On this particular night, Sam arrived home in a rage, and Jill barricaded herself inside her bedroom, waiting for the sounds of his anger to dissipate. After watching several hours tick by on the clock, she crept down the stairs to gauge the success of her experiment.
Blue light from the blaring television cast an eerie glow on the walls as Jill eased into the room. It took her eyes a few seconds to adjust to the dim light. But within moments she could see the open bottle of Wild Turkey on the table next to a half-empty tumbler.
A smile touched her lips as she saw Sam’s face, slack in a calm mask of slumber. Edging closer now, she moved toward the couch so she could remove the bottle and the glass, and put them away so he wasn’t tempted to pick up where he’d left off once he awoke. Maybe she’d even start a pot of coffee.
She eased around him as she would a junkyard dog, careful to make as little noise as possible. She picked up the tumbler. Then her hand tensed as she saw a small vial beside the glass. With a quick glance over her shoulder, she confirmed that Sam was still unconscious. Keeping a safe physical distance from him was always at the forefront of her mind. Sometimes he struck without warning.
In her free hand, she picked up the vial. The label read “Vicodin.” Looking back at Sam, she noticed a waxy sheen to his skin. Was it from the heat? God knew that in midsummer, the temperature in the living room could skyrocket well past simmer. But that wasn’t it. Sam wasn’t snoring. In fact, Sam was oddly still.
Jill’s pulse thudded in her ears as she stared down into his supine face, trying to detect any sign of movement. She had ground up at least a dozen sleeping pills and dissolved them in the bottle of Wild Turkey. Between them, the alcohol, and the painkillers, was it all too much?
The glass fell from Jill’s fingers and shattered on the coffee table, spraying her bare legs with shards of glass and sticky liquid. Just then, Sam’s eyes—Sam’s dead, green eyes—snapped open. A large, meaty fist shot out toward her, clenching her arm in an iron grip.
“You bitch. You little bitch,” he ground out, spittle escaping between clenched teeth and spattering her cheeks in stinking spray. “What did you do? What the fuck did you do?”
Jill’s eyes snapped open. Heart still at full gallop, she found herself hugging the side of the bed, crowded to the edge by Molly’s sleeping form, Alex and the dog snoring in unison. Careful not to wake either of them, she rose, took a deep breath, and eased out from between the damp sheets. She paused in the bathroom long enough to splash some water on her pale face.
Trembling fingers gripped the sides of the sink as she met her gaze in the mirror. She could see naked fear reflected back at her. It had been years since Sam had made a special guest appearance in one of her dark dreams. Stress could sometimes induce these episodes, and between the fight with Alex and the threat posed by Jamie, there was plenty enough stress to conjure up the specter of her long-dead stepfather. Jill drew a shaky breath, forcing his image from her mind. That was one nightmare she had no desire to relive.
Downstairs, Jill started a pot of coffee and climbed onto a stool at the island. She rubbed her face with her hands and raked her hair back behind her ears. The bass drum in her head boomed in time with her throbbing hangover. Too much wine, not enough Advil makes Jill a dull girl. She winced and closed her eyes.
Alex had been fast asleep by the time she climbed into bed. How could he have been able to sleep when she’d spent the whole night tossing and turning, replaying their argument in her head? Maybe it was her conscience getting to her. She had picked the fight. She had pushed Alex hard—maybe too hard.
This morning she would try to put things right. Extend the olive branch. The pressure Jamie was exerting gave her no right to jump all over Alex. It wasn’t his fault she had made lousy choices. She had only herself to thank. Blame.
From above, she heard the telltale thump-thump of Molly jumping off the bed, and then the jingle of her dog tags as she walked into the kitchen.
“Good morning,” Jill said as Molly trotted over to brush against her leg. She scratched Molly’s head. “Do you need to go out?” The dog swung her tail in wide, happy arcs, bat-wing ears angled back.
