by James Carol
33
They stopped at a door halfway along the second-floor corridor and Barnes used the emergency key to unlock it. He pushed the door open, then stood aside. Winter went in first and walked over to the bed. It was neatly made up, the pillows plumped, the comforter pulled straight and square. The yellow rubber gloves that Mendoza had made him wear were making his hands sweat and itch.
‘Has Nicole been in today?’
Barnes shook his head. ‘No. I’m not expecting her until lunchtime.’
Winter pulled back the comforter and checked the sheet. It was tight and smooth, not so much as a single crease. ‘This bed hasn’t been slept in. Now, that’s unusual, right? Why would someone pay for a room then not sleep in the bed?’
‘Yeah, that’s unusual,’ Mendoza agreed. She turned to Barnes and gave him a quick smile. ‘Thanks for your help. We can take this from here.’
Barnes paused, then reluctantly left the room, the door clicking shut behind him. A chair had been positioned next to the window. Winter walked over and sat down on it. He was almost the same height as Amelia, so what he was seeing would tally with what she would have seen. From this angle, he could see the cemetery curving gently down into the distance, and he could see Main running from north to south. The chair was far enough from the window to make it difficult for anyone passing by to see him. The only way that would happen was if someone was looking directly at the window, and even then it wouldn’t be easy.
Mendoza had put her rubber gloves back on and was going through the closet. Winter tuned her out, shut his eyes, and started running scenarios in his head. He could imagine Amelia sitting here in the dark, watching the street. She would have seen him walking back from Granville Clarke’s house. She would have seen him pick the padlock on the cemetery gate and disappear into the graveyard shadows. And she would have seen him reappear and walk across the street. She would have heard Barnes letting him into the guesthouse. Then she would have waited until she was sure he would be asleep before breaking into his room.
‘What are you thinking?’ Mendoza asked.
‘I’m thinking that she has the patience of a saint. After breaking into my room she wasn’t in any hurry to escape. Instead, she waited until morning then calmly checked out.’
‘Isn’t that risky?’
‘Yes, but whichever way she’d chosen to play this there would have been a risk involved. If she’d sneaked away in the middle of the night, either you or Barnes might have heard her leave and gone to investigate. That would have looked suspicious. Alternatively, she stays until morning and leaves first thing, but what if I’d woken up and managed to raise the alarm before she could get away?’
‘Or I might have found you earlier than I did. It still seems like a massive risk to me. And for what?’
‘But that’s one of the things that defines her, Mendoza. She’s a risk taker. Look at Omar’s murder. She killed him in cold blood then calmly walked off into the night. There were massive risks involved, but she did it anyway, and the reason she did it is because beating the odds gets her blood pumping. She gets a buzz from it. That said, the risks she takes are calculated ones. They might seem extreme to you and me, but she’s weighed the situation up carefully before acting. And so far, so good. We haven’t caught her yet.’
‘Yet.’
Winter nodded. ‘Right now she’s riding her luck. The problem with that is there’s no such thing as luck. That’s how we’re going to catch her. She’s gotten away with it so far and that’s going to make her overconfident. Eventually she’s going to fall down, and when that happens we’ll be there to catch her.’
‘Let’s hope you’re right.’
Winter nodded towards the closet. ‘Anything?’
‘Not a damn thing. It’s like she was never here.’
‘Her suitcase would have contained all the things she needed for her visit to my room last night. The handcuffs, her disguise. There would also have been some sort of padding to stop any rattles, a large bath towel, something like that. She didn’t need anything else. If Barnes had carried the case upstairs he would have noticed that it was too light.’
Winter stood up and glanced around the room. It looked like a thousand other rooms he’d stayed in. Tidy enough, but completely lacking any sort of personality. The Gideon Bible suddenly registered as an anomaly. Most rooms he’d stayed in had one, but they were usually hidden away in the top drawer of the nightstand. This one was sitting on top of the dresser. He went over, picked it up and flicked through the pages. Something fell out and landed on the carpet. He crouched down to get a closer look. It was a ripped-out page that had been folded into eighths.
