by Gerri Hill
“True. Sometimes that’s what triggers their obsession to kill, that’s what feeds it.” She stopped talking, noticing that the three men in the room were staring at them silently. She shrugged. “This isn’t a serial killer. This has the feel of some kind of vendetta.”
“Someone is exacting revenge for something,” Murphy agreed.
“Okay, look,” her father said. “All of this sounds great. Textbook, in fact. But this here is Sawmill Springs. If somebody’s got a problem with somebody else, they talk about it. Or else they don’t talk at all. Like old man Carthage. He and Sammy Breaker haven’t spoken in forty years because of some damn dispute that probably neither of them could tell you what it was about anymore. That’s how things are handled. Not by murder. Not in this town.”
Murphy turned to her, ignoring her father. “What about a foreclosure? Bank forecloses on something—a farm, a ranch, a house—and Lance Foster has it up for sale.”
“That’s great, but Lance Foster would have to buy it first. Foreclosures are first offered at public auction,” she said. “If that was the case, then perhaps you have something. The disgruntled owner would have it in for both the bank and the real estate office,” she said with a nod. “It’s a place to start.”
“Did neither of you hear me?” her father demanded. “I said—”
“That kinda makes sense, Earl,” Tim said. “I mean, you know, if I lost my house and then I saw it up for sale, I’d be a little pissed too.”
“Enough to kill?”
“Well, no, I wouldn’t. But, you never know. It could set someone off.”
Her father sighed. “Foreclosures are public record. They’re filed at the County clerk’s office. I guess that’s a good place to start.”
Kayla smiled at him. “What a great idea. And what about this attorney who shares office space here?”
“Bobby Lott,” her father said. “Got his office on the other side, around back, like sleazy lawyers should have.”
“I take it the chief is not real fond of Bobby Lott,” Murphy murmured.
“It’s lawyers in general, I’m afraid.” She turned to Tim. “It’s been a while since I’ve done my own fingerprint dusting. Who’s the expert?”
“Ivan’s a whiz with fingerprints, but he’s on days.”
“Wake his ass up if you have to,” her father said. “All hands on deck.”
Chapter Twelve
Murphy rubbed her eyes, the words on the screen beginning to blur. She should have taken Earl’s advice. She should have gone home and grabbed a few hours’ sleep. Whatever fingerprints Ivan had pulled were still being processed. There had been no witnesses to interview. Jeff had gone over to Bobby Lott’s home. Bobby had left the office at three that afternoon to attend his son’s baseball game, and no, he had no idea if Lance Foster had a late appointment. Earl himself had called Lou Ann Riley, Foster’s secretary. As far as she knew, his last appointment had been a showing of a house at noon. She left at five, like always, and he was still in his office, alone.
She sighed. According to the wife, Lance was always home by six. If he was going to be late, he would call. She’d started calling him at six-fifteen. By seven, with still no word, she’d called Yolanda at dispatch, asking to have someone check the office. Jeff Ferguson found him at seven-thirteen p.m.
“Hey.”
She turned, surprised to find Kayla standing beside her. She’d not heard the door open. “What time is it?”
“Nearly four.” Kayla headed into the breakroom. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“Bring me a cup,” she called.
“Black?”
“Toss in a little sugar.”
Kayla came back out with two cups. She placed one on the desk beside Murphy, pulled out the neighboring chair with her foot and sat down.
“Perfect,” Murphy said as she took a sip.
“You sleep?”
“No, I haven’t been home.”
“Fingerprints?”
She shook her head. “They’ve been scanned. Ivan said he’d let me know when he had results.”
“He estimated that there were ten or twelve different prints that he pulled,” Kayla said.
“Yeah, he said he was going to run them in ‘every database known to man.’ It’ll be blind luck if we get a hit.”
