusing would be the wrong move. “May I please have the bag?”
He lowered the bag into her hand. Tucking her water bottle under her arm, she opened the bag. It was a sandwich, wrapped in foil. When she removed it from the bag, it was warm in her hands. She unwrapped the foil. Hot ham and melted cheese on a long roll. Despite her nerves, the smell made her stomach rumble.
She took a tentative bite. Her shortness of breath made eating difficult, but she took a second bite. She had one protein bar left. Who knew when she would get food again?
After three bites, a coughing spell interrupted her meal. She sipped some water, needing to catch her breath before she continued eating.
“What’s wrong with you?” he asked in a disgusted tone.
“Asthma.” She lowered the sandwich. She could feel her airways narrowing. Without access to her medicine or a way out of this cold, damp basement, she would grow worse. “The air is too cold in here. I need my—” A cough cut off the word medicine.
He propped his hands on his hips, his posture tensing. “You have a blanket.”
The thin cotton throw was insufficient for the temperature in the cellar, but that wasn’t the real problem.
Still short of breath, she shook her head. “It’s the cold air in my lungs.”
“Don’t try to bullshit me. I’m not stupid.” He stepped closer, leaning forward. His body vibrated with rage.
Olivia’s next breath whistled. Her pulse scrambled, and her stomach cramped around the sandwich.
The backhand came faster than she could react. It hit her bruised cheek with an explosion of light and pain. She stumbled backward. Her sandwich and water bottle went flying. Her injured foot gave out, and she fell backward. Pain rang up her tailbone. The impact expelled what little air she had managed to suck into her lungs. She sat still, gaping like a fish, struggling to draw a tiny bit of air into her chest when her rib cage felt like it was made of steel. Her lungs refused to expand.
“I bring you a hot meal, and you repay me by lying.” His whisper had turned hostile. “That’s not how it works here.”
Olivia couldn’t respond. She couldn’t do anything except try to breathe.
He picked up the sandwich and stuffed it back in the white bag. “Next time, you’ll be respectful. Not that I should feed you. Only the strong survive, and you don’t seem very strong.”
What did that mean? Was there going to be a test of some sort?
Taking the sandwich with him, he stomped back up the steps. On the way out, he slapped the light in the stairwell, extinguishing it. The doors slammed shut with a bang that seemed to rattle the ground, leaving Olivia shivering, gasping for air, and alone in the dark.
She crawled toward the steps, feeling ahead with her shaking hands and using her memory to guide her, desperate for the tiny source of light. Sweat soaked her pajamas, and fear nearly choked her.
Her hand hit the wood of the bottom tread. She crawled upward. How many steps until the light? She turned, sweeping her hands across the wall of the stairwell. Her fingers touched the plastic disc.
Please work.
She pressed it. The light came on, and tears of relief flowed down her cheeks. She barely felt the fresh pain throbbing through her cheek.
What was he going to do to her?
She didn’t want to find out. But how could she get past him? He was armed, and she had nothing but the clothes on her back.
Chapter Seventeen
Lance’s pulse pumped as he sprinted down Second Street and turned left. His running shoes hit the blacktop in an even rhythm. He checked his watch. Sharp had promised to close his eyes for thirty minutes. Lance had been staring at his computer screen for hours and had wanted some air.
Checking his watch, he made a U-turn and jogged back. Morgan was climbing out of his Jeep. She rose onto her toes and kissed him.
He held his body away from hers. “I’m sweaty.”
“I don’t care.” She kissed him again. “Where’s Sharp?”
“I talked him into a power nap.”
“Good. He was looking ragged.” Morgan raised an eyebrow at his sweat-soaked T-shirt. “You went in a whole different direction.”
“I slept a little last night, and I needed to clear my head.”
She shook her head. “I had a huge breakfast, lots of coffee, and donuts.”
“We all do what works for us.” He opened the door, and they went into the building.
Morgan put a finger to her lips and pointed. The door to Sharp’s office was open. He was still asleep. Lance figured he’d be awake in another ten minutes.
He followed Morgan into her office. “How were the kids?”
“Fine. You were right. I feel recharged.” She set her tote on her desk. “Grandpa is reviewing the Franklin files. I’m still plugging away at the Olander material, and I’m meeting with Esposito at noon.”
It didn’t surprise Lance the ADA would be in his office on a Saturday. For the prosecutor, weekends were often used to prepare and review for trials.
“Good luck with that.” Lance held on to his opinion that the ADA was an asshole.
