Progeny (15 page)

“Too dangerous,” she said.

Angel stepped from her car and walked along the side toward the back. She stared at the building and Braird’s unit to her right. The first floor had four windows running down the side. Each one was smaller than average and almost four feet from the ground. They didn’t provide viable entry points. Angel continued around to the back. She turned the corner, and a feeling of disappointment washed over her when she saw a stuccoed cement wall with garage doors—no windows or back doors on the first floor.

“Dammit,” Angel muttered.

She headed back toward the front. Angel climbed the three stairs to the front porch. She jammed her hand into her pocket and grabbed the scalpel. She checked her surroundings left and right but saw no one. Angel thumbed the doorbell and waited. She heard nothing. No one came. Angel pressed it again. Still no one came.

Angel let out a breath. She thought back to the hours she and Carmen had watched the place. Every time they came by, the old man was home. “This guy never leaves,” Angel said softly.

She rang the doorbell repeatedly—still nothing.

Angel walked back to her car, started it, and drove around the block. She parked up the street from the townhouse and waited.

An hour passed. Angel could wait no longer. The skins needed to be taken from the tanning solution and rinsed. She started the car and headed back to Carmen’s house.

I called Callie as soon as I left the scene, letting her know I’d be home in a half hour. She told me she was going to order Chinese, and I requested Hunan beef. The case played through my head on the drive, eating away at me. I dialed Hank, and he picked up right away.

“Miss me already? It’s been ten minutes,” he said.

“The case is bugging me,” I said.

“I just got off the phone with Cap—gave him an update. What’s up?” he asked.

“Do you think Simms had an accomplice?”

“The fingernail and missing skin?” he asked.

“Besides that. Everything we found on Carmen Simms says she has nothing—no bills, no credit cards, place of residence, car, nothing.”

“So logic says someone is taking care of her. Unless she’s homeless.” Hank said.

“She covered a lot of ground in a short time if she is homeless.”

“A friend helping, maybe?” Hank asked.

“A friend that helps you murder?”

“It could be another Redding follower. You know how people are with their little serial-killer fan groups.”

I was quiet for a moment. “Maybe.”

“So how do we find them?” Hank asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “You had the tech guys look into any online sales having anything to do with Redding like I asked?”

“Yup. I never heard anything back, though. They would have called one of us if they found anything,” Hank said.

“Yeah, they would have,” I said.

“I guess I’m at a loss. Danes put out her photo. Maybe we can ask the public for help.”

“It’s an idea,” I said.

“You’re going in tomorrow? Need me?” Hank asked.

“I don’t think so. I’ll just be doing paperwork on this, and… shit.”

“Shit what?” Hank asked.

“The daughter.”

“Marcy White’s daughter?”

“The woman said that Simms claimed to be her daughter’s biological mother. Let me call you back.”

I hung up, pulled the car to the side of the road, flipped on the interior light, and dug my notepad from my jacket pocket. I turned to my notes from the interview and slid my finger down the page to the name Angel White. I had her phone number and interview time of 8:00 a.m. written down—that was it. I flipped a page back to Marcy White. I browsed my notes. The words
struggling mentally
,
lives in Clearwater
, and
Biddy’s restaurant
caught my eye. I dialed Hank back.

“What was that about?” he asked.

“I’m going to go have a talk with Angel White.” I checked my mirrors and turned around to head back toward Clearwater.

“Now?”

“Yeah, now. I won’t sleep if I don’t.”

“What’s got you so spun up? Do you think she’s the accomplice?”

“I don’t know. But she’s Jack Redding’s daughter, this Carmen Simms claimed to be her mother, and Marcy White said she struggled mentally. It’s worth an immediate conversation. Better still, I know where she is—Biddy’s restaurant. She told me she had to work until close.”

“Do you need me to turn around?”

“Up to you.”

“Ugh. Karen is going to give me hell.”

“Head home, then. I’ll let you know what I find.”

“Nah, I’ll just sit there and wonder what’s going on the whole time. Then Karen will nag on me that I’m not paying attention to her. I’m turning around. Biddy’s restaurant?”

