The Killing Tide, page 8
“Does this Linda Shepherd have a record?” Alexa asked.
“No, although I have a feeling she’s about to get one.” He checked the map on his phone. “Her place is right up ahead. According the Marana P.D., that house on the right has been split into two apartments. Linda Shepherd lives upstairs.”
They parked in a gravel drive behind an old Chevy. Stuart checked his phone again and said, “That’s her vehicle.”
It was the only one in the drive.
“Does Nathaniel White have a vehicle registered in his name?” Alexa asked.
“No. And it looks like the downstairs neighbors are out. We got her and maybe him.”
“I’ll take the lead on this,” Alexa said. Women were sometimes more open with a female officer than a male one.
“All right,” Stuart said.
As they passed by Linda’s car, Alexa noticed it was covered in dust and had four flat tires. Alexa and Stuart traded a look and continued to the house.
Downstairs the lights were all off, but along the side of the house ran a set of stairs up to a side door and the upstairs apartment. There the lights were on, shining through white curtains. A shadow passed by one of the windows.
Alexa walked up the stairs, Stuart just behind her.
She knocked and put her ear to the door. Sounds of movement inside, and the low babble of a TV. She knocked again. No answer.
Alexa knocked a third time.
“U.S. Marshal. Open up!” she called.
More movement inside. Stuart had placed himself to the side of the door, his hand inside his jacket and touching the holster of his weapon. Alexa gave him a calming gesture.
Considering all the bloodshed in our last case, I can’t blame him for being nervous.
She didn’t worry about her partner, though. He was cool under fire. Two tours of duty in Iraq had made sure of that. The only time she had seen him rattled was when he nearly got blown up by a bomb. Fair enough.
“Coming!” a female voice came from inside.
The door opened and Alexa saw a woman in her twenties wearing a dirty t-shirt and sweatpants. Her blonde hair was rumpled. The TV played a gameshow in the background.
Alexa looked her in the eye. The woman looked away.
“Linda Shepherd?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Deputy Marshal Alexa Chase and this is Special Agent Stuart Barrett of the FBI. We’re looking for Nathaniel White.”
Linda’s eyes went wide. “What for?”
“We just want to talk to him.”
Linda looked at the floor and shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “I don’t know where he is.”
“You sure about that?” Alexa asked.
“Yeah. I haven’t seen Nat in a couple of weeks.”
“Now, Mrs. White, lying to an officer of the law is a crime.”
Linda hung her head lower than Stacy that time she forgot to close the stable door and Wesson ended up eating the neighbor’s flowers.
“I haven’t seen him,” Linda said faintly.
A window opened somewhere in the apartment, followed by the sound of movement and a man cursing.
“Stand aside!” Alexa ordered, pushing past Linda and rushing into the apartment.
She followed the sound through the living room and into a short hallway. She ducked into a bedroom, then heard a noise from the room just down the hall.
Bursting into this room, she saw it was a bathroom. A man was climbing over the toilet, squeezing through an open window.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Stop right there!” Alexa ordered.
Nathaniel White ignored her. He was already halfway out the window. Alexa had no idea if there was a sheer drop or a rooftop on the other side of that window. It didn’t matter. This guy wasn’t getting away.
Alexa grabbed him by the belt, braced one foot against the wall, and hauled him back inside, his head banging against the window.
“Ow! You bitch!”
Nathaniel swung around, his elbow connecting with Alexa’s jaw.
She stumbled, the small of her back jamming against the sink.
Nathaniel White stood at least six two, with a glowering face, a scar down one cheek, and muscles everywhere.
A meaty fist swung at Alexa’s face.
She dodged just in time so that his fist missed her by less than an inch and smashed into the mirror behind her.
He let out a howl. Alexa gave him an uppercut to the point of the jaw while sweeping his leg. Nathaniel lost his balance, staggered back, and fell into the tub, taking the shower curtain with him, the curtain rod snapping and falling too.
