Cold Death

by Mary Stone

  Ellie shook her head. Damned if they didn’t remind her of her own mother.

  Over the years, Helen Kline had uttered many of those same things about Ellie. About her inner strength and resilience. Heck, her mom probably still bragged about Ellie like that when her daughter wasn’t around to groan and roll her eyes.

  In the parking lot, a couple passed her, heading toward the hospital. The man’s brown skin and hazel eyes made Ellie’s mind flash to Fortis’s sightless eyes and pale skin, and she stumbled her next step while she prayed.

  She hoped, for the little girl’s sake, that Katarina wasn’t prone to the typical mom hyperbole, inflating their kid’s strengths to make them seem more impressive than they actually were. Because Bethany would need to draw upon a deep well of inner strength if she hoped to survive Kingsley long enough for the police to find her.

  With Shane at her side, she ducked her head and hurried forward, anxiety a slow, steady drip down her spine. Soon. They had to find Kingsley soon, to possess a remote chance at preventing him from breaking yet another child.

  A battered face beneath a shock of short, dark hair materialized behind Ellie’s eyes, and pressure lodged in her chest. The woman pitted against her all those years ago in Kingsley’s Die, Bitch! Die game hadn’t been so lucky.

  Ellie would move heaven and earth to ensure that Bethany was.

  The ringing in her pocket sliced through the memories of past traumas. Ellie stopped a few feet from the Explorer to dig her phone out and caught Jillian’s number flashing on the screen. “Hello?”

  “Hey, it’s me. That podcaster from Far Ridge Boy’s Academy emailed back. He says he’s willing to meet, but he’s not local. He lives in Savannah.”

  Ellie started to groan but stopped when an idea popped into her head. “I have a contact there. Maybe she can help.”

  “A friend?”

  Was friend the correct word to characterize her relationship with Charli Cross, the petite Savannah detective whose prim demeanor hid a cunning, possibly devious mind? Probably not, but now wasn’t the time to quibble over semantics. “Sure. Hey, don’t wait on me for dinner tonight. I’ll be working late.”

  “Let me guess, a last-minute work trip to Savannah just came up? No worries, I’ll plan a dinner date with my furry friend tonight. She’s been complaining about our lack of couple time lately.”

  Ellie smiled at Jillian’s reference to her goofy Labrador. “Good luck with that.”

  “You’re just jealous because Sam has better table manners than you.”

  “Whatever you do, don’t tell my mom you said that. She’ll start to wonder what I was doing during all those etiquette classes she forced me to take growing up.”

  Jillian snickered. “I’m not even going to ask.” When she spoke again, her voice was soft. “But all joking aside, please, be careful.”

  “I will.”

  Ellie tapped her foot, waiting on a truck to roll by before stepping onto the crosswalk that led to the parking lot. Rows and rows of cars lined up along the asphalt, with the Explorer parked all the way in the back.

  She nodded at the middle-aged couple who hurried past and avoided glancing left at the parking garage that towered five levels up. It would have been a shorter walk to park inside the looming structure, but when Shane had signaled to enter it earlier, she’d panicked and barked at him to use the lot.

  The visions of Fortis’s slumped, motionless body threatened to swamp her again, but she shook them off and dialed Charli Cross’s number. Forward, not back. That was the only way to push through this.

  The Savannah detective answered on the second ring.

  “Detective Cross speaking.”

  “Hi, Detective Cross, it’s Ellie Kline from the Charleston PD. I’m headed to your neck of the woods soon to interview a witness, and I was wondering if you might have any information on him already that you could share.”

  “It’s Charli, and sure. Give me a name, and I’ll tell you if it rings a bell.”

  “He’s a true-crime podcaster, goes by Hank Crawford. First name Nickolas.”

  A long pause followed, and the hesitation caused Ellie’s skin to buzz. Charli Cross was nothing if not direct, so the detective’s uncertainty told Ellie that Crawford’s name wasn’t new.

