He squinted from the blinding light that shined in his face as the officer approached.
“Been drinking tonight?” she asked.
He wanted to demand she take that obnoxious light out of his face, but he couldn't afford to have any more unnecessary run-ins with the law when he was currently a suspect in multiple homicides.
“No, ma'am.”
“You were pretty out of control back there on the bridge. You sure you haven't consumed any alcohol this evening? Or drugs?”
“I'm sure. I looked down briefly to adjust the climate control when I drifted into the other lane. It was a stupid mistake. I'm just glad no one was hurt.”
She sighed like she'd heard it all before.
“License and registration.”
His eyes tried to adjust to the dark, but he couldn't see a thing when he opened his glove compartment. He turned on the ceiling light and easily found his registration inside his neatly organized dash. He handed it to the officer before pulling his license out of his wallet.
“I'll be back,” she said. “You sit tight.”
He waited for what felt like an hour for her to return. Had she seen him throw Daisy's phone out the window? He couldn't even be sure the phone had made it all the way to the water. If it were recovered from the bridge and somehow made it back to the cops, it would not help his case to get a ticket in the same location as her lost phone. That is, if they were even able to trace it back to her. Both her phone and the SIM were in pretty bad shape.
Being that he was a murder suspect, he wondered if his name would come up with some sort of flag when the officer ran his information. He was probably just being paranoid. He assumed she would, however, see his arrest from a few nights earlier. Luckily, he hadn't had anything to drink tonight.
By the time the officer finally returned with his license and registration, he concluded he had nothing to worry about. He was sure Daisy’s phone had landed in the lake. Even if it didn't, it probably wouldn't end up in the cops' hands anyway.
“You willing to take a breath test?”
“Sure.”
“I’m going to need you to step out of the vehicle.”
Eric did as instructed. She whipped out a mobile Breathalyzer device and held the small, plastic tube in front of his mouth.
“Blow.”
He gave one big, long breath into the device until it beeped, and she pulled it out of his mouth. She looked surprised when she checked the results. She handed him back his license and registration.
“I'm going to let you off with a warning, but only because you have a clean driving record. Next time, keep your eyes on the road.”
He couldn't believe his good luck. He thought for sure she'd been writing him a ticket. He climbed back inside his BMW, refolded his registration, and packed it away in his glove compartment as she walked back to her patrol car. It was probably his accent, he reasoned. In all the years he'd been here, it still made the American women swoon.
Eric went into work early the next morning, before his annoying new secretary came in. He rummaged through the filing cabinets behind the front desk and found what he was looking for only moments before Nurse Ratched arrived.
“Morning,” he said, stepping out from behind her desk.
“Morning.” As usual, she eyed him suspiciously. She looked down at the paper he held in his left hand.
He ignored her gaze and retreated into his office. He closed the door behind him and scanned through Daisy's employment application. Just as he had hoped, she'd listed Dwayne as her emergency contact along with his mobile phone number.
He walked outside to his car on his lunch hour and felt sick when he saw the damage he'd done to the passenger side the night before. Not quite as sick as he'd felt when he learned of Dwayne's release, but almost. The perfect black paint job on the front fender was marred with ugly gray scrapes from where he'd hit the guardrail.
He made himself look away before he got in on the driver's side, telling himself it was nothing that couldn't be fixed. He drove to the nearest gas station to buy a burner phone.
Being lunch time, the place was busy. He was fifth in line for the cashier by the time he found a phone. His eyes drifted to the TV that hung on the wall behind the register. Two news reporters, a man and a woman, sat behind a desk and speculated about Martin’s death.
“There are still a lot of questions surrounding the death of bestselling author, Martin Watts. While police have confirmed that his wife Patricia’s death was a homicide, they are still unable to confirm the manner of Martin Watts’ death,” the woman said.
“That’s right,” the man agreed. “Seems they are still trying to determine whether his death might have been a suicide rather than a homicide like his wife. It does raise questions, however, as to why the police haven’t been able to determine this yet.”
The reporter continued to talk, but Eric tore his eyes away from the screen when he moved to the front of the line. Blondie had said they were treating Martin’s death as a homicide. But, according to the news, he still had no clue.
He activated the phone as soon as he got back into his car. He punched in Dwayne’s number. He slowly typed out a text using the old-school numbered keys. I have Daisy's phone and I can prove you killed her.
He sat in the gas station parking lot and waited for a response. The phone chirped less than a minute later.
Who is this?
He had sparked his attention. Good. He'd let him stew over that for a while before he messaged him again. That way, like a big, fat fish chomping on a well-baited hook, he wouldn't be able to resist when he demanded to meet with him in a few days. He pulled out of the gas station and stopped by his bank to withdraw a few thousand more in cash before he headed back to his practice. He had a homemade salad waiting for him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“I still can't believe we let that lady-killer back out on the street,” Adams said.
“I think you mean woman-killer. A lady-killer is someone who seduces women, not kills them.” Stephenson refilled his coffee mug in the homicide unit's small break room on Friday morning.
