Famished - Meghan O'Flynn (learn to read books TXT) 📗

“Course. It’s good business to keep ’em if things get slow later.” She grinned, then shook her head, her proud smile faltering. “I’ve got an address for you. They don’t leave names, though, not that we need ’em. We ladies never forget a…face.”

Petrosky called Morrison on his way to the precinct. When he stopped behind the building, Morrison ran out and jumped in the car, his beach-boy face flushed from the winter chill.

“The address belongs to a James Clark,” Morrison said, talking so fast his words were almost unintelligible.

Petrosky sucked on a cigarette and furrowed his brows. James… He exhaled in a burst and jerked his head backward. “The guy Montgomery was out with the night after Campbell was snatched?”

Morrison looked like a cat that just ate a fucking canary. “It gets better. Apparently, that’s not even his real name. James Clark, AKA Robert Fredricks, has a pretty significant record. Did a prison stint for two counts of first-degree rape at age eighteen. Got out about five years ago.”

Petrosky’s muscles shivered with excitement. At least he hoped the shakes were from excitement and not because the bottle of Jack Daniel’s under the passenger seat was still full. He should have emptied the liquor into his coffee before he got to the precinct.

Morrison opened his window and waved the smoke away from his face. “Should we go in and tell Graves?”

Petrosky took another drag, blew it out violently, and crushed the cigarette into the ashtray. “Let’s take a drive first.”

An hour later, they pulled into a small neighborhood near the Everette crime scene and squeezed their car down deeply rutted dirt roads that were barely wide enough for one vehicle. Petrosky could see the shore of a small, tranquil lake within walking distance of the street, but the cottages surrounding it were anything but quaint. Peeling paint was commonplace, some of the homes had shutters swinging from single rusty hinges, and behind one rickety fence, a Doberman snarled at them as they rolled by.

The car bounced over a particularly deep rut in the frozen dirt road. Petrosky hit his head on the roof, swore, and gripped the wheel harder.

“Gotta watch that, Boss. Maybe you should be wearing your seat belt.”

Petrosky rubbed his smarting head. “This is it.” The difference between this house and the ones around it was remarkable. It was small, but freshly painted, with doors and windows in good repair. The roof looked new. The flower beds, now frozen, contained neatly-trimmed evergreen bushes, and not a single leaf peeked through the snow that covered the lawn.

Well-maintained.

Meticulous.

Careful.

The front porch had been swept clean of snow and salt granules crunched under their feet. Morrison picked up the door knocker and dropped it. Somewhere, water on ice ticked steadily.

The hairs on the back of Petrosky’s neck prickled. He knocked with his fist. Nothing. He tried the knob. Locked.

Petrosky pulled his Swiss Army knife from his back pocket and wiggled it into the doorjamb. The lock gave way with a click.

“Boss—” Morrison began, but Petrosky was already turning the handle. “We’ve got one shot, Surfer Boy. They’ll be all over the place, giving us the run around as soon as we call it in.” He nodded to the mat. “Wipe your feet.”

Petrosky stepped inside. Morrison followed and closed the door.

The front entryway opened into the kitchen, strong with the scent of lemons. The stainless steel appliances and porcelain floors gleamed in the light streaming through the spotless windows. Framed black and white photographs hung on the walls—copies, but good quality ones. Expensive.

Morrison was still standing by the door, shifting his weight from foot to foot like a nervous first grader. Petrosky left him and wandered farther into the house. To the left of the kitchen, an archway opened to a small but nicely furnished living room with a big screen television. He stole past leather sofas into a hallway. The first door opened to a small, tidy bathroom—spotless, like the rest of the house.

From there, he entered a huge bedroom with a king-sized bed. Four poster spindles nearly touched the ceiling, each one painted to appear old or tarnished. Shabby chic bullshit.

No, he thought as he moved closer. They’re actually marked.

