by Dan Ames
I didn’t want to think what he’d been happy about.
“I remember thinking it was early,” Olive added. “I figured we’d be getting a text or something in a few hours. I doubted she’d stay the night at wherever his place was.”
“We stayed out until after midnight, and we didn’t hear from her. Then we went back to the hotel and she wasn’t there. We still weren’t worried. I mean it was unusual, but we were on vacation and we had been pushing her to have fun, but the next morning, she still wasn’t back and she still hadn’t texted,” Sara said.
“Or returned ours,” Tiffany said. “We did text her before we went to sleep and earlier…” She looked around at the other girls. “We sent her that selfie from the bar…”
A wave of silence passed over them.
After a second, Olive picked up the conversation. “When we hadn’t heard back by the next morning, we tried calling her phone and still didn’t get an answer,” Olive added. “When she hadn’t shown up by noon, we were really getting worried. We called the police then and told them she was missing.”
“The officer we talked to thought maybe her phone died. He said that happened and she’d probably show up, but not letting your phone charge and disappearing is my thing,” Tiffany said. “Not Charlotte’s. She was super organized. She’s even got this portable phone charger she uses. And she checks in. Constantly. We all do. Well, they do.” She looked at her friends.
I asked them a few more questions about the guy—his clothing, if they’d seen him talking to anyone else. But none of them seemed to have much more to add. I also let them know that we’d be sending someone by to look through Charlotte’s things.
“Why?” Tiffany asked. “I don’t think she knew this guy, not before that night.”
“It doesn’t sound like it,” I acknowledged. “But you never know. Besides we want to be thorough.”
The girls nodded their heads, solemn, but agreeing.
I told Peyton to bring in the sketch artist who worked for us at times. I also asked her to get Donovan, so he could go with the girls back to their hotel once they were done.
While we waited, Olive pulled out her phone. “Should I call her parents?”
I shook my head. I’d call them first. It was an ugly job that required experience. Plus, I knew the family would want to know that the police were invested. That we cared enough to make that first call.
Olive gave me the number and I told her to wait half an hour. If I hadn’t made contact with the family by then, it would better for Olive to tell them than for them to find out from some reporter. Not that I was planning a press conference or anything, but things had a way of leaking out. Plus, while the girls seemed sincere, they could all be lying. I needed to talk to the parents first, to get their take on their daughter and if they knew of anyone who might have killed her.
Peyton returned with the sketch artist. I pulled her to the side and instructed her to keep the girls off their phones while they were there. Donovan wandered up as we were talking. I made sure he knew to monitor their phone usage as well and to keep them from contacting anyone who might go into their hotel room and move anything before he had a chance to check it out himself.
My instincts told me Charlotte’s friends weren’t involved in her killing, but instincts were one thing. Facts were another.
Chapter Ten
The phone call with Charlotte’s family went as expected. Not good. They had questions and I had no answers. None at least that would take away the soul-piercing sorrow of losing their child.
Her mother had answered the phone. “I don’t understand what you’re saying. Charlotte went off with someone? That isn’t right. That isn’t Charlotte. You must be confused.”
A male voice sounded from the background. “It’s probably one of her friends. That Tiffany.”
I explained that Tiffany was accounted for and that she and the others had reported Charlotte missing and now ID’d her from a photo of the body.
“Missing?”
“They reported her missing and didn’t call us?”
Anger and anguish. Understandable, but neither was going to help me find their daughter’s killer.
After my prompting, they had a lot to say about her friends, but they knew no one who might have wanted to harm her.
Eventually, we hung up, knowing that we would be speaking again. They were still in shock and denial, but also I knew once they arrived in Good Isle, they would sadly realize how real the situation was.
I set my phone down and stared at the wall. There were days this job just sucked. The rap of tentative knuckles on my half-open door broke my trance. It was Charles, our sketch artist, waiting.
“Anything good?” I asked.
He held up a drawing. There wasn’t a lot of detail in the sketch, but it was something. I took the sheet of paper that he handed me to make copies and motioned at Peyton who was standing next to the coffee machine doing what looked like a whole lot of nothing.
She wandered over. “What’s up?”
“Hopefully, our killer’s time,” I said, handing her a copy of the sketch. I waited for her to take it in, then said, “Also, a field trip. You drive.”
Chapter Eleven
We went to the Bait n’ Tackle first.
While we waited for the bartender to finish ringing up a tab, Peyton studied the sketch.
“He’s not going to remember him. This guy looks like a hundred other guys.”
I leveled a look at her. “Guess we should call it a day then. Go home, have a beer, wait for our killer to off some other girl. Is that what you think?”
She had the good sense to zip her lips and stare past me at the bartender.
She was right, this was a long shot, but when that was all you had to take, you took it. Or at least I did.
Finally, the bartender finished messing with the contents of his till drawer and shuffled over. He was tall and pale, looking like he rarely got out of the dark bar and into the sunlight.
