Beneath a Buried House (Detective Elliot Mystery Book 2) (8 page)

The lady, who called herself Deborah Thompson, seemed suspicious. She studied Elliot’s badge for several seconds before asking, “Is Brighid in some sort of trouble?”

“You could say that.”

Deborah Thompson sighed, her breath a puff of fog in the cold air. “I wish I could say that surprises me, but it doesn’t.”

Elliot watched her face, looking for a reaction. “Why do you say that?”

Ms. Thompson took off her red stocking cap, which nearly matched the color of her cheeks. “Well, her line of work, of course.”

“Could you be a little more specific?”

She smiled uncertainly and chafed her hands. “Would you like to come inside? It’s a bit nippy out here.”

Elliot followed Ms. Thompson inside where they sat in wicker chairs in what had apparently been the front bedroom. It had been brightly painted and converted into a sunroom. After bringing Elliot a cup of hot tea, Ms. Thompson said, “Haven’t done your homework, have you? I really hate to say this, though I suppose the truth is what you’re after. Brighid sells herself for money, Detective. She’s a prostitute.”

“I know about that. Is there anything else you could tell me?”

Ms. Thompson set her teacup on a table beside her chair. “Brighid’s a nice person, really, perhaps a bit lacking in the area of judgment, but as sweet as you’ll ever meet. What has she gotten herself into, Detective? Maybe I could help.”

Elliot studied the lady then set his cup down as well. He hated this part of his job. “Brighid’s dead, Ms. Thompson. She was shot.”

Deborah Thompson’s hand came up, covering her mouth. After a moment, she lowered it to her lap. “Dear God.”

“Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to harm her?”

She shook her head. “She never brought her customers home, at least that’s what she told me. And I’ve never seen anyone hanging around.”

Ms. Thompson paused briefly, then adding, “There is something else you need to know, something rather odd.”

Elliot turned to a fresh page in his notepad. “Go on.”

“Brighid was a bit delusional. Believed she was the descendant of a Celtic goddess, her namesake, I suppose.”

Elliot thought of the strange symbol carved into the table where the John Doe had been found. “Was she a member of a religious group?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Anything else?”

“I’m afraid that’s all I know. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”

Elliot added this to his notes, then folding his notepad, stood, and put on his coat. “Thanks for you help, Ms. Thompson.”

He handed her a card. “If you come up with anything, give me a call.”

After being let out, Elliot walked the short distance to the victim’s address.

The house appeared as steeped in mystery as its owner was. Overgrown shrubs and bushes crowded the small lot, and vines covered the serpentine picket fence that surrounded the yard. The forensic team had arrived. Elliot stood on the porch for a moment, observing empty flowerpots and wooden planters, then pulled on a pair of latex gloves and went inside the 1920s bungalow on Trenton Avenue. He hoped to find something that might give him an idea as to the victim’s connection with the unidentified body at Windhall. Raymond Clark was there, dusting for prints.

“How you doing, Elliot?”

“Long day,” Elliot said. He felt strange, lightheaded. “I could sleep for a week.”

“Hope you’re not coming down with something,” he said. He went back to his work.

The first bedroom, which was on the south side of the house, just off the living area, had been outfitted for sleeping, but the closet and the dresser were empty and nothing sat atop the furniture but a lamp: a guest room. Elliot took a quick look around the adjoining bath, then went back to the living area.

He picked up a small box sitting on the fireplace mantle and looked inside. It was filled with potpourri. Brighid kept a neat house; the antique furnishings, purposely selected to fit the bungalow’s era, polished and free of dust; the oak floors, covered in places with lush rugs, clean and shiny. He found the same care had been taken in the kitchen. Everything was in its place except for a coffee mug in the sink. A gardening magazine, its open pages displaying pictures of spring flowers, rested on the small table, beneath a window.

Elliot backtracked to the dining area, where the fragrance of cinnamon and apples lingered, which preceded a sensation of presence, that of the young lady who’d lived there, and it tiptoed through Elliot’s imagination as he came to a door along the south wall of the dining room. He opened the door and stepped inside.