He touched the headboard. The black iron was gouged with slivers of silver. Metal scored by metal? Did you handcuff them and torture them here first, you sick bastard?

He opened the nightstand drawer. Toenail clippers, remote control, phone charger. He closed the drawer and turned on the closet light.

Boots creaked on the carpet behind him. Morrison whistled at the wide array of suits and ties.

“Nice of you to show up.” Petrosky squinted at the ceiling—smooth. No shelves on the upper walls. “Any wisdom to offer?”

“Well, this dude obviously has money. Why would he be living out in the middle of nowhere in a neighborhood full of thugs and crime?”

Dude? Fucking surfers. Petrosky fingered a silk tie. “In these neighborhoods, people mind their own business.” Which hopefully means they won’t notice we’re here. He ran a hand behind the wall of shirts. Nothing. He scanned the floor. A corner of brown peeked from under the shoe rack. Petrosky crouched, grabbed the corner—a shoebox—and pulled it into the light.

Morrison edged around him.

The box was full of photos. The one on top showed a blond woman lying nude on the bed in the same master bedroom. She was handcuffed to the iron posts, her eyes wide with terror, irises colored in with red marker.

Petrosky’s heart faltered, then hammered painfully against his ribs.

He pulled out a stack and rifled through them. Here, another blonde was bent over the bed, her right wrist handcuffed to the bedpost, her face turned toward the camera. A piece of duct tape covered her mouth. In another, a woman was cuffed face down on the bed, her back and buttocks slashed with weeping, bloody wounds. From a knife? A whip?

Petrosky’s stomach roiled, but he kept flipping faster and faster. There were other young girls with their legs spread wide on the bed and their arms attached to the posts. In some, the camera had snapped shots from above: girls with male genitalia in their mouths, duct tape still hanging from the sides of their lips. Some were blindfolded but unrestrained. Others had their ankles tied to either side of the bed. In every photo, their eyes had been colored in with red, making them look demonic.

Petrosky flipped another photo.

Morrison gasped.

Antoinette Michaels stared back at them, arms handcuffed above her head, mouth covered in duct tape. The beginnings of fresh bruises on her cheek were obvious in the picture, as was the horror etched on her face.

He had no doubt they would find photos of the other victims there.

Petrosky’s skin crawled with electricity. He put the pictures back in the box and covered them with the lid. The box shushed as he slid it back under the shoes.

“Boss, what are you—”

Petrosky put his hands on his knees and pushed himself up. “We broke in, California. Without a warrant, we can’t use them anyway. Right now, we need to get out of here, get a warrant, and stake this place out before he hurts someone else.”

They hurried back through the house and out the front door. Petrosky locked it behind them, his heart throbbing in his ears. Outside, the only sounds were the steady drip of melting ice and the wail of the wind.

“Find a good parking place down the road,” Petrosky said, sliding into the passenger seat. “Make sure we can see the house.”

“Aye, aye, Boss.” Morrison put the car in gear. Tires crunched over ice and salt and rocks.

Petrosky stared at the phone. He had no choice.

“Graves here.”

“Sir, we have some new information,” Petrosky explained as Morrison pulled behind an abandoned house a block from Clark’s place.

Graves was silent on the other end of the line.

“Sir?”

“You’re there now.” It was not a question.

“Yes.”

“He home?”

“No.”

“Take off. Now. We’ll get a warrant and retain him for questioning.”

Petrosky’s heart sank. “But, sir—”

“If we fuck this up, we lose the evidence we need to nail him. We’ll put out an APB on his car and watch him if we see him sneaking around another abandoned building tonight. Now, get out of there before you scare him off.”

Petrosky hung up the phone and shook a cigarette from his pack, his muscles twitching with the desire to leap from the car and hide in the bushes to wait. “Head back to the station.”

Morrison maneuvered out of the neighborhood. Petrosky dragged smoke deep into his lungs and watched the house recede in the rearview mirror.

They had their killer.

Now, where the hell was he?