Lies Still Told, page 24
“Platt Waymann had a storage locker.”
The words were drawn out, as if the message had been recorded earlier and was being played back at a slow speed.
“Utility Storage.” Then there was a click.
What the fuck? He entered the number in the reverse-lookup database. There was no name associated with the number. Likely a burner.
He could probably find the location of the caller, though. That took him less than three minutes. Madison, Wisconsin.
Somebody in Madison wanted him to know that Platt Waymann had a storage locker. He immediately thought of Wade Stoner and Bernie Potts, the men in the bowling photo with Platt. But why? What would be their vested interest in offering up information at this time?
And he’d talked to both men. While the voice on the phone had been purposefully distorted, it hadn’t sounded like either of them. It actually had sounded a bit like…his dad.
His first thought was that he wasn’t sure if his dad would know how to obtain and activate a burner phone. Granted, it wasn’t difficult, but still.
Secondly, if his dad had information that would help him, why wouldn’t he just pick up the phone and call A.L.? Why the effort to hide it?
Because it put him at odds with his brother.
That was the easy answer. Rena had observed the McKittridge brothers arguing after Mass. Uncle Joe had not come to his dad’s for Christmas Day. They were clearly on the outs. And direct assistance might be enough to push them past any hope of reconciliation.
A.L. knew that his dad wasn’t at work. The button factory shut down the week between Christmas and New Year’s. So he could call his dad right now. Home phone first. If no answer, cell phone next. His dad would know that he was serious. But it would also require A.L. to offer up why he was calling. If his father hadn’t left the message, he’d be sharing a detail of the investigation that should remain confidential. If he had, well, that might be worse. He’d be forcing his dad’s hand. The caller clearly wanted to provide the information anonymously.
If he wanted to be an asshole, he could put out a BOLO warning in the Madison area for his father’s car. Then every cop would be watchful for a beige Chevrolet Impala and would report in if it was spotted.
He thought about what Rena had told him, that his dad had been defending him. He was going to let this one go.
He did a quick computer search for Utility Storage. No website. No other social media that he could find. There was a listing in the telephone directory. His call went to an automated recording that advised him to leave a message. He hung up without doing so.
The next call he made was to Rena. “Have you checked Utility Storage?” he asked when she answered.
“Um…hang on,” she said. “I’m not at my computer.” Less than a minute later, she said, “Yes, I remember this one because it took me a while to track down the owner. He said he had no record of any rental to Platt Waymann.”
Damn. He told her about the call.
“Wow,” she said. “Your dad? Really? That’s kind of cool.”
“I think it’s probably a valid lead. If we assume it is correct, then the only other assumption to make is that Platt rented it under an assumed name. See if they’ll give us a list of all renters. Maybe something will pop out at us.”
“I’ll call the guy now,” Rena said, hanging up.
In less than ten minutes, his phone rang. It was Rena.
“No go,” she said. She did not sound disappointed. Which was odd.
“But?”
“But I’m smarter than the average bear, and when he said he wouldn’t provide a complete list without a court order, I asked about three other names. Tawny Lane, Natalie Watkins and Justine Reynolds.”
“Smart,” he said.
“Brilliant,” she corrected. “Justine Reynolds rents a space there.”
Justine Reynolds, or the woman who’d claimed to be her, had been the carefully made-up blonde in the nice clothes who had visited Badger Crawford in prison. “It’s possible the real Justine Reynolds has a space there.”
“Nope. Called her before I called you back. Doesn’t rent a unit there, never has. It’s unit number 336,” Rena added.
“This is good,” he said.
“Are you going to try the key that Hank gave you?”
He could. Hank had given him his verbal permission to open whatever the key was for. “I think I’m going to be extra careful about this and get a court order. If there is anything of importance in that storage unit, I don’t want to risk getting the evidence thrown out on a technicality.” He hated the delay, but he would hate it even more if there was evidence that ultimately couldn’t be used to convict Platt’s and Colby’s killer. “Text me the owner’s name and contact information.”
“I will,” she said. “Man, this is killing me not to be there right now.”
It was an opening he probably shouldn’t pass up. “Have you heard anything from the Review Board?”
“Actually, I did. They’re being pretty decent about things. I’ve been advised that they’re going to be reporting their findings before the end of the year.”
“Any idea which way they’re leaning?” he asked.
“They’re not being that decent,” she said.
Chapter Twenty
A.L. made the request for the warrant, and while he waited for it, he called the owner of Utility Storage. His name was Marco Salvi.
“This is Detective McKittridge of the Baywood Police Department. You’ve recently spoken to my colleague Rena Morgan. Right now, we’re processing a warrant to look at one of your units.” A.L. paused, giving the man a chance to respond.
Mr. Salvi said nothing.
“So I wanted to give you a heads-up as well as arrange for you to be there when we arrive,” A.L. said. “I understand that you live in Madison.”
“I wasn’t really planning on a trip to Baywood.”
Tough shit, A.L. thought but managed to keep it inside. “We’re going to need you to do that. We’re going to be ready by early evening to look at Unit 336. I assume you’ve got a key.”
