Killing Dreams: A Sam Mason Mystery Book 5 Page 18

  “How could she not know what Thorne is up to?” Wyatt asked. “She’s his wife.”

  “Maybe they have separate lives,” Sam said.

  “Or she’s in on it,” Jo suggested. “She could be acting like she’s concerned because she’s trying to get information. I mean, seriously, if your spouse was a killer or a drug dealer, don’t you think you would know? And if you knew you wouldn’t stick with them unless you were working with them.”

  Sam shrugged. “There have been plenty of cases in which spouses didn’t know. And besides, Thorne is kind of a jerk. Maybe their marriage isn’t that great and she doesn’t pay much attention to what he does.”

  “Well then, that could work in our favor, because if their marriage isn’t that great maybe she’s looking for a way to get rid of him.”

  “To get rid of who?” Bev Hatch came around the post office boxes.

  “Thorne,” Jo said.

  Bev grunted. “Who wouldn’t want to get rid of him? Did you get something on him?”

  “We thought we did, but it turned out to be a dead end.” Sam told her about their unsuccessful quest to find the aerator that made the holes in the tarps.

  Bev stared at the photos, her face about two inches from the cork board. “Maybe there’s some other kind of equipment that makes these holes. Are you sure they’re relevant?”

  Sam had been one hundred percent sure earlier. Now, not so much. “I don’t know, but it’s one piece of evidence we can use to tie to something physical. If we can just find something that makes this pattern of holes. Did your people find anything like that in the cabin?”

  “I don’t think so. I’ll double check. It would be great if they did, because we haven’t come up with much. The DNA analysis and meth lab investigation have basically flat-lined. We need something new.”

  “And it’s not a stretch of the imagination that Thorne would have a piece of equipment that could do something like this. He owns a construction company,” Jo said.

  “It doesn’t have to be a lawn aerator, right?” Bev asked.

  “I guess not. What other kind of equipment should we look for?”

  “Nail gun?”

  “But that doesn’t create a pattern. We need something that has a pattern that we can use to match to these holes.” Sam tilted his head and looked at the pattern in the tarp. “Unless it is something like a nail gun and the killer, for whatever weird reason, shot a pattern, missing one spot.”

  “Maybe he didn’t miss a spot.” Wyatt looked at the cork board over Sam’s shoulder. “Maybe something was in the way when he was making the pattern.”

  “Something that a spike couldn’t pierce,” Bev added.

  “Like what?” Jo asked.

  “I don’t know. Metal? What else can’t a spike go through? And what does this have to do with the bodies?” Wyatt asked.

  Bev started pacing the room. “What if it has nothing to do with the bodies? Maybe the killer already had the tarp. It could be one Thorne had on his construction site. Maybe it was no good anymore because of the holes, and he decided to use it to wrap the bodies?”

  “Even better,” Jo said. “If he frequently uses whatever it is that makes the holes, that’s a link we can tie back to him.”

  “If we can find whatever makes the holes,” Bev said.

  Sam studied Bev. “So, you really think it is Thorne too, then?”

  Bev raised her brow. “I didn’t say that. I’m just riffing off of what you said, but I wouldn’t be disappointed if it was him, and we don’t have any better leads.”

  “What about the FBI?” Wyatt asked. “They said they had some kind of informant. Maybe we can get to Thorne that way.”

  “Sure. Maybe that might get him some jail time for the meth lab. But if we could get him for this”——Sam tapped a photo of the shallow graves——“we could put him away forever. If only we had something better.” Sam glanced at Jo, but Jo gave a subtle shake of her head. She hadn’t heard from Bridget.

  “Maybe we can put our heads together and think of another piece of equipment that might do this.” Bev stopped her pacing and turned to stare at the board, her arms folded across her chest. “Or maybe we’re wasting our time trying to pin this on Thorne.”

  “Hey. Anybody home?” Harry Woolston’s voice bellowed from the lobby, accompanied by the annoying sound of metal scraping on marble.

  Any other time, Sam would’ve gotten a kick out of Harry’s outfit. He wore a plaid cap with a pom-pom on top, a white polo shirt, and what looked like knickers.

