LET ME BREATHE, page 11
Moving next to one of the metal posts, he drew the wire cutters from the side pocket of his cargo pants. The recently sharpened blades snipped the fence with ease. He folded the woven wire toward him, creating a gap wide enough for a comfortable exit.
He plodded forward, the dappled sunlight casting fingerlike shadows on the forest floor.
The voice of his accomplice nagged in his ear.
Don’t forget what I told you, she said.
“I won’t,” he whispered.
You almost forgot last time.
“That was different. Ain’t no reason to worry now.”
It hadn’t been his fault. The lawyer had interrupted him the last time. Had forced him to alter his plans. But he’d still followed through—had finished the job later the same night. Just like he’d promised.
As the killer neared the clearing, he slowed his pace. He peeked out from behind an oak at the edge of the tree line and surveyed the woman’s backyard. The two-story brick home stood silent against the slate blue sky.
The nearest neighbors lived to the right. The woman must have considered the neighbor’s mobile home an eyesore because she’d planted a row of Leyland cypress trees along her property line that blocked the view. The trees were still young, but they’d filled out enough to provide the killer ample cover. And during the last two weeks, the neighbors had never been home this time of day.
Satisfied that no prying eyes were following him, the man emerged from the shadows of the forest. He crossed the rear quarter of the expansive backyard, his gaze darting from one window of the house to another. Everything looked right—felt right. Just as it should.
When he reached the fancy black aluminum fence, he swung to the left. He followed the fence line to the concrete driveway and parking area next to the home’s rear-entry garage. The double gate swiveled on its hinges, uttering a soft sigh as he passed through.
The killer paused next to the round patio table topped by a floral umbrella and peered through the glass of the wide arch-top window into the family room. The little white dog slept between two colorful throw pillows on the sectional sofa. Otherwise, the room was empty as he knew it would be.
Approaching the French doors, he fished in his left cargo pocket for his lock picking tools. His Uncle Jimmy had worked for a locksmith for several years before he’d been sent away to die in prison. Jimmy had taught him things that could help put food on the table if the need ever arose. Things that had come in handy lately.
The killer’s fingers closed around the lever-style door handle.
To his surprise, the handle turned.
He couldn’t believe that the lawyer from the city was stupid enough to leave her door unlocked. The husband should have warned her about the crime in the mountains. Break-ins might not be quite as common here as they were in the big city, but the local thieves were always on the lookout for something they could steal. An open back door stood as an invitation.
The little dog—who he knew was named Lacey—stirred as the killer pushed the door open. Lacey jumped from the sofa, tail wagging, and trotted toward him.
The killer pulled a handful of liver treats from his pocket and offered them to the dog.
“Hi girl,” he cooed. “You hungry?”
He’d come prepared. Knew what to expect.
From watching the lady lawyer the past two weeks, he’d learned that she kept a regular routine. She came home for lunch each day, arriving at approximately ten minutes before one. She’d let the dog out into the fenced backyard and then eat her meal on the sofa in front of the television. At two o’clock, when her TV show was over, she’d call the dog back inside. Then she’d head back to her office.
The husband had never arrived home before five-thirty.
The killer had plenty of time in between to take care of things.
He dumped another handful of dog treats onto the hardwood floor and circled around behind the sofa, heading in the direction of the foyer. Three fancy candles and a large silver-framed photograph topped the mahogany accent table next to the doorway. The husband’s parents smiled for the camera. The killer recalled the house fire that had claimed the lives of the couple a few years back.
He didn’t remember much about his own parents. But maybe it was better that way.
Glancing into the two-story foyer, he considered the coat closet. This was the killer’s first time inside the house. His binoculars had afforded him a nice view of the general layout, but he still needed to determine the optimal place to hide.
The powder room off the foyer wasn’t an option. He didn’t want the lawyer to run into him. He planned to sneak up behind her while she lounged on the sofa.
A humming noise echoed from beyond the kitchen.
It was the garage door opener. The killer glanced at the fancy black clock hanging on the wall in the family room. The lawyer had come home an hour early. The change in schedule irritated him. But it was only a minor hiccup. One he could deal with.
Don’t screw this up, his accomplice warned.
“I told you to stop your worrying,” he whispered.
He heard the door between the kitchen and garage swing open. As the killer ducked into the foyer, a man’s voice drifted toward him.
A bolt of anxiety hit the killer.
The husband was home.
The soles of Wallace Lochridge’s shoes thudded against the hardwood floor as he moved through the family room.
“There’s no way they’ll ever make it to the super bowl,” Wallace said.
The killer’s heart hammered in his chest as he peeked around the foyer doorframe. The husband, dressed in a dark gray suit, had a cell phone held to his ear.
“I’ll take that bet,” he said. “Listen, I have to hang up. I spilled coffee all over myself and I need to change clothes. Right. I’ll talk to you later.”
Without so much as a glance behind him, Wallace headed toward the hallway that led to the master bedroom. A split second later, his footsteps came to an abrupt halt.
The killer ducked back behind the doorframe just as Wallace turned around.
“Lacey,” Wallace said, walking back into the family room. “What are you eating?”