Jill crossed the kitchen and opened the back door to let Molly out. The overcast day mirrored her glum mood. With any luck the rain would hold off long enough to get in a run. Both she and Molly could use the exercise.
Pausing by the counter, Jill took a few moments to flip through the stack of mail waiting there, automatically sorting it into piles—junk mail, bills, catalogs—when her hands froze.
Alex had used the back of a crisp, white envelope as a sketchpad. Jill was used to finding little etchings of his on newspapers, cocktail napkins—whatever Alex found lying around. He had done this for as long as she had known him. It was a habit that she found endearing. For her, it provided little insights into how he saw life. But this morning, what she saw made the blood chill in her veins, and an unfamiliar stab of doubt pierced her heart.
Staring up from the back of the envelope containing their mortgage statement was the unmistakable face of Abigail Watson. The serious set of her lips did little to detract from her fragile beauty.
Jill flipped the envelope over. Maybe she wasn’t the only one having doubts about their marriage.
Within minutes, Alex descended the stairs. His bare feet slapped against the hardwood floor as he walked down the hall. Reaching into the kitchen cupboard, Jill pulled out a mug.
“Would you like some coffee?”
“Yes, thanks,” Alex said quietly as he sat down at the island.
Silence hung heavy between them, and Alex directed his gaze toward the newspaper, quickly skimming yesterday’s headlines. Avoiding eye contact, Jill surmised. He wasn’t going to make this easy. Then again, why should he?
Turning, she opened the door for Molly. The big yellow Lab came in and trotted across the kitchen to Alex, tail swinging behind her.
“Good morning, girl,” Alex said, stroking her head, and was rewarded with a lick on the hand.
“I’m sorry we argued last night,” Jill said, breaking the silence at last.
“Me, too.” Alex did not glance up.
“I said some things I shouldn’t have.”
“It’s nothing that you haven’t said before.”
“You’re right. I’m awful. Why do you stay with me?”
Her tone was venomous, an outpouring of bitterness and guilt. As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she wished she could take them back, but as usual, it was too late. Her reflex to strike back seemed to win out every time. When would she learn to control her impulses?
Alex looked up, his brown eyes meeting hers.
“Come on, Jill. Let’s just talk, okay?”
“Okay.” She let out a long, shaky breath.
“What’s going on with you?” Alex said, leaning back in his stool, studying her intently.
“I told you, work has been stressful.” She fought to keep her voice even. His gentle but steady probing was unnerving, bringing last night’s argument back into sharp focus.
But what could she say? There were so many parts of herself that she didn’t want to share. Couldn’t share. Especially not with him.
He stared at her as if waiting for her to say something more. When she didn’t, he shook his head.
“Work pressure is nothing new. I think there’s more to it.”
“You’re reading too much into things.”
His head cocked to one side as he watched her. The urge to squirm was squelched under the intensity of his gaze. Despite his soft tone, she couldn’t escape the sense of being interrogated
“Maybe, but I don’t think so. I’ve noticed a change in you ever since you got your promotion.”
“Like what?” she asked, an edge creeping into her voice. Did he know about Jamie? Was he waiting for her to tell him about Jamie? No, Alex wouldn’t be the type of guy to sit around on the sidelines and wait for her to confess. But still, she couldn’t sh
ake the uncomfortable feeling that he knew more than he was letting on.
“Small things. You’re edgy. Distant. You don’t seem to enjoy being at home. You’re dressing differently.”
“Different how?”
Alex paused, his head tilting to one side, as if choosing his words carefully.
“More skirts, fitted blouses, high heels. Sexier.”
“Yeah, I got a raise so I bought myself some new clothes. Are you complaining about me spending money?” Her heart raced. Maybe he did know and was baiting her.
“Of course not. You know I don’t care about that stuff.” He angled his head as he watched her. “It’s just different.”
Alex reached across the table to rest his hand on hers. The warmth of his fingers radiated up her arm. Her automatic impulse was to withdraw her hand, but she left it in place. They needed to work through their problems, and pulling away from him now was not going to help matters.
