by Dan Padavona
Barber blew his nose into a hankie and cleared his throat.
“Days, weeks. But we won’t be able to match the hair to Shawn until we catch him.”
“Did forensics pull fingerprints from the scene?”
“They did.”
Thomas glanced expectantly at Barber.
“And?”
“They’re running matches now. Shawn Massey’s prints aren’t on file, but the father’s are. Turns out Kemp Massey applied for federal employment ten years ago.”
“So if Kemp Massey was inside the kitchen, we’ll match his prints.”
“If anyone besides the son murdered Megan Massey, it was the father. I don’t buy that story about him slicing his finger open.”
Thomas didn’t want to argue. But Barber seemed insistent.
“Is there some reason you refuse to accept anyone besides Shawn or Kemp murdered Megan Massey?”
“The evidence is crystal clear. No sign of forced entry. That tells me Megan Massey knew her attacker and allowed him into her house, or the killer had a key. The father admits his wife gave Shawn a key to the house. It would’ve been easy for Kemp to copy his son’s key, or steal it.”
“Is your partner just as certain?”
Barber rolled a knot out of his neck.
“Look, Officer Neal and I are both on overtime. I’m sick as a dog and haven’t slept three hours since yesterday morning. This investigation is as clear cut as they come. The problems start when big city detectives like you saunter into town and confuse matters with far-fetched theories.” A sardonic smile formed on the officer’s face. “That’s right. We heard about your career with the LAPD, the FBI task force you headed up. Too bad you almost got everyone killed.”
Thomas flashed back to the shooting. Bullets firing over his head, his partners face-down in the grass, screaming for backup. The searing pain when a stray bullet ripped through his back and dropped him to the ground. Why would Barber throw the shooting in his face?
“Give me what you have on Hanley Stokes.”
“Stokes again?”
“He’s a suspect.”
“Whatever.” Barber picked up the conference room phone and punched three numbers. “Yeah, Neal. The sheriff wants the Stokes file.” A pause. “Yeah, I agree it’s a waste of time.”
A minute after Barber set the receiver down, the door opened. Officer Neal glanced between his partner and Thomas.
“There a problem in here?”
Barber shook his head.
“Just waiting for the sheriff to board the reality train.”
Neal snickered. He tossed another folder on the table. Hanley Stokes stared back at him. In his mugshot, Stokes had a scrape across his cheek and a half-moon black eye, as if he’d skirmished with the arresting officers. Light brown hair grew past his ears. Thomas paged through the case file and lifted an eyebrow at Neal.
“You’re still convinced the killer is Shawn or Kemp Massey?”
“They’re the most logical choices. But if you’re determined to prove Stokes did it, feel free to peruse the case notes. I have a witness who claims she saw Stokes outside Megan Massey’s house three nights ago.”
Barber turned to look at his partner. Apparently, Barber wasn’t aware.
Thomas rose from his chair.
“Did he threaten Massey?”
“He pounded on the door for five minutes. Nobody answered.” Neal tilted his head in thought. “Could be Massey wasn’t home, or she spotted Stokes through the window and refused to answer the door.”
“What did Stokes do next?”
“He left,” Neal said, snatching the folder off the table and tucking it under his arm. “Didn’t break in, didn’t cause a scene. But it’s plausible Stokes drove to his attorney’s house to confront her.”
Neal turned his head to Barber, as if seeking the officer’s approval. Barber gave a half-hearted grunt.
“So now we’re investigating three suspects.” Barber wiped the hankie across his nose. “I don’t understand why we’re making this case more complicated than it needs to be.”
Officer Neal slapped Barber on the shoulder.
“No worries as long as we catch the bad guy, Barber. Right, Sheriff?”
Thomas didn’t answer. He wondered how long Neal had held the Stokes information before sharing.
“Tell me about Stokes,” Thomas said, sitting on the edge of the table.
“His reputation precedes him. Stokes deals coke and a variety of narcotics on the east side of Wells Ferry. Three years ago, he held up a liquor store in town.”
