Her Last Breath: A Chilling Psychological Thriller (Wolf Lake Thriller Book 1)

by Dan Padavona

  “I take it this is Erika Windrow’s missing head,” Harbough said, rubbing his mustache.

  The ME had determined the butchered body belonged to Erika Windrow.

  “It’s hard to tell, but the facial features appear consistent with a female teenager,” Thomas said.

  The ME wore ashen slacks and a blue button-down. In the autopsy room, he’d wear scrubs. His striped tie dangled over the head, and Thomas worried the tip would drape against Erika Windrow’s bloated lips. Harbough tucked the tie inside his shirt and wiped beneath his nose. Gray pushed the entry door open and let the CSI team inside.

  “Is that the kid who discovered the head?” Harbough asked, tilting his chin at a scrawny teenage boy in the corner.

  “Jenson Hodges,” Thomas said.

  “He doesn’t look old enough to work at the Tribune.”

  Thomas explained Jenson was a high school student. The boy clutched his arms together, unable to stay warm, though the crowded room felt stifling. Thomas and Harbough cleared out when a female CSI technician from the county lab approached.

  “Did either of you touch the remains?” she asked. Thomas shook his head. “What about the kid?”

  Thomas moved his gaze to Jenson, who answered Aguilar’s questions while Lambert kept the reporters at bay.

  “He claims he didn’t. The box broke when he lifted it, and the kid says he jumped back. Sounds like a natural reaction. But I won’t be surprised if he touched the head.”

  Harbough nursed an achy back as Gray joined Thomas.

  “I’ll have an answer for you tomorrow morning,” the ME said.

  “Thanks, Virgil,” Gray said. The sheriff turned to Thomas while the medical examiner took a phone call. Gray nodded at the torn cardboard box, marked by a yellow evidence card. “We can figure out who sent the box, right?”

  “The barcode will tell us where the package originated from. Chances are our killer paid cash and lied about his name. If we’re lucky, the post office cameras caught this guy.”

  Gray puffed out his mustache.

  “The forensics team needs to process the evidence before we take the box.”

  “We don’t need the box,” Thomas said, removing his phone.

  He swiped to the camera app and photographed the code.

  “Will that work?”

  “It should. Let’s take this to the nearest post office and figure out who sent the box.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The woman behind the counter at the Wolf Lake post office scanned the barcode while Thomas and Gray waited. The female postmaster told them the package came from Harmon. Gray wasn’t surprised. Everything bad came from Harmon.

  Thomas rode shotgun in Gray’s cruiser. The sheriff weaved through rush hour traffic, flashing his lights to bypass a glut. Thomas sensed the sheriff’s desperation to get answers.

  “I can’t wrap my head around it,” Gray said, searching for an opening as two delivery trucks blocked a busy intersection. He laid on the horn. “What kind of sicko dumps a body in a lake, knowing it will wash ashore, then sends body parts to the newspaper?”

  Peering through the passenger window, his eyes scanning the sidewalk for LeVar Hopkins, Thomas said, “The killer wants attention. It’s a game to him.”

  “The idiot psycho will get himself caught. You’d assume he’d bury the body where nobody would find it.”

  Thomas grunted. During his decade with the LAPD, he worked alongside homicide detectives. Most killers functioned as Gray theorized—they buried the evidence. On rare occasions, homicide encountered a lunatic who flaunted his murders. Thomas rubbed his chin. Why would LeVar Hopkins or the Harmon Kings advertise a murder? Gangs didn’t relish police attention and preferred to rule over their fiefdoms without interference.

  As if Gray read Thomas’s thoughts, he said, “We need hard evidence on LeVar Hopkins. I’m tired of conjecture and rumors. This scumbag spends more time on the lake than I do, and nobody can find him. We still haven’t linked him to a single gang-related homicide.”

  Gray turned the cruiser into the parking lot and angled the vehicle between two postal trucks. The Harmon post office nestled between a hardware store and a Chinese restaurant on the east side of the city. The beige brick building was a squat rectangle with a handicap accessible ramp in front. Three blue mailboxes lined the concrete sidewalk leading to the ramp, and a food donation box stood beside the entry doors. Inside, their footsteps squeaked and echoed on the polished floor. A heavy warehouse, cardboard scent pervaded the building.

