All His Pretty Girls Page 7

  ‘What does he think we’re trying to do?’ Alyssa grumbled. Behind his back, he was referred to as Captain Hothead, and she tended to agree.

  ‘Just doing his job,’ Cord replied, already heading to the conference room they’d long ago established as their own. ‘I’ll round up Roe and White. You track down Liz and Hal, and we’ll meet back here in,’ he peeked at his watch, ‘say, thirty?’

  ‘I’m found,’ Liz Waterson said, overhearing the comment as she rounded the corner. ‘Not sure what services I can offer yet, unless you have a witness who saw our girl snatched?’

  ‘Don’t I wish,’ Alyssa said. ‘But an extra pair of eyes and ears never hurt,’ she added, ‘if you’ve got the time.’

  ‘For you, I’ll make the time.’ The forensic artist headed inside the conference room and set her bag down, claiming her spot.

  Hal was easy to find. He was in the break room, offering his sage advice to the newest, freshest-faced member of the police force. In for less than three months, the rookie had already had a gun pulled on him – twice. Hal was the natural choice to seek out in this instance, in great part because several years ago, he’d been shot by a strung-out junkie, paralyzing and forever confining him to the wheelchair he was in.

  Legend had it that Hal’s wife, in her worry over his depression, had handed him his service revolver one day, telling him she loved him, but that he was merely breathing and not alive. She cried and told him how sorry she was for the hand that he’d been dealt, that they all had. She told him she didn’t want him to die, no one did, but she couldn’t stand seeing him like this anymore. It was time to make a choice.

  According to Hal, he’d weighed the heaviness of the gun in his palm and almost pulled the trigger that day until he saw the photo collage his wife had laid on the nightstand for him to see. It contained pictures of all their happiest moments – their wedding day, a picture of each of their three children on the day they were born, and his police academy graduation. In every single photo, Hal said he was wearing a smile as big as the day. He’d clicked on the safety and started living again.

  Now, he wasn’t only everyone’s favorite go-to guy, he was also a master at getting people to spill their guts. ‘People just trust a guy in a wheelchair,’ he’d remarked one day when Alyssa had marveled at his ability to crack in twenty minutes the suspect she’d been grilling for four hours.

  Add that to the man’s other remarkable skills – like research – and he was one of the strongest assets in the entire precinct.

  Fifteen minutes later, everyone had been rounded up, and as the team trickled in, Alyssa shot off a text to Brock.

  Looks like I might not be home for dinner. Team meeting. Hammond’s breathing down our necks. Also, don’t forget Holly is going to Sophie’s to work on their senior project.

  Less than thirty seconds later, she had a response.

  Thanks for the reminder. Don’t forget to eat. See you when you get home.

  God, she loved that man. She pushed aside the guilt that swamped her every time her job got in the way of family time, but this was the career path she’d chosen. And she was damn good at it. Brock, Holly, and Isaac all knew that, but it didn’t stop the knot from forming in her stomach every time she had to miss a dinner or sporting event. She did her best… but sometimes she fell short.

  When everyone was settled, she handed out copies of the invoices Mark Jacobs, the MCM manager, had secured. ‘Cord and I watched the surveillance footage from MCM today.’ She glanced up, ‘Thanks again, Joe, for setting that up.’ His head fell forward in acknowledgement, and she continued. ‘We’ve already spoken to the four technicians on duty yesterday when Callie McCormick was in. For now, they’re in the clear, but still on the table.’

  Alyssa walked over to the white board and chose a red marker. ‘This is what we know,’ she said, drawing a rudimentary timeline across the middle, jotting down the events from when Rafe McCormick first called his wife to inform her of the car appointment to Callie arriving at the dealership, to her calling her husband to let him know she was on her way home, and finally the call from Rafe McCormick reporting his wife missing.

  ‘Now,’ she replaced the red marker with a blue one and wrote: broken phone, dented wall, blood splatters. She stepped aside and continued. ‘Aside from these things, what else do we have?’

