Deadly Lies (11 page)

“I’m sorry we argued last night,” Jill said, breaking the silence at last.

“Me, too.” Alex did not glance up.

“I said some things I shouldn’t have.”

“It’s nothing that you haven’t said before.”

“You’re right. I’m awful. Why do you stay with me?”

Her tone was venomous, an outpouring of bitterness and guilt. As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she wished she could take them back, but as usual, it was too late. Her reflex to strike back seemed to win out every time. When would she learn to control her impulses?

Alex looked up, his brown eyes meeting hers.

“Come on, Jill. Let’s just talk, okay?”

“Okay.” She let out a long, shaky breath.

“What’s going on with you?” Alex said, leaning back in his stool, studying her intently.

“I told you, work has been stressful.” She fought to keep her voice even. His gentle but steady probing was unnerving, bringing last night’s argument back into sharp focus.

But what could she say? There were so many parts of herself that she didn’t want to share. Couldn’t share. Especially not with him.

He stared at her as if waiting for her to say something more. When she didn’t, he shook his head.

“Work pressure is nothing new. I think there’s more to it.”

“You’re reading too much into things.”

His head cocked to one side as he watched her. The urge to squirm was squelched under the intensity of his gaze. Despite his soft tone, she couldn’t escape the sense of being interrogated

“Maybe, but I don’t think so. I’ve noticed a change in you ever since you got your promotion.”

“Like what?” she asked, an edge creeping into her voice. Did he know about Jamie? Was he waiting for her to tell him about Jamie? No, Alex wouldn’t be the type of guy to sit around on the sidelines and wait for her to confess. But still, she couldn’t shake the uncomfortable feeling that he knew more than he was letting on.

“Small things. You’re edgy. Distant. You don’t seem to enjoy being at home. You’re dressing differently.”

“Different how?”

Alex paused, his head tilting to one side, as if choosing his words carefully.

“More skirts, fitted blouses, high heels. Sexier.”

“Yeah, I got a raise so I bought myself some new clothes. Are you complaining about me spending money?” Her heart raced. Maybe he did know and was baiting her.

“Of course not. You know I don’t care about that stuff.” He angled his head as he watched her. “It’s just different.”

Alex reached across the table to rest his hand on hers. The warmth of his fingers radiated up her arm. Her automatic impulse was to withdraw her hand, but she left it in place. They needed to work through their problems, and pulling away from him now was not going to help matters.

“Listen, I just want to know what’s going on with you. You can tell me anything, you know?”

Jill felt her eyes moisten, defenses wavering ever so slightly. Maybe she could open up. Maybe she should tell him how scared she was feeling, about work, about their marriage, about so many things. Alex was gentle in a way that still caught her off guard, and with the morning
light filtering through the kitchen windows, she caught a glimpse of the man she had fallen in love with. For a moment she wished everything could go back to the way it used to be. Simple.

Her lips parted as she searched for a way to begin.

Then Alex’s cell phone went off, interrupting her thoughts. The opening strains of his ringtone played the distinctive slow tolling of AC/DC’s “Hells Bells.” Their eyes met across the island. Jill turned away in resignation. They both knew that he was going to answer. It was what made him such a good cop. And made her such an angry wife.

Jill shifted in her chair, breaking eye contact, and took a sip of coffee, for once grateful for the interruption.

Alex glanced at the call display and closed his eyes for a split second, a wince of regret.

“I’ve got to take this,” he said as he held the phone to his ear. “Alex here.”

His eyebrows furrowed as he listened intently.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“I
’ve got good news and bad news. Which do you want first?” Kris Thompson asked, her voice all business.

“Start with the good news,” Alex said. He looked past Jill to stare sightlessly out the kitchen window.

“I finally got the report from the ISP linking a suspect to the emails in the Watson case. Scumbag’s name is Jerry Honeywell. He’s a certified mechanic for—get this—Harley-Davidson in Renton. He’s the registered owner of a big old ’47 hog.” Kris drew out the last part with a fake southern drawl. “He also owns a Chevy S10 truck. Driver’s license photo is a match for the one we found on Natalie’s phone.”

“Is he working today?”

“The dealership’s showroom is open, but the garage is closed.” Kris paused, giving Alex time to process the new information. “Now for the bad news: he has prior arrests for sexual assault. He likes his girls young. There wasn’t enough evidence to make the charges stick. The girls refused to testify.”

Electricity crackled along his nerve endings as he gripped the phone harder. Given the prior arrests, there was a high likelihood that Honeywell would escalate his behavior. Escalate to what though? Abduction? Murder? Was he capable of such things? Maybe he didn’t want to leave any witnesses behind this time. Alex hoped to Christ that he was wrong, but given that Natalie had been missing for almost a week, optimism was hard to come by.

“I’ll call Jackson. I’m on my way in.” Alex said, his eyes flicking back to Jill, who was staring at her folded hands. “I want everything you have on this guy on my desk. Phone records. Bank accounts. Does he own any firearms? Let’s get to know this asshole.”

“You got it.”

“Listen …,” he said, turning back toward Jill.

“Go.” Jill brushed her hand across her lips. “It’s okay.” She forced a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“I’m sorry. We’ll talk later.” Alex bent to plant a soft kiss on her hair before jogging upstairs.

Search warrant secured, strategy set, SWAT on alert, and the green light to bring Honeywell in for questioning given. Yet the case they had developed to this point, though compelling, was purely circumstantial. They needed physical evidence linking Jerry Honeywell to Natalie’s abduction to make the charges stick. Alex wanted to leave no loopholes for the bastard to slip through. If more care had been taken building the previous sexual-assault cases, maybe Natalie would be safe at home this very moment.

