Desperate Girls

13

THE PARKING garage beside the Ames Theater had nearly emptied out for the night by the time Erik pulled in. He found Jeremy on level six, leaning back against his gray pickup.

Erik parked the Tahoe next to him and got out, surveying the area.

“Not a bad view,” he said grimly.

“Look at this.”

Jeremy led him to a corner beside a stairwell. The parking spaces were empty, and over the four-foot wall of concrete, Erik had a view of the downtown skyline.

The Atrium was a sparkly tower in the distance.

A ball of dread formed in Erik’s gut. “That’s got to be, what, two hundred meters?”

“Two fifty,” Jeremy said.

As a former Marine sharpshooter, Jeremy would know.

This building was well beyond the area they had canvassed earlier. Jeremy handed him a pair of binoculars. Erik assessed the scene. From this elevation, he didn’t have a view of the Atrium’s entrance. It was blocked by the overhang that covered the apartment building’s driveway. But he could see where the driveway met Commerce Street.

So could a shooter.

“Now look at this,” Jeremy said.

They walked down the row of empty parking spaces. Before they reached the end, Erik knew what he was going to see. Sure enough, between two tall office buildings was a narrow view of the intersection in front of the mini-mart.

“That’s an even longer shot,” Erik pointed out. “That has to be three hundred meters.”

“Yep.”

“Corby has no military training. And he’s not a hunter.” Erik looked at his friend. “This setup doesn’t feel like a fit. Everything he’s done till now has been up close and personal. Like very up close. A shank in the gut.”

“You checked your e-mail lately?” Jeremy pulled out his phone and opened a message. “This just came in,” he said, handing the cell to Erik.

It was a forwarded message from Lindsey Leary. Erik scrolled down and saw the exchange between the detective and someone named Shawn McGowan, who had to be Mick McGowan’s son. The man had provided investigators with a list of missing items from his father’s gun cabinet.

“Glock twenty-three. Beretta nine-mil. An FN Five-Seven?” He glanced up at Jeremy. It was the type of gun used by many Secret Service agents. Erik preferred a SIG P229, but the Five-Seven was a serious piece of hardware.

“Keep going.”

“A Remington twenty-two. A Winchester twelve-gauge. Shit, a Remington seven hundred.”

A deer rifle. The military version was the M24, a favorite of snipers.

“He have a scope on it?”

“Lindsey asked that, too, and yeah. Shawn McGowan told her it’s a Leupold.”

“Fuck.”

Jeremy didn’t say anything, but Erik could tell he felt the same. A scope like that didn’t make the shot easy for someone like Corby. But it made it possible.

Erik glanced around the parking lot, looking for cans or food wrappers or cigarette butts, any sign that someone had used this location as a sniper hide. They walked back to the other side, away from the overhead parking lights, and Erik pulled out a penlight to examine the concrete.

“Any evidence he was here?” He looked at Jeremy.

“Not besides the view. But it makes sense. People park here for the theater, so it’s busy evenings and weekends but empty most mornings. And did you notice the camera setup on the way in here?”

“There isn’t one,” Erik said.

“Exactly.”

Erik combed his flashlight beam over the area, illuminating dirt and grit but no trash to speak of. He’d repeat the procedure on the levels below, too.

“I don’t like the rifle,” Jeremy said. “And I sure as shit don’t like the scope.”

“I don’t like how the fucking marshals have been after this guy for a week, and still they’ve got nothing.” Erik looked at Jeremy. They’d worked together so much he could tell his friend knew exactly what he was thinking. The marshals couldn’t be relied on to make this problem go away.

“It’s time to ramp this up,” Erik said.

“We need to talk to Liam.”

“We need more agents, more cameras, and much less visibility.”

Jeremy lifted an eyebrow. “She’s not going to like that.”

“You talk to Liam. I’ll handle Brynn.”

Lindsey eased down the darkened street, scanning the dilapidated houses separated by chain-link fences. Torn-up cars sat on lawns. Some homes looked deserted. Others were clearly inhabited, and shadowy figures lounged on sofas, watching the street from their porches. Lindsey was in an undercover ride tonight, but she still stood out like a parade float.

