“How did that nosey reporter get that shot?” Wesson grunted.
“I don’t know.” Smith said.
Miranda spun around to the officer. “You didn’t give it to her, did you?”
Eyes wide, she shook her blond curls. “Of course not, Steele.”
“How about your guy you left at the scene last night?”
“Officer Hill? He wouldn’t do that.” She was adamant.
Before Miranda could question that, Smith’s cell rang.
Smith glanced at the display and shuddered. “It’s Ballard.” Obediently she answered it. “Yessir?”
Ballard started to yell so loudly, Miranda could hear every word.
“Where in the frickle-frackle blazes are you, Smith?”
“I’m with Mr. Parker and Ms. Steele, sir. We’re looking into—”
“I don’t care what you’re looking into. Get your scrawny ass back here right now.”
Smith blinked in surprise. “To the station?”
“No, to the aquarium. Of course the station. What’s wrong with you?”
“Yessir. I’m on my way.” She hung up, her cheeks burning.
Miranda wasn’t sure if it was from embarrassment or rage.
“Looks like I have to go in to the station,” she said to them.
“We’ll go with you,” Parker said. The sternness in his voice told Miranda he didn’t much care for the way Ballard was treating her.
And even though it was Smith, Miranda didn’t either. She pointed to the laptop under Parker’s arm. “He’ll feel better when he sees that.”
“You don’t know him very well,” Smith muttered under her breath as she turned to go down the stairs.
Miranda handed the cell phone back to Inez. “Thank you for your help. We’ve got something to work with now.”
She nodded, her face messy with tears.
“And if I were you, I’d stay away from news sites for a while.”
“Why don’t you close up and go home,” Parker said gently. “We’ll keep you posted on our progress.”
Inez wiped her cheeks and sniffled. “Yes. You’re right. Thank you so much. I hope you can find whoever did this to Josie.”
Miranda was more determined to do that than ever. “We will.”
Chapter Twelve
The three of them were silent as they followed Smith’s police car through the side streets of Manteo.
She skirted the town, crossed the Roanoke Sound over the mile-long Washington Baum Bridge, which they’d taken last night, then turned left and drove up the highway that dissected the skinny strip of land facing the ocean.
When they reached the police station, they parked in the back and entered through a rear door that led to an open area where a few officers were working at paper strewn desks.
Without a word, Smith took a left and marched down a hall whose floor was covered in drab gray commercial-grade carpet. She looked like she was about to make another turn when she stopped short in front of a large meeting room with tall glass panes along either side of the door.
Through the glass, Miranda could see Sergeant Ballard scratching his cheek as he studied a white board.
Then he caught sight of Smith and his face turned red.
Before he could get to the door, Smith opened it and stepped inside. “What seems to be the problem, sir?” she asked.
Good for her, Miranda thought. Smith had found some courage and was going to stand her ground.
“The problem?” Ballard barked. “You want to know what the problem is?”
“Yessir.”
He waved an arm toward the back wall. “It’s that hibbety-dibbety reporter, Tremblay. She’s flashing crime photos of our case all over the internet.”
“I heard that.”
“Photos, Smith. Photos. And she’s got the victim’s name. How’d she get that? What in the fenorking hell did you tell her last night?”
“I didn’t—” Smith glanced over at the open door where Miranda, Parker, and Wesson were standing, listening to every word. “Steele spoke to her, sir.”
So much for Smith’s valor.
Ballard bared his teeth. “Don’t push this off on—”
Miranda opened the door the rest of the way and stepped into the room. “I didn’t give Tremblay the information she’s broadcasting, Sergeant.”
Ballard looked like he was transferring his rage to her. “Are you sure about that?”
“Positive. I was vague about all details of the case, no matter how hard she pressed. I refused to be bullied by her.” Meaning she’d refuse to be bullied by him, as well. “And I certainly didn’t release the victim’s name.”
“I can attest to that.” Parker had come up beside her. His voice had a threat in it.
Ballard gave him a guarded look. “Then how did she get the information?”
Miranda turned to examine the whiteboard Ballard had been working with. He’d taped several crime scene photos on it. The house. The body. The downstairs area. He’d made several notes about the evidence found so far. And above all that, he’d printed “Josie Yearwood” in large letters.
“Did Tremblay stop by here?”
Ballard blinked as if he wondered how she’d known that. “She came to see me half an hour after I got in. Demanded to know everything about the case. ‘Murder of the Century,’ she called it. But I didn’t tell her anything.”
Miranda folded her arms. “Where did you talk to her?”
“Why, right there in the hall. I told her we wouldn’t be releasing any statements until we were good and ready.”
“And then what?”
“What do you mean, and then what?”
“What did you do next?”
“I went back to my office. Left her high and dry.”
“Standing right there in the hall?”
“I guess so. Yes.”
“And were those up on the board then?” Miranda pointed to the crime scene photos.
Ballard’s jaw bobbed up and down. “I—they—” He ran a hand over his slicked-back hair.
His mouth closed, he breathed in and out, his nostrils flaring. Miranda could see the veins in his temples.
