Linger: Dying is a Wild Night (A Linger Thriller Book 1) (4 page)

After fifteen years heading Major Crimes for the East Division, Patterson had finally retired, and the competition to fill his shoes had been fierce. Kate had won the job largely on the basis of Rusty’s recommendation, but despite her screw up tonight, she liked to believe she was also the most qualified candidate. She’d been with the department for more than a decade, and had long been one of Rusty’s top investigators.

Her ascension to his throne, however, had not come without a price. The reaction to her promotion had been swift and brutal and she’d once again found herself orphaned, this time by several of the men under her command. They did their jobs and followed orders, but only grudgingly. And Kate couldn’t remember the last time she’d been asked to grab a beer.

But, unlike Rusty, she didn’t care about headlines. She just wanted to do her job and leave the glad-handing to the Public Relations Division where it belonged.

∙ ∙ ∙

Kate knew she should have gone home to get some sleep, but just after midnight she found herself wandering into the squad room, still feeling a little out of sorts.

Billy Zimbert, the night man, was awake for a change, nursing a cup of coffee as he surfed the Internet.

He stiffened at the sight of her. “Hey, lieutenant, what’re you doin’ here so late?”

Billy had never seemed to have a problem with Kate’s rise in the ranks, but he was the biggest slacker in the division and probably didn’t feel too comfortable having his new boss drop by in the middle of his shift.

Kate had always thought of him as something of a creeper and was glad he worked nights. There was a ghoulish quality to the guy that made her want to keep her distance.

“Nothing for you to be concerned about, Billy. Just go back to doing whatever it was you were doing.”

He grinned, showing yellow teeth. “Just catching up on my coffee quota. It’s kinda slow tonight. You want a cup? I’ll go get you one.”

She shook her head. “I just want to log some evidence and hit the databases. I had a little encounter out at the Branford house I want to check into.”

“What kind of encounter?”

She thought about this and decided to downplay the incident. She still wasn’t sure what had happened out there. “Couple of rubberneckers. I’m sure it’s no big deal.”

She started for her office, then stopped and looked at him. “You wouldn’t happen to know how to hack a cell phone would you?”

After calling in the bulletin on the Rambler, Kate remembered why she had originally gone to the Branford house and went back inside to look around. She came away with an item that should have been collected on day one of their investigation: a pay-as-you-go smart phone she’d found in Bree Branford’s bedroom.

The thing had been hidden in a zippered battery compartment of a mechanical stuffed bear that sat on a shelf next to Bree’s bed. Kate had lifted the bear to look at a photograph lying beneath it (a shot of Bree and her two little sisters), and felt something shift inside.

She had assumed it was a battery pack, but decided to check anyway and hit pay dirt. Nobody would hide a cell phone unless there was something on it worth hiding.

Unfortunately, the phone was locked. She’d tried a few standard passwords—Bree’s birthdate and “123456” and “password1”—but none of them worked. So she knew she’d have to turn it over to their computer forensics guy unless Billy was some kind of techno-wiz.

“Me?” he said. “I still have trouble with microwaves and garage door openers.”

Kate heaved a mental sigh. Why wasn’t she surprised?

She sometimes wished life moved at the pace of movies and television shows, where information was instantaneous thanks to super computers and massive databases and nerds who could hack their way past impenetrable firewalls in a matter of seconds. But real life was slow and cumbersome and fraught with misfires and blind alleys. And murder investigations often took months or even years, and usually wound up in a box in the Open Unsolved storage room—just like her mother’s case.

Kate didn’t want that to happen with this one. Not because she had to prove herself as Rusty Patterson’s successor, but simply because she wanted the Branfords to have their justice.

Every victim deserved that.

∙ ∙ ∙

As she waited for word on her APB, Kate went to her office and entered the Rambler’s plate number into the national database. She got a hit immediately and found it was owned by a Noah and Anna Weston of Danbury, North Carolina.

She pulled up the Westons’ driver’s licenses and there he was—the man from the Branford house. He looked younger and a good deal happier, but was the same guy she’d encountered tonight, no question about it.