“I didn’t notice the robbery in his case file.”
“The assailant wore a ski mask.” Neal waited until the information sank in. Shawn Massey claimed his mother’s killer wore a ski mask. “So we never proved Stokes robbed the joint.”
“Yet you’re certain it was him.”
“Keep your ear to the pavement, and you’ll hear rumors.”
Part of Thomas wanted to celebrate. Finally, the Wells Ferry PD considered a suspect other than Shawn or Kemp Massey. But this news about Hanley Stokes seemed too sudden. Too convenient.
“Why the long face, Sheriff? This is your opportunity to take a violent offender off the streets.”
As the two officers filed out of the room, Barber glared at Thomas over his shoulder. The door closed. It was quiet inside the vacated conference room.
Hanley Stokes sat at the top of Thomas’s suspect list. He was a dangerous criminal with motive to murder Megan Massey, and a witness placed him outside Massey’s residence.
So why didn’t Thomas buy Neal’s story?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Saturday, 3:45 p.m.
LeVar scanned his computer monitor and sifted through Shawn Massey’s call and text history. So far, their preliminary investigative work led to dead ends. Chelsey’s background check into Shawn had come up empty. Except for school fights, there was nothing to suggest the teenager had a murderous bone in his body.
While Chelsey spoke with Wells Ferry PD in the kitchen, LeVar called Scout and placed her on speakerphone.
“What’s up?” Scout asked.
She sounded as if she’d just awakened.
“Sorry, were you sleeping?”
“No.”
LeVar glared at the phone, wishing he could see her face. Scout sounded so sullen, so defeated. No playful barbs or banter.
“Anyway, I’m searching Shawn Massey’s phone history and wondered how you’re doing on your investigation.”
Scout sighed.
“Nothing interesting on Shawn’s Facebook profile. He only posts a few times per month.”
“Maybe he prefers a different social media site.”
“No Twitter handle. He has an Insta, but he last posted a picture a year ago. Want me to keep looking?”
LeVar tapped a pen against the desk.
“Check his connections. Their profiles might tell us more.”
“Okay,” Scout said, yawning. “But it will take all day.”
This wasn’t like Scout. You couldn’t hold her back from an investigation. LeVar’s shoulders tensed when he thought about Glen Mourning’s custody claim. Did he realize he was killing his daughter?
Switching the topic, LeVar tilted the phone toward him.
“Hey, I got some beats for you to check out.”
“Yeah? Who?”
“Griselda.”
“What’s a Griselda?”
“It’s a record label out of Buffalo. For hip-hop, that’s practically our backyard.”
“Cool,” she muttered.
“But they’re also a rap collective. Benny the Butcher, Westside Gunn, Conway the Machine. They recorded an album together, and it’s pure fire.”
“Whatever.”
“I’ll put them on next time you stop by the guest house, aight?”
“Yeah, sure.”
LeVar wanted to scream. Scout’s indifference ripped his heart out.
“Anything els
e?”
LeVar dropped his face into his hands.
“Nah, just wanted your help to track down Shawn’s friends.”
“I’ll start in a second.”
“Concentrate your efforts on anyone who lives north of the marina. You know where the marina is in Wells Ferry?”
“I have Google Earth, LeVar.”
“Have at it. Gotta go, Scout. Work your magic.”
The line died.
LeVar rocked back in his chair and rubbed the frustration off his face. Chelsey strode into the room and took a seat at the neighboring desk.
“Problem?”
He glanced at her between his fingers and exhaled.
“When we finish this case, let’s open an investigation on Glen Mourning.”
“Naomi’s husband? Why?”
“Why is he fighting Naomi over custody? Since the accident, he hasn’t given two craps about his kid. Suddenly, he wants to drag Scout away from her mother. Why the change of heart?”
Chelsey stretched her legs and crossed her ankles.
“People change, LeVar. Perhaps he realized how much time he lost with Scout, and he’s attempting to make up for it by taking over her life.”