“Listen, I just want to know what’s going on with you. You can tell me anything, you know?”
Jill felt her eyes moisten, defenses wavering ever so slightly. Maybe she could open up. Maybe she should tell him how scared she was feeling, about work, about their marriage, about so many things. Alex was gentle in a way that still caught her off guard, and with the morning light filtering through the kitchen windows, she caught a glimpse of the man she had fallen in love with. For a moment she wished everything could go back to the way it used to be. Simple.
Her lips parted as she searched for a way to begin.
Then Alex’s cell phone went off, interrupting her thoughts. The opening strains of his ringtone played the distinctive slow tolling of AC/DC’s “Hells Bells.” Their eyes met across the island. Jill turned away in resignation. They both knew that he was going to answer. It was what made him such a good cop. And made her such an angry wife.
Jill shifted in her chair, breaking eye contact, and took a sip of coffee, for once grateful for the interruption.
Alex glanced at the call display and closed his eyes for a split second, a wince of regret.
“I’ve got to take this,” he said as he held the phone to his ear. “Alex here.”
His eyebrows furrowed as he listened intently.
14
“I’ve got good news and bad news. Which do you want first?” Kris Thompson asked, her voice all business.
“Start with the good news,” Alex said. He looked past Jill to stare sightlessly out the kitchen window.
“I finally got the report from the ISP linking a suspect to the emails in the Watson case. Scumbag’s name is Jerry Honeywell. He’s a certified mechanic for—get this—Harley-Davidson in Renton. He’s the registered owner of a big old ’47 hog.” Kris drew out the last part with a fake southern drawl. “He also owns a Chevy S10 truck. Driver’s license photo is a match for the one we found on Natalie’s phone.”
“Is he working today?”
“The dealership’s showroom is open, but the garage is closed.” Kris paused, giving Alex time to process the new information. “Now for the bad news: he has prior arrests for sexual assault. He likes his girls young. There wasn’t enough evidence to make the charges stick. The girls refused to testify.”
Electricity crackled along his nerve endings as he gripped the phone harder. Given the prior arrests, there was a high likelihood that Honeywell would escalate his behavior. Escalate to what though? Abduction? Murder? Was he capable of such things? Maybe he didn’t want to leave any witnesses behind this time. Alex hoped to Christ that he was wrong, but given that Natalie had been missing for almost a week, optimism was hard to come by.
“I’ll call Jackson. I’m on my way in.” Alex said, his eyes flicking back to Jill, who was staring at her folded hands. “I want everything you have on this guy on my desk. Phone records. Bank accounts. Does he own any firearms? Let’s get to know this asshole.”
“You got it.”
“Listen …,” he said, turning back toward Jill.
“Go.” Jill brushed her hand across her lips. “It’s okay.” She forced a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“I’m sorry. We’ll talk later.” Alex bent to plant a soft kiss on her hair before jogging upstairs.
Search warrant secured, strategy set, SWAT on alert, and the green light to bring Honeywell in for questioning given. Yet the case they had developed to this point, though compelling, was purely circumstantial. They needed physical evidence linking Jerry Honeywell to Natalie’s abduction to make the charges stick. Alex wanted to leave no loopholes for the bastard to slip through. If more care had been taken building the previous sexual-assault cases, maybe Natalie would be safe at home this very moment.
Alex and Jackson spearheaded the small team that was positioned outside Honeywell’s home in the Skyway neighborhood. The place just felt right. This was the guy. The truck was in the detached garage, but the motorcycle was nowhere in sight.
Alex directed several members of the precinct’s anticrime squad around the back of the house, praying that Honeywell was home. The officers moved swiftly and silently into position. Natalie might be inside, so every precaution had to be taken to keep her safe. The house was quiet. No outward signs of activity.
