They walked back toward the house on Green Street.
“Anything about him seem familiar?”
“Yeah, I think he was at the crime scene.”
“Maybe a fan of the police?”
Katie said slowly, “Maybe, but I think he was after something else. Or knows something that we don’t know about the case.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Find anything interesting about the house?”
“Nada. It’s just like the rest of the places. The crew is finishing up the interiors and soon people will begin moving in.”
They reached the car and paused.
“Mr. Big Guy back there said that all the houses have been sold.”
“Really?”
Katie opened the car door. “So if they have been sold, why can’t we find anything?”
“You know how slow these things work. Maybe all the information hasn’t been entered into the system at the title company and assessor’s office.” McGaven studied his partner. “What? You’ve got that look. I don’t know whether to be happy or brace for the worst.”
Katie smiled. “Well, I know that property taxes wait for no one. There’s must be a record somewhere.”
“I saw a real estate sign down the street for MayFare Realty. I’ll dig around there.”
“We need to find out why Candace Harlan and Amy Striker are somehow connected to this house on Green Street.”
Twelve
Tuesday 1530 hours
Katie leaned over McGaven’s shoulder as he ran through several police reports for Carol Harlan. To their surprise, there were numerous reports for vandalism and trespass, but nothing else popped.
“It looks like these charges were all dropped,” McGaven said.
“All those dates are from several years ago, nothing current,” Katie said, discouraged. Reading on, she said, “Actually, it looks like Carol was kicked out of places where she was sleeping. It makes sense that she was homeless.” Reading on, she said, “What about the contact information she gave?”
“It looks like 1477 Spring Street.”
“Why does that sound familiar?” she said.
“It’s because it’s the government building downtown. It’s common for inmates to use that address when they are transient.”
“Okay, what about Amy Striker?”
“Nothing on her. And the phone number 555-2711 is not a working number—of course.”
Katie sat back in her chair feeling a bit defeated. “Why the name Amy Striker?”
“It could be a purely made-up name or a name from the past. An old childhood friend. A neighbor. A fictional character in a book. It could be just about any name that she wanted to use.”
Katie sighed. “You’re right.” She grabbed her phone. “I just can’t help but think that hooded guy is somehow tracking us.” Looking at the image, “Who are you?”
“What’s that?” asked McGaven.
“I took this photo when we entered the crime-scene area at Elm Hill just for documentation.”
“Send it to my email,” he said.
Katie sent two photos to McGaven.
With a few keystrokes, he enlarged the images. “Hmm,” he grumbled.
“What?”
“Why is it when you need to see an identity of somebody—they are standing in the perfect position with the lighting to make it next to impossible to identify who they are?”
Katie pushed her chair next to McGaven and scrutinized the screen. She let out a breath. “Maybe if I had waited another second or two, there would be a better photo. But, we’re assuming that that hooded guy is the same guy I chased at Green Street.”
“Look at the build,” he said.
Katie saw the guy had his hands in his pockets and had shifted his right shoulder to further obscure his identity. “Yeah, he appears to be like the guy I chased. But look at how he turns his body to make sure that his identity isn’t seen.”
“It’s like he knows where the potential cameras are.”
“Who would know instinctively how to do that?”
“Well, criminals, for one.”
“What about someone who understands camera angles?”
“You mean like a photographer—or a model, I suppose. Interesting.”
Katie looked at the second photo with other people. “Look at how everyone else is oblivious to anyone watching them or photographing them.” The others were leaning in and craning their necks to get a better look at the crime scene. “It’s a huge contrast between hooded guy and the others. He doesn’t seem to be curious about the scene, but cautious.”
“Well, we have plenty more information to dig through,” he said.
Katie glanced at her board and realized that they really needed a confirmation that the body at Elm Hill Mansion was Candace Harlan’s sister—Carol Harlan. She also had a sinking feeling that they were missing something—or someone.
Thirteen
Tuesday 1845 hours
Katie searched for 1188 Spreckles Lane as she slowly drove by the brightly painted houses. It was a nice older neighborhood with cottages that had been remodeled and nicely kept up. It was pretty and inviting. The sidewalks were neat and tidy, as were the grass and bushes. Green was the color of the day, after all the rain they had received made the landscape pop.
“Eleven eighty-eight, where are you…” she muttered to herself and glanced at the tiny piece of paper with the neatly printed address once again. No explanation. No other notes of direction. Just the address. Even her GPS wasn’t any help.
Katie drove the police sedan around the block again. “What am I missing?” she grumbled. “There’s eleven eighty-six and eleven ninety… where’s…” That’s when she saw it. A small yellow house tucked back behind two towering trees down a single long driveway. It had climbing vines and two large lemon trees.
She parked her vehicle on the street and got out.
Small stepping stones ran along the side of the drive leading up to a detached single-car garage. The instant aroma of orange blossoms and another sweeter smell filled the air—even though it was late in the season. It reminded Katie of long summers when she was young—before going back to school.
There was a pounding noise coming from inside the small house—like a tool hitting a pipe. Rhythmic and constant. The closer she came to the front door the louder it became.
The front door was wide open.
“Hello?” she said.
“In here,” came the reply.
“Where?” she laughed and stepped inside.
“Here.”
The tiny cottage had a nice-size living room filled with moving boxes, and she spied where there were most likely two bedrooms and a small bath between them.
“I thought you were a detective,” the muffled voice said from another area.
“Just clearing the other rooms first…”
Katie turned to the left and around a corner, finding herself in the small kitchen. White cabinets, a half-size refrigerator, a small butcher block island, and two long countertops rounded out the area. From underneath the sink two legs and part of a torso were visible, the banging sounds continuing.