  Jo screwed up her face. “What’s with your outfit, Woolston?”

  Harry made a face. “That’s the wife. She’s got me into all kinds of hobbies to keep me away from policing.” Harry looked down at himself. “Now it’s golf.”

  Lucy looked at him and whined.

  “Don’t worry. It’s just me.” Harry started toward the dog, his shoes scraping on the wide pine floors of the bullpen.

  Sam winced. “Hey, would you mind taking those things off? You’ll scratch up the floor with those cleats.”

  Harry lifted his foot. “What? These?”

  Sam’s eyes fell to the bottom of the shoe. Like Harry’s outfit, they were old-school, with metal spikes. His eyes flicked from the bottom of the shoe to the photo of the holes in the tarp. “Harry, give me that shoe. I think you might’ve just provided a break in the case.”

  Jo peered over Bev’s shoulder as Sam pushed Harry into a chair, took his shoe, and then compared it to the holes in the photo. The photos weren’t to scale, but it looked as though they could match. But then she’d thought that about the spikes in the aerator, too. She cautioned herself not to get her hopes up.

  “Would golf cleats be able to puncture holes in a tarp?” Wyatt asked. “Those things are pretty tough.”

  “Probably not the new plastic ones, but these old metal spikes could,” Sam said.

  “But why would the killer wear golf shoes?” Bev asked.

  “Who can say? He’s not normal. We can’t speculate on why he would do anything.” Jo knew from her research that serial killers often had fetishes in which they exhibited odd behavior based on what had happened to them as children. She had no idea what this golf shoe fetish would be. Maybe his father was a golfer or he was abused by an uncle who golfed.

  “But five years ago they had plastic ones, not these metal ones,” Wyatt pointed out.

  “Sure, but the metal ones can still be purchased, right Harry?” Jo asked.

  “Yeah, the missus got these over at the secondhand store.” Harry wiggled his toes, now clad only in a sock.

  “We don’t even know if Thorne golfs,” Bev said.

  Sam turned to face her. “Actually we do. I saw a golf trophy when I was in his construction trailer the other day.”

  “We need to get a warrant,” Jo said. “Then we need to get that casting your lab made of the holes in the clay, Bev.”

  “No problem on the casting. But good luck with the warrant. I heard Judge Freeman was already upset about the last one,” Bev said.

  “Yeah, Thorne has him in his pocket, but maybe we won’t need a warrant.” Sam held a business card up, and Jo recognized it as the one Beryl Thorne had given them. “Maybe we can convince the evidence to come to us.”

  Sam disappeared into his office, and Jo headed out to the lobby. Even though Reese had gone home, Jo knew where she kept the forms used to request warrants. She figured Sam was calling Beryl, but she had her doubts about whether or not Beryl Thorne was going to turn her husband in.

  Sitting at the reception desk, she glanced at her phone for the umpteenth time. Still no message from Bridget.

  Now she was starting to wonder if this did have anything to do with Thorne. The irrigation machines had been a big failure. What if this golf thing was, too?

  She busied herself filling out the form while Wyatt and Bev took measurements from Harry’s shoes, much to his delight. Judging by the conversation filtering in from the squad
room, Harry was happy to be part of the investigation, even if it didn’t entail going out in the field. At least this was something his wife wouldn’t protest about too much.

  Just when Jo had finished filling out the form, the door opened. In came Beryl Thorne, holding a paper bag out in front of her, as if it contained a smoking gun, which, if it was the golf shoes, it very likely did. Her eyes darted around the room quickly. “Is Chief Mason in?”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Sam came out of his office to find Beryl Thorne standing in the squad room holding a bag. So, she had come after all. When he’d gotten off the phone with her, he hadn’t been sure she would. She had sounded incredibly uncertain.

  He rushed over to her and took the bag. “Thank you so much for coming.”

  She looked as if she might bolt at any minute, her eyes flicking from Sam to the bag. “I brought his golf shoes like you asked.” Her voice was shaky.

  Sam put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “You did the right thing. This is important.”

  She swallowed hard and nodded.

