I Know Your Name: A Chilling Psychological Thriller (Wolf Lake Thriller Book 5)

by Dan Padavona

  Besides being Raven’s best friend, Chelsey Byrd ran Wolf Lake Consulting, a private investigation firm in the village center. Though Kemp hadn’t hired Wolf Lake Consulting to find his son, Raven and Darren needed all hands on deck.

  “Chelsey might already know if Kemp called Thomas.”

  Chelsey dated Thomas Shepherd, the sheriff of Nightshade County. Thomas lived in a lakeside A-frame down the hill from the state park, and Chelsey often spent the night with the sheriff.

  After confirming Chelsey had heard about the investigation, Raven turned her attention back to the road. She worried about hydroplaning as Darren stepped on the gas.

  “I know you’re concerned, Darren. But slow down. It’s a twenty-minute drive to Wells Ferry in sunny conditions, and we haven’t experienced a dry day this week.”

  He exhaled and eased back on the truck’s speed.

  “What if the killer caught Shawn?”

  “Stay positive. We’ll find your cousin.”

  Darren glared through the windshield as the mile markers whipped past in green blurs.

  Raven hoped they’d find Shawn before the murderer did. Megan’s killer couldn’t allow a witness to escape.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Friday, 11:55 p.m.

  Thomas pulled the cruiser into Megan Massey’s driveway and killed the engine. A gust nudged the vehicle as he assessed the entryway. The door stood open, letting in wind and stray sprinkles. The phantoms of wet footprints dried on the walkway before angling toward the lawn. A few hundred feet separated the victim’s house from her closest neighbor.

  After radioing his position to dispatch, he stepped out of the cruiser and glanced up the road. Any minute now, Wells Ferry PD would arrive, igniting the usual territorial pissing contest. Wells Ferry perched on the western edge of Nightshade County, so close to the border that some residents argued over which county the town belonged to. Tensions between Wells Ferry and the Nightshade County Sheriff’s Department ran deep and predated Thomas’s arrival. Stewart Gray, the former sheriff, always complained about their long-running feud with Wells Ferry PD.

  Thomas blinked twice before he got moving. If he blinked an odd number of times, he’d need to stop and blink again. It was an obsession he couldn’t shake when pressure mounted, and after multiple homicides in his county, Thomas had faced a lifetime of pressure over the last twelve months. His hand moved to his spine and lingered an inch from the old bullet wound. While he’d worked as a detective with the LAPD, his task force fell into the crossfire between two rival gangs. The gunfire struck his back. He still felt the phantom bullet digging beneath his skin, a horror he’d never vanquish.

  Headlights swept around the corner. Thomas let out a breath when the vehicle passed. It wasn’t a Wells Ferry PD cruiser. Born with Asperger’s syndrome, Thomas avoided arguments. He preferred to work alone and struggled to express his feelings, though he’d opened up in the last year. It helped to have so many close friends.

  Wanting to investigate the scene before the police arrived, Thomas captured photos of the shoe prints. Wearing gloves, he squeezed between the open door and the jamb and stepped inside the foyer. A wall switch stood to his left. He paused before he clicked on the lights. What if the killer was still inside the house?

  Kemp Massey had phoned the sheriff’s department a half-hour ago. His son went missing after witnessing a murder. How did Thomas know the boy hadn’t killed his mother and fled the scene? Darren vouched for his cousins, but Kemp and Megan Massey were headed toward a messy divorce.

  Thomas moved in silence down a long hallway. A broken picture frame lay on the floor. A nail protruded from the wall where the photograph once hung. As he stepped around the broken glass, a knocking sound pulled his attention upstairs.

  He found Megan Massey sprawled on the floor. A blood streak marked her struggle as she crawled from the table to the back door. He touched his fingers to her neck. No pulse.

  Blood soaked her sweatshirt and pooled on the floor. A chair lay broken beside the table, and a hole marred the plaster. These didn’t strike Thomas as signs of a struggle. More likely the killer smashed a hole in the wall and broke the chair in fury. When he lifted the camera, the noise came again from upstairs.

