Grimm: The Chopping Block (27 page)

The second site featured the remains of tourists—with Alex Chu, Chinese male, early thirties, traveling up the West Coast on a road trip—while the Claremont Park site had been the final resting place for two other missing locals—Nakamura Reika, Japanese female, twenty-two, employee at a Pearl District bridal shop, and Esperanza Rios, Mexican female, thirty-six, school cafeteria employee—reinforcing the notion that the killer had stopped scouting tourists in recent weeks and had instead chosen locals, possibly based on their ethnicity and age.

Nick made a few calls to relatives, informing them that the remains of their loved ones had been found, giving them closure, if nothing else. He would have liked to tell them he had their killer in custody and that person would never see the light of a free day again. Instead, he had to tell them the PPD was pursuing all lines of inquiry and was hopeful of an arrest soon. The meaningless words stuck in his throat.

After a few hours with his head either buried in case folders or pressed to a telephone receiver, Sergeant Wu arrived with an update from the computer techs.

“They found a bunch of commercial and residential rental properties on Crawford’s computer along with fishy leasing agreements.”

“Fishy?”

“The names on the contracts appear fake, either aliases or stolen identities. Almost seems like insurance fraud, but there aren’t any claims. I checked with Crawford’s carrier.”

“Residential addresses?” Nick asked. “I thought Crawford dealt strictly with business leases.”

“That’s another part of the fishiness,” Wu said. “The addresses don’t exist.”

“What?”

“Techs think they might be in code.”

“Fake names and fake addresses?”

“That’s what they tell me,” Wu said. “I took a sample, to check. All phony as a three-dollar bill. Are two-dollar bills phony again? Or still legal? You never see them in circulation anymore. Hey, where’s Hank?”

Nick looked across the conference room table at the empty chair. Hank hadn’t stopped in for as long as Nick had been there.

“He’s not at his desk?”

“Passed it on the way in,” Wu said. “Unoccupied.”

“He hasn’t called in,” Nick said.

He took out his cell phone and called Hank. After ringing several times, the call went to voicemail.

“Hank, it’s Nick. Give me a call when you get this.” He looked at Wu and shook his head, perturbed. “Let me try his home phone.” He dialed again and this time the call was directed to an answering machine. He left a similar message and disconnected. “This is not like him.”

“He’s on crutches,” Wu said, considering. “Maybe he had an accident.”

Nick started to imagine Hank climbing stairs on crutches, a nasty fall. Hank could have called an ambulance, or might still be lying in pain in his house, unable to reach a phone. Or could he have followed up a lead on his own and run into trouble…?

Rather than continuing to speculate about what might have happened, Nick said, “Have a uniform swing by his place.”

With concern for his partner’s safety placed on low boil until he had more information, Nick attempted to turn his attention back to the missing person case files, but soon gave up on that avenue of investigation. He had to assume the abductions happened without the presence of a witness and that the victims were chosen for what they were, not who or for any other traditional motive.

What he really needed to figure out was the location of the month-long feast.

He spread out the four different flyers on the desk, glancing from one innocuous address to the next. Then he went in search of a map of Portland and pinned it up on the Claremont board, which required less space for victims. One by one, he drew an X over the address on each flyer. Of the four locations, the community center might function as a meeting place for the Silver Plate Society. He supposed the time had come to stake out the location, to wait and see if any unusual meetings took place there. Figuring out what constituted an unusual meeting without attending each and every one on the premises was the problem.

And time, the lack of it, was a major problem.

As he stood there, slapping the barrel of a ballpoint pen against his palm, he said, “Residential properties.”

And then he remembered another case, a body washed up in a tidal pool. The body of Sheila Jenkins, an employee at a property management company, head and hands removed to thwart identification. At the time, the case hadn’t fit the profile of the bare bones murders. But, since then, the bare bones case had included a suicide cover-up and an execution. What if Sheila Jenkins had been a loose end? The bare bones killer had buried the bodies in shallow graves to buy time until the feasting month ended. What if the same stalling tactic applied to Sheila’s execution? Keep her role unknown or at least obscured until it was too late to matter.

Nick hurried to his desk and grabbed the Sheila Jenkins file, picked up the phone and dialed the extension for the computer forensics department.