Morgan was a softie. A few months back, Esposito had showed a few signs that he could be a decent human being, and she was ready to believe in him. But then, believing in people is what made her a great defense attorney. Lance knew she’d been a successful prosecutor but suspected she was even better on the defense side of the courtroom.
Lance collected
clothes from his office and took a two-minute shower, not bothering to shave. Dressed in clean cargos and a long-sleeve T-shirt, he went back into his office. His phone beeped, and he read a text message from his mother. She wanted to video chat.
He dropped into the chair behind his desk, opened the app on his laptop, and called her. She accepted the call, and her face appeared on the phone screen. “Hi, Mom.”
“Hello, dear.” She was in her office, as usual. Lance’s mother still lived in the same house in which he’d grown up. Her mental illness had likely always been present, but after his father had vanished when Lance was ten, Jenny Kruger had withdrawn from the world.
On the screen, she smiled sadly. “I’m so sorry to hear about Olivia.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Lance angled the screen to see her better.
Stress and time had not been kind to his mom. She looked older than sixty-one. But since she’d started virtually dating a man from her group therapy session, her eyes—and outlook—seemed brighter. Today, her gray hair was combed, clean, and almost shiny, and she was wearing lipstick. She must have been video chatting with her manfriend, Kevin. Before Kevin, Lance had never seen his mother wear makeup. Kevin worked in computers and had many of the same anxiety issues as Jenny. Their relationship made her happy, and that was all that mattered to Lance.
“I haven’t finished with the background reports yet,” she said. His mom taught online computer classes and designed, maintained, and secured websites. She also helped with the online legwork in some of their more complex cases. “But I wanted to give you an update.” She opened a file. “I’ve been working on Olivia’s investigative pieces. I found several articles exposing people of criminal wrongdoings. In the past ten years, Olivia’s stories directly resulted in three people going to prison. According to the New York State Department of Corrections online inmate lookup, two are still in prison. The third was released six years ago.”
“Who is he?”
“A contractor convicted of grand larceny. He defrauded homeowners, mostly senior citizens, out of more than ninety thousand dollars. He served eighteen months in prison. He promised he would get even with Olivia.”
“Sounds like a possible suspect.”
“Except that he was released six years ago and moved to Oregon. He posted photos of himself in Oregon yesterday.”
“Then he’s probably a dead end.”
“I’ll email you the details. Expect the rest of the reports later today,” his mom said. “Also, I have not found a black or dark-blue 1971 Chevy Nova in Scarlet Falls or the surrounding towns. I’m expanding the search. Is it possible he had the year or color wrong?”
“He seemed sure.” But it had been dark, and Bob’s eyes were not young. “Maybe expand your search to other dark colors.”
“OK. I checked out both Olivia’s agent and editor and found no criminal records for either of them in the tristate area.”
Private investigators did not have access to the same national criminal databases that law enforcement used. They had to piece together background checks from county and state records.
“What about Cliff Franklin?” Lance asked.
“You know he was an auto mechanic before he went to prison,” his mom said. “But in addition to working at a local auto shop, he also had his own business, specializing in antique car restoration.”
“Could that be related to the sighting of the ’71 Nova?” Lance thought aloud.
“I can’t find a link. Neither Cliff nor his brother, Joe, has a Nova registered to him.”
“The vehicle could be unregistered.”
“True,” his mom agreed.
“No wives or exes?” Lance asked.
“None,” Jenny answered. “He operated his side business at his brother’s place.”
“Joe Franklin?”
“Yes. Joe is a game developer. He owns a company called JF, Inc. No criminal record. No civil suits. No marriages or divorces. No current social media activity. Almost every hit in my search results is from before his brother was accused of murder. Joe seems to have gone off the radar after his brother’s arrest. He did not give a single interview after the trial.”
“The media attention must have been brutal.”
“Yes. The press hounded him,” Jenny agreed. “Joe Franklin owns a chunk of wilderness about twenty miles from here. He and his brother inherited the land from their parents, who died in a car accident when the brothers were in their late teens. Cliff is the oldest, and for two years following their parents’ deaths, Cliff was Joe’s guardian. They shared the same address until Cliff was arrested.”
“We need more info on Joe Franklin.” Lance rubbed the back of his neck. Too many hours hunched over his laptop had knotted his muscles. “Did you find anything on the Olanders?”
“Now that’s where things get interesting.” His mom clicked her tongue. “Kennett bought the farm in Randolph County and moved here twenty-five years ago. This is the weird part. No mortgage.”
“A cash buy?” Lance was surprised.
