CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
On the second trip to Crystal Rynski’s home, Matt embraced the gloomy weather. Sunshine and a blue sky would have felt inappropriate. He and Bree stood in silence on the sagging wooden stoop while they waited for Crystal to respond to their knock.
Crystal knew the second she opened her front door. Matt could see the horror—and panic—in her eyes, and his heart split wide open, like a tree hit by lightning.
“No,” she muttered, almost to herself.
“I’m so sorry,” Bree said. “Can we come inside?”
Crystal didn’t respond. She just stood there staring at them and saying “No” over and over. “Not my Jana.”
Bree gently nudged the woman back a step. Wrapping an arm around her shoulders, she steered her back to the tiny living area.
Matt followed them through a haze of cigarette smoke. The backs of Crystal’s legs hit the recliner and she collapsed onto it. She seemed to shrivel, as if the life force had been leeched out of her body. Her breaths wheezed in and out, too fast, too shallow.
Bree crouched in front of her and took her hands. “Take deeper, slower breaths.”
Crystal wheezed. “I don’t want ... to breathe ... at all.”
Matt’s heart felt like it had been cleaved into two pieces.
They stayed for a respectful fifteen minutes, but Crystal didn’t have any information for them, and they didn’t want to share details about her daughter’s death with her. In the end, they left her sobbing.
They trudged back to the SUV and climbed in. Matt started the engine and turned the heat on full blast. His insides were cold through and through. He steered the vehicle back toward the road.
Bree rested her head on the seat and closed her eyes. “Telling them is bad, but leaving them alone afterward feels even worse.” She sighed hard.
Matt shook himself, like a dog shedding water. They couldn’t afford to let emotions cripple their investigation.
Bree pressed a palm to the side of her head. “I feel so useless. How do young women protect themselves when we don’t even know how the killer is targeting his victims? We think he attacked Jana in her apartment, but how did he get in?” She paused. “Until we have a time of death, let’s shift focus back to Ally and head over to the motel where she worked. We still don’t know where Ally was staying during her last week. She had to be somewhere.” Bree shook her phone. “The new body hit the press.”
“Didn’t think it would take long,” Matt said.
“Unfortunately, no.”
Ten minutes later, Matt turned his Suburban into the parking lot of the Shady Acres Motel, a single, two-story strip of rooms hunkering on the side of a rural highway. The next business, a gas station, was a half mile down the road. Gray clouds had crowded out the earlier burst of sunshine, casting a depressing gloom over the depressing building. Drizzle peppered the windshield.
The Suburban bounced through a pothole. Bree’s official vehicle had been towed to the county garage. After forensics had picked it clean of evidence, the hood would be repaired and the windshield replaced.
Matt parked in front of the office. “This place has been a problem since back when I was a deputy.”
“And it’s still a problem.” Bree stared at the office. A neon vacancy sign glowed in the dirty window. “Mostly drug dealers, prostitution, and people on the brink of homelessness. They rent rooms by the hour and the week.”
People lived in shitty motels when they had no other options.
Matt shut off the engine. “Do we know anything about the manager?”
“Not really. Turnover is high.” Bree used her lapel mic to report their location to dispatch. “I doubt there’s much career advancement.”
They stepped out of the vehicle. Though the rain was light, the wind swept it sideways, right into Matt’s face.
They strode into the office. The room smelled of mold, dust, and burned coffee. A skinny dude of about fifty perched on a stool behind the counter, his arms crossed over a NY RANGERS emblem on his hoodie. He shifted his gaze from an ancient TV playing a house-remodeling show with the volume on low. The dude did a double take on Bree’s uniform. He stood slowly, unfolding his arms and shoving his hands into the kangaroo pocket of his sweatshirt.
Matt tensed. Hands in pockets put him on guard instantly.
“Is there a problem, Sheriff?” the clerk asked.
Bree walked to the counter. Matt veered right and turned sideways, keeping his back to the wall and trying to watch the entrance, the door that led into the back, and the clerk’s hands, which could emerge from those pockets holding weapons.
Bree stopped a few feet away from the counter. As she introduced herself and Matt, she turned slightly sideways, presenting a narrower target. The move was automatic. She rested both hands on her duty belt. The posture looked casual—like hooking your thumbs in your front pockets—but Matt knew the stance also positioned her for quick access to her sidearm and expandable baton. “We need to ask some questions about one of your employees. What’s your name?”
“I’m Simon Lewicki.” Simon was as stiff as a mannequin. Why was he so on edge?
