Speaking to Klauss was certainly a priority, the inclusion of his print a curious thing that no doubt held some form of significance. But, again, it also came with the caveat of feeling like it was something to keep Reed guessing, always turning in a state of confused chaos.
“How about Dr. Mehdi?”
“Straight to voicemail,” Grimes said. He didn’t say how many times he had tried the number, though Reed knew it had to have been more than a half-dozen. Likely, she was asleep for the night, having turned off her phone until morning.
“Are there any other psychiatrists in the area we can get ahold of?” Reed asked. “She’s good, but-“
“Already thought of that,” Grimes said. “There’s a guy I know they use out of Worthington that’s supposed to be pretty decent.”
Pretty decent wasn’t exactly what Reed was looking for, but he wasn’t in a position to be picky. Having heard what Della was going through in their last call, he just needed someone to speak with her, to bring her somewhere close to the level.
And to make sure she remained calm, conserving as much of the phone battery and oxygen as she could.
“Get him on the horn if you can,” Reed said. “He doesn’t even need to come in, I can connect him through on my phone.”
“Will do,” Grimes replied.
For a moment, there was silence. Nobody said anything, each person fighting to process while trying to think of the next steps.
Right now, Captain Grimes was awaiting a call from Franklin County Corrections and the two psychiatrists. Hopefully, he would hear from one soon, or at the very least track down somebody they could get on the line.
Reed felt for Della, and he wanted so badly to help her, but there was no denying he was out of his element in that realm. What she was going through, what he had already borne witness to, was well beyond anything he could handle.
And as his mother was so fond of saying, a sure sign of intelligence was knowing when somebody else knew more.
In Grove City, Officers Greene and Gilchrist were securing the scene he’d just left. Soon, they would track down the owner of the house and look to see where the wireless signal was coming from, neither of which may amount to much, but at least it would check things off that needed to be considered.
Any moment, Earl and his team would arrive to begin processing the place, doing with it exactly as they did with Della Snow’s earlier in the night.
Which left Reed with exactly one viable option at the moment.
Holding the phone out in front of him, he scrolled through the list of recent calls, going down to the third in order before hitting send.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
“I was just about to call you.”
Many times over the years, Reed had heard that from various people. Riley was famous for answering the phone that way nearly every time they spoke, a personality quirk that later became a running joke.
His mother was also a serial offender, offering it at least one of every three times he called home.
Never before had he heard Deke use the expression. If that alone wasn’t enough to make him believe it, then the tone being used was.
“What have you got?” Reed asked.
Around him, he could sense the other three men lean in closer. By his side, Billie pressed against his leg, her ribs tight on the outside of his knee, asserting her place at the fore.
“I found you an address,” Deke said. “Again, I can’t promise you anything, but I can tell you where the phone she’s using came from.”
It was the second time on the night Deke had made such an admission. Not once in the years Reed had known the man had he heard him speak in such ways, nor had he ever heard his voice take on its current tenor, not even when discussing his ailing grandmother.
By and large, the man’s demeanor seemed to bely the look that he either tried very hard or not at all to cultivate – an idiot savant masquerading as an easygoing surfer.
The fact that he called central Ohio home was light years from being the point.
For such a shift to have taken place meant this case was resonating with him in a way Reed had never experienced before. An outcome that could only be attributed to hearing the outburst of Della Snow on the phone earlier in the night.
“The last one you gave me was solid,” Reed said, leaving out that while their guy wasn’t there, he certainly had been, “I’m willing to roll the dice on whatever you’ve got.”
“Okay,” Deke said, “the phone was clearly a burner, the number attached to it part of a box that is being sold at Bingham’s in Hilliard.”
Looking around the room, Reed noticed that Gilchrist wasn’t present to be taking down notes, his gaze immediately searching for something to write with. Mimicking as much with his hand, Grimes pulled open his top desk drawer, taking out an ink pen and pad. Instead of sliding it over to Reed though, he began acting as the transcriptionist, making notations.
“Bingham’s,” Reed repeated. The name sounded vaguely familiar, a mom-and-pop drug store that he had been by a few times but never gone into. Located on the outer edge of Hilliard, it existed right along the border between the 8th and neighboring 19th Precinct.
More than that, it resided in the gray area between two distinctly different socio-economic areas, resting on the one street that marked a shift from The Bottoms into the more gentrified areas to the north.
“You know the place?” Deke asked.
“Know of it,” Reed replied. “Never been in, not sure what the hours are.”
“Already looked,” Deke said. “They close at nine every night, open again at eight in the morning. The owner is a guy named Paul Bingham, lives just a couple blocks away. I wasn’t going to call and wake him up, but I can text you his number if you want to.”
Reed could feel his eyebrows rise as he looked over to McMichaels and Jacobs. Over the course of the last year and a half, Deke had become an integral part of some of his higher profile cases. He wasn’t somebody that Reed made a habit of calling, but he was around enough that the other officers he frequently worked with were acquainted with him.
