Shadows of the Past (Logan Point Book #1): A Novel (13 page)

Although Zeke might have been right about Scott. She picked up Livy’s report. Just like Scott probably wasn’t involved in the Ross murder. Not unless he’d gotten mixed up in a drug ring in the two weeks he’d been back in Memphis. Livy had pulled several cases where the victim had been garroted, and they all had one thing in common—all were known druggies. Evidently someone wasn’t paying their drug bill. Ross had a history of not only using but selling as well. If they could find his supplier, they’d probably have his killer.

She reread the autopsy report. A horrible death that even clinical language couldn’t soften. Petechial hemorrhaging and not just at the ligature site. The small pinpoint dots of blood were also in the eye and eyelid area. Whoever killed him tightened and loosened the cord . . . played with Ross’s mind, indicating the murder was not only personal but sadistic. A cold-blooded, premeditated crime with a highly organized perpetrator. She opened a new document on her computer and started typing.

An hour later, a car door slammed. Taylor padded to the window, and as Ethan’s black Navigator pulled away, she caught a glimpse of Mom coming back to the house. Taylor wasn’t sure how she felt about her mother’s interest in Ethan.

Jonathan appeared from the shadows and got into his pickup, going in the opposite direction, toward Oak Grove. Tomorrow, or whenever Jonathan called another meeting, she would have to vote against him on the land. Not something she looked forward to.

Taylor moved to the other window and followed the pickup taillights until they disappeared around the rear of the house. Like the night before, the full moon illuminated the old two story. Chill
bumps raised on her neck, and Taylor hugged her arms to her body as half-forgotten dreams surfaced of walking the halls, her shoes clattering on the hardwood floors, opening doors to empty rooms, inching down the dark basement steps . . .

She shuddered.

Maybe tomorrow she’d visit the place from her dreams and confront the hold it had on her.

D
usk settled over the tree-lined boulevard as Nick searched for 1210 New York Street, the address reverse directory had given for the number on his caller ID.

Twelve-six, Twelve-eight. He slowed in front of an older, two-story house and found the street number on the doorpost. Twelve-ten. This was it. If he didn’t find Scott here, he might as well quit looking.

A 1940s porch, complete with wicker chairs and a swing, stretched across the front. Made for a time when people sat outside and visited with their neighbors, the furniture now boasted flaking paint and dry rot. A rattling window unit drew his gaze to the second floor, where it labored against the hot evening. The building appeared to be an older home converted into apartments. Unfortunately, Google hadn’t told him which apartment.

Nick tried the glass security door, found it unlocked, and stepped into the foyer. There appeared to be two apartments downstairs and a stairway that led to the second level. He could see one door at the top of the stairs and assumed it was another apartment. The muffled sound of a television came from the apartment on the left along with the odor of cigarette smoke. His rap on the door brought a flurry of barking and footsteps.

“Hush up, Daisy. Can’t hear nothin’ for your infernal barking.
Who is it?” The woman’s voice, at least he thought it was a woman, rasped from the other side of the door. Nick formed a mental image of dyed hair, baggy eyes, and tobacco-stained fingers.

“Nick Sinclair. I’m looking for Scott Sinclair.”

“No Scott Sinclair living here.”

“Do you know if he lives in the building?”

There was a pause, and then a bolt rattled back. The door opened as far as the chain allowed. Nick stepped back, as much from the cigarette odor as the small Chihuahua that growled through the crack at the bottom of the door.

“Hush up, Daisy!” Watery blue eyes peered at him from a mass of wrinkles. “You the cops or a bill collector?”

“Neither.” He gave her his best you-can-trust-me smile.

“Like I said, there ain’t no Scott Sinclair living here.”

He needed to work on that smile. “Well, thank—”

A loud crash from the second floor apartment interrupted him. He glanced toward the sound as Daisy erupted into another barking frenzy. Seconds later the door on the second floor opened, and a bundle of clothes flew out onto the top of the stairs. A pint-sized woman in her twenties emerged next. She stood just outside the door, her hands planted on her hips.

