Autumn Secrets (Seasons Pass Book 4)

by Susan C. Muller

  From his angle atop the roof, he could see a faint trail in the packed dirt. It led from the street, past the apartment building, under the trees, to the door of the broken down shack.

  Noah rounded the corner with caution. Anything, or any one, could be hiding in that shack.

  The building was almost totally hidden from any direction except above. Whoever made that path was up to no good.

  Drug dealers? Quite possibly.

  Illicit lovers? Not likely. Who’d feel romantic amid such filth?

  A kid’s playhouse? That’s why he kept his hand free, but didn’t draw his weapon. He’d rather die himself than shoot a child by accident.

  Or none of the above. The shack could be exactly what it looked like. A decrepit, falling down, unused tool shed. The path probably nothing but his overactive imagination.

  The windows stared back at him, dark and uninviting. His heart did a tap dance against his rib cage when he realized they were covered with blackout curtains. Should he ask for backup?

  Before he left the roof, he’d called Conner with his location, denying he needed help, but leaving the line open for his partner to listen in. One word—shazam—and help would be on its way.

  He remained silent.

  Stepping carefully to avoid any noise, he slipped behind a tree and waited. Nothing stirred inside the cabin for several minutes. Mosquitoes made a feast of his hands and the back of his neck. A bee buzzed past his face and came back for a second look. Gnats swarmed around his ears, making a humming sound. A drop of sweat started at his hairline and rolled down his forehead and into his eye.

  He didn’t move.

  Slowly he pulled his Glock from its holster and chambered a round. The sound might as well have been cannon fire in the hushed air. One step at a time, he eased back onto the path and raised his weapon.

  He held his breath, waiting.

  Five quick steps to the cabin and he flattened himself against the rough wall, between the window and door. A crude latch made from castoff wood had been hammered into the frame, holding the door shut. Noah raised the latch and the door swung open.

  Nothing happened.

  A deep breath and he threw himself around the corner, pointing the Glock inside the cabin. He swung the weapon from side to side, covering every inch of the tiny cabin.

  Empty.

  A crude bed, carefully made with a colorful quilt, stood in one corner. A desk constructed from boards and supported by two broken and mismatched nightstands held books and a hurricane lantern. In the far corner, a three-legged table was held up by the window frame. On it sat a box of granola bars, a bag of chips, three bottles of water—one empty—and a cardboard box with Sunrise Donuts printed in red.

  At least they knew where she worked.

  He holstered the Glock and turned in a circle. “Stand down, partner. I’ve found where she lived, but there’s not much here.”

  The desk chair wobbled on uneven legs, but like the rest of the cabin, was spotless.

  Conner ran a hand over the table then had to grab it before it fell. Clean. How did she do it with no electricity, no running water, no screens on the windows, dirt seeping up though rotting floorboards?

  Noah had been right—there wasn’t much here.

  Her clothes, what there were of them, were neatly folded in a plastic bin. He didn’t see any shoes so she must have been wearing her only pair. An old cigar box, its lid falling off, held letters, birthday cards, and photos.

  The cards were in Spanish—someone would have to translate—but Conner knew enough of the language to recognize Pappasito, and Tio Juan. He also saw the letters were old and the photos curling on the edges.

  The pictures started with a toddler sitting on her mother’s knee with her father standing behind. Soon, the mother disappeared and the photos were of the girl and her father. Occasionally, an older man—Tio Juan?—appeared. In the last photo, the girl was alone, standing beside a small duffel bag and clutching a cigar box.

  At least they had a first name: Constanza.

  A lump formed in Conner’s chest that threatened to stop air from passing into his lungs. What had she lived through that brought her to this point? Living in a hovel, eating scraps, doing without basic services?

  Yet she smiled at her neighbors, played kickball with a kid, worked two jobs, and went to school.

  Only to be taken by a scumbag who called himself the Sanitizer and claimed it was his destiny to ‘clean up the neighborhood.’

