Unseen (Nell Brach Book 2), page 6
My jaw tightens.
I open the door to Twitch’s room, fully aware Sergeant Rogers is still over there watching. Vaughn turns on the camera. I sit down across from the man. The dried blood under his nose and beginning bruise give me a tiny bit of satisfaction.
I place my phone face up so I can see when forensics comes in on the knife.
Opening the folder, I show him the photo of Rebecca and Cathy that I took from the corkboard at Francis House. I point to Cathy. “Do you know this woman?”
He leans in. “I sure do. She gives good head.”
Vaughn crosses behind him, roughly knocking into his chair. “Sorry about that.”
Twitch sneers.
“How long have you been traveling with the two of them?”
“On and off for years.”
“What brought you to this area?” I ask.
“Time for me to move on from my cunt of an ex.”
Vaughn paces behind him again, jabbing his elbow into his shoulder blade. “Sorry about that.”
Twitch glares. “That bitch Rebecca squealed, didn’t she? You all think I knifed Cathy? You don’t know shit.”
“Enlighten us.”
He grabs his crotch. “Enlighten this.”
Under the table, I kick his kneecap. Hard. He screams.
“Sorry about that,” I say.
He snarls. “Whatever. Me and Cathy, we go way back. Hell, she was fucking me the whole time she was with that reject she married.”
My phone lights up. I check the message.
Twitch jabs a finger in his chest. “I’m the one she came to when things went to shit. Not that lesbo, Rebecca. Hell, I’m the one Nat—Cathy was partying with when—”
“When?”
He pauses. He sits back. He folds his arms. “Maybe I should have a lawyer.”
“Maybe.” I stand up, showing him my phone. “Because I just got confirmation that the Cold Steel six-inch tactical folding knife we took from you is the murder weapon. And boy is it covered in your prints.”
“I didn’t do anything! I found that knife in my things. I swear!”
Out in the workroom, Lisbeth flags me down. She hands me a piece of paper. “Credit card receipts from ten years ago put David “Twitch” Archer in Williamsburg, Kentucky, not Knoxville, Tennessee. Note that Natalie Scott signed a couple of them.”
Well, crap.
I scan the multiple receipts seeing one from a motel, another from a store where they bought shitloads of beer, another with cartons of cigarettes, and another from a fast-food place. Two of them do have Natalie Scott’s signature. I show Vaughn. “Looks like we figured out who Natalie-slash-Cathy was on her bender with when her twin sister was stabbed to death.”
“We may not have him for Paige, but we have him for Cathy.”
This should excite me, but it doesn’t. I wanted him for both.
TWENTY
Wednesday, 6:15 p.m.
At the station, Twitch’s lawyer arrives. We put them in a private room. They’ve been in there thirty minutes.
Arms folded, I stand at my desk staring at them through the blinds. I want to dig into Cathy’s past, and now knowing they were married, Twitch might be the key. He knew her before Rylan did. And according to Twitch, he was “fucking” her the whole time. “We really need that DNA back on Paige and Cathy.”
“Nell.” Vaughn nudges me, nodding toward the wall-mounted flat screen.
Front and center in our local evening news is Gilda, the Iris Motel owner. She stands at the gate that leads into Memorial Gardens.
Dressed in a long blue vintage skirt, pink ruffled silk blouse, pearls, a white pillbox hat pinned to her poofy brown hair, and makeup so thick you could scrape it off, she looks like a 1950’s housewife who became Amish and then a washed-up porn star.
She says, “Our so-called law enforcement spends their days picking on the homeless and people like me who are small business owners. Right here behind me a poor homeless woman was found violently stabbed to death. The most horrendous of murders. And what do the cops do? They harass the other homeless people in the area and arrested one of them earlier today. Just because you’re homeless, doesn’t mean you’re a deviant!”
She straightens up. Hell, she even clutches a bible.
“I’m telling you the man they arrested is a decorated soldier. We should be honoring him, not persecuting him. They didn’t even ask him for an alibi. Well, I’m telling you right now, I’m his alibi.” She punctuates “I’m” with a finger jabbed into the air.
