“What you want with Hogg?”
“That’s my business.”
The man made a be that way face and glanced across his cubicle at a corkboard lined with brass hooks. Some of the hooks were empty while others held numbered keys.
“Hogg is in 3A, but ain’t here at the moment.”
“When do you expect him back?”
The man shrugged. “He comes and goes. The outside door gets locked at ten each night. He ain’t in by then, he’s sleeping rough and his PO gets a call. I don’t make the rules, just enforce ’em.”
“He normally stay out all day?”
The man rolled his eyes to one side, bored with the questions and not trying to hide it. A dog-eared book of Sudoku puzzles lay on the desk alongside a pack of pencils and a pink eraser that had been worn to a nub.
“He hasn’t been here long, but he likes to read. If he finds a book at Salvation Annie’s or the thrift store, he’ll come back and stay up in his room all day. I tell him he should look for work, but he don’t listen. None of them do.”
Ian glanced at the corkboard. “He has to collect his room key from you?”
“Yep.” The man adjusted his teeth and straightened his bow tie. “That was my idea. Dumb bastards were always losing the damn key or making copies to sublet the space to whores and junkies. Now the key don’t leave the building, and everything runs smoother.”
Ian doubted the proclamation, but didn’t want to spoil the day by pointing out its flaws. After taking one last look around the cramped lobby, he thanked the man and headed outside. With nowhere else to go, he crossed the road again and entered the diner. His stomach rumbled at the welcoming smell of hot grease and baking dough.
WITH A seat by the window, Ian dunked a thick triangle of buttered wholemeal toast into the dome of a sunny yolk. Translucent skin ruptured upon contact, and the egg began to ooze like an orange volcano on quaaludes. A second swipe of toast neatly saved his bacon from becoming Pompeii.
Keeping one eye affixed to the front door of Raven’s Rest across the street, Ian pulled up the parolee report he had been reading on his phone that morning. According to Jersey, the predator—Bernard Colfleet—hadn’t been seen in two days. If he returned to his home now, he wouldn’t stay long after noticing his disturbing pair of underground studios had been discovered, but there was one thing few people could resist checking—especially if they were in the shady business of buy and sell.
Ian found the number he was looking for on the report and dialed. He continued to eat his breakfast as the phone rang six times before clicking over to an answering machine.
At the beep, Ian swallowed and said, “Mr. Colfleet, my name is Frank Bacon. I’m the insurance adjuster for your property, and I have just been informed of the unfortunate damage inflicted due to a recent break-in. I was looking over your policy and saw that you have two options. The first is to have us send one of our contractors to assess and repair the damages. Or, if you prefer to hire your own contractor, the second option is a cash buyout. If you prefer the cash option, I can have a cashier’s check ready for pickup by this afternoon. Please give me a call at your earliest convenience.” Ian left his phone number and hung up.
Sometimes the simplest tricks were the most effective. During one of their late-night blab fests, Jersey told Ian about a sting the police department ran wherein they contacted a large number of slippery criminals with outstanding warrants and told them they had won a free PlayStation game console. As an added bonus, they were informed that when they came in person to a local hotel to pick up their prize, they would also be entered into a second draw for a high-definition plasma TV. One hundred and twenty arrests later, the brains behind the sting was given a letter of commendation and a game console with the department logo stenciled on it. Jersey had bought the console off the non-gamer for two hundred bucks.
If Colfleet decided to flee, Ian hoped the tantalizing lure of fast cash would override common sense and make him pick up the phone.
Sprinkling salt onto a slice of fried tomato, Ian slid it into his mouth along with half a strip of crisp bacon, the contrasting flavors combining into one …
He stopped chewing as a disheveled figure turned the corner at the end of the block. The man was scurrying at a hurried pace toward Raven’s Rest. His wild ginger-blond hair and unkempt beard made identification simple. As he lurched and stumbled down the block as though walking a straight line had been outlawed, Lee Hogg kept looking over his shoulder as if afraid he was being followed. Ian scanned the street behind him, but there was nobody else in sight.
