The Drifting Gloom (Maddy Wimsey Book 2) Read online

  “Mmm!” I chew and swallow so fast I almost choke. “Rick!”

  He leans around his monitor, staring over the desks at me, phone to his ear.

  “They got prints on the camera.” Thank you, Goddess!

  “Nice!” He grins. “On hold with St. John’s in Longview.”

  I spend a few minutes feeding the fingerprint data into the system, then sit back and shovel spicy noodles into my mouth. Or ‘spicy-to-me’ noodles. Rick said this place’s version of Singapore noodles is tame, but it’s kinda too hot for me. What else is new? Anyway, nowhere near as hot as Caius’ version of étouffée though.

  A hit comes up… and I about throw my half-eaten lunch across the room in frustration at the sight of a young Hispanic woman’s face.

  “Dammit!”

  My shout gets everyone to freeze like a pack of startled rabbits.

  “Sorry. Just ran face first into a brick wall.”

  Rick half-yells, “Nothing? Are you sure? Maybe someone didn’t jot down a―right. Okay. Thank you.” He hangs up with a sigh.

  I lean back in the chair, making it creak, and glower at a photograph of a woman by the name of Maribel Hernandez. Definitely not our killer.

  “Who murdered your dreams?” asks Rick.

  “The FBI.”

  Parrish chuckles. “Yeah, they’re good at that… but usually it requires putting in an application first.”

  Rick’s head pops up over his monitor. “What’s with all the commotion over there?”

  “Have a look.”

  He does, getting up and walking around the desks so he can see my screen. “Who’s that?”

  “This woman belongs to the fingerprints on the camera we found at the Sullivans’ house.”

  “Umm. She’s a little too short and a little too female to be our suspect,” says Rick.

  “And that’s why you made detective,” singsongs Quarrel.

  Rick glances at him. “How’s that clown thing going?”

  Quarrel rolls his eyes.

  “Twenty-two years old,” I say. “Looks like she got fingerprinted at the request of her employer, Rapid-Kleen.”

  “Ugh. We should cite them for murder of the English language.” Rick walks off toward the hallway, waving me to follow. “Might as well go talk to her, see if she’s missing a camera.”

  “Yeah.” I lock my terminal and stick the rest of my lunch in the mini-fridge in our breakroom. Our killer’s racked up another victim―my appetite.

  ***

  We pull into the parking lot of an apartment complex where Maribel lives, according to her driver’s license information, and park right next to the 2003 Nissan Sentra registered to her. With the car home, the woman likely works a later shift, or she car pools, or she’s off for the day.

  After I kill the engine, I sit there for a moment, trying to figure out exactly what to expect here. It doesn’t make any sense that some random woman’s prints are on the killer’s camera. We hop out, and Rick follows me up to the door and rings the bell since it’s on his side.

  I recognize Maribel when she pulls the door open enough to poke her head out. Her general demeanor suggests she hasn’t been awake too long, but I doubt we dragged her out of bed. “Who are”―she glances at our badges―“Police?”

  “Yes. We’d like to ask you a few simple questions,” I say in a pleasant tone. “If you wouldn’t mind sparing a little time.”

  She opens the door the rest of the way. The sight of her oversized T-shirt and sweat pants makes me mildly jealous that I’m stuck in ‘real’ clothes. “Umm, sure.”

  Rick holds out a printout with a photograph of the camera. “Kind of ironic, isn’t it? A picture of a camera?”

  “Umm.” Maribel glances at it, at him, and back to the paper. “I suppose.”

  Her English is spot on, with no hint of an accent. Call me biased, but I was expecting a strong accent and having to call in a translator. It’s a relief that we don’t.

  “Do you recognize this camera?” I ask.

  She looks it over for a moment, and nods. “Yes.”

  I blink in surprise. Wow, that was easy. “Is this your camera?”

  “Oh, no.” She shakes her head. “I saw a… well, I saw a camera that looked like that yesterday when I was working. I remember it because it was unusual to find it since I’d never seen it there before. The client usually doesn’t have anything sitting out like that.”

