Thread of Fear Page 9

  At the very least, I'd found the right place.

  I passed through the hallway into a small living room. A single couch, a coffee table and a flat screen TV. Hardwood floors. A pile of magazines was stacked up next to one side of the sofa, a couple more artfully arranged on the coffee table. Most of them looked to be travel-related or touting the outdoors. It was neat, clean, nothing out of place. I glanced at the front door – the deadbolt was locked.

  Maybe she'd just forgotten to lock the back door or hadn't pulled it all the way shut.

  Another hallway branched off from the living room and I walked down it. A bathroom and what looked like a spare bedroom with a day bed in it, covered with a bright pink comforter. I walked up the stairs at the end of the hallway to the second floor.

  There were two rooms on the second floor, a bedroom and an office. A queen-sized bed was pushed up against the wall in the bedroom, a multi-colored quilt on top of it. A dresser, a nightstand, a couple of paintings on the walls. There were a couple of perfume bottles on the dresser, another framed photo. No clothes scattered about, nothing out of order. Everything was where it should've been.

  I crossed the hall into the office. A small desk sat beneath the window, a PC on top of it. There was a bookshelf with a mishmash of books – novels, textbooks, cookbooks, a little bit of everything. A picture of Carina sitting in the first seat in a river raft, cresting over a small rapid, was blown up to eight by ten size and hung near the desk. A braided, oval rug was slightly askew on the floor.

  The green light on the CPU beside the desk glowed and the box itself hummed. I walked over to the desk and gave the mouse on the desktop a wiggle. The screen crackled, then came to life.

  The background photo on the desktop was Carina standing next to a tent, smiling. Her cheeks were sunburnt and a Cubs hat sat crooked on top of her head. In the opening to the tent, I could make out two backpacks and a pair of hiking boots that were definitely men's. Off in the distance, several cars were parked. A blue pick up, a gray camper and an old VW bus. She was at some sort of campground. And she wasn't alone.

  I scanned the names of the few files saved on the desktop. Nothing out of the ordinary, but I had no idea what was in them and I was already nervous about being there without permission. I didn't want to sit down and make myself at home. I'd been hoping to find something that would point me in the direction of Patrick Dennison, but I wasn't seeing it.

  I glanced at the bookshelf again, taking a closer look at what was on the shelves. Most of them were travel books or guides to specific places or cities in the U.S. There were several camping guides, too. I grabbed one of those and thumbed through it quickly, then set it back on the shelf. There was another one next to it and I picked that one up. There were two corners folded back, one for campgrounds in Yuma, Arizona and another for campgrounds near the Salton Sea.

  I looked back at the computer, but the screen had gone back to sleep. I wondered if she'd taken that picture at one of those campgrounds. I wondered if Patrick had ever gone camping with her. I wondered a lot of things.

  I walked out of the room, down the stairs and through the hallway on the first floor, back toward the front of the house. I knew I needed to get out of there. I could come back another time. Show up at Ted's. Anything but wander around her house, uninvited.

  I reached into my pocket to check the time on my phone when two police officers charged down the hallway, pointing their weapons at me, screaming at me to get down on the floor.

  NINETEEN

  I hit the floor with a thud, helped there by the hand of one of the officers who shoved me before I could even bend my knees. He came down on top of me, his knee in my back, knocking the wind out of me. He wrenched my left arm behind me then my right. The cuffs locked tightly around my wrists.

  There were other cops in the house now and I thought there were an awful lot of uniforms for what I'd assumed was just a response to an open door or a break-in. I could hear them milling around, chattering into their uniform mics, but it was hard to decipher what they were saying because the officer on my back had my head pinned to the floor, his hand over my ear to hold me in place.

  I laid there for a minute, not resisting, not saying a word, just waiting.

  Finally, the hand came off my ear and the knee lifted from my ribs. Two officers pulled me to my feet and I was finally able to orient myself.

