“Whoa.” Elliot raised his hands. “Take it easy.” He had been shot once before and it was not an experience he was in a hurry to repeat.
“Who are you?” The shotgun did not waver. “What are you doing here?”
“Elliot Mills. I’m working as a consultant with the FBI and Tacoma PD on the Sculptor murder case.” He kept his voice quiet and calm, despite the fact that his heart was going a million miles a minute. “If you’ll let me reach into my back pocket, I’ll show you some ID.”
“Don’t move,” she warned, and he froze arm half lowered.
Finding out you had a serial killer for a neighbor would make anyone jumpy.
“Okay. I’m not moving.”
“This is private property.”
“Yes. I’m aware of that. What else would you like to know? That’s my car in the driveway. You can take down the license plate number and call it in to your local police department. Ask for Chief Woll. He knows me.”
If anything she looked more skeptical. “And just how’m I going to do that?”
“If you need a cell phone, you can use my—”
“I said don’t move!”
He hadn’t moved, and now he didn’t so much as take a breath.
A very long second passed before her expression altered, eyes widening. She licked her lips, said slowly, “Hey, I recognize you. You were on TV.”
“Yes.” Unfortunately.
Or maybe fortunately in this case, because after another moment of scowling consideration, she lowered her weapon.
Elliot slowly put his hands down. His heart was still jumping in his chest. Nothing like the sudden appearance of a lethal weapon to get the blood moving.
“You’re the one who finally caught him.”
“Sort of.”
“Sorry for pointing a gun in your face. But I live out here on my own. A woman can’t be too careful.”
“You’re Connie Foster?” Elliot guessed. “That’s your farm about a mile down the road?”
“That’s right.” Foster’s brown eyes studied him with a mix of wariness and curiosity.
He couldn’t help asking, “Why’d you shoot the dog?”
Foster’s expression hardened. “It’s kinder than letting it starve to death. Or locking it up in the pound with a hundred other dirty, terrified mutts waiting to be put down. It’s been running loose here for a week. Went after my goats last night.”
“I see.”
His tone was neutral but she must have sensed his disapproval. “People are always dumping animals out here. They think a house pet is going to suddenly revert to the wild and be able to fend for itself. It doesn’t work like that.”
“No. I know.” She was within her legal rights to shoot a marauding dog, and the fact that it disturbed him probably had to do with the fact he’d grown up in a household where dogs and cats were part of the family. In suburbia dogs threatening valuable livestock was not an issue.
“Why are you here?” Foster asked. “Or can you say?”
“I thought maybe if I had a look around...” The truth was, he wasn’t sure why he’d felt a need to see the place for himself. Coming out here had been an impulse. He was not generally impulsive.
But Connie Foster nodded as though she understood. “Yeah. I still can’t believe it’s true.”
“How long were you neighbors?”
“Seven years. I always figured something was going on in there, but I never had a clue as to what. Nobody did. I was picturing drugs or sex. If only it had been.” She laughed suddenly. “I can tell you one thing though. You know how on TV the neighbors always say what a nice quiet man the serial killer was? Not him. Not Corian. He was an asshole.”
“How so?”
“There was always something for him to be an ass about. He liked being a jerk. Usually over some stupid petty thing. Like closing off the old access road. I bet you heard about that.”
“No.”
“People from around here used to get their Christmas trees back in those woods. But he closed it off. He didn’t have to do that. Now I guess we all know why he was so concerned with his privacy.”
Right. The woods. This was not a new lead. They had conducted a major search of those woods with cadaver dogs but come up empty. Partly because there was just too much ground to cover—Corian’s property was adjacent to state and federal lands—and no real foundation for believing there was anything to find.
“I hope he enjoyed it while he had it,” Elliot said. “Privacy is going to be a thing of the past, moving forward.”
Foster’s laugh was harsh. She nodded at the tall house behind them. “The place is for sale, but I don’t believe anyone will buy it. Not for a long, long time. People around here call it the Murder House. Besides, we still get reporters out here, snooping around. I had some asshole with a camera taking pictures of me in my hot tub one evening.”
Goats and hot tubs and serial killers. An interesting little community.
“I know how annoying that has to be.” He did too. He had come in for more than his fair share of media attention after Corian’s arrest.
