Alana Candler, Marked for Murder (18 page)

“Think about it, Elliott, and if you remember, let me know. It might be a clue.”

Vernon returned to searching the desk and stood up quickly. “Hey! Look at this. He held up a box with “KENT McDANIELS” written across the top.

Brad nodded. “Open it.”

When Vernon opened the box and unwrapped the tissue paper, a ring spilled out onto the desk. He whistled long and loud.

Bo walked back into the room and ambled over to the desk when he heard Vernon’s whistle. He leaned over and examined the ring closely. “Probably fake. Chet couldn’t afford the real thing. It’s got Kent’s name on it, though. I guess he meant for Kent to have it, or maybe it belongs to Kent.”

Brad reached across Bo and picked up the ring. He examined it closely.

I’ll make sure Kent gets it.”

Steve and Marty slammed the screen door as they entered the house.

“Chet’s neighbor wasn’t home, Chief.”

“His truck’s still there. Run his truck plates and see if you can find out his real name, then put out an APB.”

Bo inserted himself into the conversation. “An all points bulletin? Do we have evidence that he might be involved?”

Brad stuffed the yellow pad of paper in an evidence bag and held it, nodding. “Yep. I think we do.”

THIRTY-FIVE

SOUNDS OF WATER DRIPPING IN
the shower put a frown on Brad’s face as he leaned back in and turned the valve tighter.

“That faucet needs fixing one of these days,” said Lisa as she pulled on her knit top.

“Yeah, and I can name several other repairs around here that need my attention as well.” A sigh followed his words as he dried off with the towel. Disappointment and self-condemnation weren’t a good way to start the day, but house projects didn’t frame the frustration in his heart. It was Alana . . . and the murders.

“Don’t worry, hon. There’s nothing here that can’t wait to be seen about. Soon, you’ll get a break and put whoever is responsible behind bars. Then life’ll settle down again.”

The piercing ring of his cell phone on the bedside table broke the silence, and Brad reached to answer.

“Candler.”

“It’s Elliott, Chief. Thought you’d like to know what we found on Chet’s neighbor . . . the one he called Pops. His name’s Gene Hollister. Six feet two inches, around two hundred pounds, white hair, fifty years old. He has several aliases: Jim Hargrove, James Howell, John Hoover—John Hoover’s the most active. Under that name, he’s wanted in Ohio on four counts of burglary and one assault and battery. He skipped bail and left the state a year ago. Looks like the man he assaulted was an off-duty policeman.”

“Hmm, that’s interesting. What else?”

“None of the neighbors know much about him, and we can’t find a cell phone or vehicle registration listed in either of his aliases. His truck is registered to a Bill Waverly. There’s no background on him whatsoever.”

“How’d you find his record without the vehicle registration?”

Brad could hear hesitation in Elliott’s answer. “He’d carved initials several times in the wood on the front porch. After that, it was just a matter of finding the right combination of names.”

“Way to go, Elliott. Keep up the good work. Has there been any more activity at his house?”

“Nope. We’ve had a detail stationed in Chet’s backyard watching Hollister’s house, 24/7, but no show.”

“He’s on the run. Notify the surrounding counties about the rap sheet and the updated info, and pray we get lucky. Enter his picture and information in the FBI database and send his records to them as well. Anything else, Elliott?”

“Yeah. If he ran, he left without his dog. It’s in a pen in the back, and it seems anxious. Oh, and uh . . . we got a DNA report back from the lab on a single hair found in Alana’s car.”

Brad stiffened. “Yeah?”

“It’s odd, Chief. The lab sent it through the FBI files twice and found a match both times.”

“Will you tell me, already? Whose is it?”

“Kent’s.”

“Kent’s? Are they sure?”

“The lab says it’s a perfect match. I figured he probably lost it while searching for clues in the car.”

“Yeah, that makes sense. Okay, Elliott. Keep at it.”

“There’s one more thing, boss.” The tone of Elliott’s voice changed, and his voice dropped two notches. “Chet had been studying a set of Hebrew flashcards so he could read the original Hebrew translation of the Bible. That’s where I saw the word ‘Edom.’ I looked it up, and one of the meanings is ‘red.’”

“Red?”

“Yeah, the color. You know, Chief. Like Bo’s hair.”

“Elliott! You’re not suggesting Bo is our perp, are you?”

“Of course not.”

“Well, good. Come up with something we can use, will you?”

“Sure thing.”

The phone clicked as Brad slid it shut, and the sound pierced his inner thoughts. Chet was murdered, and in his own way, he tried to send them a clue. If they could just figure it out.

THIRTY-SIX

JUST PUT YOUR FEET UP
, lean back, and relax.”

Alana sat back in the brown leather recliner and pushed her legs out in front of her. Across from her stood Ralph Evans, the tall, lanky, sketch artist friend of Jaydn’s. He tugged a straight-backed chair into the middle of the room and sat down on the chair backwards, propping his sketch pad on the short back of the chair. He pulled a pencil from the wavy, black curls behind his ear.

“Now, close your eyes, Miss Candler, and relax.” Mr. Evans sharpened his pencil in a hand-held sharpener and perched his hand above his pad of paper.

Alana closed her eyes and slowly answered his questions as she relived the events of her hotel nightmare. She heard him scribbling notes on everything she said and sketching pictures when appropriate. She described the hotel, the furniture, the stormy weather, and the manager in detail, but when she got to the hooded stranger dressed in black, her mind went blank. There was simply nothing there to remember. The man’s face was hidden, and his size was distorted by the oversized black raincoat.

“Describe his eyes,” Ralph whispered.

