Deadly Pursuit Page 11

  But logic told Alison that a woman who had reliable daycare arrangements in place with a reputable provider during work hours wasn’t likely to leave her children unattended at other times. If she had to run out to get a leaky radiator checked, as she’d done on the night in question, she’d take them along. Unless her neighbor had offered to watch them, as Ellen maintained.

  According to the young mother, the thirtysomething woman down the hall had moved in about two months ago. They’d met while collecting their mail and chatted whenever they ran into each other. At some point, the neighbor had offered to watch the children if Ellen was ever in a bind. Ellen had never taken her up on that—until last week.

  Now Bev seemed to have disappeared off the face of the earth.

  As Alison grabbed a bag of Bert’s favorite dog food, hefted it into the cart, and did a U-turn toward the checkout line, her phone began to ring. Digging through her purse, she smiled at the familiar number when her fingers closed over the phone.

  “Hi, Mitch.”

  “You know my number by sight?” He sounded pleased.

  “I memorized it when I was getting those suspicious calls, in case I needed to reach you quickly.” She let a beat of silence pass. “But I don’t intend to forget it.”

  He chuckled. “That’s nice to know. I tried calling your house first, by the way.”

  She eased the cart into line and circled around to the front of it, setting a plastic divider on the conveyer belt. “I worked late. I’m at the grocery store as we speak.”

  “Burning the midnight oil on the Callahan case?”

  “It’s not quite midnight, but it feels like it.” She began unloading her groceries, easing her weight off her injured leg, which had begun to throb. Not unexpected, in light of all the hours she’d spent on her feet today.

  “Any progress?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You’ll get there. That family’s lucky to have you on its side.”

  “I hope so.” She tucked the phone against her shoulder, freeing her hands to hoist the bag of dog food to the conveyer.

  “I know so.”

  The warmth in his voice sent a little trill along her nerve endings, but she hid her reaction under a teasing tone. “And to what do I owe the honor of this call?”

  “I was hoping you might be interested in a Ted Drewes run. But if you’re not even home yet, another night might be better.”

  A quick glance at her watch confirmed it was close to seven. Much as she’d love to spend an hour in his company, he was right. “To be honest, it would. I haven’t had dinner yet, and I need to let Bert out and feed him too. Plus, I have to prep for a hearing tomorrow morning.”

  “Sounds like you have a busy evening ahead.”

  “Too busy.”

  “I’d offer to come over if I thought there was anything I could do to help.”

  She resisted the temptation to succumb to his hint, knowing his presence would be more distracting than helpful. “I appreciate the thought. Give me a rain check again, okay?”

  “No problem.”

  As she tugged her cart forward, she caught sight of Erik several lanes away. He was bagging in his usual slow, methodical way, totally focused on his task.

  “Hey . . . I just spotted Erik. I was hoping he’d be here tonight. I want to make sure he knows I’m not upset.”

  As her secret admirer deposited a filled bag in the customer’s cart, she caught his eye and waved. Instead of responding with his usual open smile, however, he dipped his head and went back to work.

  She lowered her hand. “He’s ignoring me.”

  “The house manager said she was going to talk to him. Maybe he thinks he’s not supposed to communicate with you at all.”

  “That’s the impression I’m getting. I need to fix this.”

  “I’ll let you go. Why don’t I call you in a day or two? Or you can call me if you get any more suspicious packages.”

  “I’m hoping that’s behind us.”

  “Me too. Good luck with Erik.”

  “Thanks.”

  As Alison ran her credit card through the machine, she kept tabs on Erik. No question about it. He was avoiding eye contact. She didn’t want to undermine whatever the house manager had told him, but neither did she want him to think he could never talk to her again.

  Without wasting time putting her credit card or sales slip away, she pushed her cart toward the door, a route that would take her past Erik. He was finishing up with his customer, and there was no one else in line. That should give them a minute or two to exchange a few words.

