Innocent Prey (A Brown and de Luca Novel) (13 page)

“Lexi, where are you?”

Lexi came to her other side and took her by the hand. “Oughta jump him. Kill his ass and climb the fuck outta here.” She whispered it very softly.

“The other one’s up top, waiting, Lex.” They’d noticed, a couple of times, the presence of another man, one who never got too close or spoke out loud, and they’d named him the Douche Bag. “He’d just pull up the ladder before we could get out anyway.”

“How the fuck you know anyone’s up there? I don’t see nobody.” She was leaning forward, and Stevie imagined her looking up at the opening as she did.

“I can hear him breathing, moving every now and then. Trust me.”

“Yeah. I trust you. Got ears like a goddam bat.”

The Asshole reached the bottom, then said, “Okay, send it down.”

Lexus said, “You two some kinda geniuses, huh? Lowerin’ our food down here in a basket like that. Yeah, we dealing with some rocket scientists here, we are.”

“Don’t antagonize them, Lexi.”

Stevie heard movements, rattling plastic, and Sissy narrated. “He’s taking a shopping bag out of the basket.”

“That’s right,” the man said. “It’s a bag full of pretty clothes for you girls. You’re gonna put ’em on for me. You’re gonna do it now, quickly, no arguments, and then I’ll let you have the food. And if you give me any arguments, I’m gonna shoot another one of you.” He shoved the bag into Stevie’s chest. “You first.”

“Okay, okay.” She opened the bag and reached inside. She felt silky fabrics and sheer ones and tiny hangers. Tissue paper and price tags were still attached. “What is this? Is this lingerie?”

“Pick one and put it on. Now.”

Sissy yelped, and Stevie knew the bastard had grabbed her.

“I’m putting the gun to her head, Stephanie. Are you gonna do what you’re told or should I just—”

“I’m going! Don’t hurt her.” Stevie yanked the first item she could get hold of from the shopping bag and hurried to the little bathroom. She fiddled with the thing, a teddy by the feel of it, until she got clear on which end was up, laid it carefully across the toilet seat and then started taking her clothes off.

A distant echoing sound, a cell phone ringing, came from the shower. And then a faraway and hollow voice. “Yeah?”

She frowned and moved nearer the shower, pulling back the cheap plastic curtain, waving her arm around inside even though she knew no one was there. She would have felt them if they’d been there. And yet the voice was both definitely in there and very far away. Like it was coming from inside a tunnel or...

“I know we need another girl. What do you mean, he can’t talk?”

She realized the voice was being carried through the pipes. It had a muffled, hollow sound to it that made it seem weird and alien. The water must be piped in from above, from the surface, somewhere near where the speaker was standing.

“All right, we’ll find someone else.” A pause, then, “Yes, right away.”

There was something familiar about his voice, something telling her she should know it, but it was so distorted that she thought it might be an illusion. There was a knock on the bathroom door that startled her so badly she almost screamed. “Hurry up in there.”

“Almost ready,” she said very softly, so the guy above wouldn’t hear and realize how voices carried. Maybe it didn’t work both ways, but she couldn’t be sure.

She waited another beat, but the man above had gone silent. So she let the shower curtain fall closed and turned to scoop up the skimpy garment, pulling it over her head. Its lacy parts felt scratchy on her skin, and she felt exposed and self-conscious. For the first time since the accident, she was glad she couldn’t see.

She opened the bathroom door and stepped out.

“Nice. Very nice. Now smile for me.” And then she heard the click of a camera shutter.

* * *

Rodney Carr woke up to the sound of his cell phone ringing like crazy and a pounding headache he couldn’t explain.

He rolled over in the bed, pushing a hand through his hair, moaning in pain and finally forcing his eyes open to look for his phone.

And then he realized he wasn’t in his own bed. He didn’t know where the hell he was. Frowning, he sat up slowly. A sheet of questionable cleanliness slid down his body, and he realized he was naked underneath it.

“Wait, what is this?” Though he asked it aloud, there was no one there to answer. He looked around the room, trying to remember how he’d gotten here. But there was nothing. He’d walked home from work, just like always. Stopped for two cups of Tim Horton’s coffee and a pair of bear claws to take home and share with Glenn. He’d sipped his own on the way, because he couldn’t resist. He’d stopped to buy a newspaper, then slopped coffee all over it when some careless, rushing idiot had run into him. The guy who’d bumped into him offered him another one, which he said he’d just purchased and hadn’t even sipped yet. He took it, even though it wasn’t Tim Horton’s. It was true that there were still decent people in the world. A lot of them. He tried to remind himself of that as often as he could. It was easy for a guy in his job to forget that. He’d been thinking about that as he’d walked the rest of the way, sipping the coffee, which wasn’t bad, but wasn’t great, either.

