Linger: Dying is a Wild Night (A Linger Thriller Book 1) Read online

  When it came to drugs and booze, Bree had been characterized by her closest friends as a “good” girl who would never get involved with such things. But it was Kate’s experience that, out of respect for the dead, friends often painted the victim of violent crime in a much more virtuous light than he or she might deserve. And hiding a burner in a stuffed bear did not reflect virtue. Not to Kate’s mind.

  It was clear that Bree and Jesus had something going on, and she aimed to find out what it was. She just hoped his phone number didn’t originate from another burner. That could make it difficult to trace.

  Scooping up her landline, she punched through to ServCom, and after three rings, the line picked up.

  “Services and Communications. Deputy Kelp. How can I help you?”

  “Hey, Drew, Kate Messenger. I’ve got a number I need you to check into and—”

  “The Branford case, right?”

  Kate paused. “Yeah. How did you know?”

  “Matt Nava over in ComFor made the request. I just got off the line with the provider. A local carrier, BC Wireless.”

  Good old Matt. Motivated but never obnoxious about it. “Did they cooperate?”

  “Didn’t even blink. I was about to give you a jingle when you called.”

  “Please tell me you’ve got good news.”

  “The phone isn’t a throwaway, if that’s what you’re worried about, and the owner has a criminal record. You want the details now or should I send a link to his file?”

  Kate could hardly believe how this morning was shaping up. The appearance of her ex-husband had been a downer, but here she was barely awake and both Nava and Kelp had already made more progress than her entire team had made in six days. A positive sign if there ever was one.

  “Send me the link,” she said. “And thanks.”

  After she hung up, she sank into her chair and flicked on her computer monitor.

  Noah and Anna Weston’s driver’s licenses were still on the screen.

  She stared at their images for a long moment, still trying to figure out how Weston fit into this puzzle—assuming he did at all—then finally minimized the window, called up her email and waited.

  A few seconds later, Kelp’s message came through.

  She opened it and clicked the link and was taken to a department database file, a case history for one JESUS “CHUCHO” SORIANO, local resident, twenty-four years old.

  Twenty-four?

  This was getting more and more interesting.

  Bree Branford had barely turned sixteen when she was raped and murdered. So why was a so-called “good girl” exchanging phone calls with a twenty-four year-old career criminal?

  Because that’s what Soriano was.

  Kate scrolled through his history and found quite an extensive record of arrests, some solo, some gang related. Robbery, assault, terroristic threatening, pandering, all starting with a burglary in his late teens.

  Yet despite all these arrests, only one had resulted in a conviction—the original burglary. All the other charges had been dropped for lack of evidence.

  Which made no sense whatsoever.

  Either “Chucho” Soriano was woefully misunderstood, had a damn good lawyer, or he was protected—somebody’s CI.

  Confidential informants went about their business with a certain amount of impunity as long as they provided valuable information to their handler. So if Soriano was a snitch, who was he working for?

  The department’s gang squad? The local police? The FBI?

  Whatever the case, pursuing this lead was bound to ping somebody’s radar. And not in a good way. But Kate had no choice. She needed to bring this guy in for questioning.

  Reaching for her landline, she was about to tell the two juniors on her team to do just that, when there was a sharp knock at the door.

  Before she could respond, it flew open and Detective Sergeant Bob MacLean strode into the room, looking like the overbearing bull he was. “You mind telling me what the fuck is going on in Interview A?”

  So much for positive signs.

  MacLean had been Kate’s closest competition in the race to replace Rusty Patterson, and in the heat of battle he’d said a lot of nasty things behind her back. Clueless cunt was the gem that had resonated, and it wasn’t long before his supporters had pegged her with the nickname “CC.”

  She and MacLean had been competing ever since their academy days, with MacLean claiming most of the trophies. But, clueless or not, Kate had snagged the big one and he just couldn’t get over it.

  “His name is Noah Weston,” she said. “I caught him at the crime scene last night.”

  “The Branford house?”

  “That is the case we’re working, Bob.”

  MacLean frowned. “So why am I only finding out about it now?”

  “Seriously? You want me to start calling you at one in the morning?”

  “Be nice if you consulted me at all.”

  Kate had assigned MacLean and his partner to assist in the Branford investigation as a kind of olive branch. But now Bob took every opportunity to assert himself, and the sight of him just made her weary.

  She sighed. “Give it a rest, all right? I’ll brief you along with everyone else at our eleven o’clock.”

  The five detectives working the case—two junior and three senior—met every morning to discuss progress and strategy. So far, MacLean’s contribution hadn’t been particularly impressive and had, in fact, cost them a considerable amount of time.

  Kate had never quite understood why Rusty had kept him on the squad, considering his attitude and methodology were about as misguided and simpleminded as her father’s. But Rusty’s reign was over now and, despite the olive branch, she knew it was time for a change.