Kayla leaned back in the chair and sipped from her coffee. “He was killed between five and six, most likely. Or six-fifteen, to be more precise, since that’s when his wife first called and got no answer,” she said. “It’s August. At six p.m., it’s still daylight. It’s still daylight at seven. A town this size, where everybody knows everybody, who is going to chance being seen like that?”
“Are you thinking it might not be someone from town?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been in the business long enough to be skeptical of everyone, but I do tend to agree with my dad. It’s a close-knit community, for the most part.”
“But if it’s a local, they would blend in. No one would think twice about a local coming out of Lance Foster’s office. Probably wouldn’t even notice him. A stranger? They would tend to stick out more.”
“True.”
Murphy watched as Kayla took a sip of coffee. Even at this ungodly hour, she looked beautiful. She knew she should keep the conversation on the case, but she was curious about her. “How long have you been in the business, anyway?” she asked.
“Right out of college. After a couple of years muddling through a business degree, I switched to criminal justice, much to my father’s delight. He anticipated me coming back home and working with him right away.”
“But you had grander aspirations of the FBI?”
Kayla shook her head. “Not really. I only applied with them on a whim. The first few years were rather dull, actually.”
“Not like TV, huh.”
“No. Mostly desk duty and background checks. I worked in Miami for a while, then in New Orleans. That city is wild and I don’t mean that in a good way. Been in Dallas the last three years.”
“What prompted you to quit?”
Kayla leaned forward, an eyebrow raised. “What prompted you to leave Houston?”
She shrugged, trying to ignore the blue eyes that were staring at her. “A lot of things,” she said vaguely.
A smile played on Kayla’s mouth. “Like the death of your grandmother and a cat?”
Murphy fought the urge to return her smile but failed. “Something like that, yeah.”
“Small town like this, people are curious when strangers move here,” Kayla said as way of explanation. “I get to avoid that since I’m still considered a local.”
“Tim tells me your ex-husband still lives here.”
Kayla seemed surprised by the statement, but she nodded. “And like any small town, people like to gossip. But yes, Kevin lives here. He moved back right away.”
“Are you on friendly terms, or is that forbidden?”
Kayla laughed. “We’re still friends, if that’s what you mean. I get along quite well with his wife too. And they have three cute kids who call me Aunt Kayla.”
She shook her head. “There’s something wrong with that picture.”
“I’m sure it seems that way to most people, but we were good friends in high school. Neither of us wanted to let a little thing like a failed marriage ruin that,” she said with a smile. “So what’s your thought?” Kayla asked as she motioned to the notes, signaling an end to the personal questions.
“My thoughts are the same as they were last night. It’s someone he knew, someone he let into his office, maybe even someone he was expecting.”
“His wife said he always called if he was going to be late,” Kayla reminded her.
“Maybe he wasn’t planning on being late. Maybe they came right at five when the secretary left.”
“Was it a secret meeting? Lou Ann said he had no appointments scheduled.”
“You know more about him than I do,” she said. “I met him only the one time when he showed me the hous
e I’m renting. Seemed like a straightforward guy.”
“Well, rumor and speculation being what it is in a town this size, he’s made a few shady business deals. And he’s been known to buy up houses and land from people down on their luck and turn around and sell them for a nice profit.”
“So a foreclosure wouldn’t be out of the question?”
“From what I know of Mr. Foster, I don’t think he’d have any qualms of bidding on his neighbor’s foreclosed property, no. He didn’t get to where he was by being a nice guy.”
“I guess we should go to the courthouse later this morning, see what’s been filed recently.”
Kayla nodded. “As we said last night, it’s a place to start.”
Murphy covered her mouth as she yawned. “Sorry.”
“Why don’t you go home, sleep for a few hours? We can meet at the courthouse at nine,” Kayla suggested.
Murphy glanced at the monitor, noting the time. It was barely four thirty. She figured she could squeeze in four hours and still be at the courthouse on time. She nodded.
“Yeah, I think I’ll take you up on the offer,” she said. “See you about nine.”
“I’ll meet you out front.”
