Linger: Dying is a Wild Night (A Linger Thriller Book 1) (6 page)

No doubt, Kate thought.

So had she been right about Bree? Was this the secret boyfriend she had speculated about? Could this guy be the key to her case?

“What about text messages?”

“None. And no voice mail. Just the calls. Other than that, the phone’s pristine.”

Kate looked at it behind the plastic, a tremor of excitement rumbling through her. She needed to find out who this guy was.

“Thanks, Matt. I appreciate the help. And thanks for putting it at the top of your to-do list.”

He shrugged and started away. “All in a morning’s work, lieutenant. I usually go for the easy ones first.”

If only Kate had that luxury.

A
FTER MATT WAS GONE, KATE
went straight to her office, dropped the evidence bag on her desktop, then pulled a pair of plastic gloves from her drawer and snapped them on.

She took the phone from the bag, hit the power button, waited for the thing to boot up, then keyed in the passcode.

J E S U S

A moment later she was scrolling through the call log to find that this guy Jesus was indeed the only name and number, no surname, no photo. There were forty-seven calls over the last two and a half months, sometimes several a day.

Kate knew that most kids today prefer text messages over phone calls, so the absence of any texts led her to believe that the two were being extra cautious about their communications. And forty-seven calls was some very serious airtime with a guy Bree had dedicated an entire phone to.

So who the hell was he?

A lover? A classmate?

A drug dealer?

Interviews with Bree’s small circle of friends had yielded nothing of interest in the romance department. They all claimed she was unencumbered and happy to be, and mostly kept to herself when she wasn’t hanging with them at school. Even her social networking on the Internet was limited to that same small circle, with no indication that she’d ever expanded it beyond those limited borders.

When it came to drugs and booze, Bree had been characterized by her closest friends as a “good” girl who would never get involved with such things. But it was Kate’s experience that, out of respect for the dead, friends often painted the victim of violent crime in a much more virtuous light than he or she might deserve. And hiding a burner in a stuffed bear did not reflect virtue. Not to Kate’s mind.

It was clear that Bree and Jesus had
something
going on, and she aimed to find out what it was. She just hoped his phone number didn’t originate from another burner. That could make it difficult to trace.

Scooping up her landline, she punched through to ServCom, and after three rings, the line picked up.

“Services and Communications. Deputy Kelp. How can I help you?”

“Hey, Drew, Kate Messenger. I’ve got a number I need you to check into and—”

“The Branford case, right?”

Kate paused. “Yeah. How did you know?”

“Matt Nava over in ComFor made the request. I just got off the line with the provider. A local carrier, BC Wireless.”

Good old Matt. Motivated but never obnoxious about it. “Did they cooperate?”

“Didn’t even blink. I was about to give you a jingle when you called.”

“Please tell me you’ve got good news.”

“The phone isn’t a throwaway, if that’s what you’re worried about, and the owner has a criminal record. You want the details now or should I send a link to his file?”

Kate could hardly believe how this morning was shaping up. The appearance of her ex-husband had been a downer, but here she was barely awake and both Nava and Kelp had already made more progress than her entire team had made in six days. A positive sign if there ever was one.

“Send me the link,” she said. “And thanks.”

After she hung up, she sank into her chair and flicked on her computer monitor.

Noah and Anna Weston’s driver’s licenses were still on the screen.

She stared at their images for a long moment, still trying to figure out how Weston fit into this puzzle—assuming he did at all—then finally minimized the window, called up her email and waited.

A few seconds later, Kelp’s message came through.

She opened it and clicked the link and was taken to a department database file, a case history for one
JESUS “CHUCHO” SORIANO
, local resident, twenty-four years old.

Twenty-four?

This was getting more and more interesting.

Bree Branford had barely turned sixteen when she was raped and murdered. So why was a so-called “good girl” exchanging phone calls with a twenty-four year-old career criminal?

Because that’s what Soriano was.

Kate scrolled through his history and found quite an extensive record of arrests, some solo, some gang related. Robbery, assault, terroristic threatening, pandering, all starting with a burglary in his late teens.

Yet despite all these arrests, only one had resulted in a conviction—the original burglary. All the other charges had been dropped for lack of evidence.

Which made no sense whatsoever.

Either “Chucho” Soriano was woefully misunderstood, had a damn good lawyer, or he was protected—somebody’s CI.

Confidential informants went about their business with a certain amount of impunity as long as they provided valuable information to their handler. So if Soriano was a snitch, who was he working for?

The department’s gang squad? The local police? The FBI?

Whatever the case, pursuing this lead was bound to ping somebody’s radar. And not in a good way. But Kate had no choice. She needed to bring this guy in for questioning.

Reaching for her landline, she was about to tell the two juniors on her team to do just that, when there was a sharp knock at the door.

Before she could respond, it flew open and Detective Sergeant Bob MacLean strode into the room, looking like the overbearing bull he was. “You mind telling me what the fuck is going on in Interview A?”

So much for positive signs.

MacLean had been Kate’s closest competition in the race to replace Rusty Patterson, and in the heat of battle he’d said a lot of nasty things behind her back.
Clueless cunt
was the gem that had resonated, and it wasn’t long before his supporters had pegged her with the nickname “CC.”

She and MacLean had been competing ever since their academy days, with MacLean claiming most of the trophies. But, clueless or not, Kate had snagged the big one and he just couldn’t get over it.

“His name is Noah Weston,” she said. “I caught him at the crime scene last night.”

“The Branford house?”

“That
is
the case we’re working, Bob.”

MacLean frowned. “So why am I only finding out about it now?”

“Seriously? You want me to start calling you at one in the morning?”

“Be nice if you consulted me at all.”

