FATAL FORTY-EIGHT: A Kate Huntington Mystery (The Kate Huntington Mysteries Book 7) (15 page)

“In the middle of the night? You’re a lousy liar!”

The pressure in Kate’s chest exploded. She jumped out of her chair and leaned toward Wallace. “You’ve been a royal bitch from the get go, complaining about us ‘civilians.’” She made quote marks in the air. “I’d think you’d be delighted that Skip and his crew have…uh, left.” Too late, she realized she’d said too much.

Tim had been watching their argument with mild amusement on his face. Now he inserted himself between them, facing Kate. “He’s gone to White Plains, hasn’t he?”

Knowing nothing she could say would be believable, she remained silent.

“Breaking and entering’s against the law,” Tim said. “You’d better call your husband and tell him to get his butt back here, if he values his freedom.”

Wallace’s face fell. “Her husband?”

Kate narrowed her eyes. “Yes,
my
husband.” She turned to Tim Cornelius. In a low, even voice, she said, “You seem to have lost track of what we should
all
be valuing here. Sally Ford’s life!”

She stomped out of the conference room.

As she reached the outer lobby, Wallace streaked past her, slamming through the double glass doors. Tim was on her heels.

Kate stepped outside.

Tim’s hand landed on his partner’s shoulder as she clicked open the doors of their rented Taurus. “Hang on, Julie.”

Wallace turned around. Her cheeks were wet, her mouth set in an angry line. Her eyes flicked from Tim’s face to Kate’s.

Kate’s anger at Wallace shifted to fear for Skip, and for Sally if he was unsuccessful. “Please don’t tell anybody they went up there,” she said. “They can do what you can’t. And Sally’s life is on the line.”

Wallace’s eyes narrowed. She shrugged out from under Tim’s hand. “If he’s
your
husband, then why the hell isn’t he wearing a ring?” She whirled around and jumped into the car.

Its tires squealed as she pulled away from the curb.

Kate stood on the sidewalk, hands on hips, her tired mind trying to process what the woman had just said.

Skip isn’t wearing his wedding ring?

Bile rose, burning the back of her throat. She swallowed hard, but the sour taste of it lingered.