Dropping payment on the table for his breakfast, Ian exited the restaurant just as Hogg vanished inside the halfway house.
A DISTRACTING glimmer of yellow made Ian’s concentration falter as he stepped off the curb. His shoe landed on something slippery in the road and his ankle twisted. With a yelp, he quickly shifted all his weight to his other foot before the ankle could turn too far. A short, sharp twinge of pain followed by a dull but bearable throb told him he had recovered in time.
Holding onto the hood of his car, Ian slowly rotated the ankle to make sure it was undamaged. As he did so, he studied the yellow vehicle that had parked further down the block. There didn’t appear to be anyone inside, but its presence was troubling. Unless there was a Super Bee rally driving through town, coincidence seemed unlikely. Making a mental note to take down the plate number when he returned, Ian finished crossing the road and headed into Raven’s Rest.
“Can I help you?” asked the skinny man with false teeth, bad skin, and fake hair.
“Hogg just came in,” said Ian. “I need to see him.”
The man shook his head. “I told him about you and he said he didn’t want to be disturbed.”
“That’s not an option. Buzz me in.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I cannot—
The man jumped as Ian’s palms slammed against the small window with enough force to rattle its frame. If the pane had been made of glass rather than clear acrylic, it may even have shattered. The supervisor’s eyes widened in their sockets as Ian bared his teeth.
“That wasn’t a fucking suggestion,” he snarled. “Buzz me in!”
“I’m calling the cops.”
“Good, but you better let me in first or—
A loud, splintering crack sounded from above their heads, followed immediately by an agonized scream and the hollow thump of something large hitting the floor.
“What is going on?” shouted the supervisor.
An image of the yellow car flashed in Ian’s mind. If someone was following him …
He glanced up at the ceiling and swore.
“Buzz me in. Call the cops. Do it now!”
The skinny man hesitated a fraction longer before his finger finally found the button and the door’s lock buzzed.
Ian grabbed at the door and rushed through. Despite the pain in his ankle, he hit the stairs at a dead run and quickly began to climb.
ON THE third floor, natural light streamed onto the carpeted hallway from only one source: a single room that had its door open. When Ian reached it, he quickly saw that it wasn’t ajar by choice.
Lee Hogg lay on the floor, his eyes blinking up at the ceiling while his hands attempted to hold his guts inside a lacerated belly. The knife that had done the job was protruding from his chest, but somehow it had missed his heart.
Not that it mattered. The severity of the stomach wounds meant that blood didn’t just seep from between clutching fingers—it gushed. A massive amount of it, unable to be absorbed by the cheap nylon carpet, had spread around his flailing body like a devilish snow angel.
Ian dropped to his knees and stared into the dying man’s eyes. It was too late for sympathy.
“You’re not going to make it,” said Ian. “So tell me: Who hired Tyler Young to kill my daughter?”
The man gurgled and gasped, blood bubbled and burst at his lips, and then a moist rattle deep in his throat took the last of the
light from his eyes.
“Son of a bitch!”
Ian clambered to his feet with his pant legs soaked in blood. If he had arrived thirty seconds sooner … if he had caught up to Hogg before he entered the building … if … if …
An alarmed voice: “What have you done?”
Ian turned to see the skinny superintendent. His false teeth were halfway outside his gaping mouth and his wig was twisted at an awkward angle.
Ian held up his hands. “It wasn’t me. I found him like this. You know that.”
The man pointed a quivering finger. “You’re the only one I see.”
Ian stepped forward and shoved the man out of the doorway. A set of dingy teeth landed on the floor with a dull clatter as the man stumbled backward and hit the opposite wall. At the far end of the hallway, Ian saw another crack in the bleak, hard-worn landscape.
A fire exit.
While Ian was busy trying to follow the goddamn rules, Hogg’s killer was breaking in through the back door.
Ian flashed the superintendent a final evil glare before taking off at a run toward the exit.