She passed a utility easement littered with abandoned fridges and construction debris. The next section of the neighborhood was even less inviting, with several of the homes boarded up and covered in gang graffiti. This neighborhood was a literal dump, caught between a rash of foreclosures and the promise of gentrification that hadn’t yet materialized.

Lindsey checked her phone and squinted at the curb. No painted numbers, so she’d have to go by the dropped pin on her navigation app. She eased into the shadow under a tree and rolled to a stop. After checking her weapon, she got out.

The humid night air smelled faintly of sewage. A dog barked in the distance, and Lindsey glanced around cautiously before emerging from the shadows and crossing the street. She stepped onto the overgrown lawn of a desolate one-story with plywood over the windows.

James Corby’s former home. The notorious serial killer had rented the place for nearly five years before his arrest. The house had fallen into disrepair, but even when Corby lived here, it was a far cry from the manicured campuses and landscaped apartment complexes where he’d trolled for girls.

Many criminals stayed within their comfort zone, but not Corby. He slipped in and out of wealthy neighborhoods, raping, torturing, and murdering with ruthless efficiency. Lindsey believed his job had provided a key advantage. As a cable installer, Corby had learned to move through vastly different neighborhoods without drawing attention. He’d overcome the natural human reluctance to trespass. And he’d learned to be elusive. All skills that served him well as a predator.

Lindsey stared at the dark front door, matching it to the crime-scene photos she’d seen in the case file. The yellow tape that had once crisscrossed the entrance was long gone. The property had changed hands several times in the intervening years.

Another glance around. An orange ember glowed on a porch across the street, letting Lindsey know she wasn’t alone. She ignored it and crossed the yard to the side gate beside the shared fence. The gate stood a few inches ajar. Lindsey pulled. It didn’t budge, and she gave it a hard jerk to unstick it from the weeds.

On her left, the fence was swallowed by a dense tangle of vines. She moved along the side yard, noting the weathered boards and chipping paint. It was dimmer here and danker, and the overgrown lawn was a minefield of trash. Crumpled beer cans lined the base of the house, and Lindsey stepped over a section of gutter as she entered the backyard.

The lot was deep and dark and sloped down. From the Google map she’d viewed, she knew the property backed up to the utility easement she’d passed earlier, which connected homes on this side of the street to a nearby trailer park that was a hot spot for meth busts.

Lindsey stood for a moment and let her eyes adjust. She didn’t know what she was looking for, exactly. The marshals had been here already and found the place empty. Neighbors hadn’t seen Corby, and most had never even heard of him. Or so they claimed. If they did know him, they’d been unwilling to talk about it to anyone with a badge.

A shudder moved through her as she scanned the gloomy yard. She wasn’t sure why she’d come here, but after studying the crime-scene photos, she’d felt compelled to see it with her own eyes.

Another distant bark started a chorus throughout the neighborhood. Lindsey touched her front pocket, checking for her pepper spray. Picking her way through the weeds, she moved farther into the shadows until she reached the steep slope. She took out her mini-Maglite and beamed it around. She’d walked right past a fire pit, little more than a charred patch of ground surrounded by old tires and tree stumps. Bits of foil and bent spoons littered the area.

Lindsey stepped around a stump and aimed her flashlight at the place where the tangle of vines ended. It was where the fence ended, too. The lot dropped off sharply, and the stench of stagnant water was stronger here. A scrap of white caught Lindsey’s eye. It was a cigarette butt, and the white contrasted sharply with the freshly turned soil of a shallow hole. Lindsey stepped closer and crouched down, taking out her phone. The hole was about the size of a shoebox. She snapped several pictures, then stood and tucked her phone away. A breeze moved through the trees, and she caught a whiff of cigarette smoke.

“This is private property.”

She whirled, her hand instantly on her holster.

The gravelly voice belonged to a giant man holding a slender cigarette. He squinted at her as he brought it to his mouth. She aimed her light at him, checking his body for the telltale bulge of a weapon. His dingy muscle shirt showed off sausage-like arms covered in faded biker tattoos.

“Who the fuck are you?” he asked.

“Detective Leary.” She shifted her jacket to show him her badge, as well as the butt of her pistol. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Call me a concerned citizen.”

