The Wicked Flee (A Marty Singer Mystery Book 5)

by Matthew Iden

  Taking a deep breath, she opened the door, jumped down the steps, and ran into the night.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The ringing woke her, but barely.

  Three years a cop, two years in the academy, and she still couldn’t wake up to a call in the middle of the night. She’d have to work on that.

  For now, though, she fumbled for the phone on the side table. When she saw who it was, she swore and remembered why she didn’t always respond instantly to a phone call on the wrong side of midnight.

  “Jimmy, what do you want?” she said, groaning into the mouthpiece. “It’s one in the morning. I got off duty two hours ago.”

  “Sorry, champ. Thought you might want some news on your, uh, investigation.”

  Sarah rubbed her eyes. “What investigation?”

  “Tiffany? The dead girl hooking for some dude in Glenwood?”

  She sat up in bed. Right, my investigation. “Yeah, I want to know. What’s going on?”

  “That guy you paid a visit to? Gerald something?”

  “Tena.”

  “That’s him. He’s dead.”

  “What?”

  “It just came over the wire. I called one of the local Glenwood cops to get the scoop. One of Tena’s neighbors was up late walking the dog. They heard two bangs, saw two flashes through Tena’s kitchen window, then a car took off a minute later. The neighbor called the police, a cruiser came around, and the officer on the scene found a footprint leading from the front door with a partial outline of blood on it. When he got inside they found Tena.”

  “The neighbor didn’t see the car?”

  “Nope, wrong side of the house. But they described the sound of the vehicle as ‘deep’ and ‘powerful.’”

  “Shit,” she said. “I talked to Tena this afternoon.”

  “Sounds like you lit a fire,” Jimmy said.

  “It looks that way. He spooks, calls his boss, and tells him about Tiffany.”

  “Then the boss decided to cut ties to the pimp who could trace everything back to him.”

  “Yep.” She frowned. “Did the Glenwood cop mention Tena’s girls? They weren’t in the house, were they?”

  “Nope. I didn’t ask, but I’m sure he would’ve mentioned it if, you know, there’d been witnesses or a string of hookers or a couple of extra bodies lying around.”

  Sarah threw the covers back and swung her feet out of bed. “I’ve got to get over there.”

  “Under what pretense? This isn’t really your case, you know,” Jimmy said. “And I assume you left a trace or two at Tena’s house yourself. You nose around this too much and Kline will know you were there.”

  She pinned the phone to her shoulder with her chin while she shucked off her pj’s and grabbed a pair of jeans from the closet. “I’ll think of something. But I at least need to ask about the girls. Tena wasn’t slick enough to do the recruiting, which means the boss did it for him. They’re the only link right now unless the Glenwood cops find a name written in blood.”

  “Which you wouldn’t have access to anyway, since you’re not the investigating officer.”

  “Exactly,” Sarah said, hopping around her bedroom on one foot, struggling to slip her socks on. She finally gave in and sat down on her floor with a thump. “The girls are going to disappear. Either the boss has already moved them out or they’ll cut and run on their own. There’s a very small window to grab one of them and find out what they know.”

  “Where are you going to look?”

  “Are you sitting in front of a computer?”

  “Yes,” Jimmy said reluctantly.

  “Want to do some searching while I get over to the scene?”

  “So I’m your support staff now?”

  “Hey, chief, you’re the reason I’m doing this in the first place,” Sarah said. “If it weren’t for you, I might be cursing Kline for lifting me off the case, but at least I’d be asleep right now.”

  “Okay, okay,” Jimmy said. “Any thoughts about where he might’ve stashed the girls? Motel, bus stop, all-night diner?”

  Sarah headed for the living room for her coat, then cursed as she stubbed her toe on a chair in the dark. Her apartment was so tiny, the chair was as put away as it could be and she still couldn’t avoid smashing a foot into it. “Yeah. Something super temporary and cheap.”

  “He’d want to keep the girls together, though, so he could pick them up at once. So not too small.”

