Chapter 27

The next morning, Stacia Drewicz smiled a wall of yellow teeth at Conley. It hadn’t taken him long to isolate the correct spelling for the name Carrie had given him at the Paladin. Good old Richardʼs file had then provided more than enough reason to warrant a personal visit.

The woman’s mustard-colored eyes darted playfully between him and Kendricks as she spoke, making Conley’s breakfast sandwich roll over in his stomach. Was she actually flirting with them?

“Richard never married,” she tittered. “God knows the girls were always after him, ever since grade school. But he was too busy with hobbies—computers, sailing toy ships in the pond, science fiction books. Never had time to find a girl and get serious.”

Her pudgy hands fluttered as she spoke, holding still only for the words she stretched. Fat fingers flicked the air when she talked about her son’s gadgets. Machines—such a silly fad. Her hands straightened, palms out and waving in a slow circle, polishing the space in front of her when she talked about Richard’s missed romantic opportunities.

Conley slid back on the hard, slippery Victorian couch, and listened with as much patience as he could muster. He opened the folder on his lap—Richard Drewicz’s arrest jacket.

No time for girls, Mrs. D? Richard had time enough for trouble. Hacked into a bank’s computer, drew two years’ probation from a soft judge. Then he beat a child pornography rap when his jpeg files magically self-erased. He had time for all that.

Movement on the right, outside her living room window. Blue uniforms blurred by white lace curtains. The Salem cops who’d brought the detectives leaned against their cruisers.

Footsteps overhead. Richard? Conley looked at the spot she studied on the ceiling.

“We need to speak with your son,” he said, interrupting.

“He’ll be down soon enough,” she said. “What’s this about?”

“Richard’s name came up during the Victor Rodriguez murder investigation.”

She chuckled, a grin so wide that it shut her jaundiced eyes and made her jowls shake.

“This is no joke, ma’am,” Kendricks said.

A door creaked shut somewhere in the house, barely perceptible.

“I’m sorry, Officer, but the idea Richard knows anything about murder is ludicrous. He’s not a very physical creature, you know—ˮ

A creature.

“Technology and the arts, Detective. Those are Richard’s passions. He and his friends are very artistic—ˮ

Muffled sounds, the sweep of footsteps on carpeted stairs. Conley glanced at the main stairway—empty.

“Gentlemen, Richard can’t help you,” she said, leaning forward, eyes closed, head shaking. Her high, quivering hair formed a sweeping silver swirl like a giant seashell. Her flowered dress stretched over shoulders and bust.

Conley stood and walked to the foyer.

“Officer,” Mrs. Drewicz called from behind, loud and shrill. The springs in her chair complained. She pointed a chubby finger at the floor. “Sit down. Right now. This is my house and I don’t allow strangers to run roughshod through it.”

He pushed the swinging door to the kitchen, just enough to see through.

A man stood on the last step of a narrow back stairway. Skinny. Receding hairline and wide eyes that made his head look like a small animal’s. Baggy sweatpants and a T-shirt draped straight down from bony shoulders and arched back.

He stepped onto the kitchen floor gingerly, as if untrusting of the tiles. He crossed the kitchen and eased open a four-panel door that led to a basement. A light clicked on. An unpainted banister was on the right, and as Richard held it, his legs rose and felt for each step like an insect’s.

Conley crossed the kitchen, the sound of his footsteps masked by that of Kendricks and Mrs. Drewicz arguing loudly.

“Probable cause, Mrs. Drewicz…ˮ

“Police brutality…my lawyer…”

The stairs were rough, splintered slabs, narrow treads and high risers. Conley steadied himself on the banister and descended.

What’s down there, Richard? What are you going to show me?

He brushed against the rough plaster wall and it rained white powder. He paused at the bottom and looked around the corner.

Wires, pipes, and thick beams crisscrossed the low ceiling. The gray floor was a bed of ash. Cardboard boxes stood in piles against walls, tilting dangerously. Washer and dryer rested in a corner on wooden pallets. An oil furnace sat under a grimy window, rusty and old, like salvage from the ocean floor.

To his right was the only bright thing. An upright safe stood at the foot of the steps, a man-high, kelly-green metal box with PREMIER painted in gold letters over a combination wheel. He ran his hand over the smooth, cold front.

A strip of light shone under a flat door to a makeshift room of plywood and studs. Small sounds came from inside, the click and scuff of plastic.