And, just like Reed, they seemed to be surprised by the change in approach.
Clearly, Reed wasn’t the only one feeling the strain of the case.
“Please do,” Reed said. “Thank you again, Deke.”
As with their previous conversation, Deke ignored the thanks. “You have Della’s number already. Unfortunately, there’s not a lot more than that I can tell you.”
Already feeling his adrenaline begin to rise again, Reed’s mind was on to the next stop in order. Much like the previous places he’d been throughout the night, it might not amount to anything, but there had to be something useful to glean from it.
As disconnected as everything still seemed to be, at some point it was going to come together. All he needed was that one common thread to start drawing things to the center.
“No, that’s great,” Reed said. “We appreciate it.”
“Anything else I can do?” Deke asked.
Jerking his attention up, Reed looked at each of the three men in turn. None seemed to have any ideas, all staring at him, their eyes wide, waiting for his response.
“Actually, there is one thing, but I’m just spitballing here,” Reed said. “I’ve got Captain Grimes with me, so I’m going to throw this out there, one or both of you tell me if it’s crazy.”
Over the line, Deke remained silent. In the room, Grimes looked up from his notepad, saying nothing.
“Is there any way you can try and look at the call that came in to 911?” Reed said. “I know it’ll probably be blocked or rerouted as well, but maybe if we find out which desk it went to, we can narrow the geographic area?”
A crease appeared between Grimes’s eyes as he thought on the notion. Staring away for a moment, he seemed to consider it before saying, “Can’t hurt to look into.”
Shifting his attention back down to the phone, Reed said, “Deke? That doable?”
&
nbsp; For an instant, there was no response. Second in order came a long sigh, followed by, “Dammit.”
“What?” Reed asked. “No chance?”
“No,” Deke said, slight agitation in his voice, “I mean, it’s a good idea. I should have thought of it myself. I’ll get back to you as soon as I have something.”
Without another word, he was gone.
In the wake of the call, each man in the room exchanged a glance. None had expected the abrupt ending, all taken aback as Reed cleared the screen on his phone.
“Well, that was different,” Jacobs said.
“Yes, it was,” Reed agreed, sliding the phone back into his pocket. “You boys up for having a little chat with Paul Bingham?”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The window on The Scorekeeper’s computer screen denoting Della Snow’s apartment had been closed. Starting with the initial burst of activity and following with a second one just a short time later, he already knew that Mattox and the crime scene unit had been there.
No need to keep monitoring, nothing of further use to be gleaned from the location.
The next up in order was dancing across the top of his computer screen as he returned back to what was his temporary base of operations. Able to see it from across the room, The Scorekeeper paused, letting the events of the last hour play out in his mind.
As much fun as being positioned at the end of the street had been, watching as Mattox and his team of bumbling dolts spilled into the house, every part of him wished he could have been inside. That he could have borne witness as the charges around the garage door exploded. Maybe even have seen a bit of shrapnel or a spark catching one of them, inflicting some sort of injury, no matter how small.
At the very least, he wished he could have sat a bit longer, waiting as they came filing out. Seeing the look on their faces as they realized they had been duped again, the location nothing more than another stop on his list, would have been priceless.
For obvious reasons, that hadn’t been possible, but that didn’t erase the pleasure such thoughts brought to The Scorekeeper’s mind.
Peeling the ball cap from his head, The Scorekeeper tossed it into a chair along the wall. Landing upside down, he could see the pale ring around the inner band of it, a stark contrast to the dark blue material. Seeing that, any hint of a smile that might have existed a moment before fled his face. Replaced by the hardened visage he’d worked so long to perfect that it had become second nature, he shrugged off his jacket.
Much too warm for the night or the time of year, it too was a necessary precaution, something he rarely trusted himself to leave the house without.
A thought that only increased the vitriol he was feeling.
Circling back around the sofa, The Scorekeeper turned the computer so it was facing him. At the top of the screen, the window for the house in Grove City was still lit up, the place alive and active with crime scene investigators.
All scouring through his handiwork, none would find a single thing that he didn’t want them to. In the past, he had been sloppy. He had failed to realize that he might be a target by virtue of his mere existence.
And it had cost him.
Never again.
From that point forward, he had made a vow that nobody would ever get a single thing from him that he didn’t explicitly want them to. That was the reason for the hat. And the coat. And the screen he was now staring at.
If he really wanted to get down to it, it was one of the two biggest reasons for everything that was now happening throughout the night. It was what had kept him awake for so many other nights, staring at the concrete brick ceiling just two feet from his face, praying for morning to arrive, seemingly trapped in a hellish box.
And it was why Della Snow now found herself going through the same thing.
It was why, if he had his way, there would be a half-dozen more strewn throughout the area doing the exact same thing.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
It had taken three phone calls to get through to Paul Bingham. The first, Reed made while walking from Grimes’s office to his car parked out front. Ringing three times before going to voicemail, he had opted against leaving a message.