  The sheriff led Thomas to the counter and waved down a bearded man behind the desk. Pete Bottoman, the Harmon postmaster, called an employee from the back to man his place at the counter. Bottoman met Gray and Thomas at the end.

  “I need a barcode scanned,” Gray said, motioning for Thomas to hand him his phone.

  Thomas loaded the picture and placed the phone on the counter. Bottoman donned reading glasses and examined the photograph.

  “This should do,” the postmaster said. He scanned the image and waited until his computer beeped. “All right, Sheriff. The package in question originated at this post office at eleven o’clock yesterday. Sender listed as Henry Washington.”

  “Generic name. Did he show identification?”

  The postmaster shrugged.

  “Even if he did, he could have used a fake.”

  “Eleven yesterday.” Gray set his arms on the counter. “Any chance you have surveillance cameras?”

  “We do,” Bottoman said, nodding at a camera pointing down from the ceilings.

  “I need the footage from yesterday morning.”

  Bottoman cocked an eyebrow, but he didn’t question why.

  “Give me ten minutes to make the transfer.”

  After the postmaster disappeared, Thomas questioned the two employees working the counter. Neither remembered the box. The Harmon post office was the county’s busiest, and it was impossible to remember everybody who came through.

  “Sorry about the delay, Sheriff,” Bottoman said, handing the sheriff the USB thumb drive. “Our computer systems are running like molasses today.”

  Thomas slid into the passenger seat and pocketed the thumb drive. Gray slammed the door. Frustration tightened the sheriff’s hands. When was the last time Nightshade County dealt with a high-profile murder? Thomas couldn’t recall anything like this during his childhood.

  A long sedan pulled beside the cruiser at the red light. Music poured through the windows, and a mix of white and black teenagers, some wearing bandannas, glared at Thomas through the windows. His spine clenched. The kid in the passenger seat reminded Thomas of a gang member at the house the LAPD and DEA raided. Hidden in his lap, his hands twisted into fists until the light turned green and the sedan drove off.

  “I want you to sift through the footage when we get back to the station,” Gray said, not picking up on Thomas’s anxiety.

  “I’m familiar with process.”

  How long would his PTSD last?

  “Lambert is on his way to Harmon to question the prostitutes again. Not that it will do a damn bit of good.” He shook his head. “One of their own died, and they refuse to talk. You’d think they’d cooperate so we can catch the bastard. If LeVar Hopkins is killing prostitutes, any of them could be next.”

  Thomas shifted in his seat. He wanted to argue they lacked evidence linking LeVar to Erika Windrow’s murder. But he wasn’t an LAPD detective anymore, just a county deputy. Sheriff Gray had run this county for nineteen years and served the department twice as long. If there was one thing Thomas knew about Gray, when the sheriff got an idea in his head, you couldn’t dislodge it with a pry bar. He’d blame Father Josiah Fowler for Lana’s death forever, though he couldn’t prove Fowler crossed the centerline and forced Lana off the road. Still, Gray was a good man and right more than he was wrong. Gray believed LeVar killed Erika. Thomas needed evidence LeVar was innocent before he crossed the sheriff.

  The cruiser hit th
e interstate when Gray’s phone rang. The sheriff dropped the phone and cursed.

  “I can’t figure out this Bluetooth nonsense,” he said.

  Thomas picked the phone off the floor. Aguilar was calling.

  “It’s Deputy Aguilar,” said Thomas. “You want me to answer?”

  “Might as well. I can’t talk to her unless I stop.”

  Aguilar sounded surprised when Thomas answered.

  “The forensics team found a handwritten link inside the box,” Aguilar said.

  “A link to a website?”

  “It looks that way. I’m back at the office now and typing the URL into the computer.”

  Gray glanced at Thomas.

  “What’s happening?”

  Thomas lowered the phone.

  “Something about a website link written on the box.”