Kate had assigned MacLean and his partner to assist in the Branford investigation as a kind of olive branch
.
But now Bob took every opportunity to assert himself, and the sight of him just made her weary.

She sighed. “Give it a rest, all right? I’ll brief you along with everyone else at our eleven o’clock.”

The five detectives working the case—two junior and three senior—met every morning to discuss progress and strategy. So far, MacLean’s contribution hadn’t been particularly impressive and had, in fact, cost them a considerable amount of time.

Kate had never quite understood why Rusty had kept him on the squad, considering his attitude and methodology were about as misguided and simpleminded as her father’s. But Rusty’s reign was over now and, despite the olive branch, she knew it was time for a change.

MacLean didn’t move. “So what happens in the meantime? You plan on talking to this guy?”

“He isn’t here for a job interview.”

“And you didn’t think to invite me to sit in?”

“No, I didn’t. This is a peripheral matter and you’re about as delicate as a sledge hammer. I don’t need you giving him another reason not to cooperate.”

“So you just shut me out? Is that it?”

“Like I said, I’ll get you up to speed at the eleven o’clock.”

MacLean looked as if he’d swallowed something sour. “You really are a piece of work, you know that?”

“Careful, Bob, I’m starting to think you don’t like me.”

“Why the hell won’t you just tell me what’s going on?”

She could, but she wasn’t going to. Maybe if he treated her with respect every once in awhile she’d give it right back, but she was tired of his bullshit. And truth be told, she enjoyed watching him dangle.

“You’ll hear everything I have to say at the briefing. Now go grab yourself some coffee and a donut and relax. You look like you could use some down time.”

MacLean glared at her for a good ten seconds and she knew he was raging inside. Then he gave up—
thank God
—and stomped out of her office, leaving the door open behind him.

Kate felt a smile coming on and knew she had to improve her people skills and learn not to be so petty.

Maybe he was right.

Maybe she
was
a piece of work.

And maybe the second half of that nickname was well deserved.

T
HIS WASN’T THE FIRST TIME
Noah Weston had been left waiting in an interrogation room.

He knew from his brief experience in the past that he might be sitting here for hours before they finally got around to questioning him. It was a technique the police often used, leaving a suspect alone in hopes that his anxiety would build to a boil and he’d confess his way into a prison sentence.

That was what they’d tried to do back in Danbury.

Get Weston to confess.

They had known with an almost scientific certainty that he wasn’t the man they were looking for, but narrow minded people tended to ignore the obvious and find motive and opportunity where none existed. And these same people were often attracted to the structure and security and sense of empowerment that careers in law enforcement had to offer.

Human nature taking its course.

So he knew what these people thought about him and the boy. But then he’d probably think the same thing if he were in their shoes.

Yet any anxiety he’d felt over the mistakes he’d made last night had long since abandoned him. He found that if he spent most of his time focusing on his task, on the work that lay ahead, everything else simply melted away and a sense of calm washed over him.

It was, he thought, a lot like prayer. Something he had once been intimately familiar with before God—or whoever—had decided He’d heard quite enough, thank you, and had delivered the message in as heinous a manner possible.

Weston hadn’t prayed since, or spent a single moment in church, and found no reason to. But focusing on their task—his and the boy’s—was far better than any prayer he’d ever uttered. Focusing on their task did not allow him to fall victim to his own insecurities, and to the folly that some benevolent king was watching over him.

Unburdening himself of his superstitions had allowed Weston to do whatever he felt necessary in order to find and destroy the monster who had brought God’s message to his home.

That day would come. He knew it in his gut.

And when it did, he would make his arrows drunk with blood.

B
Y THE TIME KATE WALKED
into the interrogation room she was armed and ready.

After ordering the two junior detectives on her team to find and pick up Bree Branford’s gangbanger phone buddy, she had returned her concentration to Noah Weston. She’d spent the good part of an hour checking into his background and looking through the items she’d taken from his motel room and car.

When she entered his name into the National Crime Information Center database and read the results, her internal alarm bell went off. What she discovered didn’t explain why Weston and Christopher had been at her crime scene, but she now knew that they were much more than a couple of rubberneckers.

There was something seriously off about these two, and she aimed to find out what it was and how it related to the Branfords.

After closing the door behind her, she placed a file folder containing Weston’s sketch pad and maps and receipts and database records on the table top, then pulled a chair out and sat across from him.

She was about to speak when he held up a hand, cutting her off. “Before you launch into whatever pitch you have planned, just tell me one thing.”

She nodded. “I’m listening.”

“What made you decide to become a police detective?”

She looked at him. “I don’t see how that’s relevant, Mr. Weston. Why don’t we just—”

“It’s relevant to me,” he said.

She paused. “Why?”

“Just humor me. It’s a harmless enough question.”

She considered this then nodded again. If it would get him talking, she was happy to oblige. “All right. I don’t really think about it much, but I guess you could call it the family business. My mother was a dispatcher and my father was a cop. Major Crimes, just like me. In fact, he sat in this very same room a number of times.”

“But it’s more than that, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“You lost someone to violence. I can see it in your eyes.”

The remark threw Kate off guard, and she stared at him, wondering if he was psychic or if the burden she carried was that obvious. Her mother’s murder had weighed heavily on her for a long time, but did she wear it like a banner? Did he see that same haunted look she’d seen in him?

She shifted uncomfortably. “That’s really none of your business.”

“Maybe so, but it’s true. And believe it or not, that works in your favor.”

“My favor, huh? So glad I could please you.” She patted the file folder. “Now why don’t we talk about the violence in
your
life? Tell me about Anna and your two little girls.”

She had hoped the mention of his family would rock him, but he remained as calm as ever.

Had someone slipped him a couple Ativans in the holding unit?