“That’s what I thought you were at first.” Her smile was unexpectedly roguish. “I was going to scare you off.”
God only knew what she meant by that. She’d been genuinely frightened for a moment. Of that, he was sure. Granted, she hadn’t been the only one.
She was still studying him. “All those things they said on the news. The things he did. Were they true?”
“Most of it.”
“And they never found the heads of his victims?”
“No.”
She shuddered. “I bet he dumped them in the lake.”
“That’s a pretty good bet.”
It was the obvious solution. Maybe not Lake Sawyer because law enforcement had spent a lot of time and money dragging the lake to no avail. But some local body of water probably.
“Or maybe he turned them into doorstops.” Another flash of that rascally smile. He thought her left eye might be glass. The pupil of her right eye was contracting at the bright sunlight shining on her face while the pupil of the left eye stayed wide open.
He ignored the gruesome joke and said, “Did Corian have a lot of friends?”
Foster thought it over. “He had a lot of parties.”
“Did he have any regular visitors?”
“I don’t know that I ever saw him bringing a girlfriend around or hanging out with a buddy, if that’s what you mean. But it’s not like I was looking. I like to mind my own business. Of course that’s how people like him get away with murder, isn’t it?”
Elliot nodded noncommittally. Nosy neighbors were a good line of defense, but there was a lot to be said for high walls and soundproofing.
“You know,” Foster said suddenly, “there was someone who used to come around. I wouldn’t say he was a friend. He was Corian’s gardener. But I know he did a few odd jobs for him. Cut firewood, cleared the brush in summer. That kind of thing. I guess you might say he was around on a sort of regular basis.”
Elliot’s hopes rose. This actually was new information. “Would you happen to know his name?”
“No. I don’t really even remember what he looked like. Just...average. White. Late twenties, early thirties. I think his hair was brown. There was a company name on the truck he used to drive.”
“Do you remember the name of the company?”
Foster looked apologetic. “No. It was a white truck. Tools in the back. And a lawnmower. Maybe the name’ll come to me. But it’s been a while now. The real estate agent hired another gardener.”
“Did the old gardener, Corian’s gardener, show up on a specific day of the week?”
There were no security cameras on Corian’s property, but there was always a chance that the traffic cam on the lights down at the main highway intersection might have caught something. A license plate would be nice, but was probably too much to hope for.
“Thursdays? He used to come other times too, but I think Thursdays were his day.”
“Did he work for anyone else around here?”
She shrugged. “Not that I noticed. Not for me, that’s for sure.”
“Do you remember the last time you saw him?”
“No. I sure don’t.”
Elliot fished in his pocket and handed her his card. “If you do remember the name of the company—or if you think of anything else that might be helpful, anything at all—give me a call.”
Foster looked doubtful, but pocketed the card.
* * *
“My father’s father’s blood is on the track...”
The Civil Wars were singing “My Father’s Father” and Elliot was headed down the tree-lined dirt road back to the main highway when his cell phone rang.
He eyed it warily, expecting round two with Roland, but Tucker’s picture flashed up. Elliot reached for his cell and clicked to answer.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” Tucker said in that familiar deep baritone. “Where are you?”
“Just leaving Corian’s old place.”
There was a short silence. “Okay,” Tucker said. “What’s that about?”
“I’m not even sure. I’m on my way back to Tacoma now.”
“We’ve got a briefing in—”
“I’ve not forgotten the briefing.”
Tucker grunted. He was not happy with Elliot’s participation in the case and despite his best effort—and he was making an effort—it showed. And kept showing.
He asked neutrally, “How’d it go?”
Elliot said with a touch of acid, “Didn’t Yamiguchi fill you in?”
“Yes. She did. My concern is how you feel after the interview.”
“I’m okay.”
“You sure?” There was open concern for Elliot in Tucker’s voice. That level of caring, that emotional honesty, continued to take Elliot by surprise even after eleven months of being together.
“Yes. I can’t say I enjoyed it. I’m not looking forward to going back. But yes, I’m fine.”
“Going back?” Tucker repeated slowly.
“This was the opening salvo. Corian’s just warming up.”
A pause before Tucker said, “We’ll talk about it when you get here. Drive safe.”
“Yeah. Take care of yourself,” Elliot said. Their code for I love you.
“Always.” Tucker disconnected.