Candles dotted the floor around the bed, and posters of curious, mythological creatures hung from the walls: depictions of a beast, half man and half animal, with a rack of horns growing from its head, and a lady who appeared to be facing in three different directions. But it was the bold design painted onto the wall that grabbed Elliot’s attention: a five-pointed star with a circle around it.

Elliot called Robert Arnold in vice to see what he knew about Brighid McAlister. He said he’d look into it, and asked Elliot to meet him for lunch at Goldie’s across from Utica Square. Elliot didn’t have much of an appetite, but a cup of coffee sounded good. He saw Arnold sitting in a booth at the front of the restaurant, near a large window that overlooked 21st Street.

A middle-aged waitress with her hair tied up grabbed a menu as she walked by. “Be with you in a moment, sweetie.”

“I’ll be joining the gentleman in the corner. Could you bring some coffee, please?”

She stuck a pencil in her hair, just above her ear. “Sure thing.”

Elliot walked over and slid into the booth, then looked across the table at Arnold. He’d already started on a hamburger. He put it down and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Glad you could make it.”

The waitress brought Elliot’s coffee and set it in front of him, and he was just getting settled in when he looked through the window and saw Cyndi Bannister. It took a moment for the recognition to register, and it seemed bilateral, this feeling of surprise. Once again he found himself staring, mesmerized by the face of Michael Cunningham’s girlfriend. Her path indicated she had intended to come inside but had changed her mind upon seeing Elliot.

She turned and walked away, her pace quickening as she headed east. She triggered the light at the corner, then crossed the street, disappearing behind the trees and shrubs that lined that part of Yorktown Avenue.

Arnold turned to see what Elliot was looking at, but Cyndi was already gone. “So what are you doing, working vice now?”

Elliot took a moment to clear his head, get back to the work at hand. “Not exactly. This one’s dead. Turned her last trick today.”

 “Disgusting business we’re in, ain’t it?” Arnold’s throaty voice slid under the murmur of conversation coming from the other booths.

“Yeah. What have you got?”

Arnold wiped his mouth again, then shook his head. “I couldn’t find anything on her. If she was working, she was doing it independently. Probably had a select clientele.”

“How select?”

“You know, a high-priced piece, only worked conventions or something.”

Elliot slumped. “It’s hard to keep track of girls like that.”

Arnold took another bite of burger. “It is if they’re careful, don’t get busted, especially if they ain’t connected, don’t have a pimp.”

Elliot thought about his own nightmares and suddenly it was difficult for him to imagine Arnold with a family, being able to turn it off at the end of the day, and almost before he realized what he was saying, the question came out: “How’s Karen?”

Arnold set his half-eaten burger on the plate and took a drink of soda. “She’s good. Started back to school, sociology classes, something she’s been thinking about for years.” He paused and nodded. “It’s good to see her happy again. And, hey, Jeremy made the team this year, even got a little playing time. Went to his head, though. You know, big time Union football player. He’s all right, though. He’s a good kid.”

This time Arnold changed the direction, shifted it back. “I did get something for you. It’s the tattoo. Hamilton remembered seeing a girl like that. Couldn’t remember exactly where, but he thought it was downtown somewhere. Said he figured her for a hooker, the way she was dressed and all, but she didn’t seem to be hustling, so he left her alone.” He shook his head. “It’s weak but it’s all I got.”

Elliot pulled a twenty and laid it on the table. “I appreciate it, Robert. Let me get the tab. I have another question. Have you ever run across a john named Douglass Wistrom?”

“Wistrom,” he said, more to himself than anyone else. He stared through the window for a moment, then turned back. “Maybe. I’ll check it out and get back with you.”

Chapter Twelve

Elliot left Robert Arnold at the restaurant and went to the office. Once there, he  called Patricia Orwell with Business Solutions.

“Detective Elliot. Have you heard from Wistrom?”

She hesitated, then said, “He called right after you left, saying he wouldn’t be in for a few days.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“At home, I expect. He didn’t really say.”

Elliot hung up the phone. He’d figured Wistrom for a lowlife, albeit one intelligent enough to be a good freelance writer, but the role of murderer still didn’t fit, though his running had definitely tipped the scales in that direction.

Elliot heard someone tapping on the filing cabinet near the entrance to his cube and turned to see Detective Dombrowski.

“Got a few minutes?”

Elliot sat forward. “Sure. What’s up?”