Alex and Jackson spearheaded the small team that was positioned outside Honeywell’s home in the Skyway neighborhood. The place just felt right. This was the guy. The truck was in the detached garage, but the motorcycle was nowhere in sight.

Alex directed several members of the precinct’s anticrime squad around the back of the house, praying that Honeywell was home. The officers moved swiftly and silently into position. Natalie might be inside, so every precaution had to be taken to keep her safe. The house was quiet. No outward signs of activity.

Standing to the side of the doorframe, Alex looked over at Jackson. His partner was ready, tense lines etched deep into his face, gun pulled. A Kevlar vest tightly encased his barrel chest. He tipped Alex a terse
nod. The go signal. An SPD squad car pulled up, announcing their presence. Stretching out his hand, he rapped on the wooden surface of the door. Flecks of white paint stuck to his knuckles. They waited.

Inclining his head, Alex held his breath. No sound came from inside the house as he raised his hand once more. The second knock echoed in the still morning air. No one moved. No one even breathed.

No answer. Alex nodded, then glanced back at the other officers standing at the ready before lifting his foot and kicking the flimsy front door. Rotting wood gave way easily. The sound of splintering timber shattered the heavy silence.

“Seattle Police,” he called in the darkened interior. There was no response. Was Natalie in here? No pounding of feet or answering voices. Dead quiet.

Cautiously, Alex swept his way through the living room. More officers followed. The air was stagnant, smelling of cat litter and rotting garbage. Dusty drapes covered dirty windows, and in the dim light he could make out the bulky outline of a battered sofa and chair. A computer desk sat in the corner of the room, the flat-screen monitor dominating its cluttered surface, pizza box balanced on its top, while a bulky CPU tower hulked beneath.

A sudden crash to their right trained all guns toward the kitchen amid a dry cacophony of chambering rounds. A gray cat landed with a soft thud on the countertop, its yellow eyes wary.

Alex let out a rush of breath. Drops of sweat slid down his neck as he turned away, continuing to search the house, leading with his Glock. Natalie could still be here, he thought as he moved down the hall with smooth, athletic grace. In one of the back bedrooms?

The creak of the floorboards seemed to echo all the way up the walls as he made his way slowly down the narrow hall. Bathroom clear. First bedroom on the right. Twin bed. Stacked boxes. Motorcycle parts. Clear. One more door on the left. Jackson followed Alex down the hall toward the bedroom.

The door was closed, and Alex moved to the far side. His eyes locked with Jackson’s for a heartbeat before he threw the door open. Double bed unmade. Light filtering in through the cracked window.

Empty.

Fuck.

The smell was different in here. Stale sweat soaked into bed sheets. An image sprung unbidden into Alex’s mind. A girl tied up on the bed, mouth gagged, fear glittering in her pleading eyes. He blinked hard, dismissing it.

A search of the bedroom turned up no obvious signs of Natalie. Despite the unmade bed, there was no indication that the occupant had spent the night. Apparently, cleanliness was not next to godliness for Jerry Honeywell.

“Where the hell
is
she?” Alex said, lowering his gun and glancing over his shoulder at Jackson. “Let’s get forensics in here and do a thorough search. Maybe they’ll find something.”

Alex led the way back to the living area while Jackson checked out the kitchen.

“Not much in the fridge except leftover takeout containers and some sour milk. The boy doesn’t like to cook for himself, that’s for damn sure. No cat food in the dish,” Jackson said.

“No cleaning lady, either. Lucky for us.” If there was some trace of Natalie here, they would find it.

The small team conducted a slow crawl through the house. Bed sheets were bagged, surfaces examined, furniture moved, kitty litter sifted in a search for any DNA evidence that might tie Natalie to this location. As the team made their way through from room to room, Alex shuffled through the papers on the desk, finding the usual bills, flyers, and credit-card offers. The magazines were a little less run-of-the-mill. Porn. Bondage. Nasty stuff. He pressed his lips together, trying to stem the images of Natalie that sprung unbidden to his mind as he squatted next to the desk. With any luck, they would be able to trace Honeywell through his online activities.

The computer tower sat under the cheap IKEA desk. Alex took great care in meticulously detailing, labeling, and diagramming the hardware configuration before detaching it from the computer’s peripherals. Everything had to be recorded just so before they took it into the lab to do brain surgery on the hard drive. If there was one mantra that the cybercrime team lived by, it was preserving the sanctity of the evidence chain.

Alex ensured that the computer was nestled safe like an egg in its carton, bagged keyboard balanced on top, before he handed off the box to one of the uniformed officers, with explicit instructions to deliver it directly into the capable hands of Kris Thompson. Together they would create a mirror image of the hard drive and would run their diagnostic tools on the image. They’d find out just what Jerry Honeywell was doing online without risking the integrity of the original data.

The overcast day had finally given way to rain. A few tentative drops fell at first, and more followed in a steady, driving rhythm. Alex stepped out onto the front porch, surveying the neighborhood. The street was quiet. The post–World War II construction and spotty upkeep of the surrounding houses spoke of hard times. From this vantage point, Alex could see Jackson and the other officers fan out to canvas the neighborhood. Maybe somebody had seen something that could help. He could hope anyway. Reaching for his cell phone, he called Kris Thompson.

“Bastard’s not here. Flood the media with his picture, stating that he is a person of interest in Natalie’s disappearance. Put out an APB out on his motorcycle. Keep digging into his background. Look for a secondary residence. Where does his family live? Does he have close relatives or links outside of Seattle in Washington State? Out of state? He’s a mechanic. Where did he get his certification? Let’s see if ‘Knucklehead’ pops up online—chat rooms, email accounts. I want to nail this son of a bitch quickly.”

“We’re on it.”

“Good. Has anyone spoken to Natalie’s parents?”

“No. We were hoping to have some good news to share before we contacted them.”