Shuttered Secrets

by Melissa Erin Jackson

  Ollie, as predicted, started making a ruckus at the sound, flying out of his dog door. Whomp-snap.

  “Hi, Ollie,” I said softly, and the dog quieted immediately, followed by excited whimpering. “That’s a good boy. Want some treats?” I tossed a handful over the fence between the Quincys’ yard and Vickie’s. The dog went in search of the tiny bones. I heard him snuffling like a tiny fuzzy pig as he tried to root them out in the dark.

  After pulling on my gloves, I easily picked the lock on the Quincys’ backdoor and pushed it open, peering around the corner of what appeared to be a small laundry room. The Quincys had no dogs, but I noticed the smell of cat before I spotted the litter box in the corner across from the dryer. Hopefully it would be so scared by the intrusion that it would hide and stay out of my way.

  I gently closed the door behind me and crept into the kitchen. I stood there, listening, waiting for any sign that someone was still there, but the place was empty. I got to work scouring every inch of the tiny house—in every closet and drawer in search of my stolen cameras. I didn’t find them. No sign of the camera bags. No lenses or tripods. I got the impression from the décor that Carter wasn’t a shutterbug at all.

  They had a small detached garage, as well as a shed in the backyard near a lemon tree laden with fruit. I checked them both. Nothing. A second scan of the house revealed much of the same.

  I stood in the middle of the living room strewn with toys, and put my hands on my hips, assessing. Did he never have the cameras? Had someone else developed the photos and brought the picture of Emery to him? What if I’d been wasting all this time tracking Carter when it was someone else who had my property?

  “Dammit,” I hissed, kicking at a discarded action figure lying on a rug, sending it skittering under the couch.

  I let myself back out of the house, turning the lock on the doorknob as I went. Ollie was still outside, if all the rustling was any indication. He whimpered when he heard me, then gave the wooden fence a few scratches, searching for his new friend.

  Slipping out of the gate, I kept the treats in my pocket. That would be the last time Ollie would ever get a treat from me.

  My jaw was tight as I made my way back to my car, wondering how best to figure out the identity of Carter’s source. It was back to the drawing board for now, but this hiccup wouldn’t stop me. I would find the source, figure out what treat they needed to gain compliance, and I would end the problem.

  The thought that put a bounce in my step was that if the problem needed to be ended permanently, The Client would probably pay extra.

  CHAPTER 24

  When Riley’s phone rang Saturday afternoon, not long after her meeting with Rodney, she was surprised to see Carter’s number pop up on her screen. She and Michael were still on their drive back from Santa Fe.

  When all she did was stare at her phone, Michael asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “I thought he was on vacation,” she said, then answered just before the call went to voicemail. “Everything okay?”

  “I’m not sure. I just got a strange call from my cat sitter.”

  Cocking a brow, Riley waited for the rest. When he remained silent for longer than necessary, she said, “And?”

  “And it looks like someone has been in my house.”

  “You were robbed?”

  Michael swerved slightly, then softly cursed and mouthed an apology.

  “She says it doesn’t look like anything was taken, but there were enough things moved around that she called asking if I’d come home early,” he said.

  “That’s … weird.”

  “You don’t know anything about this?”

  “Are you asking that because I’m a psychic or because you think I’m a burglar on the side?” she asked in a tone harsher than she intended.

  “Sorry,” he said, heaving out a long breath. “I don’t even know why I felt so compelled to call you.”

  “It’s okay. What did your cat sitter say?” Riley asked. “Was she worried enough to call the cops, too?”

  “Michele wasn’t due to start until today since we made sure Biscuit was set overnight in terms of food. She was in the area for another client yesterday evening after we left and grabbed some lemons from our backyard. She’s got a standing invite to grab them whenever she wants. She went out the back door through the laundry room to get to the backyard, then came back in the same way and says she distinctly remembers locking both the deadbolt and the bottom lock.