17
The fire escape at the rear of the building was rusty but solid, a staggered clutch of baby-crib balconies connected by vertical iron ladders. As Ian descended, he caught a glimpse of a dark shape fleeing around the far corner of the building. The killer was fast and confident enough in his skills that he hadn’t needed to wait for Hogg’s last breath to know his victim’s silence was permanent.
Hitting the ground, Ian tore down the alley and around the building. His ankle screamed at him to slow down, but Ian ignored its painful warning. The growl of a large Dodge V8 was carried on the stench of burning rubber before he reached the street. Gasping for breath as he broke free of the alley, Ian knew he was too late. The yellow car was gone.
With curses scalding his tongue, Ian pressed both fists into his eyes and let his frustrations boil out. Although blind to them, he could sense people quickly crossing the street to avoid the shrapnel of his madness.
The superintendent’s grating voice cut through the din. “Cops are on the way. You stay there!”
Ian dropped his fists to his side and uncurled his fingers. Hogg’s blood was seeping through his trousers to stain his flesh; the tape in his mind replayed the superintendent finding him leaning over the body, his accusatory finger quivering. You’re the only one I see.
No matter how you sliced it, he was screwed.
Ian turned and pointed his own finger. It didn’t quiver in the slightest. “Tell the cops everything. Everything, you understand?” His upper lip curled, exposing teeth. “You tell them what we heard before I ran upstairs. You mention the scream.”
“You stay,” warned the superintendent. “You tell.”
Ian stepped forward and pressed his finger into the man’s bony chest. Soft muscle dimpled against bone.
“If you lie,” Ian continued. “I’ll find you.”
The man gulped. “I heard scream, but—
“No buts, no lies, no fucking guesswork,” Ian hissed. “Just tell the goddamn truth.”
A police siren cut through the air like the death squeal of a mechanical pig. Its direction was uncertain as the sound bounced and echoed along concrete canyons, but its destination was clear. If Ian stayed, he could be detained for hours. He might need a lawyer. Bail money. Shit!
When his phone rang, he almost didn’t answer. The caller ID was unknown, and the last thing he needed was someone else dumping on him. But answering the phone was easier than making a decision about whether or not to run.
He held the phone to his ear and felt his chest heave with a weary sigh. “Yeah?”
“Mr. Bacon?”
Ian’s eyes widened in surprise. He kept his voice calm. “Speaking.”
“Uh, this is Bernard Colfleet.” Puffs of air filled the gaps between words as though he was constantly short of breath. “I’d like to take you up on that offer of a cash settlement for the damage to my house.”
Ignoring the protest of the interfering stick insect behind him, Ian stepped off the curb and darted across the road to his car.
“Certainly, Mr. Colfleet. I’m actually out of the office at the moment, but I have the cashier’s check with me.” Ian climbed into his car and closed the door. “Would you like to meet up?”
When the man answered in the affirmative and gave a location, Ian smiled. “I’ll see you in twenty minutes.”
FIFTEEN MINUTES later, Ian parked beneath the umbrella of a weeping willow and surveyed the area.
Bernard Colfleet had selected to meet at Bunions, a 1950s boxcar diner that would have made a great tourist trap if it was located in a better neighborhood and hadn’t been so authentically antique. Known for its burgers crowned in a salivary pile of fried onions, Bunions’ secret was it didn’t even attempt to be healthy. The burgers and onions were fried in bacon fat, the fries in lard.
In true ’50s style, however, the diner had large windows at each booth to watch the traffic go by, and two exits—one on each end of its long, rectangular frame.
Ian glanced at the mug shot of Colfleet on his phone and bit back another curse to Lady Luck’s evil twin sister. The wary predator had arrived early and slipped into a booth in the exact center of the restaurant. No matter which door Ian used, Colfleet would get a good look at him. And one look was all it took to know he wasn’t an insurance agent. In Ian’s experience, they tended not to smear fresh blood across their pant legs—at least not so that it was visible.