  Sam opened the bag. Inside was an old pair of golf shoes, similar to the ones Harry was wearing. They had metal cleats crusted with dirt. Apparently, Thorne didn’t take very good care of his shoes. Either that, or because he had used them while burying the victims he didn’t want them cleaned off. Some kind of weird serial killer souvenir, perhaps? All the better for Sam. Maybe that dirt would contain evidence they could use against him.

  “You won’t tell him I gave you these, will you?” Beryl asked.

  Sam glanced up from the bag. Beryl looked frightened. “No, of course not.” At least Sam hoped they wouldn’t have to, but if they did it would be during Thorne’s trial, and he’d be locked away, unable to retaliate against his wife.

  Beryl wrapped her arms around herself, her eyes glued to the bag. “I suspected Lucas hadn’t been right for a while, but I never imagined he could be involved in something this horrible.”

  Sam had already put on gloves and was lifting the shoes out of the bag to inspect them further. His heart leapt when he noticed that one spike was missing.

  Wyatt ripped the photo from the cork board and brought it over for comparison. It looked as if the pattern matched.

  “Does it help?” Beryl stared at the photo, her voice trailing off.

  “Yes. Thank you very much. It helps.” Sam turned her around and walked her toward the lobby. He had important work to do, and it wouldn’t help to have the wife of the man he was about to arrest in the station. “How did you get these? Was your husband at home when you took them?” Sam hoped Thorne hadn’t seen her taking the golf shoes. It might tip him off and cause him to run.

  “He was at home, but out back in the tool shed. He didn’t see me leave. He was busy rearranging his tools.”

  Or hiding more evidence, Sam thought.

  “Maybe you should go to your parents or somewhere else other than home.”

  Her eyes registered alarm at his words. “Are you going to arrest him now?”

  “Possibly. I’ll let you know.”

  Beryl left, and Sam ran back to the squad room.

  “I’ve already called Holden Joyce,” Bev said. Then, at the obvious look of disappointment on Sam’s face, she added, “I know he’s a pain, but he can expedite a search warrant for Thorne’s place. You guys seem to have a hard time pulling that off, you have to admit.”

  She had a point. “What did he say?”

  “He’s on it. He’ll get a warrant as fast as he can and let us know.”

  “Great.” Sam grabbed his keys from the hook on the wall.

  “Aren’t you going to wait for—?”

  Sam interrupted Bev’s question. “No time for that. We might be able to catch him in the act of destroying evidence, but if we wait too long there might not be anything left. He didn’t have any tarps or hoses or duct tape at his construction site, but he might have them stored at home. His wife said he was in his tool shed. We don’t have time to wait.” Sam glanced at Harry, but the ex-chief was already holding his palms up in front of him.

  “I’ll sit this one out, Sam.”

  “Good thinking. You broke the case. That’s enough for one day.”

  Sam pointed to Lucy, who stood at attention next to Harry. “Come on, girl. This time you can come.”

  Bev and Wyatt were already in the lobby, with Jo close behind. Sam jogged to catch up, yelling over his shoulder to Harry, “Don’t wait up, and try not to piss off the cat.”

  Thorne lived in a small mansion in the affluent section of town. They drove down streets lined with stately oaks, the properties spaced several acres apart. Thorne’s house was a three story-brick manse with lush landscaping. It was dark now, but Sam could still see that the lawn was meticulously groomed and every hedge perfectly trimmed.

  The house was dark. He hoped Beryl had taken his advice and gone elsewhere. He didn’t want her to get hurt if things went squirrely.

  Sam saw a shaft of light spilling from the door of a shed through the break in the hedges that separated the front yard from the back. The faint smell of wood smoke drifted toward him, and his gut clenched. Was Thorne burning the evidence?

  He started toward the shed, but Bev grabbed his arm. She leaned over and whispered, “Holden texted. He’s on the way. They’ll be here in twenty minutes.”

  Sam’s gaze didn’t waver from the shed. There was a large window on one side, and a shadow moved back and forth. Thorne was busy in there, and Sam wasn’t going to wait for the FBI.

  “Good. Then they should get here for the good stuff. Follow me, but stay behind.”