  From a compartment he had on the side of his wheelchair, Hal removed a pile of papers. ‘I checked into the McCormicks’ financials like you asked. Steady input, automatic outputs. Nothing there to send up a red flag.’ As he spoke, he slipped copies across the table to the rest of the team. ‘Called a few of the neighbors who the police canvassed last night, but none of them had much to say about Callie or her husband. Seems like most of the folks on that street keep to themselves. No neighborhood barbecues on this block. I’ll keep digging.’

  Cord took over from there. ‘Thanks, Hal. Liz made copies of our notes from the surveillance video. They’re in that packet in front of you. If you have any questions after looking things over, just ask. Until then, we’d like to locate Mearl Leroy, the man who engaged Callie McCormick in conversation while she waited for her car.’

  Liz interrupted, fingers poised over the keyboard on her tablet. ‘Suspect or person of interest?’

  ‘Person of interest,’ Alyssa answered. ‘Right now, we’d like to find out what they discussed in that waiting room.’

  ‘In fact,’ Cord piped in, ‘as of this hour, we have nothing in the way of suspects, so let’s be careful not to throw that particular word around. We don’t want to spook any potential witnesses. Apart from the person who took her, the individuals we want to speak to are just possibly the last people who saw her.’

  Alyssa jumped in. ‘Joe and Tony, you try to hunt down Hunter Jenkins, Mervin Wallace, and Larry Wilkins and find out what you can. Their phone numbers and addresses are in those papers. Hal, you keep digging for anything you can find that might give us a lead. Maybe run a quick background check on the employees from MCM, specifically the ones who worked yesterday, if only so we can clear them.’ Her gut told her none of the mechanics, the manager, or even the receptionist had anything to do with this case, but she needed to be able to officially check them off the list. She continued, ‘But for now, let’s keep our main focus on these three, and let me know what you find.’ She tapped the names of Leroy, Jenkins, and Wallace. ‘Liz, could you help out on that front and check with the technicians about that partial print lifted from Callie McCormick’s phone?’ At the forensic artist’s nod, Alyssa said, ‘Great. Cord and I will head over to Mearl Leroy’s place right now, and then we can reconvene here at seven o’clock tomorrow morning. Or tonight, if we need to. Either way, make sure you keep me in the loop.’

  After everyone headed out to take care of their assignments, Cord pulled out his phone. ‘Let me call Sara to let her know I might be late. Don’t want her to hold dinner. And then we can head over to Mr. Leroy’s.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ Alyssa said, then grabbed her empty cup and went in search of a refill.

  Chapter Eleven

  Monday, March 25, 6:30p.m.

  Callie opened her eyes, disoriented. Her head was heavy, as if someone had placed a weight on her forehead. Her tongue was thick, and her mouth felt like it was stuffed with dirty cotton balls. She gathered what little moisture she could garner and licked her lips. The movement hurt.

  Cold air blew down on her, and she shivered as goosebumps popped up all over her body. Where was she? A sharp pain shot through her temples when she shook her head, trying to clear it. She reached up to rub warmth back into her arms but couldn’t.

  She blinked her eyes several times, trying to remove the gritty sensation. It felt like someone had poured sand into them, and they drifted closed once again, refusing to stay open. With effort, she finally forced her eyes open and slowly turned her throbbing head.

  Everything was muted, unfamiliar. She knew this wasn’t her room, but she had no idea where she was.
Her heart raced, and her breathing was ragged as she struggled to remember. Moving just her eyes, her gaze swept the dimly lit room, landing on a large shadowbox mounted on the wall. Inside was a variety of necklaces and other jewelry and what appeared to be…

  And that fast, her memory returned. Bile forced its way up her esophagus, greeting the whimper that careened from her throat.

  As her head whipped from side to side in denial, she realized she was naked, her wrists were handcuffed, secured to a chain around her waist, and her legs were shackled to two posts centered on the footboard of the bed she was in.

  Thousands of fire ants ran along her nerve endings, causing even her toes to tingle.

  Her whimper became a sob, and then she screamed.