Lindsey checked his eyes to see if he was on something. “Where do you live?” she asked.

“Nearby.”

“Have you seen any unusual people in the area over the past week?”

“You’re looking for that guy. The fugitive.”

“Have you seen him?”

He gave her a crooked smile, revealing a gap in his teeth. “What’s it worth to you?”

“I don’t know. What’s it worth to you? Want me to run your name?”

The smile faded. “Nah, I haven’t seen him. Police were already here asking.”

“Any unusual cars in the neighborhood? Maybe a white pickup truck?”

“No.”

Lindsey’s phone vibrated, and she pulled it from her back pocket, still keeping an eye on the guy’s hands. She recognized the phone number.

“Nice talking to you. Let’s go.” She nodded, indicating for Sausage Arms to go ahead of her. He flicked his cigarette away before turning and tromping back to the side yard, and Lindsey had a view of his hairy shoulders.

He squeezed through the gate. Lindsey followed. He gave her a last look before sauntering across the street toward the house with the darkened porch.

Lindsey tapped her phone. “Leary.”

“This is Alec Mason, with the Star. I got your message at work.”

“Mr. Mason, hi.” She returned to her car, checking up and down the street before getting inside.

“You said something about a homicide investigation. Who are you, exactly?”

“I’m with the Sheridan Heights Police Department,” she told the reporter as she took out a notepad. “I’m investigating the murder of Judge Jennifer Ballard.”

“Then you’re looking for James Corby,” he said. “And I’ll tell you what I told the marshal who contacted me. I haven’t talked to the man in years.”

Lindsey felt a pang of disappointment. So the marshals had already tapped this lead.

“That’s not exactly why I called,” she said. “I’m interested in your interview with Corby. I understand you went to see him about nine months after he was convicted?”

“I did. My paper wanted a feature.”

“And what did you talk about?”

He didn’t answer right away, and she wondered if he was going to stonewall her. The other reporter she’d reached out to hadn’t even called her back. She figured this guy wouldn’t have bothered if he weren’t willing to talk.

“Mr. Mason?”

“We talked about his conviction, mostly. I mean, I started him with small talk to get him comfortable. But that didn’t take too long. The guy wanted to rant, and I was happy to listen.”

“What did he rant about?”

“His trial. The justice system. How everything was rigged. The police, the attorneys, the jury.”

Lindsey jotted all that down. “He thought the jury was rigged?”

“He thought everyone was against him. The prosecutors were crooked. The detectives were liars. The people at his work—”

“The cable company?”

“Yeah, they were in on it, too, according to Corby. Every person, every step of the way, was part of some big conspiracy to put him away for murders he didn’t commit. Like I said, the guy was on a rant. And I’m no psychologist or anything, but he seemed pretty paranoid.”

“And did you find him . . . credible?”

“I found him intelligent,” the reporter said. “But that’s not the same as credible. I mean, there was the blood on his boot. There was the necklace, the media clips in his house. I’m sure you’re familiar with all the evidence against him. It was really overwhelming. The two lead lawyers—Ballard and Holloran—they put on a convincing case.”

Lindsey tensed at the mention of Brynn. It was the first time she’d heard Brynn referred to as one of the lead lawyers. Jennifer Ballard was the true lead, but apparently some people had the impression they played an equal role. Maybe Corby thought so, too.

“Back to your conversations with Corby,” she said. “Did he ever mention any friends?”

“He didn’t have any.”

“Coworkers he talked about by name? A distant relative?”

“No.”

“Maybe an ex-girlfriend?”

“No.” A pause. “Did you ever see him in person?”

“I haven’t had the pleasure.”

“Well, he’s got this stone-cold killer thing going on. I could never figure out whether it was a persona or his real personality, but I’ll tell you, it makes your skin crawl. He has this way of staring at you when you’re talking to him. Or even when you’re not talking to him. Trust me, he’s not someone you ever want to meet.”

“And you only met with him that one time?”

“That’s right. I hope to never see him again. The day I heard he got out, I went and bought myself a handgun, and I’ve had it with me ever since.”

“You believe Corby is a threat to your safety?”

“Hell, yeah. He’s on a revenge quest. He’s a threat to anyone he wants.”