  Charli confirmed Ellie’s conclusion a moment later. “Yeah, I know him. Mr. Crawford isn’t especially popular around these parts. His podcast leans pretty hard into victims’ rights, which means he can be a real thorn in our side when it comes to pushing for more resources and effort on cases with no leads.”

  Ellie frowned. “That doesn’t necessarily sound like a bad thing. Cold case victims deserve as much effort as anyone else.”

  “No argument from me there, but it’s more the way Crawford goes about pushing for those rights that ruffles feathers. He considers himself to be an investigative journalist, and I think his past traumas and enthusiasm can sometimes get the best of him.”

  “So, what you’re saying is, he’s another crackpot turned armchair sleuth who sticks his nose where it doesn’t belong and gets in the way of investigations?”

  “A succinct yet accurate assessment, yes.”

  Laughing at Charli’s droll delivery, Ellie stopped next to the Explorer. “Thanks. I think. Anyway, it’s looking like Crawford might have some information on Kingsley, so annoying or not, I need to have a sit down with him.”

  “Mind if I join you?”

  Ellie lifted her eyebrows at her bodyguard, who nodded and opened the passenger door. “Please do. When it comes to Kingsley, two heads are definitely better than one. See you there in an hour and a half or so?”

  “Yup.”

  Charli hung up before saying goodbye, a fact that somehow didn’t surprise her.

  Shane walked around the SUV and settled his burly body behind the wheel. “I take it we’re headed to Savannah?”

  “You take it right.”

  14

  On the street leading into the trailer park, Southern live oaks reached across the road with gnarled branches, the Spanish moss dripping down and whispering over the car like phantom fingers. Combined with the dreary gray sky overhead, the overall effect was eerie. Almost like they were driving straight onto the set of a horror movie.

  Not the most auspicious start to this excursion. “Let me guess, this is the part where you tell me the trailer park was built on ancient burial grounds full of angry spirits.”

  Charli Cross didn’t take her eyes off the road. “Believe it or not, this trailer park hasn’t had much in the way of crime, apart from a few drug busts and domestics. They rank lower than average on crime statistics here, despite the fact that the median income is thirty percent below average for the area.”

  Ellie raised a brow. “I’m impressed. Did you know those stats off the top of your head, or did you look them up after I called?”

  “We’re detectives. Shouldn’t we know the numbers that are relevant to our jobs?”

  The matter-of-fact tone convinced Ellie that the detective wasn’t messing with her. She settled deeper into the passenger seat, considering. “I don’t know. Sometimes, I think numbers can get in the way.”

  Charli shrugged, clearly not persuaded, and silence settled in as they crawled down the wide street, passing rows of yellow and white trailers squatting behind tidy patches of artificial turf or rock gardens. Little bits of personality were on display out front, ranging from American flags, colorful flowerpots full of green plants or blooms, birdbaths, and little concrete statues, pinwheels, and in one case, a parade of pink metal flamingos.

  The car hugged the right turn, making room for a bald man pushing a walker with two tennis balls on the front and a gray-haired woman leading a small white dog on a pink leash. The man lifted a trembling hand to wave before continuing down the street.

  They rolled to a stop in front of a trailer that wasn’t quite as festive as its neighbors. An oversized gray satellite dish shadowed a dismal square of brown rocks in l
ieu of grass or a flower bed and two sun-bleached plastic chairs.

  Charli shifted into park, pushed on the emergency brake even though the street was flat as a pancake, and tucked the keys into her pocket before opening the driver’s side door. “This is it.”

  Ellie scrambled out of the passenger seat and stepped over to the narrow path that led to the tiny porch area just as Shane pulled the Explorer up behind them. As she waited for Charli’s short legs to round the front of the car and join her, the trailer door swung open, and a man appeared.

  Hank Crawford was skinny, dressed in a gray sweatshirt and navy sweatpants faded in the knees, with hair that thinned to a prominent bald spot on top and a scraggly, ill-kempt beard. The feature that jumped out at Ellie, though, was the man’s eyes. The dark shadows beneath them dominated his entire face like round, twin bruises.

  He popped a black cigarette between his teeth and waved them over. “Come on in. We’ll be more comfortable inside.”