  When the door at the top of the stairs opened, the scream died in her throat, and she snapped her neck in that direction, causing a wave of nausea to wash over her. She struggled against her bindings, sucking in a sharp gasp as pain shot through her stomach where she’d been punched.

  ‘Glad to see you’re finally awake.’ The man descended the wooden stairs, carrying a small, rusted kettle.

  Afraid to look at him, and afraid not to, Callie’s teeth chattered as her body convulsed.

  The man grabbed something leaning against the wall below the shadowbox before stopping at the foot of the bed to check her bindings. When he was satisfied they weren’t loose, he moved to her right side and set up a television tray, the kind she used to love using at her grandpa’s house before he died. He placed the pot on top.

  ‘Welcome, Callie.’

  How did he know her name?

  The blood pounding in her head made it difficult to think… she remembered thinking when she had opened her front door that he looked familiar, but she still couldn’t figure out where she’d seen him before. A mewling sound gurgled up from her chest.

  ‘Nothing to say? Cat got your tongue?’ He laughed at his own joke. ‘That’s okay for now. You’ll be talking soon enough. Sorry about the lips. Taking duct tape off is like removing a Band-Aid – you gotta be quick. My name is Evan, by the way.’

  His gaze roved her body, stopping at the juncture between her thighs. Callie swallowed as she suffered through his degrading examination, but when he reached out his hand to touch her, she instinctively tried to raise her shackled arms in an attempt to protect herself.

  Anger flooded his face, and as he raised his fist threateningly, she forced herself to remain immobile, even while he touched the strawberry birthmark above her left hip, stroking it the way a lover might. Tears streamed down her face as she tried to picture a green, grassy meadow with bright yellow dandelions, and butterflies flying about.

  However, this time her method for conquering stress and fear abandoned her as she wondered: Was this where he raped her? Would he kill her then? How would he do it? Slit her throat? Shoot her? Or would it be more painful than that? Or would he just continue to rape her until there was nothing left of her but an empty shell?

  But then he stopped and smiled at her like they were old friends catching up. ‘Well, you must be parched and hungry. That sedative is a killer when it comes to dry mouth. I brought you some soup; it’s tomato. I hope you like it,’ he said, approaching her like he might a trapped and wounded wild animal. She fought down the hysterical laughter that bubbled up inside her. Because she was the epitome of a trapped and wounded wild animal.

  The man placed some soup on a spoon and held it to her mouth.

  Was he drugging her again? In an odd way, she hoped he was because then she could pass out and forget this was happening. She opened her mouth, allowing the man to place the soup in her mouth. It was tepid but tasty, surprising her. It seemed wrong and out of place that it would actually be good.

  ‘Do you like it?’

  Callie tilted her chin downward, afraid to speak. The slap across her face stunned her. Something wet landed on her arm. Red splattered her chest and the plastic mattress sheet where the soup sloshed over the rim of the bowl.

  ‘Did I tell you to nod? No. I asked you a question, and I’d like a verbal response. I went to a lot of trouble to make this soup for you. Now, I’ll ask again – do you like it?’

  Her vision blurred from the tears that fell in streams down her cheeks, and she whispered a soft, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Now, let me explain a few things. While you are in my company, you will do anything and everything I ask as soon as I ask it. When I’m not here, you can scream all you like. No one’ll hear you, and you’ll only strain your throat, but please, be my guest. Get it? My guest?

  ‘I’m going to be honest, so pay close attention. While you’re here, I’m going to cause you pain you never knew was possible. But it’s for your own good. Until you learn.’

  Learn what? Callie was sure, whatever it was, she didn’t want to know the answer.

  ‘If, at any time, you attempt an escape, I promise you will regret it. I’ll make killing you take such a long time, you’ll do anything to get me to end it for you.’ Her gaze immediately went to the shadowbox on the wall.

  The man set the bowl down and moved the table near the wall before returning to the bed. While he spoke, he checked the bindings around her wrists. Convinced things were as they should be, he turned to leave.

