Bad Wolf Chronicles, Books 1-3 Page 12

  Gallagher frowned, unmoved. “That's a lot of speculation.”

  “I'm extrapolating from what I've deciphered in his notebooks. But just run with it for now. During this period, there are suspicious deaths similar to ours where the body is mutilated by stray dogs. All of the deceased were engaged in what we call a high-risk-lifestyle.” Three prostitutes, two female and one male. The fourth and fifth were homeless women.”

  “But we can't connect any of those.”

  “Not yet. But look at the locations of the crime scenes.” She pointed to five yellow pushpins dotting her map. “One here in Oregon, two in Washington state and two across the border in Canada. In that order too.

  “Moving north up the coast, away from Portland. The last death occurs six weeks ago in British Colombia. And then, out of the blue, here.” Her finger swung back to a red pushpin in the city of Portland. “He's traveling straight north, not just out of the state but out of the country. Probably headed for the B.C. interior. But Prall stops and beelines back to Portland. Why?”

  Gallagher snorted the obvious. “Because he's crazy.”

  Lara pulled two newspapers from the chaos of her workspace and handed them over. Gallagher scrutinized the small articles circled in highlighter. Not front page material, the headlines buried in the back pages. HALFWAY HOUSE OF HORRORS, STAFF CHARGED WITH ABUSE.

  He shrugged. “The Gethsemane House bust. What about it?”

  “Look at the date.”

  He checked the date in the header, little more than a month ago. “The halfway house was busted over a year ago. Why is it only being reported now?”

  “The D.A. has been trying to track down every former resident of the halfway house before going public with it. And since it involved minors, the judge ordered a publication ban on it. The ban finally lifted a month ago. Then the headlines appeared.”

  “A month ago? The same time Prall stops moving north and comes back here.”

  “He saw the news,” she said. “That's what brought him back.”

  His shook his head. “Why? He sure as shit didn't come back to press charges.”

  She took a guess. “Revenge.”

  Gallagher skimmed the article, looking for a name. “Where are these people from the halfway house? This Kolchak guy?”

  “Kovacks. Ronald A. He skipped bail, disappeared. You know Hammond? He led the halfway house investigation. He thinks Kovacks is still in town, but gone to ground.”

  “Good luck finding him.” Gallagher stretched, popping his spine. He handed the newspapers back to her. “It's late. Go home, get some sleep.”

  Lara looked at her watch. “Wow, a whole four hours before our shift starts.”

  “Better than none at all, detective.” He strode for the exit, fishing keys out of a pocket. He stopped and turned back. “Hey, Mendes.”

  She tossed the papers down and looked up. “Yeah?”

  “Nice work,” he said, halfway through the exit door.

  FOUR hours was nothing. Lara had just closed her eyes when the alarm buzzed. Her morning coffee did nothing to blow the fog from her head nor did the double long espresso snagged before hitting the office.

  Gallagher phoned in, asked her to man the desk. He had a court date he'd forgotten about. An investigation from last spring had finally rolled its way into the court and he had to testify. Lara sympathized. Wandering the halls of the courthouse waiting to give your piece was a tedious circle of hell endured by cops of every stripe. Rank and experience held no sway here, all were grist milled to dust.

  She wished him luck.

  The clock ticked toward noon and Detective Rowe's report on the animal shelter homicide still hadn't landed in her in-tray or email. She had to hunt it down. For some reason, it had gone to the Lieutenant first. Why, she didn't know but she wasn't comfortable with it. Was it an error or something else?

  Lara went through it, starting with the initial incident report from the responding uniform, the witness statement from Pablo and Rowe's write-up. There was nothing she didn't already know. She needed to talk to Pablo, hear firsthand his account of the incident but it was too soon. The poor guy was such a mess last night. She started reading Rowe's report a second time when the desk phone rang. She scooped it up. “Mendes.”

  “Hey, it's Detective Hammond. Remember me?”

  “Two sugars, no cream. How's business, detective?”

