by Dan Padavona
Thomas took a step backward. Chelsey Byrd ran a private investigation firm in Wolf Lake? His head swam.
“I arrested a man outside the Wolf Lake Inn after he rammed some guy’s VW with a truck.”
“The Hugh Fitzgerald case,” Chelsey said with an eye roll. “That turned out to be one big cluster. Raven handled the mess, but I never should have accepted the case. The guy is out of his mind.”
“And now someone hired you to investigate LeVar Hopkins.”
“That’s between me and my client.”
Thomas swiped a cobweb off his sleeve.
“Wait, you’re the private investigator Tessa Windrow hired.”
Chelsey pantomimed zipping her lips shut.
“I never imagined you’d become a private investigator,” Thomas said.
She watched him from the corner of her eye.
“Surprised?”
“A little. Okay, a lot. Still, you have the mind for the work.”
“Thanks, but I don’t need you to justify my career path.”
“I didn’t mean it that way.” After years of wondering what had become of Chelsey, they ended up tracking the same criminal. “Off the record, multiple eyewitnesses spotted LeVar canvassing the area between the lake and state park. Then Sunday night, someone dumped a body in the water.”
Her eyes swung to his.
“Was it Erika?”
Thomas stuffed his hands into his pockets.
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Now who’s being uncooperative?”
“The truth is, I’m waiting on a definitive answer from the medical examiner’s office.”
“Thomas, I saw the video.”
“Yeah, you and the rest of the world. Every time a site bans the video, another posts it.” He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. “I can’t definitively say the woman in the video is Erika Windrow. The picture is too dark and grainy.”
“But you’re sure it’s her. Who else could it be?”
The old building stood in quiet solitude as grit rained through holes in the ceiling. Upstairs, rats skittered and clawed across the floor. A vein pulsed inside his neck. He had so many questions for Chelsey, and none of them seemed appropriate for the current situation. But he couldn’t avoid her forever. They lived in the same village, and now that he knew Chelsey was a private investigator, they’d cross paths until one of them moved on.
“Chelsey, what’s done is done. But I wish you’d spoken to me when—”
“I don’t want to talk about it, Thomas. That was a long time ago, and we moved on.”
More unasked questions lingered. Why was it important to him? His time with Chelsey occurred a lifetime ago.
“Look,” she said, releasing a breath. “We have to coexist. This isn’t the last time we’ll run into each other on a case. The past is the past, and we’re adults now.”
“For what it’s worth, I think it’s great you became a P.I. I have no problem working with you.”
She glanced at him in suspicion.
“I’m a different person now.”
“That’s obvious.”
She let out a breath and folded her arms.
“Now I have to tell my client I lost LeVar again. Second time this week.” Second time? Chelsey had a better bead on LeVar Hopkins than the Nightshade County Sheriff’s Department. “Anyway, it’s futile. You don’t find LeVar Hopkins. LeVar Hopkins finds you.”
His radio squawked. A Harmon PD cruiser spotted LeVar a quarter mile from the warehouse as he cut between two apartment complexes in the center of the city. They’d lost him. Thomas sighed.
“Let’s get out of this place before it grows on us.”
“Good idea,” she said, swiping insulation off her shoulder.
An uncomfortable moment followed when they moved toward the door at the same time. Thomas solved the issue by pulling the door open for Chelsey. She pressed her lips together and hurried past. Before they reached the corridor, he moved in front of her.
“You don’t have to protect me, you know?” she said from behind. The smell of her perfume made his chest thump. “My gun is bigger than yours.” He snorted and ignored the double entendre. “I should have asked. How are your parents?”
He stumbled and regained his footing.
“They’re the same,” he said. This wasn’t the time to tell Chelsey about his father’s diagnosis. “They’re still unhappy I went into law enforcement. Remember Uncle Truman?”
“Sure do. I heard he passed a while back. I’m sorry.” She remembered. He chewed on the inside of his cheek. “Do recall what you told me after we started dating?”
