A City Of Dread: Carter Peterson Mystery Series Book 7 Read online

  I grabbed my pen and wrote down what Sarah had said. “Let’s pay the owner a visit soon. See if he has a name for either of these alleged troublemakers.”

  “Absolutely. Public embarrassment could be motive for doing her harm. After all, a bruised male ego can lead to some pretty nasty circumstances.”

  “I’ve seen it happen. Just not sure how an incident like that might relate to our other two vics.”

  Sarah raised her eyebrows and tossed her hands into the air. “You never know what drives people. Maybe the killer snapped and decided to settle some old scores, back-to-back.”

  “Entirely possible,” I said. “Excellent start, Sarah. I’ll go back through Kramer’s accounts to see if there are any references to the altercations.”

  “Good. I’m going to get back to work and see what else I can find on her. Such a shame this girl is gone. Bet we could have become good friends.”

  I took a few minutes and scrolled back through the posts Kramer had made during the timeframe Sarah mentioned, but saw no references to any altercations. After checking three separate social media accounts I came up empty-handed.

  However, revisiting Kramer’s posts wasn’t a total waste of time; I noticed a quote she’d posted that I’d previously overlooked. If someone tells you you’re annoying, just smile and keep on keeping on.

  I was beginning to get the impression this woman had a defiant streak that ran deep.

  A few seconds later I remembered James saying that Kramer had a side business crafting greeting cards. I brought up a search engine, entered the terms Robbie Kramer and greeting cards, and there it was: Kramer’s Cards for Causes. I clicked on the link and it brought me to a landing page that showed dozens of examples of her handiwork, as well as several online outlets from which her cards could be purchased.

  I clicked on each link and scanned the reviews for anyone who may have been a disgruntled customer, but each review seemed to be complimentary of her business practices and products.

  I sat back and let everything I’d looked at sink in for a minute, hoping some subtle connection would materialize in my mind. Some thread that would pull us closer to a break in the case.

  Nothing stood out.

  I got up, grabbed my notebook, and headed out toward the kitchen and Sarah. “Tell me you found some startling clue that’s going to rock my investigative world.”

  “Uh … Kramer lived in the apartment she was in for less than two months.”

  I nodded and jotted it down. “Not exactly a rock-my-socks-off fact, but it might come in handy.”

  “Seems like Kramer was just your average, hard-working gal doing her best to get by in this crazy world,” Sarah responded. “Other than the Lobster Shack incidents, I’m not seeing a darn thing that pops out at me.”

  “Same here. I found her greeting card business. Nothing but happy customers.”

  “Well … what do you say? Want to get out of here and take a walk through Fort Frederick Park?”

  “We can do that. Might make sense to head over to the Lobster Shack once we’re done scoping out Sprague’s scene. Maybe we can catch the owner and hit him with a few questions about Kramer.”

  “OK. Wish it was a little later, though,” Sarah said. “It would be nice to catch I bite while we’re there, but we just had lunch not too long ago.”

  I checked my cell phone. “It’s almost three o’clock now. Traffic being the way it is, we won’t get there until dinner.”

  Sarah laughed. “You know, you’re right, though I have to say … I feel a little guilty about dining out two meals in a row. It’s not like we’re rolling in dough.”

  “Yeah, but, lobster. We rarely have that at home. It’s kind of a pain in the butt. The mess. The stinky trash after the fact. It’s almost worth paying a little extra to have someone else deal with all that stuff.”

  “Congratulations, you sold me,” Sarah said as she slapped me on the backside. “Give me five minutes to freshen up.”

  “I’d say you’re pretty fresh, already, but I’ll give you ten.”

  * * *

  Fort Frederick Park was alive with the sounds of summer: children screaming with glee as their doting parents pushed them on swings; guitar-strumming teens gathered on blankets, basking in the late afternoon sunshine; dogs barking their hellos to one another.

  The park was a summertime staple for locals and tourists, alike, with acres of grass and trees surrounding a natural pond where swans and ducks congregated.

  The idyllic scene created a strikingly surreal contrast to the reason for our visit. We made our way toward a fairly dense stand of elms, the bushes and shrubs surrounding them full of color and summer scents. We stopped just short of a beautiful stand of Mountain Laurel. “This is the spot,” I said, motioning over toward a forty-something couple lying on a blanket, reading.

  “Poor people,” Sarah said in a subdued tone. “Bet they wouldn’t have chosen that spot if they knew what happened there less than two weeks ago.”

  “Probably from out of state. The city had this entire area cordoned off until the day before yesterday. Look. You can still see the holes in the ground from where they pulled the stakes out.”

  Sarah nodded then pointed toward the two-story granite building no further than a long stones-throw away. “Must be nice to be an employee of the City of Bridgeport. The people who occupy those offices have a really sweet view.”

  “That they do. Well, the folks who still have jobs, anyway. Looks like half of those spaces are empty.”

  Sarah squinted her eyes as her head pivoted back and forth. “You must have way better eyesight than I do, Carter. I can’t tell an occupied space from an empty one at this distance.”

  I took a good look around, doing my best to imagine what the place might look like at night. “Not much lighting over here. Not too difficult to imagine why the killer chose this spot to take a man’s life.”

