A Lullaby in the Dark Page 4

  “No.”

  I step fully onto Fred’s property. “Don’t call this in,” I quickly say, noting Tucker reaching for his radio. “This is door to door. Routine. Now, follow my lead. Mouth shut. Ears open. Got it?”

  He nods.

  Across Fred’s patio, I go. Thick blue curtains cover his sliding glass door, just like all the windows. I raise my fist and knock.

  No answer comes. I knock again. Then I step away and eye all the windows as I call out, “Mr. Xanders, can you please come to the door?”

  None of the curtains move. Not even a flitter.

  I turn to Tucker. “I’m about to hear a cry for help. This will give me no choice but to break down the door and go in. This is the point where you decide if you hear that cry as well.”

  He doesn’t hesitate one single second. “I hear the cry too. But—” Tucker reaches around me and tries the sliding glass door. Sure enough, it opens.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “Iris is a small town. You’d be surprised at how many people leave their homes and cars unlocked.”

  From my back pocket I take out a pair of blue rubber gloves and slip them on. I slide my Glock free. Tucker does the same.

  Then I step into Fred Xanders's home.

  Eleven

  The air in Fred’s kitchen clings old and stale, damp with something that sticks in my nostrils. I listen for any sign of movement in the house but detect nothing.

  One single nightlight provides a dim glow, washing the area in gloomy darkness. Basic appliances fill the kitchen. A microwave sits on the counter, plugged in, the inside dirty with cooked food.

  Outside, evening moves in.

  Placing my mini mag light on top of my Glock, I quiet my breath and move to the door that leads from the kitchen. Tucker stays close, his Glock and light up as well.

  The living room looks sparse with one single beach chair, a plastic table, scattered beer cans, and a half-eaten cup of noodles. Another nightlight in here provides a yellow illumination.

  A stairwell leads up to the second floor. Under the stairwell, a door sits cracked open. It rubs against the carpet as I wedge it wider. I stop to listen for movement upstairs, but again, hear nothing.

  A string dangles in front of me but I don’t pull it. My light shows a closet under the stairs. A stack of newspapers sits on the floor next to a pair of hiking boots. A rain poncho hangs from a nail on the right.

  Squatting down I peer at the tongue of the hiking boot. Size 9.5. Close enough.

  I close the door. With the back of his hand, Tucker checks the temperature on the half-eaten cup of noodles. Cold, he mouths.

  With a nod, I motion for the stairs. At the bottom, I listen again. Nothing. At the top, yet another nightlight provides illumination.

  Twelve steps in all, all carpeted. This is a fairly new construction. They shouldn’t make a sound. One-by-one I climb them with Tucker right behind me. I make it to the landing.

  There are three doors in all, two standing wide open and one closed. The closest open one leads into a bathroom. I take one step inside to find a standard white porcelain sink, toilet, and tub. A similar damp smell to the kitchen clings in here as well.

  Tucker stands in the doorway to the second. Other than beige carpet and beige walls, it sits empty.

  I steal a glance down the stairs, listening, before turning my attention to the last and also closed door. I step up to it, breath held, my ear close to the wood panels.

  I hear nothing.

  Still with Glock and light up, I reach out and turn the knob.

  The smell hits me first. Body odor and marijuana. Yet another nightlight is in here too. It casts a gloomy glow over one single mattress with a dark lump curled up in the center.

  A child-sized lump.

  Not moving.

  No.

  I rush over and reach out. The knot in my gut loosens when I grab it. It’s a balled up comforter. Not a child. Just a blanket.

  Beside the bed sits several containers of Chinese delivery, all empty. With his phone, Tucker snaps a photo of the Chinese logo and phone number.

  An iPad lays right beside the empty containers.

  Still crouched beside the bed, I rotate around to study the room. An open door gives a clear shot into a bathroom that looks like the one in the hallway. There are no signs that Danielle could have been here. Which means I’m officially breaking-and-entering.

  Time to go.

  I motion Tucker to do just that.