He sifted through a catalog of memories as he led her through the crumbling warehouse, one eye on the sagging ceiling. The building wanted to collapse and smother them, claiming Thomas and Chelsey as its final victims.
“I don’t remember. Like you said, that was a long time ago.”
“You told me you’d buy Truman’s house one day.”
Thomas cleared the frog from his throat.
“Well, I made true on my promise.”
She grabbed his arm and pulled him around. Chelsey’s eyes lit with excitement and a touch of wonder.
“Seriously? The place on the lake? You really did it. Congratulations.”
Thomas shrugged and continued toward the exit. Where was it? He’d taken the wrong hallway and gotten them lost.
“The house needs work, but it’s coming along.”
He wanted to invite her over. Then he remembered Ray Welch. If Chelsey had her life together, what was she doing with a creep like Ray?
A floorboard creaked at the end of the hall. They both reached for their weapons before the door swung open. Deputy Lambert raised his head in alarm.
“Everything all right here?” Lambert asked, eyeing Chelsey with suspicion.
“We’re searching for a way out of the warehouse.”
Thomas made introductions as they walked. Lambert ushered them out of the building. The cruiser waited at the curb.
“Do you need a ride back to your car?” Thomas asked, hoping Chelsey would say yes.
“I’m right around the corner. See you soon.”
Then she disappeared around the warehouse.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
He’d been inside her house again.
Raven Hopkins scanned the downstairs of her one-story house two hundred yards east of the lake. A couch cushion jutted forth like a protruding tongue, and the blanket draped over the end appeared rumpled. She’d folded it better than that. LeVar had been inside the house and slept on the couch while she was at work. She moved to the kitchen and peered inside the refrigerator. One can of Coke missing, along with a few slices of ham. If she checked the bread, she’d find two slices gone.
She collapsed on a chair at the kitchen table and rubbed her eyes. There was no point in calling her brother. He’d deny coming to the house, as always. LeVar didn’t have a key. Raven got the distinct impression locks didn’t stop her brother. Was he in trouble and hiding from somebody? LeVar never should have joined the Kings. Guilt chewed a hole through Raven’s stomach. After her mother threw her out of the house at seventeen, she vowed she’d never set foot in her home again. Already addicted to drugs, Serena gave birth to Raven at sixteen. She wasn’t prepared to raise a child. Now Serena didn’t make it through a day without a heroin fix, and she hadn’t held a job in two years. LeVar covered the rent. The Harmon Kings paid well, but membership came at a price.
Through the window, Raven watched Buck Benson’s truck motor up his driveway. The confederate flag rippled with pride. Raven’s great aunt flew a confederate flag in front of her South Carolina home. It seemed odd—a black woman displaying the confederate flag. But Aunt Martha grew up in the south and considered the flag a symbol of southern pride. Buck Benson was a lifelong resident of Nightshade County. There was only one reason he flew that flag. She caught his beady eyes glaring with disdain toward her property. Be
nson gunned the engine and rocketed down the lake road, leaving a trail of exhaust smoke.
Her phone rang. Chelsey.
“Where are you?” Raven asked, moving to the counter. As she theorized, she’d misplaced two slices of wheat bread.
“I’m coming out of Harmon and driving back to the office.”
“Harmon? What are you doing there?”
Chelsey paused.
“Just checking on a new client.” A horn beeped in the background. “Hey, when is the last time you heard from your brother?”
“A few weeks ago. Why?”
“My client owns a business in Harmon. Someone robbed the place, and he thinks the Harmon Kings might be responsible.”
Raven always knew when Chelsey twisted the truth. The waver in the woman’s voice gave her away.
“LeVar is a lot of things, but he’s not a thief.”
“I’m not accusing him, just wondering if he knows who hit the place up. Could you tell him to call me?”
Raven tapped her nails against the kitchen table.
“I’ll give him your number.”