  Callie felt her heartbeat in her throat. On an intellectual level, she understood there were people like this in the world – those who enjoyed, relished even, causing pain to others. She’d read about them in the newspaper, online, and seen them on the news. She always shook her head, thinking how sad it was, but, like many people, was secretly relieved she wasn’t the victim. She used to think that what she was now experiencing happened only to other people, or in books and movies. The sickening realization hit her that, to someone else, she was the other person.

  ‘Please,’ she pleaded, not caring that he hadn’t given her permission to speak. ‘My husband has money. We’ll give you anything you want. Please, just let me go.’

  Her captor seemed amused by her suggestion, and he cocked his head as he studied her. ‘But I already told you: I don’t want your money, or your jewelry. I just want you. To listen to you beg for mercy. Beg for the opportunity to please me.’

  ‘Please, I’m… I’m… pregnant,’ Callie lied, willing to say anything.

  The man laughed. ‘Is that so? Well, I wouldn’t let that concern you, if I were you.’ Then, without warning, he whirled back and punched her, laughing at her horror-struck expression. She immediately felt the swelling in her cheek.

  ‘You just never know when something is going to hit you,’ he said before returning upstairs.

  The quiet closing of the door was incongruous with what was happening to her. When she heard the lock click into place, she wept, the wracking sobs jerking her body which sent shockwaves of pain coursing through her as her wrists and ankles pulled against the bindings.

  * * *

  Evan stood at the top of the stairs and listened. Tears were always exciting. It meant they were scared and willing to obey, that he had control. And the soup always threw them.

  Gotta keep ’em on their toes.

  Chapter Twelve

  Tuesday, March 26, 4:15p.m.

  Alyssa shook her head as she approached Mearl Leroy’s house. A perfectly edged and trimmed lawn adorned either side of the sidewalk, but it was the hedges bordering the front porch that were cut into neat poodle shapes that amused her. When she reached the large wooden door, she reached out and rang the doorbell.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw a curtain move. She turned her head and watched as an older man flicked the curtain back and peeked out. She jostled Cord with her elbow, and they both lifted their hands and waved. The curtain fell back into place, and loud footsteps made their way to the door.

  When a face appeared in the little glass window, Alyssa held out her badge for the person inside to see. The door cracked open, the chain lock still firmly in place.

  ‘Mearl Leroy?’ Alyssa asked.


  ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘I’m Detective Wyatt, and this is Detective Roberts. We’re with the Albuquerque Police Department. Are you Mr. Mearl Leroy?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘We’d like to talk to you for a few minutes, if that’s okay.’

  ‘Don’t tell me that crazy old bat next door called again about me leaving my trash can too close to her driveway. I’ve told her a million times if I’ve told her once that it’s still on my property.’

  She interrupted the man before he could really get rolling on his rant. ‘Mr. Leroy, we’re not here because of the… crazy old bat… next door.’ She smiled. ‘But we do need to ask you a few questions about a case we’re working on. Do you mind if we come in? We’ll try not to take up too much of your time.’

  Alyssa thought Mr. Leroy resembled an owl when he wobbled his head back and forth between her and Cord, trying to decide whether or not he should allow them into his house. Finally, she cleared her throat. ‘Mr. Leroy?’

  ‘What kinds of questions?’ The man closed his door slightly to lift the lock, then leaned in, pushing the door further open, but didn’t invite the detectives in.

  ‘We’d really like to talk to you inside, if you don’t mind. Never know who’s lurking about, listening,’ Cord took over, intentionally cocking his head toward Mr. Leroy’s nosy neighbor’s house.

  Mr. Leroy regarded them carefully before relenting. ‘Okay, come on in. Excuse the mess. I’ve been spring cleaning. Just finished scrubbing my basement,’ he pointed to a closed door. ‘Why don’t you all come on into the living room?’ He led the way without waiting to see if the detectives were following.

  Alyssa shrugged her shoulders at Cord and followed the old man into his living area. The room was dark and dreary. Mr. Leroy picked up a poodle that’d probably seen better days – literally. The gray cloud covering its eyes told her it was probably blind.