We left the hotel and walked back to Cait’s car, which was still parked in front of DiCello’s. It took us about twenty minutes to drive to Mirror Woods Plaza. We spent most of the journey going over the types of questions we would ask the employees.
When we reached the plaza, I noticed it was much smaller than the West Joseph shopping plaza had staked out. Mirror Woods Plaza had only five shops, each no bigger than the size of a small carryout restaurant. If we had continued down the road the plaza was on, we would have ended up at Mirror Woods Lake—the dumping site for Lathan’s victims.
The last time I was here, Flu and I had been investigating the cause of Wilma Baker’s death. And as soon as Flu and I had reached the entrance of Mirror Woods, my body had immediately tensed. My palms had become saturated in clammy sweat, and it had been almost impossible to breathe. Had it not been for Dr. Tillman’s breathing exercises, I might not have survived that panic attack.
But here I was: one hundred feet from Mirror Woods, and I was fine. My breathing was normal. My hands were dry. My body was at ease. I didn’t need to breathe in and out, in and out. I knew exactly where I was, and it had zero effect on me. If Cait wasn’t here with me, it might be a different story, but she was the shield I needed to maneuver through these haunted woods.
It was easy to deduce which shops had Wi-Fi. The Tackle and Bait Shop was quickly crossed off the list, as was Moore’s Lake House, which sold beach towels, bathing suits, and sand pails. They had no need to offer free Wi-Fi to entice consumers’ interest. A deli was sandwiched between a coffeehouse and an electronics store. Both the deli and coffeehouse offered free Wi-Fi. It was possible the electronics shop did too, but I had strong doubts.
Nine of the two dozen or so parking spaces in the plaza’s lot were full. I assumed three of the cars belonged to the employees of the stores that were already open at this hour. It was half past ten; the bait shop and Moore’s Lake House didn’t open until noon during the week.
The plaza didn’t give an overly inviting feel to customers who were eagerly awaiting a day at the lake. Above the doors of the shops was a warped and weathered awning made of wooden planks. It stretched across the length of the plaza, giving the shops a cabin-like feel. It was an attempt to stick to the theme of Mirror Woods and the cabin rentals deep within.
We got out of the car and headed toward the plaza. The cedar scent of cabin walls filled my lungs, and I was reminded of a hamster cage. A faint fragrance of mildew loitered the walkway of the plaza. It guarded the door of each shop like a silent soldier protecting its kingdom.
We walked into the coffeehouse, and the bright aroma of coffee beans masked the hamster-cage scent. My eyes scanned the patrons. A man and woman, each in their late twenties, sat at a tiny table for two in the back. They were just as immersed in their cappuccinos as they were in their conversation. They drowned out the boisterous espresso machine, as only true regulars knew how to do.
The barista behind the counter smiled as Cait and I approached. His apron, tied loosely around his bulging waistline, had a series of coffee stains embedded in the fabric, as if those stains served as a badge of honor—a tribute to the excellent service he had provided over the years.
“I’m Sergeant Evans,” I greeted him, and his smile quickly faded when I flashed him my badge. “This is Special Agent Porter.” I gestured to Cait and ignored his abrupt retraction of customer service. “Can we ask you a few questions?”
“Certainly,” he said. He composed himself by wiping a clean coffee mug with the dishtowel that had been draped over his shoulder.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Dan Gresko.” Specs of white splashed throughout his full head of charcoal-colored hair.
“Were you working here Wednesday night?” I asked.
Dan cocked his head to the side and looked upward. “Yes, I was here Wednesday night. I worked four to close.”
“What time is close?” I asked.
“For the customers, eleven o’clock. But for me, midnight.”
“Were you busy that evening?” I reached into my back pocket for my phone.
“Not that I remember.” He paused. “We usually get a wave of customers between six and eight. But by nine, everyone has gone home or takes their order to-go.”
“Would you recognize someone from that night?” I used my phone to sign into West JPD’s employee portal, where I could pull up mugshots.
“Depends. If it’s a regular, sure.” Dan set the coffee mug down and flipped the towel back over his shoulder.
“What about him? Is he a regular?” I showed the barista James Coffer’s mugshot.
Dan leaned over the counter and squinted at the photo. “I’ve never seen him,” he quickly replied.
“Are you sure?” I kept the photo in front of him.
“Yeah, I’m sure,” he said and backed away from the counter. “There’s something about his eyes—I would have remembered that face,” Dan added. “What did he do?”
“We’re not at liberty to discuss that,” I informed him.
“He must have done something big if you’re going through all this trouble looking for him.”
“Do you remember anyone who was here Wednesday night? Especially around the ten o’clock hour? He or she would have been using a laptop.”
“Around ten?” He scratched his chin. “Not that I recall. It’s pretty empty in here after nine. By ten, I’m usually wiping down the tables and getting ready to lock up.”
“Are you the owner?” Cait stepped in.
“No,” Dan said. “I’m the manager—been here more than seven years.”