Why not indeed?

~~~~~~~~

Picking the lock on the back door of the house had been easy. Too easy.

They had stopped just inside the door, guns drawn, letting their eyes adjust to the dark. The only light came from street lamps outside, filtered through the curtains over the front windows of the living room.

“Watch out for booby traps,” Skip whispered as they fanned out. Mac grunted softly.

Rose moved slowly toward a set of stairs. “I’ll clear the upstairs.”

“Be careful!” Skip hissed after her. By unspoken agreement, he and Mac had gone in separate directions. Mac headed for the adjoining kitchen.

Skip scanned the sparse furniture in the L-shaped room. Most of it looked too shabby for even Goodwill to take. A sleep sofa was opened out, rumpled sheets and a blanket on it. There was an end table next to it. No rugs on the wooden floor. A card table and metal folding chair were centered in the small area next to the kitchen. Skip saw three lamps, mismatched, one on each of the tables and a floor lamp in the opposite corner of the living room, next to a small television. The TV rested on what looked like a wooden packing crate.

He located the only two potential hiding places in the room. Behind the sofa, that was sitting a bit out from the wall, and a door that probably led to a coat closet.

He edged his way over to the sofa. Too dark behind it to see anything, but he doubted their culprit was lying down there in the dust bunnies. With one eye on the closet door, he nudged the sofa out with his knee, while keeping his pistol aimed at the darkness.

Nope, just the dust bunnies.

He swung his gun around as a shadow moved across the room.

“Kitchen’s clear,” Mac growled in a low voice.

Skip pointed with his gun hand toward the closet door. Mac nodded and headed that way.

Getting out a small penlight, Skip turned it on but kept its beam low so as not to attract the attention of the cop outside. He began to examine the furnishings more carefully.

The bedding was rumpled, but not particularly dirty. He even caught a whiff of fragrance as he moved the sheet to check under it. Something fresh and outdoorsy. Probably not the guy’s cologne. Fabric softener, most likely.

“Closet’s clear. What are we lookin’ for?”

Skip jumped a little. “Don’t do that,” he said to the man standing beside him.

Mac flashed him a grin, white teeth in the semi-darkness. “Can’t help it if I’m light on my feet.”

“To answer your question, I have no idea. Anything helpful.”

Mac let out a soft grunt and headed to the dining area. He picked up the lamp, turned it over, then removed the shade.

“Clear up here,” drifted down the stairs. “I’ll search the bedrooms.”

Skip went back to his own search. The end table was a pale wood laminate, heavily scarred with cigarette burns. No way of telling, however, whether they were already there when Delaney pulled it out of some dumpster somewhere.

Or were they produced by a madman making burn marks on his already-dead victim? Cold sweat trickled down Skip’s back.

He paused to pull out latex gloves and put them on. Then he opened the small drawer in the table. Putting himself between the front windows and the narrow beam of light, he examined its interior. Only one item inside. A small cardboard box. Skip nudged it with the penlight. It felt empty. He leaned down and squinted to make out the writing on its side, then sucked in his breath a little. The box had once contained fifty rounds for a .38 pistol.

He wrapped his hand more tightly around the snub nose .38 in his own hand. He moved across the room to examine the closet for himself.

It contained only two old coats, hanging on hangers, and an electric floor fan shoved back in one corner. He was rummaging through the coat pockets when a voice behind him said, “You got a screwdriver?”

He waited until his heart had moved from his throat back down into his chest before turning around. The wiry little man behind him was grinning again.

“It’s not funny, Mac. I could accidentally shoot you.”

“What am I s’pose to do, stomp across the floor?”

Skip juggled penlight and gun into one hand so he could reach into his pocket for his lock pick set. The latex glove stuck halfway in. He yanked his hand back out.

“If the glove don’t fit, you must acquit.”

“You’re having way too much fun here, Mac.”

“Hey, been a helluva long time since I got to go on a covert mission. Forgot how stimulatin’ they tend to be.”

Skip pulled off the glove, retrieved the small screwdriver from the pick set and handed it over. “What do you need that for?”

Mac pointed across the room at what looked like some kind of grate in the wall.

“An air return?”

“Yeah, but…” Mac tapped the screwdriver against an object next to the closet door, producing a soft metallic clang.

The radiator hadn’t even registered on Skip’s radar, he was so used to seeing them in his own old house. But if this house had radiators for heat, why the air intake vent? Unless central air conditioning had been added.

That seemed unlikely. Retrofitting an old house with ductwork was expensive, and this little duplex would hardly merit the investment.

“Good catch, Mac.”

The vent cover was half off when Rose called down from upstairs. “Hey, guys, come look at this.” Her voice was a couple octaves higher in pitch than usual.

Must be good. Rose didn’t get excited easily.

Mac was headed for the stairs. Skip started to follow. His phone vibrated against his thigh.

Shit! The cop!

Then he realized it had been a short vibration. He pulled out the phone. Not a call from Rob. A text message, from Kate.

FEDS KNOW. YOUR GF ON WAY 2 NY.

Say what? My GF? My girlfriend?!?

He tried to type
What GF?
into his phone, but in the poor light his big fingers kept hitting the wrong letters.

Understanding dawned. She meant Julie Wallace. His jaw clenched.

He debated for a second. Standing in the middle of a killer’s house he had broken into illegally was not the best time to deal with a wife in a jealous snit. He managed to accurately type
Thx
into the phone, then hesitated. Was that the best tactic?

“Oh my God!” Mac’s voice, also a couple octaves higher than normal.

Skip quickly sent the text message, pocketed his phone and ran up the stairs.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

At the top of the stairs, he had a choice. To his left was a doorway opening into a small den, with a cheap metal desk and another folding chair. A bathroom also opened onto the landing. To his right was a doorway into what must be the master bedroom.

“In here.” Mac’s voice, coming from that room.

Skip stepped into the doorway and stopped. This was the only room that was fully furnished, crowded even. A nightstand stood next to a double bed that was made up with a flowered comforter.

The dresser was pulled partway away from the wall. Next to it was a gaping hole.

Mac was moving away from the hole to let Rose get a better look inside. She stepped into the darkness. The light from her penlight swung in an arc. She quickly backed out again. The face she turned toward Skip was even paler than it had been that day last year when Mac was shot.

“That bad, huh?” Skip asked.

“No.” Rose shook herself. “I’ve seen worse.”

He crossed the room in two strides. Mac and Rose stepped back. Ducking his head, he swung his own light around the room.

He swallowed hard, realizing what Rose meant. As crime scenes went he’d seen worse as well when he was a cop. But he’d never worked a serial killer case, and he suspected neither had she.

The sight before him–the man’s kill room–was unnerving. Icy fingers crept up and down his spine. The space was long and narrow, partitioned off from the side of the bedroom. At the far end was a tiny bathroom, just a toilet and a sink. But it was what was in between that was creeping him out.

A single bed shoved against one wall, chains attached to the wrought iron frame at the head and the foot. Heavy shackles attached to the other end of the chains. A dingy gray sheet on the bed, small splotches of rusty red scattered over it.

The window on the opposite wall was boarded up. On a narrow shelf next to it were several objects. Mundane things, unless you understood why they were there. The hair stood up on his neck as he mentally inventoried the items–an ashtray, a disposable lighter, a half-empty pack of cigarettes, an old-fashioned straight razor. And a small whetstone to keep it sharp.

Skip shuddered. Then he fought back the sense of horror and made himself go to work. He somehow shrank his big form down enough to move through the narrow space toward the bathroom. As his movement stirred the air, a sickly bouquet of odors wafted up from the bedding–mustiness, a whiff of decaying flesh, the sweet, coppery smell of blood. He gagged.

Swallowing hard again, he diverted his gaze from the bed and flicked his light around the bathroom. There was a tiny medicine cabinet. He used the hand still covered with a latex glove to open the little chrome and mirrored door. It was empty.

His light revealed a string hanging down. He shone the penlight up toward the ceiling. Cobwebs hung around a bare light bulb and the base of a light fixture that had long since lost its globe. He tugged on the string with his gloved hand. The light came on.

Rose sucked in air behind him. “Look at this.”

He turned around. She stood next to the bed, holding a piece of paper in her gloved hand. He reached for it.

She pulled it away. “No, that.” She pointed to the bed with her other hand.

He stepped back into the narrow space beside the bed. Lying half under the lumpy pillow was a pad of yellow, lined paper. He leaned over. There was writing on it, in shaky handwriting.

He let me have this pad and pen. I didn’t think he would, but he did. He said I should write, if that’s what would help me feel better.

The icy fingers were back. He tried to hide the shudder from Rose.

She glanced sideways at him. He knew she’d noticed–Rose missed very little–but she didn’t acknowledge that she’d noticed.

“This says,” she held up the single page in her hand, “‘If you’ve found this room then you know who I am. So you might as well have her journal. It will explain why I did what I did.’”

