The Scum of All Fears: Squeaky Clean Mysteries, Book 5 (3 page)

“Okay, well, he’s in California. How’s a fugitive going to get to Virginia? That would be crazy. No way he’s sneaking on an airplane. If he steals a car or jumps on a train, he would still take a few days to travel across the country. By that time, the police are going to catch him.” I nodded, totally convinced that my theory was correct.

Riley had turned the burner of
f and called for a pizza. With those all-important details taken care of, we could concentrate on more important things. Things like our lives.

“Milton Jones i
s sneaky. He’s conniving. No one can still figure out how he got into those people’s homes. He never told anyone and the police couldn’t figure it out.” He shook his head. “And what he did to those women . . .”

“What did he do to those women?”
I was squeezing my own hand so hard that I nearly yelped.

Riley rubbed his cheek again
before turning down the volume on the TV as a consumer report came on. “You don’t want to know. It was horrific. The crime scene photos gave me nightmares for weeks.”

They had to be serious if they gave Riley nightmares.

He leaned back on the couch, any sense of lightness and teasing that had been present earlier gone faster than my peace of mind. He stared into the distance, as if going back to a different time. “Everyone in the area was on edge. People wouldn’t let their daughters go out at night. They bought extra locks for their doors. Tons of new neighborhood watch groups started. People lived in fear over this guy.”

As I pulled one of my knees to my chest, my stomach grumbled, and I really wished that chicken had
n’t burned. “Let me guess, when they caught him, no one could believe he was guilty. They all said what a nice man he was. Isn’t that what the neighbors always say?”

He went from rubbing his cheek to rubbing his temple. I don’t think I’d ever seen Riley this distressed.
“You’re absolutely right. He was a deacon at his church. He coached his son’s little league team. He worked as a sociologist by day, lived in a middle class neighborhood, took family vacations in between the murders.”

I shivered. “That is creepy. And by creepy, I me
an totally whacked out and sick. Tell me—how did he get the name Scum River Killer again?”

“He always dumped the bodies in this area that locals called the Scum River. It wasn’t actually a river. It was this area of town, underneath an overpass, where there was a sewage leak. Filthy water flowed right down the middle of this street and walkway. People started calling it the Scum River.”

Riley’s cell phone rang, and he scrunched his eyebrows together when he looked at the screen. He stood as he answered, his body rigid and tight.

“What’s going on? I see. Okay. Right. I just heard. Are you serious?”

That was the extent
of what I could pick up on from this side of the conversation. I sat on the edge of my seat, apprehension growing in me as I watched the strain pull tighter and tighter at Riley.

Really, this shouldn’t affect Riley anymore.
The police? Yes. The FBI? Probably. Riley had only prosecuted the case. His involvement was over.

And even though the man’s threats toward Riley sounded horrific, what was the possibility the man could make it all the way across the country? I
wasn’t great at statistics, but the likelihood didn’t seem high.

Riley came back into the room, and his face looked paler than I’d ever remembered it looking. Nausea roiled in my gut as I asked, “What’s going on?”

He lowered himself beside me, his jaw flexing as he gathered his thoughts. “That was one of my former colleagues at the D.A.’s Office in California. He wanted to make sure I’d heard what happened. He told me that Jones actually escaped last night. Officials didn’t release the news story until today in an effort not to send the public into a panic.”

“Okay
.” I wiped my hands on my jeans, realizing my palms were sweaty.

“The FBI went through
Jones’ prison cell. He had some papers hidden in his mattress.”

Waiting to hear what Riley
had to tell me was worse than waiting for a shot at the doctor’s office. “What are you getting at, Riley?”

He glanced up, his eyes intense.
“They were news clippings about me, Gabby. About me since I moved to Virginia.”

“Okay.” The man had been carrying a grudge. I was sure a lot of convicts did.

“And about you.”

I jabbed my finger into my chest
, my anxiety torpedoing into shock. “About me? What do you mean?”

“You know that article that ran in the paper
about you back in January?”

