Beneath a Buried House (Detective Elliot Mystery Book 2) (11 page)

When Elliot slid the knife back into his pocket, he saw movement from the corner of his eye. He turned and saw someone outside, scurrying away from the window, heading toward the back of the house.

Elliot scrambled from the bedroom and through the kitchen. When he reached the back door, he threw it open and stepped outside, descending the back steps to a small sidewalk. He saw no one. A small dog cowered beside the fence line. Elliot went to the north side where the window was located, but found only an empty driveway. A one-car garage sat at the end of the drive.

The only door to the garage was an overhead, and when he tested it, he found it was locked. He peered through the glass of the door. The garage held no car, only a few boxes, and Elliot could see well enough to determine that no one was inside. He crossed the backyard, stopping at the fence, a four-foot decorative barrier that he easily leaned across to check the alley, which ran behind the property. After that he walked to the south side of the house and on to the front yard. Whoever the voyeur had been, he or she was gone now.

Elliot hesitated briefly, watching his breath condensing in the cold air, then went back inside the house, where he noticed the dog door and a couple of empty bowls sitting on the floor near it. He filled one of the bowls with water, then found a bag of food on the bottom shelf of the pantry and filled the other bowl as well.

With that done, Elliot dumped the contents of the envelope he’d found onto the kitchen table: a brass lockbox key and a folded piece of notebook paper with three names written on it. The last name on the list had a large red X beside it.

Chapter Sixteen

After leaving Brighid McAlister’s place, Elliot saw Sergeant Conley’s patrol car sitting at a Quick Trip Store, so he pulled in. He and Conley bought a couple of sandwiches and sat in the sergeant’s Chevy and ate them.

Elliot informed Conley of what he’d found and explained that he wanted to gain access to the lockbox. Conley told him to ask for Judge Miranda Broussard. Her husband had been a police officer. Judge Broussard turned out to be no pushover, but she seemed to understand Elliot’s needs, and the time-sensitive nature of his request.

A few hours later, Elliot walked into the lobby of Arvest Bank. The receptionist smiled. “May I help you, sir?”

Elliot identified himself and showed her the key. “I believe this belongs to one of your lockboxes. I need to look inside it. Could you help me with that?”

The receptionist picked up the phone and spoke into it.

When the assistant manager came out of her office, the flushed look on her face told Elliot he was going to have trouble.

“What is it exactly that you want, Detective?”

Elliot kept his impatience in check and held up the key. “I need to look inside the lockbox that this key goes to. Could you open it, please?”

“But you’re not the owner of the box.”

He glanced at her name tag. “No, Ms. Davenport. I have a warrant. I don’t need to be the owner.”

“I see. Well, how did you determine that the key you have is for a box at this bank?”

Elliot held up the envelope he’d found beneath Brighid McAlister’s bed, an envelope that had Arvest Bank emblazoned across it.

“Yes, well I don’t know if I can do that or not, open the box that is. Can you wait until Susie gets back?”

“Who’s Susie? And what does she have to do with this?”

Ms. Davenport tried to look put out, but her embarrassment showed. “Susan Taylor. She’s the manager.”

“When will she be back?”

Ms. Davenport checked her watch. “Well, you just missed her. It’ll be an hour, maybe more.”

“I can’t wait that long.”

Ms. Davenport stood before him, wringing her hands.

“Can you call her?”

“Oh, no, I can’t do that. I’m not to bother her during lunch.”

Elliot pulled his phone and flipped it open. “What’s the number?”

Ms. Davenport put a hand to her forehead. “I’m not sure if I should do that.”

Hearing footsteps, Elliot turned to see the receptionist coming toward him. She smiled and handed him a sticky note with a name and phone number written on it. Elliot immediately punched the number into his phone. Behind him he heard the lady say, “For heavens sake, Rhonna. He’s a police officer.”

When the party answered, Elliot identified himself, then said, “Sorry to bother you, Ms. Taylor, but I’m getting a little low on patience, and I need you to do something for me. There’s a lockbox at your bank, and you need to either cut your lunch short and come and open it or instruct one of your employees to do it for you.”

As asked, Elliot handed the phone to Ms. Davenport. Glancing at Elliot, she took the phone, then turned away. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to do.”

“I know. But this wasn’t covered in our training.”