“Do you know where it is?” I asked.

“Yeah, I’ll see you in fifteen minutes.”

I hung up and dialed Callie back. She answered within a ring.

“Food is on its way,” she said.

I let out a breath.

“Let me guess. You have to go back to work?” Callie asked.

“Sorry,” I said.

“No. No. Don’t worry about it. Do you want me to keep the food warm or toss it in the fridge?”

“Probably the refrigerator. I’m going to head back to Clearwater. If I don’t check something out, it’s going to grind away at me all night.”

“That’s fine. I know how you are when you’re dealing with a case. Go catch some bad guys. I’ll be here when you get home.”

“Thanks. Love you,” I said.

She made a kissing sound into the phone, said, “Love you too,” and hung up.

I set my phone on the dash. The drive would take me ten minutes. My cell phone rang seconds after I put it down, lighting up the windshield. I scooped it from the dash, glanced at the screen, and clicked Talk.

“Cap,” I said.

“I just got off the phone with Rawlings. The Clearwater scene was a mess, I heard.”

I ran my hand over my head. “Understatement.”

“We’re still waiting on a positive ID?” he asked.

“Rick was heading back with the Pinellas County coroners to do it. I’d say we’ll have it within an hour. The deceased looked to be her, though.”

“Rawlings said the skin itself was missing?”

“It was. I’m leaning toward her having an accomplice. I’m on my way to check something out right now.”

“What?”

“I want a face to face with Redding’s daughter,” I said.

“You think she’s involved?”

“I’m not sure. But I want to talk to her.”

“Let me know what you get. I’ll be up.”

“Okay, Cap.” I hung up.

The restaurant came into view up ahead on my left. I slowed for the roundabout at Pier 60 and continued left. I passed the restaurant on Coronado and continued down the divided road to the entrance for the park on the right. I pulled in and found a spot toward the back. The place was packed with cars. That area of town was usually bustling with activity. My phone rang—Hank was calling.

“Hey, are you here yet?” he asked.

“I just parked at the park across the street.”

“How the hell do you get in this place? I turn toward it, and it’s a divided one way. My navigation has me going, like, a mile past it and then just tells me to turn around. Well, I turn around and there’s no damn entrance.”

“Just park wherever you can and walk. It’s kind of goofy trying to get in there with the one-way streets. Come back to the park.”

“Son of a bitch. I just passed the place for the third time.”

“Well, turn around and come back.”

“Ugh. Hold on.”

“I’ll wait for you in the park’s parking lot.”

“Yeah, fine.” He hung up.

I got out of the car and leaned against the door to wait. I caught the time, a few minutes past nine o’clock. People walked up, down, and across the street. I looked over at the restaurant. The place was lit up, and music echoed from within. Guests filled the outdoor seating section. The restaurant was one of the more popular establishments in the area. Callie and I had been there a couple of times in the past. After another five minutes, Hank finally pulled in. He took the end spot in my row, stepped out, and slammed the car door.

“Are you going to be all right?” I asked.

“How hard is it to make streets that go where you want? Geez.”

“Maybe take it up with the city council. Come on, let’s head over.”

We crossed the parking lot and the divided street. The two-story tin-roofed restaurant was directly before us. We rounded the palm trees out front and made for the entrance. A line of customers spilled out the door. The walkway to the hostess station was filled with people. I walked sideways through them to get to the woman handing out the lighted coasters. She explained to the man she was talking to that it would light up when his table was ready, and then she focused her attention on Hank and me.

“How many?” she asked.

I showed her my badge. “We’re here to see Angel White.”

“Who?” she asked.

“Angel White. An employee,” I said.

“Um, hold on a second.” She said a few words that I couldn’t hear to another female employee. The girl walked off.

“Someone will be right with you, officers.” She motioned for us to step to the side so she could get the customers queued behind us for a table. Hank and I stepped to the side.

“‘Someone will be right with you’ doesn’t sound like Angel White,” Hank said.

“Yeah, I caught that too. We’ll see.”

