Finding Claire Fletcher (18 page)

Farrell trailed Connor into the kitchen. “Sorry,” he said. “But you know this place really isn’t that secure.”

Connor opened his fridge. He handed Farrell a beer before popping one open himself and guzzling down nearly half of it in a single gulp. He looked at Mitch. “Not that secure? If I had put a bullet in you, you’d be singing a different tune.”

Mitch rolled his eyes and took a drink. “Yeah, a funeral dirge. I’m serious, Parks. You don’t even have a security system. Anyone with half a brain could get in here.”

Connor took off his jacket and hung it on the back of one of the kitchen chairs. “Without alerting me?” he said.

Mitch held a hand up in the air. “Since you’re the one with the gun, I’m not going to argue with you, but I’m going to call the home security outfit I use and have them come out here.”

“You really think that’s necessary?”

“We don’t know what we’re dealing with here,” Mitch said. He frowned and looked at Connor from under a thick line of eyebrows.

“What is it?” Connor said.

“I checked out Teplitz, Speer, and Randall today,” Mitch said.

The statement held no trace of menace, but Mitch’s tone was foreboding enough to make the hairs on the back of Connor’s neck stand up. He gulped down the rest of his beer and retrieved another from the fridge.

“I found out something today too,” he said. “Come in the other room.”

Farrell followed him into the dining room. He gasped when Connor flicked on the lights, taking it in. “Wow,” he said. “You’re a one man taskforce.”

Connor managed a grin. “I know.”

They sat at the table, and Mitch fingered the pages from Claire’s file spread before him. Connor rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and put his elbows on the table. He took a long drink before looking at Mitch. “What did you find out?” he asked.

Mitch cocked his head to one side. “It doesn’t look good,” he said. “I couldn’t find any of them, but I found their next of kin.”

Again, Connor felt icy fingers stirring the hairs on the nape of his neck. “Next of kin?”

“Teplitz disappeared a week after visiting the Fletchers, almost two weeks after he reported spending the night with Claire. He was living in an apartment just outside the city, working for some computer place. He went to work, drove home, parked his car out front and was never seen or heard from again.

“Apartment was undisturbed. Didn’t look like he’d even been in there after work. The door was still locked. The employer called his emergency contact when he didn’t show up for work three days in a row. His mother drove up there, had the super let her in. Nothing. Filed a missing persons report, asked around, but no one reported seeing anything suspicious or out of the ordinary. Nothing in or on the car. He just disappeared. Vanished. No sign of him for the last eight years.”

Connor’s limbs felt chilled. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know anymore but asked anyway. “Martin Speer?”

Mitch took a long sip of beer. “Speer’s house burnt to the ground two months after he visited the Fletchers. He was asleep in his bed. The cause of the fire couldn’t be determined, but arson could not be ruled out.”

“And Randall?” Connor asked, swallowing hard over the lump that had formed in his throat.

“Another vanishing act,” Mitch said. “Three weeks after he went to the Fletcher home, he disappeared. Left his house, told his roommate he was going to the bar, never got there, although his car was found in the parking lot. No one in the bar saw him. No one remembers seeing him in the parking lot or seeing anyone else around that time. Car was fine, no sign of a struggle, assault or homicide. When he didn’t come home after three days, the roomie calls his work to see if he showed up there. They hadn’t seen him either. Roomie calls the family; they file a missing persons. Nothing turned up.”

“You didn’t hear about any of this before?” Connor said.

Mitch shrugged. “Hey, I interviewed them, turned them over to the guys who worked the original case. With the exception of Speer, who was older, they all cleared as suspects immediately. They produced no real leads, and I couldn’t be sure that the woman they’d met was really Claire. It didn’t seem important to follow up.”

Connor ground his teeth together and closed his palms around the cool, sweaty beer bottle in front of him. Farrell was right about the three men producing no leads. Even if he had followed up before and the men had been around to talk to him, it was doubtful Farrell would have discovered anything useful. However, the fact that now two of them were missing and one was dead seemed rather significant.

Mitch studied Connor over his upturned beer bottle as he drained the rest of the fluid from it. “Bet that home security outfit doesn’t sound like such a bad idea now, huh?”

Connor rubbed his face with both hands and then swept them through his hair. “Holy shit,” he said.

He tried to think clinically, like he would on any other case that did not personally involve him. “So we have three guys, all meet Claire, spend the night with her in a motel. She leaves the address, they go to the house, find out she’s missing. They talk to you, talk to the police. Once they’re in the clear with the authorities, they go on with their lives, probably wishing they’d never heard of Claire Fletcher. Next thing anyone knows is they’re gone, either missing or dead.”

“Yep,” Mitch said. “I think we can assume that now we know what Claire meant when she said you might be in danger.”

“How does this guy know who she’s seen?” Connor said.

Mitch shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe he’s keeping an eye on her or maybe he is keeping tabs on the Fletcher family residence. Maybe both. Who the hell knows? I think you should come stay with me till we figure this thing out.”

Connor shook his head. “No. No way. I’m staying put.”

Mitch leaned over the table and pointed a finger toward Connor. “Whoever this piece of human garbage is, he’s smooth. Either he’s the luckiest damn criminal in the world or he knows what the hell he’s doing. We shouldn’t be taking any chances.”

“Duly noted,” Connor replied. “But I have an advantage those other poor schmucks didn’t. I know he’s coming. I say we rig the house and let the bastard come.”

Mitch grunted. “Don’t be an idiot, Parks. I want to get this guy as much as you do, but I don’t want to get killed doing it and I don’t want you to get killed either.”

“Farrell, I’m a professional. I deal with this kind of scum every day.”

“Not the kind that knocks on your door,” Farrell pointed out.