  “When she got to the house the next morning to check on Biscuit, things were shuffled around and Biscuit was completely freaked out. A few drawers were standing open an inch or two. A couple of cabinets were open. We keep the bathroom door closed when we’re gone because Biscuit unrolls the toilet paper if given the chance, but the door was open. Michele hadn’t used the bathroom last night but remembers the door being closed. On the back door, only the bottom lock was engaged, not the deadbolt.”

  Riley gave a little shiver.

  “After she called me to ask if we circled back home last night—like maybe we forgot something—and I said no, she was really scared so I had her call the police. She explained the situation and they dusted for prints. While Michele was outside, my neighbor Vickie came over to see what the commotion was about. The cops asked her if she’d heard anything in the night, and said she’d been awoken around midnight by her dog Ollie barking in the yard. That dog barks a lot, so that in itself wasn’t weird, but she said he stopped barking almost immediately. Usually she has to get up to tell him to come back in.

  “She mentioned that there had been a new guy in the neighborhood several days during the week and he gave Ollie treats every time he saw them. The treats are little bones—like maybe half an inch long. Not the kind of thing Vickie gives her dog. When she was outside this morning to throw something in her trashcans on the side of her house, two of those little bones were on top of the cans.”

  Riley stilled. “Like maybe someone threw them over the fence to shut the dog up?”

  “That’s what I was thinking, too.”

  “Did she describe the guy? Did he sound like someone you might know?”

  “White guy, sandy blond hair, mid-thirties, blue eyes,” Carter said.

  It instantly made her think of the Nob Hill Prowler, but Carter didn’t live anywhere near Nob Hill.

  “So … I didn’t mention this before,” Carter said slowly, “but ever since that article about Shawna came out, I could swear there’s been a guy tailing me. Same description. He’s never approached me, but I’ve seen him all over town in the last week. In Target, at the post office, driving past the park while I’m there with my kid. He’s hardly ever looked at me, so up until what Vickie said, I didn’t think much of the guy. I figured he was new to the area and I was noticing him all over town because he’s new. But maybe he’s not …”

  “Crap.”

  “Yeah,” Carter said. “The fact that this guy potentially was watching me enough to know when I left town so he could break into my house? I’m hours away and still feel all kinds of violated.”

  “I would too.”

  “If this guy is connected to the Shawna and/or Brynn case, my guess is he was either looking for the negatives of that roll of film, the pictures themselves, or the cameras—or hell, all three.”

  “And/or the name of your source of said pictures,” Riley said, her stomach knotting.

  “Exactly. Just keep your eyes peeled and be safe, okay? There’s no way he can know where the pictures came from. Not even my editor knows your name. The chances of this guy making a connection between me and you is slim. But still. Keep an eye out.”

  Riley heaved out a shuddering breath. “I’m sorry if this is ruining your trip.”

  “I haven’t even told my wife yet,” he said, and she could hear the wince in his voice. “She and Isaiah went for a walk while I took a call she assumed was for work.”

  “Maybe wait to tell her until you’re heading back.”


  “Her parents live in Santa Fe. I’m very tempted to drop them off there until this blows over. What if this asshole comes back? The idea of someone breaking into my house while my wife and kid are asleep makes me so goddamn angry …”

  “Maybe you should stay with family, too,” she said. “I’m sure your editor would understand, especially if you think this is tied to the story.”

  Carter grunted. “Maybe. Oh, hey, I gotta go. They just got back. Stay safe, okay? I mean it.”

  “I will.” She stared out at the passing landscape, trying to imagine what it would feel like to come home only to realize someone had been prowling around her apartment, pawing through her things.

  “What happened?” Michael asked.

  The longer she talked about it, the angrier she got on Carter’s behalf. “There’s no way to know for sure someone targeted Carter because of the article. I’m sure reporters piss people off all the time. But it also seems like the reason why Emery hasn’t been identified by anyone in Taos yet is because no one in Taos knows who she is. She was from Texas, not here.”

