Love Inspired Suspense June 2014 Bundle 2 of 2: Forced Alliance\Out for Justice\No Place to Run (32 page)

Yes! The killer was falling for their trap. If all went as planned, once Jen opened the door and he pulled out his chloroform-soaked cloth, they would storm the house and capture him. In a few minutes it would all be over. Six months of hard work brought to a satisfying close.

But instead of continuing up the drive, the Camry stopped. The wheels turned again, this time to the left, and the car began to back toward the Carsons' garage. What was he doing?

The next moment, realization extinguished his excitement.
No, not there!
Number 410 was all the way to the back, 408 at the front.
Come on, it's marked.
Right at the beginning of the drive.

Alan watched from fifty feet away, praying the killer would figure it out. Finally the driver's door swung open. But the dome light didn't come on. He had turned it off. The guy was careful. Of course, they already knew that.

For several moments he stood next to the car, door open. He seemed to be scanning the area, looking for danger, ears cocked for the slightest movement.

Alan longed to move closer, maybe even try to get a tag number. But he didn't dare. The guy was on edge, superalert. It was obvious in the way he stood, the tension that emanated from him. Nothing would escape his notice. A rustle of clothing, the snap of a twig, and he would take off.

Finally he moved away from the car and began to walk toward the house. The
wrong
house. The Carsons were home, and though it was almost eleven o'clock, they hadn't gone to bed. Several lights were on inside, and a television filled one room with a soft, bluish glow.

The suspect stepped from view, presumably headed to the front door. Alan cast a glance at Kaminski, who was watching from around the corner of Jen's house. After a nod and gesture from the older detective, Alan sprang from his hiding place to sprint toward the Carson house. Plans had just changed.

He stayed in the shadows as much as possible, moving from tree to tree and finally ducking behind one of the shrubs that sparsely lined the opposite side of the drive. He had just straightened to dive behind the next one when the driver reappeared, hurrying toward his car.

Alan crouched behind the shrub and waited. Maybe the suspect realized he had the wrong house and would just continue up the drive. When he did, Kaminski and Ford would be waiting for him.

But instead of driving into the trap set for him, he took off in a spray of gravel and slid sideways several inches before hitting the road. Alan grabbed his radio and shot across the Carsons' yard. Just as he reached the road, the car sped past, lights still off. By the time he had radioed in the description, both Kaminski and Ford stood next to him.

Kaminski, the older one, was breathing harder than Ford. “Did you get a good look at him?”

Alan shook his head. “It was too dark, and I wasn't able to get close enough.”

“Tag number?”

“I couldn't get that, either. He kept his lights off all the way to the end of the street. By the time he passed under the streetlight, he was too far away.”

“Which way did he turn?”

“Right.” Away from Harmony Grove, which wasn't any surprise.

“He may suspect we're on to him.”

Kaminski took a diagonal path to the drive through Carsons' front yard. Alan followed, and Ford fell in beside him. When they reached the corner of the garage, the front door of the house swung open and Willie Carson stepped onto the porch. He was barefoot, dressed in plaid cotton pajamas that were a little too short for his tall, lanky frame.

Alan backtracked to meet him. He had given the Carsons sketchy information earlier in the week, letting them know they would be there. But this was the first night Willie had ventured outside.

“Did you see something?”

Willie nodded. “Sure did. The missus and me was gettin' ready for bed, and I was turnin' off lights. When I walked into the livin' room, someone was at the window. He saw me and took off.”

“Can you describe him for me?”

“'Fraid not. Couldn't see him that good through the screen, light being on inside and all.”

“If you think of anything else that might help us, give me a call.”

“Sure will.” Willie's head bobbed. “Anything I can do to help. If he comes back, I'll get my .22.”

Alan held up a hand. “Let's not get carried away. Just call me. No shooting anybody.”

Willie nodded again, his enthusiasm a little more restrained. He had worked in one of the phosphate mines all his life and recently retired. This was probably the most excitement he'd had in a while.

When Alan rejoined the others, they had all gathered in the cottage at the back. Jen and Lexi sat at the kitchen table nursing what looked like two glasses of iced tea. Ford stood behind a third chair, and Kaminski leaned against the doorjamb, pose casual.

Kaminski raised a brow at him. “Well?”

“I know why the suspect ran. Willie Carson went to turn off the living room light and came face-to-face with him.”

“What do you think the chances are that he'll be back?”

Alan thought for a moment. “Probably not good. If he thinks Jen lives in the house at the front, he believes she's not alone. And he only targets women who are alone.”

