Chapter 1 #3
The man was about fifty and he stood as they entered, a pleasant smile on his face as he told them, “Welcome. I’m Charles Martinez, owner of this little place, after my dad retired; we’re a rare family entity and proud to be hanging in.
So, please, we do like to know about any problems here.
We like to solve them and keep our customers happy. ”
Jackson and Angela simultaneously flashed their badges.
“Oh! This is about the young woman who was last seen here.” he said. “We’ve already spoken with the police—”
“We know sir, we’re just following up and hoping that . . . well, we see that you keep your door closed, but . . . maybe, just maybe you heard something?” Angela suggested.
He sank back into his chair, frowning, shaking his head.
“Well, sometimes, there’s so much chatter that it comes through like a hum or .
. . well, you know. And deliveries come through the back, though I would know, I think .
. . but, hm, maybe? Just maybe? I mean, I’m concentrating on work.
I don’t always pay that much attention. I’ve been the one in charge here for twenty years without a problem, so . . .”
“Someone might have slipped out the back door, is that what you’re saying?” Jackson asked.
He nodded bleakly. “I just don’t know.”
“All right. Thank you,” Jackson told him.
“Maybe . . . maybe I heard a bumping? I wouldn’t have paid any attention. For as I said, sometimes my cashier / waitresses need to run back here for something . . . I don’t pay any attention. That’s . . . doing business.”
“We appreciate any and all help you can give us. Your kitchen is to the right here—”
“No doors there. And we do our prep work for the next day each day after six at night, trying to preserve freshness and still be ready to serve our specialty pastries and donuts at the crack of dawn. There would be no way out through there, but you’re welcome to look.
Our cooks don’t come in until just around six. Night jobs for them.”
“Thank you. We will take a look,” Jackson said.
“I already did,” Trent Fielding’s spirit whispered. “Just a kitchen. No people. Pots and pans, ovens, sinks, all spiffy.”
“Well, thank you again,” Jackson repeated.
They did look at the kitchen. It was small but competently arranged and smelled delicious in the little room. But there was no back door.
“Too bad we don’t have time to eat here.” Angela said.
“There’s always time to come back,” he told her.
“You’re making me jealous.” Trent told them.
“Let’s go though, get out to where the ambulance was discovered—not far at all,” Jackson said.
“All right,” Angela said, talking as they headed toward the door.
“Our monster escapes; steals an ambulance he knows the police will be hunting for. Ditches it on the main road that connects to this little town street.” She paused, looking at Jackson.
“I think he came here and saw Arabella Watkins. Beautiful young woman, a type I’m sure tingles his fancy.
He drugs her, just enough to slide her out the door where he knows there are no cameras because he’s studied them.
That’s why she isn’t on any of the surveillance from the front of the businesses.
He probably has one of the stolen cars out back, gets her into it and then . . .”
“Then what?” Jackson asked.
“Steals another car to ditch the first. But . . .”
“We can’t be sure it was him,” Jackson said.
“I’m going to survey the footage again,” Angela said, sliding into the front seat of the car and pulling out her phone.
“If it is Darrell Manderley doing this, what could be his end game?” Jackson wondered. “Power over people; power over life and death,” he said. “But we need to remain open to all possibilities now.”
Angela looked up at him as he switched the car on.
“No. No we don’t,” she told him.
“What? You’re sure?” he asked her.
From the backseat, the spirit of Trent Fielding moved forward, anxious to see as Angela showed them her phone. She hit a key and the surveillance film began to show from the time Arabella Watkins opened the door to enter the coffee shop, grinning at the ghoulish decorations.
They watched.
Angela pointed.
“That man,” she said. “Look. He’s got a hoodie on and a baseball cap over the hoodie. He’s wearing sunglasses. Yes, it’s fall. Lots of guys in hoodies.”
“He’s careful; never turns his face,” Trent noted.
“I guarantee you, six-foot even. Right around two-hundred pounds. And . . . oh! There’s the clincher!” she told them.
And it was. Because the man walked up to Arabella. Closely. Leaned over to whisper something to her, his right hand moving to her side. And there was something in his right hand. Not easily visible, but . . .
The syringe.
And no one just studying the tape would note him especially because he walked on by her then, disappearing toward the door to the bathroom.
And a moment later, Arabella set her hands on the counter, sliding toward the end where the surveillance camera ended.
Angela looked at Jackson. “He caught her there, at the end of the counter, unseen, and hurried her out the back. He drugged her just enough not to fight, to be led along. And I don’t think there’s any doubt about it—”
“Our cases are one and the same,” Jackson said.
Angela nodded. “Our evil monster devil has kidnapped Arabella Watkins. I’m thinking he did the same with Sadie MacFarlane.”
“I’m thinking you’re right,” Jackson told her. “And now . . .”
“The thing is—,” Angela replied.
“Yeah,” Jackson said. “Two victims, maybe more. And then . . .”
Angela looked at him, shaking her head.
“Where did he take them and more importantly, just what is his game this time?”
“Whatever it is, we need to move!”
And they did.