“Whatever. You know what I meant.”
“Relax. We've got surveillance on him twenty-four-seven. He's not going to hurt anyone else and he's not getting away with anything. Hopefully, if all goes to plan, we'll be arresting him and the doctor soon. From the way Dr. Leroy reacted to Dwayne's release, I'm guessing he'll try to kill him before the week is over.”
“I hope you're right.”
Stephenson took a sip of the cheap, bitter brew as Detective Richards walked into the break room.
Adams stepped back from the old coffee maker and motioned toward it with his empty mug. “Ladies first.”
“Okay,” she said, looking unimpressed by the gesture.
She turned to Stephenson as she poured her coffee. She had just started to speak when Adams interrupted.
“You know, it can be hard starting out without knowing anyone in this place. It's not any easy job. So, if you ever want to pick my brain or need someone to talk to who's had a lot of experience with this job, I'm here.”
She turned back to Adams and tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. She paused for a moment before she spoke, as if unsure how to respond. “Thanks,” she finally said.
She turned back to face Stephenson. “How long have you been in homicide?”
“Coming up on two years. Once you start getting cases, you learn the job pretty quick.”
“I heard you’ve already solved a pretty high-profile case.”
He assumed she was referring to the Seattle Slasher killings, the case he and Rodriguez had worked together. “I guess so. You get your first homicide yet?”
“No, we're still waiting. Thanks to you.” She smiled.
“Oh, right. Sorry for taking over your first case.”
“Since you did steal my first case out from under me, maybe you could make it up by giving me some advice on the job. One r
ookie to another.” She took a sip from her coffee and grimaced. “This is disgusting.”
“Yeah, but it keeps you awake. You'll get used to it after a while.”
“I don't know if I'll ever get used to that. I actually have a couple tickets to the Seahawks' playoff game this Saturday and haven't found anyone to go with me yet. My brother's a backup defensive lineman and my dad has season tickets. We normally go together, but he's out of town this weekend. Would you want to go? Maybe we can talk shop in between plays.”
Stephenson nearly choked on his coffee. “The playoff game? Are you kidding me? I'd love to go. If you're sure you wouldn't rather take someone else.” Stephenson was surprised she wasn't taking one of her friends, since the two of them barely knew each other. But there was no way he would turn down a seat at a home-field playoff game.
“I'm sure.” She gave him a slight smile. She started to leave the break room but turned around when she reached the doorway. “Want to meet here and drive together to the game? I'm sure parking will be a nightmare. I'll get your number later so we can plan what time to meet.”
Stephenson nodded. “Sounds great.”
Once they were alone, Stephenson turned to see Adams staring at him while he leaned against the linoleum counter.
“I hate you,” his partner said before stalking out of the room with his empty mug.
Stephenson lifted his coffee but stopped short of putting it to his mouth. For the first time in almost a week, he laughed.
When they got back to their desks, they went to work seeing what they could dig up on Dr. Leroy. Adams was going through his bank account and credit card statements but hadn't found anything of use so far. Because Dr. Leroy was only a suspect at this point, they'd only been able to get a warrant for his periodic statements, not live transactions. The latest account statements they'd received ended before Patricia and Martin were murdered. But you never knew, maybe they'd get lucky and find something useful. Otherwise, they'd have to wait for the next round of statements.
Stephenson tapped his pen against his desk as he once again read through Patricia's records that Dr. Leroy had turned over to them. From the way Martin’s treatment of his wife was described, it did seem plausible for him to have killed her.
“What if Dr. Leroy falsified information in Patricia's chart before he gave it to us? I mean, how do we know any of it is true? I get that it's hard to know what goes on behind closed doors, but this description of their relationship doesn't match what their friends and family said. Maybe the doctor changed her records to make it look like Martin was controlling and emotionally abusive to try and substantiate their deaths as a murder-suicide.”
“I suppose it's possible. Those medical records were all electronic, right?”
“Yeah. I'll have to contact the software company Dr. Leroy uses and see if there's a way to tell if the records have been altered.”
Stephenson's phone vibrated against the top of his desk. He lifted it and saw it was Serena. It was the first time she'd called him since the day he'd planned to propose. He stared at the screen, debating whether to answer it before hitting Ignore and setting the phone back down on his desk.
“You need to take that?” Adams asked.
“No.”
Adams gave him a knowing look. “Okay.”
Despite having some weak moments, he'd refrained from calling her since that horrible day. Now, he was glad he hadn't. He had nothing to say to her and didn't want to hear whatever she wanted to say to him. She could never undo what she'd done.
“Excuse me, detectives.”
Sandra, the receptionist for the homicide unit, stood between their desks. Her short auburn hair flipped out on the sides and her bangs were overly-curled to the point of distraction. Stephenson saw she had the same hair in her ID badge photo that was taken over twenty years before.
“Yeah?” Stephenson asked.