  The neighborhood needed cleaning up alright, but not from girls like Constanza. Or any of the other victims, no matter their life choices.

  He and Noah and a team of forensic techs went over the cabin, but what was the use? She wasn’t taken here. Maybe they would find her family to give them the news. But any useful evidence would come from other sources.

  Lefty Bob was scouring the area, armed with drawings of the other victims, hoping to find someone who recognized them, but Conner didn’t hold out much hope this was the killer’s sole hunting grounds.

  Only a couple of the bodies were Hispanic. Some were black, some white, one Asian. Youth, a slim frame, long hair, and vulnerability were their only commonalities. He’d taken a moment to pray for each one, but perhaps he should include those they left behind.

  Those who refused to move and left a light on all night in hopes their little girl would return home.

  He turned to walk outside and the table slipped off its precarious perch and crashed to the floor. Noah placed his hand on his shoulder. His voice sounded like it was filtered through gravel. “Let’s head back to the office. There’s nothing more we can do here.”

  Usually, it was his job to soothe Noah. After all, he had Jeannie and Betsy waiting at home. Noah went home to a dog. But sometimes it worked the other way around.

  Conner took one last look at the tiny cabin that had held so much hope and promise for one young girl. “Right behind you, partner.”

  “Anyone get a copy of a surveillance video from that fucking bank?” Noah tried to keep his voice calm, but the minute he opened his mouth, all the anger and frustration of the day poured out.

  Jansen stepped out of his office and scowled. He sent a watch-your-language glare Noah’s way, but didn’t comment. “The video came in ten minutes ago, but first I’ve got a couple of other things we need to discuss.”

  Noah and Conner headed for the Lieu’s office. It had to be something important to trump the video.

  Jansen parked one hip on the corner of his desk. This wasn’t going to be good.

  “I got a call a few minutes ago from the editor of the Houston Chronicle. He didn’t appreciate our inquiries into his reporter.” Jansen held up a hand. “Protecting his version of freedom of speech is part of his job description. I kept my mouth shut.” He glanced at Noah as if he should try that sometime. “And after five minutes he wound down. The gist of his call was that R.J. Perry couldn’t have killed our latest victim. He was covering a story in Austin. Spent Tuesday and Wednesday nights there. Got back in time to file his story late Thursday.”

  “Son-of-a-bitch. That doesn’t cover him for the rest of the victims. The last one could be a copycat.” Noah’s breath was as heavy as if he’d run up a flight of stairs.

  Conner sagged into a chair like a rag doll with the stuffing pulled out. “That’s possible, and we have to keep it in mind, but we have to widen our search, too.”

  The Lieu straightened and stepped around the desk to his ergo-dynamic chair. “Noah, you got one other call while you were out. Some guy named Assad wants you to come over tonight and pick up a cashier’s check form.”

  At last. Although, the video was more important. The best they could hope for on the form was fingerprints and that was unlikely.

  He and Conner settled into the video room and set up the recording.

  Half an hour later, Conner stretched and rubbed his back. “If Jeannie wants to go to a movie Saturday night, I might not be up to it.”

&nbs
p; What the fuck? Was his partner still planning to go out Saturday night? With this case finally coming together? Noah fought the urge to roll his eyes. Why the hell not? There would always be a case and every one was important. What were the odds they’d have a lead they had to follow that time of night?

  “What time do you want me to come over?”

  The relief in Conner’s eyes was so strong Noah moved back in case his partner tried to hug him. “You haven’t changed your mind?”

  “No, I said I’d be there and I will. Betsy doesn’t know what’s in store for her. I’m a master babysitter.”

  The video started and they both leaned forward, studying every frame. The ATM was situated in the bank foyer with glass doors between it and the street. The camera angle caught only a portion of the street, and that was obstructed by writing on the bank doors.

  One minute before the white van appeared on the bodega owner’s video, it passed the bank heading that direction.