Alana eyes popped open, and she shivered. “Dark. Black. Sinister. You could see the evil seeping out . . . like the blood cloud of a devilfish.”

“Were they set wide apart or close together?”

“Close—with thick eyebrows that met in the middle. I think . . . he might have a scar . . . right in the middle of his right eyebrow. And his eyes were small, but evil.”

“Good, good! What else?”

The air deflated from her lungs, and she shivered again. “That’s all I remember.”

While she was talking, his pencil never stopped until he looked at the paper for a minute then let her see his drawing.

Her breath froze in her throat. Only a few feet away were two eyes fixed on hers—staring at her with the same evil intentions.

She shivered involuntarily. “Th-that’s him, exactly!” And it wasn’t Martin; she realized that right away.

“Good. Now think about the rest of the face.”

She shook her head and turned her face away to stare out of the window. “I couldn’t see anything else.”

After several attempts at trying to help her describe a face she hadn’t really seen. Mr. Evans assured her that notes and sketches he’d made might help with the investigation in some way. There was nothing to remember about the shadowy figure in the SUV. It simply wasn’t in her to give.

Angry defeat and failure filled the room as she watched him pull his black car out of the apartment building’s parking lot. “Criminal Investigator” was imprinted across the side of the shiny black surface.

Alana climbed the stairs back to her room—her head hung low and her shoulders drooping. Naomi had already made the bed, and she sank into the billowing comforter.

Dear Lord, it’s so hard to be thankful when I don’t have any idea what’s going on. I’m scared, Lord. Please help us figure out why this man is trying to kill me. And help me be calm.

She lay back on the bed and closed her eyes. There must be a reason for the two murder attempts on her life. Was there a common factor between the hotel attack and her apartment explosion?

Nothing but her! What had she done to make someone so angry?

The strain of the last few days constricted her muscles until they were at the point of cramping. Her black leather Bible sat on the table beside the bed, so she picked it up and turned to the first page that opened. The pages fell open to the New Testament book of Second Corinthians. She rested her head on the pillow and tried to relax as she read God’s promise to hear our cries and save us.

When she read verse fourteen, she sat up in bed. The words burned their way into her soul.

“Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers; for what fellowship hath righteousness with unrighteousness? And what communion hath light with darkness?”

Jaydn’s face popped up in her head. He was an unbeliever. Was he unrighteous?

“No! He’s not! He saved my life!”

The heated words spoken aloud gave her the courage to push the Bible away from her on the bed—refusing to accept the ominous forewarning.

“I will not think of that now,” she said aloud to the clouds outside the window as if that made everything all right. She lay back down on the soft pillows and took several deep breaths—unwinding each knotted muscle of her body, one at a time. First her feet, then her legs . . .

Sounds of children laughing outside drifted in and out of her hearing as she concentrated on loosening her tight muscles. Clouds drifted by the window, and in her tired state, she felt herself drift away on top of their billowy softness with troubled thoughts of light and darkness.

THIRTY-SEVEN

JAYDN STOOD BEHIND THE SMALL
desk he was using at the satellite office in Ross and spoke into the receiver. “What about the lot you were checking into for the new parking deck around the town square in Bishop?”

“That’s all taken care of.”

Jaydn’s head popped up immediately. “Oh yeah? How’d you manage that?”

“I went over the lease with a fine tooth comb and found a legal loophole. I simply told the group renting the building that it was being condemned, and they’d have to move—preferably by the end of the month.”

“Did I hear you say the building was being condemned?”

“Well, it will be when we decide to tear it down, right?”

“I see. Are you sure that’s legal?

“Would I lead you astray?”

Jaydn rubbed his chin with his hands. “Okay. Who has it rented now?”

“Some non-profit group.”

“Good work, Steve. You’re worth the salary I pay you every month.”

“Thanks! Maybe it’ll be a little higher next month since I’m worth so much?”

Steve’s statement in the form of a question made Jaydn laugh. “Whatever you say. Send me the bill and keep me informed, okay?”

He hung up the phone and stood staring out the window of the office, watching a billowing white cloud that looked a lot like Alana’s face.

Why did her face haunt his thoughts? It was hard to concentrate on the important things—like work.

He sat back down at the desk and began pushing his pencil across the page. His mind was several miles away when a loud commotion sounded outside his office.

Patricia flounced into the room followed closely by his secretary. Jaydn scowled. Then, waving his secretary aside, he spoke to Patricia. “What are you doing here?”

“I told you last week I was coming, Jaydn. Don’t you remember?”

The look on her peaches and cream face suddenly captured Jaydn’s attention and took his daydreams away from a certain blonde staying in his apartment.

“Jaydn, are you listening to me?”

Jaydn, dwarfing the small desk he was using, raised his head to stare at the face of the woman standing in front of him. Her features were so familiar and yet so foreign. The frown that creased her forehead under a blond lock of hair was becoming all too common—a crack in her composure she tried desperately to hide.

“I’m sorry, Patricia.” His distracted thoughts got him into trouble. “What did you say?” He tried to keep the irritation out of his voice, but even he could hear the impatience bleeding through.

Patricia owned an apartment in Ross as well as one in Landeville, but she rarely made the trip to Ross unless she was doing a modeling job. To see her waltz into his small office here surprised him, to say the least.

She blew out an exasperated breath. “I said, I’ve decided to forgive you for standing me up last night. I’m here in Ross for the banquet we’re supposed to be attending tonight. Surely you didn’t forget I’m receiving an award for Super Model of the Year.”

Jaydn stood up and hurried around the edge of the diminutive desk.

“Patricia, I thought that was next week.”

“No, I called and left a message at your house that it was changed. When I called your office this morning, they told me you were already here. I thought you must have gotten the message.”