“I have a woman on the line who wants to speak with one of you about her brother-in-law, Eric Leroy. She's in Australia but said she saw on the news that his front office assistant was murdered. She says it's important.”
“I'll take it,” Stephenson said.
“All right. I'll transfer her.”
“Thanks,” he said before she walked away.
“That's interesting,” Adams said. “Wonder what she's got to say.”
“We'll find out.”
A moment later, his phone rang. He picked up immediately.
“This is Detective Stephenson.”
“Hello, my name is Maggie Flemming. I live in Australia, but I saw on the news that a woman was recently murdered who worked for my brother-in-law, Dr. Eric Leroy.”
Stephenson recognized her accent immediately. It sounded like Dr. Leroy's, only more distinct.
“Yes, that's correct.”
“I read you made an arrest initially but have since let the man go. I think my brother-in-law may have killed her. I wanted to make sure you're investigating him.”
“And what makes you think he killed her?”
Adams' head perked up at Stephenson's question.
“Well, her body was never found and he was never arrested, but Eric Leroy killed my sister. I'm sure of it. My parents and I filed a missing person's report twenty years ago, but nothing's ever come of it. I know she's dead and he killed her. He must've disposed of her body, which is why he got away with it. He immigrated to Seattle shortly after.”
This was huge...if what she was saying was true. It could mean that despite his clean record, Dr. Leroy had been a killer all along. Although, from the sounds of it, this would not be something easy to prove.
“He's crazy. Never even showed a trace of remorse.”
Sounds familiar, he thought. He picked up his pen and pulled a notepad in front of him.
“What was your sister's name?”
“Stella. Stella Leroy. Her missing person's case is technically still open, even though we know they'll never find her.”
The sadness in her voice was unmistakable as he jotted down her sister's name.
“Do you know the exact date the missing person's report was filed?”
“December 18, 1997,” she said without hesitation.
“And in what city?”
“Nelson Bay, New South Wales.”
“I'll look into it. Thank you. Is there anything else you'd like to tell me?”
“Eric's been walking free for over twenty years. He hasn't had to pay a single day for what he's done. Meanwhile, my sister is dead and, without a body, we've never even been able to give her a proper funeral. Nothing will ever bring my sister back, but promise me you'll put him away for good so he'll never be able to hurt anyone again.”
“I promise I'll look into your sister's case. And, if Dr. Leroy is responsible for the death of his front office assistant or anyone else, we'll do our best to catch him.”
“I hope you do.”
“Can I get your contact information in case I need to speak with you again?”
“Sure.”
He wrote down her phone number and email address before ending the call.
“Who does she think he killed?” Adams asked as soon as Stephenson got off the phone.
“Her sister.”
Stephenson repeated their conversation.
“Wow.”
“Yeah. But even if he did kill her, it sounds like it would be nearly impossible to prove. I'll have to request the missing person's report from Australia.”
“Let me know when it comes through.”
Stephenson got on his computer and checked what time it was in Nelson Bay. It was five thirty in the morning, but he decided to call anyway. Someone should be at the station.
“Nelson Bay police, how can I help you?”
The man sounded as if the call had woken him from a nap.
“Good morning. This is Detective Stephenson from Seattle Homicide. I’m after a copy of a missing person's report that was filed at your station on December 18, 1997. Woul
d you have that on file at your station?”
“Seattle, huh? I've been to Seattle once. Rained the entire week I was there. We should have the report still on file. It'd be a paper case file, so it might take me a little while to find it. What was the name of the missing person?”
“Stella Leroy.”
“Oh, yeah. I know that case. It’s a bit of a legend around here. Did you know she was a professional surfer?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Born and raised here in Nelson Bay. She was becoming pretty famous before she disappeared. I wasn't working here at the time, but it made the national news.
“There were a few theories surrounding her disappearance. One was that a shark took her while she surfed the huge waves during an evening storm. Her family all claimed her husband killed her, but her body was never found. The case is still unsolved. Can I ask why you're interested in that case?”
“Eric Leroy, Stella's husband, is a suspect in some recent murder cases of ours. Her sister called and told me about Stella.”
“Crikey. Well, if he did kill her, I hope you get him.”
“Me too.”
“I'll need you to fax me an official request for that case file, and I'll send it to you as soon as I find it.”
“Sure thing,” Stephenson said.
“You know, it was all over the news here when it happened. I'm pretty sure Stella's family were interviewed on national TV about their theory that Stella's husband killed her. You could probably find some of it online.”
“Thanks, I'll have a look.”
“Good luck with the case.”
Stephenson was still waiting to receive Stella's case file over an hour later. He thought about what the Australian cop had said about her case being on the national news and ran an online search to see what he could find. A five-minute video clip of Stella's family being interviewed on what looked like a major Australian news station appeared at the top of the results.
Stephenson clicked on the video. The clip was dated May 1998. A couple who looked to be in their fifties sat next to a young woman who Stephenson guessed was Maggie.
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