“Where are you now?”
“I’m here, at home.” Mike whined. Frank could tell that Mike was trying to keep his emotions under control and was having a hard time doing it.
“You need to get out of the house, Mike.”
“There’s nobody here. I went through the house already.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Have you called the police?”
“No.”
“Stay where you are. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“They got her, Frank.” Mike began to cry again. “They got her, I know they got her.”
“I’m leaving now,” Frank said. He hung up, grabbed wallet, keys, jacket, made sure his nine and extra clips were in the jacket, and then he left.
THANK GOD EVERYBODY in Southern California drove like maniacs. Frank drove like one on his way to Mike Peterson’s home in Huntington Beach, and as he rounded the corner to the development off Beach Boulevard he saw the older man leaning against his car in the driveway. His face was buried in his hands and Frank pulled in front of the house and killed the engine. He was out of the car in a flash. “You okay?”
Mike nodded, his eyes closed. The man trembled and he wouldn’t look up. Frank reached out and gripped his shoulder. “Mike,” he said softly but forcefully. “Come on man, I know… this is hard.” Frank imagined himself in Mike’s shoes. He’d be going through the same kind of hell now if something happened to Brandy or the kids. Hell, he’d be a fucking basket case. Mike seemed to be handling it well in spite of the situation. “Mike, I’m here.”
Mike finally looked up at Frank. His eyes were red, his cheeks damp with tears. He took a deep breath. His features looked haunted, as if he’d just seen a ghost. “I shouldn’t have taken them for granted,” he said. “I was so careful in setting up my other identity. And I was so careful with all of us. If they know about me, they know about you and—”
“You haven’t called the police yet?”
Mike shook his head. “No… I… I almost did…”
Frank looked up and down the quiet neighborhood. It was an upper-middle class neighborhood, similar to the one his aunt Diane and Uncle Charlie resided in El Paso where he’d lived for five years. All two-story tract homes with BMW’s and Mini-Vans parked in the driveways. Nobody was watching them. “I take it we haven’t attracted the attention of the neighbors yet, otherwise the cops would already be here.”
Mike took a deep breath. “I… I tried to control myself as much as possible.”
“I’ve got to go in,” Frank said, looking at Mike. “Do you want to stay out here?”
Mike shook his head. “I know it sounds crazy, but I can’t. I have to find out what happened to her.”
“Then let’s go in,” Frank said, his hand still resting on Mike’s shoulder gently.
They went into the house together.
The first thing Frank noticed when they crossed the threshold was the heat. It felt stale and musty, as if the house had been closed up for an extended period of time. Then he noticed the smell. It was the faint, coppery scent of dried blood.
Mike seemed a little more prepared for the destruction that followed than Frank was. The older man led him into the living room and Frank gasped at the sight. The room was in shambles. The couch was ripped open, the stuffing from the cushions strewn about. The television was bashed-in, books were toppled to the floor from the built-in oak bookcase. Carol’s fragile china was shattered, the cabinet they’d been housed in broken, destroyed. “This way,” Mike said, heading for the stairs. “The minute I saw… what you’re seeing now, I headed up the stairs and started calling Carol’s name.”
Frank followed Mike up the staircase, feeling himself tense up. There was something about this, some sixth sense that was telling Frank that something wasn’t right. How could they have found him? he thought. Mike was more careful than any of them, more careful than his Aunt Diane and Uncle Charlie, more careful than John Llama. His false identity was foolproof. So what happened?
“This was what I saw,” Mike said as he stepped aside and allowed Frank entry into the master bedroom.
Frank stood in the doorway to the bedroom. The room was destroyed; the furnishings were in the same slashed and broken state as the furniture downstairs. Framed pictures that had hung on the walls were on the floor, now shattered. Frank took a step into the room and Mike turned on the light. Frank saw the dark maroon splotches on the white carpeting right away.
Carol had bled quite profusely.
Mike hung back in the hallway as Frank stepped further into the room. He wasn’t a homicide detective, but it was obvious from the spilled blood and the destruction in the room that a struggle had taken place. A splash of red caught his eye; it was a streak of blood on the wall leading into the bathroom. Frank ventured inside, dreading what he would see.
Blood had splashed into the sink. The mirror was shattered, smears of blood dotting its surface. Bottles of soap and shampoo had been spilled onto the floor along with combs, brushes, a hair dryer, and a box of curlers. One lone blue towel had been pulled off the metal towel rack and lay on the floor amid the toiletries. More blood dotted the tiled floor and a bath mat that ran the length of the bathroom. Frank cautiously avoided stepping in the blood and leaned over to peer into the bathtub. It was empty.
He made his way carefully back into the bedroom. “Did they take anything?”
“I don’t know.” Mike looked shocked and haunted.
“Did you guys keep cash or jewelry here?”
Mike shook his head. “Not on your life.”
Frank glanced back in the bedroom. There was a television mounted on a small entertainment unit; its screen was gutted. “Whoever did this is not your usual junkie who wants to hock your shit to score a fix.” Frank turned back to Mike, his mind racing. “They were after something. Are you positive you didn’t keep anything about the investigation at the house?”
“I’m positive,” Mike hissed, seeming to perk up a little under the interrogation.
“Are you sure?” Frank pressed him on the issue. “Think! Why the hell would they chance such a bold breakin if they didn’t know something was—”
Mike’s eyes lit up. “The key!”
Frank felt his heart stop. “What key?”
“The key to the safe deposit box.” Mike looked anguished. “I… I called Carol before you guys met me at LAX and told her what I was working on. I told her where the safe deposit box was. She knew what happened to John. She didn’t want me to poke into this again. I told her I wasn’t doing anything, that all I was doing was helping you out in some family stuff.” He looked at Frank. “I swear I didn’t tell her anything else. I don’t know if she believed me or not, but—”
“You better not have mentioned my name,” Frank said. At the mention of Mike telling Carol that Frank was involved, he felt angry.
Mike ignored him. “I put all the files I’d accumulated and a zip disk of my investigation into a safe deposit box I kept under my pseudonym. I… I told Carol that if I wasn’t back by Friday to open it and do something about it.” His eyes were wide at the implication. “They—”
Frank tore into the bedroom. “Let’s start looking.”
They began searching for the key to the safe deposit box. Mike pulled out drawers and rifled through them, but it was obvious that whoever destroyed the house had already gone through them. Whatever clothes weren’t spilled onto the floor had been thrown or pushed aside. Jewelry and knickknacks had been spilled onto the floor. Frank began going through clothes in the closet. “Where would she have kept it?”