  “Brisk.” His voice thin down the line. “Course, it depends which side of the fence you're on. The bad guys are raking it in.”

  She smiled at that. “You thinking about switching sides?”

  “Shit, I wouldn't mind tooling around in a big Escalade, nothing to do all day but smoke weed. I wonder what kinda 401 K plan they got?”

  She wondered if Detective Hammond had called simply to chitchat. Fine by her, the workday slowly going nowhere. Detective Hammond got to the point.

  “Listen,” he said. “I've been following up on the Kovacks case like you asked. Finally pried loose some answers about the wife, the one who disappeared. Turns out she changed her name.”

  Lara sat up, snatched up a pen. “What name is that?”

  “You sitting down? Her maiden name? Riley. Elizabeth Riley. Your homicide victim.”

  When Lara didn't say anything, Hammond laughed, wishing he could see her face. “You still there, Mendes?”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive,” he laughed. “Merry Christmas, detective.”

  Lara put the receiver down and sat very still. She looked down at her notepad, the doodles scrawled out while Hammond chitchatted. Before he dropped his bomb on her. She had doodled five-pointed stars inside circles. Just like the ones scribbled in Prall's notebooks. Pentagrams.

  18

  GALLAGHER WAS ASLEEP in the Cherokee, snores bouncing around inside the cab, oblivious to his own racket. What woke him up was the Mazda parked next to him. Its alarm went off for no reason and Gallagher jerked awake. Pain spiked up his neck, a pinched nerve or strained muscle. He blinked stupidly through the windshield. Still in the parking garage.

  His day had started off badly and slid downhill from there. Two hours of sleep before the alarm chimed. He got up so tired he felt drunk. The morning routine was slow motion, his brains numb and hands clumsy. Hollering at Amy to get up, checking his schedule. The court date. He'd forgotten all about it. The day hadn't even started and it was already shot to hell.

  Then it was a rush to get Amy up and off to school. Her normal morning state was little better than that of a shuffling zombie, deaf to his prompting to get moving. Irritated, he barked at her to snap out of it and get her lazy ass moving.

  Uncool, dad, uncool. Amy was silent on the drive to school. He apologized but she wouldn't have any of it. He told himself he'd fix it over dinner. They'd have to eat early tonight, Amy had a basketball game.

  Court dates were the worst. And being grilled by some piece of shit defense lawyer wasn't the tough part. It was the waiting that killed you. Something always went wrong, something always got delayed. Your day was shot, that was it. Raised Catholic, Gallagher still believed in hell. It will be this, he knew. Haunting a hallway, waiting for something that will never happen.

  The case was shit too. A drug killing last May, Gallagher kneeling over the body of a nineteen-year old kid named Tovar, face down in a puddle. Grilling the victim's girlfriend, he learned Tovar owed money to some braindead named Delaney. He even pried loose a couple of witnesses who saw Delaney talking to the victim earlier that night. They had shell casings at the scene, nine millimeter. Common as dirt but they had no weapon on Delaney. A few other details but it was all small stuff. The lawyer from the D.A. office tried to bully the accused to plea deal but Delaney refused and forced it to trial. Now it was showtime and Gallagher knew they were sunk but there was no way to turn the train around now. So he waited.

  The call came after three. Gallagher endured a grilling from a wide-eared defense lawyer determined to make him look like a brai
nless jackass. Gallagher bristled but kept his face stony no matter what the little shit said. You had to keep your cool. The minute you got angry, you were dead because juries read anger as guilt or denial. Even from a cop.

  He climbed back into his truck in the parking garage, exhausted. Testifying is a workout without the work. Adrenaline juices up your heart but all you do is sit there. Five minutes, he told himself. A five-minute nap, then the drive home.

  The Mazda's alarm zapped him awake. Pie-eyed and drooling, he glanced at the dashboard clock. Five twenty. Jesus Christ. He keyed the ignition and squealed the tires down the garage ramp.