Hank and I stood along the wall and waited. After a couple minutes, a midthirties-looking guy came up to us. He wore a black button-up shirt with some flowered patterns around the bottom. His name tag said Curt and Manager.

“Are you the officers looking for Angel White?”

“We are.”

“She’s no longer employed here at Biddy’s.”

“Since?” I asked.

“Two months or so ago. We had to let her go.”

“Can we ask why?” Hank asked.

“I’m not sure it’s my place to give out that information.”

I figured I’d toss a line or two at him and see if he changed his mind regarding keeping the reason to himself. “Curt, we’re working an extremely sensitive case. Her termination of employment may have significance. We wouldn’t be out here if we didn’t need to be.”

He shrugged. “Hell, what does it matter, I guess. She was fired for attendance—always missing work, calling in, and leaving early. She said her mother was ill. After a while, it was causing the other employees to complain. Tim and I had to let her go.”

“Tim?” I asked.

“My brother. The owner.”

I nodded. “Did you ever see Angel White’s ill mother?” I asked.

“Yup. Older dark-haired woman. She stopped in here the night before we let Angel go and sat around at the bar, waiting for her to get done with her shift. Tom and I commented to each other that she didn’t look very sick, but she was about to be.”

I gave him a confused look.

“Just that the woman was drinking like a fish,” he said.

“Okay, sure. Dark-haired woman, you said?”

“Yeah, black.”

“Marcy White is a blonde,” Hank said.

Curt furrowed his eyebrows. “Who’s Marcy White? Relation to Angel somehow?”

I waved the question away. “It’s not important. Do you know the date Angel was let go?”

“Like I said, around two months ago.”

“Do you guys have video?” I asked.

“We do. Why?”

“We need to see her mother at the bar,” I said.

“For?” he asked.

“A police matter. Is your video able to go back that far?” Hank asked.

“It will, but I can’t sit here and go through it with you. I have to keep this place running. My brother is out of town.”

“Can you spare an employee to sit in with us while we take a look?” I asked.

He curled his mouth to the side. “You’re not going to take no for an answer are you?”

“Not since you told us you have video and it goes back that far,” I said.

He shook his head and let out a breath. “Come on.”

Hank and I followed him through an Employees Only door and down a hallway. Curt turned into an office near the back, and we went in after him. He took a seat behind his desk and slid open a drawer. He thumbed through the contents and removed a file. He flipped the cover open and then back closed.

“This is her logs from our time clock. Our video storage is cloud based.” He typed away at his computer keys. “We should be able to cross reference the footage with the times she was here. Let’s see, what’s the last date?” He ran his finger down the paper in the file. “February twentieth.” Curt clicked at his computer. He looked back over at the file. “Ten p.m. Bar camera,” he said.

Curt spun the monitor so it faced Hank and me. “There you go,” he said. “That’s her.” He tapped the screen with his finger.

Hank and I stared at the image on the screen. The patrons at the bar were all facing away. The woman he pointed at sat by herself, her back also toward the camera.

“Can you fast forward it until we see her face?” I asked.

“Sure, hold on.” He clicked at the controls. “Here, I have her turning on the chair to talk to Angel.” He clicked Play.

We watched as the woman, who certainly wasn’t Marcy White, turned toward the younger woman we were told was Angel. The seated woman stood, and the two embraced. We got a good look at the woman’s face. She was the assailant from the Clearwater house, Carmen Simms.

“Any way we can get a copy of this?” Hank asked.

“Um.” Curt scratched his forehead. “I’m afraid I have no way of doing it. The place we have the security through has always just said, if we needed anything, to call. Probably a little late for that now.”

I rose and excused myself from the office. I stood in the hallway and called the captain, who answered after a couple rings.

“What did she say?” he asked.

“She’s not here. The manager says they fired her a couple months back.”

“Worth a shot, I guess.”

“Better than worth a shot. Hank and I just watched video from two months ago of Carmen Simms meeting her here. The two hugged.”

“Hmm,” Bostok said.

“We have her meeting with Simms and a bunch of questionable things,” I said.

“Not enough for anything,” Bostok said.

“She lives in Clearwater. Maybe a house call for some questioning?” I asked.