CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Detective Moore stopped the car outside the address they had been given for Linda Ashford. It was a small office on the outskirts of the city, and there was no home address on file, which was unusual. The detective took out her phone to check for any information the team had sent.
"Okay, so we have information back from the security team at the building where Philip Grayson lives," Moore told Alison. "They can confirm that he mostly stays home, and it is known in the building that his wife is sick and receiving treatment, and that she doesn’t have long to live."
That part saddened Alison somewhat. As much as Philip had grated on her, he was still a person, and he was going through some trauma.
Alison didn't want to think about being in the same position with Derek sick and dying. She wouldn’t be able to cope with real life if she were looking after Derek when he was sick and dying.
She would want to spend every minute with him.
"The security team confirmed that Dr. Grayson goes out in the afternoon most days," Moore said.
"There is camera footage of Grayson going out on the afternoon before each killing, and returning later that afternoon.
There is no evidence of his leaving the building after that on each occasion.
He didn't pass the security gate, and he was not caught on any of the cameras, which means he didn't take his car, at the very least. It doesn’t look like he left his home after returning. "
"I don't know if we want to have his wife come in and talk with us with her health concerns," Alison said. "That doesn’t feel right."
"I agree," Moore said. "She doesn’t need to be a part of this, and I don't think he does either, with what they’re saying back at the office. He’s not on our suspect list anymore."
"Okay," Alison admitted. "How about Linda Ashford. Do we have anything on her?"
Alison looked at the modest building before her, a small brick building with no signage outside. The woman had no registered home address, and there was no telling what business was contained within the building. Who was she and what did she do?"
"She’s a victim rights advocate," Moore replied. "Outspoken about those who have been victims of a crime but haven’t received the help they need after being targeted in some way. There’s a lot to go through, and I’m told a lot that’s also hidden, but she brands herself as anti-crime, which seems like something most people are, but is a nice buzzword to throw around. "
"Okay, so she works with victims, and she recently hired Marcus Webb to follow Harold Jenkins," Alison said. "How does that all fit together?"
"Let’s hope she wants to talk with us when we confront her," Moore said. "I really have no idea what to expect."
"She’s creating a buffer if she’s the killer," Alison admitted. "Marcus Webb was cagey when we spoke to him. Did that come from Linda?"
"Come on," Moore said as she got out of the car.
Alison followed. They reached the building and found a wooden door on the side of the brick building, with no number, no address, and no markings to indicate what was inside. Detective Moore moved her hand subtly to her belt, checking her gun was there, and then knocked on the door.
They had no idea what they would find within, but they needed to be ready.
"Yeah?" the shout came from the other side of the door.
"We’re looking for Linda Ashford," Moore stated.
"Who’s asking?" the female voice replied.
"I’m Detective Moore, and I’m here with Dr. Alison Payne," Moore replied.
There was a moment of silence, and then the woman spoke again. "Up and to your right, there is a camera. Can you look that way and both show your IDs, please?"
Alison looked up and saw the small black camera for the first time. It was an unusual request, but they both wanted access to the building and to speak with Linda Ashford, who was presumably the woman on the other side of the door. So, they both complied.
Alison and Moore looked up at the camera together and held up their IDs, one at a time. They waited, and after a few seconds, the voice came back to the door.
"Do you have a warrant?" she asked.
"We don’t," Moore admitted.
"I don't need to let you in if you don't have a warrant."
"I completely understand that," Moore admitted. "We only want to speak with Linda Ashford. I presume that’s you?"
"I don't need to identify myself," the woman said. "What is this concerning?"
"We’re investigating a double homicide," Moore said. "We only need to talk with you, Linda. We can come back with a warrant if that’s what it’ll take, but we really don't want to. A few questions and we’ll leave.
We don't need to do anything other than that. If you’ll let us in, you can show us where to go.
We don't need to see the whole interior unless we believe there is a reason to do so. "
"Give me a second," the woman said.
Alison could hear the distrust in the woman’s voice.
She agreed that the woman on the other side of the door was Linda Ashford, and that the distrust stemmed from her advocacy work.
She was on the side of the victims, and because they needed to be helped, it put Linda in opposition with the other side, which was the justice system.
Would someone who wanted to protect victims kill victims to prove a point?
The security system attached to the door buzzed, and a click sounded as the door unlocked.
The door opened to reveal a woman in her late thirties, beautiful but weathered, with long blonde hair and blue eyes.
Her lips were permanently turned down, and as she studied the two people at her door, she frowned at them, saying nothing.
"Linda Ashford?" Moore asked, wanting the confirmation.
The woman took a beat before she nodded. "I guess you can both come in."
***
It was a slow day on the lot, but that was nothing new. The last month had been a string of slow days, and some of the other guys had quit, while the ones who remained took second jobs, keeping their jobs at the used-car dealership in case business picked back up.
Michael Rodriguez understood why that was happening.
The area of Oakland where the dealership was had never been the best place, and crime had risen recently, driving some businesses away.
The ones that remained were either involved in crime themselves or the business owners didn't have the money to relocate.
Michael didn't stay out of loyalty to the owner, though he did feel bad that the family that owned the dealership was struggling.
