The Girl in the Woods

by Chris Culver

  33

  I drove for two or three minutes and parked in front of Rise and Grind. It was late for morning coffee or pastries and too early for those who needed afternoon pick-me-ups, so it was empty. As I walked inside, Sheryl, the shop’s owner, walked around the bar and pulled me into a hug. I rarely let people hug me, but sometimes I needed it. I squeezed her tight.

  “A customer told me about Nicky,” she said. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

  I nodded and took a step back. “Yeah. I’m okay. Thank you for the hug.”

  She squeezed my arm before walking around the counter to pour me a cup of coffee.

  “I never met the other officer who got hurt, but is he okay?”

  “He’s alive,” I said, taking the paper coffee cup from her outstretched hand. I reached for my purse to pay, but she shook her head. I nodded my thanks and took a sip. It was great coffee, but somehow it still tasted like sand in my mouth. “They airlifted him to St. Louis.”

  “I hope he pulls through.”

  “Me, too,” I said, forcing myself to smile. “Thank you.”

  She gave me a sympathetic smile. I sat at a table in the front window and pulled out my cell phone. Trisha answered after two rings.

  “Hey, it’s Joe,” I said. “Is Harry around?”

  “He’s cleaning his office out.”

  “Can you transfer my call?”

  She sighed. “He doesn’t want to talk to you. Everybody in the building heard your conversation upstairs.”

  I grimaced. “I shouldn’t have called him a coward. That was wrong.”

  “You were rude, but you weren’t wrong,” she said. I looked down at the table and felt my gut twist. “Delgado will ruin this place.”

  “We’ll see,” I said. “He deserves a chance.”

  “You’re more generous than I am,” she said, drawing in a breath. “You didn’t call to gossip, though. What do you need?”

  “Information,” I said. “Delgado thinks Wilkinson and Kushnir killed Laura Rojas. I’m not ready to jump on that bandwagon, but they came here to kill somebody. We get anywhere on that?”

  She typed for a few moments and then hummed. “Best I can tell from their after-action reports, Ortega, Skelton, and Simpson knocked on doors in that area, but they were looking for Kurt Wilkinson. They didn’t ask about anything else.”

  “Okay,” I said, nodding. “I’ve got one more favor to ask you, and it might not be the easiest thing. I need you to find out who owns the houses near the woods where Preston was shot and whether the homeowners work at Reid Chemical.”

  “Okay,” said Trisha, sounding unsure. “Why?”

  “Because all of my victims have a connection to Reid Chemical. If a homeowner near the crime scene works for Reid Chemical, he or she might have been Wilkinson and Kushnir’s target. You should be able to get the property records from the county assessor’s website. Then you can look each person up. Check out LinkedIn, Facebook, and Twitter. If you can’t find anything on those sites, search for them on Google. We might get lucky.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” she said. “Are you coming back to the station soon, or do you want me to call you?”

  “Call me,” I said, picking up my coffee and standing. “After what I said to Harry, it’s best if I stay away for a little while.”

  “All right,” she said. “Good luck, Joe.”

  “You, too,” I said, already leaving the shop. Since I was driving a marked police cruiser, people gave me a wide berth on the road. Trisha needed time to work, so I didn’t hurry. When I reached the woods in which Nicole had died, twenty minutes had passed. It had been hours, but there were still two marked cruisers from the Highway Patrol, an unmarked black minivan, and two unmarked civilian sedans on the side of the road nearest the woods. I parked near them and flashed my badge to a uniformed trooper as he stepped out of the woods.

  “I’m here to talk to the neighbors,” I said.

  “Good luck,” he said.

  I nodded my thanks and leaned against my cruiser to make a call. Trisha answered before her phone finished ringing once.

  “It’s Joe. Harry still locked up in his office?”

