Cache a Predator Read online

  Brett decided he had two choices: come out now or come out later. What did it matter? He was caught. He stepped out of the closet and into the room so Mark could see him, holding his arms up in the air. “Hey, bro.”

  Mark jumped out of his chair. “Bro, my ass. What the hell are you doing in my closet, in my house?”

  “What are you doing home from work?”

  “I don’t need to answer that. What’s it to you anyway?”

  “I’ll tell you what I’m doing here if you tell me what you were doing in my house yesterday.”

  Mark returned to his chair. “You scared the crap out of me.”

  “Why are you so jumpy?”

  “I’m not used to men jumping out of my closet, okay? Where’s your car?”

  “Never mind. Just answer my question.”

  Mark looked at Brett and held his gaze. “Ail needed to borrow some money.”

  Brett’s stomach turned. “Did you lock Quinn in her bedroom?”

  Mark shook his head. “What are you talking about? I didn’t see Quinn when I was there.”

  “Why don’t you start from the beginning and tell me what really happened.”

  “There’s nothing to tell. I stopped by, Ali was sacked out on the couch, and I figured Quinn was in her room sleeping. End of story.”

  “Did you give Ali money?”

  Mark’s eyes darted away from Brett’s. “Yeah, she woke up long enough to take it.”

  “Did she say what it was for?”

  “Day care.”

  “How much did you leave her?”

  Mark looked away. “About three hundred.”

  Was Mark hiding something? “What about Max? Did you see him?”

  Mark averted his eyes again, for a few seconds, long enough to drum up a lie. Lying seemed to run in the family. He nodded and scratched his nose. “He was at the house, but when I turned to leave he went psycho, barking and growling at me. I ran out the door to get away from him, but he followed me. The SOB bit my ass. I have the bruise to prove it.” He reached back and rubbed his behind. “I wasn’t about to stick around after that. I don’t know where he went.”

  “You asshole.” Brett turned to go, clenching his fists at his side, wanting to beat the truth out of Mark but knowing it was better to keep his temper in check—at least for now. Max never bit anyone. If he’d turned aggressive toward Mark, it was for a reason.

  Mark followed him out of the room. “You’re the asshole. What gives you the right to break into my house?”

  #

  Brett hurried into the alley after Mark pushed him out the door and slammed it in his face. Just as well. If Brett had stayed much longer, he might have decked the guy.

  He jogged through the alley past garbage cans, barking dogs, and a gold cat, then into the street toward his car at the grocery store. Running helped simmer his boiling blood. He slowed as he approached the parking lot as shoppers were coming and going.

  Taking two deep breaths, he wiped his sweaty palms on his shorts and climbed into his car. He drove out of the parking lot tempted to switch on his flashers, but held back. It would be better if he didn’t draw attention to his car, but he needed to haul butt if he was going to make it to Sarah’s on time. Ali had better be ready. It was 9:40.

  It felt like a week since he’d seen Quinn!

  He unclipped his phone and dialed Clay’s number. Clay answered on the second ring. “What’s up?”

  “If I give you the URL addresses of two geo-sites can you tell me if either is one of the crime scenes?”

  “Maybe. Why?”

  Brett dug in his pants pocket and retrieved the addresses from Mark’s computer, then read them to Clay. “I found them on Mark’s home computer.”

  “You were there?”

  Brett shoved the piece of paper back into his pocket while watching the traffic, and sped to Ali’s. “Yes, but you don’t know that.”

  Clay chuckled. “I’m not sure I like the sound of that, but I’ll check them out and get back to you.”

  “Thanks.” Brett disconnected his call and dialed Ali’s phone. No answer. Of course. She better be ready.

  He pulled onto her street and noticed a van marked WMDU, the local television station, parked out front. His stomach tumbled. What were they doing there? Had something happened to Ali? He flew up the driveway and threw the gearshift into Park. As he got out of his car, a thick-bodied news reporter approached him with a microphone. A short guy with a beard followed with a camera resting on his shoulder.

  “What’s wrong?” Brett said, approaching the men.

