Freak

  He could hear Morris heaving on the other end. “I don’t understand this.” From the uneven tone of his friend’s voice, combined with all the huffing and puffing, Jerry knew that Morris was pacing. Probably wearing a path on his living room rug with his size-fourteen feet. “This cannot be happening. Not again. It’s last year all over again.”

  “We don’t know anything for a fact. She might not even be where we’re going. For all we know, she’s out shopping and her phone isn’t charged. There’s no reason to panic.” Even as Jerry spoke, he knew the words were falling on deaf ears.

  “What about Marianne?” Morris said, still huffing. “Maybe she knows where Sheila is.”

  “I left a voice mail. No answer.” As Jerry said this, a small tingle went through him.

  Morris apparently had the same tingle, because he said uncertainly, “Wait. I think they might have been together today for a bit. Sheila said something about getting together with her . . .” His voice trailed off. Then, sounding even more uncertain, he said, “You don’t think . . . ?”

  “Nah,” Jerry said aggressively, pushing away the sick feeling that was beginning to eat at his stomach. “Annie’s fine, wherever she is.”

  “Call her boyfriend.”

  Ouch. “I don’t have his number.”

  “Bullshit,” Morris spat. “You’re an ex-cop and a private investigator and your estranged wife is shacking up with some new guy. My ass you don’t have the number. Call him.”

  Harsh, exceptionally harsh. Every word was a dagger through Jerry’s heart, and he tried to remember that Morris’s fiancée might be missing—for the second time in a year—and that her life might be at risk, also for the second time in a year. It wasn’t that Morris didn’t have a point, but man, it hurt like hell to hear him speak like this.

  “I’ll call him,” Jerry said.

  “Call me back.”

  Both men disconnected at the same time, not bothering to say goodbye. Jerry called information and asked for the number for George Jackson. Of course it was unlisted—the man was the losingest coach in the Northwest, and if his home phone number was made public, he’d probably get pranked all the time.

  He then called an old friend from PD, who ran the name without asking questions. Jotting the number down in his notepad, Jerry swallowed his pride and called his wife’s boyfriend. The man picked up on the second ring.

  “Is this George Jackson?” Jerry asked.

  “Yes, this is George.” The man’s voice was an enviable baritone. Much like Jerry’s voice used to be before his throat was slashed. “Who’s calling?”

  In the background Jerry could hear the sounds of an audience laughing. The television. Was Annie curled up beside him on the sofa, cuddling under a blanket? Or, God forbid, were they watching TV in bed?

  He cleared his throat, wishing to God he could sound like his old self, if just for this one phone call. “This is Jerry Isaac.”

  “Jerry who—” A pause. “Jerry. Hey, man.” Jackson’s voice changed from pleasant to wary.

  “You know who I am?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m sorry to call you out of the blue. May I speak with Marianne?”

  “She’s not here.”

  “Come on, man, tell her it’s an emergency. I really need to speak with her.”

  “I believe you, but she’s not here.” Jackson paused again. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  Jerry didn’t know how to feel. Part of him was relieved as hell that Marianne wasn’t lying naked next to this man, and the other part of him was suddenly terrified because now he officially didn’t know where his wife was. “Any idea where she’d be?”

  “You tried her at home? And on her cell?”

  Jerry couldn’t bring himself to answer such stupid questions.

  His silence made the point he intended, and George Jackson sighed. “I don’t know where she is, man. We’re not seeing each other anymore.”

  Jerry sat up a little straighter. He could tell Torrance had overheard this last bit of conversation because his ex-partner’s head seemed to be cocked a little closer than it had been a few seconds before. He really wished he wasn’t talking about this with someone else in the car. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize that. When’s the last time you saw her?”

  “Listen, should I be concerned?”

  “I could tell you that if you’d just answer my questions.”

  Another pause. “Couple days ago. As she was leaving my house.”

  An unnecessary jab. Through clenched teeth, Jerry said, “Did she happen to mention having any special plans this week?”

  “No, nothing.”

