Seconds to Live (Scarlet Falls) Page 24

  Friday night. Strike three.

  Stella softened her voice. “What did you fight about?”

  “She’s dating another loser,” Tonya sniffed. “I don’t want her to end up like me. I had her at fifteen.”

  “We’re going to take all your personal information and get copies of this picture out to our officers on patrol. We’ll need names and numbers of Janelle’s friends, places she likes to hang out, that sort of thing.” Stella rose. “I’ll get you some paper.”

  Nodding, Tonya wiped her red nose on her sleeve.

  Stella and Lance retreated to the hallway. Stella paced the length of the corridor and back. “Hopefully this kid hasn’t returned because she’s angry, but Janelle went missing the night after we found Dena.”

  “You know how many people go missing,” Lance said. “Chances are, this kid’s case isn’t related. She’s probably pissed at her mother.”

  “You’re right.” But Stella hated to think of another young girl out on the street while a predator hunted.

  “Same thing with your informant. Are you sure Gianna is missing?” Lance asked. “Maybe she knocked over a lamp by accident. Maybe she’s avoiding you.”

  Stella chewed on her lip “But not showing up for dialysis would be suicide.”

  “You’ve said before that the kid has it rough.”

  Stella didn’t doubt that Gianna was depressed. Her life was out of her control and full of physical misery. As much as she hated to admit it, she couldn’t rule out the possibility that Gianna was suicidal. They didn’t even know for certain that the killer had taken another woman.

  “I have to catch up with Brody.”

  Lance nodded. “I’ll get the paperwork started with Ms. Hall.”

  “Thanks,” Stella headed for her cubicle where her blazer lay draped over the back of her chair. A yellow clasp envelope sat in her inbox. Her name and the station’s address were printed on the front.

  She knew it was from him. Donning gloves, she used a letter opener to slit the top.

  A sheet of paper slid out. A single sentence was typed in the center of the eight by ten white sheet.

  I HAVE NUMBER 3.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “What is the purpose of the notes?” Stella climbed the Spivaks’ front stoop.

  Next to her, Brody scanned the street. “He’s taunting you like he did in the interview.”

  She pictured Spivak’s smug leer and shivered.

  “God, I hope they know where to find him.” Stella rang the doorbell. Another girl’s life depended on it. But did he have Gianna or Janelle?

  “Even if they do, they might not be willing to share.” Brody said. “We’re trying to put their son in prison.”

  The senior Mr. Spivak was a tall and tidy man. He wore his plaid, short-sleeved shirt tucked in, and a sharp crease bisected the exact center of his jeans. The shriveled woman who stood next to him was colorless, gray from her hair to her eyes to her washed-out housedress.

  Stella and Brody showed their badges.

  “We already said we’re not talking to the police.” Mrs. Spivak clenched her fingers in front of her sternum. The only parts of her body that moved were her fingers, which worked in a nervous repetition from church to steeple and back again. “Noah’s a grown man. He’s not our responsibility anymore. You can’t hold us accountable for his doings.”

  “No one is holding you responsible, ma’am.” Stella peered around their bodies but saw no one behind them. “We just want to ask you a few questions. Are you aware that we’re looking for Noah?”

  Mrs. Spivak’s frown sank into the folds of her neck. “I thought you had him in custody?”

  “We did,” Stella said. “Someone bailed him out.”

  Mrs. Spivak’s open palm pressed just below the hollow of her throat. “Wasn’t us. He belongs in jail. We kicked him out because he threatened to kill us when we wouldn’t give him money to support his cause. We don’t have much. We barely get by, but Noah is obsessed.”

  “Does Noah have any other friends who would have bail money?” Stella asked.

  Mr. Spivak folded his arms across his chest and ground his molars. “All his friends are crazy bastards with shaved heads and Nazi tattoos.”

  “It would help if you could give us a list,” Brody added. “The sooner we get him off the street, the safer you’ll be.”

  “I guess you’re right. We’re just afraid he’ll come after us if we turn him in, but I guess he’s probably going to come after us anyway.” Mrs. Spivak moved back, clearing the threshold. “Come in.”

