by Diane Kelly
Being cooped up was making him paranoid. The lack of information only made things worse.
According to the saying, no news was supposed to be good news. But the lack of news regarding the murder investigation didn’t feel good at all to him. Not knowing what was going on had twisted his stomach into a tight knot. Had the police found any leads? Was law enforcement on their trail? Could cops be closing in this very minute without his knowledge, maybe sneaking into the hotel through a back entrance?
Muffled voices sounded in the hall outside his door and every nerve ending in his body went on red alert. He rose reflexively from the armchair, his fight-or-flight instincts kicking in. He didn’t want to fight, especially with armed cops, but how could he flee from this room? Besides the door, the window was the only way out. For safety reasons, the window didn’t open. He’d have to smash it. But with what? The chair was too large to pick up, and the bedside lamp was bolted to the wall. It was at least a fifteen-foot drop to the hard pavement, too. If he were lucky, he’d only break an ankle. How would he flee then?
The muffled voices faded to silence. Are they gone?
He got his answer when the quiet was broken by the last sound he wanted to hear.
Knock-knock.
TWENTY
A CIVIL MATTER
Megan
Like Brigit, the bloodhound had done his darnedest to track Greg Olsen, but with limited results. The dog had led us to the parking lot for the park and through a wooded area past the YMCA camp and the Carswell Federal Medical Center, a former Air Force hospital that was repurposed into a minimum-security facility for female offenders suffering from health issues. As we trailed along behind the dog, the detective and I searched for more tell-tale smears of blood or flattened areas where something had been dragged, but we saw nothing.
When he reached River Oaks Boulevard, the bloodhound continued along on the side of the road, slowing down and stopping several times to sniff around and find the scent. Once the dog reached the Jacksboro Highway intersection, however, he trailed the smell to a sewer grate.
The handler looked up at us. “Either the remaining scent was washed down into the sewer by the rain, or the person we’re looking for is down there.”
Yikes.
Jackson lifted the manhole cover nearby and shined her flashlight down into the concrete pipe. She stood, locked her gaze on me, and angled her head to indicate the hole. “Want to take a look down there?”
Visions of ten-foot alligators and swamp creatures and clowns with sharp teeth filled my head, and I spurted, “Why me?”
“Because I outrank you,” Jackson said. “And you’ve got a better chance of getting in and out of that hole without pulling a muscle.”
True. I didn’t much like exercise, but I forced myself to work out on a regular basis to stay in shape. I faced all kinds of physically demanding situations on the job, and it paid to stay fit so that I could better handle them. The detective, on the other hand, spent a lot of time behind a desk.
I stepped over to the hole, sat down on the edge, and dangled my legs through. Fortunately, they nearly touched the bottom and no water was rushing through the drains. I eased myself down and reached up for the flashlight Jackson offered me. I had to hunch down and perform an improvised crab walk to make it down one side of the tunnel. I steeled myself with a deep breath in case I came upon a corpse. You got this, Megan. With another whimper, I shined the light into the darkness. Nothing down there but some waterlogged fast-food wrappers, small twigs, and now-dried worms that had been washed to their death.
I crawled back to the sewer grate. Jackson stared down through the open manhole. “Anything?”
“Not that I could see. I’ll try the other side.”
I ventured a dozen feet into the tunnel on the other side and shined the flashlight about again. Nothing. “Nothing on this side, either!” I called, my voice echoing eerily through the concrete tunnel. It was creepy and claustrophobic down here, probably not unlike the Paris Catacombs. Why anyone would want to venture into them was beyond me. My dream vacation involved sunbathing on a sunny beach with a margarita in my hand or hiking on a wooded mountain.
I returned to the hole. Both Jackson and the bloodhound’s handler reached down to help pull me up.
As I wrangled the cover back into place, I looked up at Jackson. “Do you think the rain could have washed his body farther into the sewer?”
