The Keres Case (Heartfelt Cases Book 4)

by Gilbert,Julie C.

  Dara hated playing the game this way, but if she wanted to save Karen, she had to keep up pretenses. She cleared her throat awkwardly.

  “So, if you do live, what would you like to do for a career?”

  “I want to be a nurse, like my mom.” The answer came instantly.

  “Why?”

  Karen shrugged.

  “She’s so good with Ellie and kids like her.” In response to Dara’s questioning look, she added, “Ellie has Down syndrome. Mom takes her to the hospital once a week to visit the children. I want to do what Mom and Ellie do. I want to bring hurting kids a reason to smile.”

  “Have you ever thought about marriage and kids?”

  “I always thought I’d marry Connor Daniels,” Karen admitted, “but that dream ended long before this.” She waved vaguely at their surroundings. “I thought we’d have three kids, a dog, and a house with a backyard pool.” She blinked and yawned.

  No turning back.

  Dara threw the T-shirt over the camera again before Karen slumped over in a deep sleep.

  Chapter 17:

  House on Maple Drive

  Red Roof Inn to House on Maple Drive

  Erie to Edinboro, Pennsylvania

  Patrick Duncan peered through the peephole and saw George Baker holding two large coffees and bouncing on the balls of his feet like an excited child.

  “Come on, Patrick, I know you’re standing right there,” Baker called. “A promising tip came through last night. Ed PD’s already got a head start on us. Since Taggert stole Lawson, I’ve been a lonely single agent. I thought you’d want in. You know, since you’re also flying solo today. I even brought you a treat since Ann never made it back from Walmart yesterday.”

  Patrick unlocked the door and swung it open before retreating to finish his morning rituals. If he was disturbed by Baker’s knowledge of his wife’s comings and goings, he didn’t show it.

  “Let me finish shaving and get dressed.”

  “Always thought you were the sort to sleep in a suit,” Baker commented, taking in Patrick’s nighttime attire. “Uh, not that I—”

  “Have a seat, Baker,” Patrick interrupted. “And don’t spill that coffee.” He entered the bathroom and firmly shut the door.

  Five minutes later, Patrick emerged ready to face the day. He wore a dark suit with a crisp white shirt and a blue tie that counterbalanced Baker’s light summer suit. Patrick donned his work accoutrements of wallet, ID, phone, and gun before accepting the beverage from Baker on the way out.

  Baker filled him in as they walked to the parking lot.

  “I’ll meet you at Maple Drive. Officer Porter should be there starting the canvas. I asked him to leave the two empty houses to us and got warrants to search both. The real estate agent should be meeting us there as well.”

  The real estate agent, Mrs. Cochran, arrived a full twenty minutes after they did. Patrick had plenty of time to finish his coffee and mull over case details that bothered him. The tip seemed too convenient. He sensed a setup, but he had no way of knowing what sort of trap had been laid. He guessed it would be more head games rather than something dangerous, but one could never truly predict when a criminal would escalate things.

  A thorough search of the first house revealed nothing, but as the real estate agent reached to unlock the second house, Patrick seized her hand.

  “What—” she began.

  “I think we found the right place.” Patrick gestured to the door handle which had a wire snaking downward toward the ground, held in place with tape that blended in with the dark wood.

  “We’ll take it from here, Mrs. Cochran,” said Agent Baker. He knelt to study the wire and saw a white piece of paper sticking out from under the door. When he gingerly pulled it out with his fingernails, it came attached to the wire on the door. The tape peeled away from the door dumping the wire in a heap. Tilting his head sideways, Baker read, “‘Zap. Gotcha. Welcome, esteemed cops and feddies.’” He placed the note on the mess of tape and wire before pulling an evidence bag from his pocket and maneuvering everything inside with a pen.

  “When did you last checked on this place?” inquired Patrick.

  “Wednesday night,” Mrs. Cochran answered.

  “Did anything seem unusual or out of place?” he pressed.

  “No, not at all. I came to turn off the air conditioning since my last appointment had been that afternoon, and I didn’t expect to show the house again until tomorrow.”