His gaze drifted to Lexi, and she lifted her chin. She didn't need the reminder. But he would give it anyway. Every chance he got.

“And,” he continued, “if he realized his mistake and knows Jen lives in the cottage at the back, he still probably won't be back. He knows we're watching her place.”

Alan's running to the road had guaranteed that. But getting a tag number had been their best chance at identifying him. And he couldn't pass it up.

Kaminski pushed himself away from the wall. “Well, I think we're through here tonight. What do you say we all go home and get into some dry clothes?”

Alan smiled. “You won't get any argument from me.”

Ford and Kaminski moved toward the front door, but Alan hung back. Creases of concern had settled into Jen's face as she watched the two detectives leave. His reasoning about the killer not returning apparently hadn't done much to allay her fears.

His gaze locked with Lexi's. “You staying?”

“I will for tonight.”

Tension seemed to drain suddenly from Jen, and her breath escaped in a relieved sigh. “Thanks. I think I'll go stay with Mom and Dad for a while until this is all over.” She directed a weak smile Alan's way. “Just in case.”

“That's a good idea.” He returned her smile, then moved toward the door. “I guess I'll leave you ladies alone.”

Once outside, he headed up the gravel drive and to the house just past the Carsons'. He had left his Mustang there. Kaminski and Ford had ridden together in Kaminski's 4Runner, which they had parked across the street. It, of course, was gone. Lexi's car was in the Carsons' garage. At least, that was what he had been told. He hadn't personally seen it. She had always managed to get there a little ahead of him.

He had hoped for a chance to talk to her. It hadn't come. Three straight nights and he hadn't had two seconds alone with her. Maybe he should just show up at her house. With flowers. And a sincere apology.

He slid into the driver's seat of his Mustang and shut the door.

Yep, a bouquet of flowers was a good idea.

TWELVE

“S
immons, meet me in my office.”

Tomlinson caught her before she even made it to her cubicle. He walked at a good clip, holding a file folder, Greg Morganson a pace or two behind. Lexi changed direction and followed. At least this time she wouldn't be getting a dressing-down, not with Greg present to witness it.

When he reached his office, instead of rounding the desk to sit behind it, Tomlinson leaned against the front, propping a hip on top. “We had a call from a waitress at a local wings place. Seems one of her frequent customers wasn't getting enough of her with his wings and beer. He started hounding her outside of work. He never tried to talk to her, just kept showing up where she was. Even joined the same gym so he could watch her work out.”

“Perv.” Lexi muttered the word under her breath, but Tomlinson heard, if the quirk of his lips was any indication.

“It was bad enough that she got a restraining order. But that didn't stop him. This morning we found him parked across the street from her apartment complex, a pair of binoculars in front of his face and a camera with a monster zoom lens sitting next to him.”

“So he's been taken into custody?”

Tomlinson nodded.

“Good.” The creep would probably say she brought it on herself with the short shorts and eye-popping cleavage. But nothing excused what he did.

“Anyway,” Tomlinson continued, “we've put in for a warrant and should have it anytime now. I want you two to search his place and see what you can find.”

Lexi nodded. She was a homicide detective. Chasing stalkers was a far cry from solving murders. But this was how a lot of killers started—obsessed and perverted. Maybe she could take this one off the street before some innocent girl lost her life.

“What can you tell us about the suspect?”

“The guy's name is Wendell Moorehead. White male, forty-three, five foot eleven, a hundred eighty pounds. He works part-time for one of the aluminum contractors, keeping the shop cleaned up. Lives in a two-bedroom house on the edge of Lakeland. Apparently has a roommate.”

She glanced over at Greg. He hadn't spoken but was busy taking notes. She frowned. Not only had Tomlinson pulled her from Kayla's case, he was giving her a newbie detective to babysit. Nothing against Greg. He seemed nice enough. But she wasn't a trainer. She got too wrapped up in her own investigating to take the time to teach someone else.

Tomlinson moved away from the desk and headed for the door. “Go on over there. I'll call you as soon as we have the warrant.”

Lexi walked with Greg through the station and out to the parking lot.

“I'll drive.” Her tone didn't leave him any room to argue.

He buckled himself into the passenger seat and waited until she had left the parking lot to strike up conversation.

“How long have you been with the department?”

“Four years.”

“Like it?”

“Oh, yeah. It's challenging.” She glanced over at him. “How about you?”

“Yeah, I like it. But you've got a lot of time on me. I've got seven months to your four years.”

She nodded and reached for the radio dial. Soft rock filled the confines of the car.