  Until Hank Crawford opened his mouth and that rich, melodic baritone emerged, Ellie hadn’t realized she’d been expecting a raspy, defeated voice to match his worn-out appearance. Though, duh, the discrepancy made perfect sense. He was a podcaster. Of course he gave good voice.

  Crawford’s gaze followed Ellie as she trailed behind Charli up the walkway, and something in those dark eyes unsettled her, giving her the feeling that Crawford saw far too much.

  Charli introduced herself first. When Ellie’s turn came, Crawford brushed the introduction off. “I know who you are. You’ve been on my radar ever since your name was tied to Kingsley in the papers.”

  No, that wasn’t creepy at all, finding out a stranger had been tracking your life via the media for years. Ellie’s polite smile froze, and the moment she turned away, her mouth reshaped itself into a grimace.

  Inside, the trailer held a distinct odor, like a combination of cigarette smoke and old Chinese takeout. A scan of the interior confirmed Ellie’s suspicions. White cartons and pizza boxes mixed with empty plates and glasses in the compact kitchen area. An ashtray that was overdue for dumping sat on top of the tiny, four-seat dining table. More half-empty cups were scattered along the surface of an ancient coffee table, along with several books. Half the couch was covered in discarded sweatshirts and a pair of striped socks.

  “This way.” Crawford walked past the living area and into a narrow hallway.

  Charli glanced around at the mess before following, Ellie on her heels. They passed a small bedroom that looked like a clothes bomb had been detonated inside before ending up in a larger space at the end of the hall.

  Ellie crossed the threshold and stopped short. Crawford had transformed the master bedroom into an office space, but more surprising than that was the area’s tidiness. Two walls were covered from almost ceiling to floor in neatly arranged rows of photographs, newspaper and article clippings, and handwritten notes on cards or post-its. All that was lacking were red lines and scribbled arrows leading to circled photos with question marks beside them, and the wall could double as the secret lair of a conspiracy theorist searching for the Zodiac killer.

  Or an obsessive detective hunting down a sadistic psychiatrist.

  A large L-shaped desk took up much of the third and fourth walls. From the array of sound equipment, professional microphones, and headsets organized on top, the area served as Crawford’s miniature recording studio for his podcast.

  Puffing out a cloud of smoke, Crawford sank onto the rolling chair behind the desk, kicking his feet out in front of him while gesturing at two plastic chairs that matched the ones on the patio. “Go ahead and sit if you’d like. I brought those inside for you.”

  “Thank you.” Charli brushed a speck from the chair before perching on the edge while Ellie settled into the other one without checking.

  “So, what brings two detectives out to my humble studio?”

  Charli shrugged. “It’s Detective Kline’s case. I’m just along for the ride.”

  Crawford huffed as if to say yeah right before turning his shrewd gaze on Ellie. “And how can I help you?”

  Ellie frowned at the tense vibes. Maybe letting Charli tag along had been a mistake, but it was too late to worry about that now. “I’m guessing it will come as no surprise to you that I’m investigating Kingsley’s crimes—”

  “When you say crimes, I’m assuming you’re talking about the ones involving the three boys from the Academy?”

  Ellie’s frown deepened. “What three boys?”

  Crawford made an impatient noise. “The boys who died. Isn’t that why you tracked me down?”

  Confused, Ellie shook her head. “I’m sorry, I think our wires are getting crossed somehow. Which academy are you talking about? The one Kingsley attended in Europe? If so, I’m afraid I don’t know anything about crimes committed against three boys there.”

  Crawford finished puffing on his cigarette, exhaled smoke, and laughed. “Come on, I thought you were smarter than that. One of the reasons Kingsley blends in so well no matter where he goes is because he grew up all over. He might have ended up in a fancy school in Europe, but his life started out at public school in a Podunk, middle-of-nowhere America. It wasn’t until his mother married rich that he was packed off to Far Ridge, and after everything went down with those boys, Europe.”