“I’ve got a master. Text me at this number when you’re fifteen minutes out.”
“Where will you be?” A.L. asked.
“Having a beer.” Marco Salvi hung up.
While he waited for the paperwork to be processed, A.L. called his daughter.
“Hi, Dad,” she said. “What’s up?”
“What are you doing right now?”
“Watching television,” she said. “It’s Christmas break. Nobody, not even my extraordinarily lame teachers, gave us homework.”
“I’m going to swing by the house,” he said. “I want to talk to you about something.”
“Something you can’t say on the phone?” she asked.
“I’d rather do it in person.”
“I’m curious now. Hurry.”
He hung up and pulled on his jacket. It was a ten-minute drive. He knocked on the door of the house he used to live in. His daughter opened it. She was wearing a sweatshirt and yoga pants with thick fuzzy socks. Her hair was in a ponytail, and without any makeup on, she looked about twelve. That reinforced his reason for coming.
She led the way back to the couch. “You want something to drink?” she asked.
“No, thanks. Is your mom working?”
“Yeah. She’ll be home about five. What did you want to talk about?”
“I’ve been thinking about our conversation the other night. When you were talking about taking a year off before starting college.”
“Gap year.”
“Whatever. It’s putting something off that is better not delayed. And I’m thinking it was maybe some kind of smoke screen.” He smoothed his hand on his pants. “I met somebody who knew you in high school. Naomi Waters. Well, she’s got a new last name. She got married.”
“Did she say something bad about me?” she asked, clearly confused.
“No. Very complimentary. It was hearing that she was married. Listen, she’s only three years older than you. And it dawned on me that maybe you and John have some crazy idea that the two of you are ready for marriage. That you were trying to break it to me gently. First by getting me used to the idea that you weren’t going to college, and then you were going to spring the marriage news on me.”
“Uh…have you been working lots of hours, Dad?”
He ignored the sarcasm. “You’re too young.”
“Of course I’m too young to get married. I’m seventeen.”
“You’re going to be too young when you’re eighteen, or nineteen or twenty or—”
“I get the point,” she said, interrupting him. Then she started laughing. “Oh, Dad. If you could only see your face right now. You’re positively tortured about this, aren’t you?”
“I do not get tortured.”
“You do,” she said.
“Not tortured, just spooked. And I wanted to be very clear and upfront about my expectations.”
“I’m going to be eighteen soon.”
“And then I’ll have expectations for an eighteen-year-old. Even higher than my expectations for a seventeen-year-old.”
She sighed loudly. “I can’t win.”
She’d won his heart the minute she’d been born. He stood up. “So we understand each other.”
She walked him to the door. “Of course we do, Dad.” She opened the door, and he stepped out onto the porch. He got two steps.
“And, Dad,” she said, stopping him. “Don’t worry about me marrying John. I’m going to live with him first.”
Then she slammed the door. He was pretty sure he could hear her laughing on the other side.
When the paperwork to search the storage unit was ready, A.L. sent the requested text to Marco Salvi. He got a thumbs-up emoji in response.
He had a feeling that Marco was a piece of work. He drove to Utility Storage with Blithe and Ferguson following in a second vehicle. Marco was there, waiting for them in a black Cadillac Escalade.
“Thanks for being here,” A.L. said. He assessed the facility. There were four rows of what appeared to be standard ten-feet-by-ten-feet units with garage-style doors. Each row had eight units.
“I didn’t think I had a choice.” Marco Salvi looked to be in his fifties, and he could stand to lose twenty pounds. He had on a black leather jacket and wore black leather gloves.
“What can you tell me about the renter for Unit 336?” A.L. asked.
“Her name is Justine Reynolds.”
“What else?” A.L. asked.
“Nothing. I don’t know her. She’s been renting this space for a couple years. The rent arrives in the mail, is always paid by cashier’s check and covers a full year.”
“Everybody pays for a year at a time?” A.L. asked.
Mr. Salvi shook his head. “Most pay quarterly. But I don’t turn down those who want to pay me early.”
“Of course not,” A.L. said. He brought up the photo he had of Justine Reynolds. “Is this her?”
“I don’t know. I really have no recollection of what she looks like. Keep in mind that I’m rarely on-site. And most of the people who rent these units rarely visit them. This is for the shit in their lives that they don’t need. It can sit here for years, decades.” He looked at the picture again. “All I can say is that the lady who rented this must have been forgettable. I think I might have remembered this one. I got a thing for blondes.”
“Cameras?” A.L. asked, not hopeful. He didn’t see any.
“Nope. I put that in my lease agreement. If you have cameras, people get a false sense of security. I tell my renters that there is no guarantee of safety and to make sure their contents are insured.”
“Do you require renters to provide you with a copy of their rental insurance?” Blithe asked.
Mr. Salvi shook his head. “I really don’t care if they get it or not. It’s their loss, not mine. Look, I’ve got eight of these properties. I don’t have time to chase down the details.”
A.L. handed him the warrant. The man looked at it, then tossed it into his car. A.L. thought it would likely get dumped in the garbage the next time the man had his car detailed.