  I counted four uniforms and another guy in a coat and tie. They were all eyeing me carefully. The guy that had hold of my left elbow was breathing hard, his face tomato red. I assumed he was the one who'd taken me to the ground and the adrenaline was still having its way with him.

  The coat and tie guy lifted his chin at me. “I.D. on you?”

  “Back pocket, right side.”

  The officer on that elbow fished into my pocked and pulled out my wallet. He handed it to the plainclothes cop.

  The guy took it and nodded at the uniform. “Check him.”

  I watched the guy go through my wallet as the uniform patted me down slowly. The guy checking the wallet wore reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose. His hair was going from black to gray, more of it in his beard than on his head. His skin was the color of mahogany and his eyes were narrow slits of gray. He wore his red tie loosened at his neck over a wrinkled white dress shirt. The navy sport coat hugged his shoulders and mid-section, the gold buttons on it shiny. He was about my height and about ten years older. And he was pissed.

  His eyes moved from the wallet to me. “You're an investigator? Or do you just have that printed for fun on your cards?”

  “Not licensed,” I said. “But, yeah.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I was looking for Carina Armstrong.”

  “You know her?”

  “Met her one time.”

  “Where was that?”

  “Where she worked,” I said. “Ted's.”

  “Why?”

  “Why does she work there? I don't know.”

  His eyes narrowed. “No, why were you there to speak to her?”

  “Am I under arrest?” I asked.

  “I haven't decided yet,” he said. “Why don't you finish answering my questions and then I'll decide?”

  I shook my head. “I'm done talking.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “So should I just go ahead and arrest you? I mean, we found you in here and it's not your place. Or do you have a key? Can you show me the key?”

  I didn't say anything.

  “I've got you here on a pretty easy B and E,” he said, looking around the room. “I think it might be in your best interest to explain otherwise.” He turned back to me. “Unless that's what it is, then you probably should shut the hell up.”

  I didn't say anything.

  The guy shrugged. “Fine by me.” He nodded at the cop on my left. “Rights and take him in.”

  The cop started reciting my rights and I listened quietly. When he was done, I looked at the plainclothes guy. “You going to tell me why I'm being arrested?”

  He adjusted his glasses and smiled at me. “Eventually.”

  TWENTY

  “I'll save you the time,” I said. “I'm not talking without an attorney.”

  I was sitting in an interrogation room at the Vegas Police Department headquarters. They'd walked me out of Carina's home, into the back of a cruiser and drove me straight to the station. They didn't book me, though, just moved me straight to a small room with a metal table and three chairs. The cop that initially hooked me up told me to sit tight and someone would see me soon.

  Thirty minutes later, the guy who'd been running the scene at Carina's house walked into the room and closed the door behind him. He glanced my direction, an expectant expression on his face.

  I glared at him. “I'm not talking.”

  “Relax,” he said, sitting down across from me. He loosened his tie. “You're fine.”

  “I'm not fine,” I said, pissed. “You arrested me and brought me in here without telling
me why, then played some bullshit game of making me wait. So I'm not fine and I want an attorney.”

  He leaned back in his chair. “I was still at the home,” he said. He folded his arms across his chest. “I just got back. It wasn't a game. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

  “Right. Get me the lawyer now.”

  He frowned and motioned for my hands, which were still cuffed. I hesitated, then lifted them up. He reached across the table with a key and unlocked them. He unclipped them and pulled them off my wrists. He pushed them to the corner of the table.

  “Thanks,” I said. I rubbed at the reddened skin. “Now get me the lawyer.”

  “Yeah, I'll get on that in a minute,” he said. He drummed his fingers on the table, his eyes still on me. “Why were you at her place?”

  “Lawyer.”

  He sighed. “Look, if you wanna dick around with a lawyer and shit, that's fine. I'll actually go ahead and formally arrest you, charge you with some bullshit trespassing charge. But we can both save each other a lot of time here if you'll just answer my questions.”

