Deweese broke out in a wide grin. “Yes, ma’am.”
She headed for the door and reached for her coat. “Let’s get going.”
Chapter Forty-Six
They headed out into the misty rain taking three cars. Deweese and Hill in an unmarked vehicle, Garwood driving his own car, and Miranda with Parker in the rented Nissan.
Parker had just turned onto the street in front of the police station when Miranda thought of the squad car. “Where the hell is Smith?”
“Didn’t you send Wesson out to her home?” he said.
“And now she’s missing, too.” With a grunt she dialed her colleague.
She answered on the first ring.
“Wesson, what’s going on? Have you got Smith with you?”
“I don’t know what to say, Steele.” Wesson sounded distressed.
What now? They were just about to break this case. “What’s the problem?”
“I went to her house like you told me, but she wasn’t there.”
Miranda’s stomach clutched. “Where is she?”
Wesson’s anxious breath came through the phone.
“Out with it.”
“I don’t know. I’ve tried her cell, but there’s no answer. I talked to her mother. She said Cindy was upset this morning, and then she was kind of excited. She was talking to herself, and her mother didn’t understand what she meant.”
Was this case getting to her? “Because she feels guilty she didn’t remember Jay York?”
“I don’t know, Steele. All I know is her mother said she was going back to the crime scene. The ocean front house where she found Josie’s body.”
“Today? Now?”
“That’s where her mother thought she was heading when she left the house.”
Miranda groaned out loud.
“I’m on my way over there to get her,” Wesson was quick to add.
“Wait. There’s been a development.” She caught Wesson up on all they’d learned that morning and told her the team was en route to the marina in Manteo right now.
“Have we got him, Steele? I can’t believe it.”
“I think so.” Miranda had to smile at the excitement in Wesson’s voice. She could always count on her dedication.
Then she had a thought.
Smith didn’t need to feel badly about yesterday. She’d done a decent job, given the circumstances. But as the person in charge, Miranda was the one who should tell her that.
She glanced at the GPS. They were only a minute or two away from the crime scene. “We’re not that far from the house ourselves. I’ll go talk to Smith and you can swing by and pick us all up. Then we’ll head to the Manteo and get our guy.”
“Sounds like a plan. I’ll be there in about ten minutes.” She hung up.
Parker spun the Nissan around and drove the few miles north. He was silent as he turned into the subdivision with its well maintained multi-story homes and pulled alongside the curb in front of the house in question.
When he stopped Miranda reached for the door handle. “You go on to the marina while I talk to Smith.”
“I’ll wait.” His voice was dark and ominous.
She spun around to him. “You heard what I said to Wesson. She’s on the way. She’s going to swing by and pick Smith and me up.”
His expression was as foreboding as the sky. “Miranda, you couldn’t even go in there the last time you were here.”
She didn’t know what to say to that. “I’m better now.”
He didn’t buy it.
She gave his hand a squeeze. “I’m not going to fall apart. Not now. Smith feels bad about not remembering York from high school. You saw how she was yesterday. But she doesn’t need to feel that way. She helped us solve this case, and I need to be the one to tell her that.”
He seemed surprise at that conclusion, but remained obstinate. “And I’ll wait here for you while you do.”
She glanced at the time. “The team is already on their way to Manteo, Parker. One of us needs to be there. You need to supervise the arrest, keep everyone focused. Wesson will be here any minute. We’ll be right behind you.”
His jaw tightened with the famous Parker stubbornness and his gray eyes bore into hers.
Anxiety ate away at her stomach lining. She didn’t have time for a fight over this now. They were just about to capture their suspect. The real killer, this time.
So instead, she pulled rank.
“Am I in charge here or not?”
His eyes turned as stormy as the weather. She watched his face, and for the first time saw him wrestle with himself over his decision to make her the lead. She would have been glad for that—at any other time.
He drew in a slow angry breath. “Very well. But I think you should do your talking on the way to the marina.”
“I will. As soon as Wesson gets here.” Though she’d say a few things while she had Smith alone. “Now get going.”
She got out of the car, leaving her coat in the backseat and watched him drive off, wheels squealing. They’d sort it out later.
After York was in custody, she thought as she turned to the huge yellow house with the deceptively friendly white double porch.
Chapter Forty-Seven
She found the front door open and stepped inside.
The air in the foyer was stale and still. She hadn’t been on this floor before, so she took a moment to peek into some of the bedrooms. They were still dusty from the investigation. Ballard hadn’t wanted to release the house until the killer was found, and she’d agreed with him.
No one was here, so she headed up the stairs.
“Smith?” she called as reached the top floor.
No answer.
The hair on the back of her neck coming to attention, Miranda stepped into the living room where Smith had found Josie Yearwood’s body four days ago. A dark stain marred the floor where the blood had pooled. Jay Charles York’s message was still on the wall.
She stared at it, the itchy, insect-like sensation making the flesh of her back quiver as she eyed the artistic loops and flourishes of the lettering.
I’ll get the others, too.
