talking about her.
Fuck ’em, if they are.
This was her case. No one was bouncing her. Sixty million in stolen art, or whatever the hell it was, wasn’t exactly petty theft.
Ellie went up to a series of crime photos. If staring at Tess McAuliffe in the tub had made her stomach turn, this almost brought up breakfast. One victim had been dropped right at the front door, shot through the head. The guy with the red hair was shot at the kitchen table. Shotgun. Two were killed in the bedroom, the heavyset one through the back, maybe trying to flee; and the girl, huddled in the corner, probably begging for her life, a straight-on blast. Bullet and shotgun marks were numbered all over the walls.
Drugs?
Ellie took a breath.
Who else kills like this?
Feeling a little useless, she started to make her way to the door. They were right. This wasn’t her terrain. She also felt a need to get some air.
Then she saw something on the kitchen counter that made her stop.
Tools.
A hammer. A straight-edge file. A box cutter.
Not just tools. They wouldn’t have meant a thing to someone else, but to Ellie, they were standard utensils for a task she’d seen performed a hundred times. For opening a frame.
Jesus,
Ellie started thinking.
She headed back to the crime photos again. Something clicked.
Three
male victims.
Three
male thieves at Stratton’s. She looked more closely at the photos. Something she was just seeing. If she hadn’t been at both crime scenes, she wouldn’t have noticed.
Each of the male victims had been wearing the same black laced shoes.
Ellie forced her mind back to the black-and-white security film at Casa Del Océano. Then she glanced around the room.
A dozen or so cops, guarding the scene. She looked more closely. Her heart started to race.
Police shoes.
Chapter 22
THE ROBBERS HAD BEEN dressed as cops, right? Score one for the fine-arts grad.
Ellie glanced around the crowded room. She saw Woodward over by the kitchen, still huddled with Lawson. She pushed her way through. “Ralph, I think I found something….”
Ralph Woodward had that easygoing southern way of brushing you off with a smile. “Ellie, just give me a second….” Ellie knew he didn’t take her seriously.
All right, if they wanted her to go it alone, she would.
Ellie dropped a badge on one of the local homicide detectives who was identified as primary on the scene. “I was wondering if you guys found anything interesting? In the closets, or the car? Police uniforms, maybe a Maglite flashlight?”
“Crime lab took the car,” the detective said. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”
Of course,
Ellie said to herself.
They weren’t really looking. Or maybe the perps ditched them.
But this feeling she had was building.
There were chalk outlines and flags identifying each victim. And evidence bags containing whatever they had on them.
Ellie started in the bedroom. Victim number three: Robert O’ Reilly. Shot in the back. She held up the evidence bag. Just a few dollars. A wallet. Nothing more. Next, the girl. Diane Lynch. The same wedding ring as Robert O’Reilly. She emptied out her purse. Just some keys, a receipt from Publix. Nothing much.
Shit.
Something urged her to go on, even though she had no idea what she was looking for. The male at the kitchen table. Michael Kelly. Blown back against the wall, but still sitting in his chair. She picked up the plastic evidence bag next to him. Car keys, money clip with about fifty bucks.
There was also a tiny piece of paper, folded up. She moved it in the bag. Looked like numbers.
She stretched on a pair of latex gloves and took the piece of paper out of the bag. She let the scrap unfold.
A surge of validation rushed through her.
10-02-85.
More than just numbers. Dennis Stratton’s alarm code.
Chapter 23
I DROVE NORTH, straight through the night, pushing my old Bonneville at a steady seventy-five on I-95. I wanted to put as much distance as I could between me and Palm Beach. I’m
Fuck ’em, if they are.
This was her case. No one was bouncing her. Sixty million in stolen art, or whatever the hell it was, wasn’t exactly petty theft.
Ellie went up to a series of crime photos. If staring at Tess McAuliffe in the tub had made her stomach turn, this almost brought up breakfast. One victim had been dropped right at the front door, shot through the head. The guy with the red hair was shot at the kitchen table. Shotgun. Two were killed in the bedroom, the heavyset one through the back, maybe trying to flee; and the girl, huddled in the corner, probably begging for her life, a straight-on blast. Bullet and shotgun marks were numbered all over the walls.
Drugs?
Ellie took a breath.
Who else kills like this?
Feeling a little useless, she started to make her way to the door. They were right. This wasn’t her terrain. She also felt a need to get some air.
Then she saw something on the kitchen counter that made her stop.
Tools.
A hammer. A straight-edge file. A box cutter.
Not just tools. They wouldn’t have meant a thing to someone else, but to Ellie, they were standard utensils for a task she’d seen performed a hundred times. For opening a frame.
Jesus,
Ellie started thinking.
She headed back to the crime photos again. Something clicked.
Three
male victims.
Three
male thieves at Stratton’s. She looked more closely at the photos. Something she was just seeing. If she hadn’t been at both crime scenes, she wouldn’t have noticed.
Each of the male victims had been wearing the same black laced shoes.
Ellie forced her mind back to the black-and-white security film at Casa Del Océano. Then she glanced around the room.
A dozen or so cops, guarding the scene. She looked more closely. Her heart started to race.
Police shoes.
Chapter 22
THE ROBBERS HAD BEEN dressed as cops, right? Score one for the fine-arts grad.
Ellie glanced around the crowded room. She saw Woodward over by the kitchen, still huddled with Lawson. She pushed her way through. “Ralph, I think I found something….”
Ralph Woodward had that easygoing southern way of brushing you off with a smile. “Ellie, just give me a second….” Ellie knew he didn’t take her seriously.
All right, if they wanted her to go it alone, she would.
Ellie dropped a badge on one of the local homicide detectives who was identified as primary on the scene. “I was wondering if you guys found anything interesting? In the closets, or the car? Police uniforms, maybe a Maglite flashlight?”
“Crime lab took the car,” the detective said. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”
Of course,
Ellie said to herself.
They weren’t really looking. Or maybe the perps ditched them.
But this feeling she had was building.
There were chalk outlines and flags identifying each victim. And evidence bags containing whatever they had on them.
Ellie started in the bedroom. Victim number three: Robert O’ Reilly. Shot in the back. She held up the evidence bag. Just a few dollars. A wallet. Nothing more. Next, the girl. Diane Lynch. The same wedding ring as Robert O’Reilly. She emptied out her purse. Just some keys, a receipt from Publix. Nothing much.
Shit.
Something urged her to go on, even though she had no idea what she was looking for. The male at the kitchen table. Michael Kelly. Blown back against the wall, but still sitting in his chair. She picked up the plastic evidence bag next to him. Car keys, money clip with about fifty bucks.
There was also a tiny piece of paper, folded up. She moved it in the bag. Looked like numbers.
She stretched on a pair of latex gloves and took the piece of paper out of the bag. She let the scrap unfold.
A surge of validation rushed through her.
10-02-85.
More than just numbers. Dennis Stratton’s alarm code.
Chapter 23
I DROVE NORTH, straight through the night, pushing my old Bonneville at a steady seventy-five on I-95. I wanted to put as much distance as I could between me and Palm Beach. I’m
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