CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The house was exactly what Kate had expected from FBI safe house accommodations: functional but utterly devoid of personality.
The living room contained a beige couch that had seen better days, a coffee table that wobbled slightly on uneven legs, and a television that was probably older than some of the agents who used this place from time to time.
The kitchen contained the bare minimum of appliances and furniture, with laminate countertops that had been cleaned so many times they'd lost their original pattern.
Kate had been in dozens of safe houses over her career, and they all had the same sterile, temporary quality.
Nothing on the walls except the most basic fixtures, no personal touches, no sense that real people lived here.
Just empty spaces maintained for law enforcement operations like the one they were conducting today.
They were essentially just larger motel rooms, but with a little less class.
The tactical team was positioned two houses down, close enough to respond within about a minute, but far enough away to remain invisible to anyone approaching the safe house.
Kate had worked with similar setups many times before, but she always felt the tension that came with not knowing whether they were about to confront a dangerous criminal or an innocent civilian.
DeMarco checked her watch. "It's almost four o'clock. Think he'll show up on time?"
"If he's legitimate, probably. Most small business owners are pretty punctual about client meetings.
" Kate moved away from the window and settled onto the uncomfortable couch.
"If he's guilty and planning something—or is he even suspects this might be some sort of set-up—he might be late while he scouts the area or sets up an escape route. "
The living room fell silent except for the occasional car passing on the street outside.
Kate found herself thinking about Allen and Michael, who were probably finishing up their afternoon routine at home.
She'd texted Allen earlier to give him an update, but she’d left out a few key details, namely that she might be confronting a suspected murderer.
At exactly 4:02, DeMarco signaled from her position at the front window. "We’ve got a white pickup truck pulling up… some sort of business decal on the side that I can’t read just yet.”
Kate moved to the kitchen window and watched as a man in his early forties climbed out of a slightly beat-up pickup truck with "Torres Handyman Services" painted on the side in fading blue letters.
He wore work boots, jeans with paint stains, and a flannel shirt over a gray t-shirt.
He was carrying what appeared to be a clipboard or estimate pad.
Michael Torres looked exactly how Kate would expect a working handyman to look.
Medium height and build, with weathered hands and the kind of tan that came from spending most days outdoors.
His dark hair was cut short and practical, and his movements as he approached the house were confident but not aggressive.
He was quite handsome, complete with a worn and rugged look.
His arms weren't all that muscular, but the T-shirt made them appear that way.
"He doesn't look like a killer," DeMarco observed quietly.
"Neither did Ted Bundy," Kate replied, though she had to admit that Torres appeared completely ordinary. No obvious signs of nervousness or unusual behavior as he walked up the front path.
“Um, actually, he sort of did,” DeMarco said with a small smile.
Torres knocked on the door with a firm, professional rap. Kate took a deep breath and opened it, immediately studying his face for any signs of deception or recognition. She put on her best smile as she greeted him.
“Hi,” he said simply.
"Ms. Kate?" Torres asked with a slight smile. "I'm Michael Torres. You called about some repair work?"
Kate stepped back from the doorway. "Please come in, Mr. Torres.” And then, as soon as he was inside and the door was closed behind him, all pretenses were dropped. “Actually, I need to be honest with you about why you're here."
Kate could see his expression shift from professional friendliness to confusion as he took in the sparse, impersonal atmosphere of the safe house. His eyes lingered on DeMarco for a moment, sitting on the couch almost casually.
"I'm Agent Kate Wise with the FBI," Kate said, showing her badge. "This is my partner, Agent DeMarco. We'd like to ask you some questions about your handyman business."
Torres's face went pale, and he took an involuntary step backward toward the door. "FBI? What... what is this about? Am I in some kind of trouble?"
"Please have a seat, Mr. Torres," DeMarco said, gesturing toward the couch. "We just want to ask you about some work you may have done recently."
Torres looked back and forth between the two agents, his clipboard clutched tightly in his hands. "Shit,” he hissed, not in anger but something like disappointment. "Look, I know I should keep better records, but most of my clients pay cash and I don't always..."
"Mr. Torres, this isn't about taxes," Kate interrupted, settling into the chair across from the couch. "We're investigating some suspicious deaths, and your name came up in connection with the victims."
"Deaths?" Torres's voice cracked slightly, and his expression dropped to something resembling true terror. "What kind of deaths? I don't… I don't understand."
Kate studied his body language carefully. Torres appeared genuinely terrified and confused, not like someone who had been caught in a lie. His hands were shaking slightly, and his breathing had quickened in a way that suggested real anxiety rather than calculated performance.
Or he’s freaking out because he realizes he’s been caught, Kate thought to herself.
"We'd like to ask you about work you did for a woman named Carol Bennett," DeMarco said. "Do you remember her?"
Torres thought for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Yeah, Mrs. Bennett. Nice lady, lives over on… Oak Street, I think. I fixed some stuff around her house a couple weeks ago."
"What kind of work did you do for her?" Kate asked.
"Um, let me think." Torres consulted his clipboard, flipping through several pages of handwritten notes. "I replaced a kitchen faucet that was dripping, fixed a loose board on her front porch, and patched some holes in her drywall out in her garage."
"How did you get that job?" DeMarco asked.
"She called me after getting one of my business cards. I canvass neighborhoods sometimes, leave cards on doors or in mailboxes. It's how I get most of my work."