Holding his breath, the killer tightened his fingers around the quazodine in his jacket pocket. He hadn’t planned on killing the husband, but it looked as though he might not have a choice. He stole another glance into the family room.
Wallace had pulled out his cell phone again, his back toward the foyer.
“Hey, Daphne,” he said into the phone. “Have you been home for lunch already? Well, I’m here and I caught Lacey eating something off of the floor.”
Wallace paused as though he was listening to his wife. “No, it doesn’t look like something she threw up. It looks like some type of dog treat.”
The man paused again.
“Yeah. Okay. Love you.”
The killer watched as Wallace walked to the back French doors and tested the knobs. It was a good thing he’d engaged the locks behind him when he’d sneaked inside. Knowing Wallace would likely come through the foyer next, the killer slipped into the dining room and flattened himself against the wall next to the doorway.
As expected, Wallace made a beeline to the leaded-glass front door. He checked the lock, paused, and then glanced up at the staircase and balcony.
Was Wallace planning to search the house?
After seeming to ponder the thought, the man sighed and headed back toward the family room. Careful not to make a sound, the killer followed. Wallace turned left, strode down the hallway and disappeared into the master bedroom.
You gotta kill him now, the killer’s accomplice whispered. Before his wife gets home.
The killer knew that she was right. He’d promised to take care of the lawyer today, and Wallace was in the way. There was no other option.
Wallace had to die.
The killer skulked down the hallway. He didn’t have time to carry the husband into the woods. He’d take care of the man here and hide the body under the bed. Just as the killer reached the master bedroom door, he heard Wallace’s cell phone ring.
“Hello,” the man answered.
The killer inched toward the open bedroom door and peeked inside. Wallace stood in profile, in front of a cherry wood dresser, buttoning up a crisp white shirt. He balanced his cell phone between his shoulder and ear.
Wallace sighed. “I’m on my way back to the office right now.”
The killer turned away from the master bedroom and slipped inside the laundry room. He hugged the wall behind the door. Maybe he wouldn’t have to deal with the husband after all. He could avoid the risk of a struggle and the complications of a cleanup. And he wouldn’t have to worry about the lawyer finding the body.
The click of Lacey’s toenails against the hardwood floor caught the killer’s attention. The little dog nosed her way into the laundry room. He couldn’t allow Lacey to alert Wallace.
He cradled the dog in his arms and stuck another liver treat into her mouth.
Wallace was still on the phone. The man’s voice grew louder as he exited the master bedroom. The killer stroked Lacey’s head as Wallace passed the laundry room.
The killer waited.
He watched the clock, designed like an old-fashioned scrubbing board, that hung above the laundry sink. After a full two minutes had ticked by, he eased into the hallway.
“Lacey!” Wallace called from the direction of the family room.
The little dog’s ears perked, and the killer placed her on the floor. She ran toward her owner’s voice. Would the man leave now? Or would he come back down the hallway?
The killer was running out of time. The lawyer would be home soon. He pulled the quazodine from his pocket and stepped back into the shadows of the laundry room.
He listened for Wallace’s voice and footsteps, his muscles tense, prepared to pounce.
The house had fallen silent.
With the quazodine firm in his grip, the killer crept down the hallway. The living room lay empty. Lacey galloped toward him as he veered into the foyer. Through the front window, he caught sight of Wallace’s car as it sped down the road.
The killer moved toward the living room doorway and again glanced at the clock. In twenty-five minutes, Daphne Lochridge would arrive home. He had to be ready. Couldn’t allow anything else to go wrong.
He dropped the quazodine back into his pocket.
With Lacey at his heels, he checked the coat closet beneath the L-shaped staircase. Two men’s winter jackets hung inside, nothing more. Plenty of room remained. He tested the door hinges. They rotated in silence.
The killer had found the perfect spot to hide.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Ashley unsnapped her seatbelt as Wyatt steered the SUV alongside a gas pump at the minimart fronting Main Street. She raised her right hand above her head, stretching her muscles. Her shoulder still ached from hitting the passenger door and her left cheek still stung from scraping the branch of the felled oak tree. To top it off, her mind felt sluggish from the lack of sleep. With Wyatt’s tendency for silence as he drove, she’d caught herself nodding off more than once during the trip back to Tomlinson.
As Wyatt killed the SUV’s engine, Ashley heard his cell phone ring.
He pulled the phone from his pocket and glanced at the screen.
“It’s Sheriff Pickens,” he said.
Wyatt switched his phone to speaker mode, inviting Ashley to join the conversation, and then placed it on the center console.
“Hello, sheriff.”
“I just got your message, Wyatt,” Pickens said. “I understand that you need as many deputies as I can spare.”
During their last homicide investigation, Ashley and Wyatt had butted heads with the local sheriff. But so far, here in Sparks County, Sheriff Pickens had been quick to aid them every step of the way.
“Yes sir. We’d like to have at least ten people stationed around the perimeter of the preprocessing center.”
A suspect had been spotting leaving the parking lot of the waste treatment facility the night of Trina’s murder. Curtis Crick claimed to have witnessed the same man lurking around the grounds of the Sparks County Hazardous Waste Preprocessing Center. Was the killer scouting the location to dump his next victim?