“Are you single?”

What is this, Twenty Questions?
She never cared for that game. And “Let's Get to Know Our Coworkers” wasn't much better.

“Single and not looking to change that status anytime soon.” She cringed at the snarky tone that came through in her voice. He was just being friendly. It wasn't his fault that Alan had gotten her pulled off Kayla's case. “How about you?”

“Yeah, I'm single. The old lady dumped me and ran off with my best friend.”

She frowned. That was more than she needed to know. “Sorry to hear that.”

“Don't be. I say ‘good riddance.' Now it's just me and my dog.” Greg settled back in the seat and looked straight ahead. “Anyway, that's when I decided to get into police work. You know, make a new start. That was three years ago.”

“What kind of dog do you have?”

“A black Lab. I rescued him from the pound, so he thinks the sun rises and sets on me. And I think
he's
pretty cool, too. Much less demanding than a woman.” He smiled over at her. “No offense.”

By the time she stopped in front of the Lakeland address Tomlinson had given her, he had called with news of the warrant, and she had heard half of Greg's life story. At least his adult life.

She walked to the front door and rang the bell. There were no vehicles in the drive. The roommate was probably at work. But kicking in doors was a last resort.

A quick survey of the property, however, left them no choice. The front and side doors were locked, with no keys hidden outside, and the dog that guarded the back appeared none too happy about two uniformed strangers roaming his yard.

She left the dog barking and growling inside the back fence and walked to the side door. Before she could kick it in, Greg stopped her.

“Here, let me.”

Whatever. She didn't have anything to prove. She stepped back and moments later the door swung open, exposing a splintered jamb.

A hallway led them past a small laundry area and into the kitchen. Her gaze scanned the room. Definitely the residence of a couple of stereotypical bachelors. Dirty dishes filled the sinks and sat on the countertop in haphazard stacks. The dishwasher was open, its racks almost empty. From the looks of things, they were one meal away from dirtying their last clean dish.

Greg walked into what appeared to be a living room, and she followed a short hall that led from the kitchen to a bedroom. An open pizza box sat on a computer desk, one piece of dried-up pizza still inside. Clothes overflowed a hamper in the corner, and the bed was unmade, the sheets wrapped around the comforter in a jumbled mess. As she stepped farther into the room, Greg's voice stopped her.

“Lexi, you'd better come and look at this.”

She hurried toward the other end of the house. Off the living room was a second bedroom. Greg stood looking at a corkboard mounted over a desk. There were two others just like it, all covered in photos. A couple of expensive-looking lenses sat on the desk. The camera and at least one lens would have been taken into evidence when the suspect was arrested.

She approached one of the boards. The photos all seemed to be of the same woman. Shoulder-length dark hair, young, attractive and well endowed. Judging from the attire in some of the pictures, this was the wings waitress.

Greg moved to stand beside her. “She looks like a tease.”

Something in his tone set her off, a touch of judgment. “Are you insinuating that she deserved this unwanted attention?” Her voice held a testy edge.

He raised both hands. “Not at all. Just making an observation.”

She moved to the next board. This subject was blond, equally attractive. In some of the pictures she wore a medical uniform.

“The guy was stalking the nurse at his doctor's office?”

Lexi frowned. “That's what it looks like.”

The last board held photos of yet another subject. This one appeared to be Asian. None of the pictures revealed what she did for a living. They were all candid shots—shopping, standing on a sidewalk, getting into her car, hanging with friends. Lexi leaned forward. With those exotic features and jet-black hair, she was gorgeous.

Greg let out a low whistle. “How much you wanna bet none of these women had any idea they were being photographed?”

“No doubt. He was probably fifty feet away, shooting them with a zoom lens.”

Her gaze circled the room, then came to rest on a bookcase in the corner. The entire top shelf looked like it was packed full of photo albums. She pulled one from the center.

“People don't usually have this many photo albums. Proud parents, yes. A single guy living with his roommate? Not likely.”

She flipped through the pages. Just as she expected. More pictures like those on the boards—candid shots of beautiful women, probably all shot with a zoom lens.

She slid the album back into its slot on the shelf and pulled out another one. It, too, was filled with shots of women. So was the next, and the one after that. Book after book, all the same.

“How long has he been doing this mess?” Greg had stepped up beside her and stood watching her flip the pages.

“Apparently a long time.”

She slid the last book onto the shelf and moved toward the closet. The door stood open. It was a walk-in, with racks of clothes on two sides and shoe cubbies built into the back. When she flipped the light switch, nothing happened. Probably a dead bulb.