‘I’ve got something here,’ he called out.
Mendoza came over and knelt beside him. She picked it up with her gloved hand and unfolded it carefully. Wrapped inside was a clump of hair that had been torn out at the roots. The hair was grey and long. She put the hair into an envelope sealed it, then flattened out the page and placed it on the dresser. Three verses from Exodus 21 had been circled in red.
But if there is serious injury, you are to take life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burn for burn, wound for wound, bruise for bruise.
‘Revenge, Old Testament style,’ Winter suggested.
‘That’s what I’m thinking.’ Mendoza gestured towards the envelope. ‘You think they’re still alive?’
‘I’m guessing that they were alive when that clump of hair was ripped out, but further than that I can’t say.’ Winter fell silent for a moment, pieces of the puzzle tumbling around in his head. ‘Who does the hair belong to? That’s got to be the first question.’
‘Judging by the length and the colour, an older woman.’
‘Except when you factor in question two that answer just looks plain wrong.’
Mendoza raised an eyebrow. ‘Question two?’
‘Who does she want to get revenge on?’
‘Whoever gave her the cigarette burns you mentioned, would be my guess.’
‘And that would be her father. Eugene Price.’ Winter fell silent, thinking things through. ‘They’re wrong,’ he said softly.
‘Who’s wrong?’
‘Everyone. Nelson Price didn’t kill his father. If anyone killed him, it was Amelia.’
Mendoza was nodding. ‘And that “if” brings us back to one of our earlier questions: is Eugene alive or dead?’
‘One thing’s for sure: if the length of those hairs is anything to go by, he didn’t die the night the Reeds were murdered.’
‘Jesus,’ Mendoza whispered. ‘For his sake it might be for the best if he is dead. If he’s still alive, then Amelia has had six years to make him pay for what he did to her. That one doesn’t bear thinking about.’
34
The first thing Winter did when they got outside was light a cigarette. He’d missed his morning hit of caffeine but at least he could get some nicotine into his system. Mendoza was on her cell trying to arrange for someone from the Monroe County Sheriff’s Department to pick up the evidence that she’d collected. Winter could only hear one side of the conversation, but that was enough for him to conclude that this was turning into a logistical nightmare. She hung up and swore at the phone.
‘Problem?’
‘They’re still tied up with this emergency they’ve got going on, so they can’t send anyone over to Hartwood to pick up the envelopes. And we need to get over to the Price place, so we don’t have time to detour via Rochester. They said they might send someone to meet us there. Then again, they might not. It depends on how things pan out.’
‘You’re stressing about nothing, Mendoza. If you’re not careful you’re going to get wrinkles.’
‘This isn’t nothing, Winter. We need to know if that hair came from Eugene Price.’
‘It came from him.’
‘You suspect it came from him, which is a completely different thing. Also we might be able to use the room key to get a positive ID
on Amelia.’
‘It was Amelia. No doubt about it.’
‘No Winter, you suspect it was her. Again, that’s a completely different thing.’
She tapped her phone against her chin, then started thumbing the screen.
‘Who are you calling now.’
‘Hitchin. I want to know what Amelia is driving these days.’
‘Good idea. While you’re at it, see if there are any cars registered to Nelson, Eugene or Linda Price.’
‘Like I haven’t already thought of that.’
‘Just crossing those T’s.’ He took a drag on his cigarette. ‘Tell you what, you make your call and I’ll drive. We want to get to the Price place as soon as possible, right?’
Mendoza made an I-don’t-think-so face and shook her head slowly. ‘Not going to happen. A couple of minutes won’t make any real difference.’
While Mendoza made her call, Winter took out his phone and tried to get hold of Birch. Peterson answered.
‘Hartwood PD. How can I help?’
‘I need to talk to Chief Birch. Tell him it’s Jefferson Winter.’
