“Come on. Answer, dammit.” The phone rang seven times, eight times. More. Way too many times to be a cell phone. “Crap, it’s a landline.”
“On it,” Paige said, making a call of her own.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling one of my guys in CT. Landlines are fully traceable now, even if the caller doesn’t pick up. Middle Eastern terrorists used to use landlines instead of cell phones to communicate because they were more difficult to track, but we adapted. Now we can find exact locations providing we know the number.”
That was news to Ella. Looked like she was learning on the job too.
“Gary, it’s Paige,” she said down the line. “You couldn’t do me a favor, could you?”
***
When Ella saw the grungy apartment that the phone number had led them to, she had a good feeling that her unsub might just be inside.
And possibly their next victim too.
Alive or dead, that was the question.
Their destination was Woodside Block on Clay Street, a place frequented by Lancaster’s less desirable inhabitants according to Ella’s quick research. Upon sight, she understood why. It was a decrepit building in desperate need of renovation, reminiscent of Teri Harper’s complex a few miles away. Hardly a place a professional therapist might work out of.
But that might have been what their unsub was banking on. Perhaps a new therapist, eager to accept any clients that were willing to hire her. That meant she’d open her door to strangers, just like Kate Sutton had.
Ella and Paige rushed from the car, catching someone leaving the complex as they arrived at the door.
“Number 56,” Ella shouted at the stranger. “What floor?”
The man tipped up his baseball cap to get a better look at her. “Umm, third. I think. Why are-,”
Their sprinting cut him off, through the doors and up two flights of stairs. They entered into a long corridor spreading in opposite directions.
“Here,” Paige called, moving like the Seventh Panzer Division covered ground in World War Two. “Number 56.”
Ella followed, wondering just how this girl was able to move like lightning. They reached the door. Paige went to knock. Ella stopped her.
“Wait.”
Ear to the door, Ella listened. Even though she was confident Calvin Hammerstone had something to hide, there was a chance he might not be in the apartment. Even if there was a murderer or dead body inside, they still needed probable cause to legally enter. This profession was a constant battle between emotion and rationale, and if Ella was alone, emotion would always win. But with Paige by her side, she didn’t want to kick her off with bad habits.
Luckily, probable cause was scratching at her ear canals.
“You hear that?” she asked.
Paige moved closer.
It was only a short burst, but it was undoubtedly a scream.
“I hear it. We gotta get in.” Paige yanked the handle to no avail. “Locked.”
“Argh.”
Another scream, low and rough. A man’s voice. What the hell was going on in there?
“Nothing is ever locked,” Ella said. She stepped back, shifted her weight onto one leg and charged forward. She slammed the sole of her foot slightly left to the lock mount for maximum impact.
A thunderous blast echoed around the corridor. The door shot open and the agents stormed inside.
The apartment was tiny, messy, sickly yellow in color scheme. From the hallway, Ella could see three rooms. To their left was a living room, devoid of inhabitants. Up ahead was a bathroom, door wide open. The last option was the door on the right, tightly shut.