But he didn’t remember arriving at home.

The room was a hotel room. Motel, maybe. Mass-produced furniture in the style of early cheap. A bad print of geometric shapes in primary colors hung on the wall. The TV was so old it had a giant backside. His clothes were on the floor beside the bed, and when he got up and reached for them, he saw the envelope lying underneath his pants.

His phone stopped ringing. He bent low and picked up his clothes, putting them on, checking all his pockets for clues, feeling dizzy and realizing slowly that his head hurt like the dickens. All the while, he was staring at that envelope like it was going to come to life and attack him. Of course it didn’t.

He finished dressing and pulled his phone out of his pocket. Glenn had called. Twenty-seven times. It was 7:12 a.m. He’d lost an entire night. Fourteen hours. Finally he reached for the envelope, vaguely aware that he’d been putting off doing so for a while. And he didn’t know why. Maybe there was some part of him that knew, after all. That remembered.

He opened it and looked inside. Photos. Big ones. He tipped the envelope and let the photographs slide out onto the bed. They were of him, in various erotic poses with a beautiful nude woman. His eyes were closed in most of them, open slightly in others. They were very convincing. Even he could almost believe he’d been an active participant. If he didn’t know better.

There was a note included. It began:

We know you’re married. Unless you want your wife to see these photos, you’ll do exactly as I say. Follow our instructions to the letter. We’ll be in touch soon.

Rodney’s phone started to ring again. Glenn. He picked it up this time. “Hey, honey. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

10

B
y 4:00 p.m., we were at the judge’s place with giant-size cups of coffee we’d picked up on the way.

“Should’a got doughnuts,” Mason muttered.

“News flash, Detective Brown. We can’t keep eating doughnuts and junk food every time we’re together. Not if we’re gonna be
this
together.”

“I imagine you’re right. But you gotta warn a guy. I need to ease into these things.”

“We’ll get something after. Something healthy.” He nodded but didn’t look thrilled about it. I didn’t pay much attention, because the Matthesons’ place was so gorgeous. A fully restored Victorian, complete with pink, green and lavender touches in the elaborate trim. It had twice as much square footage as my place, and my place was big. “Damn, this is some house.”

“It is.”

“So where’s Special Agent Foxy Galore?”

“Kitty Galore, isn’t it? No, wait, it’s—”

“Never mind.”

“We got the warrant for the judge’s office, as well,” he said, “so she’s heading up the team doing that while we handle this.” He pulled an old receipt from his shirt pocket and read from the back of it, while punching the code Mrs. Mattheson had given him into the security panel.

I stood on the elaborate front step watching him. “Somehow I don’t think that division of labor was Agent Cantone’s idea.”

“Chief Sub’s,” he said, straightening and sticking a key into the lock.

“You mean Hal?”

He laughed as he pushed the door open and waved me inside. “It’s short for Harold.”

“I
knew
it.” I walked into the judge’s lavish home and felt instantly disgusting for what I was about to do. “Damn, this does not feel right.”

“Yeah, it’s always bothered me, too, rifling around in people’s homes. Mrs. Mattheson is at the hospital. Said she’d rather not be here for this.”

“I don’t blame her. So how does this work? We just start...pawing through their stuff?” I had my coffee in my hand, and I made damn sure not to spill any. The place was gorgeous.

“Warrant only covers his home office. Second floor, farthest door to the right.” He led the way through an elegant foyer with velvet embossed wallpaper. It looked as if it had come from the same period as the house. Everything in the place did. The light fixtures, the furniture. All antiques. Mason headed up the curved staircase. I couldn’t help but slide my hand over the gleaming wood bannister.

“Cantone says the names and faces of the missing girls have gone out to every police agency in the country.”

“Maybe someone will know something,” I said. “Something that could break this wide-open.” Then I rolled my eyes because I’d said “break this wide-open.” “Mason, why the hell are we here? We know it was Jake. And we know he and Judge Howie hate each other’s guts.”

“Because whether Jake is the kidnapper or not, he’s targeting girls who’ve aged out of the foster care system. He’s gotta be getting that information from somewhere.”

“Not from the judge,” I said. “No way.”

“Here’s the office.” He opened the tall wooden door by its antique porcelain doorknob, and we went in. It smelled like cigars, the only place in the house that did, and leather. Bookshelves lined the wall. And there were photos hanging in between them. Stephanie, Stephanie, Stephanie, Mrs. Mattheson, and a shot of the judge himself in front of an oversize white SUV, holding a whopper of a fish.

Mason went behind the desk, consulted his scribbled-on receipt again, and entered the judge’s computer password so he could start looking at files. I walked around opening drawers and scanning bookshelves. “Makes me feel like a thief, going through someone else’s stuff. How do you do this for a living?”