  Back out on the landing, I close the bedroom door. On a last thought, I look up. A six-inch length of rope dangles from a hatch leading into the attic.

  I hear him working in the attic, sawing and nailing.

  Tucker follows my gaze. A tingle creeps up my arms. He looks at me for permission and I nod. He pulls a pink sparkly bandana from his pocket, probably belonging to his sister.

  My lips twitch.

  He’s tall enough and easily grasps the rope.

  The hatch swings down and stale, damp air drifts out. A ladder attaches to the hatch and Tucker unfolds it. I touch his arm, silently letting him know I go first.

  He steps aside.

  Reaching up, I take hold of a rung. Then, with my heart thudding, I climb.

  Twelve

  With my flashlight, I sweep the attic. The ceiling sits about five feet high and I stay crouched. Sheets of thick particleboard line the floor and nailed into the beams below. Sawdust scatters the area.

  Most people do this to their attics to allow for more storage. Given how empty Fred’s house is of furniture, I’m not sure why he needs more storage.

  My light flicks across to the wall that separates his townhome from the Stevens’s.

  Or rather what’s left of the wall. A rough round hole has been cut out, not too big, but enough for an adult to crawl through.

  The attic flooring creaks as I make my way across.

  On the other side sits the Stevens’s attic. Aside from the normal beams and insulation, nothing extra has been done on their side. A work in progress, perhaps?

  I snap a few pictures of the hole, of the Stevens’s attic, and Fred’s. Like downstairs, there is nothing to suggest Danielle had been up here.

  Still, after seeing this attic, Fred Xanders is now suspect number one.

  Back down on the landing, Tucker refolds the ladder and wedges the attic hatch into place. We reholster our weapons.

  I look at the bedroom door with the mattress, eaten Chinese food, and iPad.

  On second thought, I go back in…

  Back outside, the evening has settled in. The reporters shout at me as I make my way to the Dodge.

  “What did the family have to say?”

  “Is Danielle alive?”

  “When will there be an official statement?”

  I get my driver’s door open when one distinct voice rises above the rest. Lawrence Inglebird. Of course, he’s still here.

  “Is it true there was a doll and a photo, Detective Covington?”

  I try to school my look of shock, but as good as I am, I’m more than aware it shows on my face. I stand frozen, staring across the roof of my car at Tucker. He looks as taken-off-guard as I am.

  The journalists fall quiet.

  My gaze moves over to Lawrence Inglebird. He stands tall with his Colonel Sanders look, that damn old-timey microphone held out.

  My mind races. “Where did you hear that?”

  With a little smirk, Lawrence shrugs.

  “No comment,” I say, motioning Tucker inside the Dodge Charger.

  I close the door. One glance in the rearview shows the reporters moving toward my car, not away. I start and gun my engine, then put on my lights. They get the hint and back off. I pull out.

  It’s when we’re driving from the neighborhood that I nod to Tucker. He slides the iPad, now encased in an evidence bag, from his vest. He lays it on his lap. I glance at it, considering the ramifications.

  What’s done is don
e. Now let’s see what’s on this thing.

  Thirteen

  I drive to the station and Tucker leaves from there to get his sister.

  Lieutenant Gordon eyes me warily as I step into the conference room that’s doubling as our workroom.

  “It’s out,” I say. “The press knows about the ‘care package’.”

  “We heard,” he confirms.

  Sharon turns from where she’s pinning new photographs to our study board. “Now we need to figure out how.”

  “Obviously,” I snap. “Bring in Lawrence Inglebird. He’s a reporter.”

  Sharon glances at Lieutenant Gordon and then back to me. “On what cause?”

  “Because I said so! That’s the cause.”

  Silence.

  “Kate,” Lieutenant Gordon quietly speaks. “It didn’t come from here.”

  I take a breath, calming myself. “Of course. But there’s a leak and we need to figure out where.”

  Sharon moves toward the door. “On it. Lawrence Inglebird. I’ll bring him in.”