~~~~~~~~

3:15 a.m. Sunday

Rob’s vision was starting to blur from staring at the police cruiser. He glanced down at his watch. The others had been gone an hour.

When he looked back up the officer was half out of his car. Rob sucked in air.

The nearby streetlight glinted off blond hair as the young man ran his fingers through it. Then he stretched and yawned.

Even this far away, the yawn was contagious. Rob’s mouth stretched wide. He eased his door open and slipped out of the truck. Ducking down behind its fender, he watched the cop.

The young man leaned down to reach inside the cruiser. When he stood up, he had his hat in his hand. Running fingers through his hair again, he put the cap on his head. Then he started strolling down the sidewalk.

Rob was fairly sure the cop was just trying to stay awake during a long, boring surveillance gig. But he dared not take the chance. He hit the speed dial for Skip’s phone and listened until he’d heard the one ring. Then he disconnected, stuck the phone in his pocket and staggered toward the cop.

“Hey, Occifer, I wants to report a stolen car.”

~~~~~~~~

In the confines of the small room, they all heard the purr of Skip’s phone as it vibrated against his leg. A longer vibration this time. He yanked out the phone to confirm it was Rob.

“What do we do about that?” Rose pointed to the pad on the bed.

Skip hesitated a beat. “Bring it.” He turned back to the bathroom and yanked the cord, plunging them back into darkness relieved only by the thin spears of their penlights.