  Driving past the bodega, turning around and coming by on the other side of the street, and passing the bank should have taken three minutes. Four tops. The van didn’t appear for fifteen minutes.

  Constanza never did. And she had to if she wanted to catch the bus.

  Noah pushed back his chair. There it was, in grainy black and white. She was abducted between the bodega and the bank. A distance of two blocks. And not one store or house or apartment in that area.

  He pulled out his cell, thumbed in the number for Crime Scene, and directed them to the correct block. “Look for anything out of place. She may have dropped her backpack, or stepped out of her shoes. Check the weeds, she may have tried to run.”

  Crime Scene knew what they were doing. They didn’t need him to tell them. But he couldn’t help himself.

  Conner switched off the video. “Do you think we should go out there?”

  Should they? “No. They’ll do better without us getting in their way. Why don’t you go home? I’m going to drive out to Katy and pick up Assad’s paperwork. See if his wife got her money’s worth on the dye job. Or if he’s lost any more body parts since we last saw him. If the techies find anything of interest, I’ll meet them back at the lab and go over it.”

  They wouldn’t find anything. This guy was too good. He’d had plenty of practice.

  Conner was shutting down his computer when Lt. Jansen motioned him to his office.

  “You still interested in that bus route?”

  “The one our vic was hurrying to catch?” They had her name and where she lived. Did they need more? Yes, absolutely. They needed everything about her. Especially her last name and next of kin.

  “According to Houston Metro, if she wanted to get to the nearest campus of HCC, that’s not the bus she’d take.”

  Whoa. Was there something about her they were missing?

  Jansen handed him a note with barely legible scribbling. “They do teach classes other places than their main campuses. A lot of their GED classes and ESL classes are held in school cafeterias. There’s a GED class on Tuesdays and Thursdays from seven-thirty to eight-thirty at an elementary school four blocks from the bus stop.”

  What the heck. It was only a few blocks out of the way. If he didn’t go by tonight, they might not get the information before the next class on Tuesday.

  He parked in front of the school at 7:15, took a minute to call Jeannie to let her know where he was, then headed inside.

  His footsteps echoed in the empty hallway. Classroom doors were open and miniature desks waited to be filled. His heart gave a tug. He had occasionally stopped by the school where Jeannie taught art to pint-sized Van Goghs, but this was different.

  In only five years he was expected to send Betsy off for an entire day to a place where she would be surrounded by strangers? Then what? She’d learn to drive? Go out with boys?

  Oh, no. Not happening. Jeannie was smart. She could homeschool. When the time came, Betsy could probably take college classes online.

  There were bad people out in this world. He was Betsy’s father. It was his job to keep her safe. All these cute little signs and posters didn’t fool him. They were designed to make the parents feel safe, not the kids.

  That was the problem with being a police officer. You knew too much. Had seen things you couldn’t forget.

  He rounded a corner and found the cafeteria. Long tables with attached benches filled the room. A punk-looking kid with sleeves of tattoos and nickel-sized gauges in his ear lobes sat straddling one of the benches and chewed gum like he was forcing it into submission.

  Two pregnant teenagers sat at another table and gossiped. Another girl, no more than fifteen years old, followed her swollen belly into the room and joined the other pregnant girls. “I’m sorry, Mr. McNally. My babysitter flaked out on me and I had to call my baby daddy, then listen to him bitch at me cuz he was gonna miss the football game.”

  Yep, he was not letting Betsy out of his sight.

  The teacher—Conner refused to think of him as a professor—dropped a backpack on a table with a thunk that everyone ignored.

  A gray-haired retiree followed a mechanic type into the room. An obviously high toker stumbled in after them. Each took separate tables.

  Conner approached the teacher with Constanza’s photo. The morgue had sent him a picture taken from the side that hid most of her injuries. “Mr. McNally?”

  “Take a seat. You’ve already missed the first three classes. You’ll have a hard time catching up.”