“Well, you know, the tradeoff of getting killers off the streets helps.”

“I suppose.” I moved around the desk, looked over his shoulder. “You finding anything?”

“No, but even an idiot would know enough to empty his trash. And the judge is no idiot.”

“Even if he did, those files are never really gone, right?” He looked up at me, as if impressed. “Hey, I’ve been known to watch
CSI.
”

“We’ll take the computer in. Have the digital forensics guy go over it.”

“We have a digital forensics guy?”

“We?” He sent me what was supposed to be a cocky grin but looked to me like a sexy one. “So you’re part of the team now, huh? Careful, Rache, you might be starting to like this.”

“It’s disgusting.”

“Yeah. You like it already.” Mason went to the downloads folder, opened it and started skimming through the previews. “Oh, man, this is rough.”

I leaned closer, and saw several
Binghamton Press & Sun-Bulletin
articles about Stephanie’s accident. Then I wondered why Mason paused so long on a photo of a demolished red Volvo being pulled out of a ravine.

“Wait a minute, that’s not right,” he said.

“What’s not right?” Leaning in close, I read over his shoulder. And I deliberately breathed on his neck. I was enjoying working with him. I wondered what he’d say if I told him that.

Probably “Who are you and what have you done with Rachel de Luca?”

“The date’s wrong,” he said. “It’s too long ago to be Stephanie’s accident.”

“Well...what other accident would he be collecting articles about?”

Mason was nodding slowly. “I remember this. It was a couple of years back. Some asshole hit the guy in the Volvo, sent him right over the edge into that ravine and then left the scene. No 911 call, no nothing. There was white paint on the Volvo’s fender, skid marks on the pavement that didn’t match his tires.”

“What happened to the guy in the Volvo?” I asked near his ear.

“Died. Probably instantly.”

“You ever catch the guy who hit him?”

“No. The location of the dent matched up with a late-model full-size SUV. The same paint was used by three different manufacturers. There were hundreds registered locally. We spent weeks looking for one that’d had work done, found a few as I recall but ruled them out. It was a dead end.”

I straightened up, turning and looking around the room. “Why do people leave the scene of an accident like that, Mason?”

“Usually because they were drunk or on drugs, so they know they’ll do time if they’re caught.”

“That’s what I thought. So then I guess the next question is, why does the judge have those articles? And, um...when did he get rid of his big gas-guzzling white SUV?”

“What?” Mason looked up at me, frowning. I just pointed at the photo on the nearby wall. The one of Judge Howie in full fishing gear from the hat to the vest to the waders, smiling and holding up his trophy fish, smiling for the camera. Right in front of a full-size white SUV.

* * *

“I wanna talk to Mitchell Kirk again,” I told Mason when he was finally driving me home—home being
his
place, because that’s where my dog and my car had taken up residence again this morning. The kids were still out of school, and if I had to leave Myrtle, I knew she’d rather be with Josh than Amy.

Yeah, that was the entire reason. Not.

“There we have another difference of opinion,” Mason told me. “In his case, I think you just don’t like him.”

“His girlfriend’s missing and he hits on me? Seems like a giant red flag to me,
Detective.
”

“I know it seems that way to you.”

“It doesn’t to you?”

“Would have once.” He shook his head. “Experience has changed my mind. If every guy who hit on another woman while his own was in trouble turned out to be the culprit, my job would be a lot easier.”

A big sigh rushed out of me before I’d intended to let it. He shot me a quick look as he pulled the car into the long dirt driveway of his work-in-progress farmhouse. “What?”

“I...” I pressed my lips together, then shrugged. Might as well be forthright. I usually didn’t beat around the bush, and this was no time to start. “You know, I don’t want to know that about men. I could’ve gone through the rest of my life just fine not ever knowing how common it is for men to cheat on their women while they’re hurt or missing or dead or dying. I’d rather be naively confident in the goodness of human nature.”

He nodded. “I know exactly what you mean.” He got out of the car, and so did I.

The screen door opened, and Myrtle burst out, running toward the car with her ears flapping but then slowing to a clumsy stop halfway as she remembered she was blind.

Josh was right behind her. “You’re home! Awesome! You gotta come out back so I can show you the fort I’m building in the woods. Myrt loves it out there.”

I looked at Mason, then at Josh. “Can I take a rain check, pal?”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means I’ll look at it next time. I promise. But I’m tired, and I need a bath.” I looked down at my dog, who had come to my side for some loving, then returned to the eleven-year-old to sit loyally at his feet. “And I’ve got a book that needs finishing, and I haven’t seen my house in forever. I really need to go home.”