Of course I remembered it. I’d only framed four copies of it, and whenever I felt down in the dumps, I re-read it for an ego boost.
I read it even when I didn’t feel down in the dumps, for that matter. I might have even considered using it as wallpaper. “Yes, I remember.”

“That
article was there, too.”

T
he blood drained from my face. “Why in the world would he have a copy of that? You weren’t mentioned in the article, even.”

“Somehow he’s figured out that you’re connected to me.” He shook his head.
“He must have had help from someone outside the prison. That’s the only way he could have gotten those clippings.”

I shivered. I didn’t want
to. I didn’t want this to affect me at all. I wanted to be tough and reasonable. Unaffected. To wear my logic like armor. But the shivers kept coming.

Riley pulled me into his arm
s and whispered into my hair, “I don’t like this, Gabby. I don’t like it one bit.”

I couldn’t lie. I didn’t like this one bit either.

I awoke the next morning with Milton Jones still on my mind.
It hadn’t helped that I’d done an Internet search on the man before I went to bed. In my defense, I’d hopped online to place an ad for a new temporary employee this week. I’d quickly gotten distracted.

Story of my life, it seemed sometimes.

As I read the details of his crimes, I’d shuddered. He’d tortured his victims before killing them. He was one big, bad dude, beyond the vile killers I’d encountered in the past.

He snatched women in the middle of the night. They were almost always in their early twenties, outgoing
in nature, and thin in stature. No one could ever figure out how he got in and out of the homes. He always left a picture of his victims with their eyes Xed out after he abducted them. He kept the women for six days and then killed them, dumping their bodies in a public location afterward.

He was a psychopath.
Yet he was meticulous. A planner. Devious.

I stared at my bedroom ceiling
as the earliest of morning light trickled in from outside. Jones’ threats to Riley had been idle, something he’d never be able to carry out. He’d probably threatened a lot of people for that matter. So why did he only have an unofficial shrine to Riley?

I didn’t need
to worry about it. For that matter, the FBI had probably already arrested the man. I was sure that when I turned on the news this morning I would see an update. I’d see video feeds of the man being led back to prison in handcuffs, taking the walk of shame.

Mean
while, I’d forgotten to place my ad for a temporary worker, which meant I was flying solo today. I was already behind thanks to the debacle yesterday, so I had to get busy. I had a reputation for being reliable and thorough. I didn’t want to mess that up, even if my days doing this job were potentially numbered.

I comforted myself with the fact that
I’d still probably get my crime scenes cleaned faster
alone
today than I would have
with
Clarice yesterday.

Poor Clarice. I doubted she ever wanted to see me again. She’d looked pale and ready to throw up
when she’d seen the message left in that house. Crime scenes could do that to a person. I’d dropped her off with Sharon, told her to take some Tylenol, and waved
adios
.

Now, it was time to start my day alone. I had four crime scenes on my docket to get cleaned between today and tomorrow. It was going to be a lot of work. I was
going to have to hire some subcontractors to replace some dry wall and even a section of subfloor at one place.

I got
out of bed, got dressed, grabbed a Pop Tart, and opened the front door, ready to get started. To my surprise, a woman was standing there, her hand poised to knock. She stepped back and smiled. “So sorry to scare you like that. I wanted to stop by and introduce myself.”

“Introduce away then,” I said, surprising even myself at the lameness of my words.

“I’m Rose Turvington. I’m your new landlord.”

“New landlord? What happened to Mr. Sears?” Mr. Sears had been around since our country’s forefa
thers signed the Constitution. I was pretty sure he’d used it as a guide when drawing up the papers to lease this place.

“He decided to go down to Florida. It was all very sudden, apparently.” She pulled
a lock of hair behind her ear. I noted her red, curly hair that bore a resemblance to mine. The difference was that she’d teased her bangs so they stood up in a gigantic curl.

The woman was probably in her mid-forties, so she had a good fifteen years on me.
She wore skinny jeans with ankle boots and a black KISS T-shirt that emphasized her oversized apple figure. Her mascara was heavy, and she’d chosen an electric shade of blue to paint her eyelids. It was just a gut instinct, but I had a feeling she was thrilled that 80s clothing was back in style. In fact, maybe she’d never given up on it.