Others. Others. Suddenly it clicked. Smith was one of the high school girls who had made fun of him. She was one of the “others.”
Her stomach sinking, she raced to the sliding glass doors and peered out. There was a boat outside in the nearby water. The rear of the boat was facing the shoreline, as if it were getting ready to head out to sea.
A man was on the deck. His body twisted back and forth as if he were struggling with something. Knots and ropes? No, he was fighting with someone.
Just then the figure he was scuffling with bobbed up, and Miranda caught sight of a head full of short sunflower blond curls.
Smith.
Dear God.
She hurried back down the stairs, rushed to the rear of the house and found the door to the back porch.
A long pier-like deck led from the porch through the beachgrass to the shoreline. Crouching down so she couldn’t be seen, Miranda followed the path to a round gazebo-like structure made from distressed wood. She stepped inside the enclosure. There was an old-fashioned rocking chair. All along its perimeter sat rough hewn benches ready to accommodate a host of guests. On the other side of the gazebo, an opening led to a long plank that stretched to the ocean.
Beyond that was the beach and the boat rocking on the water.
It was huge. A pure white floating fortress, eighty or ninety feet long, boasting two decks and a flybridge up top. Pricey and elegant and powerful.
Once more she saw Smith’s head bob up, as if she were gasping for air. A hand came down, grabbing her blond curls, dragging her downward.
She couldn’t wait. She had to get onboard that yacht as soon as she could. But her training kicked in, and the word “backup” rang in her ears.
She dug into her pocket for her phone and sent off a quick text to Parker. Then she drew her Beretta, and crouching in the
tall grass, made her way to the shore.
Chapter Forty-Eight
As she climbed up the ladder and onto the stern, Miranda didn’t see anything.
No Smith, no kidnapper. All was still, except for the wind blowing through her hair and the rocking of the boat on the waves.
The rain had stopped for the time being, but the sky was a mass of blue-gray fog, dark and ominous. Over the vast expanse of ocean, a flash of lightning lit up clouds in the distance. A fresh storm was coming in.
Getting her sea legs, she studied the yacht.
Three luxurious stories, so to speak. Where had he taken her? Up to the flybridge? Onto the main deck? Down below?
She made her best guess. Below. And she scrambled down a set of stairs.
On the lower deck she found a set of elegant sliding doors meant to provide a terrific view for those inside. But the glass was covered with some kind of black paper. To hide what was going on in there, she bet, a shiver going through her.
Steadying her weapon, she reached for the handle and slid the door open. It gave way with ease.
The space inside was empty, except for some expensive furniture. White leather couches and white brocade chairs with lacquered ebony trim, fine wooden side tables and stylish lamps. Large pieces of sketching paper were strewn over a coffee table and one chair. Various sized charcoal pencils lay atop the paper. There was an easel in the corner with the beginnings of a large sketch. She couldn’t make out what it was. More pencils had been abandoned on a nearby table.
She crept across the room and through the door at the far end.
She found herself in a master bedroom. An unmade king size bed sat in the middle of the room. Dirty clothes had been tossed in a corner. More fine furniture lined the walls.
But it was what hung on the walls above the furniture that had her stomach churning.
Framed sketches of a man being beaten by a boy with a whip. Another sketch of the same boy stabbing the man. A third one of the boy hanging the man from a tree. Each one had realistic detail. The expression of pain on the man’s face was blood-curdling.
But that was only the beginning. All around the charcoal sketches were drawings in color. Smaller ones done with oil sticks. There must have been a hundred of them covering the walls. The subject of each of them was the same and unmistakable.
Josie Yearwood.
Josie wearing various gowns in different poses. Josie dancing, reading a book, sewing. Close ups of Josie’s face with every possible expression. Laughing, smiling, being haughty, crying, frightened. There seemed to be a progression. Her features grew more and more distorted with terror.
As Miranda drew close, her heart began to pound. In the corner of each sketch was a small purple rose and a heart signed “JY.”
On a dresser across from the bed she spied an old-fashioned record player. Feeling shaky, she crossed to it. A record sat on the spindle. As she read the label, her breath caught.
“Red Roses for a Blue Lady.”
She spun around. Something was sticking out of the top drawer of a dresser next to the bed. She hurried over and yanked it open.
Dolls.
Pretty dolls in pretty dresses. A silky blue. A lacy pink. A satiny white. Each one had a different hair color. All of them looked battered. A chip was missing from the brown-haired doll’s cheek. The dark-haired one was missing an eye. And the blond one? The one in the white gown?
Her dress was pulled down and her torso was covered with little hearts. Hearts that had been carved into her plastic skin with a knife. And in the center of each heart were the initials “JY.”
Dear Lord.
Fingers trembling, Miranda closed the drawer and opened the next one. Here she found the real horrors. Cell phones. Two of them.
She didn’t have to turn them on to know who they belonged to. They were loosely wrapped in clothes. The bloody jersey knit dress and plaid jacket she recognized from the Bayside Manor parking lot video. A pair of leather ankle boots. Next to them lay a pair of high heels and a rumpled dress in Angela Tremblay’s signature red color, now stained an even darker shade.