‘He’s not here yet.’
‘Still at breakfast?’
Peterson didn’t respond.
‘Maybe you can help. We need someone to go over to the Price house and secure it for us. It’s a crime scene.’
‘I don’t know if I can do that.’
‘Sure you can. Just jump into the PD’s beaten up old Crown Victoria and head on out there.’
‘I’ll need to run this by Chief Birch.’
‘Do what you need to do, but make sure you get there sooner rather than later. No one goes in or out of that house until we get there. Understand? If you do happen to see Amelia Price be careful. She’s armed and dangerous.’
Winter hung up then stubbed out his cigarette and got into the BMW. Mendoza was behind the wheel, the engine running.
‘We need to swing by the diner so I can tell Clarke that we’ll meet him later,’ Winter told her.
‘That’s what cell phones were invented for.’
‘I also need coffee.’
‘No, what we need to do is to get over to the Price place.’
Winter grinned. ‘A couple of minutes won’t make any real difference.’
The journey to the diner took them past the Gazette’s office and the police department’s station house. It was another glorious fall day. Mendoza found a parking space and told him to be quick. Winter got out and jogged over to the diner.
He opened the door, then stood in the doorway searching for Clarke. He started at the window seat and worked his way counterclockwise around the room. Like yesterday, everyone turned and stared at him. By the time he’d finished his sweep of the room, everyone had gone back to their own business again.
No sign of Clarke.
He headed across to the counter. Violet broke off from what she was doing and came over. Today she offered him a real smile, which probably had everything to do with the tip he’d left yesterday.
‘I need a coffee to go,’ he said. ‘Also, I’m supposed to be meeting Granville Clarke here. Has he been in yet?’
Violet shook her head and started pouring. ‘Not yet. Sorry, hon.’
‘What time does he usually get here?’
‘Normally he’s an early bird. It’s not unusual for him to be waiting at the door when we open up. That said, he can turn up any time through until about ten. The actual time depends on how well he’s slept the night before.’
Winter pulled out his cell phone and the note that Clarke had given him yesterday. He punched in the Gazette’s number. A dozen rings then it went through to the answer machine. The message was delivered by a woman, the accent local, and Winter would have bet everything he owned that he was listening to the ghost-voice of Clarke’s dead wife. He hung up without leaving a message, then punched in Clarke’s home number. Eight rings before the answering machine kicked in. The voice was the same, the message similar: there was nobody around to take the call, please leave a message after the tone. He hung up.
‘He’s not picking up.’
Violet frowned at Winter and shrugged. ‘Granville’s getting on in years. Maybe he didn’t hear it.’
‘Maybe.’
Violet gave him a worried look. ‘Is everything okay, hon?’
‘I hope so. If you see him could you please ask him to call Jefferson Winter.’
‘Sure, and when you get hold of him, tell him to call me.’
Winter sugared his coffee, paid for it, then hurried back to the BMW. He opened the passenger door, leant across the seat and put the cardboard cup into the holder.
‘What’s up?’ Mendoza asked him.
‘Clarke hasn’t been seen today. I need to head over to the Gazette office and see if he’s there.’
‘No, we need to head on out to the Price place.’
‘It’ll only take a minute.’
‘No, Winter. No more minutes.’
‘Come on Mendoza, you’re a cop. If Amelia’s clever enough to break into my room in the middle of the night, she’s clever enough to work out who we’ve been talking to. You saw what she did to Omar, and he was a damn sight younger and fitter than Clarke.’
Mendoza shook her head then sighed. ‘Okay, go, but be quick.’
Winter slammed the car door shut and jogged along Main to the Gazette office. A light was burning on the second floor and the door was unlocked. Not a good sign. If the lights were on and the door unlocked then Clarke was here, and if that was the case then why the hell hadn’t he answered the phone? He tried to open the door but it was stiff and wouldn’t budge. He banged the sweet spot at the top and tried again. This time it screeched open.