  When she drew close, he ducked his head again and angled away, playing with the name badge on his shirt.

  “Hi, Erik.”

  He didn’t face her. “Hi.”

  Moving into his line of sight, she dropped her voice. “I’m not mad at you, you know.”

  He risked a peek at her. “That detective guy named Mitch . . . he said you were scared. I didn’t mean . . . to scare you.”

  “I know that. It’s okay.”

  “Ms. Walker told me not . . . to call you anymore. Or give you presents.”

  “She’s right about that, but talking in the store is fine. I look forward to our chats whenever I come in. I hope we can still be friends.”

  His earnest gaze sought hers. “I hope so too.” He gestured to her cart. “Do you want me to push that out for you?”

  “I think I can do it tonight. But thank you.” She set her shoulder purse in the basket and pulled out her wallet, intending to put away her credit card. But it slipped from her fingers, scattering plastic cards, her driver’s license, photos, and change on the ground.

  She surveyed the mess in dismay and eased herself to the ground. “I can’t believe I did that.”

  Erik got down on his hands and knees, collecting the scattered contents alongside her. “I drop stuff all the time too. It’s okay. I’ll help you find everything.”

  As she rounded up the change, Erik dug out the family picture from her mom’s birthday party that had wedged itself under a rack of candy. He also located her credit card among the plastic bags waiting to be filled.

  With a wince, she pulled herself to her feet, using the edge of the counter for leverage. Her leg hadn’t appreciated the unexpected exercise, but at least the incident had restored the easy give-and-take of her previous relationship with her favorite bagger.

  Tossing the jumbled mess back in her purse to be sorted through later, Alison smiled at Erik. “Thanks. I don’t think I would have found everything without you.”

  He beamed. “I like to help.”

  “I know. And I appreciate that.” The checker had begun scanning another customer’s items, and she started toward the door. “I’ll see you next week, okay?”

  “Okay. Bye, Alison.” With a wave, he reached for the first item lumbering down the conveyer belt and went back to work.

  Heading for her car, Alison found herself limping for the first time in weeks. Barring any unexpected occurrences, a long, hot bath was fast edging out dinner as her top priority once she got home.

  As she loaded her groceries into the trunk, she kept her promise to Jake and surveyed the parking lot. Knowing how absorbed she could get in a case—to the point of being oblivious to her surroundings—he’d called last night to remind her to remain alert in public. She’d assured him she’d pay more attention until the black-roses/bingo-card incident was no longer a concern.

  But all seemed quiet. Just the usual after-work crowd intent on wrapping up shopping chores after a long day.

  Alison finished stowing her purchases, closed the trunk, and slid into the driver’s seat. One button locked all the doors. Now that she was secure, she could focus on the Callahan case.

  She backed out of the parking spot, her mind shifting gears to her meeting with Ellen today, and the woman’s tearful visit to her children under Alison’s supervision. She’d assured Ellen she was doing everything she could to validate her story
, but there were no guarantees. The courts put the welfare of the children first, and until the judge was convinced Ellen was a fit mother, there would be no reunion. A statement from Bev Parisi about the incident that had precipitated the separation would help a lot. But if the woman was a user, as the evidence suggested, Alison knew she’d lay low. At least for a while.

  Once again, she was reminded of the similarity between Ellen’s situation and that of Nicole Larson four years ago. That young mother had been up to her neck in problems too. A child of the foster system herself, she’d been living with a drug dealer and working two jobs while trying to raise a child whose father had disappeared from her life.

  Although the judge hadn’t been convinced she’d be able to turn her life around, Nicole’s determination to reclaim her son had impressed Alison. That’s why she’d gone above and beyond to help her. And it had paid off, when the two had been reunited a year later.

  She had a feeling her efforts would pay off in Ellen’s case too. Preferably far sooner than a year. But the woman had a tough road ahead.

  And in light of Ellen’s thorny problems, a bouquet of dead roses and a bingo card didn’t seem to merit a whole lot of worry.

