Fatal Connections

Chapter 41

By the time we hung up, my resolve to help Mitch had doubled. He was one of my first clients. And a good friend of Two-Bit Terry's. But that's another story altogether.

I made my way back to my car, thinking I should make myself scarce before the neighbors started to return en masse. At this time of day, only a few cars and vans came through. If Troy were living here secretly, chances were good he was either in the house right now or, if he wasn't, he must be coming and going in the evening or late at night. So far, I had seen no sign of Troy or any other occupant. No shadows in any of the windows. Whether Troy was in the house or not, I needed to move fast.

I thought about using the French doors. They would probably open if I used my bump key, but I wondered how many nosy neighbors would see me fiddling around the back of the house. With my clipboard, I should probably go with the front door. Especially if the house was on the market. If anyone asked, I could pose as a property inspector as easily as I could a residential surveyor.

While I was at my car, I strapped on a utility belt with pouches in which I had stowed my gear, making sure it included wrist restraints and a few extra tools. I had rigged the clipboard to hang from the belt to keep my hands free once I entered the house. For the moment, I carried it, along with the bump key, my stun baton tucked into the belt's holster. Between Marine training and my toys, I should be good to go.

After properly equipping myself, I made for the front door. The faint hum of traffic from the closest main road had risen to a low rumble, punctuated by the occasional louder rumble of heavy trucks. The sun hadn't set to the point where the temperature would go down, but I shivered as if it had already cooled off.

Getting into the house was very easy. The bump key got me inside just like that. I looked around for an alarm keypad and didn't find one. Could there be an alarm that could only be cancelled by voice? And how could a person tell? There was probably a way. I just didn't know what it was. And I wasn't about to let that stop me.

I hooked my clipboard onto my belt, stowed the key in a pocket, and drew the stun baton from its holster, gripping it with both hands. Sweep and clear. I moved through the house, starting with the foyer. I moved in a clockwise pattern, from living room to dining room to kitchen and back to the foyer. I didn't see Troy Fairchild, but I did see evidence of occupancy. Take-out containers in the trash. A few dirty dishes in the sink with food that had dried and hardened. Not exactly primed for a viewing by prospective buyers, but if I ever saw Ms. Brooks Brothers again, I would definitely mention it.

Still no sound of movement and my shoes don't squeak. Basement or upstairs? The last time I went into a basement . . . . My mind flashed back to the horrible scene. For a moment, I felt like it was actually happening again. This triggered yet another memory—from Afghanistan. While serving as backup with special ops forces during a routine reconnaissance of one of the compounds, we discovered the hard way that a Taliban zealot was living among the residents as a mole. A firefight ensued, and one of my fellow Female Empowerment Team members was mortally wounded that day. The memory stopped me short. I closed my eyes, then snapped them open. I took a long, deep breath. In. Out.

And I opened the basement door. I went down the stairs as quietly as I could, peering about as I went. The basement was unfinished and empty. A quick survey of the area revealed no one and nothing of interest. The area did not look lived in. I returned to the first floor and moved onward to the next level.

As I made my way down the hall and cleared each room, I found very little until I got to the last room. A few articles of clothing were heaped on a chair. That and an unmade bed were the only furniture in the room. Now it was just a matter of waiting.