Kate felt a slight disappointment. This explanation was entirely plausible and had nothing to do with gaining unauthorized access to victims' homes. But it was also an entirely convenient excuse, too.
"What about Thomas Rodriguez?" she asked. "Did you do any work for him recently?"
Torres looked genuinely puzzled. "I don't think I know anyone by that name.” He looked through his note and documents again, shaking his head. “No, I don’t believe so. What's his address?"
Kate gave him the Rodriguez address, and Torres shook his head. "No, I've never done any work at that address. But..." He paused, thinking. "I did canvass that neighborhood a few weeks ago, too. Left business cards on a bunch of doors and mailboxes."
"You left a business card at the Rodriguez house?" DeMarco asked.
"Probably. I usually hit every house on a street when I'm canvassing.
Most people throw the cards away, but sometimes someone calls.
" Torres looked increasingly nervous. "Is that... is that a problem? Am I not supposed to be doing that? I’m not going into their mailboxes or anything. Sometimes I just sort of slip it into their screen door, you know?”
Kate looked over to DeMarco, and she could see that she was already buying the story.
Kate didn't blame her; there was something about Torres that seemed genuine.
Besides, his explanation made perfect sense.
He'd done legitimate work for Carol Bennett after she'd received his business card, and he'd left a card at the Rodriguez house during his neighborhood canvassing, but never actually worked there.
"Mr. Torres, you said most of your clients pay cash," Kate said. "Do you keep records of your jobs and payments?"
Torres shifted uncomfortably on the couch. "Not great records, to be honest. I know I should, but the paperwork side of the business isn't really my thing. I prefer the actual work."
"So you might not remember every job you've done recently?" DeMarco asked.
"I remember the big jobs, but if someone just had me fix a leaky faucet or replace a light switch, I might not write it down." Torres looked down at his hands. "I know that probably sounds suspicious, but I'm just not good at the business stuff."
Kate felt the case slipping away from them. Everything Torres was telling them sounded completely believable, and his nervousness seemed to stem from concerns about tax compliance rather than fear of being caught for murder. All of it would also be easy enough to check.
"Mr. Torres, have you ever had medical training or worked in the healthcare industry?" DeMarco asked. It was a good and relevant question, grasping for any connection to the sophisticated method used to poison the victims.
"Medical training?" Torres looked genuinely confused. "No, nothing like that. I'm just a handyman. I do basic repairs, painting, simple electrical work, that kind of stuff."
"Any experience with pharmaceuticals or access to medical supplies?"
"No ma'am. I wouldn't even know where to get that kind of stuff.
" Torres paused. While he still looked frightened, there was a softness to his expression now that made Kate think he was starting to feel he may not be in trouble here—that he was absolutely not the guy they were looking for.
"Can I ask what this is all about? You said something about suspicious deaths? "
Kate realized they had reached the end of their productive questioning.
Torres appeared to be exactly what he claimed to be: a small-time handyman who preferred cash payments and didn't keep detailed records. His connection to the victims was entirely coincidental. He’d simply been business cards in certain neighborhoods in the same way landscapers or politicians did.
"Mr. Torres, thank you for your cooperation," she said, standing up from her chair. "We may have additional questions later, but for now, you're free to go. And I am sorry for the trickery."
Torres stood up quickly, clearly eager to leave. "Am I in trouble for the cash payments? Because I can start keeping better records if that's what this is about."
"That's between you and the IRS," DeMarco said. "This was about something else entirely and quite frankly, not of our concern."
Torres nodded and headed for the door, then paused and turned back. Kate had a pretty good idea that after this scare, his spreadsheets and accounting would be stellar.
"Those people who died... they weren't hurt because of something I did, were they? Because I would never intentionally harm anyone."
Kate could see genuine concern in his eyes. "No, Mr. Torres. This had nothing to do with your work."
He gave a quick nod and then made his exit. Once he was gone, Kate and DeMarco stood in the empty safe house, both feeling the deflation that came with a promising lead turning into a dead end.
"Well, that… well, it sucked," DeMarco said.
Kate walked back to the kitchen window and watched Torres drive away in his pickup truck. "He seemed completely legitimate. Nervous about taxes and poor record-keeping, but not about murder."
"Which means we're back to square one."
"Not quite square one," Kate said. "We know the killer is adding poisoned pills to legitimate prescriptions. We know they're targeting empty-nesters dealing with adult children moving back home. And we know they're sophisticated enough to manufacture pharmaceutical-grade poison."
"But we don't know who they are or how they're gaining access to the victims."
Kate pulled out her phone to call the tactical team and let them know the operation was concluded.
She knew they wouldn't be happy about being deployed for what had turned out to be an interview with an innocent handyman.
She looked around the sparse safe house one more time, already mentally preparing for the next phase of their investigation.
"Then we need to figure out what Carol Bennett and Thomas Rodriguez had in common besides Dr. Chen and their family situations."
DeMarco gathered her things from the coffee table. "Back to the drawing board?"
"Back to the drawing board," Kate agreed. “But after I call off a tactical team who are probably going to be even more disappointed than we are.”
As she placed the call, she took a moment to acknowledge the rising dread in her heart.
This wasn't a killer they could simply catch, and then the killing would stop.
If he'd placed poison in prescription bottles, that was a different problem altogether, because they had no way of knowing when or where the next death might occur.