  “All except the person who took those pictures,” Michael said. “That storage unit was here even if the woman in the picture wasn’t.”

  “Right. Instead of there being someone in Taos who’s been waiting years for evidence to materialize about Emery, it’s possible that Carter’s article made the opposite happen. This rangefinderanders guy is local. It’s possible that someone in New Mexico knows damn well who Emery Dawson is and is upset Carter might be close to figuring out her identity.”

  The expression on Michael’s face was inscrutable.

  “Hey,” she said softly. “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking that this guy could target you next. What if he followed you and Carter to that shopping center in Taos? He could have seen you two talking to Brynn’s mother. You said yourself that Lola looks a lot like Brynn.” He looked in his rearview and side mirrors. “Hell, he could be following us now and knows you just talked to Shawna’s ex. What if he figures out you’re Carter’s source?”

  Riley had thought of all that too, of course, but had been trying to ignore the dull buzz of worry in the back of her head. “Think I should call Detective Howard?”

  “That would make me feel better, yes.”

  She called him, marveling at the fact that a detective resided in her recent call log.

  “Hi, Riley,” he said cautiously. “I’m sorry I haven’t called you back yet. It’s been hectic over here.”

  “I think the owner of the camera broke into a reporter’s house last night.”

  He was quiet for a beat. “Dammit. Okay, I technically have the day off tomorrow, so let’s meet in the morning. I apologize in advance if I get called away.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Next, she called Fran, asking if she could cover her Sunday brunch shift. Thankfully, Fran was so grateful for Riley taking her last few Monday Madness shifts, she agreed immediately.

  Riley was already inside the small Santa Fe diner, armed with her collected information, by the time Detective Howard arrived a little after ten the following morning. He was a late-fifties Black man with a classic dad bod, and his short tight curls were shot through with a generous helping of gray. The last few times she’d been around him in person, he’d had his arm in a sling after being shot by Francis Hank Carras. His arm was no longer in a sling, since it had been well over six months, but she detected a stiffness in his shoulder and arm as he walked. None of this surprised her.

  What did, was that he had company.

  “Hi, Riley,” the detective said as he approached the booth.

  “Hi,” she said with a level of caution that he usually reserved for her.

  With his good arm, the detective motioned to the fair-skinned man standing with him. “This is Detective McGregor. He’s part of the reason it took so long to get back to you. I wanted him here too. He’s the buddy I told you about who worked on Shawna Mack’s case back in the day.”

  Riley involuntarily narrowed her eyes at him, upset on Shawna’s behalf that no one seemed to have treated the case as anything but domestic abuse.

  Detective Howard held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Easy there, tiger. McGregor believes the same thing that you and I do—that Shawna and Brynn were victims of the same person.”

  Her hackles lowered a fraction.

  “May we?” Howard asked, gesturing to the booth seat across from her.

  She nodded, watching as McGregor slid in, and then Howard.

  A waitress came by to take their orders.

  When she’d left again, Howard said, “I hope you don’t mind, Riley, but I told McGregor about your … abilities.”

  Riley cocked a brow at McGregor. “And you still showed up?”

  McGregor laughed. “I’ve worked with psychics before, though admittedly with mixed results. Howard vouches for you, though, and that’s enough for me. We’ve been friends for two decades. Every detective has unsolved cases during their careers. Some haunt them more than others. The Shawna and Brynn case—because it’s essentially the same case to me—is the one that haunts me. Both because of how the department handled everything, and because I’ve never been able to let go of the feeling that the man who killed Brynn didn’t just get away with her homicide, but Shawna’s too. I hate the idea that there might be other victims out there we missed.”

  Riley’s hackles lowered completely, her shoulders relaxing.

  “So tell us what you’ve got,” Howard said, jutting a chin at the folder sitting at Riley’s elbow.