  Amy's basketball game was at six-thirty. He needed to have dinner on the table by five on a game night. Now the poor kid was going to go play ball on an empty stomach. Plus he still needed to smooth things over for barking at her this morning.

  “You are the world's worst frakking dad,” he spit. “Put that on a frigging T-shirt and wear it.”

  He dug for his phone. If she hadn't eaten already, he'd call Pizzzadelic and they could pick it up on the way, eat in the truck. The cell screen was dark. He'd turned it off before going into the box and had forgotten to turn it back on. Dumbass. He thumbed it on, waited for the stupid thing to boot up. Nine messages. Two from home, three from the office and four from Mendes's cell. He dialed home, the rest would have to wait.

  AFTER leaving the second message, Amy got her gear and threw dinner together. Gyro sandwiches using last night's pork loin, a green salad. She caught the phone on the first ring and made his to go. He ate it on the way, steering with his knees.

  He apologized for barking at her this morning, said being tired was no excuse. She admitted she hated mornings too and they left it at that. They rolled into the parking lot and Amy bolted for the gym.

  He squeezed onto the second bleacher between the other parents. He said hello to the few people he knew and waved at the parents whose names he'd forgotten. All of them couples, moms and dads watching their daughters go up against the visiting team. And here he was, the single parent. An object of pity, a reminder to children of what happens in broken homes. Gallagher loved watching Amy's games, basketball and soccer and all the way back to t-ball, but he never felt comfortable around other parents. Judgment hung in the air, the stacking up of social status and comparable incomes. It was exhausting.

  Shoes squealed on the hardwood. The ball was thrown back into play and Amy rushed to position. The visiting team was big, almost all of them looming a foot over Amy. They charged in fast and Amy lunged up to block a shot, got knocked to the floor. The whistle blew and two of Amy's teammates helped her up. She shook it off and limped back to her post.

  Gallagher shot to his feet and barked at the ref to open his goddamn eyes. Amy waved him off, her hand gesture signaling two meanings: I'm fine and please don't embarrass me. He sat back down and glared at the offending player with the same death-rays he reserved for shitbags on the street. He couldn't help it.

  His phone buzzed. He put it to his ear. “Gallagher.”

  “Are you okay?” Lara's voice over the line. “I couldn't get through.”

  “Technical problems.” He watched the ball go back into play. “What's up?”

  “Our victim, Elizabeth Riley? She knew Ivan Prall.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because she used to be Bethany Kovacks,” she said. “Married to Ronald Kovacks. They ran the halfway house where Prall was abused. She filed divorce papers, changed her name.”

  “Damn,” he said. His attention split between the call and the game. “She's the one whose records disappeared.”

  “Say that again. I can't hear you.”

  “You were right,” he spoke up. “Prall came back for a reason.”

  “I want to take a look at that halfway house. How soon can you be there?”

  “I can't. We'll do it tomorrow. First thing.”

  “Where are you?” She strained to hear him through the background fracas. “I can barely hear you.”

  “Amy's basketball game.”

  “Oh. Well, wish her luck.”

  There was a pause over the line. Gallagher covered his other ear to block out the noise around him. “What?”

  “I'll fill you in tomorrow,” she said.

  “Don't be a cowboy, Mendes,” he shouted into the phone. “Wait until tomorrow, we'll both go.”

  “Cowboy? Is that supposed to be funny?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Have fun.” She hung up.

  Gallagher dropped the cell into his pocket, turned his attention to the game. He checked the scoreboard. The visitors scored again and he'd missed it entirely. Amy leaped for the ball and took another hit from the same girl who hammered her earlier. Amy shook off the hit and stayed on her feet. Atta girl.

  He fidgeted on the bleacher, one thought nagging him. She wouldn't do anything stupid, would she? Stupid was his department. Mendes played it safe.

  Right?

  TUCKED inside a dog-eared file folder was a photograph of the Gethsemane halfway house. The files from the investigation into Ronald Kovacks were still tied up in the evidentiary chain but Hammond had sent over some copies he'd made for his own use. Lara hadn't found anything useful in it but remembered seeing a photo of the house. She dug it out and studied the picture. A big clapboard house, sturdy but badly used up. Nothing special.