Josh looked devastated. “You’re not staying?”

“Josh, I don’t live here.”

“Well, yeah, but I thought...”

Oh, hell, he was working up to tears here. I slammed the brakes on my determination to get home.

“Okay, tell you what, I’ll stay until dinner’s ready. And I’ll look at your fort first. But then I really have to go home. Okay?”

He lit up. “Okay! C’mon. It’s this way!” And he charged around the house with Myrtle jogging happily at his side. I frowned as I watched her bouncing away from us.

“I swear she’s lost weight since we’ve been here.”

Mason slid an arm around my shoulders, and we started following the kid. “She’s been keeping up with Josh. It’s the best bulldog workout ever.”

“I bet.” As we passed the front porch, I saw Jeremy in the doorway. He gave us a wave and went back inside.

“Mason, we have to be careful with the boys,” I said. “I don’t want them to start thinking...you know, that I’m trying out for substitute mommy.”

“You don’t want them to get too attached to you.”

“Yeah. Okay, that, too.”

“In case we don’t last.”

He was looking at me. I was looking back at him. Somehow we’d gotten sucked into one of those deep, emotional moments that made me long for some less charged topic, like religion or politics. He was asking me something. And I didn’t have any choice but to give him an answer. It wouldn’t have been fair not to.

“Hell, Mason, we’ll
last.
I mean, things are good, right?”

“Yeah.
I
think they’re good. You think they’re good?”

“I think they’re fine.”

“Fine is good,” he said.

“It is. I’m not going anywhere in the foreseeable future. You know, unless you turn into a jerk overnight. You don’t plan to do that, do you?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“I just don’t want the boys to start thinking of me as their new mom. I’m not. I can barely mother a bulldog, much less a couple of kids.”

“Myrtle would disagree.”

“Myrtle has low standards. If I feed her, let her climb on my furniture and sleep in my bed, I’m damn near Martha Stewart.”

He smiled. “It’s not so different with the boys. Add in unlimited access to Xbox Live and attending most of their games, and they’re content.”

I nodded. “I really have to go home.”

“I know you do. It’s all good, Rache.”

I sighed in relief. He wasn’t pushing, he wasn’t disappointed, he wasn’t guilt-tripping me over the kids. Of course he wasn’t. When had he ever? I was guilt-tripping myself, if anything. And since when did I do that?

Myrtle barked, and we picked up the pace, walking over the still soft meadow, all lush with young grasses and early wildflowers, and into the little woodlot off to the side of it. Joshua had apparently raided his uncle’s toolbox. I spotted a hammer, a hatchet, a saw, a box of nails and a tape measure tossed around on the ground. There were saplings, cruelly cut down in their youth and nailed across their parent trees in a crisscross patchwork design on three sides, forming a sort of lopsided square with one side open. The kid had used what looked like a full roll of electrical tape to attach pictures to the “walls,” photos he’d printed up on plain paper. There were shots of me and Mason, shots of Josh and Myrtle, shots of Jeremy, and one that broke my heart in spite of myself. A family photo of Mason’s dead serial-killer brother and batshit-crazy sister-in-law, in better times, with their two sons, everyone smiling like a normal, happy, well-adjusted family. It made me wonder what business I had worrying about my own petty little problems. Dead people talking to me and whatnot.

* * *

It was a quiet night. I didn’t have to walk Myrt, because she’d had more exercise hanging out with Josh for the past few days than a week’s worth of walks would’ve supplied. She was exhausted. I whipped up a gourmet dinner in the microwave—Marie Callender’s. The good shit. I had a leftover chicken breast in the fridge, too, so I chopped that up and served it to Myrtle with a sprinkle of her special healthy-weight-formula organic grain-free kibble. And then I plopped my ass in front of the TV and ate.

“It’s cool to actually be able to watch the news, isn’t it, Myrt? Can’t do that at Mason’s. If the TV’s on, they’re either gaming or watching baseball.”

Myrt looked up from her dish, but I knew she hadn’t heard a word I’d said. Food distracted her completely.

I wasn’t paying much attention to the news, either. Or to my potpie. I was missing Mason.

“And that’s what comes of spending so much time together all of a sudden, dumb-ass. You have to build up to these things gradually. Over time.”

I heaved a sigh, and looked across the room at the desk in the corner, where my desktop with the honking twenty-seven-inch monitor waited for me to make it earn its keep. I had an office upstairs and a laptop that went anywhere I pleased, but I liked working in the living room sometimes. I knew, however, that nothing was going to happen with the writing tonight. Nothing. I’m a morning writer. I start trying to write in the evening, things could get out of whack. You just don’t mess with the system when it’s working well.

Not that it was, at the moment, but normally, it was a well-oiled machine, my process.