  MacLean didn’t move. “So what happens in the meantime? You plan on talking to this guy?”

  “He isn’t here for a job interview.”

  “And you didn’t think to invite me to sit in?”

  “No, I didn’t. This is a peripheral matter and you’re about as delicate as a sledge hammer. I don’t need you giving him another reason not to cooperate.”

  “So you just shut me out? Is that it?”

  “Like I said, I’ll get you up to speed at the eleven o’clock.”

  MacLean looked as if he’d swallowed something sour. “You really are a piece of work, you know that?”

  “Careful, Bob, I’m starting to think you don’t like me.”

  “Why the hell won’t you just tell me what’s going on?”

  She could, but she wasn’t going to. Maybe if he treated her with respect every once in awhile she’d give it right back, but she was tired of his bullshit. And truth be told, she enjoyed watching him dangle.

  “You’ll hear everything I have to say at the briefing. Now go grab yourself some coffee and a donut and relax. You look like you could use some down time.”

  MacLean glared at her for a good ten seconds and she knew he was raging inside. Then he gave up—thank God—and stomped out of her office, leaving the door open behind him.

  Kate felt a smile coming on and knew she had to improve her people skills and learn not to be so petty.

  Maybe he was right.

  Maybe she was a piece of work.

  And maybe the second half of that nickname was well deserved.

  14

  _____

  THIS WASN’T THE FIRST TIME Noah Weston had been left waiting in an interrogation room.

  He knew from his brief experience in the past that he might be sitting here for hours before they finally got around to questioning him. It was a technique the police often used, leaving a suspect alone in hopes that his anxiety would build to a boil and he’d confess his way into a prison sentence.

  That was what they’d tried to do back in Danbury.

  Get Weston to confess.

  They had known with an almost scientific certainty that he wasn’t the man they were looking for, but narrow minded people tended to ignore the obv
ious and find motive and opportunity where none existed. And these same people were often attracted to the structure and security and sense of empowerment that careers in law enforcement had to offer.

  Human nature taking its course.

  So he knew what these people thought about him and the boy. But then he’d probably think the same thing if he were in their shoes.

  Yet any anxiety he’d felt over the mistakes he’d made last night had long since abandoned him. He found that if he spent most of his time focusing on his task, on the work that lay ahead, everything else simply melted away and a sense of calm washed over him.

  It was, he thought, a lot like prayer. Something he had once been intimately familiar with before God—or whoever—had decided He’d heard quite enough, thank you, and had delivered the message in as heinous a manner possible.

  Weston hadn’t prayed since, or spent a single moment in church, and found no reason to. But focusing on their task—his and the boy’s—was far better than any prayer he’d ever uttered. Focusing on their task did not allow him to fall victim to his own insecurities, and to the folly that some benevolent king was watching over him.

  Unburdening himself of his superstitions had allowed Weston to do whatever he felt necessary in order to find and destroy the monster who had brought God’s message to his home.

  That day would come. He knew it in his gut.

  And when it did, he would make his arrows drunk with blood.

  15

  _____

  BY THE TIME KATE WALKED into the interrogation room she was armed and ready.

  After ordering the two junior detectives on her team to find and pick up Bree Branford’s gangbanger phone buddy, she had returned her concentration to Noah Weston. She’d spent the good part of an hour checking into his background and looking through the items she’d taken from his motel room and car.

  When she entered his name into the National Crime Information Center database and read the results, her internal alarm bell went off. What she discovered didn’t explain why Weston and Christopher had been at her crime scene, but she now knew that they were much more than a couple of rubberneckers.

  There was something seriously off about these two, and she aimed to find out what it was and how it related to the Branfords.

  After closing the door behind her, she placed a file folder containing Weston’s sketch pad and maps and receipts and database records on the table top, then pulled a chair out and sat across from him.

  She was about to speak when he held up a hand, cutting her off. “Before you launch into whatever pitch you have planned, just tell me one thing.”

  She nodded. “I’m listening.”

  “What made you decide to become a police detective?”

  She looked at him. “I don’t see how that’s relevant, Mr. Weston. Why don’t we just—”

  “It’s relevant to me,” he said.

  She paused. “Why?”

  “Just humor me. It’s a harmless enough question.”

  She considered this then nodded again. If it would get him talking, she was happy to oblige. “All right. I don’t really think about it much, but I guess you could call it the family business. My mother was a dispatcher and my father was a cop. Major Crimes, just like me. In fact, he sat in this very same room a number of times.”

  “But it’s more than that, isn’t it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You lost someone to violence. I can see it in your eyes.”

  The remark threw Kate off guard, and she stared at him, wondering if he was psychic or if the burden she carried was that obvious. Her mother’s murder had weighed heavily on her for a long time, but did she wear it like a banner? Did he see that same haunted look she’d seen in him?

  She shifted uncomfortably. “That’s really none of your business.”