She was silent for a moment, then she nodded. “Yes, Ms. Taylor.”

Ms. Davenport turned back and handed Elliot the phone. He flipped it shut and stuck it in his pocket.

“I’m sorry,” she said. I’ve just never had to deal with anything like this before.”

“I understand. Could we please proceed?”

“Of course, as soon as I can determine which box your key goes to.”

Again the receptionist appeared. Elliot was beginning to believe that the wrong employee had received the promotion. The lady handed Ms. Davenport another key and another sticky note. “I figured you could use a little help. I looked it up for you.” She paused then added, “Everything’s going to be all right, Rhonna. All you have to do is unlock a box for the detective.”

The two women stared at each other briefly, then the receptionist went back to her post. 

Ms. Davenport asked Elliot to follow her. About halfway down the east wall, she opened a black gate made of steel, and she and Elliot entered a long, narrow room where small brown metal drawers filled three of the walls. Ms. Davenport searched along the north wall until she found the correct number, then put her key into the slot and turned to Elliot, waiting for him to do the same.

Elliot slid his key into the lock, but before he opened it, and before Ms. Davenport could leave to give him privacy, he said, “I want you to remain in the room as a witness to the contents of the box. You will need to prepare an inventory, which should be signed and notarized. In fact, it would be a good idea if you would ask one of your coworkers to come and act as an additional witness.”

As soon as the efficient receptionist came into the room, Elliot turned the key and pulled the lockbox from the wall, then carried it to a table placed there for that purpose. With both bank employees watching, Elliot opened the lid to the box. Inside, arranged neatly as if in a small filing cabinet, were three brown envelopes, which had names and addresses written on them. The names corresponded with the ones on the list Elliot had found along with the key.

Elliot grabbed the envelope labeled “Zachariah Holsted,” the only name on the list that had a red X beside it, and carefully unhooked the metal clasp that held it shut. When he removed the contents, three 5x7 photographs, and spread them across the table, Rhonna Davenport gasped.

The photographs, which had been taken from different angles, allowing the faces of the subjects to be in full view and easily identifiable, depicted a couple engaged in bizarre sex acts. The female was Brighid McAlister. Her partner, Elliot suspected, was Zachariah Holsted.

Brighid McAlister was running a blackmailing scheme.

Elliot climbed the slight incline of the drive to the Holsted property, following a hazy blue light that crackled from the open doors of a metal building crammed into the yard behind the house. Entering the shop, he saw a man leaning over a motorcycle frame.

  He approached the suspect. No one else was around, and when he drew near, the man turned off the torch and raised the face shield of his welding helmet. He wore a denim jacket and greasy denim jeans.

“Something I can do for you, mister?”

Elliot recognized him as the man in the photo with Brighid. “Are you Zachariah Holsted?”

He took off his gloves and removed the welding helmet, placing them on a workbench. “Who wants to know?”

When Elliot showed his badge, a look of fear flashed across the man’s face. “I need to ask you a few questions.”

“About what?”

“Do you know Brighid McAlister?”

“Yeah, I know her. So what?” A belligerent tone crept into his voice.

“When was the last time you saw her?”

The man used one of his hands to push his greasy hair away from his face. “I don’t know. It’s been a while.”

Elliot decided to go ahead with the big question, just to see the man’s reaction. “If you had to, could you account for your whereabouts on Monday, January sixth from 10:00 a.m. to noon?”

“Hell, I don’t know. What’s this about?”

“Brighid McAlister is dead, Mr. Holsted. Do you know anything about that?”

“Jesus H. Christ. No. Hell no.”

Elliot watched a bead of sweat run down Holsted’s face. “Then you need to think about where you were during the time period that I asked you about. It’s important.”

The suspect shook his head. “I’m not good with stuff like that. I need some time to think.”

“Do you own any firearms, Mr. Holsted?” Elliot already had a warrant. As soon as he’d seen the photographs, he’d called Judge Miranda Broussard again, explaining what he’d found and what he needed.

“Well, what do you think?”

“Just answer the question.”

“Hell yes, I’ve got firearms. Who doesn’t?”

Elliot pulled the paperwork from his jacket pocket. “I have a warrant to search the premises, Mr. Holsted. Could you show me the guns, please?”

