Chapter Eighteen Sloane #2
She leaned forward, her eyes sharper with interest. “Sure. Half the town has been built in the last fifteen years. We have a lot of folks moving here to retire. Dawson was voted one of the best retirement communities in the US.”
A hidden ravine on the mountaintop was almost as inaccessible as tons of concrete. “Where does Kevin live?”
“Fieldstone Apartments. It’s a two-hundred-unit complex outside of Dawson.” She recited his address as if it were etched in her heart. “It was built ten years ago.”
I scribbled it down. “Do you think Kevin is a killer?”
“I thought Kevin murdered Debra. But then Taggart made his arrest. So I guess I was wrong.”
“How well did Kevin know Rafe Colton?”
“I always thought they met at the concert,” she said.
“Could they have been working together?” I asked. “I’m convinced Colton had help. I just don’t know who.”
“Why are you so sure?”
“Colton was popular. His festivals had groupies. He was MIA a few times during the event, but someone could always place him somewhere.”
“Several girls testified they were having sex with him in the farmhouse or in a tent.”
“I don’t think he got off that mountain until sunrise, like everyone else.”
“Colton was seen driving his truck off the site about nine on Saturday morning. No place to hide bodies.”
“Correct.”
She sat back, her gaze a mixture of hope and fear. “I want you to find them.”
“I’m doing my best.”
“If you need anything, give me a call. I don’t mind creating a little trouble.”
“I’ll let you know.” Marsha’s passion for this case, her history with Kevin, and her guilt made her an unreliable helper. She was too connected. So was I, but I wasn’t emotionally attached like she was.
“What do you think the chances are?”
“For finding the girls? I’m not sure. I’m doing my best to shake a lot of bushes. That tends to make people nervous. And nervous people make mistakes.”
“Do me a favor and make Kevin nervous.”
I couldn’t resist a smile. “He’s on my list.”
Fieldstone Apartments was located twelve miles outside of Dawson.
When I parked in a visitor parking lot, I was struck by how ordinary the complex looked.
Its light-brown siding and faux brick entrances all created a welcoming mountain-community vibe.
If I were into signing leases and stability, I’d give it a second look.
But I wasn’t. My Jeep was about as permanent as it got.
I parked at the end of the lot, several buildings away from Kevin’s section. I sat for ten minutes, watching the flow of people in and out of the parking lot. This time of day, it was quiet. Most people were still at work.
Out of my car, I wasn’t nervous or rushed.
I moved down the sidewalk, not worried about who saw me.
Later people might remember seeing a woman with dark hair.
Maybe they’d remember a blue shirt, but most eyewitnesses had terrible recall.
Best case, most would remember I was female, but they’d argue if I was short or tall, young or old.
I crossed the lot toward the entrance to his building. His apartment was located on the first floor, which was good. If I had to leave by a balcony or window, I could escape without risking a broken bone.
From my back pocket I pulled my lockpicking kit.
One. Two. Three. Click. I pocketed the set and opened the door.
I listened for signs that I wasn’t alone.
Feet hit the floor, and I tensed as I hovered by the door.
Out of the bedroom came a mixed-breed dog that looked part lab and shepherd.
He wagged his tail and, head bowed, moved toward me.
I knelt. “Hey, guy.”
I scratched him behind the ears. “You’re such a good dog.”
People, I could take or leave, but I had a softness for animals.
When I was growing up, my grandmother hadn’t allowed pets in the house, but the neighbors had a collie named Vince.
I’d often hopped the fence and slipped into my neighbors’ house.
I’d grab fresh luncheon meat from the refrigerator.
I’d sit in the kitchen and share it with Vince.
“So, what do I need to look for?” I asked the dog. “Does Kevin have any trinkets?” The dog nudged my hand, so I kept rubbing. I moved to the refrigerator, found a container with cooked hamburger. Removing the top, I set it on the floor for the pup.
The dog dropped his nose into the bowl, gobbling the contents.
I moved down the hallway to the unit’s one bedroom. Kevin kept his place clean and organized. The bed was made, and the pillows fluffed. The coins on his dresser were arranged in a neat pile. Aftershave and a brush stood at right angles to each other.
The bathroom was as clean. The sink sparkled, his toothbrush stood upright in a cup, and the towels were hung.