It took Dombrowski a while to answer, his eyes studying Elliot during the silence. “Looks like you were right about Enrique Savage. We found the murder weapon from the Susan Lancaster case, just like you thought we would, down by the river, in the bushes close to the jogging trail. A hunting knife. Had his fingerprints all over it.” He paused and shook his head. “How did you know?”

“I didn’t. Like I said, there’s just something about Savage that bothers me.”

“What about the weapon?”

“A lucky guess, based on where the body was found.”

“You’re a regular Sherlock Holmes,” Dombrowski said. Then he laughed. “Just kidding.”

As Dombrowski was leaving, an idea occurred to Elliot. “Do you think Savage would be willing to talk with me?”

Dombrowski raised his eyebrows. “Why?”

“I want to ask him about Brighid McAlister.”

“What, you think he had something to do with it?”

“No. But he has occult connections. I thought he might be able to give me some information regarding some things I saw in her apartment.”

“What kind of things?”

Elliot showed Dombrowski the photos he’d taken in Brighid’s bedroom.

He looked them over. “I don’t know. I doubt he’d do it willingly. You saw how he was earlier.”

“You’re right. It’s a bad idea. He’d probably just lie to me anyway.”

Dombrowski nodded. “You’ll get to the bottom of it. A little advice, though.” He handed the photos back to Elliot. “Be careful you don’t read too much into things like that. It’ll bog you down.”

After Dombrowski was gone, Elliot studied Enrique Savage’s case file, looking for a connection or a similarity, anything. After an hour or so without any luck, he closed the file and left the office.

In the parking garage, Sergeant Conley came over. “Hey, Elliot, how’s the McAlister case going?”

“Could be better.”

“Anything I can do?”

“That depends. Do you know anything about religious symbolism?”

Conley shook his head. “I can’t help you there, kid.”

Elliot was climbing into his car when Conley added, “But I know someone who could.”

He fished a card from his wallet and handed it to Elliot. It read: DR. THOMAS MEADOWS, SENIOR MINISTER, BROOKWOOD UNITED METHODIST CHURCH. “He’s a very intelligent man, Dr. Meadows. I can call him if you want, let him know you’re coming.”

Elliot stuffed the card into his pocket. “That’d be great. And thanks.”

He wound his way out of the garage and left the downtown area. A few minutes later, he pulled into his driveway, where he again saw his neighbor, Joey Anderson, standing in the front yard.

Chapter Thirteen

Elliot brought the car to a stop and climbed out, noting as he drew near that Joey wasn’t wearing a coat.

“Hello, Mr. Elliot.”

Elliot visually scanned the area but saw no one else. It wasn’t dark, but it was getting there. “Hey there, buddy. What are you doing out here?”

“I go for walk.”

Figuring Joey was tired of hearing it, Elliot hesitated, but then asked the question anyway. “Where’s your mom?”

“It’s okay.”

“You may be right, but I don’t think your mom sees it that way.”

“She doesn’t want me to go out by myself. I’m okay.”

“She worries about you because she loves you, Joey. She’s not trying to make things hard, just trying to protect you. Come on. I’ll walk you home.”

Elliot put his arm on Joey’s shoulder both to guide him and to show him he wouldn’t take no for an answer, but they’d only taken a few steps when an angry Kelly Anderson came around the corner of the fence line and stalked up the small incline of the yard.

She stopped and crossed her arms. To Joey she said, “I might have known I’d find you here.” She then turned her attention to Elliot. “And just what do you think you’re doing?”

Elliot removed his arm from Joey’s shoulder. “I was about to take him home.”

“How long has he been here?”

“I don’t know. I just got here myself.”

Kelly Anderson sighed. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be so confrontational. But I’ve made it clear that . . .” She shook her head then said, “Come on Joey. We need to go now.”

“Wait,” Elliot said. “We’re probably going to be neighbors for a while. Perhaps we should try and be neighborly. Why don’t you come in? I’ll make some coffee. And I’ll bet Joseph here would like some hot chocolate.”

Joey seemed to like that. “He called me Joseph.”

Kelly studied Elliot for a moment, then glanced at Joey. “All right. But just for a moment. I’ve got a lot to do tonight.”