Chapter 8
EIGHT
“So, we’ve got a problem,” Wells said.
Seth followed Chief Wells through the bullpen to Pereira’s desk, where Pereira sat hunched over her computer screen. Her posture was jittery, her naturally tan face paler than usual, and Seth wondered if she’d slept at all since yesterday.
“Bring it up, Pereira,” Wells instructed.
Pereira opened a video on her computer. Grainy, black and white video footage loaded of what appeared to be Sunny Stone Trailer Park at night, with its single-wide mobile homes and narrow roads.
Across the street, Seth recognized the shape of Claire and Dillon’s home through the pixels—the wind chimes, the decals of birds Claire had stuck against the siding.
The neighbor across from them must’ve installed a ring camera.
“First decent camera angle I’ve seen since I got here.” Seth leaned closer to the screen. “If Beamish left that trailer…”
Wells tapped Pereira’s shoulder. “Play it back, hon.”
Seth had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, but it barely helped against the heat. He crossed his arms as Pereira skimmed through the timelapse footage of last night.
Wind shook the trees. A skunk hobbled by, followed by an opossum sniffing near some trash bins at the side of the road before skulking away.
Then, movement from the trailer.
Claire burst outside and went digging into Dillon’s car. After rummaging through, she locked up, went back inside for a moment, then came back out. She grabbed her bike from around the side and took off into the night.
If the theory were correct, then Dillon would have to leave the trailer within minutes in order to fit the timeline. Seth held his breath.
Dillon never came out.
Then the officers showed up and knocked on the door, resulting in Dillon being dragged outside in his pajamas after throwing a sucker punch at Officer Morgan.
It hit Seth like a kick to the stomach.
He was wrong.
His whole theory about Dillon’s revenge and the women looking like Claire? Dead wrong. Dillon Beamish was innocent. At least of one crime.
“Unless Dillon Beamish is a real Houdini, I don’t think he’s your man,” Wells said.
Frustration crawled up Seth’s neck. The police station, with its sputtering fans, suddenly felt way hotter. “No, he isn’t.”
“The community will need answers, so we’re doing a press release first thing tomorrow,” Wells went on. “We’ve got two dead girls now and a very unfamiliar detective in charge of the case. I assume you’ve got a strategy in mind. Think hard about what you’ll say to those folks.”
He’d done press releases before, in front of massive crowds in New York with so many cameras flashing they’d create spots in his eyes, so this should be a cake walk—but he hadn’t expected another body to drop the same day he’d arrived.
There was something more intimate about speaking to this tightknit community, where everyone knew each other, versus in the big city.
“I’ll figure it out,” he said. “I need some air.”
With that, he took off through the station, ignoring the burning feeling of Chief Wells’s gaze on him the whole time.
“Air” came in the form of two cigarettes—one before he went to get coffee, one on the way back.
Seth drove toward the station and blew smoke out the open window of the Caprice, the sun beating down on the windshield and creating a mirage.
The bitter taste of nicotine and coffee on his tongue distracted him, but it was fleeting.
Whoever killed those girls would do it again. He could feel it in his bones, deep as the Missouri heat.
Like Lieutenant Delaney had warned him about when he’d taken this job, there were less resources in a small town like this.
It wasn’t like his job had been easy back in New York or Kansas City; city killers were adaptive predators.
They knew how to avoid cameras, conceal their identities, blend into crowds.
Dillon Beamish was far from the first Wrong Guy he’d taken in.
But damn, Seth had wanted it to be him.
He took another harsh drag off his cigarette. This was one setback—he’d recover.
He parked outside the station and hauled on the second half of his smoke, then stuffed it in the car’s ashtray. He grabbed his phone from the cupholder and called Lieutenant Delaney—no point in delaying the inevitable. After a few rings, she answered.
“Winslow, I was just about to call you. Roslyn told me what happened with the second victim this morning.”
Right—Chief Wells and Lieutenant Delaney were friends from the state academy, way back when. “That’s good, I can spare you the report. Thought I should check in and let you know how it’s going.”
“I’m told you have a suspect already.”
“Had. I just got proof of his alibi—it’s not him.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” She went quiet, and Seth dreaded what would come next. “Winslow, listen, I know you prefer to work alone, but you were sent there to solve one murder, not two. We have our hands full here, but if you’re in over your head, I can send someone down to be your partner.”