  “I’m Detective Crawford. I’m looking for one of your students.”

  The man glanced up for the first time. “Here they are. Take whichever one you want.”

  Conner held out his phone with the photo. “This is the woman I’m looking for. Do you know her?”

  “Connie? Sure. She’s not here yet. She’ll run in thirty seconds after class starts. Not sure why she can’t manage her time better.”

  Because she works two jobs and has to ride the bus you jerk.

  “Can you tell me anything about her?”

  “She keeps to herself but knows the answers if you press her.”

  “Does she have any friends? Has anyone ever bothered her?”

  “Not that she’s ever told me about.”

  Of course not. You’re so friendly, why would anyone confide in you?

  “Do you know her full name and address? Next of kin?”

  McNally sighed and closed his eyes. “It’s here in these papers somewhere but it’ll take me a few minutes to dig it out. Do you need it tonight? I don’t like to run late.”

  “You look for the information. I’ll ask these students if they know anything about her.” Conner glanced around the room. His opinion of the motley group of students rose considerably. They came. They put up with this teacher. They took time out of their lives to try to better themselves.

  “Does anybody know Constanza? Connie?”

  “She’s not here yet,” one of the pregnant women answered. Conner wasn’t sure which one.

  “I know. I’m trying to get any information you have about her.”

  “Why?” The mechanic took up a defensive posture.

  To tell or not to tell? No one in this room would open up if they thought she was in trouble. “Constanza was murdered yesterday. I’m trying to find her killer and knowing about her habits might help.”

  A shocked silence filled the room before some of the women started crying.

  “She was kind of private, but she’d always stay late and help you with a problem if you didn’t understand it.” All eyes shot glares at Mr. McNally.

  Ten minutes later, Conner knew how nice she was, but not much else. McNally gave him a sheet of paper with her registration information and he left.

  He needed to get home and tell Jeannie about his new plan for Betsy’s future. It might be a hard sell if the baby had been crying all evening.

  Mrs. Assad’s hair was a flat, matte black, so dark it absorbed all light, giving off no shine, or feeling of lif
e. She must have sat through three applications of dye to reach a color that absolute.

  Whatever she paid for her trip to the beauty salon, it was too much.

  The woman herself was almost as severe as her hairdo. No smile of greeting sneaked through lips pressed so tightly together they revealed only a thin line.

  She put on a show of protecting her semi-invalid spouse, chastising Noah. “You had no right to demand my husband search for these records. He is not able to get up and down easily. And the dust is not good for his lungs. We had to ask our son to drive across town—bringing his fiancée after they had both worked all day—climb up a ladder, and bring down all these boxes.”

  Yet she made no move to help her husband as he fumbled for his crutches, leaning against the wall two feet from his chair.

  Noah didn’t remember demanding anything. He’d asked, rather politely, if it was possible to see the copies. And by all these boxes, did she mean both of them?

  Assad hobbled across the room and handed Noah a yellowed slip of paper encased in a plastic baggie. “I remembered what you told me and avoided touching anything. I used a pair of tweezers to pull it out and placed it in here for protection.”

  The man’s face lit up, waiting for praise. He probably never heard any at home.

  “Wonderful. You have no idea how helpful this will be.” This must be his day for letters encased in baggies. He spread the plastic on a coffee table and tried to read the faded writing.

  This was definitely the correct slip. The date was right and it was made out to Trusty Property Management from Medina Properties. The problem was the signature, an illegible line of squiggles.

  Noah moved the baggie closer to the light. Nope, that didn’t help.

  He glanced up at Assad, who waited anxiously for a pronouncement of Eureka! Around the man’s neck hung a pair of dollar-store cheaters on a cheap chain.

  “May I borrow your glasses for a moment? This handwriting is difficult to read.” Mrs. Assad hurrumphed, but her husband balanced on his one foot and pulled the chain over his head.