“That’s it, Scott. Get your things and get out of here!”

Nick’s brother stumbled against the door frame. “C’mon, Dana, let me sleep here tonight.”

“Do you want me to call the police? I told you not to come back here drunk. Go call your high-and-mighty lawyer and get some money to stay somewhere else.”

“But—”

“Out!”

“I gotta sit down.” Scott slid down the wall and propped his head in his hands.

The old woman had stepped out in the hallway with the wiggly dog in her arm, and Nick shot her a quizzical look.

Smoothing back copper-red hair that had an inch of white roots,
she winked at him. “Didn’t say he wasn’t
staying
here. You the lawyer?”

Nick grinned. “Nope.” He started for the stairs.

“You!”

He raised his head. Dana had her fiery gaze fixed on him. Carrot-colored hair curled in every direction on her head.

“Who are you and what’re you doing here?”

“I’m his brother. Nick Sinclair.” He nodded toward Scott, who stared at him, then closed his eyes and slid a little farther down the wall. “I’ve been looking for him.”

Recognition came into her eyes. “The one he called the other night?”

Nick nodded. “I found a number on my caller ID, but no one answers. I googled it and got this address.”

“Phone’s been out two days.” Dana jerked her head toward Scott. “Are you taking him with you? ’Cause he’s not staying here.”

Nick climbed to the top of the stairs. “I’ll take him. Could you get his clothes together for me?”

She wiped her hands on her blue scrubs. “Might be better to just call the police. He’s a lot of trouble when he’s like this.”

For the first time, he noticed a hospital ID badge identifying Dana Rogers as a nurse’s assistant. “You sound like you’ve had experience.”

Dana’s expression softened. “Yeah, well, he was different when I first met him. Wasn’t drinking like this. He’s really sweet when he’s sober, a different person, really. Somebody needs to get him help, get him dried out . . . or something.”

“Yeah, I know.” Nick bent over his brother. Soured bourbon almost knocked him down. “Hey, wake up, Scott. We have to go.”

“Hey, you came and got me.” Scott looked up at Dana. “Didn’t I tell you he’d help me?”

“Come on, buddy, help me out here.” Nick slid his hand under Scott’s arm. “Come on, push yourself up.”

Scott tried to shake him off. “Don’t wanna move right now.”

Nick persisted, and finally Scott heaved himself up. “Put your arm around my shoulders so I can get you down the stairs.”

Between dragging and carrying, he got Scott down the steps and to his car. Dana followed with Scott’s clothes. After Nick got his brother in the front seat, he took them. “Thanks.”

“Maybe he’ll sleep it off—he usually does.” She hesitated, then jotted a number on a scrap of paper and handed it to him. “Gets too bad, call me on my cell phone. I’ll come help you out, and if you get him sober, keep him away from that Digger guy.”

“Who?” Nick wasn’t sure he heard her correctly.

“Digger. I don’t know his real name. He’s some guy Scott met out in Washington. He keeps him supplied.”

Nick thanked her and slid under the wheel. As he pulled away from the curb, Scott sagged against the door with a moan.
Lord, please don’t let him be sick
. Just before he turned the corner, Nick glanced in the rearview mirror. Dana hadn’t moved from the sidewalk.

Wrinkling his nose, he fanned away the stench of alcohol and vomit that filled the small car. Evidently, Scott hadn’t had a bath in days, either. Nick ought to let the police haul his drunken carcass to jail. He lowered the top on the Mustang and glanced at his brother. Oh, great, he was turning green. It’d be a miracle if they made it home before Scott threw up again.

E
ight-thirty and the temperature already approached ninety. Taylor’s feet dragged as she approached Oak Grove. Someone wanted to kill her, and she should be finding him instead of wasting her time digging into old memories. In spite of the heat, a cold shiver stabbed her stomach. Last night had brought more dreams about this place and her dad and clowns chasing her.

