Читать книгу Visiting Darkness - Celeste Prater - Страница 11

Chapter 6

Max caught the urgency in Sinclair’s tone, transferring it right into muscles already jacked to hightail it out of this place. He grabbed a pen and held it over a yellow notepad next to the phone. “Go.” The number wasn’t local. “Got it. What do you have for me?”

“Like to visit the shooter’s home with you, if possible. Your answer as to why this happened might be there. I can confirm it for you if I see it.”

Chills lifted on Max’s arms, even though he knew full well the guy couldn’t know his immediate plans.

“Not going to happen, bud. Believe me.”

A soft chuckle sounded through the receiver.

“Thought so, but worth a shot. Here’s the point. I need to know if you found a distinctive burn mark anywhere near the shooter’s bed.”

Max knew he wore what Fergus coined as his “Did you actually ask me that shit” face. He let his head loll back on his shoulders and spit out a familiar line.

“Look. I don’t discuss specifics of ongoing cases, and you’re wasting my time here.”

“Wait. I know you want to hang up, but you need to understand this won’t be your last one, Detective Browning. Expect more.”

“Yeah, crime happening every day. What’s new, fella?”

“No, this is different. We need to search the killer’s home for the mark to prove what I’m trying to tell you. If we don’t find it, then I’ll get out of your hair.”

Head shaking in disgust, Max set the phone back in the cradle, grabbed his coat, and walked out of the office. Insistent ringing followed him down the hallway.

“Nut bags.”

Mary’s name floated on the airwaves for less than two hours and the loose screws backed out of the woodwork at a steady pace. The first drizzle of morning coffee hadn’t met his gut before a call came in from a frantic man claiming Mary Galesh killed his dog. Better yet, would forensics come out to test the bullet he pulled from its neck to determine a match with the Glock? Oddballs always trickled in right after the killer’s name released to the public. Poor JoAnn. He’d owe her big time for fielding all his calls, and the list already draped to his knee.

* * * * *

“Shit. They’re going to make me run the gauntlet,” Max muttered. He cut the engine to the Vic and stared at the tired, old adversary he’d grown to despise over the years.

Damn vultures.

News vans lined the cul-de-sac while perfectly coifed and well-dressed aggressive reporters vied for the prime spot in front of the Galesh home. Their usual, rabid pack mindset caused him to park six houses down and at a weird angle.

If younger and Gus in the passenger seat egging him on, he would’ve pulled up on the sidewalk and caught some primetime news coverage as he scattered the assholes. Good times.

Notepad and trusty pen shoved into his front pocket, Max slipped from the car and relaxed his features into what he liked to term his “dead face.” If he didn’t, the reporters would remark with all seriousness the detective on the case appeared angry, concerned, shocked, or any other such nonsense to titillate the viewers. The best they could get out of his mask and stay as close to the truth as possible was “placid.” No one turned up the volume on a dull adjective. Hope grew toward their continued ignorance of his presence.

“Detective Browning!”

Shit.

“Do you have any information on why Mary Galesh shot and killed nine people?” a woman with heavily painted eyes and brilliant white teeth screamed above the other voices.

“No comment.”

Within seconds, his movement forward reduced to that of a ninety-year-old. Of course, it wasn’t anyone he recognized pressing in on him. All the seasoned ones knew better than to get up in his grill. They all rested against their vans, sporting shit-eating grins, and waiting for the explosion. After the third microphone popped him on the chin, Max halted. Eyes narrowed, he scanned the determined crowd and deepened his voice into dark menace.

“Back up or face charges of assaulting a police officer. Your choice but make it quick.”

Threat working, progress toward the house improved. Sometimes it paid off to be much taller and meaner than the surrounding enemy could claim.

A male voice somewhere over his right shoulder shouted, “Detective Browning, what have you discovered about Mary Galesh’s motive? Why did she do it? Were there any other people involved? Did her husband know she was going to do it?”