  “Good point.” Sarah strapped on her gun in a shoulder holster, slipped her badge in a back pocket, then pulled on boots and a thick North Face coat. “Check out the cheap motels in a ten-mile radius. If you don’t find anything, move it out five miles and check again.”

  “Okay.”

  “Thanks, Jimmy,” she said. “I owe you.”

  “Don’t sweat it,” he said, dropping his normal mocking tone. “We both knew there was something here and now you know for sure. You rattled somebody when you talked to Tena.”

  “I just hope it didn’t end with him,” Sarah said, and ran out of her apartment.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  It was strange driving through the same neighborhood at night, as though she were looking at the photographic negative of a place that she’d taken a picture of during the day—dark where it had been light, crisp silver outlines of roofs and walls and fences that had been indistinct and blurry in the overcast day.

  Reflections of flashing red and blue glancing off windows broke the spell as she rounded the last curve. This end of the formerly serene suburb was now lit like a circus. Not only from the police cruisers in front of Tena’s home, but from the ambulance and the intense spotlights of a local TV crew. Residual light from the homes in the cul-de-sac illuminated the snow in angular patches as neighbors watched from living room windows, endeavoring to find out what the ruckus was without getting too involved. More adventurous folks were on their front porches and sidewalks in hastily donned combinations of bedroom slippers, sweatpants, and parkas, their breath frosting in the air. A reporter and her cameraman were moving from neighbor to neighbor, interviewing and filming.

  Sarah parked four houses down, then walked toward the press of activity cautiously, looking for the officer in charge. The lights in Tena’s house were on and the garage door open. A uniformed cop guarded the intersection of Tena’s driveway and the street, ready to keep a nonexistent crowd at bay. He was tying off the yellow tape to the street-side mailbox as she approached.

  “Can I help you?” he asked as Sarah stopped in front of him. He looked younger than she was.

  She plucked her badge from its pocket and showed him. “Maryland State Police. I’d like to speak with the officer in charge.”

  “Really? You’re a statie?”

  “Yes, really,” she said, peeved. “Hard to believe?”

  “Uh, no. I mean, you’ve got the badge.”

  “Thanks,” she said sourly. “Officer in charge?”

  “We didn’t get a call from the barracks,” he said, frowning. “Is this something official?”

  “My interest is personal,” Sarah said.

  “Personal?” His eyebrows shot to his hairline.

  She was glad it was dark as she felt the blood rush to her face. “This homicide may be related to something we’re working on, but it’s still so thin that we haven’t opened a case yet.”

  The lie sounded ridiculous to her, but the cop nodded amiably. “Okay. Go on in. Jay Saunders is who you want. He’s inside, finishing up.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Oh,” he said as she started for the front door. “You mind using the garage? They want to preserve the tracks by the front door.”

  “Sure,” she said, feeling light-headed. She was out of uniform, of course, and not wearing the boots she’d had on when she’d braced Tena, but that didn’t keep her from g
lancing nervously at the trampled snow leading to the man’s front porch. Relief swept through her as she got a good look. It wasn’t easy to see in the dark, but instead of crisp, single tracks matching her shoe size, it looked like a herd of elephants had stampeded. The killer, she thought, then the cops on the initial call. She never thought destruction of evidence and ruining the integrity of a crime scene could make her so happy.

  Sarah passed through the garage and into the house through an open side door, clipping her badge to the outside of her coat as she went. The door led to a mudroom; a swinging door was the only exit. Murmuring, maybe three men’s voices, came through the door, low and rumbling. Feeling stupid, she knocked, then opened the door to the kitchen.

  A strange stink hit her nose. Not the sterile smell of a morgue and not even the rot of cadavers—she’d done her pathology fieldwork. This was more of a bathroom smell combined with an odor of industrial chemicals.

