by Blake Pierce
Kate knocked on the door, waited just a second, and then opened it. When she and DeMarco stepped inside, they entered a formal-looking living room. There was no furniture and the carpet had recently been cleaned, the acrid scent of carpet shampoo clinging to the air. In front of them, a split dining and kitchen area sat to the right and directly ahead, while a wide hallway branched off to the left.
There were two people in the kitchen, both male. One was standing, leaning slightly against the kitchen counters, while the other stood by the large dining room window. They both regarded Kate and DeMarco with bemused expressions, though the man standing in the kitchen also looked rather annoyed.
“Um…can we help you, ladies?” he asked.
“Yes,” DeMarco said. “Is one of you Roger Carr?”
“That’s me,” the man in the kitchen said. “Can I ask who you might be, and how you knew I was here?”
“We’d like to speak with you privately,” DeMarco said, quickly cutting her eyes in the direction of the other man.
“No thank you,” Carr said. “Here is fine.”
“If you say so,” DeMarco said. She then pulled out her badge and ID, showing it to both of the men with staged enthusiasm. “Mr. Carr, we’re with the FBI and need to speak to you regarding a string of recent murders in the area.”
Carr was so shocked that he took a step back. He looked to the other man as if hoping he might have something to say. But the man was clearly speechless. As the man turned more proportionately toward Kate and DeMarco, Kate saw that there was a Crest Realty log embroidered on the chest of his shirt.
“Think we could speak privately now?” Kate asked with a little grin.
The Crest employee instantly started walking in their direction, his eyes locked on the door.
“Before you go,” Kate said, “do you mind telling us why you’re here?”
“I was meeting with Mr. Carr to get notes on his appraisal of the place. We’re looking for anything we can to knock the price down a bit more.”
The Crest employee was on the young side, maybe thirty or just a little north of it, but he looked like a cornered little child as he answered. Kate almost felt sorry for him.
“Thank you,” DeMarco said.
“Hey, Pete,” Roger Carr called from the kitchen. “Maybe keep this to yourself for now.”
Pete, the Crest agent, only nodded as he made his way to the door and made a swift exit. With him gone, the agent both looked back to Carr. He was slowly moving out of the kitchen, doing anything he could to not be cornered by them.
“You came into a property I was appraising for work,” Carr said, as if trying to work it all out for himself. “I take that to mean you either think I know something or that I did it. That about right?”
“We’re hoping your answers to some questions might help to clear that all up,” DeMarco said.
Carr seemed understandably hesitant. He appeared to be in his early fifties, his brown hair and beard having started to show a touch of gray. Kate wasn’t sure why, but she thought he looked somewhat disgruntled. It was in his eyes, the way he glanced back and forth between them. She thought he assumed they had already made up their minds about him. He had a shifty look about him, the kind of man who was likely used to talking his way out of anything.
“I’ll answer what I can,” he said.
“First,” DeMarco said, “I should tell you that our reason for coming to you is because out of the three lists we have for people who had access to the three homes in which real estate agents were recently killed, your name was the only one that appeared on all three of them.”
“That’s really not all that surprising,” Carr said. “I’m currently the only appraiser around here. It’s been that way for the last eight months or so. There was one other guy, but he packed up and headed out to the beach. As you can imagine, that keeps me pretty busy.”
“The guy that just left said you two were looking for ways to bring the price on this home down,” DeMarco said. “Isn’t part of your job to make sure the seller gets the most they can for the home?”
Carr gave a stealthy smile at this comment, but nodded. “Usually, yes. And I guarantee you that’s exactly what my former competitor is doing these days. Jacking up those beachfront prices. But here at the lake, things are different.”
“You seemed to already know about the three murders,” Kate said. “How did you find out about them?”
“I actually only knew about Tamara Bateman first. Didn’t hear about Bea Faraday or Dhayna Tsui until late last night, when I was informed that we were likely looking at a hold on all real estate transactions until a killer is found.”
“Did you know any of the agents who were murdered?” Kate asked.
“I’d seen all of them here and there over the last year or so. A smaller community like this one, it’s unavoidable. But I’d say I worked with Bea more than anyone else.”
“Could you tell us why you were looking for reasons to sell this home for less?” DeMarco asked.
That stealthy smile came back as he answered. It made Kate not fully trust him.
“Because there are so many homes that are just sitting stagnant on the market around here. We can drop prices without anyone asking why, but most buyers feel more comfortable if they know why. It especially helps if we can find reasons that most people would find superficial.”
He was all but chuckling as he said this. It made Kate wonder what other slightly dishonest practices he might revel in.
“Do you find something amusing about it?” she asked.
“That’s not quite the right word. But seeing as how my own contracting business sort of went under during the last housing crisis, seeing these overpriced homes coming down in price so rapidly does bring a bit of a smile to my face.”
“How badly will the murders affect the sale of homes in the area?” Kate asked.