“What Captain Walters gave you this morning is all we’re allowed to release,” he threw out. “The investigation’s still pending.” Max turned around on the sidewalk leading to Jason’s door and held up a warning palm.

“Stay out of his yard. You guys know better. Don’t make me call in a unit. I doubt Mr. Galesh will traipse outside in his bathrobe and start telling you how he’s feeling, so you’re wasting your time here. If he wants to share, I’m sure he’ll book a time with you. Look. Give him some peace, will you? Neither he nor his kids had anything to do with this. Plant that into your skulls and make it stick. They’re as much victims as the other families.”

“Will you ask if he’ll come outside?”

“Not his PR rep, so consider yourself stupid for asking.”

Max stared at the crowd and backed up a few steps, eyes daring them to go rogue so he could pull his cuffs. Upon the noise level subsiding and microphones lowered, he swiveled and strolled up on the porch. Good grief. At least they served a higher purpose by keeping vandals at bay until the family figured out their next step. It was the only kudos he was willing to give them.

He barely laid knuckles to the dark wood before it opened enough for him to slip inside the dim room. A quick scan of the environment gave an impression of a well-kept home with its wraparound couch, big-boy recliner, decent-size flat screen, children’s toys resting inside a blue milk crate in the corner, and preference for southwest artwork.

The crumpled pillow paired with a wrinkled blanket on the sofa clued him someone parked there last night and hadn’t found a restful moment. The eerie quietness sat at odds with the madness outside. He turned and found Jason leaning on the wall behind the door.

“Hey there.”

“Hi.”

The poor guy was a wreck, as expected. Pale face, dark circles under puffy eyes, shadow of a beard, and sleep-tossed hair reflected what ate his insides at a steady rate. He wore the same clothes as yesterday.

Pushed from the shadows, Jason held out his hand, still enough of a gentleman in him to make the effort.

Max returned the firm grip and shake.

“Thank you, Detective Browning. I heard what you said to them. Was thinking of spraying them down with the water hose. Glad you came by.” He swallowed hard and made his way through an arched doorway leading into a kitchen.

Slow, measured steps clued Max the guy moved on autopilot. Routine. Unthinking. He followed him in.

“Uh. Want coffee? I should make some.”

“Sure. I like it black.”

“Me too.”

Settled at the oak dining table, he observed the robotic man fill the carafe with water, retrieve a red can from the cabinet, and face the coffee pot. He hesitated and backed up a few steps, appearing stuck inside a memory.

“The last time I saw her, she stood right here.” Jason’s hand waved in a slow back-and-forth motion over the area he envisioned her, as if he could somehow reclaim what he lost.

Max leaned forward to catch the low, shaky voice.

“She looked tired, but she was still my Mary.” White teeth chewed on a bottom lip for a second. “I can’t remember if I said I love you before I left.” His shoulders slumped. “God, I hope I did.”

Max lunged forward and caught the carafe angling closer to the floor and took it from Jason’s shaking hand.

“Go sit down. I’ll make it. Got one like it at the house.”

With an absent nod, Jason plopped on the nearest chair.

“Are the kids still asleep?” The question seemed to snap the guy out of his stupor.

“Uh, no, they’re with Audrey and her sister.” He gestured absently to the right. “Stephanie lives two blocks over. We didn’t want them scared by the news people. I haven’t told them yet…the boys.” His jaw clenched. “I don’t know how.”

“Have you eaten?”

Jason’s eyes shifted upward and to the left, trying to recall mundane activities trapped inside his muddled brain. “I can’t remember.”

Coffee brewing and filling the quiet space with something familiar and comforting, Max slipped two slices of bread into the toaster and retrieved butter and a jar of grape jelly from the refrigerator. After discovering eggs, milk, cheese, and some chopped ham, it didn’t take but a few minutes to whip up a fat omelet. He became a master at it after his divorce from Victoria. Seven years of bachelorhood gifted numerous skills. The second button on his light blue shirt bore proof he could use a needle and thread.

Satisfied with his creation, Max filled their cups, set the heaping plate in front of Jason, and sat down.