  Fiddling with the console, Thomas reset the Bluetooth settings and pushed the call through the stereo speakers. Aguilar drew a sharp breath.

  “It’s another video.”

  Gray stepped on the gas and passed an eighteen-wheeler.

  “What do you mean, another video?” Gray asked, his voice tinged with irritation and panic.

  Aguilar’s voice cracked.

  “The killer. He has Erika Windrow’s head.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Raven slapped the steering wheel. She’d forgotten her lunch for the second time this week. As she motored home along the lake, she glanced over the water, where a sailboat cruised with the wind. Winter had given up, sun glistened off the water, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. She could think of a million things she’d rather be doing besides filing paperwork at the office. And since Chelsey was at the office, Raven couldn’t hack through her computer files.

  She parked the Rogue in front of the garage and stepped into the driveway. The temperature hovered in the sixties, and she stretched her arms toward the sky, relishing the heat. Maybe she’d call Chelsey and take the afternoon off. Her boss wouldn’t appreciate the short notice, and they still needed to finish the Hugh Fitzgerald paperwork. But Chelsey owed Raven three days of vacation time before June.

  She rounded the vehicle and snatched her purse off the passenger seat. A glint of metal caught her eye as her gaze wandered to the lake road. Beyond the bend, a black Chrysler Limited motored closer. LeVar.

  Thinking on her feet, Raven jumped into the car and backed up the driveway. A stand of pine trees shielded her SUV from the road. She nestled the Rogue behind the trees, worried the tires would stick in the muddy terrain. Then she sat and waited.

  A minute later, LeVar’s Chrysler stopped in front of the garage. Her brother hopped out of the car while she watched him through the trees. He wouldn’t notice the Rogue unless he circled the house. But LeVar sensed something was wrong. He jiggled the keys in his hands and moved his eyes across the windows. For a moment, Raven thought LeVar would climb into his car and drive away. After a second of consideration, he strode to the door and climbed the steps. His eyes swept left and right. From his pocket, he removed a lock pit set. Son-of-a-bitch. If he’d asked Raven for a key, she would have given him one. This violated her trust.

  The door swung open. He stood on the threshold, listening, still sensing eyes on him. Then he stepped inside.

  Raven slipped out of the Rogue and edged the door closed. She crept past the pines, thankful for the soft bed of needles concealing her movement. The woman moved to the outer wall and stood with her back against the house. A window inside the kitchen stood open a crack. Inside, dishes clinked as LeVar fished inside the cupboards. With her brother occupied, Raven jogged to the driveway and waited on the top step. She could be quiet when she needed to be. A quick turn of the lock, and she’d take LeVar by surprise.

  Her hands went cold and tingled. LeVar was the Harmon Kings’ enforcer. No matter how much she loved her brother, she feared him. LeVar didn’t go anywhere without a weapon. What if he turned on her?

  With one trembling hand, she inserted the key and twisted. Raven gritted her teeth when the locking mechanism clicked.

  She darted from the entryway to the hallway and waited. The refrigerator opened as he rustled inside the drawers. When plastic crinkled, Raven swung around the wall and moved on cat’s paws into the living room. Her back against the dividing wall, she stood ten feet from the most feared gang member in Harmon.

  He’s my brother, she told herself. LeVar won’t hurt me.

  When footsteps moved across the kitchen, Raven held her breath and spun around the wall. He pulled up in shock and nearly dropped the sandwich. Dreadlocks spilling down his shoulders, he glared at her with his chin hanging to his chest. Blue jeans hung low on his hips, and a muscle shirt displayed chiseled, tattooed arms. Her eyes fixed on the Taurus 9mm poking out from his waistband.

  He glared at her, at a loss for words. After he set his sandwich on the counter, he folded his arms over his chest.

  “What up, Raven?”

  “You break inside my house and ask me what the hell’s up?”

  “No need for that noise. I’m just grabbing a little food for the road.”

  “That’s not your food, LeVar. Last I checked, you don’t buy the groceries around here.”

  He puffed his chest out and pushed past her. As she stood frozen to the floor, he opened the pantry and pawed inside.