  But she forgot the smell as she surveyed the scene in front of her. Sprawled on the floor, with his feet near the sink and its head toward the refrigerator, was the bulky body of Gerald Tena. The fridge door was open—that explained the chemical smell; the refrigerant was pumping into the kitchen—and the inside of it was covered in blood, vibrant against the stark white interior. Congealed bits of flesh had slid down the walls and onto the floor. A carton of orange juice had tipped over in the fridge, spilling its contents on the lowest shelf.

  She looked at the body. Aside from two small craters in the back of his head, Tena appeared to be sleeping face-first, but his head was unnaturally flush to the floor and she realized he must be missing most of his face to be lying that way. Heat suffused her face again and her stomach took a strange, sideways lurch. Sarah blinked, striving to keep herself together, but she was sure she was heading for an embarrassing moment when a voice brought her back.

  “Don’t be sick on my crime scene, now.”

  She turned her head to look at a middle-aged white man in jeans and a gray Catholic University hoodie, standing in the doorway to the dining room. His face was creased and tired. His expression was one of curiosity, not anger. Behind him were two cops in uniforms, older than the sentry who had been posted outside. Both had what she thought of as the doughnut-shop look: comb-sized mustache, big belly, bright red cheeks. They peered over his shoulder at her.

  Sarah took a deep breath. “Detective Saunders?”

  “Jay,” he said. “Yeah.”

  “Sarah Haynesworth,” she said, motioning toward her badge. “Trooper First Class, out of the Waterloo Barracks.”

  Saunders nodded but said nothing, just looked at her expectantly.

  “I’m working on an . . . issue that might be related to this homicide.”

  “An . . . issue?” Saunders asked, mimicking the timing of her pause perfectly.

  “It’s not a case, not yet,” she said, hurrying. If she didn’t pique Saunders’s interest quickly, he’d politely tell her to leave. “But we’ve had a suspicion that Tena was running a string of girls out of this house. One of those girls suffered an overdose a few days ago. I caught the john trying to bury her in his backyard. The trail led back to Tena, but I’ve got leads that put him in touch with possibly a much larger network.”

  Saunders nodded again, then turned to the two uniforms behind him. “Hank, Tommy. Why don’t you go through the second floor one more time.”

  The two looked unhappy, recognizing the dismissal for what it was, but left the dining room without a word. The heavy tread of clomping feet shook the house as they headed upstairs. Saunders fished around in his pockets and brought out a small plastic box.

  “Tic Tac?” he offered.

  “No, thanks.”

  He tapped the box until four or five mints spilled onto his palm, then popped all of them into his mouth at once. “Tic Tacs aren’t Vicks VapoRub, but they always seem to take the smell away for me.”

  “Okay, maybe I’ll have one,” Sarah said.

  He shook four into her hand, then put the box away. “So, you’ve got this issue.”

  “Yes.”

  “And we’ve got a homicide,” he said, looking down, almost sadly, at Tena’s body.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “First murder case?”

  She chewed the inside of her cheek. Be honest, Sarah. “Yes.”

  Saunders nodded, as if confirming something. “I take it you’re here fishing for intel.”

  “Uh . . . something like that,” Sarah said.

  “But not officially.”

  “No, sir,” she admitted. “Not yet.”

  “Well, Trooper,” Saunders said, putting his hands in his pockets and leaning against the door frame. “Let’s get to trading.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “Well, it definitely fits the stereotype,” I said, studying the front of the rather optimistically named Huntington Crowne Motel. At least, that’s what I thought the name was. A third of the wooden sign had broken off and dangled facedown on the roof. “It’s just missing the village drunk.”

  As I said it, a gangly man in a dirty T-shirt, with a thick beard and knobby elbows, careened out of the door marked “OFFICE.” Slipping on the snow, he wheeled around the corner, skidded to a stop, then bent over, hands on knees and stomach heaving. From where we were parked, he was almost out of sight, but I guessed he wasn’t studying patterns of asphalt distribution.

  “You’re right,” Chuck said, shooting me a glance. “That’s all it was missing.”