“I’m Gabby. Nice to meet you.”

“Mr. Sears said you’re one to watch out for.” Her voice was low, kind of scratchy, maybe from smoking or possibly from yelling too loud at rock concerts.

“I suppose that
’s all in your definition of ‘watch out for.’”

She laughed
, deep and throaty. “You’re funny. Anyway, I wanted to introduce myself. If you need anything, call me. I only live a few houses down, so I can be right over.”

“Perfect.” At least Mr. Sears had stayed out of my business. I wasn’t sure I could say the same for this woman.
People who had enthusiasm and energy to spare usually spent that enthusiasm and energy on other people. At least in my experience they did. Some people used it for good—by volunteering. Others used it for aggravating—by stirring up trouble.

I thought
Rose was going to walk away, but she continued to talk. “I’ve already met Bill downstairs. No one else seems to be home.”

I nodded. “Sierra downstairs is on her honeymoon, and Riley
across the hall is probably at work. Mrs. Mystery—she lives in the attic apartment—sometimes doesn’t come out or answer her door for days at a time.”

“I see. It sounds like you’re all a close knit little community here. I
totally dig that.”

I nodded. “Close knit. That’s us.”
We were all as different as night and day, but we’d almost become like family. We watched each other’s backs. Together, we could all make a really sappy music video to the song “Lean On Me.” We’d been there and done that.

“I want to have a big cookout for all of you
tomorrow. Please say you’re available. Six o’clock outside on the lawn. I’m providing all of the food.”

I wanted to object, to tell her I had too much work to do. But the woman put her hands together under the chin
in an “oh please” motion and looked at me with wide eyes. Finally, I nodded. “I’ll be there.”

She
raised her index finger and pinky in the air in a rocker’s symbol. “Rock on! I’ll see you then.” She slipped a business card into my hand. “Here’s my contact information in case you need me for anything. I aim to please!”

I watched as she practically skipped down the steps and ou
t the front door, turning before she left to wave goodbye. The woman would certainly add some life around here. I’d give her that.

Maybe God was telling me that I needed more perky people in my life.
Between Clarice and Rose, that would certainly seem to be the case.

I trudged down the steps,
holding my coffee with one hand, and my Pop Tart with the other. In vain, I tried to pull my Pop Tart wrapper off with my teeth. That’s when I heard another door open. It had to be Bill McCormick, the radio talk show host who lived downstairs.

Sure enough, h
e stepped out, his bald head shiny and his stomach robust. His eyes, though . . . they looked different as he looked up the stairs at me. They looked brighter. “Did you meet her?”

I gave up on the Pop Tart
and dropped it into my purse. “Did I meet who?”

“Our new landlady
. She’s a real looker, isn’t she?” He wagged his eyebrows up and down.

“A real looker? I suppose.” I noticed that Bill’s face was almost glowing. And I’d never seen his face glowing. Usually, it was lit red with fury as he talked about either politics or his ex-wife.

“She told you about the cookout?”

“Sure did.”
I didn’t really want to go into a long conversation about this. I had a lot of work to do, but I wanted to be a team player and the residents of this apartment were the closest things I had to a team. Well, the residents here and the members of my church. I’d known the residents here for longer, though.

He nodded and grinned.
“I think my luck is changing.”

“Have you been unlucky?”

“You didn’t hear about my show?”

I stopped
, my curiosity sufficiently pricked. “What about it?”

His lips suddenly pulled downward.
“If my ratings aren’t boosted, the station is dropping me.”

My mouth gaped
open. “They can’t do that. You’re their number one guy. You have been for years.”

“That’s what I thought! But ever since I had that little slip up a few weeks ago where I called that state senator,” he
paused and tugged his collar, “well, something I shouldn’t have called him, sponsors have been dropping my show.”

“Ouch.”
I couldn’t begin to imagine what had come out of his mouth. Once Bill got going, there was no stopping him, and no thought was left unspoken.