He smacked his head against the tile, but despite this he still thrashed in the tub, his damaged hand smearing blood on the curtain and tile.
Alexa whipped out her extendible baton, opened it with a flick of the wrist, and hit him square on the knee just as he was trying to rise.
Nathaniel let out a string of curses, clutching his knee, his teeth clenched in pain.
“You bitch! I’m going to kill you.”
The hulking man tried to rise again. Alexa smacked him in the shoulder, making him lose his grip on the side of the tub and sending him back down again.
“Freeze!”
Stuart was at the door, pointing his gun at Nathaniel’s head.
The ex-con let muttered a curse and slowly raised his hands.
“Oh, come on, Mr. White,” Stuart said. “You listen to me and not the female officer? That’s sexist! You know how hurtful that is? Now she feels marginalized.”
“Not marginalized, pissed off,” Alexa said, feeling around her teeth with her tongue. They all seemed to be there, although her jaw throbbed like hell.
“Don’t they give prisoners sensitivity training in this flyover state?” Stuart asked.
“Quit screwing around and check on the girlfriend,” Alexa said, cuffing Nathaniel and helping him out of the tub.
“Meek as a lamb. She hasn’t gone anywhere.” Stuart walked out to the living room.
“Assaulting an officer of the law is going to get you back in prison where you belong,” Alexa said, pushing the convict out of the bathroom. “But I have some more important things to ask you about.”
They headed back to the living room, to find Stuart making a search and Linda sitting with her head bowed on the sofa. The game show was still on. Someone had just won the jackpot. Lights flashed and a middle-aged woman jumped up and down, clapping her hands with glee.
“Joint in the ashtray. I’ll look in the bedroom while you question Mr. Jailbird.”
Stuart headed to the next room.
“Sit,” Alexa ordered.
Nathaniel sat on the sofa, wincing as he bent his knee.
“My hand’s bleeding. Aren’t you going to treat it?” he demanded.
“In a minute. First tell me what you’ve been doing for the past two weeks and why you haven’t talked to your parole officer.”
The former and future prisoner shrugged. “I had stuff to do.”
“Like?”
“Wanted to see my girl.”
“Have you been here the entire time?”
“Yeah.”
Alexa looked at Linda, who turned to Nathaniel.
“Don’t look at him, look at me,” Alexa ordered.
“He’s been here the whole two weeks,” Linda mumbled, looking at the floor instead. Alexa got the impression that down was her favorite place to look.
“You haven’t gone anywhere?”
“My car hasn’t worked for three months,” Linda said.
“I took the bus down here,” Nathaniel said.
“You’re supposed to inform your parole officer if you leave town.”
“Screw him.”
“Why didn’t you check in with him?”
“I got busy.”
“Busy watching gameshows and smoking weed?” Stuart said, coming back into the room with a bag of marijuana.
Alexa turned to the FBI agent. “Stay here with him. I want to speak with her privately.”
“I’ll fix his hand and call this in to the local P.D.,” Stuart said, pulling out a compact first aid kit he kept in his pocket.
Alexa walked with Linda out onto the landing of the staircase and closed the door behind her. A couple of neighbors stood on the sidewalk staring at the house, no doubt attracted by all the noise. When they saw Alexa’s uniform they made themselves scarce. It was that kind of neighborhood.
She turned to Linda and sized her up for a moment. According to the Marana police department, this woman didn’t have a record. But now they could pin her with harboring a fugitive and possession of a controlled substance.
But Alexa didn’t want to do that. She’d met plenty of women like this in her time in law enforcement. Weak, lonely women who cling to bad men because they give them attention and a bit of excitement in their gray little lives. Considering Nathaniel’s nature, Linda might even be battered. Alexa didn’t see any bruises, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t dominating her and pushing her around.
“You know he’s going back to jail, don’t you?” Alexa asked.
Linda slumped even more than she had been before and gave a little nod.