No way LeVar would call Chelsey. He could smell a setup.
The realization slapped Raven across the face. Chelsey was investigating LeVar.
“Thanks, Raven. Look, I have two more stops to make, then I’ll swing by the office, if you want to meet me there. We need to complete the paperwork on the Fitzgerald case.”
Raven glanced at the time. If she hurried, she’d beat Chelsey to the office and snoop around before her boss arrived.
“That works for me. I’ll meet you in half an hour.”
After Chelsey hung up, Raven surveyed the windows and doors and ensured she’d locked the house tight. Between her brother breaking in and a redneck psycho living down the road, she wasn’t taking chances. She pointed the key fob at her black Nissan Rogue and hopped in. Ten minutes later, she drove into the small lot behind Wolf Lake Consulting. The office was a converted two-bedroom, single-story house three miles from the lake. She slipped the key into the door and searched the street for Chelsey’s vehicle. Then she stepped inside and locked the door behind her.
A greeting desk stood beyond the entryway, but the firm didn’t employ a secretary. They didn’t attract enough clients to justify the cost. On the right side of the hallway, a kitchen painted in powder-blues held a refrigerator. A kettle sat on the gas stove, and two boxes of tea and an economy size can of coffee rested on the counter. The converted master bedroom served as the office’s focal area. Chelsey’s desk sat near a window overlooking the village shopping district, and Raven’s table offered a stream view. She set her bag down on the table and hurried to Chelsey’s computer. Damn. Chelsey had shut the PC down before she left, and the ancient computer took a lifetime to reboot.
While the system loaded, Raven pulled the drawers open on Chelsey’s desk. She felt lecherous searching through her boss’s files. Chelsey was her friend, and Raven trusted her. But family came first. Besides, she wasn’t tampering with Chelsey’s investigation, just checking what the woman had on LeVar. She found the Fitzgerald file, and below that, a folder holding the Merriam case from last month. Nothing else.
She whipped open another drawer and found a set of keys and wasp spray. They’d battled a wasp nest last autumn. Outside, a motor rumbled as footsteps shuffled up the walkway. Raven threw the drawer shut and backed away from the desk. Moving along the wall, she returned to the entryway and peeked through the window. False alarm. The sound she’d heard was a woman power walking past the office. She checked for Chelsey’s car again and hurried back to the computer. The PC took forever to load, and now it asked her to install an update.
She clicked out of the message and scanned the hard drive. Where would Chelsey hide information about LeVar? None of the folder names caught her eye. But she knew her way around a computer. Clicking on the sorting tool, she displayed the folders by date. Someone had modified a folder named TW this morning.
A noise inside the house brought her head up. The old place always popped and groaned when the temperature changed. Her senses on high alert, she skimmed the file contents and opened a sub-folder of pictures. The photographs depicted a teenage girl with light-brown hair pulled into a ponytail. She recognized the girl from the newspaper. Erika Windrow, the teenager who disappeared from Harmon. The second photograph of Erika appeared recent. Gone was the hopeful smile from the first picture. This version of Erika was sullen. She wore fishnet stockings and heels with a purse slung over her shoulder. Two fingers clamped on a cigarette as the girl stood across the street from an adult toy store.
TW. Wasn’t the girl’s mother Tessa Windrow? Yes, Raven remembered the woman’s name from the newspaper article. Which meant Tessa Windrow, not some nameless store owner in Harmon, was Chelsey’s secret client.
In the third picture, someone had cropped the previous photograph and zoomed in on Erika’s tattoo. The poor girl belonged to the 315 Royals.
A fourth photograph caught LeVar crossing a busy city road. Raven recognized the Harmon backdrop.
Before she could dig through the other photographs, a key turned in the lock. Raven began clicking out of the photographs, but she’d opened too many. As she raced to close the images, the front door swung open, and village sounds filtered through the converted home.
“Raven? You here?”