“I doubt it,” she said, hedging her bets with a simultaneous shrug. “The river and lake are full because they collect runoff from the entire region, and there were major storms farther upstream. The rains here in Fort Worth were heavy, but they were short-lived. If Greg Olsen became submerged in this sewer, he might have floated away, but this system empties into the lake so he would’ve ended up there. I’m no water expert, though. I’ll check with the public works department, speak to a water specialist, get an educated opinion.”
A wise move. While common sense played a lot into detective work, sometimes an expert’s input could be helpful.
In addition to the snacks the bloodhound’s handler gave him, I offered him a couple of Brigit’s liver treats, too. He’d been a good boy, and certainly earned them.
To ensure all bases were covered, cops from the beat began a ground search in the area between the sewer grate and the park. If Greg Olsen’s body had been dumped in the woods or buried in a shallow grave and the bloodhound had somehow overlooked it, they’d find it. Of course it was possible the killers had dumped Greg in the lake, but had taken on some of his scent while they were handling his body. The bloodhound might have been tracking a secondhand scent, so to speak. If only dogs and humans could communicate in more detail …
Brigit and I begged off then. We had a double date planned with Seth and Blast, and the detective and local beat cops could wrap things up from there.
Jackson thanked me for coming out. “The department’s lucky to have you, Officer Luz. You, too, Brigit.” A proud blush warmed my face as she gave Brigit a scratch behind the ears. It was nice to be appreciated for a job well done.
* * *
Seth, Zach, and I leaped from our seats on the first row of bleachers, cheering as Frankie zipped past in the skating rink before us. As usual, Frankie was leading her roller derby team, the Fort Worth Whoop Ass, to a solid victory against their opponents, the Abilene Annihilators. The score would have been even more one-sided if the Whoop Ass hadn’t been short two of their best team members, both of whom were out with the flu. The influenza virus had been going around the police and fire stations, too. So far, Seth, Frankie, and I had been lucky. None of us had caught the bug.
Blast and Brigit lay on the floor in front of us, snout to snout, panting softly, sharing a moment together. They’d been to enough of these roller derby bouts that they knew to ignore the noise and enthusiasm of the crowd. They only got excited when we made a trip to the snack bar to get them greasy hot dogs as a special treat. Even working dogs deserve a cheat day from their usual healthy diet.
As we watched the bout, I updated Seth on the latest developments in the Olsen case. “Detective Jackson plans to give the media photos of the shoes and clothing. We’re hoping someone will recognize them and call in. There’s nothing particularly distinctive about them, though, just typical stuff guys wear. There were no fingerprints on the car, the knife, or the keychain. The lab is going to run tests on the blood in the car and trunk to see if it all belongs to Greg Olsen, too, or whether some of it might belong to one of the attackers. Detective Jackson is going to canvass the area for video cameras to see if any of them picked up the Jetta.”
“So the wife has been ruled out?”
“Nothing points to her,” I said. “She’s got an ironclad alibi for the night her husband disappeared, and there’s no evidence that either of them was cheating or anything like that. In fact, everyone we’ve talked to says they seemed really happy together. They’d planned a trip to Fredericksburg. Detective Jackson found their hotel
reservation confirmation in Shelby’s e-mail inbox. She’d opted for a reduced prepaid rate that’s non refundable. From everything we’ve seen, they seem to have expected to have a future together.” At least as far as this weekend, anyway.
“I saw the wife on the news,” Seth said. “She looked broken up.”
I wondered if reporter Trish LeGrande would attempt to interview Shelby a second time once news broke about today’s find at the lake. Over the past few days, she’d repeatedly played a clip of her earlier interview with Shelby, during which Shelby pleaded for anyone with information about her husband’s disappearance to come forward. Trish would probably be thrilled to have some fresh fodder for her newscasts. Sex might sell, but so did violence.
We rose from our seats again as several players collided, fell, and slid across the floor, crashing into each other or the side of the rink.
I grimaced. “This sport is brutal.”
Zach wagged his brows. “I know. That’s what makes it so sexy to watch.”
* * *
Brigit and I were scheduled to work swing shifts all week, from 1:00 to 9:00 p.m. It was my least favorite shift. There was little time to run personal errands before work, and if I tried I’d have to constantly watch the clock. We’d arrive home too late and too tired after the shift to tackle household tasks. But at least I’d get to address an item on my extensive wedding to-do list. Seth and I planned to meet at a local wedding venue on my dinner break, get a feel for the place.
