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Victim. That wasn’t ever a word she would’ve used to describe Chris Ellingson. No. He wasn’t a victim. He was the reason her brother and his best friend weren’t here. If she was being honest with herself, she was grateful he wouldn’t have the chance to hurt someone else. And that she’d gotten to see Officer Pierce lose his breakfast before he’d gone to the station to give his statement. “Any sign of Carter Boucher?”
Lost in the disassociated haze between breaking into this basement as a teen and finding Chris Ellingson’s body in the present, she hadn’t gotten the chance to search the rest of the house. Her attention drifted to the window she’d broken. It’d been replaced since. Better locks. Thicker dowel in the track.
“Techs are still going through everything, but so far, no.” Livingstone stood her ground as the crime scene unit worked around them. This scene was different than the others. The unsub hadn’t cleaned up after himself the way he had in Michelle Cross’s home, Gresham Schmidt’s hotel, and Roxanne Jennings’s apartment. “We’re doing everything we can, Agen’ Brody, but it will take time.”
The medicolegal team zipped Chris Ellingson into the bag and hefted him onto the stretcher waiting on the sidelines. She had reason to believe Ellingson abducted Carter Boucher less than twenty-four hours ago, but with him out of the picture… What chance did they have of finding Carter now? Was he someplace only his kidnapper had known? Was he already dead? “Does Boucher know?”
“Yes. Unfortunately, the lieutenant just informed me he’ll no longer be able to assist our unit. Personal matters,” Livingstone said. “Seems you were right. Our unsub is escalating.”
The ME’s office carried the body past them and up the stairs. With the remains out of the way, the crime scene unit had full access to the scene. And she was only getting in the way of them being able to do their jobs. Leigh scanned the unfinished basement one last time. It hadn’t changed, apart from the window she’d smashed that night.
Tools lay haphazardly beside the furnace with a stained rag thrown to one side. Chris Ellingson had told her and Boucher he’d visited Rathe’s Hardware the night Michelle Cross’s body had been propped on the bridge. From what she could tell, that’d been true.
But that didn’t explain why he’d gone back to purchase a brand-new padlock the night he’d ambushed her outside of the store.
Leigh hiked up the stairs to the main level. Patterned wallpapers—each different from one room to the next—threatened to drown her in a sea of florals and mismatched coloring. A gaudy chandelier complained with every heavy footfall through the house, living up to its former owner’s commands from beyond the grave. Fine china sat untouched with years of dust along a plate rail in the dining room, the table cluttered with boxes of men’s clothing and shoes. Ellingson’s? She dug into her coat for a set of latex gloves, giving in to the frenzy buzzing around her. “Have these boxes been photographed and logged?”
“Yes, ma’am,” one of the officers said. “Here’s the list.”
She made quick work of mentally matching each item to the one recorded on the evidence list. Seemed as though nothing had been missed. Leigh moved on to the side table drawers, then the oversized coffee table complete with a stacked collection of wood bowls stored inside, and searched the writing desk. Techs were going through the bedrooms now. She’d have to wait until the team gave the all clear, but she already knew the answer she was looking for.
That padlock wasn’t here.
Movement pulled her attention out the window over the kitchen sink. Chandler Reed stood in front of the garage. Stock-still. Leigh shoved out the front door and down the creaking steps off the screened-in porch. The ground hadn’t frozen enough to combat the footprints in front of the garage. Large, too, with dozens of tiny ridges within the treads. There weren’t too many brands that added a non-slip detail into their soles. “We meet again.”
“And here I thought I’d finally gotten rid of you.” The smirk tugging at one corner of Chandler’s mouth would weaken any heterosexual woman with a pulse but her, and the thought stopped her cold. The federal investigator wasn’t seeing anyone from what little she’d learned about him. No signs of a wedding ring or a family waiting for him to wrap up his current case. He was like her. Committed to the job. To fixing the wrongs in this world. But while the days were long, the years wouldn’t wait for them forever. Neither would the cancer in her uterus. “I caught the ME’s office on their way out with the body. These don’t belong to Ellingson. He had a penchant for dress shoes, and I didn’t see any signs of mud on his slacks or shoes.”
“Padlock is busted. He wouldn’t have to break in if he had the key, either.” She stepped around the footprints, her attention drawn to the rust forming along the bottom of the lock. “The night after Michelle Cross’s body was discovered, Chris Ellingson stopped me outside the hardware store. Had a busted padlock with him he said he was there to replace. This one isn’t new.”
The creases between Chandler’s eyebrows deepened. “He followed you?”
“My point is”—Leigh swiveled the broken lock from its cage and hefted the door above her head—“there aren’t any new padlocks in the house or in the basement. So where did it go?”
Chandler surveyed the garage but stayed just beyond the reach of the concrete floor. As though the thought of crossing inside had paralyzed him. “He could’ve lied to you. Given himself a reason for being there.”
“I don’t think he did. If he was lying, why go as far as to destroy his own property? These padlocks aren’t easy to break.” She took in the cinderblocks stacked against the wall, the child’s bike leaning up against unlabeled boxes, and spiderwebs. Hell, she hated spiderwebs. Ever since that night she’d climbed down into the window well on the other side of the house.
Leigh took a step deeper into the cramped space growing tighter. Her foot knocked into something heavy, the object scraping against concrete. She could just make out the outline shadowed by a stack of boxes and reached for it. She tossed a second padlock in his direction. Broken, just as the one on the door had been. “I think someone broke in here before Chris Ellingson was killed, and he was forced to replace the lock.”
“What for? There’s nothing in here but hoarder junk and women’s wigs.” Chandler did another pass through the garage, obvious distress contorting that handsome face. “It’ll take hours for Lebanon PD to sort through it all.”
Her phone vibrated from her pocket. “Our unsub likes to gather intel on his victims. If he’d planned to kill Chris Ellingson all along, what better way to get to know his target than go through his possessions?” Leigh answered the unknown number scrolling across her screen. “Brody.”
“Agent Brody, this is Katherine Garrison,” the weak voice said. “I’m sorry to bother you, but Lieutenant Boucher hasn’t been returning my messages. I didn’t know who else to call.”
“Is there something I can help you with, Mrs. Garrison?” Her attention flickered to Chandler. The muscles in her neck and shoulders ached the longer she stood in this place, and she wanted nothing more in that moment than to shut the door and never look back.
“Yes. You told me to reach out if I noticed anything unusual after Michelle Cross’s visit to me last week.” A series of pops bled through the line. The woman was clenching her phone so tight, the plastic was physically protesting. “I think Ms. Cross went through my jewelry box.”
“Was anything valuable taken?” Leigh asked.
“No. No, nothing like that.” A shrill laugh meant to undermine her own theory escaped Katherine Garrison then. “I think she took my son’s baby teeth.”
TWENTY-SIX
Lebanon, New Hampshire
Tuesday, March 16