  Standing beside the stairwell, he looked up into pitch-black. Speaking into the radio on his shoulder, he requested backup. In his mind, he pictured the psychopath stepping through the upstairs, unaware of the sheriff’s presence.

  He followed the staircase to the second landing and cleared the bathroom. A perfume bottle rested on the sink. Otherwise, Megan Massey kept a tidy bathroom, free of clutter. The next door opened to a guest room, empty except for a bed tucked into the corner. Thomas doubted Shawn stayed overnight in this room. Nothing was out of place, and the carpet was recently vacuumed.

  Thomas paused beside a closed door at the end of the hallway. He edged it open.

  The master bedroom lay before him. A handcrafted armoire stood against the wall, a dresser to his left. Shoes lay on a rack on the closet floor, and Megan Massey’s wardrobe draped off hangers. Moving his eyes across the room, Thomas spotted a briefcase beneath the bed. He stepped around the bed.

  A shadow flashed across the window. Thomas raised his gun and released his breath. A loose shutter banged against the outer wall, causing the noise.

  He phoned the department. Deputy Veronica Aguilar was working the swing shift this evening and would need to stay late.

  “I need the county to send their forensics team,” he said, studying the scene. “How soon can you make it here?”

  “Half an hour. I’ll call Virgil on my way to Wells Ferry.”

  At sixty-two, Virgil was Nightshade County’s veteran medical examiner. His assistant, Claire Brookins, was a prime candidate to take the position after Virgil retired. No doubt Virgil would grumble when he learned of the Wells Ferry murder. Like Sheriff Gray, Virgil wished Wells Ferry would defect to the next county. Or fall into the lake. Thomas wondered how far back the bad blood stretched between the rogue lake town and the county.

  Thomas wished Aguilar was already here. Though his lead deputy stood five feet tall in shoes, Aguilar exuded confidence and intensity that gave hostiles pause. She wouldn’t back down against Wells Ferry PD. Neither would Thomas, but he abhorred confrontation.

  As if he’d summoned Wells Ferry PD with his thoughts, emergency lights swirled across the windows. Two male officers with football player physiques stepped out of the cruiser and approached the stoop. An officer with a goatee shot the sheriff’s vehicle a derisive glance as he passed.

  Thomas met them at the door. Better to initiate the conversation, he figured.

  “This is Wells Ferry jurisdiction,” Goatee said as he pushed past Thomas. “Why are you here?”

  “The county sheriff’s department received the call,” Thomas said.

  Goatee grunted. His partner stood beside him with his thumbs hooked in his belt loops.

  “We’ll clear the house,” the partner said.

  “Already taken care of.”

  “Then we’ll double check.”

  Thomas didn’t care. Let them waste time prowling around the upstairs while he assessed the crime scene. As their shoes thumped up the staircase, they whispered and watched Thomas from the corners of their eyes. He returned to the kitchen and took pictures, careful not to disturb anything.

  The killer could have shot Megan for a clean kill. A stabbing was an act of rage, and knives were silent killers. A neighbor would have heard a gunshot. Anger fueled this man to murder his victim.

  The hole in the wall and the stab wound in Megan Massey’s belly pointed to a deranged killer who sought vengeance.

  Which meant he couldn’t rule out Kemp or Shawn Massey.

  Baritone voices traveled from the upper landing before the officers clomped down the staircase. The jurisdiction war was just beginning.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Saturday, 12:00 a.m.

  “Can you think of anyon
e who’d want to hurt Megan or Shawn?”

  Cupping his elbows with his hands, Kemp Massey paced the kitchen while Darren and Raven sat at the table. Like his son, Kemp wore sandy brown hair parted at the side. A shade over six feet, Kemp was almost as tall as Darren. Kemp’s cinnamon skin tone and leathery, weather-beaten face proclaimed he was no stranger to the outdoors.

  “Nobody would hurt my son,” Kemp told Darren. “As for Megan, I can’t say what she was involved in. We haven’t spoken in months.”

  Raven raised an eyebrow when Kemp turned away. Darren set his hands on the table.

  “So you aren’t aware of any cases she’s handled over the last year.”

  “How would I know? She had her life. We have ours.”