  “He left,” she said. “I looked up the neighbors. As best I can tell, the property on which Nicole was shot is owned by the Gable family. Trent Gable works in IT at Baptist Hospital in St. Louis, and his wife works in marketing at Purina in St. Louis. The residents across the street are teachers. The resident to the west is a minister at a Methodist church in Broward County, and her husband builds custom furniture. The only person with any connection to Reid Chemical lives about a quarter mile to the east. His name is Austin Wright, and he is a chemist.”

  I let my mind process that before nodding. “Aldon McKenzie was an accountant at Reid Chemical. They must have known each other.”

  “At least they worked in the same company,” said Trisha. She gave me Austin Wright’s address and wished me luck. I got back in my cruiser and drove for two or three minutes until I reached a white Garrison Colonial home. It had a red swing in the front yard and nice trees at the corners of the building. I parked in the driveway, walked up the bluestone walkway to the front door, and rang the doorbell. A woman roughly my age answered within a minute. Despite it being the middle of the afternoon, she wore a pink terrycloth bathrobe and no makeup.

  “Yes?” she asked, raising her eyebrows. Her voice was sharp and almost angry. A toddler called out for juice somewhere in the house. She softened her voice, turned, and said she’d be there in a minute. I smiled at her once she looked at me again.

  “Hi, I’m Detective Joe Court with the St. Augustine County Sheriff’s Department. Is this a bad time?”

  She closed her eyes and sighed.

  “No, but that doesn’t matter. What do you want?”

  “I need to speak with Austin Wright,” I said.

  “He’s not here.”

  It was the middle of a workday, so he was probably at the plant.

  “Does he still work at Reid Chemical?”

  She scoffed and turned her head before shrugging.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “He didn’t tell me when he left.”

  My heart rate kicked up a notch.

  “When did your husband leave?”

  She raised her eyebrows. “That’s none of your business.”

  “Normally, it wouldn’t be. In this case, it is,” I said. “When did he leave?”

  She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms.

  “A few days ago. He wrote me a note while I was at work and the kids were at daycare. He said he was running off with some skank he met on the internet. As an apology, he said he was leaving us a houseboat he had bought in Branson. He suggested we sell it and pay off the house. What kind of a loser buys a houseboat and runs out on his kids and his pregnant wife? I work in a nail salon. Even if I sell his stupid fucking houseboat, how the hell am I going to take care of three kids on my salary?”

  I couldn’t answer that, so I ignored the question and furrowed my brow.

  “Is the name Aldon McKenzie familiar?”

  She nodded. “He works with Austin. Don’t ask me what they did because I don’t know.”

  “Someone murdered Aldon and his wife,” I said. “Have you heard of Laura Rojas?”

  This time, she blinked. Her expression softened, and she gave me a thoughtful, lingering look before shaking her head.

  “No. I don’t know her. Why would someone kill Aldon and Jennifer? And what happened to Daria? She was a sweet little girl.”

  “Daria’s okay,” I said. “She’s with her grandparents. We’re still working Aldon and Jennifer’s murders. So you don’t know Laura Rojas?”

  “No. Who is she?”

  “She’s an attorney,” I said. “Aldon hired her. She was investigating Reid Chemical, although we’re still not sure what was going on there. Have you heard the names Stephan Kushnir or Kurt Wilkinson?”

  She shook her head and looked down.r />
  “I don’t think so,” she said, her voice soft. “What’s going on?”

  “Kushnir and Wilkinson died in a shootout about a quarter of a mile from here. A couple of people in my department think they killed Laura, Aldon, and Jennifer, although we can’t prove that yet.”

  Her expression shifted from one of confusion to concern as she crossed her arms and took a step back.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “Kushnir and Wilkinson worked for a Ukrainian gang in Chicago. They were professional hitters, and they came here to do a job. How much did your husband’s houseboat cost?”

  She looked taken aback for a second, but then she drew in a breath.

  “I don’t know. Why?”

  “Houseboats aren’t cheap. He got the money for it somewhere.”

  She stood straighter. “What are you accusing us of?”