I placed the sketch on the bar top and held my breath.
His grimace told me Peyton had been right, but I let him talk anyway.
“We get a lot of people in here,” he said. “Especially this time of year. There’s nothing about that drawing that rings a bell. But I don’t work all the time. He might’ve been here when another one of my boys was on duty.”
Peyton told the date Charlotte and her friends had been in the bar.
“That was my night,” he replied, not sounding happy about it.
I placed a finger on the sketch and pushed it closer. “You sure you don’t remember him?”
He leaned forward and studied the image some more, but then shook his head. “No, sorry.”
“What about cameras? You have any, for security maybe?”
Another head shake. “We don’t have that kind of money.”
Had the killer known that? If he’d cased the bar out or was even a regular. If so, maybe one of the other bartenders or employees would remember him.
“Peyton has copies of the sketch,” I told him. She pulled a few off the stack that we’d brought. “Show it to the other bartenders and any regulars. If anyone remembers something, call me.” I pulled out a card and dropped it next to the drawing.
He took it, but I had low hopes that I’d be hearing from him.
As we headed back to the car, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Dawkins.
You good for pizza night?
Since I’d started my attempts at renovating the kitchen, Dawkins had been bringing me pizza once a week. My appliances worked just fine, but he kept doing it anyway, and I couldn’t say that I minded.
Sure, I texted back.
“Chief?” Peyton said the word like she’d already tried to get my attention a few times.
“Yeah?”
“I said, how do we know this guy isn’t a tourist as well?” Peyton asked.
“We don’t.”
“Oh,” she responded. “I wonder if he
’s still here. Maybe he’s just moved on already.”
For some reason, I doubted that was the case.
Chapter Twelve
Peyton’s question about the killer and my assumptions that he was still in the area prompted me to call Donovan and tell him to repeat my search from a few days earlier. Maybe he would find something I had missed or maybe something new would turn up that just hadn’t been reported.
It was my hope Donovan didn’t find anything new, that the killer hadn’t already moved on and killed again. He also told me about his visit to the girls’ hotel room.
Unfortunately, it hadn’t turned up anything of interest.
With that let down and with Donovan occupied, Peyton and I continued our in-person investigation. Everyone we encountered was sympathetic and eager to help. But no one had seen the guy in our sketch, or could say for certain that they had. Many said he looked vaguely similar to several men they’d seen, but there was no particular face that rang a bell.
A lot also felt the need to remind us how popular and crowded bars and restaurants in the area could get during tourist season. Who said that the guy had even bought a drink or interacted with the bartender at all? How was a waiter supposed to remember one face out of the dozens they saw every night? What would make them remember this guy? Was the sketch all we had? And why were we looking for him anyway?
After a full day of this, it was time for a break.
“We’ll come at this with fresh eyes in the morning,” I told Peyton.
She looked doubtful and out of her element.
“You ever deal with a murder case before?” I asked.
She shook her head. “We all heard about what happened with… with Mr. Holloway. And Maddie.” She shrugged. “But no. Growing up here there wasn’t much going on. I wanted to be a cop because it seemed like a way to be helpful. You know, help lost tourists, get deer out of someone’s kitchen, that kind of thing.”
I hadn’t realized my rendezvous with Mrs. Liebowitz’s deer had been a childhood dream come true.
“Well, being persistent is how you catch guys like this. Don’t let one day of frustration convince you this case is going to grow cold. Make you lose the fire.”
“If you say so,” Peyton replied.
I left her at the station, feeling somehow fonder of her than I usually did. She was young. She was learning.
It had been a hard day for both of us, but at least there was something to look forward to at home.
A glass of wine and some leftover pizza.
It might not cure all that ailed me, but it would be a damn good start.
Chapter Thirteen
After their first afternoon together, he knew she was his next victim, but he didn’t kill her that day.
He wanted to think about it.
Plan.
Savor her.
She was special.
He wanted to get it right so he’d made plans to meet her at the boat launch a few days later for a sunset tour. With the sun getting low and the sky threatening to turn into sunset no one else was around and the setting was beautiful. Perfect for a romantic date on the lake.
She was on time, early actually. He watched her from a distance, pacing a bit. Finally, deciding it was time, he popped into a small coffee shop and bought them both drinks, then strolled across the dock towards her, acting surprised to see she was already there.
They flirted a bit. She looked at him over the top of the cup as she sipped, her eyes big and inviting. He waited for her to finish and tossed the cup in a nearby trash bin.
With her relaxed and confident, he played teacher, showing her how to launch the boat, demonstrating a few rope knots for her, and letting her try them out on an extra length of rope he kept for that purpose. The teaching thing seemed to relax her more. He could tell she felt protected with him. Safe.
The breeze picked up a lock of her hair and swept it across her face. He brushed it away and she blushed.
She was sweet, he could practically taste it in his mouth.
