“Call the police, Anthony.”
“What? Hell, no.”
“You have to.”
“What happened to you, LeVar? Four months ago, you wouldn’t trust a cop if he was your great uncle. Now you livin’ in luxury, and suddenly, you think the police are our friends. No cop gonna help me or my mom.”
“I told you, Anthony. I can’t get you out of this one. Just make the call. Don’t tell the police who you are. Give them the address and say the Harmon Kings surrounded the apartment with guns. They’ll—”
“Oh, shit. They’re coming, LeVar. Rev, Kilo, all of them. I think Kilo set me up.”
LeVar pushed through the door and ran toward the car.
“Stay away from the windows and lock the doors. I’m on my way, little bro.”
Anthony yelled a second before a window shattered. The line died.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Saturday, August 14th
1:30 p.m.
Aguilar set a berry smoothie in front of Thomas. He sat at the small table inside the kitchen at the Nightshade County Sheriff’s Department, the blender blades whirling behind them as Aguilar waited for her afternoon snack. He took a sip and grimaced.
“Too sweet?” she asked.
“No. It’s cold. How many ice cubes did you put in this smoothie?”
“Suck it up, Sally. I’m sure you can tough it out. There are thirty-five grams of protein in that drink. You want to support your workouts, right?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Then you need protein. Drink up.”
He took another sip and swallowed. Not bad, except the drink numbed his throat. Spreading his notes on the table, Thomas jabbed his finger at the address Scout and LeVar gave him.
“The house belongs to Cathy Webb. Age twenty-nine, born and raised in Syracuse. She moved to County Line Road six years ago.”
Aguilar poured her smoothie into a mason jar and joined Thomas at the table. She frowned.
“That’s around the same time Skye Feron vanished. Might be a coincidence.”
“I don’t think so.” Thomas removed a photocopied yearbook picture of Dawn Samson’s brother, Alec. The boy looked like every teenager—acne dotting his forehead, an uncomfortable smile, dark hair styled into a mid fade with the sides buzzed and the top combed back. But there was something wrong with the boy’s eyes. A hidden devilry Thomas couldn’t define. “Cathy Webb’s place is also the last known address for Alec Samson. According to my records, Webb is Alec’s cousin.”
“The brother of the girl who committed suicide. Does he still live with his cousin?”
“That’s the strange part. He closed his account at the First National Bank of Harmon four years ago. Since then, no tax returns, no employment, and his driver’s license expired. It’s like the boy fell off the edge of the earth.”
“Like Skye Feron. Maybe someone killed him too.”
“Don’t say it.”
Aguilar drank her smoothie and wiped her lips on a napkin.
“Cathy Webb must be the Webb-WLHS writing all those nasty things about Paige Sutton and Justine Adkins. Can’t say I blame her, if those women drove her cousin to commit suicide. What’s wrong with teenagers?”
Thomas thought back to Ray Welch. Ray bullied Thomas for years, and nobody stopped it.
“Right now, she’s our number one suspect.”
“What about Gene Maldonado?”
“The manager at the Orange Tulip?”
“Lambert looked into Maldonado’s background and found something interesting.”
Aguilar passed a case folder to Thomas. He scanned the documents and arched his brow.
“Shoplifting at seventeen.”
“Check out what he stole.”
Thomas ran his finger down the document and paused.
“A girlie magazine. So he was a teenage boy with raging hormones. That doesn’t make him a predator.”
Aguilar crossed her legs.
“What do we know about serial rapists? Lying and stealing are common traits for future rapists. Many are loners who engage in impulsive activities.”
“Maldonado’s job allows him to avoid people for most of the day. He handles a few people checking in. Otherwise he’s always alone.”
“And he admits he sneaked into Justine Adkins’s room. That’s damn impulsive and creepy. By the way, Maldonado drives a blue Honda Odyssey.”
Thomas set his drink aside.
“That might be the vehicle that sped through the parking lot outside the supermarket. Why do you believe Maldonado attacked Justine Adkins?”
“It’s just a theory. But if he raped Justine, he had good reason to get rid of her. Lock her away or kill her so she couldn’t go to the police.”
“This feels like a stretch.”
“Imagine the situation from Maldonado’s perspective. How many single women get rooms at the bed-and-breakfast? And of the few that do, do any of them have Justine’s looks? He must have drooled on the floor the second she stepped foot in his office.”
“So we add Maldonado to our suspect list.”
“That’s my suggestion. What now?”
Thomas grabbed Alec Samson’s photo and studied the boy’s dead eyes.
“Let’s visit Cathy Webb and find out what happened to Alec Samson.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Saturday, August 14th
1:55 p.m.
LeVar punched the steering wheel when Chelsey didn’t answer her phone. He’d called her five times in the last half-hour to explain what was happening. No chance she’d reschedule the interview. He’d been right about Chelsey—the woman hated him and would never trust the former enforcer for the Harmon Kings.
He climbed out of the Chrysler and stepped into the McDonald’s parking lot. The busy fast-food restaurant sat two blocks from Anthony’s apartment. The Kings would recognize his vehicle if he parked too close to his quarry, but he blended into the crowd here. Sweet scents of baked apple pies mingled with greasy fries and burgers as LeVar glanced around the lot. Nobody paid him attention, despite the dress clothes, expensive shoes, and look of wary apprehension. His paranoia heightened as he studied the hidden shadows between the vehicles.
Someone squealed. LeVar dropped below the hood and wiped the sweat off his forehead. It was just a girl skipping across the blacktop and holding her father’s hand, a boxed happy meal swinging from her arm. The father eyed LeVar as he rose out of his crouch. LeVar feigned retrieving a dropped coin and walked toward the restaurant.
When the father looked away, LeVar swerved in the opposite direction and cut down a side