  “I’m not accusing you of anything,” I said. “I’m trying to put together pieces. So far, I’ve got a dead accountant who worked for a pharmaceutical company, a dead attorney who investigated that company, and a presumably expensive houseboat. I’ve also got two dead Ukrainian gangsters who worked for an organization that bought and sold drugs.”

  Her face grew pale.

  “Are you saying my husband sold drugs?”

  “Is that a possibility?”

  She reached for the door.

  “It’s time for you to leave, Detective.”

  “Those Ukrainians came to kill you,” I said. “They died trying to sneak up to your house. A police officer died saving your life. A second officer was shot and lost a lung.”

  She blinked before looking down. “I have to go.”

  She didn’t shut the door, so I kept talking. “Where is your husband?”

  “He left me,” she said. “That’s all I know.”

  There was more to it than that, so I reached to my purse for a business card. Unfortunately, she shut the door in my face before I could give it to her. I almost knocked again, but that wouldn’t get me anywhere. Instead, I put the card into the mailbox beside her door. I doubted she’d call, but it wouldn’t hurt to give her the chance.

  As I walked back to my car, I called Trisha again.

  “Hey, Trisha,” I said. “I visited the home of Austin Wright. He’s missing.”

  “You think he’s dead?”

  “I don’t know, but there’s something shady going on at Reid Chemical. Dead or alive, Wright’s knee deep in shit. Put together an APB on him and send it to the Highway Patrol. We need this guy brought in alive.”

  “I’ll put that together,” she said.

  “Thank you. If possible, keep this quiet. I don’t want Delgado knowing what I’m up to. He and his buddy Councilman Rogers are too likely to stop me.”

  “What are you doing, Joe?”

  I opened my cruiser’s door and sat down. “I have no idea, but the more I work, the more I think I’ll shut down the largest employer in the county before I’m done.”

  34

  I left the Wrights’ house and drove back to town. After a few minutes of driving, I pulled off the road in the parking lot of a gas station off Highway 62 and Googled Kevin Rasmussen, Logan Reid’s attorney. Once I found his office number, I called and spoke to his receptionist, who patched me through to his cell phone.

  “Mr. Rasmussen, this is Detective Joe Court. I was hoping to talk to Logan Reid today.”

  “Give me a second to check my schedule, Detective,” he said. He paused for a moment. When he returned, his voice sounded almost chipper. “I can set up a meeting for the first of next month. How does that sound?”

  “That sounds like you’re trying to piss me off,” I said. “I need to talk to Mr. Reid, and I need to talk to him today.”

  “Mr. Stewart is a busy man. He’s unavailable until the first of next month.”

  “I don’t need to talk to Mr. Stewart. I need to talk to Logan Reid. Can you make that happen? If not, I’ll arrest him.”

  “On what charges?”

  “I’ll think of something along the way,” I said.

  “I don’t appreciate your attempt at humor.”

  I nodded and crossed my left hand across my chest. “I’m sorry to hear that. I need to meet with Logan Reid. Can you set that up?”

  “Mr. Stewart isn’t available until the first of next month.”

  I gritted my teeth so I wouldn’t snap at him.

  “As I’ve told you, I have no interest in talking to Mr. Stewart,” I said. “I need to speak to Logan Reid. Is he available today?”

  “You won’t talk to Mr. Reid without Mr. Stewart present.”

  I sighed and nodded.

  “I get it. Stewart doesn’t trust his stepson, so he wants to be in the room when I talk to him.”

  “I won’t dignify that statement with a response.”

  “Stewart must be sweating,” I said. “How many people has he taken out so far, anyway? Three? Four?”

  “Goodbye, Detective,” said the lawyer. “We won’t be cooperating any further.”

  “You weren’t cooperating anyway, so we’re cool.”

  He hung up before I said anything else. I didn’t mind. This was a courtesy call. I put my cruiser in gear and drove to Waterford College, where I parked by the school’s Public Safety Office. The officer behind the counter raised an eyebrow when I walked in.

  “Detective,” she said, nodding. “What can I do for you?”

  “I need to see Logan Reid,” I said.