“Yes,” his mom answered. “They bought everything: several hundred acres of land with a house, barns, cows, equipment, customer lists, the works. It was just under a million dollars.”
“Where did the money come from?” Lance asked. “Family?”
“I didn’t find anything in his family’s history that suggests they had that kind of money, but it’s possible.”
But Lance suspected the source of the money was related to the arsenal he’d found in the Olanders’ basement.
Chapter Eighteen
The peal of Sharp’s phone alarm jolted him back to consciousness. It took all of three seconds before he remembered Olivia’s disappearance. He scanned his empty office, then checked his phone for messages and emails.
Nothing.
Disappointment crushed him as if a car were parked on his chest. Sitting up on the couch in his office, he rubbed his stubbled jaw. He hadn’t wanted to close his eyes, but Lance had insisted. Lance had been right. Even through the fog of waking, Sharp could feel his neurons beginning to fire.
He was still groggy as hell, but the small amount of sleep would enable him to function.
Rising, he went across the hall and ducked into Lance’s office. “Anything?”
“I called the cable company, utilities, and township,” Lance said. “None of them sent a white van to Olivia’s street in the past couple of weeks. Stella is on the way. She says she has news. Why don’t you get a cup of tea? You look like hell.”
But Sharp’s brain felt like mush. “I don’t think tea is going to cut it.”
He went into Morgan’s office and called out, “How do you work this coffee machine?”
Lance appeared in the doorway, looking shocked. “When was the last time you drank coffee?”
“I don’t know.” Sharp took a clean mug from Morgan’s shelf. “Sometime in the nineties, I think. But I’m desperate. I can hardly think straight, and I really need to be on my game.”
“Lift the handle, insert a pod, and press the flashing blue button.”
“These plastic pods are terrible for the environment.” But Sharp followed his instructions. In less than a minute, he had a cup of coffee. He took a tentative sip. It didn’t taste as good as he remembered, but he’d drink it anyway.
“What you really need is more sleep,” Lance said.
“That’s not going to happen. Not until we find her.” Sharp turned, panic scrambling for a toehold in his chest. “What if we don’t?”
With every minute that passed, the chances of Olivia returning alive and well decreased.
“You can’t think that way. Not yet. It’s only been a day and a half.” Despite his words, Lance’s mouth was set in a grim line. “Let’s see what Stella has to say.”
“You’re right.” Sharp carried the coffee back to his office. The caffeine wasn’t helping. He opened his laptop and tried to remember what he’d been reading when he’d almost fallen asleep on the key
board. His office door was open, giving him a view of the foyer.
Morgan walked in. “Stella’s here.”
Following her sister, Stella entered Sharp’s office and unbuttoned her jacket. Physically, the sisters looked similar. Both were tall, with long black hair and blue eyes. But Stella dressed like a cop. Plain black pants, flat black boots, and a black jacket over her gun and handcuffs. She’d contained her hair in a utilitarian bun. Morgan dressed like the successful trial attorney she was. She wore a feminine, fitted gray suit; white blouse; and heels. She’d left her hair down, and it waved just past her shoulders.
“Jenny Kruger called this morning,” Morgan said. “She hasn’t found a ’71 Nova, but Joe Franklin lives on a secluded property where Cliff used to restore antique cars.”
“We need to pay Joe a visit.” Stella tossed her jacket on a chair. “Let me give you a quick update on my end. As I told Morgan, the fingerprints taken from Olivia’s house didn’t have any matches in AFIS.” The Automated Fingerprint Identification System was a national database of fingerprints maintained by the FBI. “Also, the heating and air company that was on Olivia’s calendar for Wednesday checks out. They do background checks on all of their employees. None have criminal records, and the technician who serviced Olivia’s heater has an alibi. He was at a bachelor party at a strip club until three a.m.”
“Then it’s unlikely he’s involved.” Sharp leaned back in his chair.
“Right. The chief has called a press conference.” Stella checked her watch. “He’ll put out a tip line and ask for the community’s help.”
“He didn’t want you to talk to the press?” Sharp knew the current asshat of a police chief liked to trot out Scarlet Falls’ only female detective for the press. The chief was all about politics.
Stella sighed. “I told him I had to run down a lead. Thankfully, the chief likes to be in front of the camera.”
Sharp rubbed the top of his scalp. “It’ll generate a hundred calls about everyone’s suspicious neighbor and at least one false confession.”
“There’s nothing we can do about it now,” Stella said. “It’s going to happen. The story was all over the news last night.”
Save Your Breath Page 12