Something rustled behind her.
Miranda shut the drawer and spun around, weapon drawn.
No one was there.
She listened, heard it again. The sound was coming from the closet. She hurried around the bed and pulled back the folding door.
Smith.
She lay on the closet floor, bound and gagged with duct tape. Her weapon and radio were missing from her police belt. He’d knocked her out, but she was coming to.
Miranda holstered her gun and squatted down to pull off the gag.
“Steele,” Smith cried.
“Shh!” Miranda said. “I haven’t found him yet.”
The boat moaned and rocked as the waves outside rose. The storm was coming in. Focus, Miranda told herself, steadying herself with a hand on the closet door.
She looked around and spotted a small knife on the nightstand. Wondering if it was the one he’d used on the doll, she scooped it up and started on the tape binding Smith’s wrists. There was a lot of it.
“How did you get in this fix?” she muttered, not expecting an answer.
She got one anyway.
“Last night I remembered I had talked to him once,” Smith whispered. “Back in high school. He told me he liked to walk along the beach on his father’s properties. I guess his father owned them back then. So I took a chance he might be here. But when I got here, the door was open. And then I saw this boat and climbed aboard, but—”
“Shh!” Miranda said sternly. “He’s going to hear you.”
Smith’s blue eyes grew wide. “Too late.”
Too late?
Too late to see the flicker of a shadow slinking up behind her. Too late to stop the sharp rap against her head with the butt of a gun that must have been Smith’s. Too late to catch herself as she slinked to the ground.
Too late to rethink Parker’s warning.
“Too late,” Miranda mumbled as she hit the floor, and everything around her turned black.
Chapter Forty-Nine
His jaw tight, his gut a hard rock, Parker drove as fast as he could over the bridge between the barrier ridge and Roanoke Island.
Why had he let Miranda go into that house on the ocean front alone? Instinct had told him there was danger, but he’d ignored it. Logic said she was right. One of them should be there when Jay Charles York was taken into custody. It was the job they had been hired to do. They should be there to see it completed, to lend aid.
And yet, he knew something was wrong. If only he’d admitted that and gone inside that house with her.
No, she was a capable professional. He’d seen to it she had grown into one, that she’d developed all the potential he’d seen in her the day they first met. He’d vowed never to hold her back again. It was only that promise that had made him drive away.
It wouldn’t be long before he reached his destination. She would be right behind him, as she’d said, he kept telling himself. But with every mile, the nagging doubt only grew stronger.
The ring of his cell phone shook him out of his troubled thoughts. It was Deweese.
He pressed the screen on the dash to answer it. “Yes, Officer?”
“Sorry to call, sir. I couldn’t reach Steele.”
“That’s all right.” She was ignoring her phone while she talked to Smith, he told himself. Or she had turned it off.
“I thought I should let you know there’s no boat in the slip registered to Earl on the marina. We’ve got officers going up and down the docks, but so far there’s no sight of a yacht named Free Spirit.”
Parker let out a controlled breath, his spirits sinking deeper than a boat anchor. Lower than any time during this infuriating case. Like Miranda, he had been sure they would find York at the marina today.
He looked up at the sky. It was getting darker. The rain would start again soon. York couldn’t have gone far. On the other hand, a
desperate man might venture out into the ocean no matter what the weather.
Deweese’s voice brought him out of his thoughts.
“What’s our next step, sir?” he asked.
That should be Miranda’s call. Since she wasn’t available, he’d make it for her. “For now, let’s—wait a moment. I have a text coming in.”
He switched to his messages on his phone. The text was from Miranda. When he read it, it was all he could do not to run off the road and into the water below.
Free Spirit anchored offshore behind the house. Smith abducted by killer. Going onboard to lend aid. Send help ASAP.
He clutched the steering wheel so tightly, he thought it might break in his hands. He was in the middle of the bridge over the sound. Impossible to turn around without causing an accident.
Anger burned inside his heart. Along with a terrible sense of anguish—the feeling he knew only too well. Wasn’t Miranda past going into a situation like that alone? She had a whole police department at her disposal. Why didn’t she wait for backup?
She couldn’t. Smith was in trouble. It wasn’t in her to leave a teammate to fend for herself.
Dear Lord, keep her safe. Keep them both safe until I can get there.
As if in reply, his cell rang again. This time it was Wesson.
“I’m here at the house, Mr. Parker,” she said. “The front door was open, but Steele isn’t here. Neither is Smith.”
Parker forced himself to keep his head. “Miranda just sent me a text. The Free Spirit is anchored behind the house. Look out the back window.”
He listened to her footsteps as she crossed the hardwood floor. Then there was silence.
“Janelle? Are you there?”
“I see the yacht, Mr. Parker, but it’s not anchored. It must be about a quarter mile off the shore. Looks like it’s heading out to sea.”
Right into the storm.
“And the rain’s starting to come down again,” she said as a crack of lightning split the sky over the water.
Roses from My Killer Page 20