“And I am the one who found the knife that the cops think is their ‘smoking gun.’ I found it in the dumpster at my motel. If it’s the murder weapon, the cops should be looking for whoever dumped it. Because I gave it to the man they’re holding after the murder occurred.
“Join me now, good citizens, in picketing for his release.” Then she salutes, wrongly, I might add, like she’s about to go into battle.
The camera moves off of Gilda as the reporter appears. “There you have it, folks. That was—”
“That idiot just gave us a reason to get a warrant.” I send Lisbeth a text:
Me: Get me everything you can on the owner of the Iris Motel.
TWENTY-ONE
Wednesday, 8:05 p.m.
At the Iris Motel, I slap a warrant onto the counter. Still dressed in her ridiculous outfit, Gilda purses her creamy pink lips, looking at it.
She dramatically waves her arm around the place. “All yours.”
Behind us, our team begins the search of the small motel. I knew when we pulled up that she’d scrubbed the place and cleared it of its questionable renters. With an empty parking lot, all the doors open to the rooms, clean windows, the thick curtains pulled back, and a power-washed exterior, we won’t find a thing.
Even her office has been scrubbed and has a damn Zen fountain trickling in the corner.
“Let’s start with the knife,” Vaughn says. “Where did you find it?”
“Out back. Two nights ago. Some raccoons were digging through my garbage cans. I chased them off, and as I was cleaning up the mess they made, I found the knife. It was clean and in perfect condition. I gave it to Twitch because I know how much he likes knives.”
“Okay, let’s say that’s true.” I lean against the counter, all casual. “Why then would you give it to a homeless man named Twitch?”
She smiles sickly sweet like she was waiting for that question. “Because he’s my son. I’m the reason why he came here from Knoxville. We’ve been at odds for years. We’ve recently reconnected. I told him I’d pay him to keep up the place for me. Even told him to stay in one of the rooms, but he likes Tent City better.”
Okay, I was not expecting that answer.
“Apple doesn’t fall far,” Vaughn mutters.
Gilda sneers.
“And you can prove you two were together on Sunday?” I ask.
“I sure can. He was right here, helping me all afternoon. As a thank-you, I took him up the road to the truck stop for blueberry pancakes. It’s his favorite.” She produces a receipt. “Tons of people saw us eating. We even played pinball while we were there. Then we came back here. I offered to drive him out to Tent City but he opted to stay over here.”
“With or without that receipt, know that we will question everyone at that truck stop,” Vaughn says.
With a pointy pink nail, she picks the space between her two front teeth. “Anything else?”
Vaughn and I stand side by side in the station’s lobby watching David “Twitch” Archer strut out the door, carrying his belongings. I stare at his back, halfway expecting him to flip us off but he doesn’t. He simply walks across the parking lot and gets into a car that Gilda’s driving.
“Well, at least we have the murder weapon,” my partner says.
Sergeant Rogers comes through the security door that leads into the back. “Was that Twitch I just saw leave?” He hoots. “He’s a slippery motherfucker.” He slaps Vaughn on the back. “You won’t make sergeant this way. Arresting and letting people go?” He tsks. “Take it from someone with twenty-five years, you’ve gotta be sure before you haul in a fella like Twitch.”
“What do you want?” I ask, turning fully to face him.
“Excuse me?”
“You are everywhere we are. Don’t you have a job that doesn’t involve side comments about me and my partner? It’s late. Don’t you have a home to go to?”
I expect him to come back at me, but instead, Sergeant Rogers smiles. “Everyone around here knows your Owens’ favorite. Eventually, that’ll catch up to you. Be careful who you mouth off to.” Then with a wink to me, Rogers walks out of the lobby.
“God, I hate him,” I say.
“Ditto.”
TWENTY-TWO
Thursday, 8:45 a.m.