  Her husband ushered them into a paneled living room. The decor was stark. No family pictures adorned the walls. No knickknacks cluttered the surfaces. No shoes lined up at the door. Decades of regimented cleaning had scrubbed the house of all signs of life.

  Mr. Spivak took a piece of paper from a desk drawer and started writing.

  “Did your son leave anything behind in his room?” Stella asked the missus.

  “Not really, but you’re welcome to have a look.” Mr. Spivak handed her a list of six names. Three only had first names. “The first few he went to high school with. The others he picked up since. They’re all just as crazy as he is.”

  “Thank you. We have a search warrant for his room. Did you want to see it?” Brody reached for the folded paper in his suit jacket.

  Mr. Spivak waved the offer away. “No need. If there’s any evidence in his room, you’re welcome to it. I’m sorry to say we’d feel safer if Noah was behind bars.”

  Stella and Brody went down the hall and took a quick turn around Noah’s room. The twin bed, dresser, and desk in heavy grained oak were likely the same he used in childhood. A braided rug occupied the center of the oak floor.

  Stella put on gloves and checked the drawers. All empty. Then she pulled each one out and inspected the outside and bottom. Nothing. “He cleaned this place out pretty well.”

  Brody opened the closet door and took down a box of trophies. “Everything he left behind is from his childhood. Nothing current.”

  “He wasn’t always a bad kid, but he always took up with the wrong sort.” Mr. Spivak hunched in the doorway. His gaze settled on the box, his frown turning bittersweet. “He was a smart kid in high school. Went away to college on a scholarship. Then he hooked up with these skinhead types. Nothing but trouble since.”

  “Is there anything else you can tell us?” Brody returned the box to the closet.

  “No.” Mr. Spivak exhaled, and his body deflated. “I know we seem harsh, but we’re at our wits’ end. Noah is out of control. The best thing for everyone is if he gets put away where he can’t hurt anyone.”

  Stella scanned the room one last time but saw nothing left to search.

  “I think we’re done here,” she said. “Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Spivak.”

  He walked them to the door and let them out. “I hope you find him before he hurts someone.”

  “So do we.” Stella followed Brody out to the car. Her stomach churned. “How many hotline tips do we have?”

  “There were eighty-seven calls to the hotline, but most were useless.” Brody pulled out a sheet of paper. “We have six.”

  “Six?” Stella climbed into the car, numb. “This will take all afternoon. He killed Dena within the first day. We don’t even know how long he’s had the new girl or whether it’s Gianna or Janelle or someone else. All we know is that he has a girl and she doesn’t have long to live.”

  Brody and Stella spent a fruitless afternoon hoping for a break, but as the afternoon stretched into evening and the whereabouts of Gianna and Janelle remained a mystery, Stella’s patience frayed.

  “Brody, what if we don’t find them?” Stella’s voice cracked.

  “We can’t think like that. We just have to keep going. What’s the next address?” Brody slowed the car while Stella read the list under the dome light.

  “Forty-two Sycamore Street.”

  The two drove in silence
until Brody turned onto Sycamore.

  She focused on a passing mailbox. “There’s thirty-six.”

  Brody eased off the gas as they passed three more houses in the encroaching gloom. The lots and houses were large in this section of Scarlet Falls.

  Stella searched for house numbers in the dimness. “Here it is.” She pointed to a yellow Victorian across the street from a pharmacy. “Big houses like this must cost a fortune to maintain.”

  Brody owned an old beauty near the center of town. “They do, which is why so many of them get broken down into smaller units like this one.”

  He parked at the curb. Originally a large house, the home had been divided into four smaller apartments. White gingerbread trim cried for repairs and a fresh coat of paint. Overgrown shrubs brushed the faded asbestos siding. From the street, the backyard looked like a rhododendron jungle.

  “Your house is gorgeous,” Stella said. This one was decidedly not. She tugged her blazer over her handgun and stared at the building.

  Brody got out of the driver’s seat. “Is this the right address?”

