“Sheesh,” I said. “Nasty out there.”
“I like storms.”
“Yeah, me too actually. Good day for a book by the fire.” Or to curl up on the couch with Milo. “But,” I added. “Not for Batgirl and Robin.”
“Breakfast?” he asked after a moment.
“I’ll just have some cereal.”
“I like to cook, Sam. You know that.”
“And I like cereal. Go ahead if you want, but I haven’t had my Wheaties in days. My cholesterol’s probably about a thousand by now.”
He laughed. “I don’t suppose you want a smoothie.”
I made a face. “I want Wheaties.”
“Fair enough.”
We went into the kitchen, made our breakfasts and sat comfortably side by side eating. We were like an old married couple, except for the part about no sex. I was starting to think I might like to add that feature. (“Focus Sam,” said Dad.). Right.
When the kitchen was clean and Pepper’d been given his kibbles and fresh water, we gathered up our computers and books and I found one of Dad’s raincoats for Milo to wear. Then we ran out, leaning into the driving rain. We climbed into Milo’s truck and headed for town.
We swung into the parking lot of the Mayflower Society House and library about fifteen minutes later. The main house was a grand white building with a columned front porch, lots of tiny-paned windows and black shutters. In the summer, the gardens around the house were spectacular. Rocking chairs were scattered across the veranda, but on a cold, stormy October day, the invisible hand of the wind was all that moved them. Eerie. We drove past the main building to the parking area in back. A lone car sat next to the library.
On the left, the yellow crime scene tape that enclosed the tree where Carolyn Bishop was hanged now lay tangled in puddles on the pavement. A single patrolman in rain gear huddled nearby. Milo and I stared silently at the huge tree for a few seconds. The images we’d seen of Bishop’s body hanging there were imprinted in our minds. The wind howled, lifting dead leaves into the air.
Finally, Milo turned to me. “Ready?”
I nodded. We got out and jogged around puddles to the entrance.
The Mayflower Society library was in a small, one-story building with greying cedar shingles and white trim. Dark green shutters framed the windows and a long handicap ramp angled up to the doors. I guessed a lot of older people wanted to find out if they were descended from the Pilgrims. Younger people didn’t seem to care much about such things. Until now, I’d never given it a second thought.
We took our raincoats off between the double doors, shook the rain onto the floor and hung them on hooks. Inside, a small sign on the desk requested a five dollar user’s fee. The log book lay right in front of us. Behind the desk, a small salt and pepper-haired woman was reading a text and taking notes. She had reading glasses perched on the tip of her nose; she looked up at us and smiled.
“Aren’t you the determined genealogists,” she said. “I didn’t expect to see a soul today. Please sign in right there,” she added.
After we’d signed in and Milo gave her five dollars, she said, “Now, is there something I can help you find?”
“Actually, Ms…,” Milo began. I was learning to let him do the talking with women. They were generally much more accommodating for him; when I tried to be our spokesperson, they just got irritated.
“Meredith Bradley,” she said. “I’m the Assistant Historian General for the Mayflower Society.”
“That sounds impressive.”
“Oh, not really.” She blushed. “But I enjoy it.”
“Well, Ms. Bradley, could we start out by looking through this?” Milo held up the log book.
She looked puzzled. “You want to look at the log book?” A second or two later she frowned. “You’re after the reward. For the Pilgrim Slayer.”
“Oh no, nothing like that,” Milo said smoothly. “We’re interested in talking with genealogists. See, I’m writing a book of interesting family stories that amateur genealogists have uncovered. I want to get in touch with some of your visitors and see if they’ll agree to an interview. I just need a few names of people who don’t live too far away.”
She looked uncertain. Go along with the nice looking man or follow protocol? My money was on the nice looking man.
“Do you have any interesting family stories you’ve uncovered?” Milo asked. “You must have traced your roots, considering…”
She giggled. “I have indeed done my family tree, but unfortunately my family’s only been here for a few generations. Nothing very interesting at all.”
