At the station, Petrosky pulled out his wallet and gave the driver a handsome tip for keeping his mouth shut during the drive over. Then he hauled himself from the cab to his own ride.
His breath misted through the air behind the windshield. The driver’s seat froze his ass cheeks on contact like liquid nitrogen. But though the cold woke him up some, his movements remained stiff, like he was a bear coming out of hibernation. He shoved the key in the ignition and headed off toward Salomon’s place. Again.
But he still didn’t feel fully awake, and Morrison wasn’t there to help with his hippie coffee. Petrosky hit the drive-through at one of those fluffy-ass specialty coffee places and ignored what he assumed was shock at his order of a large regular coffee instead of a half-caff Norwegian brew with bat’s milk or whatever other people drank for eight goddamn dollars a cup. His stomach burned with the acid, but it steadied his hand as he drove. Pearlman. Pearlman. The pewter sky was ridged with the kind of electric stillness you get right before a storm. He peered out the windshield. Hazy, but no thunderclouds.
Maybe it was him that was electric—the anticipation of finding this guy, of ramming a bullet through that miserable little bastard, was fucking killing him. Maybe literally. Ironic to worry about that now, but passing out while trying to rid the world of a stabby, woman-hating fuck seemed more than a little pointless. He was ready to die, but first he wanted to see his hands coated in Norton’s blood.
It wasn’t too much to ask.
He passed Salomon’s, pulled around the corner onto Pike and parked halfway down the block. Much closer to Beech, where he could see Lockhart’s house on the right, its shutters now drawn. He still might not make it wandering around out here. He rubbed at his chest, at the device, at the stitches. Norton, or his heart? He almost laughed. Quitting was for assholes. And it wasn’t like he was afraid of death. Not anymore.
Petrosky stared through the windshield at the waning afternoon sun—light, but no warmth. Had Norton followed Morrison to Lockhart’s, hiding in the shadows until he could blitz him? On a dark night in a big coat, maybe a wind-protective face mask … But Morrison would have been on his guard. Plus, this attack had been personal, intimate. Norton had stopped and gotten another blade to slit Morrison’s throat. That took time.
So Morrison had to have died inside a house—a garage, maybe. Somewhere hidden. But how had Norton gotten him in there? And where?
Petrosky scanned the street and reached into his jacket, comforted by the cool weight of his Glock—the last weapon in his arsenal, the one he’d had with him the day Julie was killed. The one he’d almost put to his head back then. Even now it held that energy, as if despair had imprinted itself on the barrel. Everything was different now. Yet nothing had changed.
The barking dog that had scared the shit out of Petrosky the day before—obnoxious little fuck—was still at it, half-hidden behind the bars in a house on his left. Still angry. An abandoned home loomed on the other side of the street. But—
Over the howl of the wind, a garage door squealed, and Petrosky tightened his grip on the weapon. He leaned over the steering wheel, squinting at the house up the road.
Two doors down and across the way from where Petrosky sat, a man emerged from the garage with a snow shovel and a Labrador retriever. The animal pricked its ears at Petrosky’s car—or maybe at the godawful yappy racket from the house he was parked in front of. The guy walked around the red station wagon in his driveway and heaved a shovelful of snow onto the curb. He didn’t look over. Petrosky put his phone above the dash, zoomed in as much as he could and waited. The wind picked up, wheezing icy breath on the windows. The guy turned toward him. Petrosky snapped the photo and pocketed the phone.
Nice catch, Boss!
Puffy coat, thinning white hair poking from beneath thick red earmuffs. Looked harmless, but you never knew. Petrosky climbed out of the car, disgusted by the way his legs threatened to buckle, by the soreness in his ribs. He shifted his weight to get the blood flowing. The old guy, far more spry than Petrosky, kept on shoveling. The dog stepped toward Petrosky and wagged its tail as the man looked up.
“Good afternoon,” Petrosky said.
“Afternoon.” The man had a chunk of snow embedded in his white beard. He glanced at the dog. “Sit, Mac.” The dog put its butt on the icy ground. Petrosky winced and clenched his own butt cheeks, just a little.
“I’m Detective Petrosky, Ash Park P.D.” He patted his pocket. No badge. He stuck his hands into his coat instead. “Checking out a case around the block. Had a few questions.”