  “Yes.” She checked her list. “We’re looking for Jim Crawley in apartment four.”

  “What does Mr. Crawley claim to know?” Brody straightened his tie. He’d loosened the knot in the car.

  “He claims to have seen a woman taken from the church parking lot last Thursday night. Says she appeared to be incapacitated. He thought her male companion was helping her, but now he thinks maybe he got that wrong.”

  “So he might have seen Missy’s abduction?” Brody asked.

  “Right.” Stella pulled a piece of hair off her sweaty neck and tucked it into her bun. “Let’s see what he has to say.”

  A porch covered the entire front facade of the house. Two doors, marked One and Two in black script letters, stood side-by-side in the center. A “For Rent” sign hung in the front window of number two. An exterior wooden staircase ran up each side of the house to the second floor units.

  “It’s the one on the right.” Brody pointed.

  Pea gravel crunched under their shoes as they walked across the parking area toward an exterior staircase. Stella glanced at the windows. No curtains moved. She surveyed the neighboring houses and lots, but there was no one in sight.

  “Do you feel like you’re being watched?” she asked Brody.

  “I definitely feel eyes on us.” Brody scanned the house. “It’s a residential neighborhood. I’m sure there are people around.”

  Wood creaked as they climbed to a second-floor landing.

  They split up, each standing to one side of the white metal door.

  “Mr. Crawley?” Brody rapped his knuckles below the peephole. The door swung open an inch.

  The hair on the back of Stella’s neck twitched, and a bead of sweat trickled between her breasts. Her hand went to her sidearm. Tilting her head, she listened. The apartment was quiet. Voices floated on the breeze. Stella glanced at the street below. A young family was passing the house in the glow of a streetlight. The man walked a black lab while the woman pushed a toddler in an umbrella stroller.

  Brody pushed the door with two fingers and peered through the opening. “Mr. Crawley? This is Detective McNamara of the Scarlet Falls PD. We’re responding to your call to the hotline.”

  Silence.

  Stella drew her weapon. Brody led with his gun. In unspoken agreement, he aimed high. Stella crouched as he pushed the door with a shoulder. An overhead light glowed a sickly yellow. Stained beige carpet silenced their steps as they went through the doorway.

  Stella swept the living room on the right. She glanced behind a brown vinyl couch. The room wasn’t big enough to hide anywhere else, even in the shadows. “Clear.”

  Brody turned left into the kitchen. “Clear.”

  The floor squeaked as they went down a short hallway. Brody flipped a switch on the wall to illuminate a black and white bathroom. The shower curtain was drawn over an old cast-iron tub. Stella stood in the doorway and covered the hall while Brody pulled the curtain aside. Nothing but mold and rust inside.

  Two more doors opened off the corridor. The first stood open. Boxes and plastic totes were piled from floor to ceiling along one wall.

  Stella checked the two-by-two closet. Empty. “Clear.”

  She rejoined Brody in the hall. The final door was closed. Brody opened it and they went in, a table lamp lighting their way. The room was empty. Stella checked under the bed. Brody headed toward the closet. “We’re all clear.”

  Relief tried to slip through her, but her instincts were still on alert. Post-traumatic stress or real threat? That was always the question these days.

  “I guess Mr. Crawley isn’t that anxious to talk to us.” Brody holstered his weapon.

  But Stella still had the creeps. She put her Glock away. “I don’t like this.”

  “Stella.” Brody was staring at the opposite wall. Stella turned. Over the bed, bright red letters spelled BOO.

  Fear prickled hot on Stella’s back. Unfortunately, it wasn’t her PTSD.

  “Let’s get out of here.” Brody prodded her with a hand to the arm.

  Crack. Something struck the ceiling above her head. Bits of ceiling rained down on her. Gunshot?

  Confusion and fear jolted Stella.

  “What was that?” She ran to the hall with Brody shoving her from behind.

  “Gunshot.”

  With his gaze on the floor, Brody steered her to the edge of the corridor. The floor squeaked underfoot.

  Crack.