  Ignacio sits at the conference table going through files, unfazed by my outburst. I slide the evidence bag with the iPad from my soft case and lay it down. “See what’s on this.”

  He glances up. “You don’t want me to take it to forensics?”

  “Eventually, for now, wear gloves and dig in. Anything you can find.” While Ignacio goes to retrieve gloves, I move closer to Lieutenant Gordon. “Fred Xanders is the next-door neighbor. I think he might be the abductor.”

  “What do you got?”

  “The father says Danielle was asking about Fred. She wanted to know if the dad liked him. Then specifically asked if the mom did. I got the impression the mom was unsettled by this.”

  “Are you thinking of an affair?”

  I shrug. “Wouldn’t be surprised.”

  Ignacio returns with gloves, takes the iPad from the evidence bag, and powers up.

  I move closer to Lieutenant Gordon, lowering my voice. “I went over to Fred’s house. The door was unlocked. I went in.”

  “Jesus, Kate,” he whispers.

  “You weren’t involved in The Lullaby Man. If you saw what I had…” I look away, taking a breath. “Well, you would do what you needed to as well. If the copycat sticks to the script, we have less than two days to find Danielle.” I make eye contact. “Whatever risks I take are mine. They won’t come back on you.”

  He rubs his fingers over his forehead. “You know that’s not how it works.” He lowers his voice even more. “Whatever risks you take are ours. You and me. We’ll be the two who take the heat, not the rest of the team.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “It’s that way or no way.”

  I consider protesting. I respect Lieutenant Gordon. He’s one of the good ones. I don’t want my decisions to come back on him.

  “She’s just a little girl,” he says. “Let’s do what we need to and bring her home.”

  I agree, but not even he knows how far I bend the rules.

  Nuna Dillon, the receptionist, taps on the open door. She looks right at me. “Chief Hickman wants to see you.”

  “Good luck,” Lieutenant Gordon mumbles.

  Fourteen

  Chief Hickman sits behind a large well-organized desk. When I enter his office, he’s typing on his desktop. Without looking up, he gestures me to sit.

  I close the door and choose one of two leather chairs.

  He keeps typing and says, “You haven’t been here a day and are already making things difficult.”

  I recognize the power play and have no interest. Instead, I cross my right leg over my left. “You wanted to see me?”

  He holds up a hand, indicating he needs a minute and keeps typing.

  I resist the urge to remind him I’m on an active case with a timeline. But if I do, I know it’ll drag things out even more. Instead, I wait.

  Chief Hickman’s been in law enforcement longer than I’ve been alive. He’s got to be in his eighties by now. He comes from a long line of cops, has a wife, three sons, and nine grandchildren. All of whom went into the law as well. I don’t mind pissing someone off, but Chief Hickman is never one to tangle with. His old man fingers stretch long and wide throughout Tennessee.

  Once upon a time, he had red hair curly hair. The curls are still there but they’ve all gone white. Freckles scatter his face, neck, and hands. I’m sure his arms and legs, too, if they were visible beyond the suit he wears. Over the years his round face has sagged into a jowl look. He’s put on some weight since the last time I saw him. About a year ago now at a conference in Nashville.

  Chief Hickman started on patrol and worked his way up. But when they wanted to give him more promotions, he opted to stay right here in his hometown of Iris, Tennessee. Hell, at one point I heard they were courting him to run for governor.

  I’m just about ready to clear my throat when he finally stops typing and turns to look at me.

  “Detective Kate Covington,” he says.

  I nod. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

  “Yes, Lieutenant Gordon told me you were brought in as lead because of the similarities to The Lullaby Man. I want to let you know that whatever you need is yours.”

  “Thank you, I appreciate that.”

  Chief Hickman interlocks his freckled fingers on top of his desk. “Just so we’re clear, though, in the end, everyone answers to me. I run a by-the-books operation. I don’t cater to cowboy tactics.”