  “Where were you when you saw it? What company?” asks Rick.

  “No company. It’s a private residence. My job does both kinds of sites, residential and business. This was a private home, but the man lives alone and is busy with his work. He doesn’t have time to clean, so he pays Rapid-Kleen to keep the house.”

  “Miss Hernandez, it’s vitally important that we find the owner of this camera. Do you have any information about the address or his name?” I ask.

  “I don’t remember…” I draw in a breath to snap something I’ll regret, but before I can open my mouth, Maribel smiles and gestures back into the house. “But I have it written down. Come in, please. I’ll get it for you.”

  Air flows out my nose. Rick, sensing my near-eruption, pats me on the back.

  The door opens into the living room, which is small but nice with pale-beige carpet, a green sofa, and a modest television. A hint of coffee and something fried lingers in the air. If I hadn’t seen Maribel, I’d swear an old woman lived here. The place is immaculate. Wow. If I cleaned for a living, I’d hate having to do it at home, too.

  Rick takes a few steps deeper into the apartment, keeping Maribel in sight while she goes to the kitchen and rummages through a purse. Her body language doesn’t give away any warning signs, but no sense being stupid.

  “Here it is.” Maribel pads back over to us and hands us a business card for Rapid-Kleen, with a handwritten address on the back next to ‘5-6 p.m.’ “The client’s name is Mr. Roy.”

  “Did you get his first name?” I ask.

  “They didn’t tell me, but you can talk to my supervisor, George. That’s his card.”

  Darn. Oh well. Still. An address and last name are an order of magnitude more than we had.

  “And you never saw the camera before?” I ask.

  “No. It was on a table in the living room. Usually, that table has nothing on it. I picked up the camera to clean the table, and put it back where I found it.” She pauses, then gets nervous. “Did he accuse me of stealing it?”

  “No, Miss Hernandez,” says Rick, smiling. “You are not a suspect in any crime.”

  “How often have you been to his residence?”

  “Three or four times.”

  “Fine. Do you recall seeing anything strange at Mr. Roy’s residence? Things a normal person might not have?”

  Her eyes widen. “You’re investigating him? What did he do?”

  “We’re not at liberty to discuss the specifics of an ongoing investigation,” says Rick. “However… I can tell you that Detective Wimsey and I work for the homicide division.”

  She gasps. “I knew something was wrong with that man.” Maribel wags her finger at Rick. “The other times I went to that place to clean, the house was empty. But the last time, Mr. Roy was there. He didn’t mind that I worked while he was in the house, but I did not like the way he looked at me.”

  “Can you elaborate?” I ask.

  “Sure. Like I was some kind of pathetic kitten left on the side of the road. Pitying. Look at the poor Mexican girl running around with cleaning stuff. At least, that’s what I thought was going through his head at first, but he just stared at me like one of those dudes on a wildlife show watching critters. Was so damn eerie, I told George I didn’t wanna go back there. You saying he killed someone?”

  “We didn’t say that.” I overact an innocent face. “We’re only asking questions. Back to his residence. Did you ever see anything odd?”

  “The house is not that big. He has a room he keeps locked that’s not included in the cleanin
g contract. I was told not to go in there.”

  “Any strange smells coming from the room?” asks Rick.

  “Outside, I smelled something like chlorine.”

  Rick looks at me. I’m practically vibrating in my Timberlands to run out the door.

  “Were there any other oddities?” I ask.

  “No, not really. Only that the man was rather neat for a bachelor. I’ve been to quite a few apartments and houses, and most men who live alone are much messier.”

  “All right. Thank you very much for your time, Miss Hernandez. We may be in touch with you again if we have more questions.”

  We head out to the car, grab the door handles, and stare over the roof at each other.

  “That woman’s probably safe, but we might want to send a patrol car over to check on her supervisor, George,” says Rick.

  I nod. “Yeah… The way she described him looking at her sounded like he’s thinking her boss is next on the list.”

  “Except that Jacob lit him up with buck shot.” Rick pulls the passenger side door open. “That might’ve slowed him down a bit.”