She paused at the door, turning back to Kayla. “I anticipated being bored out of my mind when I took this job.” She smiled. “I was hoping to be bored out of my mind.”
“I know what you mean. I was actually looking forward to being on patrol and writing traffic citations,” Kayla said. “I was ready for things to slow down.”
“Me too.” She shrugged. “Guess it’ll have to wait.”
Chapter Thirteen
The courthouse trip had been futile. There were only eight foreclosures in the entire county going back five months. Only two of the eight had been sold, but neither by Lance Foster. Only one of the eight properties had been financed by the Sawmill Springs State Bank. As far as they could tell, Lance Foster had never bid on the property nor ever listed it for sale. It was several miles outside of town, but, after getting Subway sandwiches for lunch, they decided to drive out there anyway. A five-acre lot with a double-wide mobile home—it had seen better days. Kayla understood why it had never sold. Weeds nearly obscured the stepping stone walkway and the remnants of an old rusted-out car sat nearby. A dead oak tree leaned over the house and limbs had fallen from the tree, most of them still littering the roof of the house. The property appeared to have been abandoned years before the foreclosure claimed it.
So, they’d shelved that angle for the moment and had instead called Lou Ann Riley, Mr. Foster’s secretary, and asked her to meet them at his office. As Murphy had said to her earlier, they didn’t really snoop around last night. Kayla knew the reason why and she didn’t need Murphy to say it out loud. Her father was being respectful, as he’d called it. “His body ain’t even cold yet.” Well, out of respect for him, she hadn’t disagreed with him in front of his officers but she intended to have a talk tonight at dinner. She’d at least gotten him to request a search warrant from Judge Peters. And in spite of his assertion that he’d be run out of town if he didn’t produce a suspect—and soon—he didn’t seem to have much urgency to solve the murders. The look on Murphy’s face last night told her she was thinking the same thing. That, of course, contradicted everything he’d said and done after Guy Woodard had been killed. Something was going on with him and she hoped to find out what at dinner.
She turned to look at Murphy as she drove them back toward town. Still a little on the quiet side, Murphy had yet to offer a single bit of personal information about herself. Not that Kayla was prone to pry into other peoples’ lives. She wasn’t, especially on the job. Still, there was something about Murphy’s silence that piqued her curiosity. For one, she had yet to explain her issue with the FBI. Nonetheless, she wasn’t going to come right out and ask her point-blank questions. No…she’d pry another way.
“Where do you live? When I was looking for a place, there wasn’t anything suitable to rent.”
“Oh, I know,” Murphy said. “Mr. Foster showed me about four places that were…well, let’s just say not in the best part of town. The house I’m in, it was vacant. Somebody died and they hadn’t decided on what to do with it.”
“Who’s house?”
“Lancaster, I think.”
“Oh, yeah. Lucille Lancaster. I know where that house is. It’s a nice one.”
“Her daughter lives in town. After I met with her, she decided to let me rent it,” Murphy said. “It worked out great. It still had furniture and stuff. All I brought with me was my bed.”
“Well, I brought all my furniture down, but the duplex I’m renting is a little small—especially the kitchen. But really, I was lucky to get it. I thought I was going to have to move in with my parents,” she said with a laugh. “That may have lasted a week.”
“I noticed you and your father do bicker a little.”
“A lot,” Kayla corrected. “He’s stubborn and set in his ways, and he drives me crazy sometimes.”
“Like last night?”
“Could you tell?”
“Yeah.”
Murphy looked at her as if waiting for her to elaborate. For some reason, discussing her father’s police tactics didn’t seem like the proper thing to do, even though they most likely felt the same way about them. Instead, she steered the conversation back to Murphy.
“It’s going on ninety degrees, yet you drive with your window down.”
“Sorry. Are you hot?” Murphy asked.
“No, the AC is working fine. But I am wondering why.”