“Talk about overcompensating.”
Chelsey rolled her chair over to LeVar’s and met his eyes.
“Listen, I agree with you. Glen Mourning doesn’t deserve to win custody, and it would be a disaster for Scout if he did. But don’t judge him before you walk in his shoes.”
LeVar ground his teeth.
“Nothing worse than a father who walks away.”
Chelsey placed a compassionate hand on his arm. Everyone knew LeVar and Raven’s history. Their father, Dorian Hopkins, abandoned the family when LeVar was born and Raven was only seven. LeVar never met his father. Did LeVar resemble Dorian? If they passed on the street, would LeVar sense their relationship the way two magnets draw each other?
“Glen Mourning was behind the wheel when the tractor trailer slammed into their vehicle. He blames himself for what happened to Scout.”
“That makes no sense. How was it his fault?”
Chelsey flashed an ironic smile.
“Guilt knows no bounds.” She patted LeVar on the knee and rolled back to her desk. “I’ll help you look into Glen Mourning after we locate Shawn Massey. In the meantime, I need you to focus on this case.”
“I’m on it.”
“Tell me about Shawn’s call history.”
LeVar turned the monitor to face Chelsey’s desk.
“Typical teenager. Only two calls over the last week, including the call to his father after Megan’s murder. About three hundred texts, almost all to Polly Hart.”
“What about the other caller?”
“I cross-referenced the number online. Dead end. It appears to be a telemarketing scheme, one of those car warranty expiration deals.” LeVar’s phone rang. He glanced at Chelsey. “It’s Raven.”
Chelsey set her mouse aside.
“They must have arrived at Polly Hart’s house. Put her on speaker.”
Raven pressed the phone to her ear and waited for LeVar to answer. The windows were down on Darren’s Silverado. The sultry warmth rolling into the car reminded Raven of July and August. Growing up in upstate New York, she knew this type of heat always ended badly in April. From the passenger seat, she watched a monstrous cumulonimbus cloud explode in the distance. It wouldn’t be long before another line of storms scoured Nightshade County, and these thunderstorms would be killers.
Darren fiddled with his keys beside her. Raven put the call through the speakers so Darren could participate. LeVar answered.
“LeVar, Darren is on the call.”
“Gotcha. You’re on speaker with Chelsey too.”
“Where are you?” Chelsey asked in the background.
“Darren and I are parked outside Polly Hart’s house. Are you aware of a severe thunderstorm watch? The sky looks nasty.”
“Hold on.” Chelsey typed at her terminal. “No watch yet. By the way, the background check came back clean on Shawn Massey.”
“I could have told you that,” Darren said, leaning forward with his elbow resting on the steering wheel and his chin propped on his fist. “Shawn has his challenges, but he’s not a bad kid. And he wouldn’t turn on his family.”
“I ran background checks on Kemp and Megan. Hopefully, something comes up that will help us find Shawn.”
Darren chewed his lip and turned away, irritated Chelsey still considered Kemp a suspect. Thunder rumbled.
“We’d better go before it storms,” Raven said.
“Fill me in after you finish.”
Polly Hart lived in a tiny, two-story white house with no garage. A chain-link fence surrounded the front yard, and a carport leaned over the driveway.
“Appears no one is home,” Darren said, stepping into the road.
Raven agreed until the curtain rustled over the window.
“Someone is watching us.”
They climbed three rickety steps and rang the doorbell. Footsteps trailed through the downstairs before a teenage girl with honey brown hair opened the door. The girl wore shorts, running sneakers, and a purple T-shirt. She glanced uncertainly at Darren and Raven between the door and jamb.
“Yes?”
“Polly Hart?” Raven asked.
“How do you know my name?”
“Are your parents home, Polly?”
“No, they’re at my uncle’s house. Are you the police?”
Raven handed Polly her card.
“No. I’m Raven Hopkins, a private investigator with Wolf Lake Consulting. And this is my partner, Darren Holt.”