  “Why don’t you leave us the key, ma’am,” suggested Baker. “We’ll check the house and make sure somebody returns the key.”

  “I want to know if somebody’s been tampering with a house on my watch,” Mrs. Cochran said indignantly.

  “We’ll be sure to let you know,” Patrick promised, plucking the key from her hand. “However, it’s safer if you wait out here.” He waved Officer Porter over to babysit the curious real estate agent.

  Porter looked like he wanted to turn down the assignment, but Baker distracted him with the note they’d found.

  “Secure the outside and make sure Mrs. Cochran stays a safe distance away,” Patrick instructed. “Then see what you can find out about that note.”

  “Maybe I should help you check the house.”

  “Baker and I can handle that, but I want to make sure there are no other outside surprises,” Patrick explained.

  “Be careful,” Baker warned.

  Drawing guns, they quickly cleared the first floor, finding nothing out of the ordinary. Patrick led the way up the stairs. The master bedroom held only an old bed frame. The master bathroom and the hall bathroom contained toilets, sinks, showers, and tired looking towel racks. Two of the remaining bedrooms also held nothing of interest.

  The door to the last room was closed and locked. Dust lay on the floor near the door, and the knob didn’t match the other rooms because someone had recently changed it. A metal key hung from the doorknob by a short length of twine. Patrick took the key and carefully inserted it into the lock, half-expecting a bomb to explode as he turned the handle. He glanced at Baker who wore a grim expression and received a curt nod of readiness.

  Shoving the door open, Patrick stepped inside.

  “Federal agents! Nobody move!” He swept the room with his gun in seconds. Finding no threat, he tucked his gun into his shoulder holster.

  “That would be much more impressive if there were people here,” Baker commented, entering on Patrick’s heels. He whistled at the sight surrounding them, executing a slow circle to take it in. “Somebody’s been very busy.”

  “Or somebody wants us to believe they’ve been very busy.”

  “Are you always this skeptical?” asked Baker, also holstering his gun.

  Ignoring him, Patrick moved over to one of the windows along the wall. It gave him a clear view of the backyard. His attention riveted on a figure crouching by the bushes with a camera lens pointed his direction. Without explanation, he whirled and dashed from the room.

  ***

  George Baker sidestepped to avoid a crash with Agent Duncan.

  “Hey! It’s not that bad in here!” he called to Patrick’s rapidly retreating form. Caught flatfooted, he decided to see what had intrigued Patrick enough to make him quit his company so abruptly. He arrived at the window in time to see a figure bolt from some bushes and sprint off down the street. Officer Porter shouted something and began lumbering after the fugitive. Scant seconds later, Patrick flew into view, running at top speed. He quickly outpaced Porter who plodded on in Patrick’s wake.

  “No fair!” cried Baker. He wanted in on the chase, but as he turned, he saw Ann’s face staring intently at him from the wall. Thoughts of the chase vanished as Baker stepped closer to the collage of newspaper articles and pictures featuring Ann. His eyes skimmed the prints, trying to determine when and where each had been taken. Some prints showed her entering or leaving her parents’ house. Others had her climbing into her car, talking to policemen, and playing with her son. Th
e pictures didn’t tell him much, since he couldn’t remember what outfits Ann wore each day. The series of pictures showing her entering and leaving Walmart gave him pause.

  Those were taken yesterday!

  Baker fumbled for his phone and called Ann.

  “Good morning, Baker. I thought you and Patrick had a house to search this morning.”

  “Still searching,” Baker said tightly. He forced his gaze away from the Ann collection, through the rest of her family to Patrick to himself to the Parkers to Officer Porter to pictures he had already seen of Detective Wickerman and his family. Baker stared at the cluster of pictures featuring Joy and gripped his cell phone hard enough to make his hand hurt.

  “I take it from that tone you found something unpleasant. Do I need to sit down for this?”

  “Newspaper articles and pictures, lots of pictures,” Baker informed. “You, me, Patrick, basically anybody remotely connected to this case. Judging by the clothing, the stalker’s watched you at least three—maybe four—days.” He waited for a response. When none came, he said, “Ann?”