“Well, it’s going to essentially destroy any chance of the homes the agents were killed in,” Carr said. “Those will have to go way under asking price and it’ll take a few weeks, if not months, for them to sell. As for other properties in the area, it might spook some buyers. But buyers from out of town likely won’t care. But we’ll probably have to sell surrounding properties for just as cheap as the affected properties just to even things out—for a while.”
“You’ve seen it before, I take it?” Kate asked.
“Actually, no. But once you get closer to the beach, this thing becomes a little more common. There are even houses where former owners had been busted for selling drugs out of the home that are tough sells.”
“What about the house we’re in right now?” DeMarco. “The home Tamara Bateman was killed in is just a block up the street.”
“It’ll probably come down about eight grand in price. When that drop doesn’t move it, it’ll likely come to a final asking price somewhere around twenty grand south of where it would have originally been listed.”
“Mr. Carr, in your line of work, have you ever had an issue with squatters?”
He did chuckle this time. “No, not squatters. I did come across a teenage couple doing things their folks likely wouldn’t have approved of. It was a house that had been on the market for a while, so I guess they just assumed it was abandoned and free for grabs—no pun intended.”
Even the way Carr said no pun intended rubbed Kate the wrong way. It was rare that she came across someone she simply didn’t like upon appearances, but Roger Carr was one of those people. She thought about the condition of his home, despite the fact that he was obviously a very busy man with a fairly lucrative job. Of course, he had mentioned his previous company going under not too long ago during the housing crisis. She wondered if there had been bankruptcy involved. Maybe he had lost everything, placing him in one of those very modest townhouses.
And maybe that’s why he’s borderline gleeful about all of these homes having to come down in price, she thought. Maybe he sees it as some sort of justice. And maybe, if he�
��s just deranged enough, his previous woes could be motive to kill real estate agents. A stretch, sure…but there’s just something about him that feels off.
“Do you mind telling us exactly why your company went out of business?” Kate asked.
“Same as any other business,” he said. His tone indicated that he thought it was an incredibly stupid question. “Money. As in, I wasn’t bringing enough of it in. When people realize they can’t afford new homes, there’s not much work for a contractor. Especially not in an area like this. As you can see, though, I managed to keep a job in the industry. I like the appraisal end much better. There’s much less stress and commitment. The money isn’t quite as good, but it’s not bad.”
DeMarco reached out and handed Carr one of her business cards. “Mr. Carr, whether you like it or not, your presence at all three houses so far makes you the only person we know that could potentially answer questions about the properties and the agents themselves. We’d appreciate it if you’d try to remain available for the next few days.”
Carr looked at the business card and gave a curt little nod. When he placed the card into his pocket, he looked as if it was a huge inconvenience to him. “Yeah, I’ll be around. But as I’ve said…I’m very busy.”
“Might not be if anyone else around here dies, though,” Kate said. It was an unnecessary and slightly immature jab, but she didn’t care.
Carr had nothing to say to that. The three of them stood there awkwardly until DeMarco started walking back toward the front door. Kate followed her, leaving Carr to his business inside.
“Initial thoughts?” DeMarco asked.
“Honestly? I think he’s a creep, but I couldn’t tell you why.”
“Same here. But I don’t feel like he fits the profile of our killer.”
“Why’s that?” Kate asked. She felt he had slight motivations but she, too, thought it unlikely that he was the killer.
“Hard to say. I think he just seems like the sort of guy that has to always be in control. But in an anal-retentive sort of way. I think murder has too many question marks, too many different ways things could go wrong. So I don’t think he’d be able to make himself do it—if he was even that sort of man in the first place.”
Kate was impressed. It was a very rational way to think, and, now that she thought of it, pretty on the nose. It was actually a much clearer picture of why she had not cared for him at first glance.
“Let’s give the staging woman a call,” DeMarco said as they got back into the car. “Maybe she’ll be a bit warmer than Mr. Carr.”
They pulled away from the vacant house, Kate pulling up the address for Margie Phelps’s place of business. Along the way, Kate eyed each house with a FOR SALE sign in its yard, wondering if the killer had been viewing that house recently as well. It made her think of the man she had spied in the black Taurus just before she’s had the misfortune of being introduced to Regina Voss. Something about that brief encounter did not sit well with her.
They were running out of time. With the governor involved, Duran would now be watching this case very closely. She feared if they didn’t have at least a promising lead within a handful of hours, the little town of Estes was going to be overrun with State Police and federal agents. And all that would do, as far as Kate was concerned, was edge her and DeMarco out.
And at fifty-six years old, she never knew which case could be her last. And if it was this one, she’d be damned if she would be pushed out of it.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Simple Touch Staging might have been one of the cutest businesses Kate had ever stepped foot in. It was located right in the heart of Estes, about a block away from all of the waterfront properties along the lake. The building was small, tucked in between an Italian restaurant and a gift shop, but was warm and inviting. The entire building consisted of one room, split up by two decorative wall dividers. When Kate and DeMarco entered, there were two women at a small workstation in the front of the building. One was sitting at a computer monitor, the other standing behind her.