Matt didn’t like the expanse of window any more than Simon’s hands in his pocket. Raindrops on the glass, the brightness of the office, and the dimness outside combined to give poor visibility and rendered anyone in the parking lot practically invisible. At the same time, the office had a fishbowl feel. On second thought, fish in a barrel—a clear barrel—would be a better metaphor. Either way, situations like this one gave Matt hives. Things could go sideways before you could blink.
Bree asked, “How long have you worked here, Simon?”
Simon licked his lips. “Five months.”
“Then you know Ally Swanson,” Bree said.
“Um. Not really.” Simon pulled his hands from his pocket and set them on the edge of the counter. “I mean, maids work day shift. I work mostly nights.”
“But you sometimes work day shift?” Matt glanced at the window, where daylight shone through the dirty glass. “Like today.”
“Not that often,” Simon evaded.
“But you’ve met Ally?” Bree’s tone remained polite but persistent.
This wasn’t a Hilton. Shady Acres had approximately thirty rooms. They couldn’t have so many employees that one would lose track.
Simon shuffled his feet, shifting his weight back and forth as if he couldn’t get comfortable. “A few times.” He avoided eye contact as he answered, then his gaze settled back on Bree’s face.
Clearly, Simon did not want to answer the question. He knew Ally better than he wanted to admit. Why was he being vague? What was he hiding?
Bree’s eyes narrowed slightly, watching Simon’s reaction. “Did you know she was dead?”
Simon looked away for a second, but he was not shocked. He knew. Sweat broke out on his forehead, shining in the unhealthy fluorescent glare. The office was barely warmer than outside. It wasn’t the temperature making him perspire. “I heard something like that.”
“What did you hear?” Bree tilted her head.
Simon tugged at the neck of his hoodie. “Just that she was dead.”
“Do you know how she died?” Bree asked.
“Not the details.” Simon picked up a paper clip and toyed with it.
“It was on the news,” Matt pointed out.
Simon shot him a nasty glare. “I don’t watch mainstream media. It’s all lies and propaganda.” He sniffed, like a coke addict. “I heard the other employees talking about it. They said that serial killer got her.”
“Yes,” Matt said. “She was murdered.”
Simon’s throat undulated as he swallowed.
“When was the last time Ally was here?” Bree asked.
Simon jerked one shoulder. “I don’t know.”
“Could you check?” Bree’s tone remained polite but firm.
“I don’t know.” Simon tugged up his shirtsleeve, revealing a botched tattoo of a tiger. The creature’s face was distorted, the eyes cartoonishly crooked. Simon absently scratched the tiger’s nose.
“I could come back with a warrant to see all your records,” Bree said in a cool voice.
Simon paused, then fixed his sleeve. “I guess it wouldn’t matter.”
A motel that regularly harbored illegal activity didn’t invite additional scrutiny.
He took two steps sideways to an ancient desktop computer. The machine was bolted to the counter. Simon tapped on the keyboard for a few minutes. The computer chugged, as if the simple query were about all it could handle. “Looks like her last shift was about two weeks ago.”
“Would you print out her schedule for the last two weeks she worked?” Bree softened her face, almost—but not quite—smiling.
“Uh. Sure.” But Simon looked the opposite of sure as he clicked the mouse. In the corner, a printer whirred. He snatched two sheets of paper from it and thrust them at Bree. His gaze shot to the glass door. Did he not want anyone to see him cooperating with a cop? Or was there some other reason?
“Thanks.” Bree scanned the papers. “Is this Ally’s current address?”
Matt glanced over at the paper. The address listed was Ally’s father’s house.
“That’s the only address we have on file for her.” Sweat beaded on Simon’s upper lip. He was way too nervous.
“Was Ally a good employee?” Matt asked.
Music sounded from Simon’s pocket, a tinny version of “Baby Got Back.” Simon stuck his hand in his pocket. Matt couldn’t breathe until he withdrew a phone. Simon glanced at the screen, then wrapped his fingers around it tightly enough to whiten his knuckles.
Matt repeated the question.
Simon tucked his phone away. “Not really, but it’s a shit job, so that’s kind of what we expect.”
“That makes sense,” Matt agreed. “Were you surprised when you heard she was dead?”
“Uh,” Simon stammered. “I was surprised about the whole serial-killer thing, you know? You hear about them on CSI, but they don’t seem real.”
He hadn’t directly answered the question. Lying was hard for most people. Most would evade or dance around the answer before answering with a straight lie. Why would Ally’s death not be a surprise?
Matt tried to make eye contact. “This one is very real.”
Simon met his gaze for one breath, then blinked away and shuddered. “Do you need anything else?”
“We need to talk to your other employees,” Bree said.
Tires grated outside. Headlights swept across the parking lot and window. A large SUV continued past the office and parked at the end of the building. Matt couldn’t see the make or model.