  “Still here.”

  “Why don’t you sound surprised?”

  “Because I’m not. I just finished a chat with a fourteen-year-old kid I caught spying on my parents’ house.”

  “Did you learn anything?”

  Ann responded with a question.

  “Do all the pictures look the same or could they have been taken with different cameras?”

  Baker studied the photos and prints. The quality and thickness of the paper varied.

  “They’re different. How did you know?”

  “If you’re calling about the stalker collection, then I’m assuming Patrick’s not with you. Knowing him, if he’s not with you, he’s probably chasing somebody. Besides, this investigation is in its infancy. The amount of pictures you’re talking about would require several photographers.”

  “Good point,” Baker conceded, “but I don’t get it. Why would this guy bother? I mean, you’d have to see it, but he set up a pretty elaborate scene here then practically gift wrapped it for us. I’m guessing the helpful tip we received came from him too.”

  “What do you mean he gift wrapped it for you?”

  Baker told her about the wire and the note, the changed lock complete with key, and described the rest of the room for her. Aside from the pictures, there was a mattress with dark blue sheets hanging half off, discarded chip bags, an empty water bottle, and some fragments of plastic ties.

  “Show me,” said Ann.

  Baker opened the video app on his phone and slowly walked around the room, giving Ann a clear view of everything.

  She had connected her phone to her laptop, so she could observe on a larger screen.

  “See anything you like?”

  “Not really, but we’re not seeing everything,” said Ann.

  “You don’t think a wall covered in pictures is creepy enough?”

  “Frankly, no,” Ann replied. “His last gift of pictures came in a teddy bear addressed to one man: Detective Wickerman. If he bothered giving us a whole room, he’s going for a much bigger message. The mattress hasn’t been slept on, the impressions are wrong, yet it’s there. Maybe you should check under the mattress.”

  “I can’t play cameraman and run a decent search,” said Baker. “I’ll call you back if I find something.”

  “Actually, I have some phone calls to make anyway. Call me in an hour with an update.”

  “Will do.”

  Donning some rubber gloves, Baker lifted the mattress. The sound of shifting objects came from within the mattress. Puzzled, Baker grunted with the effort to heave the mattress up and propped it against the wall. A louder crash accompanied the maneuver. A large section had been covered in duct tape. Taking out a pocketknife, Baker slowly approached the taped section.

  Chapter 18:

  Ambush

  Streets near Maple Drive

  Edinboro, Pennsylvania

  The figure ahead was fast, but the large camera slowed him down some and the inclination to keep checking the distance between them slowed him a lot.

  Patrick gained steadily as they raced down the street behind Maple Drive.

  “FBI, stop!”

  The lean figure looked back, yelped, and poured on more speed.

  “I didn’t do anything, man!” He started across a wide lawn. Patrick’s tackle caught him around the waist and laid him out on the grass. The precious camera went flying.

  A string of sharp cracks filled the air, followed by the steady chatter of two different guns. Driven by instinct, Patrick flattened himself across the suspect and drew his gun. The air around them filled with flying objects striking the ground near their heads. A blue pile of paint formed. Patrick’s senses registered laughter and the objects’ identity about the time he raised his gun to retaliate. He noticed another pile of paint—red this time—growing on his left side. Shifting position, he rolled the kid over and slammed his forearm across the boy’s neck.

  “Call them off,” he growled.

  “Take it easy, man. It’s just a prank,” protested the teenager.

  Patrick jerked his forearm so the kid’s head bounced off the ground.

  “Does this look like a prank?” He waved his weapon across the kid’s line of sight before holstering it for the second time that morning. Now that the initial fear had passed, cold anger replaced it. He climbed to his feet. “Drop the paintball guns and get out here right now!”

  Reluctantly, two more teenagers emerged, one from behind a thick tree and another from around the corner of the house in whose yard Patrick had caught the stalker.

  “Names,” Patrick demanded. He nudged the prone kid to start.