“Oh, I’m sure that’s not true,” said Milo. “But if I could just look through the log…?”
Finally she said, “I guess so. Let me know if I can help with anything else.” She smiled broadly at Milo.
Milo carried the log book over to a long wooden table. I sat down beside him and pulled my laptop out of my backpack.
“You’re pretty good at this lying business,” I whispered with a smile.
Milo frowned. I looked at him, eyebrows raised, but he just shook his head.
Flushing, I grabbed the log book and got to work.
For the next hour we reviewed the names of visitors to the library and compared them with all of the other names we’d gathered, including the members of Charles Smit’s church.
Finally, I leaned back. With only one exception, there weren’t any names that we recognized or that were listed as members of the Sight Ministries congregation.
“Well, Liz Smit comes here a lot,” I said.
“Yeah, but considering her job…”
“I know Milo. I know.” I thought for a few minutes. “But really, she’s an administrator. Why does she need to come here so often?”
“They probably do special projects or exhibits. There’s a research room at Plimoth Plantation too. Maybe they cooperate on stuff. Share resources,” said Milo.
“Right.”
I was disappointed. I’d been so sure we’d find a link between the church and visitors to the library.
“Some of the people only gave a first initial,” I said finally. “I’m going to make a quick list of them, and when they came.”
Milo shrugged. “Can’t hurt.”
Outside the wind was still strong and the rain showed no sign of easing. Milo wandered around the book-filled room, looking at titles and occasionally pulling one off the shelf for a closer look. The phone rang and Ms. Bradley answered.
“General Society of Mayflower Descendants Library. This is Meredith, may I help you?”
“Hi, honey.”
“No, probably not today—”
“I know but—”
“Sorry, but I can’t. I’m the only—”
“Zeke! I said no, I’ll call you later.”
The hair rose on the back of my neck. I looked at Milo. He nodded at me and strolled toward the desk.
“Your son?” he said.
She looked up at Milo. “Yes.”
“I hope he’s not sick? I mean, shouldn’t he be in school?”
“Oh no, he’s out of school.”
“You don’t look old enough to have a kid out of school,” he said and winked.
She giggled. I pretended to be busily typing; I’d already finished my list.
“Well, I do. He wanted to come down; he hangs out with me here some days. But I have the car and I’m the only one here now.”
Milo laughed. “Tell him to do the laundry and clean the house if he’s bored.”
“Believe it or not, he probably already did,” she said and chuckled. “He’s very particular.”
“Oh. Well, you must have done something right,” Milo added with a smile. He gave her the look for a few seconds. She giggled. Again. Frumpy librarians should not giggle.
Finally, Milo walked back over to me. “You almost done, Sam?”
“Yep.” I packed up my laptop and we put our coats on. I placed the visitors log book back on Meredith Br
adley’s desk. “Thanks again,” I said, and we grabbed our coats and rushed out into the rain. I had my phone out dialing Dennis before we got to the truck.
Chapter 30
“Got it!” I said.
Milo was pacing back and forth in front of the fire. He stopped and his gaze found mine.
“I found it in their newsletter. She took the position in April. Moved here from Vermont. Now, to the Vermont DMV…”
Dennis still hadn’t called me back, but I was flying high on adrenaline.
“It’s him, Milo.”
“Maybe…”
“Come on. Nobody has the name Zeke. Yet we found it in Anna Fuller’s calendar, in Reggie Cummins’ planner, and at the Mayflower Society library? His mother works there? Way too much coincidence.”
My fingers were flying as I worked my way through the layers of the Vermont Department of Motor Vehicle database.
“Plus, Ezekiel’s the name of a book in the Bible. Maybe Meredith and Zeke go to Smit’s church. Maybe the membership just hasn’t been updated recently. Or maybe they had their own whack-job church up in Vermont. It still works.”
I paused as my search came up empty.
“Okay, no Ezekiel Bradleys…And no plain Zekes either. What else could Zeke be short for? Maybe it’s a middle name…”
I searched for middle initials ‘Z’. Quite a few came up, but full middle names weren’t given. I hit ‘print’ and then searched for Meredith. “I’ll just compare addresses,” I mumbled to myself. “He still lives with his mother; he’s probably under thirty.”
