Chapter Nineteen
Farley, Jack, and Scout woke up early Sunday morning, ready to eat, play, and go for a walk. While Lake fixed breakfast, Linus took them outside to toss the ball around in the backyard. By the time he came back in, Lake was pulling an egg casserole with veggies and potatoes from the oven. The dogs were so tuckered out that they crawled into their beds to take a nap.
“Ah, the sound of silence,” Linus noted as he washed his hands in the sink. “Happy dogs mean that we have the kitchen all to ourselves.” He sniffed the air. “That looks delicious,” he added, wrapping his arms around her waist and trailing kisses along her neck.
She tilted her head to give him better access. “I’m glad to see you’re in better spirits.”
“I thought about what you said last night. It makes sense to follow the same steps as law enforcement. We make sure the eight names we have match the eight victims. But until we have confirmation, it doesn’t hurt to try to find a link to Riggs.”
“I don’t have a problem with that. It’s obvious there are eight sets of remains and eight missing women. The logical assumption would be that they match up. But it would be nice to have the facts before we make fools of ourselves.”
Linus winced, thinking about the fiasco with Derrick Kingsley’s rabbit. He pulled out a kitchen chair to sit. “This time, if anyone makes a fool of themselves, it’ll be me.”
Lake dished up egg casserole onto their plates and sat across from him at the table. “You say that now. But I still remember the sting of embarrassment I felt going after Derrick.” When her phone buzzed with a text, she saw a message from Greta. “She’s asking if I want to go to the flea market in Santa Cruz with her and Abby Anderson.”
“You don’t have to stay here and play detective with me. You should go.”
“Now, why would I do that? We haven’t spent that much time together. Are you trying to get rid of me?”
“No, I’d like your help. I’ll take care of calling Jimmy and Eastlyn. But if you could find a way to get an update about Callum Riggs, I’d appreciate it.”
“I could call Gloria Peacock. She works for Judge Lanning as a criminal court clerk. Gloria knows everything on the docket about arraignments. My guess is she’ll know what’s happening with Riggs on Monday.”
“Could you call her today and let her know you’re interested in how it goes?”
“Sure. I’ll do it because you seem so sure Riggs isn’t the serial killer.”
After breakfast, they went into separate parts of the house to make their phone calls.
It took Gloria twenty minutes to explain that Riggs had retained two high-powered lawyers. Both attorneys planned a press conference to profess their client’s innocence.
“It’s what they all do, even if they’re caught in the act,” Gloria commiserated. “Keep in mind that Brent’s investigation is just getting started. The FBI is still gathering evidence, tracking down where the components came from that he used in making the explosive devices. They still need to compare what was used at the harbor and what he used when the yacht blew up. Either way, I doubt Callum Riggs is going anywhere anytime soon.”
“What about the serial murders? You haven’t said anything about the remains found or the women who went missing,” Lake pressed.
“For now, there’s no evidence to suggest he’s involved in the serial murders. In fact, he won’t be charged with those. No, what he’s looking at is kidnapping Alice and arson. Maybe even a host of other illegal activities. It’s too soon to know for sure. He was keeping a lot of secrets. My guess is you’ll have neighbors back in Los Gatos shocked and appalled at his actions. They’ll be questioning everything they thought they knew about their once-respected neighbor.”
“If anything changes about the arraignment tomorrow, will you let me know?”
“Absolutely. I’ve already promised three journalists I’d keep them posted on the latest.”
“Thanks, Gloria. I appreciate the information.”
Lake walked into the living room about the time Linus finished his conversation with Eastlyn.
“I hope you got better news than I did.”
“About Callum Riggs? Nope. Gloria told me that, as of right now, they can only get Riggs for kidnapping and the arson at the pier. Apparently, there’s no law against blowing up your own boat unless you plan to file an insurance claim.”
“That’s pretty much what Eastlyn said. So far, they have nothing to connect him to the murders. How did you know?”
“I didn’t know.”
“It just doesn’t feel right for some reason. Eastlyn did tell me the unidentified remains outside the wall of vines came back to a missing eighteen-year-old waitress—Trudy Winehouse, from Scotts Valley. She went missing last June, three months before Gabby Moreland. And get this, after clocking out at her fast-food job, Trudy had plans to meet up with friends in Santa Cruz that night. Something went wrong, though, and the get-together was canceled. The only thing Eastlyn says she knows for sure is that Trudy never made it back to Scotts Valley. They’re starting an investigation into her phone records.”