  “True, but here’s what I don’t understand. How on earth do you heat a steel rod to a glowing hot temperature in the middle of an outdoor public space?”

  I scratched my head and stood there for a beat.

  Sarah slapped my elbow. “OK, out with it. I know that look you get when the answer to a tricky question comes to you.”

  “Canned heat,” I said---and knew immediately, by Sarah’s facial expression, that she wasn’t familiar with the product. “They make these small containers, roughly the size of a can of tuna, and fill them with a flammable gel. Folks use them to cook with at campsites, and such.”

  “A product like that burns hot enough to heat metal to such a degree?” she asked.

  “Can’t say I’ve actually tried it, but yeah, I believe it could. And, if not that, a hand-held plumber’s torch would get the job done, as well.”

  “You sure,” Sarah asked.

  “Yep. No question about it.”

  “Well, that’s helpful … and, not.”

  “No doubt,” I said. “The killer could have performed this sick torture just about anywhere. Didn’t need any special setup, or facility, to make it happen.”

  Sarah hung her head and covered her eyes. “I hate to focus on the details of what these poor people must have endured, but that kind of abuse would cause the toughest person in the world to wail in pain. Did the autopsy reports mention whether or not Cutter and Sprague were gagged?”

  “I don’t recall,” I said as I jotted the question down in my notebook. “We’ll check it out. At any rate, I’ve seen enough. Ready to head over to the Lobster Shack?”

  Sarah gave me a quick glance then shook her head. “How do you do that?”

  “How do I do what?”

  “Have a conversation like the one we just had, then turn on a dime and think about food?”

  The question caught me off guard. “Wasn’t necessarily thinking about food … yet. We’re going over there to see if we can catch the owner. Ask him some questions, right?”

  “We were. We are. It’s just---I wish I could
be less affected by this stuff.”

  I placed my hand against the small of her back and coaxed her to start walking toward the car. “No, you don’t, and I don’t want you to. The fact you feel the way you do means you haven’t become jaded.”

  “Not yet,” Sarah responded.

  “C’mon, Sarah. We both know you have no desire to get to the point where none of this insanity bothers you.”

  “It’s not like I’m implying it doesn’t bother you, Carter. I just think you’re ability to manage it is way more advanced than mine.”

  “Nah. I’m jaded. The job does it to you. It’s inevitable. Which is why I want to appreciate you just the way you are for as long as I can. I’ve become hardened enough for both of us.”

  “OK, let me ask you this. Could you eat right now?”

  “Oh, yeah, but that’s only because I’m really hungry.”

  “That’s my point,” Sarah said. “I was hungry, but I can’t separate the job from my wants and needs. They all mix together like some bad cocktail. I want to be able to control that aspect of what we do. You know, like you can.”

  “You’ll be able to, eventually. You just can’t force it. It’ll happen on its own time.”

  * * *

  Sarah jumped as I reached over and shook her knee. She looked out at the Lobster Shack sign then turned to me and said, “That was weird. I was just dreaming about camping.”

  “You were really out,” I said. “I was talking away, running a theory past you. Nothing. Took me a minute to realize you were snoozing.”

  “Sorry. I … I never do that. Guess I just needed to shut down for a few minutes.”

  “More like an hour.”

  “What?”

  “Yep. Took us an hour to get over here. Two separate fender-benders had traffic moving at a crawl.”

  “Oh, man. I had no idea.”

  “Feel better?” I asked.

  “I do, actually.”

  “Then, it’s all good. Ready to head inside?”

  Sarah reached up and pulled down the mirrored sun visor. “Ugh. Look at my hair. I can’t go inside a restaurant looking like this.”

  “Ponytail time?”

  “Definitely. It’s the only option I have at the moment … unless you brought hair spray.”

  I let go a chuckle. “Can’t say that I did.”

  Sarah got herself together and gave me a nod. “Let’s do it.”

  We got out and began making our way across the lot, avoiding the constant parade of incoming patrons while squeezing past cars whose owners had parked in haphazard fashion. The place was mobbed.

  So much so that we couldn’t even get in the door to speak to the host.

  After about five minutes an employee appeared outside with a clipboard in her hand. “Excuse me, folks. The wait time for a table is running forty-five minutes to an hour. I’ll take your names if you care to wait.

  “The owner here this evening?” I asked as the woman got closer.

  “Yes. Steve’s helping out behind the bar at the moment.”

  “Any seats available there?”

  “Not sure, but you’re welcome to elbow on in and see. First come, first serve at the bar.”

  “Thanks,” I said and grabbed Sarah’s hand. “Excuse us,” I said---about two dozen times---as we made it through the entry door and inched ever closer to the bar area.

  As we got within ten feet I could see there were single empty stools on either side of a couple who busied themselves tearing and cracking away at their boiled lobster dinners. “Hate to bother you folks, but would you mind sliding down a spot so we can sit?”

  They turned and looked me up and down. Without a word the man motioned with his head to the woman. A few seconds later we had a spot in and amongst the dinnertime madness.