He seemed so clean cut in the photograph. Like somebody’s older brother or father or husband, who led an unremarkable but contented life. An attractive family man who cherished his loved ones and went to church every Sunday and taught his children to be respectful of their elders.

Of course, Kate was extrapolating, but that’s what cops did until they had all the facts in front of them. And if she had met this version of Weston in a bar somewhere, she probably wouldn’t have said no to the offer of a drink. After she had checked his ring finger.

Weston’s driver’s license was valid for another year, but the wife, Anna Weston—a freckle faced redhead who was quite beautiful in an earthy, down home way—had let hers expire several months ago and hadn’t yet renewed it.

So why was that?

And how did the boy fit in?

Kate was about to switch over to the NCIC database to see if either Weston or his wife had a record, but stopped short when her cell phone began to ring.

She pulled it from her back pocket and answered it. “Messenger.”

“Hey, Kate, it’s Rodney in dispatch. We got a hit on your APB.”

Kate sat upright. “Where?”

“Circle Eight Motel on Pacifica Avenue. Officer Halperin called it in. He’s holding the two suspects in their room. Says they were in a hurry, packing to leave.”

“Good,” Kate said, getting to her feet. “Tell him to stay put. I’m on my way.”

P
ACIFICA AVENUE WAS SANTA FLORA’S
motel row. Choose the right establishment and you might get an actual view of the Pacific ocean. Choose wrong and you’d be stuck near the 101 Freeway with the smell of exhaust overpowering what little sea breeze blew in your direction.

The Circle Eight was one of the wrong choices.

Kate pulled up next to four haphazardly parked black-and-whites, cut her engine and got out. Patrol officers tended to gather like flies at the slightest hint of excitement, and three unis stood shooting the breeze outside the open door to Room 127.

They stopped talking when she approached. Kate nodded to them and got a curt “Hey, lieutenant” as she stepped through the doorway and went inside.

The fourth uniform—Halperin—stood near the bathroom door, keeping a watchful eye on his detainees.

Noah Weston was seated on one of the two twin beds, while the boy sat in a chair next to a small round table, his sightless eyes staring at nothing as he quietly rocked.

Both were cuffed.

Kate resisted the urge to plant her forehead in her palm and gestured to the boy. “Really, Halperin? He’s like eleven years old. And blind.”

“Hey, I don’t make assumptions. Stupid cops are—”

“—dead cops. I know the mantra. Now get those things off him, for Christ’s sake. If he starts beating you down, I’ll take full responsibility. I might even try to stop him.”

Halperin made a face. “Whatever you say, lieutenant.”

His voice was laced with undisguised contempt, and Kate knew that Halperin, like many officers, didn’t appreciate being chastised by a female. People loved to pretend that the department had changed, but it really hadn’t. She’d been battling misogynists since
she
was one of the flies.

As Halperin stepped past her, she looked at the open suitcase and backpack sitting atop the vacant twin bed. The suitcase was small and worn and obviously belonged to the boy. Its contents consisted of T-shirts and jeans and tighty whities, along with a couple of YA books in brail and a small, square pink folder that looked like a child’s photo album.

She picked up the album, then shifted her attention to Weston, who sat quietly on the other bed, looking fatigued and unhappy.

Very unhappy.

She was again struck by his haunted eyes. “I’m no expert in theater, Mr. Weston, but I have to say that you and your young friend are very good actors.”

“Didn’t do us much good, did it?”

“Not really, no. I’m always curious about people who decide that running from the law is a better option than cooperation.”

She looked at the photo album in her hands and saw the name
Lucy
scrawled across it in blue pen. A child’s handwriting.

The boy’s? That didn’t seem likely.

“And what would cooperating have gotten us?” Weston asked. “We weren’t hurting anyone, but you said yourself you were planning to arrest us.”

“Maybe if you’d given me a straight answer that wouldn’t have happened.”

Weston pushed out a breath. “You people are good at coming in after the fact, making all kinds of accusations, but somehow you never manage to do anything significant toward solving an actual crime. You go for the convenient target and ignore the obvious if it doesn’t fit your scenario.”

