Prey (6 page)

‘I guess this means we can head back to New York,’ said Mendoza when they got outside. ‘It’s an open and shut case. Nelson Price did it. Your mystery woman’s off the hook.’

Winter stretched and shook his head. ‘What about Omar? She definitely killed him.’

‘Right now Omar’s in a freezer in New York waiting for a post-mortem. He was murdered in the city, he worked there, he no doubt lived there, too. Are you seeing a pattern here, Winter?’

‘And I’m sure Hitchin and his buddies are doing a fantastic job working the murder at that end. However, she wanted us to come here for a reason, and I want to know what that reason is. As far as I’m concerned, we’re currently in the best place to do that. Why else would she have pointed us in the direction of the Reed murders?’

‘That’s one interpretation.’

‘There’s another?’

‘Yeah, maybe Nelson isn’t the only one who’s as crazy as a shithouse rat.’

Winter ignored this and lit a cigarette. He pushed the pack back into his jacket pocket, zipped up, then took a long drag and stared to the east. The sun was still sitting low against the sharp blue sky. A flock of birds swooped and squawked in the distance, tiny dots of black moving in random patterns.

‘The dining table at the Reed house is an anomaly. Why set four places if only two people are eating? I’d like to see the crime scene photographs.’

‘Maybe the Monroe Sheriff’s Department have some they can email over?’ Mendoza suggested.

‘Good idea. And say it’s urgent. That way we might actually get them this side of Christmas.’

Mendoza took out her cell and made the call. It took a couple of minutes of bouncing around the switchboard before she managed to speak to someone who could help. She hung up with the promise that they’d do what they could.

‘Why Vegas?’ Winter asked her.

‘Why not?’

‘Because it doesn’t strike me as a first choice vacation destination for you. People go to Vegas because they want to have fun and, no offence, so far you haven’t shown much inclination towards fun.’

‘Who says I was going on my own?’

‘I say. The times don’t add up. While Ryan McCarthy is getting settled into his cell, Lieutenant Jones is ordering you to get on the first plane out of the city. This whole situation defines the concept of last minute, so it’s unlikely that your partner would have been able to get time off, not at such short notice. Assuming, of course, that you have a partner. And before you say anything: yes, they would have a job. No way would you be bankrolling a boy toy, not on what the NYPD pay.’

Mendoza just stared, and Winter laughed and held his hands up in mock surrender. ‘I’m just saying.’ He took another drag, his face turning serious. ‘So, why don’t you like me?’

The question caught Mendoza off guard. Her eyes darted to the left and the start of a blush painted her cheeks. She went to say something, then stopped and took a deep breath. She met his gaze again. ‘Who says I don’t like you?’

Winter said nothing.

‘Okay, it’s not that I don’t like you. It’s just that when you do that thing where you commune with your inner psychopath, it kind of freaks me out.’

‘“Communing with my inner psychopath”? That’s the first time I’ve heard it called that.’ He paused. ‘You’ve got to admit, though, it gets results.’

‘And that’s why I tolerate you. So what now?’

‘Now we go to Lester and Melanie’s house. I bet you lunch that no one lives there. Not after what happened. Not in a town this small.’ Winter held his hand out but Mendoza made no move to shake it. He gave her a puzzled look. ‘It’s real simple. If I’m right then you buy lunch. If I’m wrong I’ll buy. We seal the deal with a handshake.’

‘I don’t gamble.’

‘Seriously? So why were you going to Vegas?’

‘Because I like the shows.’

Without another word, Mendoza turned and walked over to the car. Winter watched her go for a second, then shook his head and followed.

Chief Birch’s directions took them to a small house out on the edge of Hartwood. Like Winter thought, nobody had lived there since the murders. A rust-streaked mailbox stood lopsided at the head of the weed-infested driveway, the front yard was overgrown with waist-high grass, and the doors and windows were boarded up. There was blistered, peeling paint on the clapboard and the wooden porch furniture had started to collapse in on itself.

Winter stood on the sidewalk and scanned the street. There were eight other houses, all of them different but essentially the same. It was the sort of neighbourhood you came to if you were starting a family, or you were retired and wanted to downsize. The yards reflected this. Regimented flower beds and tidy lawns for the older folks, basketball hoops and toys for the younger ones. He could guess what the neighbours thought about the Reed’s house. Having an abandoned murder house in your street did nothing for property prices.

Winter and Mendoza walked up the driveway side by side and stopped at the bottom of the porch steps. The wood was mouldy and had started to rot, making him wonder how sturdy they were. Mendoza was clearly thinking the same thing because she waited for him to reach the top before joining him. While she checked the boards nailed over the door and windows at the front of the house, he checked the back. The wood was sound, the space between the boards tight. Getting inside wasn’t going to be as straightforward as he’d hoped. He walked back around to the front of the house.