Obviously Angela Tremblay had seen the board through the glass panes. She’d come through the door and snapped shots of it herself.
Suddenly Ballard’s face turned purple. “I don’t care how she got that information. We’ve had fifty calls demanding information since her broadcast. One of them was the mayor. Smith, I want you to fix this now!”
And he stormed out of the room and down the hall.
“The mayor’s his uncle,” Smith muttered under her breath. Then with watery eyes, she blinked at Miranda, then at Parker. “Excuse me,” she said and hurried out of the room.
His uncle? Miranda thought, and let out a groan. “Go see what you can do for her,” she said to Wesson.
“Sure, Steele.” She trotted after her friend.
Miranda turned to Parker. His face had a look she saw only when he was very angry. “I think I need to have a chat with our dear sergeant.”
“Good idea. I’ll look over this stuff while you do that.”
“I won’t be long.”
He turned and went down the hall in the direction Ballard had gone.
Alone in the room, Miranda turned to the board.
The sergeant had put three sticky notes on it reading, “Blood samples,” “Saliva,” and “Fingerprints,” each with a question behind it.
On the table was a thin manila folder. Miranda flipped it open and found two reports from the officers on scene last night. They hadn’t learned anything new since then.
She let out a half grunt as she took the sticky pad and picked up the marker. She wrote “Car” on the first one. Then “Rental Company,” “Laptop,” “Dating Sites,” and “Dr. Glenn Kugel.” She posted them all on the board and stepped back to study it again.
All she could see were the photos. The blood and the chair they’d found on the lowe
r level. The shots of the body from several angles. The weird poem the killer had written on the wall.
“Who did this to you?”
And just as she whispered the words, a strange sensation came over her. Strange, but not unfamiliar. The eerie tingling sensation. The long-legged spiders doing their malicious dance along her spine. Her ears began to ring. Sweat began to bead on her forehead. She felt dizzy. Once again the bloody image of Hannah Kaye hanging from the rafters came to her.
Someone was laughing.
She turned her head and saw him in the corner. The big shoulders. The shaggy dirty blond hair. She could smell his repulsive cologne.
His deep green eyes bored into her. “You haven’t got the stomach to solve this one.”
“Like hell I don’t,” she said to the air.
“Steele?”
Miranda spun, heart pounding like a trip hammer.
“Are you okay?” It was Wesson standing in the doorway, frowning at her with concern.
Miranda drew in a breath and straightened. “I’m fine. Just fine.” Or she would be in a minute. She steadied herself with the back of a chair. “Did you find Smith?”
Wesson nodded. “In the restroom, crying her eyes out. She didn’t want to talk. I can’t say I blame her.”
“Did you get anything out of her while you were, uh, shopping in the boutique earlier?”
Uncomfortable, Wesson glanced away. “I was trying to distract her with clothes. It sort of worked. She told me she’s worried about messing up. Her boss is a real winner.”
“That’s all too obvious.”
Miranda thought of some of the winner bosses she’d had before she found her calling at the Parker Agency. Never in her life did she expect to feel sorry for the likes of Cindy Smith, but right now, she was on her side a hundred percent. Life had a funny way of playing jokes like that on you.
Coming out of her thoughts she caught Wesson staring up at the board as she hugged herself.
“This case,” she said in a hollow voice. “I know you have, Steele, but I’ve never seen anything like it. That poor woman. And her grandmother. And her business partner.” She rubbed her arms. “And that beautiful little shop she owned.”
Being a former boutique owner, that part must really be getting to her.
She turned to Miranda with an expression of awe. “How do you manage?”
This was a day of firsts. Never in her life did she think she’d be giving advice on how to cope on a case to Wesson. What could she tell her?
She shrugged. “You’ve got to focus. All we can do is our job. Do the best we can until we get the bastard.”
She looked up and saw Parker at the door, a warm glow of admiration in his handsome gray eyes. He must have overheard some of their conversation.
She pointed to the laptop he was still holding.
“I take it your conversation with Ballard didn’t go well?”
“As well as can be expected under the circumstances. He’s under a lot of pressure he isn’t used to, but he’s agreed to be more civil.”
“Uh huh.” They’d see how long that promise would last.
“I did convince him we needed access to firearms, though.”
“That was a major coup.”
He smiled slyly. “And that you would be in charge of his officers until this case is solved.”
Miranda’s mouth fell open. You what? she wanted to say. But then she saw Wesson grinning at her.
Scratching her head she turned back to the board. There was a lot of work to do. She glanced up at the clock on the wall. Half past noon already. Minutes had been ticking away while Ballard threw his hissy fit over Tremblay and found fault with Smith. They had a crazy serial killer on their hands. The longer they dilly-dallied, the more time he had to plan another kill.
Or to escape. He could be in Europe by now.
They had to move. And if she had to be the one to make that happen, then so be it.
Gritting her teeth, she rolled her shoulders. “Okay, then. Who’s here in the office?”