Conley listened at the door. More noise—fast ticks, loud whimpering. Richard was inside. Conley tried the knob. Locked.

Movement on his right, very close. He turned quickly and felt a wash of warm breath.

“What’s going on?” Kendricks asked, his face inches away.

The whimpering stopped.

He hears us.

“Why are you here, Lloyd?” Conley whispered. “Where’s Mrs. Drewicz?”

“Upstairs. Madder’n hell and twice as noisy. Thought you might need backup.”

Shuffling inside the room. The acrid smell of gasoline filled the damp air.

“Richard Drewicz,” Conley called, banging a fist on the door. “Police. Open up.”

The smell grew stronger. Conley stepped back and gave the door a kick that made the jamb shudder. Whirrs and clicks suddenly sounded behind them. He turned.

Mrs. Drewicz stood hunched at the safe, pink slippers painted with the gray ash from the floor. She spun the combination lock and worked the silver lever like a pump handle.

He kicked the door again and the frame splintered. Richard stood beside a pyre of plastic jewel cases, a red gas can in one hand, silver lighter in the other. The room reeked of gasoline. He held the lighter to the pyramid, punching it forward as he thumbed the spark roller.

Shots.

Bullets rang, pinging off metal, and thwacked into wood. Kendricks hit the floor and cursed, clutching his thigh.

Mrs. Drewicz stood poised at the open safe, the butt of a .22 rifle buried in the crook of her shoulder. Hands were steady, feet spread for balance, yellow eyes narrowed to dull ellipses, feral spheres.

Conley crouched, drew his automatic, and fired. Three quick pulls of the trigger, three bullets into her ample torso. Her dress fluttered and she fell back, propped upright by the open safe door.

Richard screamed and ran to her. Conley tore the lighter from his hand and kicked the .22 away.

Voices called from the kitchen.

“Man down,” Conley yelled and knelt next to his partner.

“Told you she was mad,” Kendricks said.

Footsteps clattered. Mrs. Drewicz’s body was blocking the stairs. The Salem cops rocked the big steel panel, and her lifeless body swayed back and forth. Richard clung to her, sobbing, until they finally caved forward and the safe door clanged shut.

Conley ripped Kendricks’ pants leg away. Not much blood, and Kendricks was already trying to stand. A cop pushed him back down and opened a first aid kit.

Conley collected DVD jewel cases scattered on the floor. Names in jagged black ink marred their surface. There were so many. The name Chrissy was scrawled on one. Megan on another. More names. All girls.

More.

Matt was afraid he already knew the secret.

****

Late that afternoon, Conley’s phone rang. Mazzarelli had good news. Mrs. Drewicz’s bullet had taken a chunk of flesh from Kendrick’s leg and it hurt like hell, but he’d be home in a day or two, good as new.

Sheila Thompson sat next to Conley in front of a computer screen at the Salem Police station. Richard Drewicz’s DVDs made a small tower on the desk. Conley chose one and opened the case. Sheila stared at the blank screen as he loaded the disk.

The sound of ringing phones and serious voices drifted through the thin walls. Aromatic steam rose from strong coffee in the mugs they held, a small comfort.

“I’m scared, Conley.”

“So am I.ˮ He pressed PLAY.

A date appeared—two years ago—across a picture of Mrs. Drewicz’s living room. Blinds were closed, but bright light shone on a man on the couch. He casually read a magazine, then snapped his head to the right to the sound of young voices. Two children appeared, tow-headed little girls in summer dresses.

Thompson groaned.

Conley’s hand nearly crushed the remote.

They studied the actors, searching for clues—and watching unspeakable acts. Was Channary in that pile of plastic? Would they see her next? Or the time after?

Tears welled in Thompson’s eyes and wet her cheeks. Conley fast-forwarded the disc. Forensics would analyze these later, identify these monsters, and rescue the innocents. But right now they needed to find a clue, a connection, a link to the murder of Victor Rodriguez.

For the next three hours, Conley loaded one DVD after another in the computer drive. Images played in front of them—dark, vile tableaus.

An unexpected man appeared. They watched in silence, faces ashen. A motel. A steady camera. The still eye captured monstrous evil, children in the silk folds of white sheets, a smiling gargoyle between them, touching, caressing.

The still eye captured the familiar face of Congressman Hector Diaz.