  “Have you met her friend Sheila?”

  “No, but I’ve heard a lot about her,” Jackson said. “Why?”

  “Any mention that she was going to see Sheila this week? This afternoon?”

  “Uh . . . yes, as a matter of fact, I think she did mention that. She was going to suggest they start doing yoga again. I think she might have even mentioned that there was a class today. She was going to try and make Sheila go with her.”

  Jerry finally turned to Torrance, who met his gaze with an arched brow. “Do you know where?”

  “There’s a yoga studio not too far from her office. On Lenora and . . . Fifth, I think.”

  “Name?”

  “I can’t remember.” Jackson sounded frustrated. “But we drove by it once. It’s beside a little coffee shop and the sign for the studio is bright pink. You can’t miss it.”

  “Thanks,” Jerry said.

  “Hey, man. Wait.”

  Jerry waited. He could almost hear the wheels turning in the man’s head. The man who was no longer Annie’s boyfriend, whom Jerry suddenly didn’t dislike quite as much. “Yeah?”

  “Listen, it feels funny asking you this, you being . . . you, and all—” Jackson cleared his throat, and Jerry took some comfort in the other man’s obvious discomfort. At least he wasn’t the only one feeling awkward. “But can you have her call me once you’ve gotten ahold of her? Or send me an email? You’ve got me worried.”

  “Sure, I can do that,” Jerry said, and he meant it.

  They disconnected. Immediately Jerry pulled up the Web browser on his phone and did a search for all the yoga studios in Seattle. There was one right at Lenora and Fifth, just like Jackson had said. He clicked on the website. The graphics were all done in bright pink. He called the number, and a moment later was speaking to a receptionist.

  “My name is Jerry Isaac and I’m calling from the Seattle police. Can you tell me if a Marianne Chang or a Sheila Tao attended a class today? It’s urgent.”

  “Hang on.” The soft-voiced receptionist sounded all of sixteen. She was back a second later. “Sorry, my computer crashed a few minutes ago, and you know how older computers are, they just won’t—”

  “Miss, please, it’s extremely urgent.”

  A short pause, and then her voice was a little crisper. “What did you say the names were again?”

  Jerry spelled them both out.

  “Yes, they were both here. They signed in for the four-fifteen class. Actually . . .” Jerry could hear her rifling through papers. “I remember Marianne. She came back after the class to let me know not to tow her car.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Her car,” the receptionist said, sounding impatient. Noise in the background told Jerry the studio was busy. “She was having trouble with it, it wouldn’t start. She asked me to make sure it wasn’t towed. She was going to call triple-A but wasn’t sure if they’d get to it before we closed. Hang on . . .” She put the phone down for a few seconds. “Yup, I just checked. Her car’s still here. She said that she and a friend were being driven back to her office by some man and she’d call triple-A from there . . . Hey, if you talk to her, can you let her know that triple-A never showed up?”

  “What man? Describe him.”

  “I didn’t get too close a look but through the window
I could see he was tall, dark-haired, good-looking. Really fit. Early thirties, maybe.”

  Jerry thanked her and hung up, feeling numb all over. After a moment he turned to Torrance. “She described someone who fits Mark Cavanaugh’s description. Assuming that it’s really him—and who else would it be?—it looks like they got into his car. Which means they have both Sheila and Annie.” He choked as he said his wife’s name. “God, Mike. They have my wife.”

  Torrance nodded, knowing that nothing he could say at this moment would help. Keeping one hand on the steering wheel, he reached over and popped open the glove compartment, where his backup weapon was stored. Jerry took the Glock out and held it in his lap. Gripping it made him feel a little bit better, but not much. He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t need to.

  The detective pressed his foot down harder on the gas and accelerated, and for once, Jerry was grateful that his former partner drove like a maniac.

  chapter 36

  THE COUNTRY HOUSE was in a small town called Concrete, population 842, according to the sign as they entered the town. It probably wasn’t far off in terms of accuracy. There really was nothing to look at. Just a bunch of houses here and there.