  I shrugged. The drunk stood unsteadily, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He spun in place, raised both middle fingers in the direction of the motel, then stumbled toward a dim future of highway underpasses and park benches.

  My attention shifted back to the motel, a sad two-story affair with a flat roof. It was solidly below average in most categories, with a drab gray exterior festooned in meaningless metal rectangles—a cheap architectural decoration that had been popular in the sixties and seventies. Doors to each unit were accessed from the ground floor or via an external catwalk and faced a parking lot of thirty stalls that was half full. Or half empty, I thought, if you were a pimp chasing early retirement and counting every customer.

  The traffic we’d seen going in and out of the lot made it a safe bet that we’d found the place Tuck had described. In ten minutes I’d already watched two guys, both walking with an odd hitch in their step—construction workers or truckers, by the look—come out of different rooms, then get in their cars and leave. No sooner had their headlights faded than a small SUV pulled into the lot and a skinny guy in a cheap-looking suit unwittingly took the spot of the first john, then went to the door of yet a third unit and knocked. Dull yellow light beamed from inside as the door was opened and a price negotiated. The man went inside, then the light winked out.

  “What’s our play?” I asked. I fished a tissue from a pocket and wiped my constantly running nose.

  “We could go door to door. Roust the johns until we find Lucy.”

  “Subtle,” I said. “And not without its charm. I’ve always wanted to see a motel full of half-naked dudes holding their Johnsons and running for their cars at top speed.”

  “Don’t forget the girls spitting on us for trashing their quota for the night.”

  “Oh, right. I forgot that part,” I said. “Do you have a plan B?”

  Chuck rubbed the silver ball-and-post piercing that went through his right eyebrow. “No way this place can run without the managers knowing. And getting a cut. So we go in, brace the night manager, say we’re looking for one girl in particular, and that’s it. We ain’t here to rock the boat, we don’t want to shut him down. We want one girl and one girl only. If he cooperates, everything keeps running smoothly.”

  “Offer the carrot first, huh?” I said. “What if he doesn’t cooperate?”

  “I’ll pull his ears of
f and switch them.”

  “The stick, I take it.”

  “Yep,” he said. We looked up as the guy in the cheap suit came out of the room and strode to his car, hands jammed deep in his pockets. I pulled my sleeve back to glance at my watch and Chuck snorted. Headlights came on, illuminating the side of the motel, then the SUV left quickly, spinning its tires on the ice that had gathered in the dip where the lot met the road. The engine’s sound faded into the distance. We sat in the dark.

  “You thinking of something?” Chuck asked.

  I cleared my throat. “What happens to the rest of these girls once we find Lucy?”

  He was quiet for a moment. “I’m not out to save the world, Singer. Not tonight. I get Lucy home safe, I’ll put my cape back on, sure. But later. Right now, I just want to find my sister.”

  I couldn’t argue with that. “Let’s do it, then.”

  Chuck started the car and pulled into the lot. Ignoring the open parking stalls, he cruised straight to the office door and shut off the car. We got out and simultaneously cinched our belts and adjusted our coats as we walked to the door, surreptitiously checking our sidearms. If the manager happened to like the cut he was getting, and thought we were there to end the gravy train, he might take exception and decide it was worth ventilating the two of us to keep the status quo.

  I followed Chuck inside. An entry bell tinkled as we came through the door. The office was numbingly mediocre. Marbled gray-green linoleum covered the floor, while the walls were painted in thick swatches of peach. Vinyl chairs that had looked dated in the eighties sat in opposite corners of the room. Perched on a stool behind the counter was a thirty-something reading a copy of Computer Gaming Planet. Poker-straight brown hair fell past his ears, like a bowl cut let go six months too long. A mustache enhanced, rather than diminished, a catastrophic overbite. Glasses with thick black rims completed the picture of a guy who could only get a job as the night manager of a hooker’s motel. A nameplate on a tripod informed us that this was Paul.