Home Sweet Murder

by James Patterson

  Alex gave her a mopey frown. “Unfortunately, that history is wiped clean when the users exit the room.”

  “Well hell, Alex!” Negron exclaimed in disappointment. “I thought you had something.”

  “So, we’re back to square one—again?” Mois sighed.

  Raising an eyebrow, Alex glared at one, then the other.

  “Um, excuse me,” he said, thoroughly insulted. “I was just giving background information that you clearly did not have. As it happens, I do have something for you.”

  Moving at a much slower pace that seemed intended as payback for the questioning of his abilities, Alex eventually pulled up an entirely new set of transcripts. “It took some work, but I was able to recover quite a few conversations Tom had in private chat rooms.”

  He looked over his shoulder and, seeing that he now had Mois and Negron’s full attention, took a dramatic pause before announcing: “What’s more, I tracked down all of the user IP addresses and their locations.”

  An Excel sheet of data suddenly filled the screen with rows and rows of names and physical and digital addresses. As Alex scrolled down, the list seemed never ending.

  “Oh lord, that’s a lot of names,” Negron sighed.

  “Just shy of four hundred,” Alex confirmed. “But, I’ve been running them down all day. Only about half live in the U.S. And only one…lives in Omaha.”

  Mois and Negron looked at each other. Alex spun around in his chair. He gave another showman’s pause before delivering his big news.

  “And not only does he drive a silver Honda CRV…” He again expertly raised an eyebrow as he reached across the desk and picked up a print out of a mug shot.

  “He’s also a registered sex offender.”

  Chapter 13

  “If ever a suspect checked all the boxes, it’s this guy,” Negron said as she inhaled her cigarette with relish. Smoking was a vice she allowed herself only in times of celebration. “We got him this time, I know it.”

  Mois stopped his car across the street from a neglected-looking trailer that sat just five or six feet back from the street. It was a sad sight: the mud-brown paint on the aluminum siding was peeling off in every direction, and bushes and ivy were tangled and wildly overgrown in the front. The place seemed deserted except for a single light shining through a window.

  “And, of course, this is where the perv lives,” Negron noted with scorn. “Perfect.”

  “Almost too perfect,” Mois said carefully. “But for the Hunters’ sake, I hope we’re onto something.”

  As the slow spring twilight descended, they sat in Mois’s car for a few minutes until a patrol car quietly pulled up behind them. Taking a last satisfied puff, Negron got out of the car and joined Mois as he approached the officers.

  The driver, Officer Nick Johnson, was a small, wiry guy with ultra-smooth skin and a gleaming shaved head. His partner, Officer Erin O’Malley, was his physical opposite: a large woman with a thick thatch of auburn hair and a mass of freckles across her face.

  “Good to see you two,” Mois said in a hushed voice. “You know what we have here?”

  “They filled us in at the station,” Johnson said. “You think this guy might be behind the Dundee killings, huh?”

  “Do we get to shoot first, question later?” O’Malley asked with a bitter laugh.

  Mois frowned. “We’re just here to question a person of interest. We don’t know much about this guy—he’s kept a low profile since he was paroled after a sexual assault conviction. But let’s not take chances. He may try to run for it, so, Johnson, you take the back. O’Malley, stay in the car until you hear from one of us.”

  The officers nodded in agreement. As O’Malley shifted to the driver’s seat, Johnson swiftly and noiselessly got out and headed toward the back of the dwelling.

  At the front door, Mois pounded twice with so much force the cheap door seemed to buckle. Immediately from inside there was the sound of alarmed movement—shuffling and the rough scraping of a chair across the floor.

  “Yes?” said a thin voice from the other side of the door.

  “Albert Buckner? Omaha PD. May we come in?”

  Silence. Negron instinctively reached for her gun. Mois rapped again, much louder this time. Finally, the door partially opened to reveal a pale face wearing thick-framed eyeglasses with scuffed lenses.

  “Why—what do you want?” the man asked nervously.