A few minutes later I found Meredith Bradley’s Vermont driver’s license. The address didn’t match that of any of the ‘Z’ middle names I’d printed, so I switched over to the Massachusetts DMV.
“If she got a new license like she’s supposed to…She’s a librarian, so she’s anal...” I kept typing and scanning the screen.
“She’s not a librarian, she’s a historian.”
“That might be her title, but did you see a frumpy, middle-aged woman manning the desk in a room full of books? Cuz that’s what I saw.”
“Ah yes, your theory of types,” Milo said.
I looked up at him. “What? Don’t you think it’s him?”
“Maybe, Sam. I’m just saying, we don’t really have much yet. Just a bunch of coincidences.”
“All the detectives, in all the books I read, don’t believe in coincidences. Doesn’t happen. That’s always how they find the bad guy.”
“That’s fiction.”
“That’s common sense. Here she is; I got her address. Sixty-two Summer Street. Should we go there?” I didn’t want to wait for Dennis. I was pumped.
“No,” Milo said firmly. “Find her kid. Find a birth certificate with her name on it. Then we can find out more about him.”
“Okay, I can do that,” I said. I typed some more. “But he may not have been born in Vermont.”
We were both quiet while I searched the Vermont state archives.
Twenty minutes later I leaned back and sighed. “Meredith L. Bradley didn’t give birth in Vermont, at least not between 1980 and now. They must have moved there. Or maybe he was adopted.” I looked up at Milo. “Let’s just go to the house and watch from the street. At least until Dennis calls.”
“Search the adoption—”
A muffled Red Hot Chili Peppers ringtone emerged from Milo’s pocket. He dug in and pulled out his phone. “Dad?” He listened for a few seconds. “I’ll be right there,” he said and hung up.
Oh no. “Your mom?”
He nodded. He was gathering his things and packing his bag. “I gotta go; Dad’s taking her to Jordan.” Jordan Hospital was in Plymouth; there wasn’t a hospital in Duxbury.
I just sat there as he shoved things into his duffel bag. I didn’t know what to do. Should I go with him? But I’d just about found the killer. Maybe. But this was Laura.
I stood up. “I’ll go with you.”
Milo paused and looked over at me. “Thanks, Sam, but no. Stay here and finish what you’re doing. He’s going to strike again tonight. I’ll call you from the hospital.”
“But, Milo.” Tears filled my eyes. Milo came over to me and grasped my shoulders.
“She’ll be okay, Sam. And even if she’s not…You might have him; this might be the guy that’s killed four women in a week. You can’t make Mom better, but you can do this.” He looked me hard in the eyes. “Don’t go to that house alone. Wait for Dennis; let them do their jobs.”
I nodded and put my head on his chest. He wrapped his arms around me and we stood like that for a minute. Finally, I pulled away.
“Go,” I said.
He grabbed his bag and made for the front door. “Don’t go to that house, Sam,” he yelled and then the door slammed shut.
An hour later I was parked just down the road from sixty-two Summer Street. It was a traditional boxy, New England style home that had been divided into apartments or condos; the siding was cream colored and the windows were adorned with white shutters and flower boxes. A freshly paved parking area on the left would accommodate four or five cars. One of Plymouth’s many ponds backed up to the yard.
The storm had sunk in its teeth; the sky was dark and gloomy, but in better weather the units would have nice views. From this location, one could easily walk to downtown—to the waterfront where the Mayflower II was anchored, to the Windemere store and also to the Mayflower Society library. I guessed that the weather had kept him from walking down to the library today, but in general Zeke Bradley could have made it on foot to three of the four crime scenes. I wondered how old he was. A guy out of school could be anywhere from eighteen to his late-twenties and still living at home, especially in this economy. His mother implied that he didn’t have his own car. Maybe the night Anna Fuller died, he used his mother’s car. It could work, although I still had no driver’s license for the guy.
