The Rainy Day Killer (19 page)

When the loneliness came?

“She had a nice voice,” Griffin said.

Hank spotted
a small photo album behind a large bottle of vitamin C. He pulled it out and looked at photos of a small girl, presumably Liz. There was a family group, likely with her mother and older sister, and what must have been a recent photo of Liz taken on a beach somewhere. She was sitting on a rock, holding a guitar. He looked closely and counted the number of tuning pegs on the head. Six. She apparently did own a six-string guitar which wasn’t here now. He slipped the photo out of the album and put it in his pocket.

And what can you do

At the end of the day,

When the darkness arrives,

And the crowd slips away?

She had a pleasant, strong singing voice, her pitch was pe
rfect, and her playing was skilled and confident. Hank knew it wasn’t easy to break into the business as an independent with no connections or contacts, and he imagined she’d chafed at playing for spare change at the mall. Hank closed the audio player and shut down the laptop. He looked at Butternut, who was bagging the bedclothes.

“Bring everything,” he said, waving at the desk.

The superintendent of the building, Magda Olkowech, lived on the third floor. In her early sixties, she looked as though she might have been a matron in an eastern European prison for women before the fall of the Iron Curtain. She frowned at the mention of Liz Baskett’s name.

“Noisy,” she said in a thick accent. “Trouble
, like I say to officer. Tell her all time, people try sleep, no make music at night. Never listen.”

When Hank asked her if she saw or heard anything on Thursday or Friday suggesting that Liz had had a visitor, Olkowech
shook her head. “Only know very quiet now. Much better.”

“It’s quiet because she’s dead,” Griffin said, annoyed.
“Doesn’t that bother you at all?”

The woman shrugged. “Nobody to me. Always late with rent.” She put her hands on her hips. “Make sure stuff’s out by mi
ddle next week. Want to show room right away.”

On the way back downstairs, Griffin
said, “I should keep my mouth shut.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Hank told him.

At the front door, a uniformed officer gave them a list of other tenants in the building. “I spoke to one guy upstairs, a Mr. Malek. Retired, on a pension. Never goes out. Didn’t know the vic at all. The tenant in the back apartment on this floor waits on tables in a coffee shop just off campus. Knew the vic to see her, complained a few times about noise to the old bat upstairs, but didn’t see or hear anything since Thursday morning. Nobody else is home right now.”

“Thanks,” Hank said, putting the list in his pocket. “We’ll track down the others later.”

He followed Griffin outside. “Let’s go to the mall,” he said.

Griffin unlocked th
e Suburban with his remote fob.

“Her six-string guitar’s not there,” Hank said,
thinking out loud. “She was pushing to make some extra money. There was something she wanted to buy.”

They got into the Suburban. Griffin started the engine. “The newspaper.”

“Yeah, she was checking the classifieds while she was having breakfast. Looking to pick up something second-hand. So she needed to raise the cash for it.”

Two blocks farther down on Davis Street they
reached the Southpoint Mall, a single-level enclosed shopping center that, at its peak, had featured more than one hundred stores. It was anchored by J.C. Penney at one end and a Shoppers grocery store at the other end. The economic downturn had drastically increased the number of vacant units, but the mall still featured several shoe stores, a drug store, jewelers, and numerous clothing stores. At an information kiosk inside, Hank showed his badge and asked the woman to call the mall manager.

The manager was a tall, pear-shaped, prematurely bald man who introduced himself as Cam McLeod. “I’m the operations ma
nager,” he said, shaking Hank’s hand. “I work for Kefoll and Williams. We’re the property management firm that runs this place.”

“This is FBI Supervisory Special Agent Griffin,” Hank said.

“Wow, FBI,” McLeod said, raising his eyebrows as he shook hands with Griffin. “I always wondered what it would be like to work for the FBI. Probably not like it is on TV, all action and car chases and stuff like that. Probably a lot of paperwork, right? God knows I have enough of that right now. What can I help you guys with this afternoon?”

“We’re investigating the homicide of a young woman named Liz Baskett. She had a busker’s license for this location.”
Hank took the photo out of his pocket and showed it to him.

McLeod shook his head. “Name doesn’t mean anything to me.
Wait, is that what I heard on the news this morning? She was found downtown, at city hall? Terrible. My sister called me about it when I was getting ready for work. She was really upset.”

“You didn’t know Liz Baskett personally?” Hank asked.

McLeod shook his head. “We have a number of people with permission to perform on mall property. We screen them ourselves, did you know that? Even if they already got their license from the city, they have to do an audition with our general manager, Mrs. Charlene Tennant-Pecaskie. If she doesn’t think they’re appropriate for our clientele, she won’t give them permission. It
is
private property after all, license or no license.” He held up his hands. “But don’t get the wrong idea. Mrs. Tennant-Pecaskie’s really, really nice to them. Nicer than other property managers I know. We have a seating area up in the north court, close to the entrance to Shoppers, where most of the units are vacant right now. She set up an area for them with a little stage, and they come into the office and reserve time slots on the board. They’re also allowed to perform outside the east entrance, but we have our security staff check on them to make sure they’re not bothering anybody.”

“Was Liz Baskett scheduled to use the stage on Thursday?”

“I’d have to look.”

“Could we do that now?” Hank asked, politely.

“Oh! Yeah! Sure! Sorry! This way.” He pirouetted on his heel and led them down the main concourse. “This Payless shoe store is one of the original tenants,” he said, pointing. “This one here, Crazy Pops, is newer. They sell all kinds of flavored popcorn.” He leaned close to Griffin. “How about blueberry-flavored popcorn? Sound good to you?”

“Not really,” Griffin said.