  “Seth Johnson.” The kid sat up slowly. “Is that gun real?”

  The other two boys were Gordon Haverstock and Elijah Price.

  “Who put you up to this?” Patrick glared down at the camera-wielding delinquent asking stupid questions.

  “Your buddy said you’d be cool with it as long as we didn’t hit you,” said Elijah, who had shot at them from behind the tree.

  Patrick leveled a do-I-look-cool-with-it scowl at the kid.

  “Who is my ‘buddy’? Describe him.”

  “I don’t know. He was older than you,” said Gordon. “He had on a Steelers jersey.”

  “Old, short, and shifty looking,” added Seth, climbing to his feet and eyeing Patrick warily.

  “He had dyed brown hair and brown eyes and paid cash for the help. That’s all we know,” said Elijah.

  Richard Longhue.

  A few more minutes of questioning revealed nothing new or interesting. The kids had been paid three hundred dollars to take pictures of anybody looking at the house today. If anyone chased Seth, he was to lead them back to the others and this quaint paintball ambush.

  When he had gleaned everything he could, Patrick decided a short lecture was in order.

  “Didn’t you think this was an odd request?”

  He received three one-shoulder shrugs.

  “It was three hundred bucks, man,” Seth said.

  “Next time, get a real job. I could have killed you today.”

  Gordon and Elijah shared nervous glances.

  “Never thought of that,” said Elijah.

  “You’re wearing a freaking business suit, man. We didn’t know you’d be carrying,” Seth whined.

  “I identified myself as FBI,” Patrick reminded. “It’s a crime to do so falsely.”

  “Doesn’t mean people won’t do it,” Seth retorted.

  Realizing he was getting nowhere, Patrick crushed the urge to throttle the idiots.

  “You’re going to wait here until a police officer takes your statements. Then, you’re going to clean up the lawn and take your camera and paintball guns home.” His tone left zero room for argument. “Don’t even think about pointing a gun—any gun—at anybody not part of a paintball war ever again. Got that?”

  He never got
an answer. Seth’s eyes widened, warning him milliseconds before real gunfire rang out.

  “Down!” Patrick yelled, already reaching forward as four sharp cracks split the mid-morning air. He seized Elijah and Gordon’s arms and heaved downward as he planted his feet and propelled himself toward Seth. The kid went down like a fallen tree. Patrick rolled off him, whipped out his gun, and came up on a knee in time to see a black car speed around the corner. Mud covered the license plate, but he thought it might be a Pennsylvania plate.

  Patrick turned back to the teenagers.

  “Everybody bullet-free?”

  Elijah and Gordon nodded mutely, but no response came from Seth.

  Pushing the boys aside, Patrick knelt next to Seth. The boy had two holes in his right shoulder and one in the center of his chest. All three wounds leaked blood. Patrick whipped his phone off his belt and threw it at Elijah.

  “Call 911! Gordon, make sure he does it!” After issuing those orders, Patrick turned his efforts to keeping Seth alive long enough for help to arrive.

  ***

  House for Sale on Maple Drive to North Skytop Road

  Edinboro, Pennsylvania

  Baker had just started to cut into the taped section of the mattress when Officer Ralph Porter’s voice broke his concentration.

  “Agent Baker? You up there?” called Porter.

  The officer’s urgency alarmed Baker. He tucked the pocketknife away, left the room, and jogged down the hall toward the stairs.

  “Yeah. Right here. What happened?” He stopped at the top of the stairs. “Did Patrick catch the guy?”

  Drenched in sweat and gasping, Porter leaned against the wall.

  “A kid’s been shot. EMTs are on the way.”

  Baker dashed down the stairs and out the front door. He cast anxious eyes everywhere but saw nothing amiss.

  “Where?”

  Porter stumbled to the front door and leaned against the frame.

  “That way, three streets over!” Porter wheezed, flopping his arm in the general direction of the back of the house.

  “Get some backup,” Baker ordered, sprinting in the direction Patrick had gone. He wasn’t sure he could trust Porter’s vague directions, but the faint wail of sirens told him he’d find the incident easily enough.