  “Maybe so, but it’s true. And believe it or not, that works in your favor.”

  “My favor, huh? So glad I could please you.” She patted the file folder. “Now why don’t we talk about the violence in your life? Tell me about Anna and your two little girls.”

  She had hoped the mention of his family would rock him, but he remained as calm as ever.

  Had someone slipped him a couple Ativans in the holding unit?

  “I see you’ve done your homework,” he said.

  “I have. And now I understand your animosity toward people like me.”

  “Can you blame me?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t imagine it’s easy being accused of something so horrible, but it isn’t uncommon for us to look at the husband and father first.”

  “I know how it works,” Weston said. “The problem I have is when you only look at the husband and father. You make assumptions, then try to find evidence to back them up. That’s the opposite of how it should work.”

  “Sometimes we have to go with our gut. And sometimes we get it wrong.”

  “At whose expense? The man who tried to take me down still thinks I’m guilty. Even though the forensics say I’m not.”

  “I know,” Kate said. “I just got off the phone with him.”

  She had put a call into Charles Dillman, the Stokes County prosecutor who had handled the case, and had discovered that Weston was still their prime suspect.

  “He claims the forensics were either botched or inconclusive. He also told me you initially lied about where you were that night.”

  “I had my reasons,” Weston said.

  “And if that reason hadn’t come forward of her own accord, you’d probably be sitting in a North Carolina jail right now, instead of having this little chat here in sunny California.”

  “Is that what this is? A chat?”

  “That’s all it has to be if you tell me what you and your young friend were up to last night.”

  He said nothing.

  “Look, Mr. Weston, I could sit here and pretend that I can’t imagine what you’ve been through—but the thing is, I can. You were right, I’ve lost someone to violence and I know how devastating it can be. But what I saw in that house you and Christopher broke into was something else altogether. So I won’t insult you by suggesting I have the slightest idea how it feels to find the people you love slaughtered like diseased cattle.”

  She was purposely trying to provoke a reaction again, but got none, and wondered what it meant.

  If anything.

  She pressed on. “But unless you start cooperating and tell me why you and Christopher came to Santa Flora, I’ll have to wonder if maybe the Stokes County prosecuting attorney isn’t that far off base about you.”

  A flicker of life behind the eyes now. “You think I’d butcher my own family?”

  “Did you?”

  Weston studied her. “I was hoping I was wrong about you, but I guess I wasn’t.” He leaned forward. “Are you going to charge me with something? Because if you aren’t, I’d like to go.”

  She patted the folder again. “You’re quite the artist. I took a look at your sketch pad and you have a rare talent. This kind of photo-realistic ability must have taken years to perfect. Even the doodles and notes have an artistic quality to them that most people would envy.”

  “They wouldn’t if they knew why I do it.”

  “And why is that?”

  Again, he was silent.

  “It’s a simple question, Mr. Weston. Why do you do it?”

  He just stared at her and she could see he wouldn’t budge, so she tried a different approach.

  “All right. Let’s talk about the boy instead. Tell me about Christopher.”

  “I told you. I’m his guardian.”

  “I assume he has a last name?” She smiled. “You know. The one you didn’t want to give me last night?”

  “Why does that matter?”

  “Why do you think? I’m trying to determine who he is and why he’s with you. What is he, a stray you picked up off the road?”

  “He’s with me because he wants to be.”

  “
And why do I doubt that?”

  “Because it’s the nature of your profession.”

  “I assume you care about him?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Then why haven’t you asked me where he is?”

  “I don’t need to.”

  “Oh? You’ve been separated for hours now. You’re not curious to know where he spent the night? Or if he’s scared?” She paused. “Or maybe you’re worried he might finally decide to speak up.”

  “That’s not likely to happen.”

  “You have him that well trained, do you?”

  Weston shook his head. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m not worried about him because there’s no reason to be. I already know where he is.”

  “And where is that?”

  “Downstairs in the medical unit, undergoing a physical examination.”

  The answer surprised Kate. If he was guessing, it was a good one. “Who told you that?”

  Weston didn’t respond.

  “You two have been through this before, haven’t you.”

  He shook his head again. “You’re wasting your time, lieutenant. You’ve seen my records, you know my history. I’m no more a pedophile than I am a murderer.”

  “You’ve never been charged—that’s all I know. Maybe you’re just very good at hiding it.”

  “Well, in a few minutes, Christopher’s exam will be done and you’ll get word that beyond his obvious physical limitations, he’s as healthy as any kid his age, with no evidence of sexual abuse at all.”

  He spoke with a certainty that was almost unsettling.

  “You seem pretty sure about that.”

  “I haven’t lied to you yet.”

  “Like you did to the Stokes County prosecutor?” She smiled. “Truth is, you haven’t said much of anything. All you do is play cryptic games. Why can’t you just tell me what the two of you were doing last night? What was all that nonsense about gathering?”