Judging by the tale of the tape, Colfleet was a fairly large man with a good two inches in both height and reach over Ian, plus he tipped the scales with a solid extra twenty pounds. He had shaved his head since his last mug shot, but looking tough and being tough were two very different things. On the positive side, from the sound of his asthmatic breathing on the phone, Colfleet didn’t appear to be in good enough shape to move very fast.
A police siren wailed as Ian climbed out of the car. The startling yowl stabbed a sliver of ice into his chest that made the breath catch in his throat, until he realized the sound was rapidly moving away from the area rather than toward it. He almost smiled with relief until his gaze lifted and was caught in the intense pull of twin icy black holes.
The predator was watching him.
Ian avoided contact by glancing at his bare wrist where a watch would normally reside and quickly crossed the road. Forcing himself not to look at the center booth, he opened the door to the diner and stepped inside.
A thirtysomething waitress with honey-blond hair tied in a ponytail smiled across the counter at him. “Anywhere you like, hon. Coffee?”
Ian nodded and allowed his eyes to casually drift toward the booths—the middle one was empty.
Cursing, Ian spun around and exited the same way he had entered. When he hit the sidewalk, he caught the briefest glimpse of a lumbering shadow vanishing behind the diner.
He gave chase without hesitation, his feet sliding through a muddy puddle as he caught the corner of the boxcar and propelled himself into a short alley that hid two large metal dumpsters. A black cat with enormous green eyes and a matted coat glared at him from atop the second dumpster. Its tail was erect and alarmingly full, indicating that Ian wasn’t the first unexpected madman to cross its path recently.
Ian kept running until the alley opened onto a patch of overgrown grass and knee-high weeds surrounded by high wooden fences—the failed promise of a city playground left to rot. In the middle of a blackened circle sat the skeletal remains of an ancient Ford truck. Leaning against the charred and rusted husk, gasping for air, was Colfleet.
He held up a hand to stop Ian’s advance. “Please. I can’t … I can’t breathe.”
Ian didn’t break his stride. Instead, he used the momentum to power his left fist and connect with the man’s shocked face. Teeth sprayed from Colfleet’s mouth in a fount of blood, and his knees buckled. As the predator fell, Ian brought his right fist to bear in a mi
stimed uppercut that glanced off the man’s eye socket and just barely missed breaking his nose.
“Where’s Molly, you fuck?” Ian roared.
Despite his size advantage, Colfleet whimpered on the ground, blood bubbling and foaming on his lips as he struggled to catch his breath.
“I don’t … I don’t … I don’t know a Molly.”
Ian kicked him in the chest. The man howled and clutched at his ribs.
“Eleven years old, dirty-blond hair, brown eyes, black T-shirt, and a pair of bibbed overalls with drawings on them. She was standing outside her foster home yesterday morning when you—
Colfleet cried out, “No! I was … I was out of town yesterday.”
Ian kicked him again. “Bullshit!”
“I can prove it.” Colfleet held up both hands, watery eyes pleading, lips trembling. The sight reminded Ian of a T-shirt he saw once that pictured a forlorn great white shark with a bloody human leg dangling from its mouth, above it the saying don’t hate me. it’s my nature.
The man’s plea turned his stomach and made him want to stomp on his skull until malformed gray matter soaked the ground. Instead, he asked, “How?”
“In my pocket.” Colfleet gasped for breath. “Receipts. Parking. Meals. I was … in Seattle. Stayed overnight. I just got back.”
“Show me.”
The predator scrambled to pull rumpled receipts out of his pockets. Ian picked up a couple of them to read the date and time stamps before tossing them back. Colfleet was telling the truth.
Ian tried to juggle the good news with the bad. Molly had escaped this pervert’s clutches, but he was no closer to knowing where she was. A weariness filled his mind, and he breathed deeply to fight against it. Other innocents hadn’t been so lucky.
“What did you do with the other kids?” Ian asked.
“I just told you, I was—
Ian snarled. “The children in your movies.”
Colfleet gulped. “Nothing. I don’t hurt them. Ever.”
The Fear in Her Eyes Page 10
