But Felix had hit on something with his off-the-cuff remark about investigation techniques. It had irked him at the time, and he felt like Felix was trying to micromanage Tess’s investigation, not because he was a dick, but because it was his control-freak nature. Felix needed to be in charge to feel secure, and Rocky both respected and understood it. But he’d felt more like a sidekick than an equal partner in the first two investigations. Tess Hamilton’s story had been his idea. Rocky had pushed for it when the other two had exhibited only mild interest or shown hesitation. That meant he couldn’t give up at the first setback.
Decision made—poorly or otherwise—Rocky grabbed a ball cap from the glove box. This one read ACME Home Inspections and had been a birthday gift from his grandmother, Queen Bea. It was both a practical disguise and a tribute to his favorite cartoon characters. The Roadrunner had never fallen for the traps Wile E. Coyote set, but luckily the citizens of Savannah weren’t as observant as him. Rocky grabbed the aluminum clipboard he’d purchased to complete his disguise. If stopped and questioned, he’d open it and produce a phony business card and standard home inspection forms. That scenario hadn’t happened yet, but it paid to be prepared.
He set off down the street, then hung a left at the next intersection and another one at the next corner to get back on Grant’s road. Luckily, the police barricade began and ended at the opposite end of the block. All the curious residents were focused in that direction, freeing Rocky to check out Grant’s house.
“Jeepers,” Rocky whispered as he stared up at a house that belonged in a Scooby-Doo episode.
It was a massive gothic revival but wasn’t quite as ornate as the ones closer to Forsythe Park, or at least not in its current state of utter disrepair. There was scaffolding on one side and construction material stacked neatly on the ground next to it. A few of the second-story windows were boarded up and a tarp covered a portion of the steep roof. Even though the structure appeared to be in the middle of major renovations, its potential was still evident. It would cost six arms and eight legs to restore the mini mansion to her former glory, but she’d be a knockout in the end.
The ornamental wrought iron fence surrounding the property had been neglected for far too long, and its run-down condition lent an air of spookiness to the tall edifice. When Rocky reached the gate, he noticed the reddish-brown rust had only eroded the surface. Duncan would be able to salvage the metal with a good sandblaster and a protective coat of paint. It would be a time-consuming job but much less expensive than replacing the fence.
The gate creaked loud enough to wake any spirits who might still call the spooky place their home. No car was in the driveway or parked directly in front of the house, so it didn’t appear anyone was home. Christ. Did Duncan actually live there? Even if he weren’t afraid of things that went bump in the night, he’d have to exist in a constant state of chaos and filth from home renovations. Then again, maybe the interior was finished already.
He kept an eye out for shifting shadows in the windows as he approached the house. A breeze picked up, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
“Pretty sure this slasher movie has been made a dozen times already,” he whispered. The urge to make the sign of the cross over his chest grew stronger with each step, as did his self-flagellation. Was this really where he needed to be right this minute? Then again, would coming back tomorrow be any less creepy? No. So Rocky kept moving forward.
The breeze got stronger as he stepped onto the porch and carefully approached the door, which was solid and new and stood out in contrast to the dilapidation all around it. Rocky kept his eye out for any rotten spots in the porch boards. He didn’t want to fall through holes, and he really wanted to avoid skeletal hands that might rise up and grab his—
Screech.
Rocky’s feet and heart slammed to a stop at the same time. Oh God. What was that? This time, Rocky made the sign of the cross as his brain cycled through all the possibilities—none of them good. He shook his head, thinking he’d imagined the whole thing, then continued toward the front door. Rocky raised his hand to knock but froze when he heard the eerie sound again.
It was more of a scraping sound than a screech, and that one had been louder than the first. Metal grating against something, but what? Concrete? He paused and waited to hear it again so he could determine what it was.
Why? Run, dumbass!
Once again, Rocky ignored his instincts and hoped for the best. When he heard the noise again, Rocky realized it was coming from the side of the house, so he retraced his steps. Instead of continuing down the sidewalk and away from the noise, as any sane person would, Rocky rounded the corner and crept along the side of the house.
The structure’s condition wasn’t quite as bad there, but he could see where the contractor had set up the scaffolding to replace the bricks on the chimney. There were no curtains on the first-floor windows, at least not on that side, so Rocky confirmed the disrepair and renovations did indeed extend to the home’s interior. He was momentarily awestruck by the woodwork that had been restored in parts of the living room. A dog barking in the neighbor’s house shook him from his trance. It sounded big and ferocious, so Rocky decided to get the hell out of there in case the dog’s owner was home.
But the wind kicked up again, whistling through the narrow gap between Duncan’s house and his neighbor’s. Screech. Rocky lifted his head to follow the sound and saw that the scaffolding was scraping against the newly replaced bricks, leaving white marks where the metal was cutting into the clay.
“Hey!” a man shouted angrily, making Rocky jolt. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Typically, Rocky would’ve plastered a smile on his face and showed the neighbor his false credentials. But the man threw open his front door and yelled, “Sic ’em, boy!” The dog growled in response, and a brown blur streaked out the door.
Rocky wasn’t about to stick around to see if the dog’s teeth were as aggressive as his bark. So he ran for his life. Rather than go back in the direction he came from, he sprinted toward the rear of the property hoping to find a gate or break in the fence. Luck was on his side, because most of the ornate iron was missing along the back. The shouting behind him intensified, and Rocky knew his pursuer was closing in on him fast. The urge to look over his shoulder was strong, but he’d lose precious seconds if he did. So, Rocky channeled his junior high track coach and gave himself a pep talk.
Pump those puny arms and legs, Jacobs, and haul your skinny ass across that finish line.
Ahhh. Coach Nivens had never been one to mince words. The students had joked that their shop teacher must have lost a bet and got stuck coaching track instead of a sport more befitting a man of his size. Christ. The coach’s thighs had looked like they’d been carved from oak tree trunks, and his ass was made for those shorty shorts. It was no mystery why those two years in junior high saw a record number of kids trying out for track.
Coach Nivens was crass, rude, and dominant. The school board hadn’t bestowed the esteemed coach-of-the-year award on him, but Rocky credited the man with awakening his sexuality and obsession with thick thighs. That had to count for something. Rocky had pumped his puny arms all right, especially when alone in his room and—
Sharp teeth chomped down on the ass of his jeans, interrupting his meandering thoughts.