The second, he had made just two blocks from the precinct, running fast with the flashers on. In his rearview, he could see the square headlights of McMichaels’s truck just a car length back, the two having opted against their standard cruiser for a personal ride.
A move that Reed couldn’t argue seemed to perfectly encapsulate the night.
Try as he might, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was all somehow personal.
Again going unanswered, Reed had left a lengthy and detailed message, practically screaming at the phone balanced on his thigh. Alternating glances between it and the road ahead, he could feel Billie pressed into his right triceps, her upper body squeezed into the gap between the front seats. Operating without the need for GPS, Reed took the route by memory, the time of night being the sole thing that allowed him to move with such abandon through the streets.
In the wake of the call, Reed had somehow made it a full five minutes before calling again. Even though he had probable cause to enter, simply getting into Bingham’s shop would do him no good. Even if the place had security cameras, he would need someone to show him how to access the footage and where it was stored.
More than anything, he needed to speak with someone. He needed to find out how many burner phones they went through and if anybody remembered making the sale.
Feeling his heart rate rise, knowing that they couldn’t risk showing up and having nothing to do, Reed had called a third time. And to his extreme relief, the call was answered.
Based on initial impressions, the man on the other end was older, perhaps even as much as Reed’s father. With a graveled voice, his irritation at being woken up in the middle of the night was on plain display.
An understandable reaction, for sure.
Having not heard the message yet, it wasn’t until Reed explained who he was and what he wanted that the tone on the other end of the line began to soften.
By the end of the conversation, any remaining hostility was completely gone, replaced by the promise to be ready and waiting when they arrived.
A promise that was proven true just minutes later as Reed slid to a stop in front of Bingham Drugs. Cutting the lights, he left his car parked on a yellow curb out front, the bumper of McMichaels’s truck just inches behind him.
The place looked exactly as Reed had remembered, a snapshot from another time that had refused to change, regardless what was going on around it. Freestanding with an alley on either side, it was a single story tall, the front done entirely in windows. Along the top and bottom of each were bands of green paint, words like cards, sundries, snacks, and assorted others cut from it, advertising their various offerings.
On the corner was a square plastic sign atop a pole, the same green lettering announcing the name of the place and that it had been in business since 1959.
Standing out in front of the place was a man Reed presumed to be Paul Bingham. Dressed in pajama pants and a white t-shirt, a grey fleece robe swung free on either side of his ample midsection. A thin layer of white covered his cheeks and chin, matching hair on his head only nominally longer.
“Mr. Bingham,” Reed said, stepping around the front end of his car. Reaching into the pocket of his sweatshirt, he extracted his badge and held it up for the man to see. “Detective Reed Mattox, this is my K-9 partner Billie.”
Glancing between them, Bingham nodded, the loose skin under his neck jiggling slightly.
Emerging from the truck, McMichaels and Jacobs both approached, each waving their badges as well.
“These are Officers McMichaels and Jacobs,” Reed said.
“Pardon our vehicle and attire,” Jacobs said. “We were called in for emergency assistance, told to get in as fast as possible.”
Staring at the odd collection of people and animal before him
, Bingham seemed to contemplate things a moment before simply nodding a second time.
“Yeah, sounds like a hell of a thing you’ve all got going.” Turning toward the door, he extracted a wad of keys that would make most high school janitors envious and said, “Let’s see if I can’t give you all a hand in some way.”
Stepping up behind the man, Reed glanced at the two officers. Like him, both had their mouths pulled back into a straight line.
Deke had been correct in his earlier statement. Whether or not this would lead to anything was something they were all still actively debating.
As was the question of how many more side forays they could afford to make before time ran out on Della Snow.
The lock on the front door gave way with an audible click, the metal and glass entry swinging wide. Holding it open behind him, Bingham handed it off to Reed, who waited for the other three to enter before bringing up the rear.
Standing just inside the door, they all waited as Bingham disappeared behind the front counter. An instant later, the overhead lights came to life, the aging halogen bulbs giving off a pale and filmy glow.
“Sorry, they’re old,” Bingham said. “Will take a few minutes for them to come to full power.”
Even under the low light, the place looked like a hundred others scattered throughout the area. Despite having never been inside, Reed recognized all the usual trappings, the place as standard as a corner CVS or Walgreen’s.
“Not a problem,” Reed said. “Mr. Bingham, we appreciate you meeting us like this, and apologize for the late hour, so we’ll keep this short.”
Waving a hand to dismiss the comment, Bingham said nothing in reply.
“We’re here about some burners that were purchased recently,” Reed said, jumping straight to it.
His brow coming together, twin bushy eyebrows melding into one, Bingham asked, “Burners?”
“Prepaid cell phones,” Jacobs said. “We call them burners because people burn through them and then toss them aside.”
A gap appeared between Bingham’s brows, separating them into two as they rose up his forehead. “Oh, yes, yes, yes. I know what you’re talking about, just never heard them called that. You don’t think that the phone being used tonight...?”
The Scorekeeper Page 12