“This is Detective Burkhardt. There’s another computer we need to check and cross-reference with Lamar Crawford’s. Yes, this is related to the bare bones murders.” Nick read the address for Forrester Cade Realty, Sheila’s place of employment. “See you there in fifteen minutes.”

* * *

Located in the Pearl District, Forrester Cade Realty’s office stood between a luxury spa and a trendy art gallery, and its workmanlike aesthetic suffered in comparison. The interior featured modern furniture and fixtures, similar to those at LC Leasing, Inc., but the walls and doors had been painted with bright and bold colors, adding a warmth that had been lacking in Crawford’s workplace.

Nick arrived before the computer tech and introduced himself to Noel Forrester, one of the partners—Robin Cade, the other partner, was vacationing in Italy—and explained that he was working the Sheila Jenkins case and needed access to Sheila’s computer and written records. Forrester oversaw the small staff of leasing agents with an amiable air. With his silver hair, ruddy cheeks and ample girth, he would’ve been a natural as a department store Santa Claus.

If the man had something to hide or had any involvement with the Silver Plate Society conspirators, he could have stonewalled Nick and demanded a search warrant, but he wanted Sheila’s murder solved as much as anyone and immediately agreed.

“Anything you need,” Forrester said. “Let me know.”

At that moment, a tall, hunched man with curly black hair and round glasses, wearing a green-checked shirt, jeans and brown loafers stepped into the office and looked around as if startled by his surroundings. He carried a black messenger bag, the strap slung casually over one shoulder. When he spotted Nick, he made a beeline toward him.

“We a go?” he asked.

Nick nodded. To Forrester, he said, “Gary Popa, one of our computer guys.”

Forrester introduced himself and shook Gary’s hand.

Gary glanced at Nick. “Where’s the workstation?”

“Follow me,” Forrester said, leading them past several occupied desks to a low-walled but roomy cubicle in the back right corner of the office. “So you think Sheila had prior contact with the person who murdered her?”

“Either she knew her murderer,” Nick said. “Or she knew something the murderer wanted kept secret. That’s our working theory.”

“Suppose that makes sense,” Forrester said, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully. “As much as a senseless tragedy like this
can
make sense.”

Gary sat at Sheila’s desk and reached for her keyboard.

“You’ll need this,” Forrester said, leaning over the desk to write Sheila’s username and password on a sticky note.

Gary took the note, thanked him, and started typing.

“You know, Sheila was full of energy,” Forrester said to Nick. “Never complained. Always willing to go the extra mile, take on any challenge. I miss… I miss seeing her around here. Sometimes I come in the office and look over here, at her desk, expecting… Then it hits me again.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Nick said.

As Forrester started to walk away, Nick tapped his arm.

“We may need to take the computer back to the precinct for analysis.”

“That’s fine,” Forrester said absently. “Her client files are backed up. Don’t really care about a piece of hardware. What’s it worth? Couple thousand, tops. If it helps catch Sheila’s killer, you can keep it.”

“You’ll get a receipt,” Nick assured him. “And it will be returned.”

“Just let me know if it helps you catch the bastard,” Forrester said and wandered away absently, shaking his head.

Nick’s cell phone rang: Wu.

“Burkhardt.”

“Nick,” Wu said, a note of alarm in his voice. “Somebody broke into Hank’s place. Back door was jimmied.”

Nick walked away from the tech’s rapid keyboard clacking. “What?”

“And Scarpelli says Hank’s missing.”

“Missing? How does he know—?”

“He found Hank’s gun, cell phone, keys—and crutches—on the floor in the foyer. And Hank’s car is out front. All patrol cars have been notified to be on the lookout for him.”

“Are you there now?”

“On my way.”

“I’ll meet you there.” Nick turned to the tech. “Gotta go. You okay here?”

“I’m good,” Gary said. “I can take this tower with me?”

“That’s what the man said,” Nick replied. “Call me soon as you find anything.”

Nick hurried to his SUV, and raced to Hank’s house.

* * *

Unsure what he hoped to find at Hank’s place, Nick checked everything the junior patrolman and the crime scene unit had already examined. As Hank’s partner, Nick hoped he might notice something the others had missed.