“I’m firm on this,” Connor said. “I’m staying put. Besides, after tomorrow, we might be able to knock on his door.”

Mitch’s eyebrows shot up. “Tell me,” he said.

Connor recounted his phone calls to the Geary women and told Mitch about his appointment with Noel Geary at noon the next day.

“I’m riding shotgun,” Farrell said in a tone that brooked no objections. “Did you run the area for addresses belonging to guys with the first name Rod?”

Connor sighed. “Yeah, for the better part of the day. I tried Rod, Roderick, Rodney, every variation I could think of and got nothing. But I think we’ll have a better handle on it after we talk to Geary.”

Mitch nodded.

“Where’d you get with the phone records?” Connor asked.

“I have a call out but it’s going to take some time,” Farrell said. “Then again, the way things are shaping up, we may not need it. We could break this whole thing wide open by Monday.”

Connor nodded, then frowned. “Monday,” he groaned.

“What about it?”

“The review board. I’m going on the spit,” Connor said.

He told Mitch about the shooting two weeks prior and about the case that led up to it. As he spoke, the memory of Claire in his arms, soft and intoxicating, asking to hear the details of the gruesome crimes teased his brain.

“Well, it’s not the best case of officer-involved shooting,” Mitch said. “But you might be okay. Just act properly remorseful. You took a human life. Justice should never reside in the hands of a single man, even if he is an officer of the law. The guy had rights. He should have had his day in court. Protect and serve and all that crap.

“Guy evaded arrest twice, had a long list of priors which included possession of illegal firearms. He was hiding in the closet, which meant he was already aware that the police were on the premises. He went to draw a weapon, you made a call, it just happened to be the wrong one, et cetera. Show them you’re sorry, and they ought to cut you some slack.”

Connor nodded along with Farrell’s suggestions, thinking that none of Farrell’s words coming from his lips would be a lie. It felt good knowing that the rapist was off the streets forever. No chance of acquittal or appeal on some technicality. No chance of parole. He would never hurt another person. A small part of him felt gratified—the part that still had nightmares about the battered faces of the victims, the horrible accounts of their ordeals told from trembling lips wet with tears. On the days that he thought about those women, whose trust in everything safe and good in the world had been shattered, whose bodies seemed to be made up more of fear than of flesh and blood, Connor felt good about the shooting.

But those moments were not as plentiful as the ones in which he felt guilty and ashamed.

Mitch looked around the room and sighed. “You want me to stay here tonight?” he asked.

Connor shook his head. “No,” he said. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m okay for tonight.”

They talked for another half hour before Connor walked Mitch to the door. Mitch turned to him before walking out. “Sure you don’t want me to stay?” he asked.

Connor smiled. “Thanks, but no. I’m a big boy, Farrell.”

Clearly uncomfortable leaving Connor alone but realizing that he couldn’t change Connor’s mind, Mitch rolled his eyes. “Fine. But that’s a standing offer. You have my contact information.”

“Yes, I do. I’ll see you tomorrow at eleven a.m. sharp,” Connor said.

As Connor closed the door behind him, Mitch called over his shoulder, “Lock that door!”

Connor laughed and turned the lock. He moved through the house, straightening up and mentally ticking off the questions he’d ask Noel Geary the next day. He tried to focus on the upcoming interview, but the thought of Teplitz, Speer, and Randall all having left the world in one way or another shortly after meeting Claire kept creeping back into his mind.

“Protect yourself,” Claire had said.

Although Connor knew more about crimes, both random and premeditated, than anyone should have to know, he wasn’t one of these safety nuts whose home security measures teetered past the line of good sense into paranoia.

All Connor had were the locks on his windows and doors and his guns.

“I need a dog,” Connor muttered to himself.

He’d always wanted to get a dog. A big one that he could count on to deter burglars and other unsavory characters, but Denise had never liked dogs. For now he'd have to settle for guns and knives. He had two handguns he used for target practice and a rifle, which he placed strategically around the house in places that would not be readily observable to visitors. He would keep his department-issued Glock nine millimeter on him when he was in his taskforce room or bedroom.

He had a few hunting knives he had purchased over the years mostly as collector’s items, but he figured they would pierce an intruder just as easily as they did a FedEx box if such an occasion presented itself. Connor used Denise’s old Tupperware to fashion sleeves, which he nailed to the undersides of four pieces of furniture. The knives fit easily into the plastic sleeves, handles protruding from the edge of the sheaths for easy access. He placed one sheath on the underside of the dining room table, one on the underside of the kitchen table, another on the underside of one of the shelves in the bathroom and the final knife he secured to the underside of his bed. From where he slept, he could roll over and easily draw the knife if necessary.

An overzealous German Shepherd would probably have been less complicated, but Connor did take some perverse satisfaction in shredding Denise’s Tupperware.

Finally, Connor set his alarm clock and lay down to sleep, his Glock on the nightstand within easy reach. He had worried that he would be unable to sleep after hearing Mitch’s news, starting at every sound, afraid to drift off lest an attacker materialize out of the shadowy corners of his bedroom and kill Connor while he slept, but he was exhausted and within minutes was deep in the clutches of sleep.

The edge of the counter dug into my hip as I peered through my kitchen window. I had turned off my lights hours ago. Now I stood in the dark listening to the symphony of mockingbirds nestled in the trees around the property. Across the road, there was no shuffle in the curtains. No sign that either of them were watching.

Silently, I padded to the door and slipped through a narrow opening so as not to unleash a creak from its rickety frame. In black, silent increments, like the stealthy growth of a plant, I made my way across the street. Earlier that day I had chosen markers, places to crouch and wait to see if the lights in the wooden house flicked on or if a pair of eyes appeared in the corner of a window. I counted, watching the house so intently that dark whirling shapes seemed to surround it. Then I moved slowly to the next marker.