  Mois pushed the door open further to reveal that the man standing there was hugely overweight, probably morbidly obese. He and Negron exchanged a look—this guy wasn’t going to be running anywhere.

  “What do you want?” Buckner asked again in a high, nervous voice. “You—you need a warrant to come in.”

  Mois got right in the man’s face. “Sure, I can call a judge and get one. It might take fifteen minutes or so. Either way, we’re coming in.”

  Shoulders sagging, Buckner reluctantly stepped back just enough to allow the detectives to squeeze past his enormous stomach.

  The inside of the narrow trailer was a mess. Dirty clothes and stained blankets were strewn all over the few pieces of furniture. Several open bags of garbage sat on the floor of the tiny kitchen. A computer monitor sitting on a desk was the only item in the home that wasn’t old and falling apart. Negron nodded toward the screen.

  “Your parole officer would probably like to know about your Internet surfing,” she noted.

  “Why? I’m not doing anything wrong,” Buckner whined. “I’m not!”

  Mois looked over the wide-eyed man as he nervously tugged at the drawstring of his grimy sweatpants.

  “We’re going to need you to come in to the station,” Mois said calmly. “Answer a few questions about your movements the last few days.”

  “Why? I haven’t left the house in—in…well, I don’t know, weeks, probably,” Buckner protested, his agitation rising. “You can’t send me back to prison. Please. You can’t!”

  Negron tilted her head at the suspect. “What reason would we have to send you back to prison? What have you done?”

  “Nothing!” Buckner all but screamed. “I swear! I just can’t go back there…”

  His face crumpling, the suspect sagged down onto the sofa and began noisily weeping. Negron gave Mois a knowing nod—“guilt” was written all over this guy.

  “Bring O’Malley in,” Mois said. “I’m going to have a look around.”

  Taking out his flashlight, Mois went down a hallway. He noted a disheveled bedroom, then another door leading out back.

  The yard was so chaotically filthy it made the inside of the house look pristine. Piles of junk littered the area, including a cracked and repulsively stained old toilet. Darting his light to the left, Mois saw that Johnson was at work examining a large object nearly buried under an overgrown bush.

  “Car tarp,” the officer said as he untied a loose rope. Mois bent down and together they pulled the cloth back to reveal the front of the vehicle.

  “Right on the money,” Mois said excitedly. “Silver Honda CRV!”

  He then scanned his flashlight further down.

  Both front tires were flat and sunken into the ground. The entire underside of the chassis was deeply, corrosively rusted.

  Mois sighed. “And it probably hasn’t been driven in at least five years.”

  The back door opened and Negron stepped out. At the sight of the car, a pumped-up grin spread across her face. “O’Malley is with Buckner. We got our man, gents!”

  Negron dug into her jacket pocket and pulled out her cigarettes. But she paused when she saw the deflated expressions on Mois and Johnson’s faces. She gave them a miffed, questioning stare.

  “Sergeant Negron,” Mois said with a rueful smile. “I think you might have smoked too soon…”

  Chapter 14

  Two people were dead.

  Brutally murdered. No stealth was involved. Nor were there any signs of advance planning. As if the killer hadn’t cared whether he was caught or not.


  And yet somehow Detective Derek Mois still was no closer to a suspect or a motive than he was six days earlier when Tom Hunter and Shirlee Sherman were slain.

  Mois knew that beating himself up wasn’t going to change anything. But it was tough not to feel frustration and guilt, especially standing at Tom’s burial service. He’d attended Shirlee Sherman’s funeral the day before; the questioning look on her daughter Kelly’s face lingered in his mind. He’d had no answers for her.

  At least yesterday had been sunny and warm. Today was cloudy and a constant chilly breeze made the occasion that much grimmer. Still, it was a well-attended service, with a crowd of onlookers and a TV camera van hovering at the edge of the lush and leafy cemetery. Standing among the mourners, Mois looked on as the Hunters clutched each other next to their son’s grave. Their expressions were pure anguish. Two white-faced young men in dark, ill-fitting suits stood at their sides. Mois assumed they were the older sons.