They both looked in the direction of the agents as they entered. The woman standing greeted them with a smile while the second woman remained focused on the computer monitor.
“How can I help you?” the standing woman asked. She was tall and slender with red hair. She looked to be in her forties, though the excessive makeup she wore made it very hard to tell.
“We were hoping to speak with Margie Phelps,” Kate said.
The tall woman turned to the other woman at the computer. She was now looking at them again, apparently shocked to have heard her name called. “That’s me,” she said. “What can I do for you?”
It was clear that she did not want to leave whatever she was working on, but she came to the little counter area at the front of the building, joining her tall co-worker as dutifully as she could manage.
The taller woman gave a polite nod and, seeing that she was not needed, went back over to the workstation and picked up where Margie Phelps had left off.
“Ms. Phelps,” Kate said, “we’re with the FBI. Agents Wise and DeMarco. We wanted to talk to you about the three recent murders in the area. We know that you had recently been contracted to work on two of the homes, correct?”
“That’s right. The one on Leander and the one on Hammermill. God…these murders. I knew Dhayna fairly well. I can’t believe what’s happened.”
“How well did you know her?” DeMarco asked.
“Well about seven or eight years ago, she and I met up with a group of friends every Tuesday night for margaritas down at Jake’s on the Lake. But then we grew up, I guess. We still knew one another, but it was just quick hellos on the street, you know? I hadn’t had a real conversation with her in nearly a year or so, I guess.”
“Any idea if she had a boyfriend or estranged family in the area?”
“I don’t know about a boyfriend, but I know she has no family around here. I believe her mother died when Dhayna was quite young. And her father lives somewhere out west. Arizona or New Mexico or something like that.”
“What about the other victims?” DeMarco asked. “Did you know them?”
“I knew of them. I mean, I knew who they were, but never really knew them well. We’ve staged homes for all three of the real estate companies in the area so we all sort of weave in and out of each other’s work lives, you know?”
“Can you think of anyone in the local scene who might have a grudge against the real estate companies?”
Margie thought about it for a moment before shaking her head. “None that I can think of.”
“How about past agents?” Kate asked. “I ask you because, as you might imagine, the real estate companies aren’t very likely to give up the names of former employees as potential leads in a triple-murder investigation.”
Rather than answer, Margie turned and looked to the woman sitting at the computer monitor. She was no longer paying attention to whatever was on the screen, but had instead started listening in to their conversation.
“Janell, you want to take that one?”
The taller woman, Janell, sighed and gave a shrug. “I don’t know if the timing of it would even work out,” she said. “And really, I hate to even make such an assumption.”
“What assumption?” Kate asked.
“There’s a moving company that we work with pretty closely,” Margie said. “We’ll stage the home and the movers will sometimes use our plans to set up the furniture and things like that.”
“If I’m being honest, the only guy in the whole company I trust is the owner,” Janell said. “He’s a good guy…an older gentleman. But some of the men he has working for him are pretty gross. Always whistling at us and cat-calling. Things like that. There was one day last week when I was out at a property by the lake that they were taking furniture into. I was in the kitchen, playing around with different place settings, while they were setting up the den. One of the hired guys just sort of lost it. Yelling at the owner about money a
nd time off. I thought it was going to turn into a fight. This guy, he pushed James, the boss, pretty hard and then left.”
“And you saw this all go down?” Kate asked.
“Yeah, I was standing right there in the kitchen when it happened. He threw a lamp across the den and I think he even kicked a headlight out of the moving truck that was parked in the driveway. Started screaming about how he was going to beat the crap out of his boss and his coworkers. It was pretty scary. “
“You know anything about this guy?”
“Just his first name,” Janell said. “And that’s because some of the other guys said his name a few times as they were trying to get him to calm down: Matt. I don’t know a last name.”
“And what’s the name of that moving company?”
“Mulligan Movers,” Margie said. “Owned by a guy named Jack Mulligan.”
This time, it was Kate who offered a business card, sliding it across the little counter toward the women. “Please let us know if you think of anything else, or hear anything from your clients.”
“Of course,” Margie said.
They left the little business with Kate comfortable ruling out Margie Phelps of any sort of foul play. And while she knew a disgruntled employee from a moving company might not exactly be a promising lead, at least it was something. She was also starting to understand that in a small town like Estes, Delaware, the real estate community was rather tight-knit. So maybe a disgruntled employee with some grievances to air might be just the sort of lead they were looking for.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“I’m looking for Jack Mulligan, please.”
“That’s me,” the man on the other end of the line said. Kate thought he had the kind of voice that would make for a great story-telling grandfather someday.
“Mr. Mulligan, my name is Kate Wise. I’m a special agent with the FBI. I was hoping you might have some time to talk about a former employee named Matt. I understand that he recently quit in a dramatic fashion.”