“Do you have any cameras on-site?” Cait continued.
“Yes, but the tapes are only good for forty-eight hours. If we don’t save what’s on them, they’re recorded over.”
This was quickly becoming a dead end. Dan didn’t remember seeing James Coffer, and we were three days past the expiration date on the surveillance cameras. If Coffer was here, without Dan being able to give a positive ID, there was no way for us to know.
Unless James bought something while he was here.
“Are you able to access sales receipts?” I asked. “If a customer used a credit card, would you be able to look it up by name?” I asked.
“Sure. But technically you would need a warrant—or the owner’s permission.” Dan crossed his arms over his chest. “But you two seem desperate. And I think being the manager for seven years give me the authority to give permission,” he added. “What name are you looking for?”
“James Coffer,” I answered.
“I’ll see if it comes up,” Dan said. “Do you want anything in the meantime?”
“No, thank you.” I smiled but soon regretted the decision. A caffeine headache was starting to form just above my temple. It would have been a conflict of interest to purchase coffee here, but as soon as Cait and I finished interviewing the plaza employees, we would stop at another coffeehouse.
The floorboards squeaked as Dan stepped away from the counter and walked toward the small wooden door adjacent to the cash register at the end of the counter. It led to a small office that could barely fit a desk and a computer, let alone a human. He shuffled through loose receipts on top of the keyboard. He sighed as he sat in the chair and typed in whatever he needed to in order to log into the system.
As Dan searched for Coffer’s name, I scanned the coffeehouse. Movie posters from Hollywood blockbusters were framed and evenly hung on the walls. In the back corner, by the couple sipping their drinks, was a large bookcase stuffed with books in an organized mess.
Cait had lost herself in the bulletin board near the front door. It was filled with miscellaneous advertisements for boat rentals, psychic readers, and an array of other services like dog-walkers and lawn-mowers. I walked toward her but didn’t need to be as close to the board as Cait was to recognize one particular service. The pamphlet for West Joseph Tours hung prominently in the center of the board. It made sense for
the company to advertise here. This was the last retail plaza before entering Mirror Woods.
“They can help you next door,” Dan said to Cait. He had returned sooner than expected. I turned and saw him standing behind the counter holding a single receipt. “The deli next door runs the tours,” he added.
“No.” I forced a smiled. “That won’t be necessary.” I walked back to the counter as my heart tried to find its natural rhythm. I was more startled by Dan’s return than I was to see the tour pamphlet, but the reminder that people actually celebrated Lathan’s brutality was also disconcerting. “Did you find something?” I gestured to the receipt in Dan’s hand.
“Not under James Coffer,” he said as he peered at the receipt. “The only sale we had after nine o’clock that night was from a Ryan Novak for seven dollars.”
“Ryan Novak?” I repeated. The surprise in my voice must have summoned Cait to join the conversation.
“How long was he here?” Cait asked.
“He left before close,” Dan said while looking at the receipt. “Maybe around a quarter after ten?” he surmised.
“Are you able to email us a copy of the receipt?” Cait continued.
“Sure. But wouldn’t you rather have a hard copy?” Dan held out the receipt.
“Email would be better,” Cait insisted and then handed him her business card. “To this address, please,” she added.
Dan took Cait’s card with mild hesitation and then walked back to the office with a submissive stride. With each step, I could feel his regret for helping us intensify. What he thought was going to be a simple task, a favor to law enforcement, had turned into extra work for him.
“We could have taken the hard copy,” I quietly said to Cait.
“I know, but this way we’ll have the shop’s IP address. We can match it to the one that’s on the video,” Cait said.
“So not only do we have a receipt placing Novak at the IP address, but we also have proof of who owns the IP address.” I nodded. It was smart—and something I hadn’t considered.
“I sent it to your address,” Dan said as he came out of the office. “Is there anything else I can help you ladies with?” The annoyance in his voice was a clear indication he wanted us to leave.
“No,” Cait said. “You’ve been very helpful. Thank you.”
Cait led the way out of the shop, holding the door open as I walked out behind her. She had managed to get exactly what we needed. Although, without Dan’s cooperation, it wouldn’t have been as easy. That didn’t change how impressed I was by her investigative skills. She was cunning. One step ahead of the witness. Something I’m sure she learned at BCI.
My curiosity for the West Joseph Tours was grander than my admiration for Cait though. As we walked past the deli, a train-wreck reaction turned my head to look at a different bulletin board. This one was affixed to the outside wall between the coffee shop and the deli.
Pamphlets ruggedly stuck out from the plastic holder below the bulletin board. Pictures of previous trips were encased behind the glass covering the outdoor board. Guests of the tours posed in front of the bus as if they were about to enter an amusement park. And maybe, in a way, at least to them, they were. The tour treated Mirror Woods as if it was some sort of adventure. Each dumpsite was a new thrill. The guests may not have physically gone on a roller coaster at each stop, but the excitement and scare of one was certainly there.