My furry partner and I stopped by Detective Jackson’s office Monday afternoon before heading out on patrol. “Any luck with the cameras near the lake?”
“We’ve got some footage, but I can’t make anything of it.” She waved for me to come around her desk.
Once I was standing behind her, she pulled up the clip. The video was a six-second segment recorded on a security camera mounted over a cell phone store. The clarity wasn’t bad. Whoever installed the camera had opted for an expensive system. Problem was, the Jetta was too far away for the camera to provide a clear picture of the people inside.
After playing the video for me at actual speed, she replayed it for me at one-quarter time. The driver, who was on the far side of the camera, was merely a light-colored blur. The person in the front passenger seat wore Shelby’s purple beanie pulled down tight over his head and had her scarf wrapped around his neck and the lower half of his face. All that was visible was the narrow stretch of face that included his eyes and the bridge of his nose, with some wild dark hair to each side. It was as if he were wearing the opposite of the usual superhero-type mask, which only covered the eyes and part of the nose. Instead, only those parts were visible. The fact that his head appeared to be nearly touching the ceiling of the car told me he was the guy who’d been wearing the XL jacket and plaid flannel shirt we’d found in the garbage bag.
“Sorry, Detective,” I said. “I can’t make much of it, either. Are you going to release it to the news stations?”
“Gonna have to,” she said. “We need to get this investigation wrapped up. I’m falling behind on my other work.” She gestured to a stack of manila file folders in her inbox.
“Any word from the lab or water department?”
“All the blood in the car was Greg Olsen’s, even the blood on the seats. It must have transferred from the killers’ clothes.”
“Sheesh. They must have cut a major artery for him to have lost so much blood. Maybe more than one.” If the attackers had turned Greg into a human Pez dispenser, as Derek had surmised, they could have cut through the carotid artery in the neck. The spray pattern on the Olsen’s kitchen wall was consistent with the theory. Maybe they’d also cut the brachial artery near Greg’s armpit, or one of the mesenteric arteries in his abdomen. The femoral artery in the inner thigh could leak a lot of blood if cut, too. I was beginning to feel lightheaded at the thought when Jackson thankfully turned the conversation from blood flow to water flow.
“The water department says it’s unlikely there’d have been enough of a current in the storm sewer to carry a body, but they couldn’t definitely rule out the possibility.”
It was too bad this crime had taken place in the winter. If it were summer, more people would be out on the lake and about the river. There’d be a better chance of someone stumbling upon Olsen’s body and, though that would undoubtedly be horrible for whoever did so, it would have been helpful to our case. “You going to send the divers down again?”
“This weekend,” she said, “assuming we don’t get more rain.”
Texas weather could change on a dime. While there was no precipitation currently in the forecast, according to a quick consult with my weather app, there were no guarantees we might not be facing a monsoon by Saturday. “I’ll keep my fingers crossed.”
Brigit and I ventured out to our cruiser. A head topped with rusty hair bobbed among the cruisers. Derek. Ugh. We passed him on our way across the parking lot. He was just getting off the early swing shift.
He jutted his chin. “You find that dead guy yet? Figure out who killed him?”
“We’re working on it.”
“What’s taking you so long, Luz-er? Looked like a cut-and-dried case to me. Well, cut and wet. Must’ve been gallons of blood in that kitchen.” He cackled, the only one amused by his words.
Derek had once aspired to make detective, too, but had eventually realized he wasn’t cut out for it. His most effective muscles were on his arms rather than inside his skull. Even so, that didn’t prevent him from suffering a case of professional jealousy. I wasn’t about to stoop to his level and throw shade his way, though. At least not at the moment. My mind was too busy mulling over the video clip to come up with a clever comeback.