  Still, this was where their suspect had been placed after a stint in juvie and subsequently abused by the man who ran the place. Ivan Prall had returned to Portland, tracked down the woman who used to run the place and killed her. His dogs devoured the body in an attempt to conceal evidence. Something had happened inside this house that sent their suspect into the wilderness, into the company of stray dogs and solitude.

  The house looked familiar. Where had she seen it before? She laid the photo aside and pulled out the notebooks taken from the suspect's squat. She flipped through the pencil sketches. In the third notebook, she found a drawing of a house with a porch wrapping two sides, flanked by willows. The Gethsemane house.

  The artist was a fair draftsman, the perspective true and the scale accurate. She went back to Hammond's file and found the address. A road she didn't recognize, somewhere north of an industrial park near the river. She printed off a Google map and circled the road in red ink for a quick reference tomorrow morning.

  Detective Rowe buzzed by her desk, late on the shift change. He said hello, she said goodnight.

  THE rain had slowed to a light mist that hazed the lights on the streets. Lara hit the tail end of rush hour but shot past the turnoff for home. She just wanted to see the place, that's all. What could one look hurt?

  She swung west over Columbia and then up North Portland Road over the slough where the road thinned between the lake and the golf course. Into a gravel lot where the driveway was supposed to be. She missed it the first time, overgrown with weeds as it was. Slow over the rutted driveway, the path twisting through the dogwood trees and then the house appeared. The headlights played over the facade. A signboard creaked in the breeze, hung from a chain on the porch roof. She tilted her head to read the words. GETHSEMANE HOUSE - Center for Transition and Redemption.

  Lara wanted a closer look. She cut the engine but left the headlamps on. The steps rang hollow under her feet, the floorboards of the veranda uneven and creaky. The front door was boarded up with plywood, as were all the first floor windows.

  “Okay,” she said to no one. Herself. “You've had a look. Go home.”

  Back to the car. She popped the trunk and found the long handled Maglite. She dug around the mess and pulled out a prybar. The trunk banged shut and she stopped, rethinking what she was about to do. This wasn't like her. This is how Gallagher did things. Just bust in, trample procedure and justify it all later. For Christ's sake, Lara Estela. Go home.

  The prybar sunk cleanly under the plywood. She pried the nails up and hauled back the plywood, shredding the edges. The front door was un
locked but stuck tight in its frame. It popped open under her shoulder.

  The flashlight cut a borehole through the darkness. A roomy foyer with a small desk, then on toward a common area. An office on her right. The air was ripe with mold and wet carpet. Graffiti on the walls and empty jugs of Colt 45 dead on the floor. The fate of any property left abandoned too long. Down the hallway to a large kitchen. A table but no chairs, more trash on the green tiled floor. Everything desiccated and forgotten.

  Back to the hallway and the staircase to the second floor. The light beam rolled up the steps before her, vanishing into a black hole at the top. She stopped on a step and listened. A noise? She realized her heart was pounding. This is crazy. She did not want to run into any vagrant squatter in the dark. Her nerves so keyed up, she'd blow his head off first before asking any questions.

  She hollered out. “This is detective Mendes of the Portland Police! Announce yourself now! I am armed!”

  Her voice was swallowed up. The house ticked and creaked around her. Crickets in the yard. She went up.

  The hallway flanked by a handrail, doors on her right. She pushed open the first one, throwing the light inside. Metal bunks stripped of bedding and two mismatched dressers. A footlocker. She moved on, opening the remaining doors. A bathroom and then another room with empty bunks. The window was broken and the breeze fluttered a rotting web of curtain.

  That left the room at the end. No door, the hall opening into another common room at the front of the house. It was roomy and bare. A single armchair near the bay window. A mound of clothes piled near it, another empty bottle rolled to the baseboard. She trailed her light over it.