“You’re in big trouble too. It’s illegal to hide someone who has skipped out on their parole. And then there’s the pot.”
Linda didn’t say anything.
“You working?” Alexa asked.
“I bag groceries at Albertsons.”
“Full time?”
“Thirty hours a week.”
“So no benefits and barely enough money to live on. Then Nathaniel blows into town and wants to party it up.”
“He’s good to me.”
“He’s gotten you in a lot of trouble.” Alexa looked at Linda’s car, which had obviously not been used for a long time. “How did he get down here?”
“Greyhound.”
“He doesn’t have a vehicle of his own?”
“No. Nat don’t have the money.”
“Whose pot is it?”
Linda didn’t reply.
“Now Ms. White, I can arrest you on those two charges I mentioned. You might not do time but you’ll probably lose your job. Then you’ll be in even bigger trouble financially than you are now. I don’t want to do that. Nathaniel is going to jail regardless.”
“What for?” Linda bawled, tears welling up in her eyes.
Jesus.
Alexa had a flash of this girl’s childhood. Bad parents. A house filled with drama. No education. No nurturing.
In other words, a childhood just like Stacy Carpenter’s until Alexa had taken her under her wing.
And Linda had grown up to be a perpetual victim, easy prey for any dominating man.
She could not let that happen to Stacy.
Alexa gathered her patience and explained. “He skipped out on two parole meetings and then assaulted me.” Alexa rubbed her jaw. It still hurt. “Violating parole is enough to send him back inside. Add the assault charge and he’s going to serve at least a couple more years.”
Linda started sniffling.
“It’s not your fault,” Alexa said, much as she said to Stacy over and over again. “He messed up and it’s his responsibility.”
Linda didn’t reply, so Alexa continued.
“Now I don’t want you to get into trouble for his sake, so I’d like you to help me out, all right?”
“All right,” Linda said in a quiet voice.
“Good, this will help me a lot. And it will help you. Has Nat been here the whole two weeks?”
“Yeah. We just been hanging out.”
“What does he do when you’re at work?”
“Smoke weed and watch TV mostly.”
“Has he seen anyone?”
“He don’t know no one in Marana except me. Said he wanted to keep his head down. Said too many people bugging him in Phoenix. His parole officer was giving him trouble and some of his old buddies was getting into fights with him and stuff. Wanted to come down here and clear his head.”
Clear his head by smoking weed and living off someone below the poverty line.
“So he hasn’t seen anyone down here?”
“No. Just me. We went to the bars a couple of times, and he talked with people there, but didn’t make no friends.”
“How long are your shifts?”
“Six hours.”
“What shift?”
“Whatever they give me. Sometimes the day, sometimes the night.”
“And when does Albertsons close?”
“Eleven.”
Alexa thought a moment. Six hours was enough time for Nathaniel to drive to Benson or Phoenix, commit the murders, and get back before Linda got off her shift. But given that the killer scoped out both neighborhoods thoroughly before breaking into the judges’ houses, there would have had to be at least two trips.
Then there was the problem of Nathaniel not having a known vehicle.
More likely Linda was telling the truth. Alexa had seen it with people skipping their parole. Countless times. Chafing under the lack of freedom, the con would run off to another town, usually with a woman, and think all their problems and obligations would magically disappear.
She and Stuart had to check on some things. Search the apartment thoroughly and grill Nathaniel, but Alexa didn’t hold out much hope.
The killer they were hunting was cold and calculating, good at covering his tracks. This thug was just an idiot. He had called attention to himself by skipping parole and Alexa didn’t think the killer would do that. Also, he had acted rashly, making noise by trying to get out a window when he could have just hidden, and then attacking an officer.
It looked like Nathaniel White wasn’t their man.
And that meant they were back at square one.
The killer was still out there, perhaps planning his next attack.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Kurt Billings was celebrating. He had, once again, nailed some lowlife and put her in jail.