‘We’re going to need tools,’ said Mendoza.

‘Someone around here must have some we can borrow.’

‘That’s what I’m thinking.’

There was no answer at the first house they tried, but the widow living at the second was happy to help out after Mendoza showed her badge. The dead husband must have been a DIY nut because the garage was filled with tools. All of them were arranged neatly, and all were coated with a layer of dust. They left with a pry bar, a hammer, and a bag of nails for putting the boards back on later.

Getting the boards off posed no problem whatsoever. It was a five-minute job, if that. The door was locked but that wasn’t much of a problem either. Lock picking was one of the more useful skills Winter had been taught in the FBI. He put his lock picks back into his jacket pocket and opened the door with a flourish. Mendoza turned on her flashlight, then pushed past him and went inside.

‘You’re welcome,’ he called after her.

Winter took a minute to examine the door, running scenarios through his head. The lock was a Yale, straightforward to pick if you knew what you were doing. But Nelson Price was just a kid at the time of the murders, and how many kids had the patience or motivation to learn something like that? The most likely explanation was that he’d knocked on the door and either Melanie or Lester had answered. Maybe they’d looked through the spyhole and recognised Nelson, maybe they hadn’t. Whichever way it had played out, the door had been opened. Chances were the security chain hadn’t been attached. Most people tended not to bother with them.

Winter turned on his flashlight and walked into the hall. Shadows shrank and grew in the narrow beam, dust motes danced in the air. He sniffed the air. All he could smell was stale air and rotting wood. No one had been here for years, that much was clear. The house had the feel of a tomb. It was as though the door had been locked after the murders and hadn’t been opened again until today. Even the local kids had given it a wide berth. There was no evidence that they had been here. No empty liquor bottles, no cigarette butts, no used condoms. If they’d broken in the place would have been trashed. Graffiti on the walls and devastation everywhere.

Mendoza was a couple of yards ahead of him, the beam of her flashlight bouncing in all directions. ‘This place gives me the creeps. It’s like a goddamn haunted house.’

‘I didn’t have you down as being superstitious.’

‘I’m not. I’ve just watched too many horror movies. Doesn’t it give you the creeps?’

‘Not really.’

The corridor running parallel to the stairs had two doors leading off it. The first one they tried opened on to the living room. He aimed the flashlight at the fireplace, saw the faded bloodstains on the floor and the arterial spray patterns on the nearby walls. There was a smaller stain on the floor near the dining table. The markings were consistent with where Birch said that Lester and Melanie had died. Mendoza crouched down by the fireplace and examined the stained wood, the beam of her flashlight playing back and forth.

‘Judging by these, I’d say that Lester got off easier than Melanie.’

‘That’s how I’m reading it.’

‘Poor kids.’

Winter went over to the dining table and laid his left hand on the wood. Birch had been right about this, too. It was roughly five feet by three feet, big enough for four. You could get six on it, but it would be a squeeze. He closed his eyes, saw the table set for four, but he couldn’t picture the scene as clearly as he’d like. He opened his eyes and headed back out into the hall.

‘Where are you going?’ Mendoza called after him.

‘To find a tablecloth.’

‘Ask a stupid question.’

The next door along led to the kitchen. It looked tidy enough, albeit with the layer of dust and the deserted feel that came from abandonment. Winter wondered who’d tidied up after the crime scene investigators had left. Lester’s parents? Melanie’s? He went through the drawers and cupboards and found most of what he was looking for on his first pass. Flatware, plates, wine glasses, candles. No candelabra but he did find some candlestick holders, There were cloth napkins and place mats in one of the bottom drawers. The mats were black instead of red, but they’d do. The only thing he didn’t find was a tablecloth. He heard Mendoza walk into the kitchen, saw the beam of her flashlight bouncing over the collection he’d put together on one of the work surfaces.

‘Take these back through to the living room,’ he told her as he headed back out to the hall. ‘I’m going upstairs to look for a bed sheet.’

‘This time I’m not even going to ask,’ she shouted after him.

Winter went back along the hall and took the stairs two at a time. There were three doors leading off the landing, all closed. The first door led to a small bathroom. There was just about space for a toilet, sink and bathtub. He heard Mendoza’s footsteps on the stairs, heard her walk along the landing. She stopped at his shoulder and looked past him.

‘No bed sheets in here.’

‘Nope.’