“Eat before you fall over.”

The poor guy stared at the food as if wondering how the hell it got there.

“Uh. Thank you.”

One tentative bite appeared to kick in the man’s appetite. He dug in for another scoop.

“Where’s your family?”

Jason stopped long enough to take his first sip of the hot brew. “Mine are dead. Mary’s came in last night. Her sister flew in from New York and put them up at a hotel outside the city.”

“Smart.”

“Yeah, Delia’s a tough lady. She’s helping them make the funeral arrangements for me. We’ll all tell the boys tonight, I guess.” He hesitated and set the fork aside.

Max was glad to find he at least ate half of the food. Eyes shining like polished marble lifted to his.

“We’ll bury Mary near her parent’s home. Maybe not in Elk City, but close. If I tried to do it here in the city, I’m sure someone would find out and trash her grave.” He blinked a few times as another realization slammed into his brain.

“I should move. Oh, God, this is so fucked up.”

“Yes, it is. Listen, this isn’t any easier than when we first spoke, but I promised to do everything in my power to figure out what happened. I need to search Mary’s things to find sense of what she did leading up to yesterday. A journal, notes, anything. Do I have your permission? Up to you.”

Jason nodded and pointed toward a doorway sporting quaint saloon-style swinging panels.

“Sure. Of course. Our room’s down the hall. I’ll show you.”

Long strides faltered the closer they came to the bedroom. He reached out, pushed the double doors open, and took a quick step back, almost as if afraid of electrocution for breaching the threshold. With both hands shoved deep into the front pockets of his jeans and holding a steady glare on his socked feet, Jason’s cheeks revealed obvious embarrassment.

“What are you thinking?”

“Nothing you told me yesterday sank in until I found the lockbox open and the gun and ammunition missing. I kept hoping the dead woman in the car was an eerie twin and Mary would come walking in the door after she fought her way out of the binds. How stupid is that?”

Max patted Jason’s slumped shoulders.

“Not at all. Lost a close friend once. I was there when he died. Right in my arms, in fact. Even still, it took me a solid month to quit expecting to hear his voice telling me to wake up every time I answered a ringing phone. I prayed I was in a coma. So no, your hope is far from stupid.”

Jason pursed his lips and managed what tried to be a soft laugh.

“Yeah, I guess our minds play tricks when we’re trying to come to grips with something so bizarre.”

“I agree.”

Gaze dropping to the gleaming hardwood floor, Jason gestured toward the bedroom.

“I’m sorry. I can’t go in there again. Besides, all her clothes are still in the—” His lips tightened.

“No, it’s all right. I understand. Don’t worry. Promise I won’t remove anything unless you look it over first and give permission.”

A sucking inhale spelled his relief. He thanked him with desperate eyes and backed up to the other side of the hallway. “Mary kept all of her stuff at the top of the closet…on the right.”

“Thank you. Now go finish your breakfast before it gets cold. Toast too. You’ll need your strength.”

“I’ll try.” He seemed to struggle with his next words. “Detective Browning?”

“Call me Max.”

Tightness around Jason’s gray eyes instantly softened. “Max, if you can figure out why my wife did this, I’ll be eternally grateful. I’m losing my goddamn mind. None of this makes any sense, but obvious I missed something big with her. Whatever it is, don’t hold back. I need to know.”

“That’s my plan. I’ll come to you first when I have something definitive.”

Jason stared at him for a few beats, as if still unable to understand why he didn’t see hate lashing out at him. “You’re a good man, Max.” On a cleansing breath, he turned, and made his way back toward the kitchen.

Fuck. Max sagged against the doorframe. He hadn’t experienced this unnerving ball of tangled emotions banging in his chest in what felt like forever. His mind kept switching Sean into this horrid situation and wondered how he could bear the pain of watching him suffer. Jason didn’t deserve to have his life upended for loving Mary.

Disturbed he let his guard slip, Max shook it off and stepped inside the room decorated with southwestern themed pictures on crème painted walls and sporting waist-high light-pine paneling—the good kind showcasing the age rings of the trees without being overbearing to the eye. It went well with the teal carpeting and slightly darker wood furnishings.

