hadn’t received any reply. Now her phone was on silent.
She glanced at her watch again. She’d been observing the shack for more than an hour watching the snow fall, but nothing had changed except she’d gotten a whole lot colder and another half an inch of snow had fallen.
Deciding it was now or never, she went for it. Carefully, telling herself she was not a rogue detective, her eyes and ears straining, she picked her way from one thicket to the next, zeroing in on the house, spying nothing to indicate that anyone was around. Each window was covered with a thick, unlined material that looked like black burlap and didn’t allow for any viewing inside. And each one was locked tight. God Almighty, she hoped her efforts weren’t a bust.
At the back of the house there was a rotting wooden stoop protected slightly by an overhang where a rear door with a tiny window cut into it barred her entrance. She tried the knob, as she had in the front, but the door was locked tight. On her tiptoes she looked through the small slice of glass and could see most of the kitchen, but nothing more.
She had to get inside.
She looked under a fraying mat and under a forgotten boot brush, but there was no key. Nor was there a key tucked onto the supports of the overhang or on the stoop itself. She made her way to the front door and had no more luck, then looked around.
This was a vacation home.
Unused and nearly abandoned.
Wouldn’t there be a key left nearby?
Carnie and Verdago could have it with them.
She thought of breaking in because she knew in her heart that, after his tirade yesterday, Brewster would block any action on her part that wasn’t strictly by the book.
About to give up, she walked into the outbuilding that was the garage. Sweeping the beam of her flashlight along the rafters and posts, she found nothing. She even opened the dark refrigerator, which was empty and filthy when she searched inside. Opening the tiny freezer compartment, she found nothing but an ancient, metal ice cube tray, but as she closed the refrigerator door, her flashlight beam caught on a bit of metal in the wall behind the old Frigidaire.
A key.
“Amen,” she whispered and only hoped it worked the lock on one of the doors.
The closest was the front door.
No go, she thought, rounding the old building and slipping the key into the back door lock. It turned easily. Her pulse beat hard. This wasn’t even close to legal unless she saw something through the window that might be evidence of a crime. Still, she wasn’t going to stop and she pushed open the door slowly, tentatively stepping inside where the air was warm, but the smells were off. The lingering smoke was hiding something else, something more sinister.
Using her flashlight, she saw the part of the kitchen table that had been obscured from her view at the window. There were pictures on its grainy top. Head shots of people she recognized, including herself.
Her skin crawled at the thought that she was actually in the whack-job’s lair. This was where he’d plotted out the murders of Grayson and the judge, the sicko’s base of operations.
Set in the forest with the curtains drawn, the rooms were dark and close, the embers of a fire glowing a weak red from the living area. She took one step toward the front of the house, the beam of her flashlight skating across the dirty linoleum floor to land directly on the unmoving, gray face of a very dead Carnie Tibalt.
Pescoli stifled a scream, but her heart was pounding double time.
The woman, eyes fixed as if she were staring at the ceiling, was nude aside from a pair of boots. A nasty dark hole was visible in her forehead. She took off her glove, reached down, touched her beneath her chin, but found no pulse.
Maurice had killed Carnie?
Leaving the dead body where she’d found it, Pescoli pulled the heavy curtains back just a bit so that it would be believable that she’d seen Carnie before she’d entered. Then, replacing her glove and touching nothing else, Pescoli checked out the other rooms, a freezing bedroom where clothes littered the floor and a bathroom so small she could barely turn around.
Don’t mess this up, she told herself as she backed out of the rooms and out the door. She hadn’t touched anything other than Carnie’s neck, the curtain, and the doorknob, so technically she hadn’t compromised the case.
Still, she slid outside and made the call to Alvarez who, thankfully, picked up on the second ring. “It’s Pescoli,” she said, suddenly cold to the bone. “I found Verdago’s hideout. A place owned by Carnie Tibalt’s uncle.” She rattled off the address at the same time she thought she heard the rumble of an engine.
“We’re already on our way,” Alvarez said, without explanation.
“Here? You’re coming here?”
“Yes!”
The engine was sounding nearer, a deep growl. Certainly not Alvarez’s Subaru. Then . . . ? “How close are you?” Pescoli asked, her eyes searching the wilderness for a place to hide. Snow was falling hard, but her footprints were still visible. Damn! Quickly, she backed into the surrounding trees.
“We’re three, four miles out. We’ll be there in five.”