Polly turned the card over in her hand and handed it back to Raven.
“What’s this about?”
“We understand you’re friends with Shawn Massey.”
The girl’s eyes widened.
“Did you find Shawn? Where is he?”
“That’s what we’re trying to determine. Shawn Massey’s father hired us to find him. May we talk to you about what happened last night?”
Polly poked her head through the doorway and glanced around the neighborhood.
“I guess you can come inside.”
Polly led them into the living room and sat in a beaten recliner with a rip down the side. Raven and Darren took the couch. With the curtains drawn, the gloom poured out of the corners. When thunder rolled outside the window, the teenager turned on the lamp. Raven opened her notepad and clicked her pen.
“When did you last speak with Shawn Massey?”
“A little before eleven o’clock. I dropped him off down the road from his mother’s house. He wouldn’t let me drive to the house.”
“Why not?”
“Shawn was upset. Walking helps him work things out in his head.”
“So he was angry with his mother.”
Polly bit a nail and nodded.
“I offered to stay, so he had a ride home. He wouldn’t let me. When Shawn gets upset, he needs time alone. But after I left, I saw lightning and turned back to find Shawn.”
Raven scribbled a note.
“What time was that?”
“Probably ten or fifteen minutes later.”
“Did you see Shawn when you returned?”
Polly stared at her knees and shook her head.
“I drove back to his mother’s house, even though he’d be angry with me. When I arrived, the lights were off, and the house was open to the storm door.”
“Did you knock?”
Polly’s eyes appeared haunted. She looked away.
“I got a terrible feeling something was wrong. Wherever Shawn was, he wouldn’t have been inside a dark house. So I drove around the neighborhood, looking for him. That’s when the rain started. After a while, it rained so hard I couldn’t see through the windshield.”
“What did you do then?”
“I followed the route he takes to walk home. But when I drove past the park, the riv
er had flooded the bridge. I didn’t know what to do, so I drove home and sent a text to his phone. He never answered.”
“Have you heard from Shawn since?”
“No. The sheriff visited us after midnight, and the police stopped by a few hours ago. They all asked me the same questions. When did I last speak with Shawn? Did I see him after I drove back to pick him up? It’s like he vanished off the face of the earth. The cops think he killed his mother. I’m worried.”
“How did Shawn act last night?”
“Angry, but not out of his mind, if that’s what you’re implying. He wanted to confront his mother. That’s all.”
Darren leaned forward and clasped his hands together.
“Ms. Hart, can you think of anywhere Shawn would go if he was in trouble?”
Hail pattered the siding as Polly stared toward the window.
“I wished he’d come to me. But I haven’t heard from Shawn since I dropped him off.”
“What about friends? Someone he trusts.”
Polly lifted a shoulder.
“Shawn doesn’t have many friends in our class. Most of the people he hangs out with are older. They’re all away at college now.”
Raven tore a blank sheet of paper from her notepad and handed it to Polly.
“Can you make a list of Shawn’s friends?”
“Even if they graduated?”
“Yes.”
Polly wiped a tear off her cheek.
“I’ll do my best.”
“Thank you.”
“But Ms. Hopkins? Please find him. I’m scared.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Saturday, 3:55 p.m.
Lightning flickered through the backyard. Worried about Scout, Naomi peered through the sliding glass door and looked toward the guest house behind Thomas Shepherd’s A-frame. Her daughter was inside the guest house where LeVar lived, researching an investigation for Wolf Lake Consulting. Jack, the dog Thomas rescued from the state park, accompanied Scout. Naomi trusted the gigantic dog to keep Scout safe under normal circumstances. But if a severe storm hit, there wasn’t much the dog could do.
Naomi chewed a nail, struggling over whether to call Scout’s phone and tell her to come home. The wind ripped twigs off the trees as waves pounded the shore. It was too risky for Scout to return. Naomi had waited too long to decide, and now the storm loomed over the horizon.