I opened the medicine cabinet. It contained aspirin, vitamins, a prescription for a mood stabilizer, and sunscreen.
Taggart’s records had noted that Kevin had been diagnosed with mood swings before the women vanished.
He’d broken up with Debra and had gotten into a fight with a cop.
The incident had landed him in jail for sixty days.
He’d been released two weeks before the concert.
Woodward shouldn’t have hired him, but they’d been short-staffed when Colton made the Friday morning call for security.
Turned out Colton had never finalized festival security details with them.
I closed the cabinet and moved to the living room. The dog had eaten the meat and was now licking the container’s corners.
I sat on a leather sofa and glanced at the three piles of magazines lined side by side. One pile contained guns and ammo magazines, the next news, and the last porn.
“Charming, Kevin.”
I opened the end table drawers and searched a small desk nudged into a corner. Nothing here that piqued my interest. The dog joined me, and I rubbed his head. I filled his water bowl, and as he drank, I replaced the top on the meat container and put it back in the refrigerator.
I was tempted to push the magazines on the floor, but Kevin might blame the dog. Instead, I turned each pile 180 degrees, so their mastheads faced away from the couch. The magazines, along with the missing meat, would catch Kevin’s attention.
On the faux mantel, I spotted a framed picture.
I rose and crossed to it and studied the image.
It was a decades-old picture of Kevin and Debra.
She wore a blue sundress, and he had donned his security guard uniform.
In the background was the Mountain Music Festival banner.
It would have been one of the last images taken of Debra.
“Why hang on to this?”
Did he still mourn Debra? Or was the picture a token of the night? Mementos. Sometimes they linked to sexual stimulation and satisfaction.
I removed the picture from the frame and glanced at the back. Someone had scribbled “1994” in the upper right-hand corner. I took several pictures with my phone before replacing the image in the frame. Using the hem of my T-shirt, I wiped my fingerprints from the frame and glass.
I scratched the dog on the head, left through the front door, and locked it behind me. I moved across the lot. As I sat in my car, my phone rang. Grant’s name flashed on the screen. His timing was unsettling.
“Hello, Grant.”
“Sloane. What are you up to?”
I started the car’s engine. “Breaking and entering. How about you?”
He chuckled. “Really?”
“Of course.”
“Breaking and entering and I guess trespassing, too. Any other infractions?”
I laughed. “A few. Why the call?”
“I read your article. I called Bob Watson and congratulated him on the arrest. He speaks well of you.”
“How’s Bob? I like him.” I had a genuine affection for a cop who never gave up.
“Doing well. Sends his regards. Find anything against Colton?”
I glanced up at Kevin’s apartment building. “Still trying to figure out if a second person was involved.”
“If you had to bet on that?”
“I’d say yes.”
“How about dinner?” he asked.
Kevin’s truck pulled into the parking lot.
He parked in front of his unit. Out of the truck, he moved to the bank of post office boxes.
He grabbed his mail and trotted to his apartment.
Seconds later he appeared with his dog. The dog walked at his side, staying in step with Kevin.
His tail wasn’t wagging. Kevin liked discipline more than the dog did.
Kevin couldn’t have noticed the magazines or missing meat yet. I wished I could be around to see the confusion on his face. “I can always eat,” I said.
“Meet me in town at the Bistro at seven.”
As Kevin vanished back into his building with the dog, I put my Jeep in drive. The wheels rolled, and I angled the car toward the exit.
“How are you doing?” Grant asked.
His concern was perplexing. “I’m fine. Why do you ask?”
“One of the victims was your mother.”
I pulled off the road and into a small parking lot. A glance in the rearview mirror told me no one was behind me. “I’m dealing just fine.”
“I used to say that when I worked a tough case.”
“I suspect you’re nicer than me,” I said.
He chuckled. “See you at seven?”
“Looking forward to it.” I hung up and tossed the phone in my console.
Behind me an engine rumbled. My rearview mirror caught Kevin’s truck roaring down the road.
I switched on my dash cam and then ducked down until I heard his car whoosh past. I counted to three and then rose.
Jeep in gear, I drove. And when his truck crested a hill, I hung back, far enough away not to be seen and close enough to catch the top of his cab on each hill.