  “Please, Kemp. We’re trying to help. Anything you can remember might help us locate Shawn.”

  “Don’t you think I’d tell you if I knew anything? He’s my son. I’ll do everything I can to bring him home.”

  A shiver rolled through Kemp’s shoulders as he stood at the window and peered into the stormy sky. Rain slithered down the pane.

  “I’d like to look inside Shawn’s bedroom.”

  Kemp turned around.

  “There’s nothing in Shawn’s room that will tell you who murdered Megan.”

  “It might give us a clue where Sean is hiding.”

  Kemp exhaled.

  “Be my guest. Shawn’s room is the first door at the top of the stairs. But this is a waste of time. We should search for my son, not overturn his bedroom.”

  “The police and county sheriff’s departments are looking for Shawn. Right now, the best thing we can do is narrow down the locations.”

  Darren and Raven left Kemp in the kitchen and climbed the stairs, taking the steps two at a time. Sirens wailed inside the town as rain pattered the house. A gray morass of mist cloaked the land outside the windows.

  “What are we searching for?” Raven asked when they reached the upper landing.

  Darren lifted a shoulder.

  “I’m not sure. Maybe we’ll find something that will tell us who attacked Megan.”

  “It seems like you’re rushing.”

  He glanced at the window.

  “Wells Ferry PD will be here any second.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “The police have a longstanding feud with the county. I doubt they’ll be happy to find private investigators rummaging through the house.”

  “You’re a state park forest ranger, not a PI.”

  “That won’t help our case.”

  Shawn’s bedroom appeared like a typical teenage boy’s—A Thirty Seconds to Mars poster on one wall, a Twenty-One Pilots poster over his bed. An autographed picture of a hip-hop artist Darren didn’t recognize lay on the desk. Wearing gloves, Darren picked up the photo and tilted it toward the light.

  “Scout would get a kick out of this,” he said, laying it down. Scout was Naomi Mourning’s teenage daughter. The wheelchair-bound girl leveraged internet sleuthing skills to aid their investigations.

  The bedsheets were crumpled, the blankets and comforter bunched at the foot of the bed. A dirty shirt hung over the desk chair, and a stray sock poked out from beneath the desk. A paper plate with a pizza sauce stain lay next to a computer monitor.

  Darren dropped to his stomach and aimed the flashlight beneath the bed. More unlaundered clothes and a dust bunny the size of a rat. On a whim, he peered between the mattress and box spring. Nothing hidden.

  A bookcase stood against the near wall. Darren couldn’t move the bookcase. A furniture anchor held it in place. He removed the books—Stephen King novels, a historical encyclopedia of rock music, the Harry Potter series—and sifted through the pages. Shawn hadn’t tucked secret notes inside any of the books. Next, he stood on tiptoe and ran his hand over the top of the bookcase. His glove came away dusty.

  Raven checked the bedside table, then moved to the dresser and pulled the drawers open. As she searched beneath the clothing, Darren rounded the desk. A mixing board stood beside a keyboard and turntable. Studio quality headphones hung from a stand. Darren whistled.

  “I never realized Shawn was into making his own music.”

  Raven closed the drawers and joined Darren beside the desk.

  “Creating art is a great way for teens to deal with home issues.”

  Darren nodded. Kemp and Megan’s failed marriage ate at him. It was one thing to separate and move on after a relationship unraveled. But what about Shawn? The teenager deserved better. Any hopes Shawn had of rekindling a relationship with his mother had disappeared. He couldn’t imagine what the boy was going through.

  Sliding the computer desk’s drawers open, Darren sifted through papers. Musical notation, penned lyrics.

  “No wallet,” he said.

  “He probably took it with him.”

  Darren jiggled the mouse and awakened the monitor. A password prompt greeted him. He glanced at Raven and shook his head.

  “I’m not much for cracking passwords.”

  “Ask Kemp.”

  Raven followed Darren down the stairs. Kemp hadn’t moved from the kitchen. The LED lights exaggerated Kemp’s blood-drawn face, making him appear like something that crawled out of a crypt in a horror movie.

