She flashed a grin as she put two smaller plastic cups on his desk and filled them with the thick, sweet brew. ‘What I always want. A promotion, a new ride, a swank office like yours.’
Davies leaned back in his chair, looking around his office. It was barely larger than a coat closet, one side of his desk piled high with folders, each one an unsolved homicide.
‘Then I’d say you’re even crazier than I am,’ he said mildly. He tossed back the shot of espresso, then held the cup out for more. ‘What else do you want?’
‘This.’ She laid a photograph on his desk.
‘This is a wrecked car,’ he said slowly. ‘Why do you want a wrecked car?’
‘Because that’s the Prius that caused that four-car pile-up on I-75 yesterday morning.’
His gaze jerked up to meet hers. ‘I take it you’re telling me that it wasn’t an accident.’
‘No, it was not. The garage techs found that both the steering and brakes had been tampered with. Either one would have resulted in an accident, but both together . . .’ She lifted a shoulder. ‘The car crossed the median, plowed into ongoing traffic, hit three cars as it spun out, then got slammed by a semi. The driver of the Prius died at the scene, her son died later. Four of the injured are in serious condition, the other two are critical.’
Davies sighed. ‘It’s a tragedy, Cat, but not our case. Traffic Homicide is handling this. Why are you even involved? Let them do their job. You have your own caseload.’
‘Hear me out. Traffic already talked with the driver’s family. She’d bought the car only the day before. The title hadn’t been changed over yet. The previous owner was Faith Frye.’
‘I know her name. Where did I read it?’
‘In my report on the Shue homicide.’ She ran her finger down the stack of folders on his desk, pulling out the one she wanted and handing it to him. ‘Gordon Shue was the director of a women’s crisis center. They counseled victims of rape, incest and various cases of domestic violence. Four weeks ago he was shot in the chest as he was leaving his office, then again in the head. The woman standing next to him was his employee, Dr Faith Frye.’
He sat back again, his eyes narrowing. ‘You’ve got my attention now. Go on.’
‘Frye gave me several leads on Shue’s killer – initially all of them were husbands or partners of their clients. I remember her touching a wicked-looking scar on her throat when she said it and so later I checked up on her. Four years ago she was attacked by one of her own clients – a sex offender on probation. He slit her throat. She almost died.’
‘Social work can be a dangerous business,’ Davies said quietly.
The lieutenant’s wife was a social worker and he worried about her constantly, Cat knew. ‘I think your wife knows how to defend herself better than most.’
‘I know she does, because I taught her how.’ Davies closed the Shue file. ‘So how did Frye go from being a homicide witness to having her old car tampered with?’
‘My search yielded more than the throat-slitting incident. Peter Combs, the guy who almost killed her? After he was paroled, he began stalking her. For a year.’
‘Did she report it?’
Vega nodded soberly. ‘Thirty times.’
Davies’s brows shot up. ‘Holy shit. Did she think she was the target and not Shue?’
‘Not at first. Not until she claimed that Combs had tried again.’
‘She claimed? You didn’t believe her?’
‘I did, actually, but there was no evidence her stalker had made any attempts on her life other than the one he went to jail for four years ago. I couldn’t even prove he still lives in Miami. There was nothing connecting Peter Combs to the murder of Gordon Shue. Not until now.’
‘There’s still nothing connecting Frye’s stalker to Shue’s killer, or the car for that matter,’ Davies pointed out. ‘Even if this tampering was targeted at her, you’re assuming her stalker did it. And even if you’re right, it doesn’t mean that Shue’s bullet had her name on it. But you are right that someone did something to that car for a reason. You’ve found a good place to start with that one. Go ahead.’
Cat took the photo back. ‘Thanks, sir.’
He gave her a small nod, then pointed at the cup on his desk. ‘What about the colada?’
‘My gift to you. Salud.’
Mt Carmel, Ohio, Monday 3 November, 2.45 P.M.
Arianna lay on the table, teeth gritted, every muscle tensed as she waited for the next slice of his knife. He’d come to her whistling. So damn happy. He’d been gone for hours, but now he was back and in high spirits. Whatever had rattled him enough to tell the girl to pack was no longer a threat. Apparently they weren’t leaving. There would be no escape.