Mr. Holsted dragged his hand through his hair again. “Ah, Jesus. You got the wrong guy, Detective. It doesn’t surprise me none that somebody killed her, but it wasn’t me. Whatever gave you a crazy idea like that?”

Elliot put the warrant back in his pocket. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it was the explicit photos of you and Brighid in bed together. I did my homework, Mr. Holsted. Brighid McAlister was blackmailing you, or at least she was trying to. That gives you a pretty good motive to kill her, wouldn’t you say?”

The suspect buried his face in his hands for a moment, then pulled them away and tried to regain his composure. “All right, Detective, I’ll cooperate. But let me explain something to you. I got me a good thing going here. I got a good wife and a baby daughter. I don’t want that messed up.”

“Maybe you should have thought of that before you jumped in bed with a prostitute.”

“Ah, come on. What are you, some kind of saint or something, ain’t never done nothing like that before?”

For a moment, Elliot was lost in thought. Zachariah Holsted’s question had taken him back to his high school days, and Marcia Barnes’s long blonde hair falling across his chest. It was a moment he would live to regret. Marcia wasn’t the one he was supposed to be with that night, and this had hurt someone he cared deeply about. “All right, Mr. Holsted. I’ll do what I can. But this is a murder investigation. I can’t promise it won’t come out.”

A hint of a smile crossed Holsted’s lips. “Fair enough.”

The suspect led Elliot into the house through a door that opened into the kitchen. Unlike the shop area, the house was immaculately clean and uncluttered, everything in its place, the result, no doubt, of Mrs. Holsted’s efforts. As soon as they were inside, Holsted called out. “Hey, baby.”

Within seconds she appeared, a short and slightly overweight blonde wearing a miniskirt and a T-shirt that were about two sizes too small for her. Her skin was fair, almost translucent. Elliot guessed she was about nineteen, five or six years younger than Holsted. She tried to smile, but her husband squinted his eyes and shook his head. “What’s going on, Zach?”

Holsted went to her, putting his arm around her. “Just a little trouble, baby. But don’t you worry. I’ll get it cleared up. This here’s a police detective. He wants to look around a little bit. It’ll be all right.”

“What do you mean look around? Look around for what?”

Elliot took the opportunity to introduce himself. He stepped forward and extended his hand. She timidly took it, her embrace soft and warm. “Detective Kenny Elliot, ma’am.”

Her name was Courtney, and Elliot wanted to ask her how and why she’d hooked up with such a man as Zachariah Holsted, but he remembered Dombrowski’s lectures about professionalism and managed to restrain himself. “I apologize for the inconvenience,” he said. “But I’m conducting a murder investigation. I just need to look around, maybe ask a few questions.”

Courtney Holsted’s face lost what little color it had, and she turned to her husband. “Murder? What does this have to do with us?”

“Hopefully nothing,” Elliot said. “Does the name Brighid McAlister mean anything to you?”

Zachariah’s jaw twitched, and Courtney looked equally nervous. As she stared at her husband, he vigorously shook his head. “No,” she said. “Should it?”

“I don’t know. But I’m here to find out.”

Elliot questioned Zachariah and Courtney for a few minutes, then asked to be shown around. In the living room, he noticed a brochure to some church called Open Arms Unitarian, or something of the sort.

While Courtney looked after the baby, a cute and chubby three-year-old with curly brown hair, Mr. Holsted led Elliot into the master bedroom, where a gun cabinet sat in the northwest corner. He unlocked it, then stepped aside to allow Elliot access.

Inside the cabinet, Elliot saw one rifle and one shotgun, both weapons standing upright in the rack. With a small flashlight he pulled from his coat he leaned forward and searched inside the cabinet, checking the floor and the walls. After that he pulled out a long, narrow drawer located halfway between the glass doors and the base. It contained gun-cleaning equipment. “Do you own any handguns?”

Holsted shrugged. “What would a deer hunter need with a handgun?”

“You tell me.”

Holsted frowned. “Ah, Christ. You’re going to find out anyway.” He went to a nightstand beside the bed and slid out a drawer, from which he pulled an old army-issued .45 caliber. Handing it to Elliot, he said, “It ain’t registered, but it’s mine. I bought it at a gun show a few years back. Hell, it ain’t even loaded. The wife won’t let me with the baby around.”