She stepped inside and scanned the high shelf that ran along all three sides. It held lots of miscellaneous stuff—several shoe boxes, a camera bag, a stack of magazines, some games, a bowl of loose change and...

One object caught her gaze and held it. She stiffened as coldness washed over her and settled in her core. Sitting on the shelf in plain view was a policeman's hat.

She began pushing hangers down the rod with sharp flicks of her wrist, her pulse rate picking up speed. Near the end of the rack, she found it—a policeman's uniform. There was a patch on the left sleeve: three V-shaped stripes. A silver star was pinned over the right pocket, and a pair of handcuffs hung down the front, looped over the hook of the hanger.

Her heart was pounding in earnest now. Had Tomlinson taken her off Kayla's case, then inadvertently put her in the killer's house?

“Check this out, Greg.” She clicked on her flashlight and shone it on the uniform as he stepped up beside her.

“A police uniform.” His voice was hushed. “The killer.”

“The problem is, it's navy.” Even by flashlight in a darkened closet, she could see the uniform wasn't dark green.

“Maybe the girl who was abducted was confused. I mean, she was probably too shaken up to be very reliable with the details.”

“But Jen wasn't shaken up.”

“Who's Jen?”

“The girl he stopped last week and pretended to run her license.” Oh, yeah. Greg wouldn't have the latest details. “Jen paid attention. It was dark, but she got a pretty good description of the guy. He was average build, but fairly muscular. And he had a buzz cut.”

Greg ran a hand over his closely shaved head and grinned. “That describes a lot of us nowadays.”

She returned his smile. “True. But she said the uniform was dark green, and there weren't any patches.”

Greg's gaze shifted to the uniform hanging in the closet. “This patch is on the left sleeve. My guess is if we pulled it out of the closet, there wouldn't be anything on the right, and that's the sleeve she would have seen.”

Lexi nodded slowly. They wouldn't test his theory, not until after everything was processed. But he had a point. And in the dark, navy blue could possibly be mistaken for dark green.

But there was another inconsistency. “Both witnesses put him around thirty. This guy is forty-three.”

“You know how it is when you're young. Thirty, forty, fifty—it's all the same.”

No, she didn't know. Even in her teens, someone would have to be a young forty for her to mistake him for thirty. But it was possible. She pulled her phone from the pouch on her belt and dialed Tomlinson.

As soon as he answered, she jumped in. “We'd better get Crime Scene out here. We found pictures. Hundreds of them. And a police uniform.”

She filled him in on the rest of the details. When she finished, an unexpected chuckle came through the phone. “I removed you from the case, and it looks like you might have solved it anyway. Good job, Lexi.”

“Thanks. By the way, what kind of car was he in when they picked him up this morning?”

“A truck. A Ford F-150.”

She frowned, her doubt increasing. “Not a Camry?”

“No, but maybe he has a second vehicle.”

“Maybe.”

Right after she disconnected the call, the front door creaked open and a hesitant male voice called out.

“Hello?”

She hurried to the front of the house to find a man entering the kitchen. He was a throwback from the sixties era, with blond hair graying at the edges, pulled back into a thin ponytail that almost reached his waist.

He spun to face them. “What's going on? I come home for lunch and there are cops in my house.”

Lexi didn't address his question. “What's your name?”

“Jeff Underwood.”

“Wendell's your roommate?”

“Yeah.”

“How about showing us which room is yours.”

He looked from her to Greg and shrugged. “Sure. Right back here.”

Lexi followed him down the short hall to the bedroom she had entered on first arriving. “Okay, that's what we needed to know. But you'll have to leave now. We're in the middle of an investigation. Just don't go very far. We'll probably need to talk to you.”

“Is Wendell in some kind of trouble?”

“We can't say just yet.”

She began walking him toward the front door. He complied without argument. He was being pretty laid-back about the whole thing.

“What about after work? Can I sleep here tonight?”

“You'd better make other arrangements. We'll let you take some clothes and personal items, but we'll probably be here for the next two days.”

Not that she had high hopes of finding anything. It wasn't likely, since none of the victims had been brought there. If the killer was smart and careful enough to strip a whole crime scene of any smidgen of evidence, he wasn't likely to bring anything home with him.

Except pictures. Hundreds of them. The problem was, there wasn't a single photo of any of the five victims.

When they reached the entry area, Jeff gripped the doorknob, then dropped his hand. He turned to face them, brows drawn together. “What did Wendell do?”

“We can't share that yet.”