  Sam squeezed through the hedge, sticking to the shadows. He didn’t want to take a chance that Thorne might spot him and bolt. Beside him, Lucy quietly sniffed the air. When he rounded the corner of the house he saw the golden flames of a bonfire flickering in the fire pit. He hoped the evidence they needed against Thorne wasn’t going up in flames.

  Sam didn’t want to spook Thorne, so he motioned for the others to hold back as he slowly approached the door. Inside, Thorne was loading a metal wheelbarrow that sat in the middle of the shed. Sam craned his neck to see what was inside, but he couldn’t quite make it out from where he stood.

  He moved forward, and Thorne spun around, squinting out into the night. His eyes widened as he recognized Sam.

  “Mason, what the hell are you doing here? This is private property.”

  “Just out walking my dog.” Sam stepped closer. Now he could see inside the wheelbarrow——rubber hosing and a few half rolls of duct tape.

  Thorne scowled and pulled a phone from his pocket. “This time you’ve gone too far. I’m calling Jamison. I’ll have you arrested for trespassing.”

  “Who’s going to arrest me?”

  “The county sheriff.”

  “I don’t think so. She’s here with me. And the FBI is on the way.”

  Thorne looked doubtful, but his finger hovered over the phone. “You’re bluffing.”

  “Give it up, Thorne. We have a search warrant and evidence that proves you’re the meth distributer and serial killer we’ve been looking for.” At least, Sam hoped they had a search warrant. If Holden was on his way, he must’ve gotten one.

  “What are you talking about?” Thorne’s voice rose.

  “What have you got in the wheelbarrow? Maybe some tarps or souvenirs from your kills?”

  “You’ve got the wrong guy, I haven’t killed anyone.”

  Sam took a closer look. No tarps, but he didn’t let that get him down. They had plenty with the hoses and duct tape, and given the fact that Thorne was clearly trying to do something with them, he felt certain they could be linked to the meth lab. “I see you’ve got some items one might find in a meth lab. In fact, we found some stuff just like this in an old meth lab recently.”

  He was inside the shed now, his eyes scanning for the brilliant blue of a tarp. Nothing. Where had he hidden them? The wood smoke wafted in. The fire! Had he a
lready burned them?

  Sam hollered over his shoulder, “Bev, Jo, douse that fire. There could be something in there.”

  Thorne scowled. “It’s just a bonfire, Mason. I don’t know what you’re talking about. This stuff is just duct tape, common gardening stuff.” Thorne stepped around the wheelbarrow. “You can’t just come in here and accuse me.”

  Sam’s hand hovered over his gun. Thorne was not armed, but the shed was full of tools he could use as a weapon.

  Next to him Lucy growled, and Thorne’s eyes flicked to the dog. The hair on the back of her neck stood up. He took a step backward. “This is harassment.”

  “Not when you’re actually a criminal, it isn’t,” Sam pointed out.

  “Why do you keep saying that?” Thorne demanded. Sam had to hand it to him. He was denying it till the end.

  The sound of sirens split the air. Bev must’ve found something in the fire and relayed that information to Holden Joyce. Otherwise they would’ve come in silently.

  Thorne's eyes took on a wild look. He was coming unglued. “You’d better back off, Mason,” he hissed. “Don’t forget, I have something on you and your buddy.”

  Of course Thorne would bring that up, but just what did he actually have? The knife itself didn’t really prove much. Or did it? Had Thorne and Dupont somehow done something to add DNA evidence incriminating Sam and Mick of something they hadn’t done? All the better to see Thorne in jail tonight, where he couldn’t use it against him. Was the knife hidden here in his shed? In his office? They’d be searching both, and Sam made a mental note to have an active hand in those searches. “Sorry, Thorne. I’m not afraid of you or your threats.”

  “This is preposterous! You don’t have anything on me!” But the trapped look in his eyes as he glanced at the wheelbarrow told Sam that they did indeed have something.

  “You can cut the innocent act. We know you were in contact with Menda and sent emails from the café.”

  Thorne’s brows mashed together as if he were starting to believe his own lies. “Café? Emails? What are you talking about?”