  “Yeah, well, you don’t buy Mom’s groceries, neither. That’s all me. And the rent. So don’t come at me with no bullshit ‘cause I made a sandwich.” He grunted. “Don’t you got protein bars or something? What’s this granola shit? You a squirrel?”

  Raven pulled his hand away and closed the pantry door.

  “You can’t come here unannounced like you own the place.”

  “I’m getting a drink of water, then I’ll get out of your hair.”

  She swerved to block his access to the sink. He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. She responded by folding her arms over her chest.

  “Stubborn bitch.”

  “Something is going on with you, LeVar. I don’t hear from you for months, and now you’re stealing my food and sleeping on the couch when I’m not home.” He blinked in surprise. “Oh, you think I didn’t notice? I work for a private investigator. Nobody breaks inside my place without me finding out.”

  “Ain’t like I’m stealing. Now move out of the way and let me get a drink.”

  She sighed and moved away. He opened the tap and placed his lips under the stream before she yanked him back.

  “What are you, an animal? I’ll get you a glass.”

  LeVar’s lips pulled tight. Raven stood on tiptoe and removed a glass from the top shelf. She set it down hard in front of him. Not removing his eyes from hers, LeVar filled the glass and drank half the contents before coming up for air. Something was up with her brother. His feet shifted.

  “I need to ask you something,” she said, fixing him with a hard glare.

  “Ask away, Sis. I got nothing to hide.”

  Yeah, right.

  “Did you kill that girl?”

  “What girl? I ain’t killed nobody.”

  “The girl on the television, LeVar. Don’t play stupid with me. She whored for the Royals.”

  “Dammit, Sis. You trying to say I had some bitch killed because the Royals owned her? You’re crazy.”

  “The cops say you did it.”

  “The cops don’t know shit.”

  “You better watch yourself, LeVar. People are looking for you right now.” Should she tell him about Chelsey? How would LeVar react to Raven’s boss investigating him? “If you’re innocent, come forward and clear your name.”

  He snickered.

  “Listen to you. Are you from Wolf Lake or Harmon? Since when do cops give a shit about guilt and innocence in the hood? Fuck that. They want me, they can come looking.”

  “Don’t talk like that.”

  “Why not? I’m a cold-blooded killer. Ain’t that what everyone says?” He set the glass down with a thunk. �
�I’m using the bathroom, then I’m out of here.”

  Exasperated, she collapsed into a chair and ran a hand through her hair. Down the hall, he relieved himself with the door wide open. He flushed and ran the water. At least he washed his hands afterward.

  “You’re not a cold-blooded killer,” she said, scrubbing a hand across her face.

  “What?”

  “I said you’re not a—”

  A car motored down her driveway. One eye on the hallway as she fretted over LeVar, Raven rushed to the living room window and peered between the curtains. A green Honda Civic stopped halfway up the incline. Shit. Chelsey was here. Had her boss followed Raven? Outside, Chelsey climbed from her car and removed the gun from her holster.

  “LeVar,” she whispered.

  No answer.

  The faucet shut off inside the bathroom. Raven ran to the hallway and bent her neck around the wall.

  “LeVar, my boss is here.”

  Would he recognize the danger? LeVar had no idea Wolf Lake Consulting pursued him. A knock brought Raven’s head around. Chelsey looked like a phantom through the translucent curtain. Excuses flew through Raven’s head. She couldn’t hide LeVar’s presence. His Chrysler sat in clear view.

  “Raven? Are you okay?”

  Christ.

  Chelsey considered LeVar a threat. If she broke inside and drew her gun, the encounter would end with somebody dead. As Raven contemplated opening the door, the bathroom window slid open. She wasted ten seconds, giving LeVar time to squeeze through the window while Chelsey jiggled the doorknob.

  Raven pulled the door open and feigned indifference.

  “What’s wrong, Chelsey?”

  Chelsey barged inside and swept her gaze across the room.

  “Where is he?”

  “Where’s who?”

  “Don’t start. Your brother’s car is in the driveway.”

  When Chelsey moved toward the hallway, Raven slid in front of her.