61
ANSON
Vincent and Paul stayed with the Kid as I led Detective Moss down the narrow steps from the attic to the main level and rounded a corner at the base of the stairs.
Deeper down the hallway, a boy of maybe fourteen holding a butcher knife patrolled.
His face grew stiff and anxious at the sight of the detective, but he did not attempt to hide the knife.
Instead, he locked eyes with her for a few seconds, then continued down the hallway.
Neither of us moved until he rounded the far corner and vanished.
Meagan’s room wasn’t so much a room as it was a storage closet under the staircase. That said, it was a private space—something in short supply at the Quick. And it was near her patients. Probably the reason she picked it.
With one hand resting on the gun at her hip, Detective Moss knocked twice on Meagan’s door and announced herself.
No reply came.
She tried the knob and found it unlocked.
I half expected Moss to tell me to wait outside, maybe act as a lookout, but instead, she motioned for me to enter with a sideways bob of her head as she silently stepped into the room.
Inside, she closed the door, and the two of us quickly scanned the interior.
There was a cot against the wall on the right, the sheets and blanket made with military precision, pulled tight at all corners with a fluffed pillow resting on top.
A small, three-drawer dresser was centered against the back wall; a lamp, digital clock, and several books were piled on top.
On the wall to our left was an armoire. It was about my height and stained a dark brown, the wood chipped and scratched with years of use.
The ceiling sloped with the stairs above, but we both had enough room to stand.
“We’re going to make this fast,” Detective Moss told me, eyeing the armoire. “I’ll take that. You get the dresser and around the bed.”
I nodded.
I didn’t ask her what we were looking for because I knew she didn’t know any more than I did.
This Meagan woman is connected to Talbot, and Talbot is bad news, Champ.
She’ll put you in a box. For the life of me, I don’t understand what you’re doing.
Leave. Just leave. Don’t you feel the rope tightening around you?
Honestly, I thought I taught you better than this. I am seriously disappointed.
Shut up,” I said softly.
Detective Moss’s eyes narrowed. “Huh?”
Shaking my head, I didn’t explain; I just went to Meagan’s bed.
Disappointed or not, Father had taught me the proper way to conduct a search, particularly when you wanted to go unnoticed.
Without disturbing her sheets, I lifted the mattress and peered underneath.
Aside from a few random dust bunnies, there was nothing.
Nothing under her pillow. Nothing in the pillowcase, either.
I ran my fingertips down the length of her sheets, then back up again, adjusting by a few inches with each pass.
Combing in a grid pattern until I reached the opposite corner from where I started. Again, nothing found.
On the small dresser were copies of the latest Nora Roberts novel as well as a worn paperback by Thad McAlister.
A political thriller, too. I quickly flipped through all three and found nothing within the pages aside from scrap pieces of paper she apparently used as bookmarks.
The top drawer was filled with toiletries, as well as toothpaste and a brush, a hair dryer, and some makeup.
The center drawer had t-shirts and socks.
The third held underwear and bras. I felt my face flush red at the sight of those, and my color only deepened when I caught Detective Moss watching me.
“You’d be surprised what women hide in their underwear drawer, Anson.
Check carefully. Don’t be afraid to dig. ”
In my mind’s eye, I flashed back to the Carters’ house behind our own in Simpsonville. Mother had told me something similar when we searched through Mr. and Mrs. Carter’s things on the day I’d found the photograph of her and Mrs. Carter, both naked, doing unmentionable things to each other.
There was no photograph in Meagan’s things.
I found nothing in Meagan’s things.
When Detective Moss let out a slow sigh, I knew she wasn’t making any progress either.
I closed the bottom drawer, ready to give up, when it got stuck. I pulled it open and tried again, but it would not shut.
“Fiddlesticks,” I muttered.
Even to me, the word sounded weird coming from my mouth. When Father said it, he made it sound natural.
Detective Moss twisted back toward me. “What is it?”
I tried the drawer again, but it only closed about halfway. “It’s stuck.”
Finished with the armoire, Detective Moss closed the double doors and knelt next to me. She tried the drawer herself and frowned. “It’s caught on something.”
Rather than push the drawer, Moss pulled it toward us until it dropped from its tracks, then she reached inside the dark cavity and came out with a small book. “Bingo. Next time, I think I’ll start with the underwear drawer.” She flipped through the pages and studied the text.
“What is it?”
“I think it’s some kind of ledger.”
“May I?”
She handed it to me.
About half the pages were filled, and as I read the text, my heart gave a solid thump. Particularly the last page. The final three entries read:
“WF15 5k EC.”
“WM15 4k AD.”
“WF15 6k MP.”
I’d seen entries just like these. They’d been written on the backs of photographs at Finicky’s.
The pictures of all the kids on the staircase wall.
When I spoke, my voice was thin. “This one stands for white female, fifteen years old, five thousand dollars.” I paused a second at the remaining two letters.
“Those are initials. What was Emily’s last name? ”
“Cormack,” Detective Moss replied, her finger falling to the letters EC.
I moved on to the next one. “White male, fifteen years old, four thousand dollars. Andy . . .”
“Dickson.”
“Dickson,” I replied. “Andy Dickson. AD.”
Her finger brushed the last entry. “White female, fifteen. Six thousand dollars . . .” Her voice trailed off at the initials. “I don’t know of anyone with the initials MP.”
“It’s whoever he has now,” I said.
“You mean whoever she has now.” She flipped back through the pages. “There must be a hundred other entries here. I don’t see any dates, but this book is old. There are at least three different types of handwriting here. Like it’s been passed on from person to person over time.”
“I bet everyone on the wall in the cafeteria is in there.”
Although Detective Moss had been in the cafeteria for the meeting earlier, I wasn’t sure if she’d gotten a good look at that wall.
If she didn’t understand what I was talking about, she said nothing.
Instead, she thumbed back through the book and tapped one of the pages.
“I don’t think Meagan is our killer. I think she’s supplying victims to our killer. ”
“For a price,” I added.
She nodded. “Considering how far back this all goes, we may be talking about multiple killers.”
“Multiple suppliers and multiple killers.”
All those people on the wall, dating back generations.
Above us, heavy feet thundered up the stairs. Someone big heading to the Kid’s room. Maybe Pudge. A moment later, they came back down again and vanished down the hallway toward the front of the Quick.
“We need to get out of here,” I said, quickly working the drawer back into place.
Detective Moss stood and pocketed the ledger. “I’ve got someone in CSU I can trust with this. I want to get some pictures of the wall in the cafeteria, give them something they can compare to.”
So she did know about the wall.
When she opened Meagan’s door, we found Stash standing there blocking our path, a large shotgun cradled in his arm.