  “I don’t know, Chuck.” Daryl pulled a third beer from the fridge and popped the tab. “We could get caught.”

  “Not if we’re careful.” He held up a small jar of white powder and shook it. “You sure you don’t want some? Gettin’ close to the end of this batch.”

  Daryl took a swig of beer and eyed the meth. After his encounter with Nicole earlier tonight, he could use a rush—and beer wasn’t cutting it.

  “Come on, man.” Chuck sidled closer and held the jar a few inches from his face. “Plenty here for both of us. It’ll be like the old days.”

  Except the old days had led him to jail.

  Daryl pushed the man’s hand aside and took another chug of his beer. “Not tonight.”

  “Your loss.” Chuck opened a drawer and pulled out his rig.

  “When did you start slamming, anyway?”

  “Two, three years ago. It’s the only way to go, man.” Chuck took a spoon out of the drawer and shook a small bump into the bowl. He added some tap water and mixed it with the cap of the syringe. “So getting back to your favorite social worker. I’m telling you, we can pull this off. If you want to hit her where it hurts, this is your ticket.”

  He did want to hurt her.

  He just didn’t like blood.

  But he wasn’t about to admit that to Chuck.

  “We’d have to check the place out better. We weren’t there long the night we dropped off the flowers.” Daryl took another swig of beer.

  “Yeah. We can be like private eyes. Do some surveillance.” Chuck drew the meth water into the syringe. Sitting, he pulled off a shoe and sock. Daryl turned away as Chuck injected the stuff between his toes, where the prick mark would be hidden.

  He’d never liked needles either.

  “Bring it on, baby.”

  As Chuck spoke, Daryl looked back. The other man’s eyes were half closed, pleasure smoothing out the lines in his face.

  “You want to go over there tomorrow?” Daryl took a long swallow of his beer. It tasted flat.

  “Yeah. Sounds like a plan. Give me a minute and we can talk about it some more.”

  Not likely. Once the rush passed, Chuck would be bouncing off the walls. He wouldn’t be of any use for hours.

  “Let’s wait until tomorrow. I’m beat.” Daryl took a final gulp of his beer and tossed the can in the trash.

  “Whatever, man.”

  Heading down the hall, Daryl thought about Chuck’s idea. The guy knew how to go for the jugular, no question about it. Whether he had the stomach to follow his host’s lead, however, was another question.

  As he crossed the threshold into the bedroom and flipped on the light, a roach scuttled under the futon. Disgust churned his stomach as he surveyed the filthy, dismal surroundings. He didn’t want to live the rest of his life like this. But what choice did he have? He’d never had a break, not once in his entire twenty-nine years—other than the day he’d crossed paths with Nicole. He’d told her earlier that she owed him, that he’d done her a favor. In truth, though, he was the one who’d gotten the most out of that deal.

  And then Alison Taylor had ruined it.

  Crossing to the futon, he kicked it, hoping the roaches would get the hint and exit. After shaking out the blanket, he lay down.

  Alison Taylor probably had a nice, soft, clean bed. There wouldn’t be any bugs in her house. She was one of the lucky ones. The kind of person who lived a charmed life in a perfect world.

  But it was within his power to make her world less than perfect. All he had to do was go along with Chuck’s idea.

  As he stared at the dark ceiling, he could hear the other man beginning to prowl around the living room. He’d be roaming for hours, too energized to sit or sleep. Turning on his side, Daryl tried to tune out the noise and think about his future.

  Except that was too depressing.

  Once more, he felt as if he was teetering, off balance, on the edge of a precipice. Or trapped in front of a train. Worse, he felt powerless to affect the outcome. A victim of circumstances yet again.

  Cold sweat beaded on his forehead, and he clenched the filthy blanket in his fist, crushing the fabric. Wishing he could take revenge on a world that had treated him unfairly.

  That was beyond his power. But he could punish one person. Make her pay for ruining his life, then robbing him of his last chance to salvage it.