Murphy drove with her elbow sticking out of the opened window, and she gave Kayla a quick smile. “Making up for lost time.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means there’s not a damn skyscraper in sight. It means there’s fresh air and I’m not stuck in six lanes of traffic.”
“Ah…I see. You said you moved to the city when you were ten. I guess you still have fond memories of country living.”
“I do. I regret I didn’t get back home more often.”
Murphy slowed as they came into town and the speed limit changed. Kayla had to bite her lip to keep from asking more questions. She would let Murphy tell her in her own time, if she was inclined to do so. She didn’t want to alienate her by peppering her with personal questions. No, she hoped they could become friends. One of her reservations about moving back home was whether she could develop friendships. Oh, she knew plenty of people and a lot of the ones she’d gone through school with were still in town. However, she couldn’t think of a single one of them that she’d want to hang out with. Kevin had been her best friend all throughout school. They’d mucked that up by dating and, even worse, by getting married. And as much as she still enjoyed his company, her vision of hanging out with friends didn’t include him and his wife.
And making friends was all she was interested in at the moment. She had no aspirations for anything deeper than that. Not after the fiasco with Jennifer. God, what a disaster that had been. No, she was perfectly happy being single for the time being.
Her glance drifted back to Murphy. Was she single? Could that be something they could share? Did she have a bad breakup? Maybe that’s why she left Houston for tiny Sawmill Springs. They would certainly have something in common then. And they had their work in common. Although as attractive as Murphy was, she wouldn’t imagine she’d be single for long. Someone in town would latch onto her. Wasn’t there a lesbian who worked for the sheriff’s department? She wondered if Murphy had already met her. For all she knew, maybe they were dating.
“What?”
Kayla blinked. “What?”
“You were staring.”
“Oh. Sorry. I was…never mind.”
Murphy turned into the parking lot at Lance Foster’s office. “You want to ask me a bunch of questions, don’t you?”
Kayla smiled. “Is that what you think? Do you want to ask me a bunch?”
They got out o
f the car and Murphy looked at her over the top. “Why did you leave the FBI?”
“Why did you leave Houston?” she countered once again. They both smiled though neither answered.
A patrol car was parked in the front, the only other vehicle in the lot. Kim Nguyen stood at the door, seemingly on duty. Murphy walked up to him with both eyebrows raised.
“What’s going on?”
“It’s locked up. Chief told me not to let anyone inside.”
“I’m pretty sure he didn’t mean us,” Kayla said.
“He was pretty adamant. He said no one gets inside.”
Murphy put her hands on her hips. “Unlock the damn door, Kimbro.”
Kayla was surprised when Kim quickly fumbled for the keys to unlock the door. Was he afraid of Murphy? Regardless, he pushed the door open for them and stepped aside.
“Lou Ann Riley is meeting us here,” she said. “Please let her in.”
“Okay. But I should probably run that by the chief.”
“Fine. We’re going over Mr. Foster’s appointment schedule with her.”
Murphy was at Lou Ann’s desk, snooping in drawers. The drawers appeared to be as tidy and organized as the top of the desk. Nothing appeared out of place.
“Not much paperwork,” Murphy said as she handed her a pair of latex gloves.
“Maybe they were a paperless office.” She slipped the gloves on, embarrassed that she’d not thought to bring any.
Murphy lifted a corner of her mouth doubtfully. “In this town? Have you seen the stacks of paper on Pete Wilson’s desk?”
“I know. My father’s too. We’re a little behind the times.” She adjusted the focus on the camera and snapped a couple of pictures of the desk. “How did I get camera duty, anyway?”
“I have seniority,” Murphy said as she walked over to a door. It was locked. “Wonder where this goes?”
“A supply closet or something?”
“Maybe a file room.”
Murphy then pushed open the door to Mr. Foster’s office. It appeared to be in the same condition as when they’d left it last night, minus the body, of course. Nothing else looked disturbed. She watched as Murphy walked near the wall, studying the various paintings that hung there. She moved one to the side, then went to another. Looking for a safe, perhaps?