He closed the door and tried the next one. This room was painted a pale yellow colour and there was a crib pushed into one corner. White furniture, sky blue drapes and soft toys. There were brightly coloured dancing jungle animals on the walls. Elephants, tigers, giraffes and monkeys. On closer inspection, it was clear that the mural was hand painted. Mendoza let out a long heartfelt sigh.

‘Birch didn’t say anything about the Reed’s having a baby.’

‘That’s because they didn’t have one.’ Winter walked over to the cradle and plucked out two teddy bears. One was pink, the other blue. He held them up for Mendoza to see. ‘They were trying for one.’

Mendoza was looking around the room. She was somehow managing to look both angry and sad. ‘This job really sucks at times.’

‘No arguments there.’

‘You know, I deal with this shit day in, day out, and I think I’ve got immune, then I walk in on something like this. Lester and Melanie were just kids really. They had their whole lives ahead of them and that was stolen away from them. It’s not fair.’

‘No, it’s not.’

Winter went over to the closet. There were some crib sheets on the top shelf but they were too small for what he had in mind. He went back out on to the landing. The last door led to the main bedroom. All the bedding had been stripped away, leaving a bare mattress. No doubt this had been done during the original investigation. He found a double sheet in the closet and went back downstairs to the living room.

Mendoza helped him put the sheet on the table, then they set it together, working efficiently around one another. Winter lit the candles and placed them in the middle of the table. Then they turned off their flashlights and sat down, Winter at the head, Mendoza at the foot. He looked around, shook his head. ‘This isn’t right.’

He got up and moved counterclockwise to the next place. It was just Lester and Melanie who were eating, so they would have sat opposite each other on this part of the table. Sitting at the ends would have been too formal. He looked around again, shook his head. ‘Still not right.’

‘What’s not right? If you can be more specific, then maybe I can help.’

Winter ignored her and took out his cell. He looked up the number for the Hartwood PD and connected the call. Peterson answered and put him straight through to Birch.

‘What do you want now?’

‘You said that the Reed’s table was set like they were expecting a visit from the president. They’d used their best plates and cutlery. They’d even used a tablecloth. Are you sure about that?’

‘Positive. Why do you want to know?’

‘Was there any blood on the tablecloth?’

‘I should imagine so.’

‘You imagine or you know?’

‘It was six years ago.’

‘Any luck with that file?’

‘Not yet.’

Winter hung up and tapped his phone gently against the tablecloth.

‘What are you thinking?’

‘I’m thinking that the murders happened on a weekday night, and both Melanie and Lester worked. Eating would have been approached from a functional point of view, not a celebratory one. It was more likely they would have eaten off the bare wood. Cutlery dumped down in the middle of the table, no candles, no tablecloth. As much as it pains me to admit this, Birch was right. Nelson must have set the table.’

‘What? He brutally murders two people then lays the table? Sorry, I don’t see it.’

‘I’ve seen weirder things than this, Mendoza.’

‘Okay, so why would he do it?’

‘Because it was part of his fantasy. As for what that fantasy was, until we’ve got more information all I can offer is my best guess.’

‘Is that your way of saying you don’t know?’

‘No, it’s my way of saying that we need to be careful with making too many assumptions.’

‘So what do you know?’

‘I know that if we don’t catch this woman she will kill again.’

They fell into a short silence. It was Mendoza who broke it. ‘Do you have any idea how defensive you can be? It’s okay to admit you don’t know something.’

‘I’m not defensive.’

Mendoza stared at him.

‘I’m not.’

‘You know, I still can’t work out if you’re a good guy or a bad guy. So which one is it?’

‘I help you catch Ryan McCarthy and you’ve really got to ask?’

‘That’s a deflection.’

‘What are you really asking here?’

 ‘Your father was a serial killer, and you catch serial killers because you think like one. On the basis of that, it seems to me that maybe you’re more alike than you’d care to admit. Nature rather than nurture, right? So, what I’d like to know is where you draw the line.’

She met his gaze across the table, looked him straight in the eye. Winter could see the candle flame reflected in her pupils.

‘I’ve never killed anyone in cold blood.’

‘But you have killed. Cold-blooded or hot-blooded, that’s just a detail. The bottom line is that you are a killer.’

‘There’s a world of difference Mendoza, and you know it. You’re a cop after all.’

‘Okay, here’s something else to think about. Maybe the difference between you and your father is that you’ve managed to find a way to kill and get away with it. If the kills are righteous then that makes everything okay, right?’

‘That’s bullshit.’

‘Probably, but since you’re not giving me anything else to work with, what am I supposed to think?’

Winter didn’t say anything straightaway. The silence between them stretched longer, growing more uncomfortable with each passing second. ‘It’s complicated,’ he said finally.

‘And that’s yet another deflection.’