It was almost one in the afternoon, but the lack of sunlight and the hard weather made it feel more like evening. Best I could tell, the house was divided into two units—upper and lower. All of the first floor windows were dark, but light shone out of the back windows for the upper unit. I turned up the heater and hunkered down in my seat. I would just sit here and watch until Dennis called me back.
Fifteen uneventful minutes passed before the proverbial light bulb switched on. I pulled my laptop out of my backpack. If I could find their WiFi network, I would be able to hack into any computers that were turned on. The trick was finding the right network.
I searched for available wireless networks and nearly a dozen came up. I turned the key, shifted into first and moved the Mini to a parking spot closer to the building’s driveway.
Now I had three networks with strong signals. One was unprotected, so I checked it first. Five minutes of scanning the email account confirmed that it wasn’t the Bradleys’ network, though I figured I should probably tell Dennis about the guy’s recent purchases. Grow lights, a reflector, and an ozone filter. Classic weed-growing starter kit. The guy was so clueless, he’d arranged to have UPS deliver the goodies right to his house. With a disgusted sigh, I moved on to the second network and worked my way around the password.
Now I was getting somewhere. There were two IP addresses associated with the network. I worked my way through the first, which turned out to be Meredith’s. I checked her browsing history and read a week’s worth of emails. Ms. Bradley had researched chemical peels and boob jobs in the past week. Huh. Guess she was tired of the frumpy look. I checked her Facebook account. She had a lot of friends based in Vermont, and also about a dozen in Montana. Ah ha! Maybe I would find Zeke’s birth records there. But first I needed to see what Zeke himself was getting up to online. My palms were sweating.
My phone rang. Dennis.
“Dennis, I found Zeke,” I said in a low voice. It’s not like the guy could hear me from his apartment a hundred feet away. I was closed up in my car, the wind was loud and the rain was heavy. Still, I s
omehow felt the need to be furtive.
“Talk to me,” he said.
“I’m outside his house now, we—”
“You’re what? Sam, start your car right now and get out of there.”
“It’s fine; I’m just parked on the road. I haven’t seen anyone. But I—”
“I’m ordering you to get the fuck out of there. Now.”
“But I—”
“Now!” Sheesh.
“Okay, okay. I’m starting the car now.” I made a U-turn out onto the street, continued to the corner and turned right onto Spring Lane.
“You still there?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
I pulled into a parking spot facing the pond; across the water I could still see part of Zeke’s building, but my view was obscured by the neighboring house.
“Okay, I’m parked on Spring Lane. Across the pond from his back yard. The address is sixty-two Summer Street. Where are you?” I was frantically typing to see if I still had a connection to the Bradley’s WiFi network.
“We’re at the station.”
“Can you come here? I’m getting into his computer.”
“Be there in ten.” He ended the call.
I glanced around. Mine was the only car in the parking area for the park that bordered the pond. The wind was coaxing foamy, white tipped waves from the dark water and the tree beside my car was swinging its bare branches back and forth in a macabre dance. Dennis’ freak out left me nervous. I turned off the engine and my lights and locked the doors. Dennis and Turk will be here in ten minutes.
I was still connected to the Bradley’s network, but the signal was very weak and each step took forever. Five minutes later I was looking at Zeke Bradley’s Internet browsing history. Slowly, I compiled a list of recent web sites visited. Mayflowerhistory.com, plimoth.org, themayflowersociety.com, americanancestors.org, ancestry.com. My hands were shaking. This was it, I’d found him! I checked his email account but didn’t find any recent personal communications, just some newsletters and promotional stuff from the sites he frequented. But his email account gave me a full name. Zedekiah R. Bradley.
There was a knock at my window and I just about jumped out of my skin. Turk was bent over, peering in the passenger window. My heart was hammering as I lowered the window. “You be on a stakeout, usually you wanna pay attention to what shit be going down,” he said with a smile.
Saints & Strangers (A Sam Warren Mystery) Page 17