  The reporter shoved the microphone in Brett’s face. “Officer Reed, is it true that CPS took your daughter?”

  “Who told you that? What business is it of yours?” His temper rose, furious with the gossip hounds in his neighborhood, especially Mrs. Finkle. Why couldn’t they mind their own business?

  “Is it true?”

  Brett turned away and continued his trek up the driveway. “No comment.”

  “Are you hopeful that you’ll get her back?”

  As he walked toward the front door, the reporter followed.

  “Your neighbor said your daughter was found wandering the streets. Is that true?”

  “No comment.” He reached for the doorknob, but it was locked, so he rang the bell. Come on, Ali. Where are you? Let’s get out of here. The summer humidity suffocated him as he felt his insides bubble to the top. A rivulet of sweat trickled down the middle of his back.

  “Officer Reed, there are rumors that your daughter was sexually abused—is that true?”

  “What?” That did it! Brett balled his fist and hauled at the reporter, hitting him square in the jaw, barely making the guy flinch. The reporter staggered, but only a little. His hand went to his jaw and he cussed.

  Brett’s hand stung like he’d hit a brick wall. He shook the burn away, wincing. He’d never been much of a boxer and weighed probably fifty pounds less than the reporter, so it was no wonder he hadn’t made a dent in the guy. “Get the hell out of here. Now! And don’t come back.” He fumbled for his key, shoved it in the hole, and pushed through the door, shutting it and closing out the reporter.

  He scolded himself for losing his temper. He’d be in deep trouble for decking the guy. But how could anyone believe he’d molest his own daughter? The thought of it made him sick.

  The walls of the garbage-infested home stared back at him, and a heavy feeling of doom spread through him. The house was too quiet. Something didn’t feel right. “Ali?” His stomach somersaulted.

  He hurried to her bedroom. Clothes were scattered across the floor and the bed. The dresser drawers had been emptied. Her suitcase, typically in the back of the closet, was gone too. His hand went to his stomach as if someone had sucker-punched him. She left? Where did she go? She’d never left before. Did she go to her mother’s? Should he call her mother? No, she was the last person he wanted to talk to.

  He took a deep breath. Okay then. This was what he’d wanted, wasn’t it? She had made it easy for him. He was okay with her being gone. Right?

  Why then was his stomach turning? Why did he feel panic?

  He bolted to Quinn’s bedroom. Clothes from the closet were thrown all over the room. Drawers were open and emptied onto her bed. Quinn’s stuffed animals and her suitcase were gone. What was happening? Had Ali planned to take Quinn somewhere? Was she kidnapping Quinn? How could Ali know where Quinn was?

  There was one person who might know—Sarah Grinwald.

  He glanced at his watch: 9:56. He was going to be late, but she’d know if Quinn was taken from her foster home. Certainly CPS wouldn’t have allowed Ali to take Quinn, would they? No, that would be kidnapping.

  He plucked Sarah’s business card from his wallet to look up the address and raced out the front door to his car. The news reporter and his crew had left. Brett turned on his sirens and sped down the street, leaving smoke from the burning rubber of his tires.

  The entir
e time he sped down streets to Sarah’s, all he could think about was Quinn and how reckless Ali could be. Nightmares of Ali driving drunk with Quinn flooded his mind.

  When he pulled into Sarah’s office parking lot, there were three other vehicles there—and none were Ali’s.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Earlier that same morning, about eight fifteen, Sarah had pulled into the parking lot of Hursey Community Church a little behind schedule. Her morning hike had lasted longer than she’d anticipated. There had been ten new geo-sites posted, and one was so close to her home she’d ventured out to find the cache, hoping to get to her office by eight thirty for her client. But she never found it. She had the coordinates right and arrived at the destination, but no luck. It was the first time she aborted a hunt before she found the cache.

  The summer sun beat down through the sunroof in her Ford F-150, warming the top of her head and shoulders. She parked away from other cars, hoping to avoid door dents, and walked to her office.