He’d whistled all the time he’d unpacked his knives. Whistled all the time he’d used those knives. On her. Not a single slice deep enough to kill. All deep enough to hurt like hell. Each one slicing away a little bit more of her hope. I’m going to die here. Alone.
And then, abruptly, he froze, snarling a curse. Through the blindfold Arianna saw the strobing light, just as she had before. And just like he had before, he went ballistic.
‘Sonofabitch,’ he growled. ‘She can’t be back. The phone didn’t beep. It was supposed to goddamn beep. I should have stayed and watched her.’ She heard the pounding of his feet, then the tapping of computer keys, followed by another vicious curse. ‘Fuck. Fuck her.’
Hope rose anew. Someone was coming.
He ran to the door, threw it open. ‘Roza!’ he bellowed. ‘Come here. Now!’
Shuffling footsteps. ‘Yes?’
‘Bandage her. I don’t want her bleeding everywhere. When you’re done, get the bleach and spray down this room. Then put the box of your things at the bottom of the stairs.’
Yes! They’re leaving after all! Arianna wanted to sing. Somebody had scared him again. He’ll have to untie me when he moves me. That will be my only chance. She flexed her fingers, hoping he wasn’t watching. She’d been tied for so long that her muscles were stiff. But she was stronger than she looked. I can take him. I have to.
She heard the clinking of glass. ‘Give her this first,’ he ordered. ‘Fill the glass to this line. No more. No less. Make sure she swallows every drop. When you’re done, give the other one the same amount. Don’t fuck it up, girl, or I’ll beat you till you can’t see. I’ll be back.’
Of course he would, Arianna thought as the door slammed. But I’ll be ready. Whatever he’d told the girl to make her swallow, she’d spit out. She would not let this opportunity to escape slip through her fingers.
Mt Carmel, Ohio, Monday 3 November, 2.48 P.M.
He ran up the stairs, his happy mood gone. The power company. Faith had called the goddamn power company. A fucking meter reader was standing at the back of the house.
He burst out of the basement and slowed his pace, creeping out of sight of the windows until he got to the kitchen door. Carefully he unlocked it and eased it open, gratified when he heard no hinges creak. He kept them well-oiled for a reason.
He’d slipped from the house more than once to catch a trespasser unawares. The trespassers never knew what had hit them and neither would the meter reader. Palming his pistol, he dropped into a crouch when he reached the back corner, leaning forward far enough to catch sight of the intruder.
He could see the name ‘Ken Beatty’ written clearly on the man’s ID tag. Ken stood at the meter, studying it with an annoyed frown. Of course he’s noticed. He would have to be blind not to note the discrepancy between the actual meter reading and what the power company had on file.
He’d been stealing power for quite some time. Ken would report him if he weren’t stopped, so he pointed the pistol at the man’s leg. Abruptly Ken looked up, his eyes growing alarmed.
Goddammit. Ken took off at a run, but along with a beer gut, he had a serious limp.
Luckily I have neither. Sprinting, he reached the man as he rounded the east corner. He fired once and Ken
went down, clutching his thigh with a shriek of pain.
‘Okay, okay,’ the man babbled. ‘So you’re stealing power. No biggie. I won’t tell, I promise. I’ll pretend I was never here.’
‘Too late,’ he said. ‘I saw you make a call on your cell when you arrived. I have to assume that was to inform your boss of your whereabouts.’ Ignoring Ken’s pleas for mercy, he rapped the man’s head with the butt of his pistol and then lowered his now limp body to the ground.
Now for the hard part. He shoved his pistol into his waistband, grabbed handfuls of the man’s jacket and gave a mighty tug. As soon as he’d hidden Ken in the basement, he’d use the guy’s cell to text his boss that he’d finished connecting the power and was headed to his next appointment. Then he’d drive the power company’s truck back into the city and abandon it near a bar. Everyone would believe Mr Beer Gut had stopped for a brewski or two.
Halfway across the back of the house he took a breather, releasing the man’s jacket, letting the body slump to the ground. He straightened his back, his lungs working overtime.