“Trudy fits the pattern, Linus,” Lake surmised, biting her lip.
“I know. Eastlyn said the entire team doesn’t think Callum Riggs is their guy.”
“What about Jimmy? Did he give you Sofia’s phone number?”
“No, but I got her email address. Jimmy thinks she’d rather answer questions about that night by email versus talk about it to a stranger over the phone.”
“That makes sense, I guess.”
“I’m beginning to wonder if she’ll remember much.”
Lake looked at him in disbelief. “When something like that happens to a woman, they don’t forget. She might try to put the fear out of her head, but never the details.”
“You’re right. Trauma has a way of imprinting memories that are hard to shake off. I hope she’s willing to share what she remembers. It could be crucial in piecing together what happened to her and the other missing women. Do you suppose she could give us a description of the man?”
“We can always ask. Want some help drafting the email? Maybe there’s a detail she overlooked or didn’t think was important at the time. We need to make sure we ask the right questions.”
“Yeah, exactly,” Linus muttered. “I left my laptop in the kitchen.”
They moved to the kitchen table, where they huddled over the laptop, hoping to compose the perfect email that would get a response. It took almost an hour for them to come up with the right set of questions.
After hitting the send button, Lake sent him a wide grin. “You know it will be absolute agony until we hear from Sofia, right?”
“Yep. Sitting around here all day will drive us nuts waiting for an answer. Let’s do something. Go somewhere. Take an afternoon to ourselves and not think about serial killers.”
“There’s always the flea market, walk the dogs around and check out all the booths.”
He was about to agree to the trip to Santa Cruz when the doorbell rang.
Lake checked the door cam he’d installed a few weeks earlier. “It’s Greta. What’s she doing here? She seems upset and agitated.”
Greta was in a panic. “I can’t find Abby. I went to pick her up this morning and she wasn’t at her house. I’ve tried calling at least a dozen times. All my calls go to voicemail. I checked with everyone I know that she knows. I’ve driven around town looking for her. She has to be on foot. Her Fiat is still parked in her driveway. But I can’t find her anywhere. Because it’s Sunday and her day off, Keegan hasn’t seen her either. What should I do?”
“What time did you drop by to pick her up?” Lake asked.
“When I texted you around eight-twenty this morning. We planned to get there early because she wanted to look for homemade soap and candles from this one vendor.”
Linus checked his watch. “When was the last time you talked to her?”
“Last night. I thought it strange that she didn’t call me this morning to verify what time I planned to pick her up.”
“Was she going out last night?”
Greta rolled her eyes at Lake. “It was Saturday night. We always go for a drink at The Shipwreck, you know that. We left about ten o’clock. All anyone wanted to talk about was the fire. It was terrible what happened, but we wanted to spend a couple of hours without having to talk about it. Was that so wrong?”
Linus ignored that last part. “When you left, were you followed?”
“I don’t think so,” Greta replied. “We hung out for about another hour, trying to decide whether to see a movie. But we decided getting to the flea market today was much more important. What should I do? Should I call the cops? I think I should. What do you think?”
Lake traded looks with Linus. “Let’s not jump to conclusions just yet. Did you look inside her house?”
Greta shook her head. “No, after everything that’s happened, I was too scared to go inside alone. What if she was in there—?”
Greta didn’t need to finish her thought because Lake knew exactly what she meant. She put a comforting hand on Greta’s shoulder. “Let’s go check together. Maybe she overslept or lost track of time.” But Lake had her doubts Abby would’ve done that without calling.
“I’m putting in a call to Eastlyn,” Linus whispered. “She needs to be the one who gets into Abby’s house to check it out.”
“That’s a good idea. You call Eastlyn and have her meet us there.”
The three of them hurried over to Abby’s place—a cute little bungalow on Sand Dollar Circle—the worry evident in their expressions.
Greta knocked on the door again as she had earlier, but no one answered.
They stood outside, lingering near the front stoop, before Linus’s phone buzzed with a message from Eastlyn confirming she was on her way.