He stayed because he had nothing else to do and no one else to live for except for himself.
He had committed to the job, and he needed to follow through on that commitment.
Sometimes, he didn't know why he had such loyalty to the commitment, but it was one of the few things in his life that gave a hint of purpose.
The man who walked down the street immediately caught his eye.
He looked out of place. He was dressed far too well in his gray suit, and he held his head high and had his shoulders pushed back.
He was the sort of man they might have welcomed onto the lot with open arms a year ago, but now, he looked foreign.
It surprised Michael when the man didn't walk past but walked straight toward the main office building where Michael stood at the window.
Michael’s stomach churned with excitement.
If anyone else had been around, they might have cited seniority or longer service, or flat-out threatened him not to make a move, but he was the only one there at that moment.
The owner came and went as he pleased, and Carlo was supposed to arrive in half an hour, but he was unlikely to show.
Michael checked himself, straightening his jacket a little, and then donned a welcoming grin as he stepped outside the office to make a sale. As the warm sun and cool breeze hit him, he could feel that it was going to be a good day.
You have this! It doesn’t matter what you sell him, as long as you sell him something. This is your moment to shine.
Michael walked straight for the man with his hand held out, praying that the man wasn’t just looking for a bathroom.
"Michael Rodriguez," he greeted. "It’s a beautiful day."
The man shook his hand firmly. "Ben Shaw." He looked around the lot with far more excitement than the cars should generate. "What’s your newest model?"
Michael held up his hands. "We don't have any new cars here, but we do have some fantastic tried and tested vehicles."
"No," the man laughed. "Sorry, I didn't mean that at all. I’m looking for something for my daughter, and I’d like to get her something reliable. I know you sell used cars, but what’s the most recent make and model you have?"
"Gotcha," Michael said. "That would be the 2014 Honda Civic. Reliable, had a fresh tune-up last month, and it’s not the most expensive car on the lot. We offer financing, and we can take a trade-in if you have a car you wish to part with. Whatever you need, we're here to make it happen."
"I don't have a trade-in, but I would like to go for the financing option as cash flow is a little slower of late," the man said. "I’ve owned a Honda before, and I do like them. Can we take it for a test drive?"
Michael smiled. The sale was going better than he could have imagined. "Certainly, Sir. Let me grab the keys from the office, and we can take it for a spin."
Michael practically ran back to the office and grabbed the keys from inside, turning the sign around on the back of the glass door to indicate that someone would be back in fifteen minutes, and then locked the door and walked smartly back to the customer.
He held up the keys as if trying to entertain a cat, and the man took them.
It was half the battle. Once they were in a vehicle, the customer always felt a slight obligation to buy.
Given how motivated the customer was, Michael could almost feel the sale closing.
He led the man to the car parked close to the office, and he gestured for the man to get in first before Michael joined.
Ben started the car, and the engine purred almost silently.
"She runs amazingly well for a 2014," Michael said. "Let’s take her out."
He gave Ben some time to back out of the space and then get out onto the main road before he made some small talk. It wasn’t only about the car, but about him. No one wanted to buy anything from someone they didn't like or didn't know.
"You from around here?" Michael asked as they drove.
"I am," the man said.
"Me, too. Me, too. Oakland born and bred. I grew up two blocks from the lot. I love this place too much to ever leave it."
The customer didn't reply to the comment. He wasn’t one for small talk. Michael could respect that, but he still made some more effort.
"All my family lives here. Even if I grew tired of the city, I couldn’t leave them." That conveyed he was a family man, a man to be trusted, and hinted he might need the money to feed that family, pushing Ben closer to the sale.
He couldn't tell the customer the truth. He had been in prison for years, and when he got out, his family had abandoned him. While it hurt, he understood it. He was never a good person, and while he was trying to be one now, it didn't come close to making up for what he had done.
"Feel free to really open her up," Michael said as they got onto the main roads. "I know you want this for your daughter, but the vehicle has a lot of power. A lot of safety features too, so you don't have to worry about that."
Ben accelerated on the main road and then pulled off soon after. Michael smiled—the customer was taking them back, and while the test drive was short, he didn't seem disgruntled. Michael almost salivated at the thought of the sale.
The car slowed, then Ben brought it to a stop. Michael was uncertain why, but the customer was always right.
"I do like the vehicle," Ben said. "And you are a fine salesman."
Michael should have taken heart with both comments, but the words felt ominous.
"If you want to go back to the office, we can draw up some paperwork," Michael said. "It is a fine car, and the best one on the lot at the moment."
"I think that’s a good idea," Ben said
Michael smiled.
Then a flash.
He didn't see where Ben had produced the knife from; he only saw the reflection of the sun in the metal blade as Ben swung his arm to the side and plunged the blade into his chest. Michael was stunned.
The knife was removed, and he brought his hands up to his chest, touching them to the blood stain on his shirt, not comprehending what was happening.
He only knew he had to fight for his life, and—
The movements after that were swift. The same action was repeated over and over, and Michael was knocked back into his chair again and again as the knife pierced him. The redness spread not only over his chest, but across his vision, clouding it in pink, then red, scarlet, and finally black.
Then it was done.