Damn, but this guy was heavy. Now I remember why I stick to women. They’re half his weight. And there was the little bonus of the sex, he thought with a smirk. Stretching his arms to the sky, he turned his head until he felt his neck crack, providing a little relief.
He’d bent down to grab the man’s jacket again when he caught the movement from the corner of his eye. He turned to see Ken’s hand emerging from his pocket, clutching a black aerosol can.
Understanding dawned a split second too late. ‘No!’ He reached to knock the can out of the man’s hand but spray already filled the air, burning his eyes, mouth and nose. ‘Fucking sonofabitch!’ His voice was a high-pitched screech. He couldn’t help it. The pain was excruciating. Hot pokers in my eyes. ‘You motherfucking sonofabitch!’
He staggered back, tears streaming down his face. The pain . . .
The bastard wasn’t unconscious at all. He was playing possum, biding his time until he could hit me with that damn pepper spray. He panted, unable to get enough air. His lungs were swelling up, closing in. He gasped like a landed trout, but couldn’t draw a full breath.
He needed to kill this meter-reading motherfucker so that he couldn’t get away.
He could barely make out the man’s form through the rivers flowing out of his eyes. He’s moving. On his knees. The bastard was on his knees, dragging himself . . . toward me. The idiot doesn’t even have the sense to run away.
He took a few steps backward, pulling the gun from his waistband and blinking hard to try to clear his eyes. Without warning, Ken launched himself, throwing beefy arms around his legs, taking him down. His head hit the ground so hard he almost missed the jab in his leg. Like a bee sting, but worse. He slapped at his leg, dislodging something plastic.
He brought it close to his burning eyes. Not a syringe, he thought. It’s a dart.
‘You stuck me with a dart?’ he demanded. ‘What the hell is wrong with you? Who the hell carries darts?’
‘What the hell is wrong with me?’ Ken cried. ‘What the hell is wrong with you? Are you insane?’ He rolled away, scrabbling to his hands and knees. Now he had the sense to crawl away, trying to escape.
That could not be allowed to happen. He came to his feet, stumbling after the blurry blob that was moving alarmingly fast. He aimed for the blob and fired. Ken screamed, but kept moving, so he kept firing. Finally the blob stopped, inches from the corner of the house.
Mt Carmel, Ohio, Monday 3 November, 2.55 P.M.
Please God, Arianna prayed. Please let him help us, whoever he is.
She could hear the girl, who she now knew was named Roza, shuffling across the floor, but she passed the table, stopping on the other side of the room. ‘What is Earl P and L?’ Roza asked.
Under her blindfold, Arianna blinked in surprise. ‘The power company. Why?’
‘Because there’s a sign on a truck outside that says that. There’s a man up there, with tools. And he’s afraid.’ Something was different. A hardness in her tone that hadn’t been there before.
Arianna felt the girl’s hand, cold and bony against her arm. Then . . . tugging. Tugging and the rough sound of rope being cut. Arianna was afraid to breathe, afraid she was imagining this, but she wasn’t. Roza was cutting her free.
Holding her breath, Arianna said nothing, afraid of making Roza change her mind. But she didn’t, and soon Arianna’s other hand was free. Tearing the blindfold from her face, she gritted her teeth and struggled to sit up while the girl cut the ropes at her ankles.
Arianna blinked hard, squinting against the bright overhead lights to get her first glimpse of the girl, who looked as young as she sounded. Maybe twelve years old. Her dark hair was tangled, her skin almost white. Like she’d never seen the sun.
Then she noticed that in the corner there was a laptop whose screen was divided into six areas, like in the security office of a department store. He had cameras, Arianna realized. One of the six partitions held the video of a man wearing a jacket that said ‘Earl Power and Light’ across the back. That picture was from a camera to the outside.
Arianna’s heart sank. He’d come to read the meter. He hadn’t come to help them.
He doesn’t know we’re here.
She had to get his attention. Shoving back the panic, she scanned the room, looking for something to use to make some noise. Instead she saw walls lined with shelves, and on the shelves were jars filled with liquid. The countertop was also covered with jars. All containing dark brown liquid. Some had . . . things floating in them. Arianna gagged.