The wait doubled the tension in the air. Lake paced back and forth, her mind trying not to conjure up the worst while Greta fidgeted with her keys, unable to stand still for even a few minutes. Linus stood stoically on the curb, his eyes scanning the quiet neighborhood for any sign of movement.
Finally, Eastlyn’s car pulled up in the driveway.
“I think we should try the back door,” Lake suggested. “I remember Abby mentioning she sometimes leaves it unlocked when she goes out for a quick errand.”
When Eastlyn narrowed her eyes in a disapproving manner, Lake added, “It’s a small town. She could jog to work. Shopping or grabbing a cup of coffee is within walking distance. It goes to show you how safe Abby felt leaving her door unlocked for ten or fifteen minutes.”
“It’s not a good idea no matter where you live,” Eastlyn muttered. “But let’s try the back door. I’d hate to break a window when she’s only running over to get a cappuccino.”
They all followed close behind Eastlyn as she led the way around the back of the house. But as they approached the back door, Lake noticed something out of place—a large planter knocked over on the ground with daisies strewn about and dirt everywhere.
She started to bend down to pick it up, but Eastlyn shook her head. “Don’t touch anything. I’m going in first. You guys stay back until I come out to get you.”
Without another word, Eastlyn drew her weapon and then slowly turned the knob. The door was unlocked, something that caused unease to settle in her gut.
She shook it off and stepped inside the kitchen. The house seemed eerily quiet. She called out for Abby, her voice echoing through the small house. Everything looked normal—the furniture in place, the lights off—but something didn’t feel right.
When Eastlyn reached the living room, she saw it—the picture frame shattered, glass scattered across the floor where it had fallen off a side table. She continued searching room by room, calling out her name, but Abby was nowhere to be found.
As Eastlyn stood in the bedroom, she noticed something odd—Abby’s bed hadn’t been slept in, but her cell phone was lying on the bedside table, a half-empty glass of water beside it. She retraced her steps to the kitchen, where she found Abby’s purse and keys on the countertop. Her cop sense kicked in. Eastlyn radioed dispatch. “Lincoln One to dispatch. I have a ten-sixty-five. Female. Abby Anderson, missing since Saturday night. Description to follow.”
She snapped on a pair of latex gloves and picked up Abby’s purse, digging out her driver’s license with the information she needed. After relaying Abby’s description to dispatch, she requested a BOLO on the five-foot-five-inch blonde before stepping outside again to talk to Abby’s friends.
“I think you had good reason to worry about Abby,” Eastlyn told them. “She left her keys and purse behind, along with her cell phone. Who does that if they’re just running errands? I think she made it home last night from the bar, but then something happened. She never made it to bed.”
Greta gasped, a hand flying to her mouth as tears welled up in her eyes. “I knew something was wrong.”
“What’s happening to our town?” Lake wondered. “People going missing. We know the drill from what happened to Alice. We’ll get posters made right away. But is there anything else we should do in the meantime?”
Eastlyn angled toward Greta. “Linus tells me you and Abby were at the pub last night. Did you interact with anyone out of the ordinary, someone who came off as suspicious, maybe overly interested in Abby?”
Greta cleared her throat. “Well, Derrick Kingsley kept giving Abby a hard time about telling Lake he’d buried something in the backyard. He was upset and said she shouldn’t be running her mouth like that. He even told me that I shouldn’t have driven Lake over to his house.”
“Just hold on a minute,” Linus said. “Doesn’t Derrick Kingsley live around the corner on Tidewater?”
“Yes, he does,” Lake noted. “And Abby is the one who confided in me about his odd behavior that night he buried Bella—if that was actually what he was burying.”
“What’s Derrick’s address?” Eastlyn asked.
“1412 Tidewater Avenue,” Lake provided.
Eastlyn considered that information before picking up her radio. “Lincoln One requests a crime scene unit from county to Number Ten Sand Dollar Circle. Lincoln One also requests backup at 1-4-1-2 Tidewater. Officer checking at that location now for missing female, Abby Anderson.”
“I’ll go with you,” Linus volunteered.
Eastlyn shook her head. “You let us handle it. Colt’s ETA is three minutes out.”