Corktown (18 page)

Solis checked the knob on the front door; it was unlocked. He quickly motioned for Madero as he drew his service revolver. A few seconds later, Madero stood next to him.

“She’s not responding,” Solis said. “Front door is unlocked.” Solis slowly pushed the door open while Madero radioed for backup just in case. They didn’t want a repeat of what had happened at Belle Isle.

The two detectives entered the living room, guns drawn and pointed in front of them. Solis motioned for Madero to go left while he went right, into the dining room. Everything was neat, not a placemat astray. Solis continued through another doorway and into the kitchen. He placed his hand above the burners of the stove.
Maybe she hasn’t eaten yet.
There were no dishes in the sink or half-filled glasses on the counters. He thought it odd that she hadn’t snacked on something upon returning home. He exited through another doorway and into a hallway. At the other end, Madero appeared.

“Clear,” Madero whispered.

Solis nodded and then pointed up the steps. The barrel of his Smith & Wesson M&P 40 led the way. On the second level, Madero checked the bedroom to the right while Solis kept watch on the hallway.

“Clear,” Madero whispered again.

The two made their way down the hall, passing two more rooms and a bathroom. All of the doors were open. One door remained at the end of the hall—the master bedroom.

Backup had yet to arrive, but Solis didn’t see any point in waiting. He leaned in and placed his ear against the door, listening for a moment. He heard nothing. Solis held up three fingers and waited for Madero to nod before mouthing a count to three. He grabbed the doorknob and, on three, pushed the door open. They burst into the room with guns out in front. Solis couldn’t believe what he saw.

“Shit! It’s empty.”

Madero walked over to the bathroom. “Where do you think she went?”

“Hell if I know. It doesn’t even look like she was here. Nothing in the house looked out of place.” Solis holstered his gun and walked over to her dresser. “When people come home from work, they eat or drink something. They head into their bedroom, remove clothing or jewelry… I didn’t see any of that.”

“Yeah, it’s like she parked her car and left. I wonder if there’s a basement.” A beat later, the two detectives were making their way back down the stairs and looking for the entrance.

“Found it,” Solis called out. Madero made his way over to Solis’ voice and saw him standing in front of an open door, looking at steps.

Solis flipped the light switch at the top of the stairs and headed down. “Basement looks finished.” Madero followed him. When Solis reached the bottom, he turned to the right and stopped.

“What?” Madero asked. “She got bad taste?” When he reached the bottom, he, too, stopped dead in his tracks.

60

Blood was everywhere.

The walls. The carpet. The pool table. Nothing was spared. The thick and sticky had pooled, splattered, and dripped.

Ellen Scott lay naked, face up on the pool table, her pale skin smeared with blood. Her scalp, completely removed, hung on the light fixture above the table. Each arm and leg pointed to a corner pocket. Between her legs, pool balls were clustered, as if spilling from her vagina. Peeking out was the cue ball. Later, they would discover more inside of her. Solis let out a big breath as he ran his hand through his hair.

For the first time in a long time, Madero shot a look of concern to his partner. “What are we going to tell her?”

A moment later, they heard the doorbell ring.

• • •

I stood there defeated. It felt as if someone had ripped out my insides. The loss of Ellen Scott was unthinkable, and yet it had happened. Blood covered the entire basement. Rage was the motivator. I walked around the table, letting my eyes detail the scene. The body reminded me of a case I had seen back in Hong Kong. The victim had been severely tortured and then killed by
Ling Chi
, death by one thousand cuts.

Ellen’s face had been scored like a piece of meat. Her arms, legs, and torso all suffered multiple lacerations as well. At closer inspection, I noticed the necessary incisions to the carotid and the femoral artery.
Why the disfigurement though? This wasn’t the killer’s M.O.
I turned to Solis and Madero after I finished. “Which one of you wants to explain first?”

It took Solis fifteen minutes to walk me through what they did from the moment they left me to follow Ellen.

“So let me see if I understand this correctly. After I told you to stick with Ms. Scott, you two proceeded to pull into a Taco Bell drive-thru—”

Madero started. “Look, it wasn’t—”

“Wasn’t what? I told you to stick with her, and you didn’t. Then, when you arrive here, you don’t bother to do a house search? For all we know, the killer could have been waiting for her to get home.”

