Stolen Lives: A Detective Mystery Series SuperBoxset (40 page)

“I will.” Beth tossed her bag in the backseat and gave her sister one last hug. “And you should clean your apartment. It’s like my kids were living there. I think I saw something move while I was waiting for you.” She smiled and leaned against the driver’s side with the door open. “Take care of yourself, Addy.”

“Tell the kids I say hi.”

Beth lowered herself behind the wheel and when she drove off Cooper found herself walking the same direction. She followed until the glow of the taillights disappeared and then lingered in the street a while longer.

Cooper looked down to the crumpled paper and letters still clutched in her hands. She trudged back up the steps to her apartment.
How could she have reached out to him like that? How could she have kept us in the dark for so long?
Cooper crumpled the letters, a flush of anger reddening her cheeks. The neighbor she passed on her first trip inside stopped her in the hallway. “It’s fine, Mrs. Crooner. It was just my sister.”

“Oh, thank God.” She offered an accentuated sigh and placed her liver-spotted hand on Cooper’s shoulder. “I didn’t know what to think. The neighborhood is just not what it used to be.”

“Have a good night, Mrs. Crooner.” Cooper ducked back into her apartment before the old woman chewed her ear off. She tossed the letters on the kitchen counter and grabbed the half-full bottle of whiskey, leaving the glass, but still kept the crumpled paper with her father’s name. She unscrewed the lid and took a swig of the liquor, letting the bitter taste flood her mouth, sending a shiver down her spine as she swallowed.

Now alone, she examined the squalor that was her apartment. The dirty floors, the barren walls, the old furniture that looked more at home on the curb than a living room. She walked over to the bookcase, taking another swig of whiskey, reached between a pair of thick folders, and pulled a binder from between them. Dust circled her face, and she coughed from the congested air.

With drink in hand, Cooper leaned back on the sofa then rested the bottle of whiskey and the binder on the cushion next to her and closed her eyes. After barely eating anything all day, and the lack of sleep the night before, she already felt the warm rush the liquor provided. “Just let it go, Coop.” She shook her head back and forth slowly then reached for the liquor bottle once more. “There isn’t anything down that road. Nothing.”

The next swallow of liquor burned slightly less than the first, and she opened her fist, exposing the paper in her palm. She pushed it around with her thumb then set the bottle down and flattened the paper on her leg. Her sister’s handwriting was messy, and the hundreds of tiny folds had crinkled the letters, distorting the words, but Cooper already knew the name written on the paper before she opened it.
Henry Miller.

The name sloshed back and forth in Cooper’s mind like the whiskey she twirled in the bottle. She closed her eyes and repeated the name over and over to herself, skipping like a lyric on a broken record. When she opened her eyes she looked to the binder and felt the whiskey’s taunt, and her pulse quickened.

Cooper took another swig and set the bottle down then reached for the binder, the dust on the back side smearing across her lap. When she flipped open the first page a picture of a man in his late thirties stared back at her. Caucasian, six feet, two hundred pounds, brown hair and green eyes. Last known address was listed along with work and medical history. At the very bottom was a date twenty years ago, listing the man as deceased. And next to the date was the name Henry Miller.

Cooper reached for the bottle, pressing it to her lips, this time chugging a few gulps before stopping. When she looked back down at the picture she grimaced. The hate she’d kept at bay since college boiled back up to the surface. She flung the binder from her lap, and it skipped across the floor. She jumped from the couch and paced the room, her breathing accelerated, and her knuckles flashed white around the whiskey bottle’s neck.

The picture glared back at her, and she kicked it away, knocking the binder over, which rid herself of Miller’s face. She took another swig of whiskey and felt the booze douse the flames of anger. She sat back down on the couch, her face buried in her palm, and rocked back and forth.

It didn’t matter how many times she tried talking about it or the number of hours she spent in therapy, she couldn’t break through the wall that kept her from the emotional growth she knew she lacked because of that man’s decision. She never told Beth she knew who their father was because she didn’t want to talk about it. He left. He died. He didn’t care. And the world spun round and round along with the room as she drained the rest of the whiskey.