She meant well, but the last thing he wanted was to seem in over his head. “Lieutenant, I appreciate the offer, but this all unfolded very fast, and I’m still getting started. I can handle it. The locals are working with me.”
“Understood. I know you’ve arrested at least one serial killer in your career.”
“I’d hate to classify this as another one, but the media will want me to say it.”
“Of course they will. Don’t feed them.”
“Never. It’d only cause panic.”
More panic equalled more chaos, and more chaos would only distort the investigation.
Seth had certainly dealt with high-profile before.
The Brooklyn Butcher had been active for a while by the time he and his partner back in New York were assigned the case, but this situation was new.
Seth had the chance to stop there from being a third, a fourth, a fifth—
“And Winslow?” Delaney said. “It wasn’t your fault about the second girl. Nobody was expecting you to solve this case on your first day.”
Seth let out a breath, but it got caught in his throat. Lieutenant Delaney still believed in him. For now. “Thanks, LT.”
As they hung up, Seth’s attention drew to the front doors of the station as two people came out. One of them was tall and white-haired, wearing a tartan shirt. The other was shorter, her curly black hair cropped above her ears, a badge on the breast of her police uniform.
Ron Dyer and Chief Wells.
They smiled and shook each other’s hands like old friends. Awfully friendly, considering Wells had Ron’s beloved Dillon in custody.
Unless, of course, they were dropping Dillon’s charges and letting him off scot-free for assaulting an officer.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Seth muttered, then stepped into the afternoon heat. He paced toward them as they stood by the front doors of the station.
“And hey, you’ll have to bring the grandkids in for some brunch next Sunday,” Ron was saying. “I was talkin’ to the girls about bringin’ those blueberry pancakes back, the ones your little Alessa likes.”
Chief Wells let out a wholesome chuckle. “Those pancakes had them bouncing off the walls for a week, so my daughter tells me.”
“They are somethin’ else, aren’t they?”
“Hey,” Seth said. They both turned—Wells with calculated indifference, Ron with what Seth could swear was amusement playing at the corners of his mouth.
“Detective Winslow.” Wells hooked her hands to her belt, drawing herself up. “Nice of you to come back. I should head in.” She nodded at Ron. “Nice talking with you, Ron.”
“Always a pleasure, Ros,” Ron said. With that, Chief Wells went back inside.
Ron’s gaze slid over Seth, squinting in the sunlight. Seth was usually one of the taller people in a room, but Ron Dyer dwarfed him. He must’ve been at least six-foot-eight. A man as big as him must’ve walked through life with doors opening, even into his sixties.
“We were just discussin’ Dillon’s situation in there,” Ron said. “They’ve been nice enough to drop the charges, but we figure he can stew for one more night, let ’im think about the consequences of his actions.”
“I admit, I’m surprised you aren’t bailing him out sooner,” Seth said.
Ron's smile widened a fraction. “Won’t hurt the boy to learn a lesson. Nice to see ya, Detective.”
As Ron moved past, he patted Seth's shoulder—one might say a friendly gesture, but his hand was as heavy as wood. Seth fought to keep still. The smell of Ron's sweat lingered as he meandered by, boots scuffing against the asphalt on his way to his pick-up truck across the lot. Something didn’t feel right, and Seth couldn’t put his finger on what.
“Hold on, Ron,” he said, jogging over to him. Ron faced him. “Question for you. Call it a hunch, but I’m pretty sure that story you gave me yesterday about Dillon was bullshit. Why didn’t you want him talking to me at the bar?”
“Huh.” Ron leaned back and feigned confusion. “Sorry, Detective, you’ll have to forgive me, but if I’m understandin’ correctly, Dillon ain’t a suspect in your murder case no more, so I think that makes us finished here.”
“Why’d you lie, Ron?”
A beat passed before Ron let out a friendly laugh. “Look, son, I think you and I have gotten off on the wrong foot. I like to think of myself as good friends with the police force here.”
“I’m not part of the Fairview police force.”
“Neither was Haylock, but he still let me buy ’im a drink every now an’ then.
He knew gettin’ along with the locals would make his job a hell of a lot easier.
People talk to ya more when they don’t think you’re out to get ’em like some sorta armed boogeyman.
You might think you’re one of the good ones, but don’t forget that license to kill on your hip. ”
Ron gestured to the handgun holstered to Seth’s belt. It wasn’t like he ever forgot he had it, but he rarely needed to use it.