  “Shit. He’s shooting at us from the apartment below.” Brody’s hand dropped off Stella’s shoulder. She turned. He was down on one knee. Blood seeped through his gray slacks. He waved her away and yelled, “Go! Get out of here.”

  Not going to happen.

  Drawing her weapon, she fired three shots through the floor, aiming at the bullet holes. Then she turned back to Brody, grabbed his wrist, and ducked under his arm. She half-dragged him to the door, staying off the direct path. Another shot came though the floor inches from her foot. Wood splintered. Something stung her ankle.

  Stella yanked the door open, and they staggered onto the wooden landing of the staircase. Brody’s weight sagged on Stella’s frame, and she was forced to holster her gun and wrap her right arm around his waist to keep him upright as they hobbled down the steps. Stella’s ears rang as they made it to the walkway.

  A door slammed and footsteps on concrete faded.

  The shooter was getting away. Stella wanted to chase him. Brody went down, and Stella stumbled. Recovering, she turned to look back in the direction of the gunman.

  But Brody was on the ground, pale and bleeding.

  She’d have to let the shooter go. Again.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “Have you seen this girl?” Mac held up the picture of Gianna.

  A man in jeans and a T-shirt bearing the logo of a local bar emerged from his apartment, closed the door behind him, and locked it. He squinted at the photo. “I think she lives around here.”

  “She lives in the next building,” Mac said. This apartment had a good view of the parking area. “She disappeared sometime last night.”

  “Sorry. I’m a bartender. I work nights.” He took a step toward the lot.

  “Have you seen any weird activity around here lately?” Mac asked.

  “Nothing any weirder than usual. I gotta go. Hope you find your friend.”

  “Thanks.” Mac tucked the picture into his back pocket. He’d knocked on every door in Gianna’s building, and every door with a view of her apartment or the parking area. Now what?

  He walked back to stand in front of Gianna’s unit, facing the rows of cars. A strip mall lined the road on the other side of the cracked asphalt. Tattoo parlor, Laundromat, check cashing. He walked across. Cool moisture in the wind promised another storm.

  He stepped onto the curb on the other side. The streetlight was out, and darkness smothered the sidewalk. A shoe scraped on cem
ent. Mac froze, his instincts on alert.

  In the storefront window, he caught the reflection of two figures moving in the shadows behind him. Mac ducked into an alley between the buildings. The narrow space would force the men to attack him one at a time, if that was their intent.

  Since they followed him into the alley, he assumed it was.

  A hulk of a man rushed him, his beefy arm looping over his head. Mac whirled and focused on his attacker’s hand. A knife. The blade ice-picked toward Mac’s head. He side stepped out of the weapon’s path and caught the man by the wrist with both hands. Redirecting his assailant’s momentum, Mac guided the weapon down. Following the natural arc of motion, the point slid into the man’s thigh.

  He howled. A second man rushed at Mac from behind the first. Small, lighter, more nimble. Ripping the knife free, Mac swept the first man’s leg out from under him and shoved him at the second. Number two tripped over his pal and went face-first into the cement. He got a knee under his body and turned back, blood streamed from his nose and triangled over his chin. With a roar, he scooped a broken bottle from the ground and charged.

  Mac ducked the first wild swing. The bottle came back at his head, number two’s eyes were white-rimmed and wild. He slashed back and forth, the jagged edged of glass sweeping the air in front of Mac’s face.

  Mac plucked the KA-BAR from his boot and reverse-gripped his knife.

  Hands in front of his face, he dodged the swings and waited. Number two backslashed. Mac leaped forward and blocked the backswing with an upward sweep of the knife. The blade sliced number two’s forearm to the bone. Mac hooked the point of the knife over the man’s wrist, slammed a palm into the back of the man’s elbow, and armbarred him to the ground. Mac pulled the arm, stretching the man out on his belly and pinning him to the pavement.

  Still the guy struggled, his feet running in place, the toes of his black trainers scraping for purchase on the blacktop.

  Mac checked the status of number one. No worries. The guy was busy trying to plug the gusher in his thigh with both hands.