“I take it this isn’t your first encounter with law enforcement?”

“You don’t know?”

“Should I?”

“You know my name, I’m thinking you must know everything about me by now.”

Kate smiled. “As surprising as this might be, you’re not the only problem I have to contend with. But now you’ve got me curious. Very curious. If I type Noah Weston into the NCIC database, what will I find?”

He said nothing, but the silence spoke volumes. Kate glanced at the boy, figuring she knew exactly what she’d find. The thought of this creep taking advantage of
any
kid was bad enough, but a boy who was blind and possibly autistic?

Deplorable.

She again looked at the photo album in her hands, this time flipping it open to take a look inside. She found only a single photograph, and was surprised to see that it was a bland, staged family photo of a man, woman and child—the kind printed on slick paper that comes with every album or picture frame. Either the real photos had been removed, or none had ever been added.

So why did the boy have it?

Especially since he couldn’t see.

She looked at his so-called guardian. “Well, Mr. Weston? I asked you a question. Have you been in trouble before?”

Weston hesitated, as if he was about to enter a verbal minefield and needed to proceed with caution. “Not exactly. No.”

“Why don’t you translate that into something meaningful?”

He shook his head. “You’ve already made your mind up about me and you’re just waiting for me to say something to confirm it. So I think I’ll pass.”

Kate sighed. “All right, then. Why don’t we put you in a cell for the night and see how you feel about it in the morning?” She turned to Halperin. “Take him into the station and process him. I’ll wait here for CPS to arrive.”

Halperin didn’t grace her with a response. He simply gestured for Weston to stand up, then took him by the arm and escorted him toward the door.

Before they reached it, Weston said to Kate, “Be gentle with the boy. He’s been through a lot.”

Kate held up a hand, stopping them. “You want to elaborate on that?”

“People are sometimes afraid of him because he’s different,” Weston said. “But he’s a good kid.”

“What’s his name?”

Weston hesitated again, obviously reluctant to give up even the tiniest piece of information. But he finally gave in. “Christopher.”

“Christopher what?”

Weston said nothing, and she knew he was done cooperating. She gestured for Halperin to take him away.

As they headed out, she went to the door and asked one of the flies outside to step in and observe. She then turned to the boy, wondering if he was even aware of what was going on.

He was as eerily quiet as ever. Still rocking. Back and forth. Back and forth.

“So what do you say, Christopher? Do you feel like talking to me?”

The boy didn’t react, and unless he was indeed autistic, deaf—or both—she suspected he had been trained to remain silent.

She crossed the room and crouched in front of him, facing him at eye level. She placed a hand on his and he flinched, but he didn’t stop rocking.

Kate said, “Mr. Weston is gone now and there’s nothing to be afraid of. I just want to know a little about you.”

For a fleeting moment she worried she might again hear that odd, radio transmission in reply, but assured herself that whatever psychological glitch had overtaken her earlier was no longer a concern.

At least she hoped it wasn’t.

“Did he hurt you?” she asked. “Is that why you’re afraid to talk?”

The boy still didn’t respond.

“What about that little trick you played on me back in the house, with the seizure and the lights? Was that your idea, or have you and Mr. Weston done that before?”

Nothing.

Kate thought about pushing a little, but decided against it. Maybe Child Protective Services could get through to him.

She patted his hand and stood, returning her attention to their belongings on the bed, this time unzipping the backpack for a look inside.

She found more T-shirts and underwear—adult sized—a pair of worn jeans, a dog-eared paperback called
The History of Luminous Motion
, and some Triple-A road maps. A
lot
of road maps, well worn and rubber banded together in stacks of three.

She flipped through them and saw a combination of cities and states—California, San Francisco, Oregon, Washington, Portland, Vancouver, Nevada and several from other parts of the country. The Midwest. East. Some south. And, finally, one of the entire USA and Canada.

Either Weston was a dreamer or he and the boy had been on one hell of a road trip. And they’d been doing it old school, without the aid of a GPS.

The question was why?