We run through Panera and end up sitting in the parking lot to eat breakfast and review Lisbeth’s findings on Gilda Archer. It hit both of our inboxes late last night. Along with the DNA test that proves our homeless woman is indeed Natalie Catherine Scott, twin sister to Paige Bell.
Back to Gilda, there isn’t much. Sixty years old. She once managed a strip club off I-40 passing through Knoxville. Before that, she worked the bar at the same strip club. And before that, she did odd jobs like fast food, a cashier at a convenience store, and waiting tables.
Vaughn’s busy reviewing the same information. “Sixty? I would have placed her at seventy-plus.”
In the world of strip clubs, there are the ones on the up and up, and the ones that deal under the table, offering other services. Her strip club was the latter, as evident by the number of times the place was busted for prostitution and drugs.
Somehow, though, she was never arrested. I also note she’s owned the Iris Motel a little over a year.
Done reviewing the information, I put my phone away. “Cathy was a stripper. Maybe she worked for Gilda.”
“I’d say that’s a good guess.”
“Cathy’s life seems intertwined with Gilda and Twitch quite a bit. One of them has to know about Cathy’s questionable influx of money that Rylan mentioned.”
“It’ll take some creative questioning to get Gilda to talk.”
Rebecca appears in Vaughn’s open window. It startles us both.
“You let him go.” Her bruised bottom lip wobbles. “Why? He killed Cathy. You know he did.”
Leaning down, Vaughn picks up a bag with a bagel sandwich that he bought for later. “Are you hungry?” he asks.
Despite the tears starting to appear, Rebecca nods. “I didn’t go to Francis House for breakfast.”
“Do you want to get in?”
“No. I can’t be seen talking to you.”
He looks around. “There’s no one watching.”
Rebecca hesitates, looking around as well.
Then she opens the back door, and with her oversized backpack, she slides in. Her body odor surrounds us. I lower all the windows. It helps a little.
Over the seat, Vaughn hands her the bag. We give her a few moments to eat.
I say, “Rebecca if you’re willing to come forward about what Twitch did to you, we’ll bring him back in.”
She’s already shaking her head before I finish the sentence. “Why did you let him go?”
“Because he had an airtight alibi. There’s no way he could have done it. But he’s done so much more. If you and the other women that he’s hurt are willing to ban together—”
Again, she’s already shaking her head. “That’s not happening.”
“Then he’ll continue to abuse you and the others.”
“We know how to avoid him.” She motions to her beat-up face. “This was my bad. I let my guard down. Plus, he has his favorites. I’m not one of them.”
Vaughn shifts, looking more fully at her over the back seat. “Was Cathy?”
Rebecca nods. “I told her she didn’t have to do anything, but she always said she didn’t mind. ‘We go way back,’ she’d always say, like that even makes sense. He’d give her a five every blow. As long as she didn’t fight him, he was gentle with her.”
I feel sick.
“You’ve been in this area several months now. You came with Twitch and Cathy. Whose idea was it?”
“Twitch. His mother is Gilda over at the Iris Motel. He said she’d hook us up with money, food, and a place to stay.” Rebecca snorts. “No thank you. I don’t spread my legs for anybody. And I definitely don’t give head. I’ll stand on a street corner and beg before I do either of those.”
“Did Cathy?” Vaughn asks.
“At the Iris Motel? All the time. But I don’t judge. If that’s how she wanted to make extra dough, more power to her.”
“Can you think of anyone who was following you two? Or someone new that was suddenly friendly and talkative?”
Rebecca finishes eating. From her backpack, she finds a bottle of Coke and slurps several gulps. We wait patiently. “Did you guys ever find Cathy’s daughter?” she asks. “I’m thinking about moving on and really want to say hi, if I can.”
It takes me a second to realize she’s changed the subject. “We’re still working on that.”
Sadly, she smiles. “Maybe you could get me a copy of that picture of me and Cathy? All these years, and I don’t have one. I’d love to give it to her daughter. I’d love to have one for myself as well.”
“We can do that,” Vaughn says. “If you decide to move on, make sure you find me and say bye.”