The man pulled an earmuff to the side, his gray eyes crinkling at the corners like your friendly neighborhood grandfather. That was who Henry and Evie needed: someone kindly. Stable. Petrosky balled his fists to overcome the sudden urge to punch the guy. He was too drained anyway, even with the coffee running through his veins—so profoundly tired.
“I sometimes work during the day, Detective, but I’d be happy to help any way I can.” His smile lit up his whole face. One of those naturally happy geezers just delighted for the chance to plow the fucking snow. “What are you looking for?”
“Your name, sir?”
“Zurbach. Wendell Zurbach.” He stuck the shovel in the snow and extended his hand.
Petrosky shook—hearty. Energetic. He replaced his hand in his coat, already three times more tired than when he’d gotten out of the car. “Zurbach, huh?”
“With an “H”. It’s German. Not that I’ve ever been out there.” Zurbach chuckled.
This giggly fuck was going to give him a headache. “What do you do for work?”
“I’m in accounting. Now I do more consulting than taxes.”
Enough small talk. But where to start? Petrosky’s thoughts were foggy as the horizon, but they solidified as he peered down the road to the shuttered house at the corner. Morrison’s last known stop. “What do you know about Ernest Lockhart?”
Zurbach’s eyes followed Petrosky’s gaze. “I can’t say I know much at all. Stays to himself. He doesn’t like Mac here, either, does he boy?” Mac wagged his tail. “Glares at us when I walk him around the block.”
“He ever have company?” Like a machete-wielding psychopath?
Zurbach shrugged. “Sometimes. Not that I’ve ever paid too much attention to it. He did have a party once, a year or so back. Almost called the police that night.”
“Why?”
“People yelling. And when I looked out, there were some girls on the front lawn, looked younger than my granddaughters. I didn’t like that.” He shook his head. “I didn’t like that one bit.”
Girls. Was Norton loaning his girls out? Lockhart had said a few friends once dropped by with their families and he’d yelled at them to leave—but that could have been a ruse. Norton had to be making money somehow; maybe the Romeo pimp idea hadn’t been so far off. Two years ago he’d let others have their way with his victims, waiting until his partners were done and then finishing them off. The stabbing was his thing. The torture. Would he care what happened to the girls before that?
“Any men there on a regular basis?” Petrosky asked.
“Every once in a while, I guess, though I can’t say I ever paid attention to what they looked like.” He raised one shoulder and his puffy coat hissed as the fabric rubbed against itself. “I think one drives a black car, though. Maybe a Honda? I see it sometimes during the week.”
“No idea on the occupants of the vehicle?”
“I don’t want to finger anyone wrong. If I had to guess, I’d say middle-aged. Sometimes he wears a suit.”
A suit. The lawyer? Norton was definitely not middle aged. “You seen anything out of the ordinary lately, Mr. Zurbach?”
“Not really.” He shook his head. “Mac here paces by the door or yelps a lot—couple times a week. We got the guys driving by with their bass up, and sometimes we get folks walking down the way toward the main strip, teenagers mostly, ’specially in the summer. Mac … you know, he did that, the barking, the night it happened at Salomon’s there. I keep thinking if I had actually gone outside I could have …” He studied his boots.
“What time was that?”
“Can’t recall. I woke up in the middle of the night to get a drink. Didn’t check the time, just saw him pacing. I looked out the front window, but I didn’t see anything, so I yelled at him to shut up and went back to bed.” He scratched behind the dog’s ears. The animal panted happily. “I probably should have … But I’ve never had a problem. Mac’s good for keeping trouble away, maybe.” He nodded to his own place and Petrosky scanned the facade. Barred windows, but not on the upper story.
“By the way, you hear anything about the report I filed on Gigi?” Zurbach asked.
“Gigi?”
“The terrier there.” Zurbach gestured to the house next to Petrosky’s car, the one with the yappy dog. “Owners moved out a week ago, left her behind. It’s cruel. I go by there, give her food when she’ll let me get close enough, but she needs a home.” He nodded like Petrosky should be the one to take that tiny jerk home with him. “Animal control keeps saying the shelter is full. I’d take her myself, but she’s full of piss and vinegar—wouldn't want her to bite my grandkids.”
A week ago. That’d make it … “When exactly did her owners move out?”
“Friday I think? Right after … well, you know.”