“I tried it once. Nearly barfed. But the kids apparently love it. It’s their best-seller. Life will always be a mystery to me.”

“I hear that,” Griffin said.

“Just down here.” McLeod swung around the corner into a side passage. “This is where our offices are. Washrooms there,” he waved his hand at doorways on the left, “and we just go in here.” His identification card was attached to his belt by a retractable lanyard. He stopped at a door on the right, pulled out the card, swiped it through a card reader, and opened the door. He pointed to a buzzer mounted on the door frame. “They ring to come in when they want to schedule themselves.” He turned and pointed at the ceiling. “We have a little dome camera there, see? So staff know who it is before they buzz them in.”

He led them into the office and around a reception counter to a whiteboard mounted on the wall.
Drawn with black marker on the board was a seven-day calendar divided into one-hour slots from 9:00
a.m
. to 5:00
p.m
. “We’re open until nine o’clock on weekdays, but Mrs. Tennant-Pecaskie prefers to have the evening hours quiet for shoppers.”

Names were
handwritten on magnetic strips of different colors. “Yellow for musicians, blue for magic acts and jugglers, red for mimes.”

“What about fire-eaters and sword-swallowers?” Griffin asked.

McLeod laughed nervously. “Oh, Mrs. Tennant-Pecaskie doesn’t allow them. Liability issues.”

Hank saw that the schedule for Thursday didn’t include Liz Ba
skett. In fact, someone named Johnson had reserved four different time slots on that day. When he pointed this out, McLeod nodded.

“That’s Angus Johnson. He’s a retired aircraft mechanic
who plays the accordion and sings all those corny songs old folks love. You know, ‘The Beer Barrel Polka,’ that kind of stuff. He’s popular around here. Margie, she’s the one looks after the board during the day, she doesn’t work Sundays but she sits right here”—he pointed at a desk—“she’s kind of sweet on the guy and lets him get more than his fair share. When the others complain to me, I just tell them it’s out of my hands. Maybe they should learn the accordion, too.”

“I hate the accordion,” Griffin said.

McLeod nodded. “Me too.”

Since they seemed to be
getting into a groove, Griffin touched him on the elbow and turned him away from the board. “You guys obviously have security cameras all over the place here. How about getting us a copy of your feeds from last Thursday? It could be very important to the investigation.”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that without a warrant,” McLeod replied. “Company policy. I’d get fired in a heartbeat.”

“A warrant won’t be any problem,” Hank said, unperturbed. “We wouldn’t want to cause you any trouble. If Liz Baskett wanted to busk here last Thursday but couldn’t get on the schedule, you said she’d be allowed to play outside the east entrance? That right?”

“Yeah, exactly. There’s a bit of overhanging roof when you walk outside, and they’re allowed to do their thing under there. We let them stay a couple of hours, then one of our security guys asks them to leave. If they stay too long, we
get loitering complaints from customers, irregardless of their licenses. We move them out and give somebody else a chance.”

Hank looked at the schedule for today. There were several blank spots.
Someone named Keyton was performing in the north court at the moment. Taking out his notebook and pen, he jotted down a few notes.

“We’re worried that the young lady’s killer might
’ve snatched her right here from the mall,” Griffin said. “If it comes out later, it could cause a big public relations problem for your company. It’d help the lieutenant if he could get out ahead of the curve.”

Hank
closed his notebook and reached into his pocket for the composite drawing of the Rainy Day Killer. He showed it to McLeod. “We’re looking for this guy. We’d like to confirm on the video that Ms. Baskett was here at the mall last Thursday, but we also want to find out whether this guy was here.”

McLeod stared at the
drawing. “I don’t know. I worked on Thursday, but I wouldn’t remember. Hundreds of people come in and out all day.”

“That’s why we need to
see the video.”

McLeod hesitated, wrinkling his brow again. The office door opened behind them. They turned around as a young man in a sec
urity guard’s uniform walked through the office without looking at them, heading for a room at the back. McLeod looked at Griffin and shrugged. “I can’t burn a copy right now, but I can ask Warren to play it back. You’re welcome to watch over his shoulder, in case you see anything you might need to subpoena from us later. For evidence. Whatever you guys do.”

Griffin looked at Hank. “I don’t mind
, if you want to call for the warrant and look around.”

Hank nodded. “Karen will come down and relieve you as soon as she can.”

“Whatever.” Griffin turned to McLeod. “So introduce me to this Warren guy.”

Hank left them and walked back out into the mall. He was closest to the east entrance, so he headed in that direction first, r
emoving his cell phone and calling Karen as he walked.

“I’m at the morgue,” she said. “They’re putting her through x-ray right now, but I thought I’d stick around in case they find an
ything more this time. Horvath’s downtown with Montgomery, checking out the hotline tips. They’re getting a ton of calls, and he wanted to look through the slips.”

“Sounds good. I’ll give him a call and have him do the wa
rrant. You stay with the body.”

“Roger wilco. You looked good on TV at noon. Very captain-like.”

“Don’t start on that.”

“I’ll call you when I know more
.” She ended the call.

Hank speed-dialed
Horvath. It rang a number of times, and when Horvath finally answered it, his voice sounded harried.

“Yeah, Hank. Can you hold a minute?”

“Sure,” Hank said, but Horvath had already lowered the phone and was continuing the argument he’d been in the middle of when Hank called.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, “it’s already done. If she says no one called it in, then there’s nothing she could do. You know that.”

Hank could hear Cassion’s voice replying to Horvath, but he couldn’t make out the words.

“With all due respect, Captain,” Horvath said, “we need to focus on what’s in front of us now and not start flaming Missing Pe
rsons for something they couldn’t—”