Simon stiffened. “The maid is on the clock right now. You can talk to her after her shift.”
“Another body turned up this morning.” Bree leveled him with her signature no-bullshit glare. “We’re now investigating four murders.”
“If you watched mainstream media, you would have heard about it,” Matt added.
Bree continued. “We’re going to talk to the maid now.”
“Did Ally leave any personal possessions here?” Matt asked.
“No. They keep their personal stuff on their cart while they work. Anything left lying around here gets stolen.” Simon’s voice rose. “I really need to get back to work.”
Watching TV?
Matt glanced back at the SUV in the parking lot. He didn’t see the door open or the interior light turn on.
Bree raised both hands in front of her body. “Thanks for your help today, Simon.”
He gave her a tight-lipped nod.
“We’ll be back.” Bree turned toward the door.
Outside, Matt stuck close. He didn’t like the vibes Simon was giving off. The rain had picked up again.
About twenty feet from the office, Bree stopped. “He’s hiding something.”
“His behavior is definitely suspicious.” Water trickled down the back of Matt’s jacket. “Could be anything. He might know something about Ally’s murder, or he might take payouts to look the other way while illegal business is conducted.”
Bree whipped out her notepad and wrote down the makes, models, and license plate numbers of all the vehicles in the parking lot. “Do you see the maid cart?”
Matt scanned the front of the motel and spotted a door propped open by a wheeled cart. “Second story.”
Bree stashed her notepad and started for the exterior steps. They jogged up the metal staircase and peered into the open door. The maid was plugging in an upright vacuum cleaner. She was about sixty years old, dressed in black leggings, a sweatshirt, and rubber gloves. With a bone-thin body and a poof of frizzy white hair, she looked like a cotton swab wearing sneakers.
“Excuse me,” Bree called.
The maid jumped, tripped over the vacuum, fell backward, and landed on her butt on the dirty beige carpeting.
Matt rushed forward. “Let me help you up.”
“Sorry for startling you,” Bree said.
Matt put one hand under the maid’s elbow and gently lifted her to her feet. Her skin was thin, loose, and as wrinkled as a brown paper bag. Extensive sun damage blotched her skin with darker brown spots.
Bree introduced herself and Matt.
The maid removed her rubber gloves and hung them on the handle of the vacuum.
“I’m Fiona Carlsbad.” The maid winced and rubbed her backside.
“Are you all right, Fiona?” Bree asked.
Matt hoped she hadn’t broken anything.
“I’m fine.” Fiona brushed herself off. “I’m sturdier than I look. But I don’t have the padding I used to.” She chuckled.
“We’d like to ask you some questions about Ally Swanson.”
The older woman tsked and shook her head. “Nasty piece of business. Those poor girls. I hope whoever killed them gets what’s coming to him.”
So did Matt. “First, we need to find him.”
“I’ll help any way I can,” Fiona said.
“How well did you know Ally?” Bree asked.
“Not well. Normally, there’s only one maid on duty. Occasionally, if the motel is full—which is rare—then they might schedule two. I’ve been working here for four years, since my daughter overdosed and left me to raise my grandson. My social security doesn’t feed a growing boy and pay the rent.” She sucked in a breath as if it were painful.
“I’m sorry that happened to you,” Bree said.
“Thank you.” Fiona swiped at an angry tear. “He’s ten now. Luckily, he’s a good boy. I want to keep him that way. This job lets me work while he’s at school. I’m home when he’s home. I don’t want him unsupervised. It’s the only reason I’m still here. They’re good about giving me days off when school’s closed.”
Matt said, “That surprises me. Simon doesn’t seem like a proponent of flexible hours.”
“Fuck Simon.” Fiona rolled her eyes. “He’s useless.” She chuckled. “I actually show up for work, which is not typical for most of the employees. The owners won’t let him fire me. I’ll be here long after Simon moves on.”
“Did Ally ever talk about anyone following her?” Bree asked. “Stalking her? Anything that scared her?”
Fiona shook her head. “We didn’t talk much. I don’t have time for chitchat when I’m here. I clean, and I go home.”
Bree glanced at the doorway, then brought her attention back to the maid. “My deputies arrest people here now and then. Is there any chance that Ally saw something illegal and someone needed to keep her quiet?”