It had been ridiculously easy. Marylin Smith turned out to be a total pushover.
Billings raised his martini glass to toast himself as he sat in the loud, laughing circle of other lawyers at the Executive Lounge, the most expensive piano bar in Phoenix. He took a long sip, settled into the comfortable leather chair, and smiled as he thought of how he had brought his case to a guilty verdict.
“You should have seen her,” Billings said to the man next to him, a criminal lawyer and the most junior member of the group. “As soon as she got on the stand I knew I had her. Nervous as hell. The case against her husband was open and shut. The cops busted into his motel room and found him in the bathroom in the act of making meth. So all I had to do was link the two.”
The criminal lawyer nodded and smiled encouragingly. The guy was climbing the ladder in Phoenix’s legal community and was obviously impressed by the state prosecutor’s brilliance, and hoping to forge a good professional connection. Billings went on.
“The defense was putting on this clueless, innocent wife act. Clueless I can believe. She was as dumb as they come. But innocent? Hell, no. Problem was, I had to convince the jury of that.”
“And how did you do that?” the lawyer asked, half paying attention to another conversation in the circle.
“Well, I’ll tell you. The public defender, Zimmerman, got her all dressed up to play the part. Flowery white shirt and a big cross around her neck. Whole nine yards. Made a good impression on the jury. Zimmerman is a slippery bastard, you got to take care when facing him, but he didn’t have much to work with this time. You see, what he didn’t know because the police didn’t tell him, was that they had found a small amount of marijuana in her home.”
The lawyer’s brow furrowed. “They’re supposed to inform the defense of—”
“Get real, buddy. This isn’t the Boy Scouts. The cops knew she was guilty and gave me a helping hand. If Zimmerman didn’t know, that’s Marylin Smith’s fault. Dumb chick had her head in the sand, thinking if she just kept quiet about everything, it would all go away. Ha! So I started cross-examining her. Asked her if she’s ever taken drugs, if her husband’s taken drugs. And she answered no, no, no. Still the innocent wife role. Manages to act pretty convincing. Zimmerman got his little dog trained well. Then I sprung it on them. I stroll over to the exhibits table, where I’d gotten the officers of the court to keep the bag of marijuana in a manila envelope so Zimmerman wouldn’t see it.”
“Smart move, I guess,” the lawyer said, glancing over at the other conversation.
Billings put his hand roughly on the guy’s arm to get his attention. Some of his martini sloshed on the floor. He drained the rest.
“Now listen. Here’s where it gets good. I stroll on over to the exhibits table and say, ‘Mrs. Smith, you say you never take drugs; then why did you have this in your bedside table?’ And I pull out the bag of weed and dangle it in front of her. Oh, God, you should have seen her face!”
“She should have known they’d have found it,” the lawyer said. Even through an alcoholic haze, Billings could tell he was more interested now. The state prosecutor bathed in his admiration.
“Boys Scouts, buddy. Boy Scouts!” Billings had gotten loud enough that he was turning heads. So what? A man’s got the right to cut loose once in a while. And they should all hear how he nailed Marylin Smith. “So this chick gets all flustered, says it isn’t hers, that she didn’t smoke pot. ‘But it was in your bedside table, Mrs. Smith. You expect the jury to believe it just snuck in there?’ She turned red, started muttering, no one could make out a word she said. Perfect. Then I got all fire and brimstone, making the connection the jurors had already made in their mind. ‘Mrs. Smith! You say you are a law abiding citizen, that you had no knowledge and nothing to do with your husband’s drug production. So please explain why you have drugs in your bedside table?’”
Billings got rewarded with a grin from the junior attorney. “That’s a tough question to answer. Sounds like you nailed her.”
“Oh sure, the rest was easy. I had her so off the rails I talked circles around her. Caught her in all sorts of contradictions. Made her out to the jury as a pathological liar. Zimmerman didn’t have a chance. I almost felt sorry for the schmuck.”