  As the service ended, people began approaching the Hunters to offer condolences. Mois saw that one of the first to reach them was the older man he’d met in Hunter’s lab, the fellow doctor with the warm smile. He racked his brain for the name. Then, it came to him: Roger Brumback.

  A few moments later, Brumback and his small, energetic-looking wife, Mary, approached Mois. After introductions were made, Mois noted that each had the same searching looks on their faces that he’d gotten from Kelly Wedgewood.

  “How are the Hunters holding up?” Mois asked with real concern.

  Brumback shook his head. “They’re destroyed. I thought having the older boys back from school would help, but the kids are just as devastated.”

  He continued giving Mois that expectant look.

  “I wish I had some news for them,” the detective said. “We’ve had some leads, but none have panned out. Though, of course, the investigation continues.”

  Brumback frowned. “It’s the reason I keep coming back to. Why would anyone do this to that wonderful little boy and that sweet woman? Why?”

  Again, Mois had nothing.

  “What about that artist’s drawing?” Mary Brumback asked hopefully. “The one they showed on TV the other day? The man with the awful little eyes.”

  Mois shook his head regretfully. “Several people in the Hunters’ neighborhood confirmed seeing someone matching the likeness. But, no, it hasn’t led to any arrests. Not yet, anyway.”

  The Brumbacks nodded in disappointment, then shook Mois’s hand goodbye. The persistent breeze suddenly turned into a full gust, prompting the Hunters to finally move slowly away from the gravesite.

  As Claire Hunter introduced her sons to some mourners, Mois respectfully approached William Hunter.

  “Detective Mois,” the doctor said. “Nice of you to attend.”

  “Of course,” Mois said. “And Sergeant Negron asked me to give you her regards. She was put on—she had to attend to some matters relating to another investigation.”

  William Hunter looked directly in Mois’s eye. “Has she been taken off my son’s case?”

  “No—well, not taken off,” Mois said hesitantly. “But a little girl went missing yesterday and—”

  “Yes, I read about it. I understand,” Hunter said sadly. He looked across the cemetery. The onlookers were dispersing and the attendees were trudging back to their cars. The sole camera van was pulling out of the parking lot.

  “The reporters and TV trucks have left our neighborhood,” Dr. Hunter noted. “I guess the story is old news already…”

  Mois reached out and took the doctor’s hand. “It isn’t to me, Doctor. I’m sorry I don’t have more developments to share. But I’m determined to find your son’s killer. I can’t tell you how long it may take, but I won’t stop looking.”

  Hunter nodded slowly with a small smile of thanks.

  “I believe you won’t give up, Detective Mois,” the doctor said. “I just wish I could say the same about myself…”

  Chapter 15

  As the service ended, the cool wind picked up sharply, causing suit jackets to flap open and scarves to dart around like sparrows. The wind seemed intent on clearing the cemetery out as quickly as possible. The lingering mourners hurried toward their cars, eager to escape the elements as well as the sadness of the occasion.

  Chilled, the small man zipped his windbreaker up all the way to his jowly neck. He should have worn something heavier, but it was nearly April and no one had expected this cold spell. He also shouldn’t have worn a red jacket—the bright, cheery color had attracted more than a few disapproving glares. But he had just squinted back at them with his small black eyes, daring anyone to say a word. Daring anyone to question his presence there.

  Daring anyone to recognize him.

  He looked across the cemetery and watched as the Hunters carefully got into a shining black Lincoln Town Car. One of the two tall boys climbed into the back with his parents; the other went to sit in the front passenger seat. The funeral procession then slowly wound its way out of the parking lot, moving past what remained of the mourners. The Town Car drove right by the man, not more than ten feet away, the dark tinted windows shielding the faces and the grief inside. As it drove off, the man wondered if anyone in the vehicle had noticed him standing on the side of the road.

  If so, he hoped they had seen his wide, satisfied smile.

  PART TWO

  Chapter 16

  May 9, 2013

  Terre Haute, Indiana

  No one sees me. I’m standing here wearing less fabric than you’d find on a spool of thread and no one sees me.