Raven’s hands trembled while the mouse flew around the screen. Three more pictures to close. The floorboards groaned outside the threshold. The last image closed when Chelsey turned the corner. Raven sat on the edge of the desk and opened a blank document.
“Hey, I got here a few seconds ago,” Raven said, fighting to keep her voice steady. “I’m starting a new document so we can close out the Fitzgerald case.”
Chelsey set her keys on the desk and studied Raven. She knew something was up.
“You want coffee?”
“Please,” Raven said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I’ve been battling a headache since this morning.”
“I’ll start a fresh pot and grab you the ibuprofen bottle.”
“Appreciate it.”
She waited until Chelsey reached the kitchen before exhaling. Her eyes moved back to the screen. She’d forgotten the tattoo photograph. It displayed beneath the blank document. Praying Chelsey hadn’t noticed, she closed the picture.
Was LeVar a suspect in Erika Windrow’s death?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Jenson Hodges shoved the rolling mail cart out of the elevator and followed the long, gloomy hallway inside the Bluewater Tribune headquarters. He hated the mundane work. But the Wolf Lake High careers program earned him a free pass from study hall and home economics. An aspiring journalist, Jenson dreamed of a full ride at Syracuse University’s Newhouse School of Communications. He needed work experience to beef up his application.
Not that he learned a damn thing working at the Tribune. While the reporters researched stories and raced against deadlines upstairs, Jenson brewed coffee, ensured the kitchen stayed clean, and every weekday at eleven o’clock, he gathered the mail. The postman delivered to the first floor and set envelopes and packages on a counter inside the receiving room. It was Jenson’s job to sort through the deliveries, categorize the mail, and make certain the mail reached the appropriate personnel.
Thursdays dragged longer than other weekdays. The proximity to the weekend, so close he could almost touch it, made Thursday worse than Monday. Tomorrow night was the Magnolia Dance. Until he put twenty pounds on his waif-like frame and cleared up the acne, he wouldn’t win a girlfriend. Still, attending the dance was fun, and his friends would be there. He nudged his glasses up his nose and wondered if contacts would help his chances.
Except for the administrative assistant on the first floor, nobody worked on this level. Occasionally Jenson passed the janitor mopping the floors, and the reporters bustled through at lunchtime. He passed time listening to music and podcasts. Today, he caught up on sports scores.
Jenson eyed the box with suspicion. There were a lot of crazy people in the world, and lunatics with agendas sent bombs when they disagreed with opinionated articles. The box was about the right size for a bomb. Or was it? He’d never seen a bomb. All he had to go on were the black oval bombs from Saturday morning cartoons, the ones with long fuses that sparked and whirred. He nudged the box with his toe and something shifted inside. Next, he lifted it from the sides and tested the weight. The size looked appropriate for a bowling ball, but this box was too light. Plastic crinkled inside.
The smell hit him. Jenson recoiled and placed a hand to his mouth. Sometimes readers sent food to the newspaper, and this genius didn’t realize perishable food spoiled. He wanted to toss the box into the trash. Better not. If the package turned out to be important, he’d catch hell from the editor.
The stench grew as Jenson hovered over the container and considered what to do. He didn’t want to get close to the package. Maybe he should call upstairs and ask the editor. Not a good idea. Nobody took Jenson seriously, and at this rate, he’d never convince the reporters to let him coauthor an article.
He bent at the knees, held his breath, and hefted the cardboard box. The bottom tore. As he fought to gather the contents before it smashed against the tile, the severed head broke through the cardboard and splattered on the floor.
Jenson leaned over the garbage can and vomited.
* * *
Thomas stood over the woman’s head. Virgil Harbough, the Nightshade County medical examiner, knelt and clicked a photograph. Behind them, Sheriff Gray ordered Aguilar and Lambert to keep the reporters from reaching the scene. The irony wasn’t lost on Thomas. The deputies prevented photographers and reporters from covering a story inside their own building.