  I drop in behind the wheel. “Here’s hoping.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Red Flags

  Tuesday Afternoon – July 25, 2017

  I punch the address Maribel gave us into the system, which points to a decent-sized residence with some land around it a bit south off McCorkle Road. Up comes a property record for one Harold Allen Roy, age thirty-nine. The driver license photo shows a man who looks closer to forty-five, with stringy black hair mixed with grey strands. Emotionless flat lips and a ‘get the hell on with it’ glower send a chill across my shoulders, but honestly, a lot of DL photos have that expression.

  They should really snap the picture right away, before people spend half a day waiting in line.

  “That’s our guy, huh?” asks Rick. “Maribel described him as a neat freak. Guess that doesn’t extend to his grooming regimen.”

  “Right?” I run him in our system and pull up his record.

  At eighteen, he poisoned the dog of a man who fired him from a job. Fortunately, the dog survived. Over the years, he’s had multiple restraining orders issued against him from various employers and managers. I skim some of the case notes, which describe his dismissal for lateness and insubordination. There’s also twenty-six misdemeanor charges for property damage at numerous businesses after his employment there had been terminated.

  “Holy crap,” mutters Rick. “Has this guy ever left a job without going ballistic?”

  “If ever someone should have started his own business…”

  Rick chuckles.

  On the fourth page, we find an active missing person report for Harold Allen Roy’s older sister, Linda, who vanished eight years ago at the age of thirty-one. Ugh. I’ve got a not-so-great feeling about that.

  I say, “This guy hates authority. Bet that poor woman was his first victim.”

  Rick looks at me. “Shit. I hope not, but you’re probably right.”

  ***

  I sprint to my desk once we get back to the station. Sure enough, Harold A. Roy appears on a registration for a 2004 black Ford Ranger. The address matches the one Maribel gave us. That sparkle crap he put on his license plates to beat the system is going to nail him―assuming it’s still on the plates when we find the vehicle.

  “Got him,” I say.

  Rick hurries around the desks to look at the vehicle registration on my screen. “Damn. That’s what I get for going in alphabetical order.” He’s clearly irritated that he somehow didn’t pick a better vetting system. “Sure, eventually. Anyway, now all we need to do is bring him in here, get a lineup together, and have them recite some dialogue from that video… If Mrs. Sullivan will be up to listen to it.”

  I shudder. “I almost don’t even want to ask her to do that.”

  “What about the older boy, Alex?”

  I frown, shaking my head. “Bad enough asking that woman to relive the worst moment of her life. I’m not going to do that to a twelve-year-old. We’ll just have to hope Mrs. Sullivan can handle hearing it.”

  He bows his head. “Yeah. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find enough incriminating stuff inside his house that we won’t have to do that to her. But she’s gonna have to face him again, eventually, in court. We can’t shield her from him forever.”

  “Maybe just not now.” I pull up the warrant request and start filling it out. Rick returns to his desk.

  “Bet this guy’s juvie records are full of red flags,” says Rick.

  “That wouldn’t surprise me.”

  Nine minutes later, Rick yells, “Score!”

  “Talk to me,” I say.

  “Got a hit on the first victim in the video, the male tied to the chair.” Rick leans to the side to make eye contact past our monitors. “His name is Herbert Carlisle, gunnery sergeant, USMC, retired. The guy’s still in a coma at a VA Puget Sound in Seattle. They didn’t give me any indication of his condition, but he’s still alive. It’s him. I know it.”

  “Wow…” I let out a long, slow breath. Looks like I know what I’ll be doing later tonight―calling on Lady Brighid to look after Mr. Carlisle.

  “Okay,” I say. “The warrant request is all filled out. You ready?”

  “Beyond ready.”

  Parrish and Quarrel give us jealous grins as we hurry by their desks on the way to Captain Greer’s office.

  She looks up with a hint of surprise as I blow in the door and skid to a stop in front of her desk. The floof is majestic.

  “Wims?” asks Greer, one eyebrow up.

  “We got the bastard…” I drop the manila folder on her desk.