He started with Hank’s VW CC. Doors were locked. No sign of a struggle in the car. After the Swartley interview, Hank had left the precinct alone. Nick had watched him drive off the lot from his Land Cruiser. If he’d planned to stop anywhere before home, he hadn’t mentioned it to Nick.

Wu came outside and met Nick as he approached the house.

“Crime scene is dusting contact points for prints,” Wu said. “Back door—point of entry and, probably, exit—has been wiped down. Prints on the front door, probably Hank’s. We’ll know later.”

“Neighbors?”

“Scarpelli and Billbrough are canvassing nearby houses,” Wu said. “No reports of gunfire or any altercation in the street. One neighbor”—Wu checked his notes—“Ted Malone, saw a plumber’s van outside a house across the street. So far, nobody on the block called a plumber last night.”

“Don’t suppose Malone got a plate number.”

“No,” Wu said. “Had no reason to be suspicious at the time.”

Inside Hank’s house, Nick noted Hank’s firearm, phone, keys and crutches scattered around the floor, near an overturned table by the front door. Nick tried to imagine the sequence of events: Hank struggling into the house on his crutches, setting down his gun, phone and keys on the table. Then he fell or… he’d engaged in a struggle.

“Any blood?” he asked a tech kneeling nearby.

“Negative for blood,” the man said. “But the foyer light bulb is missing.”

Hank had come home to a dark house, on crutches, unable to turn on the lights, caught unprepared for his attacker…

Nick walked toward the back of the house. No signs of a struggle beyond the entry point, but a couple items of furniture had been bumped or pushed aside to clear a path to the rear door, where the lock had been jimmied. Through the back door, Nick examined the ground: a few partial prints leading toward the back door, more definitive prints leading away.

“Only one set of prints,” Wu said.

“Hank was unconscious,” Nick said. “If he was awake, he’d have struggled. We’d see evidence of that inside or out here.” Nick followed the footprints. “His assailant didn’t drag him out to the van though. No heel drag marks.”

“He carried him?”

Nick nodded. “The depth of the prints increases on the way out. His weight basically doubled. Strong enough to carry Hank to the van. Twenty, maybe thirty seconds, from back door to the van. Over so fast, nobody witnesses the abduction.”

“Why Hank?”

“Good question,” Nick said.

They’d worked the case together. But Hank had interviewed Crawford’s family alone. Was the killer keeping tabs on them? Lamar Crawford had certainly feared for his family’s safety. But Hank had returned to the precinct with his information. If the killer thought he’d uncovered something, why not grab him before he could tell anyone else?

Or had Hank returned to the Crawford residence to follow up on the Rio photos? Nick doubted that. After the phone conversation, the widow had planned to check for the photos herself. And if Hank had found information crucial to the case he would have phoned Nick, not retired for the night.

“Makes no sense. Grabbing a homicide detective,” Wu said, “inside his own home.”

“His guard would be down,” Nick said. “Caught in the dark, ambushed.”

“But why Hank?” Wu repeated.

During the course of the investigation, Hank had become known to the killer, apparently observed by the killer, even before the abduction. Why Hank? Nick closed his eyes and imagined the two bulletin boards in the conference room, filled with the names and photos of the recovered victims. Various ages, both genders, multiple ethnicities. Greek, Korean, Japanese, Russian, Hispanic, Vietnamese. A vast variety of victims for the cannibal Wesen to devour. There had been an African American woman, too. But as far as Nick could recall, none of the victims had been African American and male.

Until now
.

Frustrated with waiting for the crime scene test results at Hank’s house and the tech results from Sheila Jenkins’ computer, Nick returned to the precinct to re-examine, yet again, the accumulated evidence in the conference room.

He’d placed the Portland map on the Claremont Park board before he’d left and he continued to stare at it and the four Xs he’d drawn to mark the addresses listed on the four flyers. He turned his head to the side a bit, stood up and grabbed a red marker from the narrow tray. Leaning over, he drew lines to connect the four addresses. Connected, they formed a rectangle. He picked up a blue marker, proceeded to draw a curving shape to connect all four points and managed a rough circle, almost an ellipse.