Analysis mode shoved back to the forefront and settled his nerves. To the immediate left, he noticed a precision-made king-size bed covered in a spread bearing the same motif carried throughout the home. Two mauve lamps positioned on sturdy nightstands sat either side. A short bureau with a round mirror rested against the wall opposite the bed. He made a mental note to address those later. It appeared the closet to his right held the key. The door was still open. Jason wanted out of this room so badly he hadn’t even bothered closing it.

Max knew the feeling, but on a different level. He remembered standing inside his own closet and staring at a miniscule amount of Victoria’s clothes she left behind, her perfume still lingering on the coats and scarves. She removed everything the next day, but the scent still stuck around for weeks. It was a knife to the gut every time he’d had to venture inside and pull a dress shirt off a hanger. He’d caught himself wearing the same one for three days and finally got his shit together.

Bad memories pushed aside, Max looked down and found the empty lockbox resting on the floor. He put it back in the only open slot on the top shelf. After searching through a few boxes filled with sewing material, yarn, and infants clothing, Max found something of interest, her treasure trove of memories holding high school yearbooks, bagged, dried flowers with the date Jason presented them, family photo albums, and several stacks of letters.

Settled on the floor, Max looked for anything shedding light on the situation—shaking out material, looking underneath pictures, and searching for slim rips in the seams of bound books for secreting small items. Nothing. Even the baseboards were intact.

A thorough study of her yearbook gifted multiple shots of the popular duo taking part in the usual high school antics. Beaming kids awaiting a bright future. One stood out from the others. Mary’s thin, but curvy frame settled against Jason’s lanky body revealed the comfort they took from each other. He appeared to be stroking her fall of gorgeous dark hair—a beautiful young girl matched with a handsome boy. The perfect couple. He ran his thumb over her smiling face.

“Talk to me, Mary,” he whispered. “What happened to you?”

He set the yearbook back inside the box and retrieved the letters. It didn’t take him long to realize all were from her mother and sister while she languished in the eastern school and awaited freedom. He found her remorseful for the fateful decision to battle Erin.

What he expected to discover never appeared. No ominous correspondence from a stone-cold killer lurked within. Box repacked to the order he found it, he set it on the shelf and returned to the bedroom.

After confirming nothing under the bed or of note within the large bureau, Max searched the night tables. Tissue boxes, TV guide, wrapped lozenges, and a few anniversary cards with small hearts drawn below their names was all that met him. Stumped again. He was almost relieved to answer his ringing phone.

“Browning.”

“Max. I have a new one for you.”

Crap. “I’m handling something, Fletcher. Give it to Harold.”

“Can’t. He’s across town. Freeway shooting.”

“What about Dickens?”

“Nope. Man ran over several pedestrians at a restaurant two minutes after the driver grabbed his parking spot. You’re the closest.”

“Goddamn, what the hell’s going on?”

“It’s the fucking heat. Fries people’s brains,” Fletcher offered and followed with a grunt.

“No doubt. Hold up a sec.” Max refrained from engaging the speaker. The last thing Jason needed to overhear were descriptions of more carnage. He set his notepad on the nightstand, squatted next to the bed, and squashed the cell to his ear with his shoulder. Awkward, but it offered a chance to shove his hand under the mattress to check for hidden items. “Go.”

“Small jewelry store over on Lyle.” He rattled off the name and address. “Three dead and messy. Serious knife play. Perp took off on foot. We’re running the neighborhood. Two witnesses left unharmed. Happened within the last ten minutes.”

“Give me a little bit to finish up here. Press is clogging the road too. Go ahead and let the coroner in for photos if they beat me there. Don’t move anything.”

“Understood.”

Max finished jotting down his notes, slipped the phone into his pocket, and started to rise. He dropped back to one knee, yanked his pen light, and lit up the area between the bedframe and nightstand.

“You’ve got to be shitting me.”