With a nod, she opens the back door. She gets out and comes to stand at his window. “I said it was Twitch’s idea to come here, but Preacher Mitch had a lot to do with it also. Me and Cathy knew him from another shelter back in Knoxville. He told us he was taking over Francis House and that if we were ever in the area, to look him up. It all kind of just came together when Twitch said his mom lived here.”
She hoists the backpack up onto her shoulder. With a wave, she walks off.
Vaughn looks at me. “Preacher Mitch?”
“Let’s do it.”
TWENTY-THREE
Thursday, 9:45 a.m.
At Francis House, I walk past a few men and women sitting on the sidewalk. I make eye contact with each one, giving an acknowledging nod. One or two nods or smiles back.
Vaughn knocks on the locked red door. A moment later, Preacher Mitch answers, welcoming us in. “We’re just cleaning up from breakfast,” he says.
Unlike last time he doesn’t lead us into his office. He stays standing in the entryway, silently letting us know he’s busy and to make it quick.
Behind him down in the main room, several volunteers stuff paper bags with food.
“You didn’t tell us you knew Cathy and Rebecca from before,” Vaughn says.
“Yes. They frequented a shelter I worked at in Knoxville.” He looks between us. “Since graduating seminary, I’ve worked at three different ones. I’ve seen a few of the same faces, Cathy and Rebecca being two of those.”
“You arrived in this area not long before them. We understand you ‘invited’ them here. Is that usual?” I ask.
The preacher hesitates. “I work hard at bonding with all of my patrons. I care. If I see an opportunity, I make sure they know. Francis House is the best-equipped shelter I’ve worked at. I wanted them to know that. They’re good women.” Again, he looks between us. “What is going on?”
“How old are you?” Vaughn asks.
“Thirty-five.”
“Have you always done this?”
Again, he hesitates. From down the hall where his office is located, a shadow shifts. “All done,” comes a friendly female voice. Wearing her usual uniform of khakis and a blue polo, Destiny emerges, carrying a bucket of cleaning supplies. She comes up short when she sees us.
Preacher Mitch looks over his shoulder at her. “Awesome, thank you.” He holds out a hand that she awkwardly takes. It’s not a handshake; it’s a sideways grasp like couples do. He squeezes her hand. “I’ll see you later.”
With a nod, she gives us a polite nod as she walks past us out the front door.
I give Vaughn a look and he nods, staying with the preacher so I can follow Destiny.
At a quick clip, she walks down the sidewalk and around Francis House where a parking lot sits with a couple of vehicles. She doesn’t notice I’m behind her as she slides open the side of the van.
“Destiny,” I say.
She looks up. “Um, I’m running late. I really can’t talk.”
“Are you doing okay?”
“Fine.” She finishes loading the van, hurries around to the driver’s side, and nearly spits gravel as she quickly pulls away.
Interesting.
I backtrack, running into Vaughn. “She couldn’t get away from me quick enough.”
“She’s been cleaning Francis House for years. Used to come with her grammy, always about this time.”
“Between breakfast and lunch when the place is fairly empty. That explains why Cathy only saw her that one time. How long have Preacher Mitch and Destiny been an item?” I ask.
“He said they were just friends.”
“Hm. Cathy asked everyone if they’d seen a young woman dressed in khaki pants and a blue top. How is it Preacher Mitch didn’t know it was Destiny?”
“That I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to risk exposing Destiny’s real identity and her link to Cathy. However, I got an answer about what he did before becoming a preacher.”
“Please let it be good.”
“He was in prison. I already texted Lisbeth for a thorough background on him.” Sliding on his Ray-Bans, my partner walks toward the SUV.
Behind the wheel, I turn on the engine. I’m pulling away from the curb when my phone rings. It’s Tyler. Over Bluetooth, I answer. “Hey, you’re on speaker, what’s up?”
He laughs at something someone just said. “Dad and Mom are here. We’re making Mexican for lunch. Do you want to stop by?”
I both love and hate how happy he sounds. “You’re supposed to be doing schoolwork.”