  Greer looks over the documentation I put together. “Well, this sure looks pretty damning on a circumstantial level. Should be enough to secure warrants.”

  “Found the man from the video, too,” says Rick. “Alive, but barely. In a coma.”

  She blinks and exhales slowly. This case has been weighing us all down. Still, it’s not over yet, and we know it.

  Greer says, “Okay. Sounds solid enough to at least bring him in. There’s enough here to get the DA’s attention.” She nods. “Go bring him in. I’ll submit the warrant request.”

  “Copy that, captain.” I start for the door, but stop when she clears her throat.

  “I’ll send a couple unis to help out. Stand by for the warrant.”

  I clench my fists, but nod. “Understood.”

  Rick follows me back across the station to the garage. An odd chill comes over me when I reach our department sedan. Instinct pulls me straight to back end. A sensation like an icy claw scratches around my heart, robbing me of all ability to move for a few seconds.

  “Kevlar time,” I say, clicking the fob to open the trunk. “And I don’t think this guy’s gonna make it.”

  “You’re not planning on going vigilante?” Rick’s right eyebrow disappears behind his hair.

  I grab my vest and pull the Velcro apart. “No way. I just got this strong feeling. Someone’s going to die, and I don’t want it to be us.”

  Rick takes his Kevlar out and slips it over his head. “Since when do you see the future?”

  “Since the other day in the bathroom.”

  He chuckles. “I had a vision like that, too. Except mine had boobs.”

  “You are disgusting.” I tighten the Velcro and pat the armor over my chest.

  Rick performs a stageman’s bow. “Thank you, thank you. I’m here all day.”

  “And you’re not as funny as you think.”

  “Ouch.”

  “I’m serious.” I point at him, keys dangling from my hand. “Be careful.”

  He snatches the keys from me. “That goes for you, too.”

  I’m too wound up to give a shit who drives. As soon as I pull my door closed, the chill hits me again even harder.

  “Damn, Wims, you look white as a ghost.” Rick starts the car. “Oh, wait. That’s normal.”

  We all h
ave our coping mechanisms. My partner’s is humor.

  “Just be super vigilant, okay?” I say.

  “Yeah. Totally by the book.”

  I nod, and let all the air in my lungs out my nose. Worrying too much is only going to guarantee that feeling comes true. It might be me. It might be Rick. It might be the suspect… but I can’t shake the feeling that someone near me is going to die today.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Goddess Forgive Me

  Tuesday Late Afternoon – July 25, 2017

  We roll to a stop at a bend in an unpaved trail leading off McCorkle Road, with a small cluster of trees on the left giving us some concealment from the house. The dashboard clock reads 4:07 p.m., and there’s no sign of patrol units yet.

  Roy’s black Ford Ranger sits parked on the grass next to a wide one-story ranch-style home with a lot of open property behind it. Chain-link fence with green slats surrounds the huge yard, but gaps and missing strips provide a view of dirt piles all over the place, like half the hard earth has been dug up and refilled.

  “Geez,” says Rick. “Tell me this guy doesn’t have a hundred bodies in his yard.”

  “This guy doesn’t have a hundred bodies in his yard,” I say.

  Rick smirks at me.

  “What? You asked.” I grab a small set of binoculars from the glove box and survey the property. “Besides… that’s not his MO. He’s been leaving his victims to be found.”

  Aluminum siding in a drab shade of sand-brown covers the house. The facing wall has a door flanked by two windows. Two more windows to the right look like they peer in on a dining room and a bedroom, respectively. Yellowing curtains block off the one window to the left of the door. I catch a glimpse of a shadow moving around inside, but it’s too dark to make out any features.

  Patrol comes over the radio unit, advising us they’re two minutes out. Rick grabs the mic and advises them of our position, asks them to roll up on our six and wait on word from Greer. We’re on pause so to speak until the captain notifies us that a judge has granted a search warrant for the home and property. We could bust him now, but with a search warrant, we can go through his house simultaneously and know that nothing will be lawyered out on a technicality. Easier that way, especially when a warrant’s a virtual lock.