In the dream, she’d been in the basement, and the clown was chasing her, his red lips leering and his fingers reaching to grab her. Taylor wiped sweat from her brow. Something deep inside shied away from climbing the steps and opening the door to those memories.

Maybe the nightmares would go away on their own. They had once. After her dad left, Taylor had experienced these same nightmares off and on for almost two years, and then they’d stopped . . . until six months ago—about the time Michael dumped her.

Tires crunched on the gravel lane behind her, and she turned. Jonathan. A reprieve.

He lowered his window. “Be careful if you’re going inside. I was making a few repairs before we received the offer on the land and haven’t cleaned my mess up.”

“Thought I would look around.”

“I’d go in with you, but Ethan called a few minutes ago. That signature won’t wait.”

“While I’m here, I think I’ll at least look around the first floor.”

“Just be careful of the scrap lumber and nails scattered everywhere.”

The truck jerked forward as an incoming text beeped on Taylor’s cell phone. She glanced at the screen and groaned. It was too early in the morning to hear from Zeke Thornton. He wanted to meet with her.

At least she had his attention now.

What time?
she tapped back.

Seconds later her cell rang, and Thornton showed up on her ID.

“Good morning, Zeke.”

“I’d like to meet within the hour,” he said. “The conference starts at noon. I can come to the farm, or would you rather meet in Logan Point at the sheriff’s department?”

“You know where I live?”

“You’re in Logan Point. How hard could it be to find the Martin farm?”

She ignored his joke. “I’ll meet you at the sheriff’s office.”

“How soon? I don’t want to be late for the introductory session.”

The memories would have to wait. Taylor glanced down at her shorts and running shoes. Not quite appropriate for a meeting with Zeke and Ben. She might as well go ahead and dress for her lunch with Nick. “I’ll be there in forty-five minutes.”

In exactly forty-five minutes, Taylor parked the Rav4 beside the rambling white-bricked jail. Inside the building, the dispatcher caught her before she could orient herself.

“Taylor! About time you came home.”

“So I’ve heard.” Maggie had been a fixture at the county jail for as long as Taylor could remember, and she flashed her a smile. “Is the sheriff’s office still in the back?”

“Hasn’t moved. Ben and some banty rooster are waiting on you.”

That would be Zeke. Taylor took a deep breath at Ben’s door and pushed it open. Last time she was in this office, the whole gang was here, Ben included, withering under Sheriff Tom Logan’s wrath for toilet papering the mayor’s yard. Seemed like a big deal at the time. Now she knew what a big deal was.

Ben nodded a welcome and handed her a manila envelope. “Copies of yesterday’s photos. And the fingerprints are in Jackson.”

“Thanks.” She tucked them in her briefcase and glanced at Zeke. Not for the first time, she wondered where he purchased clothes to fit his scarecrow frame. “Morning, Zeke.”

“Morning.” He hitched his starched khakis. “You’re late.”

She glanced at the digital clock on the gray wall. “One minute, Zeke. And who made you boss around here, anyway?”

His mouth twitched, then he palmed his hands up. “You’re right. I’m sorry, but I really need to leave here by eleven-thirty to make the opening session of the conference.”

“Then let’s get to work. Where do you want to start?”

“This is as good a place as any.” Zeke pointed to the Coleman crime scene photo as he took a pad from his shirt pocket and flipped it open. “Whoever took this had a clear view of you. Did you notice anyone snapping photos at the crime scene?”

She searched her memory. “No one other than you. Have you checked the people in the background of your crime scene photographs?”

He shook his head. “Until yesterday, I didn’t know I needed to. The case was closed. Dale put Billy Carson back on it last night, and he’s processing the people in the photos. If this conference hadn’t been paid for, I would be on the first flight back to Seattle.”

She could imagine the battle in Zeke’s mind over wasting taxpayer dollars versus working on the case. She turned to Ben. “Yesterday you said the poem seemed familiar. Have you remembered why?”

“I wish. It’s one of those things just below the surface . . .”