‘Don’t throw up,’ Roza snapped, briskly rubbing Arianna’s feet, forcing circulation. ‘There are some stairs that go up. There’s a door at the top. That’s all I can do for you. Go.’
‘Thank you.’ Arianna reached out her hand. ‘Let’s go.’
A beat of silence passed, then the girl shook her head. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘I can’t go.’
‘Why not?’ Arianna whispered back desperately. ‘Who does he have that you love?’
Saying nothing, Roza grabbed Arianna’s arms and slid her off the table. The moment Arianna’s feet hit the floor, they felt as if they were being stung by a thousand bees. ‘Who?’ she repeated through clenched teeth. ‘Who does he have that you love?’
‘My mother. You need to go. Get help. Get Faith Frye.’
‘Why? Who is she?’
‘I don’t know, but he’s trying to find her. He hates her.’
‘What about my friend? Is she here?’
‘Yes. But she’s chained and I don’t have the key. I can’t get it. I’m sorry.’
‘But I can’t leave her here. He’ll kill her.’
‘If he catches you trying to free her, he’ll kill you both. Now go.’
Arianna got to the door of the room where she’d been held and took a look back to find Roza holding a bottle made of dark brown glass. ‘Where is my friend?’
‘You have to go,’ Roza said urgently. She twisted the lid off the bottle, brought it to her mouth and drank it all.
‘What are you doing?’ Arianna cried, horrified.
‘I can’t leave. You can. He’ll know I cut your ropes. If you don’t kill him, he’ll beat me. I don’t want to be awake for it. Go.’
Arianna stumbled out of the room. There were the stairs. And three other doors. Where was Corinne? Arianna was heading for the first door when the sound of a gunshot made her stop in her tracks.
He’d had a gun the night he’d taken her and Corinne. He shot me with it. Now he’s killed the meter reader. There wouldn’t be anyone else to come and help them.
Run. Get help. Before he kills us all. She started up the stairs, tears rising in her throat. I’m sorry, Corinne. I’ll be back for you. I promise.
Mt Carmel, Ohio, Monday 3 November, 2.59 P.M.
He knelt beside the well in the back, pumping water to keep flushing his eyes until he could blink without screaming.
&nb
sp; He sagged against the cold iron of the pump, breathing hard. Goddamn asshole meter reader. Goddamn asshole Faith Frye for calling the power company to start with. Where was she? All he needed was for her to show up right now when he was incapacitated.
His hands trembled as he took his cell phone from his pocket. He was tired. So damn tired. His arms felt like they weighed six hundred pounds. Each. And his vision was still blurry.
Squinting at his phone’s screen, he brought up the app that monitored the tracking device he’d put on Faith’s Jeep. It hadn’t moved. At least one thing was going as he’d planned.
He pushed himself to his feet, forced himself to walk over to Ken’s body. He looked dead enough. But I’m taking no chances, he thought. Fool me twice, shame on me.
He grabbed a handful of the meter reader’s hair with one hand and shoved his gun to the base of the man’s skull with the other. He pulled the trigger, putting a final bullet in Ken’s brain. Then he found Ken’s cell phone and figured out which contact was his boss.
Finished with the last house. Feeling sick. Going home early. He hit send. There. It was done. Now he had to get this sonofabitch into the basement and clean up the mess.
He tried to stand, but his head spun. His knees wobbled. There was a roaring in his head.
No. That was an engine. ‘Whatza fuck?’ His words were coming out slow. Slurred. He’d only felt like this once before, when he was being anesthetized for surgery.
Shit. The dart. Ken had tranqed him. He heard the sound of the engine roaring again and forced himself to crawl around the back corner of the house so that he could see the road.
The power company truck was driving away. Someone had escaped his basement. He could see a vague shape in the driver’s seat. Too tall for Roza, too dark for Corinne Longstreet.
Arianna Escobar had gotten away. Get her. Stop her. But his body would no longer cooperate. So tired. Dammit. His arms gave out. His chest hit the ground hard, knocking the wind out of him. Fuuuck, he thought bitterly as his eyelids lowered and everything went dark.