  “I’m not here to do anything other than find Danielle Stevens.” I uncross my legs. “The whole state is going to be watching this case, scrutinizing every detail. That’ll be on me. I’m the one who solved The Lullaby Man. I know the timeline. So, Chief Hickman, if I ask one of your team to do something, I need them to do it. We’re on precious time here. I can’t have anyone saying they have to run it up the chain to you.”

  On the other side of the desk, Chief Hickman sits back. Silently, he stares at me. Then, with a nod, he says, “Forty-eight hours. I’ll tell my officers you have free reign of resources for forty-eight hours.”

  “Thank you, sir, that’s all I need.” I stand up and turn to leave, but on second thought I ask, “What can you tell me about Tucker Elder?”

  “Good, hard-working new cop. Raising his sister.” He shakes his head. “Damn shame what happened to their parents. Tucker was first on the scene.”

  I grimace. “Well, I’m impressed with him. I’d like to pull him onto our team. We need a local.”

  Chief Hickman nods. “Consider it done.” He shifts forward. “How is Detective Sharon Buchanan doing?”

  That question takes me off guard. “Young, new, cocky. I’m not quite sure yet. Why, sir?”

  “Don’t take it easy on her. If she needs reigning in, you do just that.”

  I never “take it easy” on any cop. Why does the chief have a personal interest in a detective here from out of town on a special case?

  But I don’t ask that and instead shake his hand.

  Outside the office, Sharon approaches. “Lawrence Inglebird is here. I put him in room two.”

  I walk in that direction and Sharon makes to follow. I hold up my hand. “I want Caroline Christianson in all my interviews.”

  Disappointment flashes across Sharon’s face followed closely by irritation. I don’t care. Caroline’s the one with some sort of connection. I don’t buy into the whole psycho-babble thing, but she has a gift. There’s no disputing that. She can read people and scenes better than anyone I’ve worked with.

  “Lawrence,” I say, walking into the interrogation room.

  His ever-present smirk appears. “Detective Covington.” He looks over my shoulder and his face gentles. “Hello, Caroline.”

  “Hello.”

  Like everything else in Tennessee, Lawrence covered Caroline’s case. Back when she was a little girl and first emerged from the woods, up until two years ago when her file was finally solved. He’d championed Caroline, never once
printing an ill word. Lots had, though. For that, Lawrence gets credit.

  In my opinion, it’s the only humane thing he’s done in his career.

  I sit down across from him and get right to the point. “Who told you?”

  “Told me what?”

  My jaw clenches. “You know what.”

  He looks at his nails. “A lot of people tell me lots of things. You’ll have to be more specific.”

  I slam my palm down on the table and feel a twitch of satisfaction that he flinches. His hand lowers, and for a second we simply stare at each other.

  “I don’t reveal my sources.” He breaks eye contact first. “However, I can be persuaded. You scratch mine, I scratch yours?”

  I don’t want to scratch anything on this Colonel Sanders lookalike. Under the table, my fingers curl into a tight fist.

  “We’re talking about a little girl's life,” Caroline quietly reminds him.

  The smug look once again slides away from Lawrence’s face. But, he doesn’t say a word.

  “Fred Xanders,” I bite off. “Next door neighbor and person of interest.”

  Lawrence smiles. “There, that wasn’t so difficult. Now time for me to scratch yours. I got my information from Jamie Hearst. She works for the local paper. She’s the one who told me.”

  I push back from the table and open the door. I flag down a uniform. “Escort Mr. Inglebird out.”

  “That’s it?” Lawrence gets up.

  “Yes, that it.” I nod to the door. “Now go. And leave the Stevens family alone. They’re suffering enough right now.”

  He clicks his tongue. “Yes, but suffering sells.”

  I don’t respond, just nod the uniform to get rid of Lawrence.

  When he’s down the hall, he turns back. “I hope you find Danielle.”

  The comment takes me off guard. “Thanks.”

  Caroline steps out of the room. “He knows more than he’s letting on.”

  “Yep, I figured.”

  Fifteen