I loaded Brigit into the back of the cruiser and we headed out. It was a pleasant day. Sunny skies. Temperature in the mid-sixties. I rolled the windows down a few inches so she could enjoy sniffing the breeze, feeling the wind in her fur. She lay on her cushion in the back, and a quick glimpse in my rearview showed her nose lifted to the wind, taking in the scents of our beat: the aroma of burgers and potatoes frying at the fast-food joints along University Drive, the odor of animals and the stench of their excrement as we cruised past the zoo, the smell of orange spice tea coming from the travel mug in my cup holder.
Of course our beat was filled with sounds, too, and Brigit’s ears were perked to capture all of them. The white noise of traffic going by and the squeal of the brakes on city buses. The chatter of TCU students making their way to class. The bang-bang-bang of roofers installing new shingles on houses, a sound that filled the skies every two to five years.
Dispatch came across the radio. “Officer needed on a possible fraud call in Mistletoe Heights.”
A fraud case sounded much more interesting than the typical car accident or noise complaint. I reached for my radio and pressed the button. “Officer Luz and Brigit responding.”
Dispatch rattled off the address, and in minutes we were easing past roofing trucks to pull to the curb in front of a well-maintained two-story classic home fashioned from tan-colored brick. Chimneys rose from either side of the gabled roof, and the entry door sat at the back of an expansive covered porch furnished with padded wicker seating. White statuary featuring Greek gods and goddesses was positioned about the front flowerbed, enough to add character but no so many as to be tacky. Athena, the goddess of war, clutching a pointed spear. Dionysus, the god of wine, raising a chalice in one hand and a bunch of grapes in the other. Zeus, god of the sky, wielding a bolt of lightning.
Leaving the windows down for Brigit, I went up to the door and rang the bell. My partner watched from behind the safety mesh of her enclosure. A moment later, a sixty-ish woman with olive-tone skin and shiny ebony hair answered the door. I couldn’t say for certain, but I was pretty sure she was the homeowner I’d seen speaking with the roofer from New Mexico a few days ago. I introduced myself and she did the same, giving her name as Althea Nomikos. She invited me in.
&
nbsp; I gestured back to my cruiser. “I’ve got a K-9 in my squad car. Okay if we talk out here on the porch where I can keep an eye on her?”
“Of course,” the woman said. She grabbed a thin document from a table inside the door and stepped outside. A skinny black cat darted out with her. She set the paperwork down on the wicker coffee table and scooped the cat up in her arms. “You’re such a naughty boy, Morpheus.”
“The god of dreams,” I said. “Great name for a cat.” After all, the creatures slept an average of fifteen hours a day.
She cradled her cat in one arm and held out her free hand to indicate one of the wicker chairs. She sat in the one across from it. Morpheus eyed me suspiciously.
I took a seat and pulled out my pen and note pad. “I understand you’d like to make a fraud complaint?”
“I suppose that’s what you’d call it.” Cradling her cat, she ran a hand over his head. “I signed an agreement with a roofing contractor last week after that hailstorm. Gave him a check for five hundred dollars. It’s already cleared the bank. He said the crew chief would get a team started on my roof within two to three days.” She pointed upward to indicate the roof. “As you can see, that hasn’t happened.” As if to add insult to injury, a bang-bang-bang came from the roofers nailing new shingles on the roof across the street. She looked across the way and frowned. “I should’ve hired those guys. They were out here within forty-eight hours.”
“What’s the name of the company and representative you dealt with?”
“Stormchaser. Their rep was Tommy Something-or-other.”
She reached down to the coffee table and pushed the paperwork toward me. I picked it up and perused it. The document was a three-page contract for roofing services. Stapled to the top was a business card for Tommy Perkins, Homeowner Liaison for Stormchaser Roofing, Inc. The company’s logo on the left side of the card featured a dark cloud with a tail of wind. The phone number on the card was local, prefaced with an 817 area code. A Yahoo e-mail account was also listed. I ran my eyes quickly over the handwritten information on the contract. Beside a typed line that read “Project start date,” he had written 2/17. We were only three days past the 17th, but I could understand this woman’s concern. Spring storms in North Texas could bring torrential rains and wind, along with significant water damage if a roof wasn’t up to snuff.