There was a lot to be said for remaining quiet and appearing wise
. What was that Bible verse?
Even a fool is thought wise if he keeps silent, and discerning if he holds his tongue.

I’d
been in Bill’s position before, unfortunately. My impulsiveness and brashness did get the best of me sometimes.

O
nly once in a while, for that matter.

Okay, quite often.

“It’s like I said. I think my luck is turning around.” He nodded and grinned, a far off look in his eyes. “It’s turning around.” He waved at me and disappeared back inside his apartment.

Well, good for him. I hoped good things did come his way. He’d certainly been miserable for long enough. Of course, if he wasn’t so angry all the time, ratings for his show might
really
drop.

I didn’t have time to worry about it. I had to worry about cleaning this next crime scene and getting paid. This homeowner was using their insurance, which meant it would take forever for me to
collect my compensation. It meant I’d have to haggle with the adjustor, who seemed to always have all the time in the world. But I’d take whatever jobs I could get. After all, I had student loans to pay.

I stopped cold when I saw my van.

Clarice leaned against it, a bright smile on her face. She waved enthusiastically, an energy drink in her hands and Converse on her feet. She was already wearing her trendy, oversized glasses, which seemed unexpected from someone as prissy as Clarice.

I wanted to run the other way or pretend like I didn’t see her. I couldn’t do either. Instead, I
plastered on a smile and walked toward my van.

“Hello, Clarice.”

“You almost sound like that guy from
The Silence of the Lambs
. Isn’t that crazy? Hello, Clarice,” she imitated before laughing. “That’s so psycho.”

Great, I was starting to sound like Hannibal Lector.
This was what my life had come to. Next, I’d be talking about fava beans.

“So psycho,” I repeated. I pulled my purse higher and sucked in a long, deep breath as I gathered my thoughts. “So, you’re here. And you’re wearing designer jeans again, I see.”

“You didn’t think one crime scene was going to scare me off, did you?” She tilted her head a moment before tugging at the leg of her jeans. “And these are last year’s designer jeans, so I figured they’d be okay.”

“How’d you know what time I was leaving? I didn’t think we’d discussed that.”

“I’ve been here since 7. Auntie Sharon said you like to start early. I didn’t want to bother you in your apartment, though, so I just decided to wait outside. No one’s going to say I’m a bad employee this time. Nope. That’s not happening again. I’m getting all gold stars with this job-a-roo.”

Perfect, I thought to myself. I wasn’t getting rid of her, was I? I forced another smile and nodded toward my van. “Let’s go, then.”

Sharon. I wished I believed in voodoo. I might buy a doll with pink hair and a nose ring if I did. Of course, I was a Christian now, and as a Christian I was constantly reminded of both my need for forgiveness and my need to forgive. Sometimes it felt like I’d be struggling with those concepts for the rest of my life.

We started down the road. I tried to turn up the radio and listen to “Welcome to My Nightmare” by Alice Cooper. Instead, Clarice was talking about the crime scene yesterday and her sorority sisters. I tuned her out and tried to concentrate on driving.

“Oh my gosh! Did you see that?” Clarice screeched.

I nearly slammed on brakes. I looked for a lost dog about to wander aimlessly in front of my van. A woman being mugged. A nude man playing guitar on the street corner.

I saw nothing but a busy highway snaking through town, crammed with the gridlock of morning rush hour traffic.

“See what?”
I was trying not to seethe. Really. I was.

“On that sign post back there? How could you have missed it? It was a flyer for Zombie Fest.
Zombie Fest!” Her pitch rose with each word.

I bit back a sharp retort and tapped my fingers against the steering wheel. “Zombie Fest?”

“That sounds like the bomb. I can’t wait to tell my friends.” She held out her arms, limp at the wrists, and crossed her eyes. “Zombies. I’m a zombie. Brains!”

Oh my goodness. How was I going to survive a whole day of this?
By the end of our first job, I’d be begging for a zombie to come and eat my brains.