  She started to talk, catching McGregor up on how this all started with the purchase of the cameras. She told him about her trip to Orilla Verde Recreation Area where she’d met Shawna’s spirit, and the lunch with Lola Bodwell at which Riley met Brynn’s ghost and was given John Anderson’s business card. Detective Howard perked up when she covered new ground, namely her discovery of “rangefinderanders.” She had printouts, pictures, the fingerprint slide, and the video she took of herself lifting the print off the film cartridge. She told them she’d found out that the third victim, the one who had come after Brynn, was named Emery Dawson.

  The men looked three kinds of pissed off that their fears had been confirmed—that this killer hadn’t stopped after the media circus that followed Brynn’s kidnapping and murder, just that the killer had gone farther underground.

  “I know that all of this,” she said, gesturing to the scattered bits of evidence that were placed around and between the plates of breakfast that had arrived during Riley’s recounting of her discoveries, “is just circumstantial. And I don’t even have this guy’s name. Maybe the ‘Anders’ from his username is part of his real last name of Anderson, but given how this guy has kept off the radar for this long, it’s possible that John Anderson and Anders are both aliases.

  “And if Carter and his neighbor are right, and the guy who has been seen all over town and in the neighborhood for a week is the same guy, he told the neighbor his name is Eric. So who the hell knows.

  “All I know is that Emery isn’t in New Mexico. My gut is telling me her body is in Texas. Even though it’s been sixteen years, who knows what clues her remains could hold? Finding her body is the only way to make her spirit stop trying to get my attention. Locating her feels like it needs to be my next step. All that said, road tripping into a different state to try to find her doesn’t sound like the smartest—or easiest—thing to do alone. Her last known location was that wetland park, but there’s no way to know that’s where she is. Texas is a big state.

  “So that’s why I wanted to talk to you, Howard … and now you, too, McGregor,” Riley said, crossing her arms on the table in front of her uneaten Country Potato Medley. “I don’t want to go traipsing out there and mess up a crime scene, because I have no idea what I’m doing. I’d love to have police backup with me, but I know that once a case crosses state lines, that can put it in FBI hands. So … what a
re my options?”

  The men stared at her for a moment, then shifted their attention back to what she’d brought them.

  It was McGregor who spoke first. “I’ve got an FBI contact. Let me put in a few calls and then we’ll go from there, yeah?”

  “And what if they shut you down?” Riley asked.

  Howard pursed his lips. “I’d be more than happy to give you off-the-record guidance on what to do out there, should you venture there alone and find something. I’m on board with you finding that girl, but I would hate for either myself or McGregor’s actions to result in jeopardizing anything. Evidence could get thrown out or discounted if we violate jurisdiction. Technicalities and red tape could get us all in a lot of trouble here.”

  “Agreed,” McGregor said. “We’ll go through the proper channels first, then we’ll reevaluate. If the guy who broke into Carter’s house really is this Anderson guy, and I’m not saying he is—this is all speculation and hearsay at the moment—he feels threatened. Depending on how long Anderson has been snooping around, it’s possible he’s already connected you to Carter. If he hasn’t, we can’t rule out his ability to track you down. So if anything—and I mean anything—happens where you feel like your safety is in jeopardy in any way, you call either one of us.”

  Howard nodded.

  A bit shell-shocked that they were so willing to help her, Riley said, “Okay. Thanks.” She picked up her fork and idly poked at a cold potato. She wasn’t hungry.

  Detective Howard said, “Can I request that you—no, beg you—not to pursue any of this on your own? Please don’t be a plucky heroine in a novel who goes toe to toe with a criminal. This guy is dangerous. And need I remind you, the last time you went up against a guy like this, I’m the one who got shot. Let’s avoid that this time, hm?”

  Riley winced. “I still feel really bad about that.”

  Detective Howard waved her off good-naturedly.

  “I have to say,” McGregor said, picking up the sheet of paper with the drawing of Amity Trucking’s logo on it, “even if this all is circumstantial, I’m impressed with the work you’ve put into it.”