He went inside and turned the lights on. The reception area looked as abandoned as he remembered. The whole place was eerily silent. All Winter could hear was his breathing. The soft drag of each inhalation, the gentle rasp of every exhalation. He could sense his diaphragm pulling down to create a vacuum in his lungs, and he could imagine the air molecules rushing in to fill the void. A sense of unease crowded around him. The feeling was similar to the one he got when he walked into a murder house. The prickling in his scalp, the heavy, acidic swirl in his stomach.
He climbed the stairs to the second floor and stopped outside the door to Clarke’s office. This was the most obvious place for him to keep his notebooks. Winter was convinced that he was going to open the door and find Clarke lying dead on the floor. He took a deep breath and opened the door. There was no sign of Clarke. He stepped inside, glanced around. The blinds were up and the sun was pouring in. The peace lily sat still and silent, glowing in a patch of perfect light.
He left the office and went back downstairs. Instead of going into the reception area, he followed the narrow corridor that led to the records room. He turned a corner and saw a faint glow sneaking from under a door. He reached for the handle, hesitated for a second, then pushed the door open and went inside.
The back wall was lined with bookshelves that held the leather-bound back issues of the Gazette. The older editions were on the bottom shelves. Tall and tatty and timeworn. And thin, because the newspaper had been a broadsheet back then. It had become a tabloid some time during the nineties and, from that point on, the books were fatter and squatter. In the middle of the room was a large table with one of the newer tabloid-sized ledgers sitting open on it.
And lying on the floor beside the table was the lifeless body of Granville Clarke.
35
Winter crouched down and pressed his fingers against Clarke’s neck, searching for a pulse. Nothing. His skin was cold, his face bloodless. Those rheumy blue eyes that had been so alive and full of stories were staring blankly at the ceiling. Winter straightened up and stepped back into the doorway so he could get a different perspective. The scene was peaceful. There were no signs of a struggle. Clarke was lying sprawled out in a way that was natural rather than posed. One second he’d been upright, the next he was dow
n on the ground, dead. Whatever happened, it had happened quickly.
Winter knelt beside the body and lifted the arms one at a time, testing for rigor mortis. There was some stiffness. At a rough guess he’d been dead for six hours. Full rigor mortis occurred after twelve hours and things hadn’t progressed that far yet. It was nine-thirty now, so he’d died sometime around three-thirty this morning. Which was around the time he’d been speaking to Amelia. On the slim chance that he was wrong about this being natural causes, that gave her a potential alibi.
He took out his cell phone and checked the call log. The missed call from Clarke had come in at ten after three. His last conversation had been with a machine and that didn’t seem right. Even though logic dictated that death was the end of everything, Winter wondered if he might be wrong about that. Maybe there was a hereafter, and maybe Clarke was there now, reunited with Jocelyn. Maybe, but Winter wasn’t convinced. When Jim Morrison sang that this is the end, he’d been bang on the money. There were few happy-ever-afters in this world, so what was the chance of getting a happy hereafter?
The sound of Mendoza yelling pulled him from his thoughts. Judging by the choice of words, and the timbre of her voice, she was standing at the bottom of the stairs shouting up to the second floor.
‘What the hell are you doing up there, Winter! Your minute’s up. We need to get going.’
‘I’m in the records room,’ he called back.
Footsteps in the corridor. Cursing and questions. The footsteps stopped in the doorway. So did the cursing and the questions.
‘It’s natural causes, in case you’re wondering,’ he told her. ‘My guess is a heart attack or a stroke.’
Mendoza was looking around the room, taking it all in. ‘You sure about that? There’s no way it could have been Amelia?’
Winter shook his head. ‘Griffin will need to confirm the time of death, but if my estimate’s right then Amelia was with me when this happened. That aside, the sense of drama’s missing. Look what she did to Omar. That wasn’t just a murder, it was a statement. What statement is being made here?’