I knew better than to look inside the pamphlet. It would only drudge up memories I was trying to get past. But I was able to keep my cool when I saw the entrance to Mirror Woods, so maybe I was strong enough to face other reminders as well.
Inside the pamphlet was the price breakdown and map for the tour. For $39.99 per person—only $12.99 for those twelve and under—the bus would drive to all four dumpsites, Lathan’s garage, and each victim’s residence at the time of their disappearance. It was such a repulsive and hideous display of human greed. To not only capitalize on someone’s death, but to flaunt their voracity in front of the victim’s families—in front of their homes—was enough to make me nauseous.
Just as I was about to put the pamphlet away, I noticed a new addition. The “Grand Tour,” at $59.99 per person, went to the abandoned home and showed tour-goers “how it all ended that night,” according to the pamphlet. A photo of the building was next to the price, along with testimony from past guests.
“West Joseph is my Graceland,” one guest was quoted as saying.
“Fun for the whole family,” another quote advertised.
The “Grand Tour” allowed guests to get out of the bus and walk the property. And, for an extra ten bucks, an actor dressed as Lathan Collins would take a photo with you.
I suddenly remembered that Abi had told me the house had been recently purchased. She couldn’t remember the name of the buyer, but she had assumed it was someone with the tour group. This proved it.
I was curious, however, to know how they knew “how it all ended that night.” The thought of some actor dressed as Lathan coming down the steps—as tourists voluntarily shackled their ankles to the basement wall—brought a fury so wild that I could feel my skin rip apart.
They must have gotten their information from Rachel’s book. Other than me, she’s only person alive who knew exactly what had happened that night. Was she so desperate for money—or healing—that she needed to include those details?
A sudden and sharp tingling sensation stabbed at my hands and forearms. It felt as if a million pins were being pricked into my skin. The pamphlet fell from my hands as I walked away from the shop. Cait was only a few feet in front of me. A dark haze cast over my eyes as she continued to walk toward the car, and my throat tensed when I tried to call her name.
Now that I was no longer under the awning, I felt the sun’s volcanic rays. It felt like a fire was trapped inside the clouds, and the flames hovered above me. No matter which way I tottered through the parking lot, the heat continued to attack me. It had latched onto my skin—and if I didn’t get to the car soon, my blistered skin was going to burst.
Beads of sweat formed along my scalp as I took larger steps toward the car. I looked at Cait, to see if she was also on the verge of melting, but she didn’t seem bothered by the sun or the intrusive way it tried to liquefy us.
I felt crushed beneath a hundred burning logs. The fumes from the fire filled my nose and poisoned the air. I gasped—but there was nothing to breathe. No oxygen to fill my throbbing lungs. My heartbeat accelerated. One beat too fast, then two beats too fast. It didn’t cease until my pulse felt like one horrendous pound. The thump echoed in my ears and shattered my vision like a hammer against glass.
The car. Where was the car? Everything was once in front of me was now gone. Nothing but pure blackness consumed my eyes. I tried to blink away the blinding darkness, but it remained. I was cocooned in a blanket of peril, and there was no escape. I couldn’t find Cait. I couldn’t find the car. I was trapped here.
Thoughts of the actor dressed as Lathan pelted my mind. Then I heard his voice. The taste of metallic tar saturated my saliva. “Sergeant Lena Evans,” he hissed.
His snarled breath was hot on my ear and burned my neck to a degree that, had I not known better, I would have sworn he was here with me—right on top of me—holding my vision hostage as he shoved me to the ground.
A surge of adrenaline coursed through my veins. It felt as if a million spiders were crawling under my skin. I tried to slap them away. I wanted to claw at my skin and crush them with my hands, but my limbs were too paralyzed to move. I was utterly frozen.
“Lena…,” he repeated in the same grotesque growl. “Lena…”
A force grabbed at my arms, and I bowed my head to keep my face from aligning with his. I couldn’t look into those arctic eyes again. I couldn’t see his face—or Angela Truman’s face—in front of mine. I squeezed my eyes so tight that tears streamed down my cheeks.
“Lena?”
I heard my name again. But this time
it didn’t sound like him. It was rough and dominant, but with a hint of kindness that coated the tone.
“Lena.” The coarseness had faded. “Breathe.”
I felt pressure against my chest, just above my heart. Then the light touch of two fingertips slid down my neck and stopped at my jugular, as if he or she was checking my pulse.
“You’re having a panic attack,” the gentle voice said. “Just breathe.”
As if the cocoon around me had broken open, I felt my chest rise as I took a deep breath. The oxygen in the air had been restored. I could breathe again. With each breath, portions of my vision returned. The ground slowly rebuilt beneath my feet. The iron clasp around my heart opened. The fire in my veins subsided.
“Cait?” I asked as the shadowy figure came into focus. Her hands, cupped around my biceps, held me in place. I looked at my surroundings. I was no longer inside a black hole.
Skin Deep Page 29