  Mark Cavanaugh’s grandmother’s home was at the south tip of Lake Shannon. A once-pretty house set on three acres, its days of glory were long past. Torrance pulled into the gravel driveway, and both men stepped out of the car, taking a moment to size up the house and their surroundings. The first thing that caught Jerry’s eye was the shiny black Dodge Durango off to the side. Definitely Cavanaugh’s ride, according to his DMV registration.

  The property appeared to be abandoned. The grass was mixed with weeds as high as Jerry’s shins and the house’s exterior was peeling. A few of the shutters hung askew and a fading, warped wraparound porch framed dirty windows, some with cracks. Parked off to the side was an old blue Ford pickup, missing a bumper and a wheel. The house had apparently been in Cavanaugh’s family for three generations, though it didn’t look as if anyone had lived in it for years. Apparently Doris Wheaton, currently buried in the Heavenly Rest Cemetery, had been the last resident. She’d moved into a nursing home fifteen years earlier, and nobody had lived in it since. The town of Concrete was just too rural.

  But behind the old house, Lake Shannon sparkled. The light from the full moon rippled off the waters, and there was a sense of calm and tranquillity. This could be a beautiful place if someone was willing to spend some money on repairs and maybe donate a little elbow grease.

  Jerry took the steps up to the front entrance quickly and pounded on the door. No answer. Torrance followed suit, shouting, “Open up! Police!” but again, no answer.

  With a grim look at Jerry, Torrance pulled out his gun and thrust his shoulder into the wood. The door opened with a cracking sound.

  “I could live the whole rest of my life without ever having to break through a door again,” Torrance said drily, rubbing his shoulder. “It’s not like it is on TV. That shit hurts, pal.”

  Jerry heard him speaking but his brain didn’t bother to interpret the words. He was too focused on looking for Annie. With Torrance’s Glock in hand, he stepped inside the house and looked around, ears tuned for any possible sound.

  There were no curtains on any of the windows and the electricity didn’t work when Jerry flicked a few of the switches. The moonlight streaming in through the dirty windows was the only light inside, so he pulled out the pocket flashlight he always kept with him and switched it on. Torrance had his Maglite and the two of them proceeded to scope the house quietly.

  They split up, Jerry taking the right side and Torrance the left, meeting back in the middle a moment later.

  “Nothing?” Torrance asked quietly.

  Jerry shook his head. Unless cobwebs counted.

  They took the stairs, again splitting up, and again, neither man found anything. The house was sparsely furnished, the decor dated, and most of the closet doors were open, making it very quick to check.

  “Maybe there’s a shed out back or something,” Torrance said.

  Taking one last look around, Jerry nodded. The two exited the house and headed toward the backyard.

  There was an old woodshed with windows and peeling paint, but it was stuffed so full of junk there was no way a person could be inside. Scoping the rest of the backyard with his frustratingly small flashlight, Jerry heard Torrance’s voice.

  “Found a root cellar!”

  He sprinted over to where his ex-partner was, and in the ground there was, indeed, a root cellar. And the long grass surrounding it looked disturbed, as if someone had been there recently.

  Oh God if she’s inside please God let her be okay please God please. The thoughts, scattered and almost incoherent, traveled through Jerry’s mind at the speed of lightning.

  “It’s padlocked,” Torrance said. “We can break it, though. The warrant is for the entire premises.”

  “Do it.”

  “Watch yourself.” Torrance aimed his gun and squeezed.

  The heavy cellar door lifted an inch as the padlock blew off, then settled back down again. Jerry reached forward and pulled the door up and open, and stared at the long steps leading underground. It was pitch black.

  “You want me to lead?” Torrance asked.

  Jerry didn’t bother to answer. He was through the doorway and down the stairs before Torrance could say anything else.

  * * *

  The first thing that hit him was the damp smell.

  The second thing that hit him was that with the door closed, there would be a total absence of light. He couldn’t imagine Annie down here. The cellar would be cold and dark and terrifying.