  “Lawyer,” I repeated.

  He slipped the glasses off his nose and rubbed his eyes, then his temples. He slid the glasses back into place and sighed again. “Let's start over. I'm Detective Lionel Toball. You are not under arrest.” He paused. “And you might be interested to know that Carina Armstrong is dead.”

  I started to tell him once again that I wanted an attorney, but I stopped in surprise. “She's dead?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. So let me be very upfront here and cut to the chase. You talked to her earlier today and we found you in her home. When we found you there, I thought my day was gonna be short and I had the guy who did her.” He leaned back in the chair again and folded his arms across his broad chest. “But then you tell me you're an investigator and I make a couple calls and I find out you're some sort of quasi-famous investigator and an ex-cop. Couple that with a few other things and I don't think you're my guy.” He shrugged. “Should I be crossing you off the list so early? Probably not. But maybe if you wanna share a bit with me here, I'll feel better. And maybe I won't feel like jacking your shit around just because I'm tired and because I can.”

  I needed to tread lightly. I was stunned that Carina Armstrong was dead, but I also wasn't sure what I should give away in regard to my investigation. There were a lot of pieces in play and I had to be careful.

  “I spoke to her this afternoon,” I finally said. “At Ted's, like I told you. I'm looking for someone and her name came up in the investigation. Spoke to her for maybe fifteen minutes, then I left.”

  Toball watched me carefully. “And you ended up at her place why?”

  “Follow up,” I said. “I went to see if she was home. Knocked on the front door, no answer. Went around back. The door was open. I went in. Dumb on my part, I admit it. Knew it when I did it. But the door was open.”

  “Open or unlocked?”

  “Open.”

  His jaw slid to one side and he gnawed on his lower lip for a moment, still watching me. I held his gaze.

  “Who are you looking for?” he asked.

  “The husband of a client,” I said.

  “You know where he is?”

  “No.”

  “How is he related to my vic?”

  “I don't know.”

  He put the glasses back on. “This is the part where I ask you about your investigation.”

  “I can't talk about that,” I said. “My client would have to allow that.”

  “Mmhmm,” he said, disinterested. “This is also the part where I tell you that while I'm tired and trying to be reasonable here, I also really don't mind screwing with you because it doesn't take much effort and because, again, I can.” He paused, scratching the top of his head. “I'd also be happy to have one of my officers drive your ass back to San Diego. Tonight. I'll even pay for the gas.” He frowned. “So. This is the part where I ask you about your investigation again because I've got a dead girl in my morgue and you're the closest thing I've got to a clue right now.”

  I shifted in the chair. I didn't like being leveraged, especially when I felt like Anchor already had me over a barrel. But I also know that Toball had the ability to completely derail me, in a multitude of ways. And I was genuinely disturbed that Carina Armstrong was dead.

  “I know that my guy worked at Ted's,” I told him. “Several places like Ted's. I talked to her about his work there, if she knew where he was, if she knew anything that might help me. She said she didn't. I went to her house to follow up, to press her again, to see if she could give me anything.”

  “You think she did? Know something?”

  “I don't know,” I said. “But she was the only person who spoke to me all day.”

  “Your guy have a relationship with my vic?”

  “I don't know,” I repeated. “That's what I wanted to find out.”

  “But you suspected so that's why you went to her place.”

  “I was following up.”

  “So you didn't suspect anything?”

  “I was just following up.” I sounded like a broken record and we both knew it.

  He sighed and shook his head. “So the guy you're looking for. You say he works at several places like Ted's. Similar fine, upstanding titty bars?”

  I nodded. “From my understanding, yes.”

  “And he's just disappeared or what?”

  “Hasn't been seen for a few days.”

  Toball stood. “I'll be right back. Sit tight.”

  It took him twenty minutes to return.

  “So much for being right back,” I said when he walked back in the room.