  “Afternoon, folks,” the man I assumed to be Steve said as he tossed a pair of bar napkins down in front of us. “Be with you shortly.” He hurried off to the opposite end of the bar, nearly knocking the bartender over as he scrambled past the clearly befuddled young woman.

  “How’s the appetite?” I asked Sarah. “That nap of yours help in bringing it back?”

  “Yeah, actually, it did,” she replied. “I’m thinking about having a lobster roll and some fries.”

  “You read my mind. What about drinks?”

  “I don’t know. I might just have a beer.”

  “That’s a rarity, you with a beer pressed up against your lips.”

  “True,” Sarah said. “I’m good for having one every now and again. Today happens to be the day.”

  “That blueberry ale sounds like a winner.”

  “How’d you know that’s what I was looking at?”

  “I didn’t. That’s what I’m having,” I said as I noticed the owner coming back over to our side of the bar. He was about to speak when the man who’d agreed to shift seats for us said, “Sorry to hear about Robbie, Steve. It was a real shocker to hear the news.”

  Steve hung his head. “Yeah, thank you. We’re all in a state of disbelief around here,” he said, then turned to us. “Sorry. Short staffed at the moment. We lost an employee and a friend yesterday, and the kid who’s scheduled to be my bar back this evening is caught in traffic. At any rate, what can I get for you?”

  “Sorry for your loss,” I said. “We didn’t know Robbie personally, but we’re involved in the investigation of her death. In fact, that’s partially why we’re here, tonight.”

  Steve looked back and forth at us. “OK, good to know. Listen, I don’t care how busy it gets in here tonight … I’ll make time to sit down with you both before you leave. Now, what can I get for you?”

  “A couple blueberry ales and a couple lobster rolls with fries.”

  “Good choices,” he said. “I just changed over to a brand new keg of that particular ale. You’ll love it,” he said as he turned to pour our beverages. The tap began to spit and hiss as the air was evacuated from the lines, followed by a steady stream of bluish-purple goodness.

  “We’re truly sorry about Robbie,” Sarah said. “We take what we do very seriously, and we’re determined to figure out who is responsible.”

  “Glad to hear it. I appreciate that,” he said as he placed our glasses of ale down on the napkins, then turned to help another customer.

  “Glad to see he’s willing to speak with us about the murder,” Sarah said.

  “Yep. Seems like a good guy,” I said as I hoisted my glass. “Looking forward to hearing what he has to say.”

  Chapter 10

  The evening rush at the Lobster Shack hadn’t calmed down in the least as we finished the last few bite of our meals, but the bar back had finally arrived, giving the owner a second to catch his breath.

  I downed the last few swallows of my ale and turned toward Sarah. “How’d you like everything?”

  “It was excellent, but I’m stuffed.”

  I was about to ask for her thoughts on the ale when Steve came over. “All good?”

  “Loved every bit of it,” I replied.

  “Ditto,” Sarah said.

  “Great. I’m ready to sit down with you both, but I can wait if you were hoping to grab dessert, coffee, whatever.”

  “Nope. We’re good,” I said. “We’ll take our bill, settle up, and move to the next order of business.”

  “No bill,” Steve said. “This one’s on me. A little show of appreciation for your involvement in our friend’s situation.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” Sarah said.

  “Look around. A couple beers and a couple rolls isn’t going to hurt my profits at all. Happy to do it.”

  “Well, thank you,” I said and tossed a twenty onto the bar. “Staff’s still got to pay their bills, right?”

  Steve winked and pointed across the interior of the dining room beyond. “Door to my office is in the back corner. I’ll meet you over there.”

  “That was nice of him,” Sarah said as we stood up.

  “Yep. Wasn’t
on my radar at all.”

  We zigzagged through the dynamic obstacle course of patrons, wait staff, and tables to Steve’s office, the generous restaurant owner ushering us inside as we approached.

  “This is my sanctuary from the madness,” he said as we entered, closing the door and securing the lock behind us.

  “Summer,” Sarah said. “Got to love it.”

  “I used to,” he replied. “Been doing this for twenty-eight years, now. Honestly, I’m completely burnt out. I have no life outside of this place.”

  I extended my hand. “Steve, I’m Carter Peterson. Please say hello to my partner, Sarah Woods.”

  “Glad to meet you both,” he said. “Thought I knew most of the cops here in the city.”

  “We’re private detectives, Steve,” Sarah said. “The City of Bridgeport hired us to help solve this recent string of murders.”

  “Oh, oh, got you. Sorry. Guess I’ve never met any PIs before. Not the first thing that comes to mind, you know?”

  “No worries,” I said. “I used to be a Boston cop, so you weren’t very far off.”

  “Nice,” Steve said. “Please, sit.” He walked behind his desk and plopped himself down with a sigh. His facial expression changed before he began to speak. “You live here in Bridgeport?”

  “We do.”

  “What’s happening to our city?” he asked. “Three murders in two weeks? That’s out of control.”

  “We keep asking ourselves the same thing,” I replied. “The middle class seems to be disappearing right before our eyes. People are angry.”

  “I try not to think about it too much, and choose to channel my energy into making a positive difference, instead,” Sarah said. “We’re highly motivated to figure out who did this to Robbie Kramer.”