Chapter 7

Sweat and heat were all Cooper felt on the floor of her living room. Her head pounded, and she moaned as she rolled from her stomach to her back. Her mouth was dry and tasted like something had died inside; her lips were like sandpaper. She kicked her leg and knocked the empty whiskey bottle, where it rolled across the floor.

Through the cracks of the blinds, the morning sun framed a square of light, and Cooper squinted from the brightness. She pushed herself to her hands and knees and crawled back onto the couch, where she collapsed onto the cushions, her energy expelled. Every muscle in her body screamed the same harmony of irritation, even though the most strenuous activity she’d done was breathe. A growing pressure tightened her head like a vice.

After a few minutes gathering her strength on the couch, she stumbled to the kitchen and filled a glass full of water from the faucet then chugged. Water dribbled down the sides of her mouth, wetting the front of her shirt as it rolled down her throat. She opened the fridge but then quickly slammed it shut at the stench of whatever had expired inside. Her pocket buzzed, and she answered, not recognizing the number. “Hello?”

“Hey, it’s me.”

Cooper hunched over on the counter and pressed her forehead onto the cool countertops. “Who is this?”

“It’s Hart. I’ve been trying to reach you all morning.”

Cooper lifted her head. “What time is it?” She glanced over to the clock on the microwave, and it flashed zeros, still erased from the power outage the day before.

“It’s almost eleven. Listen, I heard back from the lab.”

“Shit!” Cooper sprinted to the bathroom and nearly dropped the phone as she splashed water on her face. She glared at her reflection in the mirror and the bags under her eyes told the story of the long night and empty liquor bottle. She sniffed the collar of her two-day old shirt and flared her nostrils at the stench. The clothes were wrinkled dirtied from her night on the floor, and her hair had surrendered any semblance of order.

“Cooper, are you there?”

“Yeah. Sorry.” She furrowed her brow, the wrinkle lines on her forehead creasing against one another as she tried to squeeze the fog and dizziness from her mind. “What’d the lab say?”

“Well, for starters, we finally got a hit on our Jane Doe. Her name is Irene Marsh. Late twenties, worked as a waitress for a diner in downtown, and no, it’s not the same diner Wurstshed ran to. Her boyfriend had reported her missing a week ago, around the same time that Kate Wurstshed’s coworker reported her missing. The rape kit on Marsh came back negative, with no salvageable DNA on the body. But Kate Wurstshed’s tests came back positive, and the techs managed to retrieve a strain of DNA from the rape kit.”

“Was it Marks?”

“No. Whatever he was running from wasn’t because he raped Kate Wurstshed.”

“Is he still at the precinct?”

“Yeah, but we’ll only be able to keep him for another hour before he’s released. The captain wants to cut him loose since the tests came back negative. His parole officer is here waiting to see him. Once he gets turned over to them it’s their problem. But that’s not the strangest thing that’s happened today. I called Wurstshed’s employer this morning and it turns out that she was let go six months ago. Nobody I spoke with at the job has had any contact with her since she was fired.”

“But Hall said someone from her employer filed the missing persons.”

“Yeah, I know. I ran the name through the DMV, but it was a phony. No matches. All the information they provided was bogus. Whoever it was didn’t work with Kate. You want me to go and swing by her place to have a chat?”

“No.” Cooper shut her eyes, forcing back the wave of pressure that threatened to cut the thin thread of coherent thought she was managing to string together. “You go and check on our warrant for the bank account that purchased the security system at the storage facility. I’ll go and speak with Kate. Keep me updated on what you find.”

“Will do. Oh, and before I forget, one of the lab techs said you requested a rundown of some residue you found in the empty storage unit. That came back as well, and it turns out they were shavings from a crayon.”

“What?”

“Yeah, a red Crayola crayon, to be more specific. Anyway, that was all they could tell me.”

“All right. Thanks.” Cooper ended the call and gripped the sides of the sink. She took a few slow breaths and shook her head, the bits of water flinging off her cheeks. She jumped in the shower quickly, washing off the grime from the past two days. Once clean, she felt the hangover loosen its grip. She dressed, chugged another glass of water, then headed out the door with her hair still wet.