“Maybe if you let it go, it’ll come to you.” She rubbed her hands on her capris, wishing Zeke hadn’t put a deadline on their time. It made her want to rush. She took a calming breath and cleared her mind. “Okay, let’s look at what we know.”

“We know the killer planned this thing to a T.”

“I agree. Whoever masterminded the kidnapping chose Jenkins and the Coleman family. I’m thinking he cruised bars looking for someone he could use and encountered Jenkins. According to the people who knew him, Jenkins was loud and vocal about hating Jim Coleman. And if it hadn’t been Jenkins, it would have been someone else.”

“Okay, I’m following you. I’ll call Carson and have him check out all the bars in Newton, show Jenkins’s picture.”

Ben examined the photo of her jogging. “This looks like it was taken with a long lens.”

Taylor picked up another photo, the one of her sitting on a flat rock. “It was. Just like this one. The camera is probably an SLR digital and expensive, or we’d have some grainy photos. But the one taken at the crime scene looks like a point-and-shoot was used, and it could’ve been taken by anyone at the crime scene. It was also taken before I found the note in my pocket. Are we all on board that the actual kidnapper is my stalker?”

When they both nodded, she continued. “We thought the kidnapper was dead, and everyone’s attention was on Beth Coleman and little Sarah. Whoever he is, he could’ve easily gone unnoticed. It’s possible our killer didn’t leave the crime scene until after I did. Then I think he showed up at my house and attacked Dale and me.”

“And he beat you to your house?” Zeke lifted his eyebrows. “Come on, Taylor, you’re better than that.”

“Okay, so maybe he left earlier.”

“Why didn’t he kill you when he had the opportunity?” Ben asked.

She’d asked herself that question more than once. “I don’t know. Maybe Nick scared him off, or maybe it’s a game to him, like a
cat toying with a mouse. He seems to know everything about me, where I am, my tastes . . .” She looked around Ben’s office. “Do you have a whiteboard? I’d like to compile a list.”

Ben rolled in a whiteboard and handed Taylor a dry-erase marker.

“Let’s start with the crime scene and work backward.” She wrote “stalker” at the top, and under that, she wrote “photos,” then glanced at Zeke. “Off the top of your head, what do you think when you see that?”

“Two things. The photographer values quality and has access to money. The camera is expensive, and even though the last photo is shot with a cheaper camera, he used quality paper to print it.”

Taylor blinked. She’d already concluded those points, but for Zeke to recognize them . . . “You’d make a pretty good profiler, Zeke.”

He snorted. “I know quality when I see it.”

That he did. She’d noticed that he bought the best in everything, even things like his business cards and the pen he guarded like it was made of gold. “You said two things?”

“He was following you, or he knew you’d be there.”

“Good.”

“He hung around even though it was risky.”

“Bingo.” She wrote “risk taker” on the board. “How did he know I was in Logan Point?”

“Maybe he hacked your email account.”

Taylor stood stock-still. “The university website crashed a couple nights ago, and if someone is hacking into their system, it could explain why my email has been slow lately.” She hadn’t thought of that and nodded toward him. “That’s good, Zeke.”

She wrote “computer whiz” on the board. “I booked my flight online. And I’ve been emailing a friend about coming home.” She winced. “And I have Mom’s phone number and address in my contacts.”

“If someone can hack a university system, they’d have no trouble finding where your family lives.” Ben stroked his beard. “What I want to know is, why? Why are you being targeted?”

“I’ve hunted that dog to death.”

Ben chuckled. “I can’t believe you remembered that old saying.”

She couldn’t either and turned to Zeke. “Do you have any theories?”

“You’re a threat to someone.”

Taylor stared at Zeke, surprised once again. She’d been operating out of her original assessment that she was being stalked because someone was obsessed with her, not because she was a threat.

Chill bumps prickled the back of her neck. She wouldn’t be a threat to a stranger. No, like 75 percent of all victims, she had a link to him, had crossed paths with him somewhere. And people who felt threatened, killed.

Someone she knew wanted to kill her.