  He slid a small plastic bag across the table to me. “Your phone, wallet and keys. Your car is in the impound lot, but it's ready to go.” He smiled as he sat down again. “Was I gone long? Times flies when you're having so much fun, I guess.”

  “Right.” I pulled the bag toward me. “You cutting me loose?”

  “In a few minutes,” he said. “Okay. So your guy is Patrick Dennison.”

  “If you say so.”

  He nodded. “I do,” he said, smiling. “Wife reported him missing a day ago, I believe. Turns out he's an employee at the company that owns Ted's.” His grin widened. “Told you. Time flies and fun and all that.”

  His smugness was irritating, but at least I hadn't been the one to divulge the details to him. He set his elbows on the table and tented his fingers together. “So do you wanna save me the trouble of bothering his wife and just tell me what the deal is or should I go make a nuisance of myself and tell her that you sent me her way?”

  “There's nothing to tell,” I said, pulling my stuff out of the bag. “You've got it all figured out.”

  His fake grin flickered. “Yeah, well, call me old-fashioned, but I wanna hear it from you.”

  I shrugged. “There's nothing else to tell. You figured it all out. You're a hell of a detective.”

  “Hey, Tyler?”

  I looked at him.

  “Don't fuck with me,” he said, arching an eyebrow. “Because right now, you're the closest thing I have to a suspect and I will lock your fucking ass up for a few days just for the fun of it. Been wrong plenty of times before, so I'll be happy to take a little shit for locking up the wrong guy for a week or so.”

  His face had hardened into a slab of stone. He'd reached his patience limit and I was sure he was under pressure – either self-imposed or from above – to work the murder and turn it over quickly. The fact that he'd tossed me my personal belongings, though, told me he wasn't really going to hold me.

  I slid my wallet into my back pocket. “I got to town this morning. I spoke to my client's wife and then to Carina Armstrong. That's it. So if you wanna drive out to her house and confirm that, be my guest. I can give you directions. But I don't have anything else to tell you. Other than to make it as clear as I can, I didn't kill the girl nor do I know who did it.” I stood. “And since you told me I'm not under ar
rest and you gave me my stuff, I'm leaving.”

  I walked around the table toward the door.

  “Mr. Tyler,” he said. “I'm going to ask that you remain in Las Vegas for awhile.”

  “I'm here until tomorrow. Best I can do.”

  He twisted in his seat. “Then you'll let me know when you leave and where you're headed. And I'd like to know where you're staying while you're here.”

  I pulled the door open. “Use your detective skills. I'm sure you'll find it.”

  TWENTY ONE

  I asked at the front desk about the impound lot and the guy in the uniform directed me down a hallway to a back door and into an exterior lot. Another uniform was sitting in a small booth, listening to the radio and paging through a news magazine. I handed him my driver's license and he took it wordlessly. He scanned it, typed something into the laptop computer on the shelf he was using as a desk, then opened a drawer in the cabinet behind him. He handed me my keys and showed me where to sign on the clipboard he handed me. I scrawled my name on the line and walked away without saying thank you.

  My car was parked next to a tricked out Cadillac. I got in and drove out of the lot. I checked my rearview mirror to make sure I wasn't being followed. I didn't put it past Toball to stick a tail on me, but my mirror looked clean. About a mile from the station, I pulled over to the curb and pulled out my phone. I pulled up the contacts and, gritting my teeth, punched in a number.

  “Mr. Tyler,” John Anchor said. “Good evening.”

  “Actually, it's not,” I said. “I need to meet with you. In person. Soon.”

  “I see,” he said. “Can you explain as to what this is in regard to?”

  “It's in regard to Patrick Dennison and me trying to figure out exactly what the hell is going on,” I said. “When can you be here?”

  “I'm finishing a meeting now,” he said. “I can be there in an hour.”

  Even Anchor didn't have access to the kind of plane that could get him from Minneapolis to Las Vegas in sixty minutes. “Aren't you in Minneapolis?”