“Follow me,” he said. He led them down the aisle that ran between the third and fourth rows. He stopped at the one that was third from the end in the third row. The man slid a key into the lock, turned it and then easily lifted the door. He reached inside for a light switch.
Good thing, because in the dark, they’d have tripped. Over clothes, shoes, or one of the many pieces of furniture, mostly chests of drawers, that had been crammed inside. Very little floor spaced remained. A full-length mirror had been hung on one wall. A.L. turned to Mr. Salvi. “We’ll take it from here,” he said, dismissing the man.
“Just shut the door when you’re done,” Mr. Salvi said. “I’ll come back out and lock it up tomorrow.”
A.L. waited until he’d left to see if the key in his pocket, the one Hank had handed off, was actually for Unit 336. Took just seconds to verify it was a perfect fit.
He put the key back in his pocket and surveyed the small space. That’s when he saw the wheelbarrow. Brand new. Sort of lodged behind two five-drawer dressers. That wheelbarrow had no doubt been purchased sometime on Wednesday, the day Platt was killed. But it was here now. Which meant that after he’d purchased it, he must have come here and dropped it off. Or he’d given it to someone who had come here and dropped it off.
He started opening drawers. There were five dressers and a total of nineteen drawers.
“What the hell is all this?” Blithe said, looking over A.L.’s shoulder.
All this was clothes, wigs, jewelry and makeup.
“It’s like one big closet,” Ferguson said.
A.L. said nothing. He was eyeing the drawers. Something wasn’t right. They were too shallow. He pulled everything out of one and tapped on the back panel. Not solid. Could just be cheap furniture. But he didn’t think so.
Five minutes later, when he’d pried the back off, he knew so.
“Holy shit,” Blithe said.
The drawer was full of what appeared to be stamp bags. These individual hits of heroin were very popular. Addicts would use several a day. “Don’t touch anything else,” A.L. said. “Let’s get the evidence techs out here now.”
By the time the technicians were done many hours later, all the furniture had been dismantled. There was a shocking amount of narcotics, including heroin, and a substantial amount of meth. Even some carts, or high-dose vaping cartridges.
“Fucking pharmacy,” Blithe said. He was stomping his feet on the ground, trying to stay warm. It had been dark for hours, and what little warmth the day had held was long gone. It was upper teens and not unbearable in short stints, but when you were hungry and tired, it was pretty damn horrible. The storage unit was not heated, and it was almost as cold inside the unit as outside.
A.L. ignored his coworker. He was on the phone, arranging for the site to be guarded overnight. Tomorrow, the product would be inventoried before it was moved to an evidence locker.
All that meant they were no closer to discovering who the real Justine Reynolds was. He was pretty confident he had found her blonde wig and some of her jewelry. He’d been able to match that up to a photo that he’d had Rena send him from the video that she’d created.
This was less a closet and more a dressing room, he thought. Costume changes occurred here, and different personalities emerged. Natalie Watkins. Justine Reynolds. No telling who else.
“Let’s go home,” he said finally when the techs were done, and overnight guards were in place. Despite the fact that he could no longer feel his toes, it had been a good day. They were getting closer to finding Platt’s and Colby’s killer. He could feel it. And it was all because of the strange phone call tipping him off to the storage unit.
He thought about calling his dad and thanking him.
Instead, he sent a text to Marco Salvi to tell him there was no need to worry about coming back in the morning to lock up the storage unit, that it was a crime scene and under the care of the Baywood Police Department. He did not get a response.
He drove home, thinking the whole way. When he pulled into his carport, he fired off another text to Salvi, requesting the names and contact information of everyone who had a storage unit in rows three and four. He finished the text with, I’ll expect to have this information in hand by nine o’clock tomorrow morning.
He did not get a thumbs-up in response. He did get, I’ll see what I can do.
Activity in and around storage units did not happen in a vacuum. People were coming and going at all times of the day. Somebody had to have seen activity in Unit 336. Somebody had to have witnessed someone going in or coming out.
A.L. was going to find that person.
This wasn’t one of those storage units that sat unattended for years because it held shit that people didn’t need in their lives. Yes, it was pure shit. But the people who bought this product really needed this product. The successful drug dealers were high-volume, keep-the-inventory-moving types.
A.L. went inside. Felix was not in the window or anywhere else that A.L. could see. He walked back to the bedroom, turning on lights as he went. There he found his cat curled up on a sweater that Tess had left on the bedroom chair. The cat blinked at the sudden light and stretched but did not get up.
“It’s a good thing she really likes you,” A.L. said. “I’m going to put some food in your dish if you think you can put yourself out enough to go get it.”
Felix yawned in response.
A.L. made a mental note to drop off the sweater at the dry cleaners. Then he went back to the kitchen, filled the cat’s dish and poured himself a big bowl of cereal. He put two pieces of bread into the toaster, and when they popped, he slathered them with peanut butter.
When he was done eating, he showered and got in bed. He checked his phone before turning off the light. Nothing from Tess. She was probably having a great time with her daughter. This was a good week for her to be out of town, because he wouldn’t have been able to spend any time with her.