  “Business or personal?” she asked.

  “Business,” I said. “I need to ask him about his stepfather’s company.”

  She typed at her computer. Then she glanced up at me.

  “We’ve been fielding complaints from alumni and parents for the past two days because of you. The Sigma Iota fraternity has a lot of friends in this area.”

  I leaned against the counter. “I’m sorry that happened. It wasn’t my intent.”

  She glanced up from the computer. “I’m supposed to call a guy named Kevin Rasmussen if you come by here again. My boss was insistent on that.”

  “Mr. Rasmussen is an attorney who represents Logan’s stepfather.”

  She nodded before looking at her screen.

  “I don’t like lawyers,” she said. “Logan’s in a philosophy class in Rollins Hall. Room 214. I didn’t give you that information, though, and if you tell anyone I did, I’ll deny it. Please don’t pull any fire alarms or ask us to evacuate a building today.”

  “I’ll do my best,” I said. “Thank you, Officer.”

  She looked back to her computer, and I left the small office. I checked out a map of the campus posted outside the Public Safety Office and walked to the classroom building she had mentioned. The interior of Rollins Hall was cold, so goosebumps formed on my arms beneath my shirt. My footsteps carried down the hallways.

  Logan’s classroom was on the second floor. An older woman stood at a lectern in front of the room, answering questions. I knocked on the door. A dozen pairs of eyes turned to me. Logan drew in a surprised breath.

  “Can I help you?” asked the professor.

  “Sorry to interrupt, but I need to see Mr. Reid,” I said. “He knows what this is about.”

  The professor looked to her student and raised her eyebrows. “Get a move on, Logan. I’d like to continue my lecture.”

  Logan stood and hurried out the room. The professor gave me a hard, cold stare before continuing to speak. It didn’t make me miss school one bit.

  “Am I under arrest?” asked Logan, once he reached the hallway.

  “No,” I said. “I’m here to talk.”

  “In that case, I’m going back to class,” he said. “My stepfather told me not to talk to you without my lawyer.”

  “Your stepfather doesn’t give a shit about you, and your lawyer’s paid to look after your stepfather’s interests,” I said. “They will douse you in gasoline and light you on fire if it means they can avoid being burned. Y
ou can let them do that, or you and I can talk. Your choice. I don’t give a shit at this point. So what’s it going to be? Help yourself or help your stepfather?”

  “I don’t know anything,” he said. I nodded and walked.

  “Then I won’t keep you long,” I said. “We’ll talk in my car.”

  He said nothing, but he followed me out of the building and to the parking lot in which I had parked. Once we reached my car, I opened the rear door for him and told him to scoot all the way over so I had somewhere to sit.

  “I won’t bullshit you,” I said upon sitting down. “I’m looking at you for Laura Rojas’s murder. Did you kill her?”

  He looked down and shook his head. “No.”

  “Did your stepfather?”

  Before answering, he hesitated and shook his head.

  “No.”

  “You sure about that?” I asked. “Because I’ve found a lot of ties between your stepfather and my victims. Laura was using you. Those nude pictures she texted you weren’t her. If you’d slept with her, you’d know that.”

  “You’re lying. She liked me.”

  “Kid, the girl in your pictures had a tattoo on her rib cage. Laura didn’t. She was using you. Did you give her documents?”

  “I didn’t kill her,” he said, his face red as he looked down at his hands.

  “Prove it,” I said. “She died Saturday night. Where were you?”

  “Writing a paper in my room,” he said. “Alone.”

  “Can anyone confirm that?”

  “No,” he said. “I live on the third floor in a single room. I don’t share it with anybody.”

  “Did anybody see you in your room?”

  “No,” he said. “I don’t make a big deal about it when I go upstairs.”

  “So your alibi is that you were alone in your room,” I said. He nodded. “That’s not going to work.”

  “There are surveillance cameras on every exit,” he said. “I went in after dinner at six. Then I stayed in all night. I can’t have killed her if I was inside all night.”