Another pop. His sister from Fairbanks had texted. She was fine. To please call when he got a chance.
He punched in another number and waited for the person to answer.
“Lancaster,” the voice said.
Decker said, “Mary, you need to see something. And you need to see it now.”
Chapter 19
Lancaster had come. Then Captain Miller. Then the uniforms. Then the forensics team with all its bags of gadgets. It was like that night all over again, only he wasn’t staring at his dead daughter while holding a gun against his head.
The message had been written with a red Sharpie. The ink dried almost immediately, and there was no telling how long it had been there. Thus Leopold was not in the clear. He had only been locked up since very early yesterday morning.
Miller had wanted to know how the killer would have known Decker would come back here, enter this room, and see this message.
“I’ve been back here before,” admitted Decker.
“And you went inside each time,” said Lancaster.
“Not every time, no. I couldn’t... every time.”
“When was the last time you were in this room?” asked Lancaster.
“Four weeks and three days ago, right about this time.”
“So at least we have a time window to work with,” noted Lancaster.
“Maybe this guy has been following you and knows you come here,” said Miller. “That’s why he put this message up.”
“We can canvass the neighborhood, see if anyone saw something,” said Lancaster.
“They didn’t see who murdered three people,” countered Decker. “I don’t see why they would have seen the person who did this.”
“But still,” replied Miller. “We’re going to do it.”
“Brothers?” said Lancaster curiously as a police photographer took shots of the message. “We might want to get a shrink in on this to analyze what’s going on inside the dude’s head.”
“So you think this is Leopold’s work?” asked Miller. He was staring at the graffiti like it was part of an inscription on the doorway to hell.
Decker said nothing because he had nothing to say. In his head the words were indeed a flaming red, thus not so far away from hell. Whoever had written this was either being straightforward, at least in a deranged way, or else he was playing head games with him. Decker turned and left, ignoring Lancaster’s calling after him.
He never saw Miller grab Lancaster by the arm. He didn’t hear his old captain tell her to let him be. He didn’t hear Lancaster’s retort, and then Miller’s request sharpen into a direct order for her to stand down.
They both watched him from the window striding down the sidewalk with a purpose. He soon turned the corner and was gone from their sight.
Decker didn’t stop walking until he reached the 7-Eleven on DeSalle at Fourteenth. This marked the first time in his life he had not traveled there by car.
There were no cars parked in front. He opened the door, heard the bell tinkle, and then let it close behind him.
There was a woman behind the counter. She was short but looked taller because of the elevated floor there. Her hair was dark and straight, falling to her shoulders. She looked Latina. She had on a beige long-sleeved blouse with a bra strap showing on one side. She was around fifty and her eye sockets were starting to recede into her face like a pond starting to dry up. A large dark mole was on her left cheek. She had some sheets of paper in front of her and was studying them and then counting off packs of cigarettes shelved in slots overhead.
A man appeared from down one aisle. He had a mop in hand and was using it to steer a bucket with soapy water in it. Decker ran his gaze over him, his police training guiding his eye to certain vital statistics. He was white, midthirties, an inch under six feet, very lean and wiry, with narrow shoulders. His short-sleeved shirt showed off the veins in his arms. His hair was brown and curly and fell like apple peelings across his head.
The woman looked up at him just standing there in the doorway. “Can I help you?” she asked. She had no accent.
He came forward and took his phone from his pocket. He hit a couple buttons and held it up.
“You ever see this guy before?”
She looked at the photo of Sebastian Leopold. “Who is he?” she asked.
“Some guy that either might have worked here once or hung around here at some point.”
She shook her head. “I don’t remember seeing him. Why you want to know?” Decker fished out his PI license and flashed it in front of her. “I’m trying to find him. He might be due some money. Got a line on him that brought me here. How about your friend over there?”
He looked at the man who was leaning on his mop and studying him quizzically.
The woman said, “Billy, you want to look at this picture?”
Billy parked his mop and bucket against a rack of candy bars, wiped his hands on his faded jeans, and ambled over. He looked pleased to have an excuse to stop cleaning the linoleum.
He looked at the photo and then shook his head. “Nope. Don’t look familiar to me. Weird-looking dude. Spacey.”
Decker lowered the phone. “How long have you two been here?”
The woman said, “Nearly six months for me. Billy came just a few weeks ago.”
Decker nodded. Too recent, then. “And the people here before you?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. There was a woman, a couple of men. Turnover is high here. The pay is not very good. And the hours are long. I wouldn’t be here if I could find something better. But the job market sucks,” she added bluntly.
Decker looked at Billy. “You?”
Billy grinned. “I don’t know nuthin’ ’bout this place. Just drawing a paycheck, man. Beer money on the weekends. Looking to have a good time with the ladies. Need cash for all that.”
He went back to his mopping.
“I’m sorry we can’t help you,” said the woman.
“Part of the job,” said Decker. “Thanks.”
He turned and left.
His phone buzzed. He looked at it.
Lancaster.
He put it away without answering.
It rang again.
He looked at it again.
Lancaster.
He sighed, hit the answer button.
“Yeah?”
“Amos?”
Decker immediately went rigid. Lancaster sounded nearly hysterical. And she wasn’t the type ever to do so.
“Mary, what is it? Not another shooting?” Decker had been worried about this from the start. Things about the attack at Mansfield had made him believe that the guy was—
“No,” she said breathlessly. “But, but there’s some-something—”
“Where are you?” he interrupted.
“At Mansfield.”
“So it has to do with Mansfield? You found some—”
“Amos!” she shrieked. “Just let me finish.”
Decker fell silent, waited. It was as though he could hear her heart beating from across the digital ether.
“We ran ballistics on the pistol used at Mansfield.”
“And what did—”
Interrupting, she said, “And we found a match.”
His grip tightened around the phone. “A match? To what?”
“To the gun that killed your wife.”
Chapter 20
A .45 Round.
Semi-jacketed. Hollow-point.
An SJH, in ballistics shorthand.
It was a brutally efficient piece of ordnance. Not exactly a dum-dum, named after Dum-Dum, India, where a British army officer had invented a bullet that mushroomed out on impact and acted as a miniature wrecking ball inside the body.
Innovation wasn’t always good for you.
The .45 SJH had blown right through the front of Cassie Decker’s skull and ended up lodged deep in her brain. It had been dug out of her during the autopsy and the slug preserved as evidence in her murder investigation. It had retained enough of its shape and lands and grooves to one day be matched to the weapon that had fired it. Well, they didn’t have the weapon, but they had something else.