  “We found nothing of note in Shawn’s bedroom. Any chance you have his password?”

  Kemp fidgeted with a pepper shaker beside the sink. He glanced up when Darren’s question registered.

  “Password?”

  “To his computer.”

  “No idea.”

  Darren set his hands on his hips. He wasn’t getting anywhere.

  “Let’s start over. Tell me about Shawn’s relationship with his mother.”

  “They didn’t have one.” Kemp turned back to the window and rubbed his hand. He seemed to favor his forefinger. “She brought him over for dinner every week. Window dressing to make it appear like they were still family. But that ship sailed three years ago after she left us.”

  “Were you home all night?”

  Kemp’s shoulders stiffened.

  “Of course I was. What kind of question is that?”

  “The police will ask.”

  “If you’re inferring I murdered Megan in front of my son—”

  “I’m not. But it’s important you give the interviewing officers a complete time line.”

  Kemp moved to the refrigerator and stared at a picture of Shawn water skiing. Darren’s stomach fell as he imagined the smiling boy in Megan’s house, witnessing her murder.

  “The police always suspect the spouse. Isn’t that right?”

  “Statistically, most murder victims know their attackers.”

  “Well, I didn’t kill my wife. She ruined our lives, but I wouldn’t harm her.”

  “Did Shawn tell you he planned to visit his mother tonight?”

  “No.”

  “So you don’t know why he wanted to speak with her?”

  “I told you. I wasn’t aware Shawn visited Megan until he called.” Kemp dropped his head. “Shawn has been furious with Megan since the separation. He blames her. But the truth is, the separation was mutual. Megan and I hadn’t gotten along for several years. She didn’t belong in Wells Ferry, and motherhood never meshed with her career aspirations. We never should have married. Unfortunately, Shawn paid the price for his parents’ breakup.”

  Raven leaned in the doorway.

  “Was Megan seeing anyone?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Any old boyfriends who gave you a bad vibe?”

  “Megan’s business was her own. I stayed out of her life after she left. If I were you, I’d focus on her clients. She was a criminal defense attorney, and she didn’t defend boy scouts.”

  Darren pulled a chair away from the table and turned it around. He sat with his forearms resting on the chair back.

  “Any clients capable of murder?”

  “Too many,” Kemp said, running a hand through his hair.
He scrunched his brow. “There was one guy. Hanley Stokes.”

  “Hanley Stokes,” Darren repeated, copying the name onto his memo pad. “What about him?”

  “Known drug dealer, in and out of jail over the years. Megan represented him.”

  “Did Stokes contact Megan in recent weeks?”

  “Last I heard, he just got out of prison. Perhaps one of his scumbag friends went after Megan. Your guess is as good as mine.”

  Darren opened his mouth to reply when headlights swept over the window. Wells Ferry PD had arrived.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Saturday, 12:15 a.m.

  The two Wells Ferry PD officers shuffled past Darren’s Silverado with caution. A bearded officer with a milky complexion aimed a flashlight inside the cab. The second officer gazed from the truck to the house, counting the silhouettes mirrored against the curtains.

  Years of working overtime had taught Darren to recognize the faces of officers just called into the field. Harried, tired. Irritated to be working a case instead of enjoying their time off.

  “Wells Ferry PD,” the bearded officer announced, pounding on the door.

  Suffering from a head cold, the officer spoke through his nose.

  Kemp let them inside.

  “Mr. Massey?” the clean-shaven officer asked. His turquoise eyes darted from Darren to Raven.

  “Yes.”

  “And you are?”

  When the officer glanced at Darren, the state park ranger stepped forward.

  “Darren Holt, and this is Raven Hopkins.”

  “Darren is our cousin, and Ms. Hopkins works for Wolf Lake Consulting,” Kemp said. “Have you found my son?”

  “Not yet,” the sick, bearded officer said. Black, curly hair poked out from beneath his cap. His nameplate read Barber.

  The other officer acted as though he led the investigation. He wore a nameplate that read Neal. Tension thrummed through Neal, raising veins in his muscular arms. As he spoke, his eyes never left Darren. Neal peered over their shoulders and studied the room.