  Four hours a week she volunteered her services for free at her church for men and women who couldn’t afford a counselor. It was her way to give back. There had been times in her life when she’d felt she had no one to turn to. She vowed she’d be there for others someday.

  She primarily counseled women because she could relate to them better, but occasionally she accepted a male client. Men scared her. She knew it was irrational—not all men were abusive, but fear was never rational. She’d seen many women who’d suffered at the hands of a man, herself included. She never wanted that to happen again, so she figured if she didn’t allow intimacy in her life, she’d be safe.

  Today’s patient was Mr. Michael Moore. She’d met Mr. Moore once before—and talked to him long enough to know he was harmless. He’d recently lost his job and moved to the area to be closer to his mother. He was seeing a counselor because he needed confidence, someone to help him feel good about himself, so he could interview better.

  Soft-spoken Mr. Moore, in his mid-forties, looked like the true stereotype of a nerd. He usually wore black polyester pants and a short-sleeved cotton plaid shirt, tucked in. The top of his pants sat high on his waist, almost to his chest. His belt looked too big, and the excess flapped in the air and hit his arm when he moved. His black-laced shoes clunked, making him lift his legs high as he walked—as if they weighed too much. They looked too big for his feet—kind of like Bozo the Clown’s.

  Sarah’s goal today was to encourage him to go for a makeover. She knew the person to help too. Maybe if he could improve his persona it would boost his self-esteem. In order for him to find a job, he was going to have to improve his self-image first.

  Sarah led him into her makeshift office she used at the church. He held the door open for her when they reached her twelve-by-twelve-foot room. Like a gentleman, he waited for her to sit before he did. They made small talk about the weather, and then he asked her a question. “Can you give me some tips on how to meet nice women like you?”

  This gave her the perfect opportunity to talk about a makeover.

  #

  Yesterday, at work, I smelled him right away. The name on his file was Michael Moore, but I doubted it was his real name. It was probably an alias, a cover-up. He wore his pants up to his chest, and his oversized belt flapped against his arm when he walked. He pretended to look like someone he wasn’t, but I knew. I didn’t have to check the online sex offender list to know, because I could smell him. But I checked the registry anyway. Just to be sure. He was new to our town, moved from Ohio, but I found him on the Ohio sex offender list. His real name was Calvin Moore.

  He smelled like all the other slimy pervs. He would be my next victim. It wouldn’t be long, and everyone would know his true identity. I could leave his prize in the new cache box near his house. And Moore would never be able to use his pecker again.

  The thrill of the game made my heart race.

  I followed him out of the office, pretending I was going to run an errand. He pulled into the driveway of a small home in the heart of downtown, across from the Dental Solutions office. I parked in the doctors’ lot, facing Moore’s home, pretending to look at a map. A car pulled up to the curb in front of his house, and a lady with two little girls—one with blond hair and one with dark curly hair—got out of the car. The lady looked like my seventh-grade music teacher, Melody Stookey. Wasn’t she retired now? How did she know this creep? She carried something in a bowl to his door. The girls skipped alongside her. Were they her grandchildren?

  Don’t go in his house! I broke out in a sweat thinking of Moore being near the girls. He answered the door, took the bowl, and Mrs. Stookey left with the girls. I exhaled. Moore watched as they turned to go.

  As I spied from across the street, memories came flooding back, the ones I wanted to go away. They saturated my mind. I squeezed my eyes shut, and put my hands on my head. But the memories came anyway.

  The dead don’t choose when they die. Because, if they did, Mama would have chosen to die long before she did.

  I peeked through her cracked bedroom door listening. Mama was gone, but the bedsheets were the same as the ones she used to sleep on. I remember lying beside her and smelling them and thinking how they smelled of her—like the blooming rose bushes off the front porch. But now they only smelled like him. She’d been gone too long. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t smell her anymore.

  I stared at the rumpled sheets through the crack of the door, wishing she was there, calling my name to come and cuddle with her. But instead, I heard little muffled cries. I couldn’t go in. I wouldn’t dare. I was too afraid. Besides, it would only make things worse. I listened to his lies through the door. They were the same ones he’d told me, only now he told them in a different way. I shouldn’t have believed, but I had, and now I hated him.