  Heart racing, Ellie leaned forward. “Are you saying that Kingsley attended Far Ridge Academy and played a role in the deaths of those three boys?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  “Hold up.” She lifted a hand as the pieces clicked together. Three mysterious student deaths at a school linked to Kingsley? She could have kicked herself for not suspecting. If Kingsley was involved, though, his family must have paid off a lot of people and pulled an entire puppet show’s worth of strings to keep it under wraps. In all of Ellie’s time investigating, she’d never gotten a whiff of young Kingsley being suspected of anything more than a few tardies.

  This wasn’t the first time boarding schools had come up as Kingsley-related cases, though. Over the past year, one of the missing children she’d investigated had ended up at a special academy away from home. Poor William.

  The Warrens had wanted the best for their son, the type of care for a kid who struggled with multiple spectrum-related issues that extended beyond the local public school’s capabilities. To his parents, the special boarding school had sounded like a godsend, so they’d packed William up and sent him off, praying for the best.

  The hopeful couple never set eyes on their son again, because instead of a boarding school, William had been sold into one of Kingsley’s child trafficking rings.

  Crime seemed to always circle back to Lawrence Kingsley.

  “Okay, let’s back up and start from the beginning. What can you tell me about Far Ridge, particularly Letitia and Walter Wiggins?”

  Crawford’s expression turned broody. He sucked on the cigarette while he stared off into space, slowly rotating the chair back and forth with one foot. “The things I could tell you about the Wiggins would curl your hair.”

  “Her hair’s already curly.”

  Crawford’s eyes narrowed on Charli while Ellie kicked her chair and shot a warning look. The detective met both with a blank face and innocent shrug.

  Torn between laughter and annoyance, Ellie tensed and prepared to jump in as referee if necessary. Luckily, Crawford chose to ignore Charli’s ill-timed quip. “I can say with absolute certainty that neither Letitia nor Walter Wiggins belonged anywhere near children. I shudder to think how much cumulative damage they inflicted onto young, impressionable psyches over the years, mine included. Those three boys never should have died.”

  He stubbed out the cigarette in an empty ashtray, then pulled a new one from the pack in his sweatshirt pocket. The lighter sparked, and the new cigarette glowed red at the tip. “Poor Walter Wiggins ended up as the fall boy for everything.”

  Ellie puzzled over the phrasing. “But wasn’t he responsible? I read
through the case, and it seemed pretty clear that Walter Wiggins abused those three boys and left them outside in the middle of winter to die.”

  Crawford’s laugh turned into a hacking cough that wracked his emaciated body. When he caught his breath, he waved the cigarette with a grimace. “I know, I know. One of the downsides of self-medicating with nicotine. Hang on a sec. It’s getting a little stuffy in here.”

  He set the lit cigarette in the ashtray and tugged the sweatshirt over his head. The t-shirt beneath rode up with it, exposing such sharp, bony ribs that even Charli flinched. After folding the sweatshirt and setting it on the floor, Crawford tugged his t-shirt down and grabbed the cigarette.

  “Back to Walter Wiggins’s culpability in those deaths. The man was definitely no angel, but in this particular case, he got railroaded. That entire damned trial was a lesson in how privilege and wealth protects people from facing consequences for even the most heinous crimes.”

  It was eerie how closely Crawford’s comment about privilege echoed Katarina’s from earlier. Ellie shoved the distraction aside. Later. “What do you mean?”

  This time, the hand that lifted the cigarette shook a little. “One time, I was called into Headmistress Letitia’s office to be—”

  Ellie held up a hand. “Headmistress? Isn’t she the headmaster’s wife?”

  Crawford rolled his eyes. “She insisted we call her headmistress, the bitch. But anyway, she reprimanded me for putting on too much weight.”

  Ellie recoiled. “What? That’s terrible.”

  The podcaster nodded. “I know, we’ve hopefully left those days behind, but back in those days and at a private institution, that bitch had carte blanche to inflict her sadistic punishments.”

  He settled back in the chair, his gaze distant. “First, she lectured me about the dangers of sneaking candy at night, then shoved me in the Blue Room.”