I threw my arms up in the air, disgusted at the sheer level of incompetence these two men displayed. We had been making progress. I stopped my muttering and pacing and faced them. “Ellen could have already been dead by the time you two parked your fat asses outside. Think about that.”

“We were ten, maybe fifteen minutes behind her,” Solis offered.

“Look around. This guy is good at what he does. I don’t think he needs much time.” I walked around the basement and then pointed to some stained carpeting. “The blood coagulated and is starting to thicken. It’s very sticky over here on the table. It looks like she was killed soon after she got home. If you were with her and checked the house before letting her in, this might have been prevented.”

I can’t believe I trusted those guys. I can’t believe I thought I could.
I should have escorted Ellen Scott back home, checked the house, and then gone down to Belle Isle.
Woulda, shoulda, coulda.

The fact of the matter was, I still needed these guys. I couldn’t do it alone, and I didn’t want Reilly sending out an army of field agents. It was my case. “Look, guys. We need to regroup and pull together. We had a setback. What’s done is done.”

The three of us worked alongside CSI the entire night. We were bound to find something if we looked hard enough. That I wanted to believe.

61

The next day Lieutenant White wanted to talk about the case. I wasn’t so sure I wanted to talk to him. To top it off, he asked me to meet him at the Woodward Dream Cruise instead of at his office.
Great.

I looked it up on the Internet and discovered that it was a parade of old cars that drove up and down Woodward Avenue at three miles per hour. Apparently, it was a weeklong event, and people lined up on the sidewalk to watch.
Oh, the excitement.

White said to meet him at Roy’s Custom Detailing at the corner of Vester and Woodward.
Next time I’ll suggest the makeup counter at Macy’s.

When I reached the location, I spotted White right away. He had on a brightly colored aloha shirt and white shorts.
This is what happens when people who are used to wearing uniforms find they have to wear something else.

The organization he was with, some car aficionado club, had a pretty nice setup for guests to watch the cars cruise by. Lots of shady space and chairs, something I appreciated since it was another blistering day.

“Agent Kane, thanks for meeting me here.” White stuck his hand out and smiled.

I shook his hand and smiled back. “I can see why you wanted to meet here. The cars look great,” I said, looking around, feigning interest.

“Something to drink? Beer? Soda? Bottled water?”

“Water would be nice.”

White dug into the cooler filled with a slushy mixture of cans and bottles. A moment later he pulled a bottle of water out. “Here you go. Ice cold.” White motioned to a chair on the sidewalk. “Have a seat, Agent.”

I sat and took a few sips of water, careful not to give myself brain freeze.

“I heard about the latest victim.” White was direct, probably because he wanted to get back to looking at old cars and scaring small children with his outfit. He held up his hand and counted down with his fingers. “The Walters, Rick Tanner, Archie Becker, that reporter, and now Ellen Scott. Throw in your partner and that’s a total of seven on your watch.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I thought maybe the sound of the engines revving in my right ear had distorted what he said, but when I inquired again, it sounded the same. He blamed me for those deaths. I nearly exploded at him but kept my tongue buried. “With all due respect, Lieutenant, I’m not responsible for those deaths. I’m investigating this case and working to catch the killer as fast as I can.”

“The newspapers are having a field day with this.”

“Lieutenant White, is this why you called me down here, to tell me how many people have died? Because it’s a waste of my time; I already knew the answer.”

“We’re getting a lot of pressure from the top, not to mention calls from the big three. They’re losing their executive talent.”

I had no interest in getting into a point-the-finger battle with White.
He’s doing what he’s doing: being a distraction.

“Look, Lieutenant, I appreciate your concerns. I’ve noted them. Now if that’s all you had to discuss—thank you for the cold drink and I’ll update you when I have something.”

Before I could stand, a smiling man approached us. He had a cocky smirk that he wanted to pass off as a smile.

“You must be Agent Kane.”

