Chapter Twenty
Mark sat in his car, sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup and watching cars filter into the parking lot of the Woodsbury Apartments.
Roland’s truck had yet to appear. He checked his watch: five p.m. Where is that bastard?
He’d stopped by Henry’s office earlier—still no word from Roland.
He picked up his cell phone and dialed the courthouse. Marci answered on the third ring.
“Hello, darlin’,” he said.
“Mark. Hi, hon. How’s your day?”
“Not bad. What’s Judge Weister up to? Busy?” Maybe he could get a search warrant for Roland’s apartment. His gut told him something wasn’t right.
“What are you thinking?”
“Nothing, just wondering,” he lied.
“I have a feeling you’re about to tell me you can’t make our date tonight.”
Mark pictured the smirk on Marci’s face, the glint in her eye.
Ten years younger than his thirty-eight, she loved when Mark played cop.
A tingle ran up Mark’s thighs just thinking about how hot she’d be when he finally showed up.
He’d embellish, as he always did—it was worth the extra energy she’d put forth.
“Now, I didn’t say that, did I?”
“How long have we been together? Two years? And how many times have I heard this same thing in your voice?” She laughed.
“I might be a little late. What’s the scoop?”
“He’s more than tied up. You’ll never get in there if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Exactly what I thought.”
“Mark, what are you planning?”
Mark didn’t answer. There was no need to get her mixed up in his thoughts, or his next move. He’d be damned if he’d let another perp go free. Roland was up to something, and he was determined to find out what.
“Spill it.” She lowered her voice, “You know I won’t say anything.”
Mark took another sip of coffee as he mulled over his thoughts. “Aw, nothing. I was just wondering, that’s all.”
The hallway smelled of mold. The old brown carpet, darkened with stains, squished with each step, as if spills had taken purchase. Mark walked down the stairs to Roland’s basement apartment and knocked on the door. He knew there would be no answer.
He looked up the stairwell, back at the apartment across the hall.
There were three UPS boxes stacked outside the door.
Mark shook his head. Crack addicts. Mark had already arrested the couple that lived there twice, and the only time they’d left their apartment in between was to meet with their dealer.
There was no way in hell they’d know where Roland was.
He turned back to Roland’s door, leaning against it, his eyes on the stairwell.
He coughed to cover the noise as he turned the knob, pushing against the door with his shoulder.
Locked. Mark had always known this day would come.
He’d had a bad feeling about Roland Greer since the day he’d first laid eyes on him.
Sure, his PFA had lapsed, but that didn’t keep Mark from watching him.
Mark knew about guys like Roland Greer. They followed the same paths: foster care, trouble in school, Juvi Hall, then PFAs or jail.
Their M.O. was as lame as the day was long; they’d appear as normal as possible, set schedules, and make friends.
Sure, people liked Roland. He was nice enough, and hadn’t caused any trouble.
But this was Mark’s town, and he wasn’t taking any chances.
Mark thumbed through his wallet, past the photo of Carly Witherspoon to the pouch in the back, and slipped out a thin sheath of metal.
His eyes shifted from side to side, then up the stairwell.
He’d been in Roland’s apartment before, just once after Roland had moved into town.
Mark believed in knowing what made your potential threats click.
He’d only done it once before—snuck into Roland’s apartment.
He’d checked out the place, just a visual scan, and found that Roland had no computer to hold creepy files of women or children, or other red flags hanging about.
He took the doorknob in both hands and slid the metal into the lock, maneuvering it until he felt it click.
He slipped inside, closing the door quietly behind him.
The first thing that hit him was the emptiness of the apartment.
It felt cold, as if no one had lived there in a very long time.
He remembered the feel from the other time he’d broken in.
He moved through the sparse living room.
A lone metal chair sat in front of an old television set on top of a plastic patio table.
On the wall behind the television, something new had been added.
A photograph was thumbtacked to the wall.
A woman wearing a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt, her blond hair a wild mess.
She sat on the porch of a brick building that resembled Roland’s apartment complex.
The location wasn’t familiar. Mark moved to the kitchen.
The countertops were empty. Two glasses sat next to the sink.
Mark crouched, looking closer without touching anything.
No lipstick. He pulled his leather gloves from his pocket and slid them on.
He opened the cabinets above the sink. Two more glasses, two plates, and two bowls.
He left the kitchen and walked cautiously toward the bedroom in the back of the small apartment.
The walls were covered in a thick film of dust and grime.
Mark kept his arms pulled close to his body.
He stood in the doorway to the bedroom. A queen-sized bed, perfectly made, was in the center of the room, another plastic patio table beside it.
The closet door was cracked open. Mark stepped into the room and headed straight to the closet; with his gloved hands, he opened the door the rest of the way.
A few button-down, gray work shirts hung from hangers.
A brown box sat on top of the shelf, something else he didn’t remember seeing the last time he’d snuck in.
Had he just overlooked it then? He lifted it easily, pulling it down and setting it onto the floor.
The top flaps were tucked under one another.
He turned his head, peering out of the bedroom doors, toward the living room.
His heartbeat quickened with anticipation.
Leaning over the box, he opened the flaps.
Inside, files and loose papers were stacked two inches below the top.
Mark carried the box to the bed, where he set it down on the quilt.
He ripped the files out of the box and spread them on the bed.
The name Marissa Greer accompanied every file.
His eyes lifted to the mirror above the dresser on the wall opposite from the closet.
Taped to the mirror were photos of a young, blond haired woman taken with a Polaroid camera, and newspaper clippings from the Herald-Mail, a Maryland newspaper.
Mark walked around the bed, slowly registering the shrine before him.
He peered at the Herald-Mail article against the wall and read about the power plant shutting down in Williamsport, Maryland.
Then he moved back to the box and fingered through a series of handwritten notes.
Wednesday, September 12, Depth of Darkness, death by knife.
Wednesday, July 7, Into the Streets, death by blunt instrument.
A TV show. Mark knew the series. True Crime.
He’d watched it religiously for the past five years.
In the notes were details on how each death had occurred, and steps the criminal had taken to cover his tracks, some slashed with red ink, others distinctly circled.
Mark’s eyes rose to the photographs on the wall.
Each was of the same beautiful, blond, bright-eyed woman.
In no picture was she looking directly into the camera. All had been taken at a distance.
“You sick prick,” he mumbled under his breath.