Standing to the side of the doorframe, Alex looked over at Jackson. His partner was ready, tense lines etched deep into his face, gun pulled. A Kevlar vest tightly encased his barrel chest. He tipped Alex a terse nod. The go signal. An SPD squad car pulled up, announcing their presence. Stretching out his hand, he rapped on the wooden surface of the door. Flecks of white paint stuck to his knuckles. They waited.
Inclining his head, Alex held his breath. No sound came from inside the house as he raised his hand once more. The second knock echoed in the still morning air. No one moved. No one even breathed.
No answer. Alex nodded, then glanced back at the other officers standing at the ready before lifting his foot and kicking the flimsy front door. Rotting wood gave way easily. The sound of splintering timber shattered the heavy silence.
“Seattle Police,” he called in the darkened interior. There was no response. Was Natalie in here? No pounding of feet or answering voices. Dead quiet.
Cautiously, Alex swept his way through the living room. More officers followed. The air was stagnant, smelling of cat litter and rotting garbage. Dusty drapes covered dirty windows, and in the dim light he could make out the bulky outline of a battered sofa and chair. A computer desk sat in the corner of the room, the flat-screen monitor dominating its cluttered surface, pizza box balanced on its top, while a bulky CPU tower hulked beneath.
A sudden crash to their right trained all guns toward the kitchen amid a dry cacophony of chambering rounds. A gray cat landed with a soft thud on the countertop, its yellow eyes wary.
Alex let out a rush of breath. Drops of sweat slid down his neck as he turned away, continuing to search the house, leading with his Glock. Natalie could still be here, he thought as he moved down the hall with smooth, athletic grace. In one of the back bedrooms?
The creak of the floorboards seemed to echo all the way up the walls as he made his way slowly down the narrow hall. Bathroom clear. First bedroom on the right. Twin bed. Stacked boxes. Motorcycle parts. Clear. One more door on the left. Jackson followed Alex down the hall toward the bedroom.
The door was closed, and Alex moved to the far side. His eyes locked with Jackson’s for a heartbeat before he threw the door open. Double bed unmade. Light filtering in through the cracked window.
Empty.
Fuck.
The smell was different in here. Stale sweat soaked into bed sheets. An image sprung unbidden into Alex’s mind. A girl tied up on the bed, mouth gagged, fear glittering in her pleading eyes. He blinked hard, dismissing it.
A search of the bedroom turned up no obvious signs of Natalie. Despite the unmade bed, there was no indication that the occupant had spent the night. Apparently, cleanliness was not next to godliness for Jerry Honeywell.
“Where t
he hell is she?” Alex said, lowering his gun and glancing over his shoulder at Jackson. “Let’s get forensics in here and do a thorough search. Maybe they’ll find something.”
Alex led the way back to the living area while Jackson checked out the kitchen.
“Not much in the fridge except leftover takeout containers and some sour milk. The boy doesn’t like to cook for himself, that’s for damn sure. No cat food in the dish,” Jackson said.
“No cleaning lady, either. Lucky for us.” If there was some trace of Natalie here, they would find it.
The small team conducted a slow crawl through the house. Bed sheets were bagged, surfaces examined, furniture moved, kitty litter sifted in a search for any DNA evidence that might tie Natalie to this location. As the team made their way through from room to room, Alex shuffled through the papers on the desk, finding the usual bills, flyers, and credit-card offers. The magazines were a little less run-of-the-mill. Porn. Bondage. Nasty stuff. He pressed his lips together, trying to stem the images of Natalie that sprung unbidden to his mind as he squatted next to the desk. With any luck, they would be able to trace Honeywell through his online activities.
The computer tower sat under the cheap IKEA desk. Alex took great care in meticulously detailing, labeling, and diagramming the hardware configuration before detaching it from the computer’s peripherals. Everything had to be recorded just so before they took it into the lab to do brain surgery on the hard drive. If there was one mantra that the cybercrime team lived by, it was preserving the sanctity of the evidence chain.
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