Pickens sighed. “That’s half my force.”
“I understand that sir, but as you’re aware, the facility covers a large amount of ground.”
The sheriff paused as though he was contemplating the matter. “You really think our suspect will be there?”
“He might not show up tonight,” Wyatt admitted. “But the odds are good that he’ll be there sometime this week.”
Wyatt and Ashley would be leading tonight’s stakeout. They had a rough description of the suspected killer: brown hair, approximately forty years of age, around six feet tall, with a muscular build. And he likely wore cowboy boots.
“I can move some people over from day shift for tonight,” Pickens said. “That will give you your ten and leave me with two for emergencies. We’ll have to play it by ear for the rest of the week.”
“Thank you, sheriff.”
“It’s a shame Crick lawyered up,” Pickens stated. “I wanted to get a crack at him myself. I suspect some of his kin might be responsible for the flow of meth in the county. I was hoping that I could scare him into making a deal.”
The minute the sheriff’s deputies had arrived on the mountain, Crick had switched from talkative to tight-lipped. To Ashley and Wyatt’s dismay, the man had invoked his right for an attorney.
Wyatt glanced at Ashley. “We’re lucky Ashley was able to get the information on the suspect,” he said.
“Let’s just hope it pans out. My department’s gonna be stretched mighty thin.”
Wyatt nodded, though it was obvious Pickens couldn’t see him. “Thank you again for all your help, sheriff.”
As Wyatt ended the call, Ashley met his gaze.
“I hope that when the killer shows up it’s just to check out the location again—maybe to steal a key—and not to dump another body,” she said.
“There’s always that possibility.”
But Ashley could see the skepticism in Wyatt’s eyes. He’d likely reached the same conclusion she had. The killer already knew the layout of the preprocessing center from his previous visit and had probably figured out a way inside. When the man returned, he’d likely be carrying the corpse of another victim.
Wyatt hopped out of the SUV and began filling it with gas.
Although the killer had murdered Hannah at the landfill, he’d changed course slightly with Trina. According to the medical examiner’s preliminary findings, Trina had been killed at another location and her body had then been transported to the waste treatment facility. Ashley wasn’t sure whether that meant something. The deviation could be chalked up to the fact that workers were present at the treatment plant at the time of the murder, where there were none at the landfill.
A team of TBI forensic techs was currently searching Trina’s mobile home. They’d found her car and purse, leading them to believe she’d been abducted from the trailer. Trina’s home could also prove to be her murder scene.
Ashley jumped as Wyatt tapped on the glass of the passenger window.
“Do you want anything from the store?” he asked.
The thought of a strong cup of coffee tempted her, but they were on their way to lunch. The coffee from the restaurant up the street would probably be of better quality.
“No, I’m good.”
She watched Wyatt as he strode across the parking lot. Just as he disappeared inside the minimart, his cell phone rang. He’d forgotten and left it on the center console.
Thinking the caller could be the sheriff, Ashley glanced at the phone.
The name Kaylee flashed on the screen.
Realizing the woman was probably one of Wyatt’s girlfriends, Ashley felt a little awkward. Almost like she was invading Wyatt’s privacy. She sat and listened to the phone ring five times before it finally transferred to voice mail.
Stretching her right arm again, trying to keep stiffness from settling into her muscles, Ashley let her thoughts drift toward Daniel. He’d texted her early that morning before heading off to work. He’d promised to call later in the evening. Although she couldn’t wait to hear his voice, a part of her dreaded talking to him. She hated hiding the fact that she and Wyatt had shared a bed the night before. But the news would be better handled in person when Daniel could look into her eyes and see how innocent the arrangement had been.
Wyatt’s cell phone rang again, and Ashley fought to keep her gaze from darting toward the screen. But if it was Sheriff Pickens calling, her partner would want her to answer. She glanced at the phone.
Kaylee.
The woman must really be anxious to speak with Wyatt. Ashley wondered whether Kaylee had anything to do with her partner’s recent troubled mood. But she reminded herself that Wyatt’s personal life was none of her business.
Again, the phone rang five times.
Ashley leaned her head back against the passenger seat and closed her eyes. As sleep nudged her, she felt herself floating. The sound of the driver’s door opening jerked her awake.
Wyatt slid into the SUV.
“Your phone rang while you were inside the store,” she told him.
He picked up his cell. His face morphed into a mask of concern as he checked the missed-call notice on his screen. Without saying a word, Wyatt leapt back out of the SUV and slammed the door. Ashley watched through the windshield as he circled around in front of the vehicle, his phone stuck to his ear. He kept his back toward her as he talked.
Ashley guessed that she’d been right. That Kaylee somehow stood at the root of Wyatt’s personal angst. And from what she’d witnessed so far, his problem appeared to be serious.
Maybe the couple was facing an unplanned pregnancy. Maybe Kaylee wanted the baby and Wyatt didn’t. As soon as the thoughts filled her mind, Ashley chided herself for speculating. Just because Wyatt had a skirt-chasing reputation didn’t mean that Kaylee was expecting a child. Or that Wyatt didn’t want the responsibility of one.