  The black roses had been satisfying, and scaring Alison Taylor had been fun. But Chuck’s new plan was even more diabolical. This one would make her suffer. And that outcome appealed to him. A lot.

  A mirthless smile tugged at his lips as he punched the hard, lumpy pillow into submission and hoped sleep—and the escape it provided—would come quickly. Yeah, he’d have to talk more about the idea with Chuck.

  As soon as he reconciled himself to the blood.

  Juggling the cup of coffee he’d bought to go with his drive-through lunch, Mitch slid out of his car, set the locks, and scoped out the crime scene. The yellow police tape was already up around the run-down duplex in South County, and the Crime Scene Unit van was parked in front.

  “You got tagged for this one too, huh?”

  He turned to find Cole approaching from the other side of the street.

  “Yeah. You know anything?”

  “Not much. Sounds like it could be a drug overdose.” He gestured toward the front door. “Let’s take a look.”

  Without waiting for Mitch to respond, Cole gave his name and department service number to the responding patrol officer, ducked under the tape, and headed for the open front door.

  Mitch gave the officer the same information and followed, pausing to examine the handle and lock. “No evidence of forced entry.”

  “Nope.” Cole gave it a cursory once-over as a woman with short, curly ebony hair streaked with gray entered the living room from the hall. “Hey, Lacey. You done already?”

  “For now.”

  Cole looked at Mitch. “Have you two met?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Lacey, Mitch Morgan. New kid on the block.” Cole shot him a grin. “Our block, anyway. Came from NYPD. Mitch, Lacey Stephens. One of our best investigators from the medical examiner’s office.”

  “Morning, Mitch. Welcome to the department.” She didn’t offer her hand, which was still encased in a latex glove.

  “Thanks.”

  “So what do you think?” Cole inclined his head toward the hallway.

  “Looks drug-related. From all appearances, the guy was a longtime meth user. Stroke or heart failure is my guess.”

  “What’s your best estimate on time of death?”

  “Based on the state of rigor, twelve to fifteen hours ago.”

  “Who called it in?”

  “An anonymous tip, I think. I’ll have more for you on
cause of death later, once I get him to the morgue. Hank’s with him now. In the bedroom.” She peeled off her glove and hooked her thumb in the direction of the hall. “As soon as he’s done in there, we’ll remove the body. See you guys around.” She lifted a hand in farewell and exited the house.

  Mitch did a quick survey of the living room as they passed through. The place was cluttered, dust thick on top of the television. A gray T-shirt had been tossed over a lamp, and an empty, crumpled bag of chips lay on the coffee table.

  It reminded him of a guy’s dorm room.

  They found Hank taking photos in the bedroom. As they entered, Mitch had the same thought he’d had when he’d been introduced to the crime scene investigator a week ago—the man looked more like an aging, absentminded professor than the media stereotype of a CSU technician.

  Except he was sharp as the proverbial tack. And just as prickly.

  “Hi, Hank.”

  The man finished his shot before responding to Cole’s greeting.

  “Cole. Mitch. I have a feeling there’s not going to be a whole lot for you guys to do.” He spared the dead man a quick glance. “I’m not seeing any evidence of foul play.”

  Mitch circled the bed to get a better view of the body. As Lacey had indicated, the man’s appearance suggested heavy, long-term meth use. “Do we have an ID?”

  “Yeah. Lon Samuels. The landlord gave the responding officers the name of the tenant, and this guy matches the photo on the driver’s license we found in his wallet.” He gestured toward the nightstand.

  “Anybody run him for priors?” Cole leaned forward to inspect the body too.

  Hank gave him a wry look. “I’ve been a little busy.”

  “I’ll take care of it.” Cole circled around to the nightstand, where the wallet lay open, dialed his cell phone, and relayed the pertinent data.

  When he got to date of birth, Mitch checked out the dead man again. The guy was only twenty-eight, but he appeared to be in his late forties. What a waste.