  Mia Vaughn had the same thought night after night while dancing at the Sixth Avenue gentlemen’s club. “Dancing.” That was a joke. She wriggled, she swayed, she lifted her legs, she shook her shoulders. That wasn’t dancing. Technically, it wasn’t even stripping. She came out onto the stage wearing only her tiny thong which, legally, couldn’t come off. The men leered at her, joked with her, tried to grope her. But they never saw her.

  Mia spun her bouncy blond hair around and glanced at the clock above the bar. Just two minutes left of her set. And she’d been tipped a grand total of eighteen dollars. She was furious at herself for spending the money she had this afternoon at the tanning booth. What a waste! She had hoped to clear at least seventy-five dollars this night so she could take her son to the doctor. He’d had a persistent cough that she kept telling herself would go away. Now, unless the crowd really picked up, she’d have to take him to the free clinic first thing in the morning. The wait would be endless. And she had a lunch shift at her day job.

  One more minute to go, not a lifted dollar in sight. Mia then saw the club’s front door open and, miraculously, her most reliable regular came in—second night in a row! Mia didn’t know his name but thought of him as “Red Windbreaker Guy” or just “Red.” The tatty old jacket was all she’d ever seen the squat, somewhat chubby man wear, even when it was freezing. Some kind of security blanket quirk, she guessed. He could certainly afford a new coat; he always tipped her—and her alone—generously.

  As he ordered a drink, Mia tried to catch his eye, but the music abruptly changed and the next girl, Jessi, sauntered out. Mia reluctantly started toward the back of the stage but, on a whim, decided to hop off the platform. She wanted to approach Red at the bar before one of the other girls, even though she usually liked to put on her gauzy wrap before mingling.

  “Hey! You just missed my set!”

  He slowly turned around and gave Mia an intent lingering smile. Red had a slightly pear-shaped head; his chubby cheeks seemed to unfortunately emphasize that his eyes were just a little too close together. Mia always tried to look past Red’s obvious weirdo vibe. She told herself that even if there was something off in those very small, very dark eyes, at least he saw her.

  “My loss,” he said in his oddly gruff voice. “But I can still tip ya, right?”

  He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small orange plastic bottle, clearly som
e kind medication. He handed it to her.

  “What—what’s this?” Mia asked in disappointed confusion. Did he think she was a speed freak or something?

  “It’s for your son.”

  Mia just stared at him blankly.

  “You told me about his cough,” he said. “That’s a low-level antibiotic. Twice a day and that cough will be gone.”

  Mia was flabbergasted. “What? Oh, my god! That is so nice of you!”

  Red just stood there, smiling away, not taking his eyes off her. Mia then glanced down at the medication label. “But—I mean, Jake’s only five. Are you sure this, I mean, is it all right for kids?”

  Red turned the label around. “Call that eight-hundred number. It’s staffed twenty-four-seven. Tell them the symptoms and they’ll tell you that this is what Jake needs.”

  “I can’t believe you did this for me!” Mia said, almost tearfully. Red not only saw her, but he’d listened to her when she’d expressed concern about her son. “How did you get them?”

  He shrugged casually, obviously trying for bravado. “I get things done. I do the things most people don’t have the nerve to do.”

  Mia felt her smile fall a bit, but she gave a laugh and said kiddingly, “Oh wow, sounds like you’re in the Mafia or something!”

  Red just kept smiling and staring with those intent little eyes.

  “Oh, hell,” Mia sighed. “I don’t care. You’ve helped me more than anyone has, like, ever. I totally owe you.”

  She impulsively leaned forward and gave Red a quick, tight hug. As she pulled away, he reached out and took her hand. He held it, clearly not wanting to let go. She was surprised; he’d never even tried to touch her before.

  “Go out with me,” he said. It wasn’t exactly a question, a little more like a demand.

  “Oh, that is so nice of you! But I can’t,” Mia said with what she hoped sounded like sincere regret. “We’re not allowed to go out with clients. It’s the rules. My boss, JJ, would have a fit. He’s such a dick.”