  Behind him, Torrance shone his flashlight over the walls and located a string hanging from the root cellar’s ceiling. Torrance yanked on it and the room—surprisingly larger than Jerry expected—flooded with dim light from the bare bulb. There was obviously a generator somewhere, since the property didn’t seem to have electricity.

  The cellar was filled with crates, cobwebs, and boxes of something that smelled like it was rotting. Someone had also vomited recently, judging by the odor. Jerry flicked his small flashlight onto everything, but he wasn’t being methodical enough about it—his light was haphazardly illuminating the space around him. He couldn’t seem to slow himself down.

  Torrance spotted the body first. “In the corner.”

  Those had to be the worst three words Jerry had ever heard, and his heart stopped. His legs suddenly felt like they weighed a thousand pounds and he couldn’t seem to bring himself to move forward. He could see the body crumpled in the corner, away from the light. A pair of legs were visible from behind a stack of crates filled with canned vegetables.

  “Is it—” He stopped, unable to finish the question.

  Torrance moved forward quickly. He stepped around the crates, not wanting to disturb the scene. It was probably a good thing he was the one checking and not Jerry, who would have knocked the crates over in his quest to see who the body belonged to.

  “It’s not Annie,” Torrance said, and Jerry felt his knees give out from the surge of relief that hit. They were the best three words he could have heard right now. “It’s Mark Cavanaugh.”

  Jerry, legs now finally working, came up behind his ex-partner and shone his own little light down. Yes, it was indeed the former prison guard. Mark Cavanaugh, eyes wide open in surprise, was lying on his side. He looked ten times less handsome with his normally sharp features slack and pallid.

  But then again, nobody looked good dead.

  The CO was lying in a pool of something liquid, something that looked black until the light from the flashlight hit it, revealing it to be a deep, rich red. Blood, of course. Lots and lots of it, seeping from the deep gash at the man’s throat, which might have mirrored Jerry’s own a year earlier.

  Normally Jerry would have been repulsed at the sight of that gaping wound, but his relief that the body wasn’t Annie’s outweighed any other
feeling he might have had at this moment.

  “She cut his throat.” Torrance’s voice was full of wonder. “Can you fucking believe that? Ballsy bitch. Guess she didn’t love him after all.”

  “You should call it in.”

  Torrance nodded and stepped away. He pulled out his phone, but before dialing, he looked at Jerry and said, “I’m happy it’s not Marianne. Or your friend, Sheila.”

  Jerry nodded, and Torrance called in the murder.

  His former partner was back a moment later, his face even grimmer than before.

  “What?” Jerry said.

  “They got an ID on the body this morning, the one from the motel. The vic’s sister filed a missing persons report. Guess who it is.”

  “I’m in no mood for guessing, Mike.”

  “Elizabeth Lee Cavanaugh.”

  Jerry froze. “Cavanaugh’s married?”

  “Well, obviously not anymore. When Elizabeth didn’t show up to work today, the sister got worried, because apparently Cavanaugh’s been on a bender and he’s a mean drunk.”

  “So he killed his wife and covered it up, making it look like Jeremiah Blake did it?”

  “That’s my guess, yeah. Cavanaugh’s got motive—he’s in love with Maddox. And if he was drunk, it’s likely he didn’t even know Jack the Zipper had been arrested.”

  They spent the next few minutes looking around the cellar for clues. There was nothing to even indicate the women had been here, except . . .

  A small object—very small, about the diameter of a quarter but much thicker—was caught in Jerry’s flashlight beam. He stepped forward and squatted down, careful not to touch it. But as the realization of what the object was hit him, he felt his legs go out from under him again, and it was all he could do to keep his balance. He picked it up, staring at it with growing horror.

  It was a tiny pot of Marianne’s lip balm. The one she special-ordered from Paris, the one she was so fanatical about that she always had a pot in her purse, her car, and at home scattered throughout various rooms in the house. He’d know it anywhere. And he’d bet his left nut that Marianne had managed to leave it behind on purpose.