The day after Salomon was killed. Had it been Norton, moving out, running with his victims? Why the hell hadn’t this guy said anything before?
Petrosky looked back at the house. The overgrown grass, frozen stiff in the flowerbeds, had surely choked out any plants long ago. Most of the paint had chipped away from the window casings. “It looks like it’s been abandoned for some time.”
“I don’t think they worked outside much.”
Them. Had Zurbach seen Norton with one of the girls? Or a partner? How did these wackos find each other? SickFucks.com? “Have you been inside?”
Zurbach's smile fell. “Well … I wanted to make sure they were gone. I knocked, but no one was there, and then I …” He sighed. “Okay, I went inside. Through the back door. I was worried about … Well, a few years back someone moved out just around the block and left their gas on. Place went up like a fireball.” He crossed his arms. “Am I in trouble, sir? I just didn’t want anyone to get hurt.”
“You’re not in trouble.”
The smile returned. Mac licked his glove and whined.
“Do you know your neighbors’ names, Mr. Zurbach? The ones who moved out?”
He cocked his head, squinting into the frosty sky. “No, can’t say I do. Met them once but we never really talked much. Kept to themselves, like that fellow on the corner, there.” He jerked a thumb at Lockhart’s place.
“Can you describe them?”
“Young couple. She was pretty.”
Young. And the woman was pretty, like Janice. Maybe he’d been wrong about Norton’s choice of partner. “What about him?”
“Younger guy, dark hair. Real thin, like a beanpole—used a wheelchair too. I think he was in the Army. Damn shame, you ask me, the state of Veteran’s affairs.”
A wheelchair? Petrosky studied the porch. “There’s no ramp up to the door, Mr. Zurbach.”
“They used planks.”
Of course they had. And if Norton had really wanted to play it low-key, what better way than as a quiet, brooding Army vet injured in the line of duty? But … beanpole? That didn't sound like their guy.
He turned back to Zurbach. The dog had wandered away and was pissing in the bushes next to the porch.
“And no idea where they went?”
“Nope. Left in the middle of the night. Probably felt unsafe.”
Zurbach gestured to the dog. “I got up to check that time—watched them go.”
“And that was the last time Mac woke you up? The day after Salomon was murdered?”
Zurbach winced at the word murder and shook his head. “No, he was upset the other night too. But it was just someone walking home. Not doing anything strange.”
Petrosky’s back tightened. “Someone walking home in the middle of the night didn’t seem strange?”
“Not really. People walk out here all the time, like I said. Not as much as in summer, but I wouldn’t call it strange.”
“Did you recognize them?”
Zurbach shook his head. “No, it was too dark. But he was walking normal, not running like he’d stolen anything.”
Petrosky scanned the street. The main road was up a few blocks, but there was … what? A few fast-food places. They might be open late. Gas station too. Did the walker live on this street? Had he seen something? But Zurbach was an observant fellow; he’d probably have recognized the guy if he was out there regularly. “Could he have been coming from Gigi’s house?”
Zurbach shrugged, pursed his lips. “No idea, sir. Just saw him heading down the walk.”
Toward Beech. “Can you tell me what he looked like?”
“Probably about our height. Maybe a little thinner, though.” He chuckled placing a hand on the belly of his jacket. “But I didn’t see him that close; he was across the road and it was dark. That light over there doesn’t work.”
Petrosky drew his eyes to the streetlamp—broken. The one he’d seen the other night. Was that why Norton had chosen this part of the road? But he’d surely have heard Mac barking if the dog did indeed alert his owner as much as Zurbach claimed.
Zurbach’s eyes widened. “You think he …” He glanced at the abandoned house behind Petrosky. “You think he came over here on purpose to do something? You got some burglaries? Someone else get … hurt?”
“I don’t know at this point, sir. Just trying to cover the bases.” An unfamiliar man had been walking toward Beech the night Morrison died. That was a little too coincidental.
Petrosky pulled out his card. “If you think of anything else, anything at all, please call me.” He started to hand the card to Zurbach, then pulled it back, searched his pockets for a pen, and crossed off the precinct number, leaving just his cell.
Zurbach shoved it into his coat pocket. “I will, sir.” He picked up his shovel again. “And you’ll call in about Gigi there, too?”
Petrosky nodded. “I’ll go check on her now.” Might as well see if there was anything worth sneaking away from under the cover of night.