Cooper kept the lights and sirens off on the way over, focusing all of her energy and what remained of her broken mental capacity to stay in her lane. She reached into the glove box and pulled out a bag of chips. She tore it open and inhaled it before the red light she was stopped at turned green.

Despite the water, shower, and licking the crumbs from the chip bag, when Cooper arrived at Kate Wurstshed’s house she still felt as though she’d been run over by a car, twice. She caught her hands shaking when she unhooked her seat belt and paused before getting out. She took a few deep breaths, flexing her hand into a fist until it steadied.

Kate’s house was a modest townhome in one of the nicer suburbs of Baltimore that had yet to be hit by the foreclosure epidemic. It wasn’t rich but had a low crime rate, something every citizen hoped to have the opportunity to afford.

A short white picket fence lined the front yard’s perimeter, which was overgrown with grass. Cooper lingered at the gate, noticing there was no car in the driveway. Before she made it to the front door, she checked the sides of the house, looking for any other exits, but found none. Cooper rang the doorbell and waited, focusing most of her attention on trying to stand upright. “Mrs. Wurstshed! It’s Detective Cooper.”

Another minute passed, and she rang the doorbell again. She pressed her face against the front window, trying to get a look inside. With the blinds drawn she couldn’t see anything. She went to reach for the handle once more, and when she smacked the door with her palm it pushed open. She froze, watching the door swing inside. “Mrs. Wurstshed?” But the only answer was the creaking door hinges as she stepped inside.

The living room was still and quiet. The air had a stale quality that accompanied a home that hadn’t been occupied. Cooper looked around, checking for anything out of place, but with the television and computer still inside, it looked as though nothing was stolen. She un-holstered her pistol and scanned the room. “Baltimore Police Department!” She paused, listening for any movement, but nothing answered.

Cooper kept her pistol aimed and checked the dining room, kitchen, and utility room, all empty. All that remained was a long hallway on the east side of the house. It connected from the living room, and when Cooper looked down the narrow corridor she saw three doors. The first two doors were halfway down the hall and positioned directly across from each other on the left and right. The third door was all the way at the end of the hall. All of them were shut.

Cooper checked behind her, making sure no one else had followed her inside, then slowly made her way down the hall, pistol aimed in front of her and her arms and shoulders locked tight. She felt her hands grow slick with sweat, and she blamed her heightened pulse on the whiskey still working its way out of her system. She stopped just short of the two doors in the middle of the hallway, looking down under the cracks for any light or movement, but everything remained still. She reached for the door knob with her left hand. She curved her fingers around the bronze knob then shoved it open quickly.

A ragged-looking woman with a pistol in her hand stared back at her, and Cooper nearly shot the mirror image of herself above the bathroom sink. Her heart pounded faster, and she swallowed spit as dry as sand. She flicked on the lights, exposing the drawn bath curtain that protected the tub. Two steps forward, and she was practically in the tub herself. The brief reprieve of anxiety vanished as she reached for the bath curtain, again keeping one hand on the pistol. She drew in a breath and yanked the curtain back. But all that stared back at her was the soap scum that circled the drain.

Cooper rested her head back on the wall, her weapon lowered. The stink of sweat squeezed through her pores, the toxins from the alcohol working their way out of her body. She focused on her breathing, slowing her heart rate, and turned her attention to the door across from the bathroom. She moved to the bathroom doorway where she lingered and listened, waiting for anyone in the house to grow impatient.

After a few minutes, she finally ventured back out into the hallway, her left hand reaching for the door. She tested the handle to check if it was locked, but the knob offered no resistance. Her line of sight fell to the bottom crack to check for any moving shadows, but all was still. Her muscles tensed and she burst through the door, staring down the sights to a neatly made bed.

The room was small, with just enough space for the bed, dresser, and nightstand. The curtain was opened, and sunlight shone through the window. Cooper moved silently over the carpet, her eyes fixed on the closed closet doors. She slid them open, pushing aside dresses and blouses, finding nothing but forgotten fashion trends. She circled the bed then flattened herself to the floor and checked underneath, but there were only more boxes.