But her tears would be even sweeter.
They moved across the water at a leisurely pace. He pointed out sites here and there, gave her names for the birds they encountered and told her a few stories of the area. Told her a few made-up ones about his mythical Native American ancestor too. It was the perfect tour, for both of them.
When they were out in the middle of the lake, away from everyone else, he turned off the motor and he got them both drinks from a cooler that he had loaded onto the boat earlier that day. He took something else from the ice as well. A syringe. With it tucked hidden into his back pocket, he walked back to her and they settled in to enjoy the sunset. It was, after all, why they were there.
He put his arm around her back and she let him. Her body was warm against his and he could smell whatever shampoo she had used that morning. Some kind of fruit scent, he guessed.
As she snuggled against him, he looked around, double-checking to make sure no one else was around. Darkness was falling, and the lake was empty. No boats. No lights. No picnickers on the side of the lake.
Just him and sweet little Emily.
“It sure gets dark quickly out here,” she commented.
“Sure does,” he echoed. He reached out and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.
This was the interesting part. He waited to see. Would she let him move even closer, let him stroke his hand up her thigh? Or would she pull back, stammering and protesting?
Charlotte had let him kiss her. She’d even let him haul her onto his lap. It had been so easy to get the needle into her skin.
Emily, however, seemed to sense something. She stiffened and then trembled a bit. He smiled at her comfortingly. He knew she couldn’t see the smile in the growing dark, but it would color his voice.
He stroked his thumb over her cheek. “You’re so beautiful.” It wasn’t true, of course. Not to him, anyway. But she would be beautiful soon.
Emily moved a bit away, tentative. “Thank you. I don’t know though… maybe I should call my friends. I forgot to tell them I’d miss dinner. They were being… they weren’t in the mood to talk last night and left before I got up this morning.”
He ignored her babbling and her body language which said she wanted space. Instead, he scooted closer to her, turning his hand to cup her face while his other came around to carefully pull the syringe out of his back pocket.
Their lips brushed, and he brought the needle up behind her back, carefully tracing little circular patterns over her shirt with the tips of his fingers to lull her further into a sense of security.
“You know I really don’t do this,” Emily said, pulling back again.
Some instinct was kicking in. Warning that a predator was at hand. It was annoying when that happened.
“I think maybe… maybe we should be getting back…” she said again.
It was too late though. It always was. Years of training to be polite, to be civilized dulled innate survival skills, kept instinct at bay until the wolf’s fangs were already piercing their skin.
He brushed her hair away from her neck and smiled, staring directly into her eyes as he did.
Then as her gaze was locked on him, he inserted the needle into her flesh and pushed the plunger to release the drug. Her eyes went wide… shock, a moment of searching for understanding what had happened.
Then she opened her mouth, but no words came out. Surprise and then the drug stealing them from her.
“Perfect,” he said. He removed the needle and then slowly lowered her body to the bottom of the boat. As she lay there, he arranged her hair around her face. Framed it just so.
Panic shot through her eyes. She knew what was happening now. Knew that niggling feeling at the back of her brain had been right.
Right but slow. He sighed. Much too slow to save her.
Chapter Fourteen
The next morning, I got up and got ready for work, going through the actions of showering, brushing my teeth and
even eating a quick bagel and cream cheese on automatic. My brain was jumping back and forth from the case to the night before. The pizza had been excellent and the company even better, at least from my perspective. I wasn’t, however, so sure that Dawkins would agree. I’d fallen asleep halfway through the Oscar-winning, aka boring as hell, movie that he’d selected.
My phone buzzed as I was walking into the station. It was Dawkins. “I can’t believe you fell asleep on me.”
“Yeah and I thought a big burly guy like you would have better taste in movies. What’s wrong with a good car chase? Or even, I don’t know… Rocky?”
“Critics loved it,” Dawkins argued.
“Precisely,” I replied. “Picking a movie based on what some professional critic thinks is like picking a donut based on a doctor’s recommendation. Not a good idea.”
Peyton was waving at me from her desk.
Standing next to her was Tiffany.
“I gotta go,” I said. “Work thing. But I’m picking the movie tonight.”
“Fine, fine, as long as it’s not a horror movie.”
“You’re a wimp, Dawkins.”
We hung up, and I walked over to Tiffany and Peyton. Secretly, I hoped Charlotte’s friend wasn’t coming in to ask if we had any new leads on the case. Family members and friends are always desperate for answers. But things take time and that’s hard for people to understand.
Tiffany, however, pulled something out of her purse. It was carefully placed in a small plastic baggie. “I used gloves that I got from housekeeping,” she said. “I doubt there’s any fingerprints besides Charlotte’s, but I thought, well, better safe than sorry.”
She handed the baggie to me, and I saw that there was a note tucked inside. The paper it was written on had the name of the hotel where they were staying printed across the top, obviously from a notepad supplied by the hotel for guests.