He knows my name? Should I know his? I don’t recall seeing him in the briefing or ever meeting him.
“Yes, I am.” I extended my hand. For a quick second, it looked as if he were going to kiss it but had second thoughts. Thank God for second thoughts. “Have we met before?”

Lieutenant White spoke then. “Agent Kane, this is Stevie Roscoe. He’s the chief of staff for the mayor of Detroit.”

Mayor? How does he know me and why is he talking to me?
“Mr. Roscoe, I wasn’t aware we would be meeting. I’m sorry if I look surprised.”

“Please, call me Stevie,” he said through his smile. “You’re probably wondering how I know about you. It’s my job. You’re the hotshot agent sent out here to rid us of our problem.”

“You mean the two psychos running round slashing throats?”

“Two?”

I smiled and looked over at White and then back at Stevie. “Didn’t you know? We discovered there are two of them. They work in a team, and that’s why they’ve eluded capture for so long.” I dragged out the word “long” to see how he would react.
Did he know about the cover-up?

“I did not know that.”

I barely knew the guy, but I already didn’t like him. His demeanor didn’t sit right in my gut. Icky seemed to describe it best.

“Well, I assume you’re getting close to capturing this duo, with your highly praised background and all.”

What was with these people? They all seemed to be preoccupied with pointing out my background with a sense of ill regard. Never before had I met a bunch of city officials who needed so much help but made the help feel so unwanted. “Like I told Lieutenant White, we’re making progress. I have to get back to work.” I stood up and smiled at the two men before turning and leaving.

62

In my opinion, wearing sweats was the best way to get work done. I headed straight back to my hotel. There, I had air conditioning, as much green tea as I could possibly want, and silence. Oh, and chocolate.

The humidity had taken its toll on me. I was halfway through the lobby, mentally undressing, when my phone alerted me to a text. I hoped it wasn’t White. I’d have to ignore him. It wasn’t. It was Lucy.

“hi mommy,” the text read.

“Hi, Lucy. Mommy loves you.”

I waited for a response during the ride up to the fourteenth floor, but none came.
Hmm, weird.
As soon as I entered my room, I peeled off my slightly damp shirt and jeans, unhooked my bra, and settled into a fresh T-shirt, avoiding my sweatpants for now. I checked my phone once again. Still no text from Lucy. Must have been a text-by.

A moment later, my phone rang and I picked it up, thinking Lucy decided to call.

“Agent Kane, this is Agent Ton. We spoke a few weeks ago.”

“Yes, of course. What can I do for you?”

“Did you still need information on those surviving hostages from the bank robbery?”

“Anything would be of help.” I sat down at the room desk and grabbed a pen. “Go ahead.”

“One of the hostages is a professor at Oakland University.”

I wrote it down. “Where is that?”

“Auburn Hills. Do you know the area?”

“I’ve been there once. What’s his name?”

“All I have is a first name. It’s Preston.”

Preston. Not a typical name
, I thought. “What about the other hostage?”

“Nothing yet, but if something comes up, I’ll get a hold of you.”

“Can I reach you at the number you’re calling on?”

“I prefer you didn’t. Like I said, if I get my hands on any new information, I’ll get a hold of you.” He then hung up.

I looked at the name I’d written on the notepad.
All right, Preston. What can you tell me?

63

Located near the center of the Oakland University campus was the unmistakable mirrored building named O’Dowd Hall. Preston Carter had spent a large part of his life in the building, teaching students the ins and outs of biology. His students liked him for his open door policy and his hands-on approach to teaching. They said he didn’t teach them—he showed them.

On the second floor, about thirty students had their heads lowered as they crafted the perfect essay answers. Some mumbled, while others took moments to ponder in between sentences. The class was human biology, Preston’s favorite to teach. It was also his last class for the day, so he had already mentally checked out.

He sat quietly in a corner, tapping away on his laptop, occasionally glancing up at the class to make sure eyes didn’t stray from their own papers. Preston couldn’t stand cheating, mostly because he didn’t understand why someone would cheat in his class. It was such an interesting subject. How could one not want to know that stuff? The students seemed focused. Thirty pens scratching across paper, so he went back to his hobby.