Chapter Thirteen
Twenty minutes later, the shoestring staff of the Nag’s Head police department assigned to the case were sitting around the conference table in the meeting room. Parker had ordered pizza for everyone to lighten the mood and give the officers some sustenance, and they had gobbled it up as if they hadn’t eaten in a month.
Miranda finished her slice, wiped her mouth, and got to her feet. “I need everyone to give me the status on this case so far. You first. What’s your name again?”
She pointed to an older man sitting across from her with gold-framed glasses and wavy dark gray hair that was thinning at the top.
“Detective Ross Garwood,” he said in a slow North Carolina brogue.
Garwood was the detective who had gathered trace evidence at the house before they’d arrived last night.
“I’m analyzing the fingerprints the team found at the scene, but it’s slow going. Nothing but the vic’s so far.”
Miranda nodded. They’d determined there weren’t many prints at the crime scene last night. “Is that it?”
Garwood scowled. “I’m also checking on florists and local flower delivery services to see if anyone dropped off an order of purple roses at that address.”
That was good thinking. She pointed to the detective beside Garwood, the good-looking one with the military haircut named Mike Deweese. “What have you got so far?”
Deweese took a swallow from his soda can. “I’ve starting going through the trace evidence Garwood found yesterday.”
“Find anything?”
“I found a couple of hairs that didn’t match the victim.”
That was promising. “Are they being processed?”
Deweese cleared his throat and looked at her with bloodshot eyes. He hadn’t gotten much sleep. “I’m going to send them to the state crime lab along with the blood samples from the chair, but that’s going to take a week or so to get results.”
They didn’t have that kind of time and everyone in the room knew it.
Miranda thought of her BFF back in Atlanta, John Fry. The guy who didn’t want to go out in the field and who’d rather be boiled in oil than work under her. His services were needed.
“We’ve got an analyst in our office who can do it faster,” she said without even blinking.
“Great.”
“I’ll give him a call when we’re done.” She turned to Smith. “Have you gotten hold of that rental company yet?”
Smith shook her head. Her nose was still pink from her crying jag, but she was hiding it well. “I think the manager is out of town for the weekend. I’m trying to find another contact.”
Miranda decided not to comment. “And how about you?” She pointed to the hairless Doug Hill with the round youthful face who had volunteered to keep watch at the crime scene last night.
He looked even worse than Deweese.
He ran a hand over his eyes as if trying to stay awake. “Garwood thoroughly dusted the mp3 player found at the scene for prints, but didn’t find a thing. The killer had to have wiped it clean. I had a look at it, though.”
“What did you find?”
“The song left playing on it was released by Wayne Newton in nineteen-sixty-five.”
“The Red Roses song.”
“Right.”
Not too earthshaking a discovery.
“The funny thing is—the player itself is pretty high end. Hi-res audio, LCD touchscreen, supports all kinds of files, extended battery life.”
“And?”
“The device is capable of holding several thousand songs, but this one had only three on it. The “Red Roses” song, “My Girl,” and “Save Your Heart for Me.”
“Love songs,” Wesson said.
Hill nodded. “All from the mid-sixties. I was thinking the killer might be an older guy.”
Deweese took another swallow of soda. “Sounds like one with an obsession to me.”
Miranda
was just about to say that word. “You’re right. And the price of that player could mean the killer has money.” Though it didn’t tell them much more.
It was her turn.
“This morning my team and I went to Ms. Yearwood’s apartment and found this.” She pulled the laptop Parker had laid on the table toward her. “According to both her grandmother and her business partner, the vic was an avid dater. Since her divorce and return to the area a few years ago, she went out with a great number of men, both residents and visitors. We also discovered she was registered with several dating sites.”
Deweese and Hill looked at each other as if they were wondering how Miranda had determined that.
“Someone who contacted her through one of those sites may have become fixated on her. We need to find who she dated recently and when.”
Hill’s brows shot up. “I’m not sure we have the expertise to do a computer search at that level, Ms. Steele.”
Naturally, Miranda’s thoughts went to Becker. He wouldn’t be as hard to corral as Fry. “We’ve got a guy who can. I’ll round him up, too.”
Hill’s face brightened. “I’d like to work with him and pick his brain.”
A kindred nerd. “Sure.” She slid the laptop over to Hill. “The vic’s business partner told us she had a date Friday night, but we haven’t found any information on it yet.”
Grimly Hill nodded, feeling the pressure. “Your guy and I will focus on that.”
“Meanwhile, Mr. Parker and I are going to check out the restaurants and bars in the area to see if anyone saw Ms. Yearwood with her date Friday night.”
Hill raised a hand. “I can give you a list of places.”
“That would be good.” She turned to Wesson, who was sitting at the end of the table next to Smith. “I’d like you to stay here and help wherever the team needs you.”
“Sure thing, Steele.”
She saw Hill’s eyes grow big and Deweese smile. She had a feeling all these guys would love to work with the gorgeous redhead, but she knew Wesson would keep them in their place. She might be a flirt, but she was also a professional.
Roses from My Killer Page 7