Fiona shrugged. “I guess anything is possible, but this lot tends toward small-time crime.” She circled a bony hand in the air. “A few Oxy, cheap hookers, not enough money for most people to kill over. Then again, with drugs, ya never know.” She froze, her brows knitting, the freckled skin on her forehead wrinkling like a shar-pei. “Speaking of drugs, Ally was an addict. She never told me, but I recognized the same behavior in her that I saw in my daughter. She’d come to work high, her hair a mess, slurring her words. Her moods were all over the place. She’d lost weight.” She paused, staring down at her work-roughened hands for a second. “In a related note, Ally was turning tricks here. I saw her coming out of rooms when she wasn’t working. She’d have cash in her hand. Men would come out soon after her. It happened more than once.”
“Did you ever check to see who had rented those rooms?” Matt asked.
“Nope.” Fiona gave him a look. “I don’t have time for other people’s problems. I mind my own.” She glanced at the door. “That said, room twenty-eight has a broken heater, so it isn’t being rented right now. I’m pretty sure Ally was crashing in it.”
“Did you know Ally was gay?” Bree asked.
Fiona jutted out one hip and propped a hand on it. “No. But attraction is irrelevant. She needed money for drugs.” She said the last sentence with just the slightest suggestion of duh.
“Wouldn’t Simon notice if she’d been living in one of the rooms?” Matt asked.
With a sigh, Fiona dropped her hand. “A while ago, I saw her coming out of the back room of the office. Simon came out behind her. He was buttoning up his pants, so she was having sex with him too, which would be one way to convince him to keep his mouth shut about her hooking at the motel and/or living in room twenty-eight.”
Bree followed up with a few questions, but Fiona was out of revelations. “We appreciate your candor, but Simon will know you told us about room twenty-eight.”
Fiona waved off Bree’s concern. “You do what you have to do. I’m not afraid of Simon.”
They took her contact information and let her get back to work.
“Get a count on security cameras.” Bree said. “I’m going to get a search warrant for room twenty-eight.”
Matt walked the length of the second story, counted two cameras, then headed down the steps. He spotted a camera mounted under the eaves on each end of the building.
Bree was on her phone, typing with both thumbs and talking on the speaker. “Thank you.” She pressed “End” and looked up. “Warrants come through pretty fast for a high-profile investigation.”
“Two cameras on each level.” Matt led her toward the office. He pointed to a camera aimed at the office door. “There’s another.”
Back in the office, Matt spotted another camera in the corner of the ceiling.
Simon was not pleased to see them. “What now? I don’t know anything else.”
“Don’t you?” Bree leaned on the counter. “Did you see Ally doing anything illegal at the motel on her off-hours?”
“I would have reported illegal activity.” Simon shoved his hands back into his sweatshirt pocket and avoided her gaze.
Bree could still see the lie in his eyes. “We’d like the key to room twenty-eight.”
Simon’s jaw went hard. He knew why. “That room is currently out of order.”
“We know,” Bree said. “That’s why we’d like to see it.”
“Fucking Fiona,” Simon muttered.
“Don’t mess with her,” Matt warned. “I’ll stake out this place every night for the next year.”
Simon’s frown deepened until marionette lines formed on both sides of his mouth.
“We’d also like the surveillance footage from all your cameras for the week ending last Wednesday.” Bree pulled out her phone and read him the dates encompassing the window of Ally Swanson’s death.
“The whole week?” Simon protested.
“Yes,” Bree confirmed. “All of the cameras. How many are there?”
“Six,” Simon grumbled, then turned to the back room. “Give me a couple of minutes.” He returned quickly, holding a flash drive. “Two of the cameras are down. Here’s the feed for those dates for the other four.”
Matt pocketed the flash drive.
Bree’s phone vibrated. She glanced at the screen. “We’re going to have a look in room twenty-eight.”
“Don’t you need a warrant for that?” Simon scowled.
Bree raised her phone. “Already have one. I’ll see that you get a copy. The room should be empty, right?”
“Right,” Simon grumbled.
“Key?” Bree held out a hand.
He fished a key card out of a drawer and handed it over.
Room twenty-eight was on the second floor. Matt and Bree jogged up the steps, then flanked the doorway as Matt inserted the key in the slot. Nothing clicked, but the lock opened when he turned the latch. He pushed the door open a few inches. Something skittered across the floor. A rodent? Matt’s skin crawled. A good reminder to always wear boots, even in the summer. You never knew what you’d have to walk into.
Matt pulled a small flashlight from his pocket.
Bree did the same, then led the way into the room. Matt stuck close. The smell of mold and something worse—and unmistakable—invaded his nostrils.
Decomp.
Matt stepped sideways and used the butt of his flashlight to flip the light switch, illuminating the usual furniture: two saggy double beds, a single nightstand between them, one chair, and a battered dresser. Half the dresser drawers hung open. The dim light didn’t penetrate the shadowed corners.
Before he could scan the room for dead bodies, a live one charged them.