ChapterFifteen
Jeb’s computer was password protected and his papers were nonexistent, so Xavier and Audrey moved on to the carriage house that had been converted to a garage and shop.
Jeb had left a key chain hanging on a pegboard in the kitchen, and Audrey was relieved when the fourth key Xavier tried unlocked the dead bolt to the garage. It was so much better than smashing their way in. She had zero doubt that Jeb had the kind of soul that would haunt people if he could, and he’d hate any damage to his beloved property, even if it was done in service of finding out who had killed him and why.
Xavier ran his red flashlight around the room. On first glance, the shop looked disorganized. That didn’t seem very Jeb.
In the center of the bay was an old beast of a pickup truck—from the 1960s or ’70s—up on supports. It lacked tires and a front hood. It was a work in progress, or a parts vehicle. Something Jeb was restoring, she guessed, but it looked like the project had stalled long ago.
A long, L-shaped workbench spanned two walls. The surface was littered with tools and random items, bits of wire, baby food jars filled with nuts and bolts. Interspersed among the detritus of ongoing projects were open produce boxes—the cardboard kind cashiers at Costco used to pack groceries in lieu of using bags—some empty, some full with dirty shop towels, yet more tools, quarts of oil.
She puzzled over the incongruity of the messy shop and what she knew of Jeb, but then, this could be the place where he relaxed most and tinkered on multiple projects at a time.
Xavier’s light landed on the corner of the L, revealing a jumble of items. Metal pipes, clamps, nails, and screws, all haphazard on the surface. Several incandescent lightbulbs—whole and broken—lay next to an old car battery and jumper cables.
The light went to the shelf above, revealing a stockpile of one-hundred-watt lightbulbs. “Jeb must’ve bought out Port Angeles before they stopped selling those,” she said.
Xavier’s light ran across all the upper shelves. Next to the lightbulbs were stacks of boxes of wooden matches, several dozen small black plastic bottles, a lifetime supply of toilet paper, boxes of borax, bottles of ammonia, bleach, and other household cleaners. “It doesn’t surprise me that Jeb was something of a hoarder,” she added.
“Usually antigovernment hoarders have a weapon stockpile.”
“That also wouldn’t surprise me. He served in Vietnam and knew his way around guns. He and George talked about—”
Xavier jolted, held up a hand, then the red flashlight went out, plunging the room into inky darkness. He made a soft sound she presumed meant for her to stay quiet.
She couldn’t see a thing. Not even her hand in front of her face. Her heart pounded as she stood frozen. What was going on? Had Xavier heard something? Had they been found?
She took a slow, deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart. Her blood pressure was surely skyrocketing, which was not good for the baby.
But then, absolutely none of this was good for the baby.
With the deep breath came a scent that tickled at her memory. Her sense of smell, she’d noticed, had heightened in the last few weeks, which was one reason she’d vomited after smelling the moldy cottage cheese.
This scent was subtle. Lingering.
Recent.
She searched her memory, and then it hit her. At the quarry with Jae, when he’d taught her how to shoot her new Glock. Burnt gunpowder.
Had someone fired a weapon in this room recently?
She wanted to voice the question, but made no sound as instructed.
Instead, she took another breath and searched for other scents that would offer information. A faint whiff of singed electronics. A metallic smell that she didn’t think was blood. Plus something acrid, like epoxy or another adhesive.
All this led her to one conclusion: someone had made something here. Recently. In the hours after Jeb was murdered.
Were they still here? Was that what Xavier had sensed?
He had night vision goggles. He could see, while she was limited to using her sense of smell.
After a long stretch of the only sound being rain tapping on the metal roof, he cursed softly. His voice came from across the room. How had he moved without her hearing a scrape of footstep or rustle of cloth?
She turned toward the sound, bumping into a high stool as she did so. It didn’t make a racket, but it was loud enough. Fear jolted up her spine as her stomach roiled. Had she just endangered them?
“It’s okay,” he said softly. “Someone’s been here recently. I wanted to check out the truck, make sure they weren’t hiding in the cab. I should have searched there before doing anything else.”
She heard more movement and guessed he was searching the one cupboard that was big enough to hide a person. From what she’d seen before he doused the light, the room mostly had open shelves. No doors. No closets. Just one large bay.