  “Your mother would want you to be strong. She’s looking down from heaven, so make sure she sees you smiling and not frowning. She’d want you to be a good girl, and do what Daddy says.”

  My eyes jerked open. A door slammed across the street. I wiped perspiration from my brow. Moore was leaving his house. But now he looked different. He’d changed his appearance. This other Moore wore fashionable jeans and cowboy boots, and he smoked a cigar. His dark hair was slicked back Elvis-style. Even his walk was different—confident, cocky. I had to look twice to make sure it was him, but it was.

  How did Mrs. Stookey know this guy? I turned in my seat, reaching for my computer in the back. I slipped it onto the seat next to me and opened it. Four bars of wireless lit up from the Dental Solutions office. No password necessary. I typed in Melody Stookey, Hursey Lake, IN. Several links appeared with her name and “Foster Care” next to them. Were the girls foster children? Possibly. I clicked on a few more links. Mrs. Stookey’s husband, Bruce, died several years ago. She retired from the Hursey Lake School District five years ago. She had one son. Her maiden name was Moore. Was Calvin Moore her son? I doubted the girls were his. They must be foster children.

  My stomach knotted and my skin prickled thinking about Moore being anywhere near children.

  I hurried back to work.

  #

  By nine thirty Sarah had returned to her office on the lake. She squinted as the sun reflected off the waves and onto her office windows. Peggy had arrived with Quinn. They were waiting in the office until Brett arrived. Sarah stood outside, lakeside, with her brother, Dean, who had come to help clean her windows and install a snake deterrent to keep the robins from slamming into the glass.

  She handed Dean the ammonia cleaner and a stack of newspapers, pointing to the windows that needed washing. She showed him the shed, where he could find the ladder. Dean took the ladder, carried it to the side of the house, and hung the rubber snake with a nail under the gutter.

  “Do you think it’ll work?” Sarah asked.

  Dean nodded as usual, limiting his words. He’d always been more of a silent type.

  As Sarah turned to head back into her office, a siren
blared down the street. For a second she panicked, thinking someone was hurt, but then remembered Brett was coming. Guess he was using his power to get there.

  Sarah waved to Dean. “I’ve got an appointment, so go ahead and start, and let me know when you’re finished. Thanks for doing this.”

  He waved and smiled.

  She entered her office through the lakeside door and returned to where Peggy and Quinn were waiting. They sat at a table in a little room adjacent to Sarah’s lounge area, putting together a hundred-piece horse puzzle. Sarah turned to Peggy and gave her the signal that Brett had arrived. “I’ll be back in a minute.” After closing the door, she moved toward the front door, waiting.

  The police siren stopped, and within seconds Sarah heard the rapid knock at her door. She opened it and Brett rushed in, seemingly out of breath, with Quinn’s lamb tucked under his arm. He wore hiking boots, shorts, and a short-sleeved shirt. Sarah couldn’t believe how different he looked without his uniform on. This Brett looked more like an outdoor enthusiast, natural and carefree, the type she was typically attracted to.

  “Ali’s gone.” He panted as his words tumbled out. “She packed her stuff and Quinn’s and took off in her car. Is there any way she found out where Quinn is staying?”

  Sarah closed the door behind him. “It’s possible, but I wouldn’t know how, and she didn’t take Quinn. She’s here—in the office.” Sarah pointed to the adjacent room.

  “She’s here?”

  Sarah nodded.

  Brett exhaled loudly and put his hand on his heart. “I thought Ali had found her and taken her. Thank God Quinn’s here. I wonder where Ali is. Are you planning on tracking her down?”

  “If she doesn’t show, we’ll do what we can.”

  Which meant they’d do nothing. Impatient, he shook his head and pointed to the office door . “Is Quinn in there?” He took a step toward the door.

  Sarah held up her arm. “Whoa.” She motioned for him to stop. “Before you go in there, we need to go over a few things about visitations. Let’s sit over here for a minute.” She waved for him to join her at the sofa.