Deadly Games Page 15

  Liam gave in, considering my circumstances. “All right, if you and Marisol want to check on that, Eric and I will check elsewhere. However, let’s wait a little bit for the FBI to get here, so they can help.”

  “I have the address written down in my notes, so I’m going to start calling realtors while we wait on the feds. Too much time has already passed,” I explained and brought up realty agencies serving the Eureka area on my computer. There were several to contact, so we split the list up.

  No one showed that property as a listing, though, which made it all the more suspicious.

  “I looked it up in the database we all use, and it’s not in there. There wouldn’t be a sign in the yard unless the house was listed in this database,” an agency supervisor explained to me just as the federal agents walked in.

  “Okay, thank you for the information. We’ll take it from here,” I told the woman and excused myself off the line.

  “What did you find out? You look like you have bad news for us,” Eric claimed.

  I tilted my hand back and forth. “It depends on how you look at it. The house isn’t in the real estate database, thus indicating it isn’t really listed. So…” I stood up, ready to bolt out the door.

  Liam grabbed his gun and badge. “We’re on our way now! Agents, we’ll fill you in during the drive.”

  Agent Gould went with Marisol and me, while Agent Pullum went with the men, and a K-9 unit with three police dogs followed us. We were armed. We were ready. The tension in the air was palpable, and my heart raced like a cheetah on fire. I silently prayed and told my sister I was on the way.

  We pulled into the driveway, spreading the vehicles out to hinder any chance of escape. The dogs had smelled items from all the victims who were still missing and were chomping at the bit to start their search. So was I.

  The house and property were eerily quiet. The nearest neighbors had to be at least a mile away, making it the perfect spot to hide the most heinous activities. We knocked on the door while the K-9 officer searched the perimeter with the dogs.

  Intense barking pierced the still air as the dogs pawed at the basement windows. “Here!” the officer yelled out, and we rammed the front door down without blinking.

  Our team and the FBI agents ran down the stairs with our guns poised while the K-9 officer and dogs searched the main floor for our perp. My heart stopped when we saw the horror beneath the floorboards. A man was chained to a table, sporting multiple gashes and an obviously shattered nose. A woman was chained to the wall with equally excruciating wounds. Both had their mouths covered with duct tape, but their eyes spoke their thoughts in volumes. Thank you for coming to save us! We used bolt cutters to break them free and called for two ambulances and local law enforcement.

  “Who did this to you?” we demanded in unison. “And where is he now?”

  Jake Bennett told us he was just helping the guy with car trouble, confirming it was a black Suburban with tinted windows.

  “I-I-I know who he is. His name is Sean Peirick. He’s an artist and wanted his work to be displayed in the City Museum,” Tiffany Clark bawled. “I denied him, though, so he did this. I don’t know where he goes when he’s not here.” Her voice trembled along with her body, so her words were broken up with violent shudders.

  The K-9 officer and dogs came running down the stairs. “He’s not here,” Officer Ryan announced. “There’s an art studio upstairs and a cot but not much else.”

  I looked down at the three overly-excited dogs and told them, “Good job, officers.”

  Sirens filled the air along with red and blue lights as the Calvary came. I promised the victims they would be okay, and while I certainly hoped that to be true, I couldn’t help but wonder if Denise was. Neither had seen her, and only Tiffany Clark had seen one other victim—the late Tamara Boyd.

  After the ambulances were taking off toward the hospital, I turned to Chief Thomas and said, “The name she gave me is Sean Peirick. Do you know him?”

  She shook her head. “No, but we’ll be getting to know him really soon. That’s a promise. My men searched the house, and there’s no mail or anything with a name on it. We’ll have to check the property records and see what we come up with. Did you get a physical description for him?”

  With a disgusted sigh, I told her what I knew. “They both claim he’s tall, thin, and has brown hair, but he always wore a hat pulled down low. Even when he went to the museum with his artwork, she could barely make out his face.”

  “Just like on the video,” Eric chimed in. “Hiding in plain sight.”

  “Let’s get a sketch artist in to see her nonetheless,” I suggested. “If he wears the hat everywhere, maybe she can remember what it had on it, and hopefully, someone will recognize it.”

  We gathered our things up and went back to the station to figure out the rest of the puzzle. Chief Thomas promised to find out about Sean Peirick and to get the sketch to us as soon as possible. Once we had it, it would be publicized all over the news. We already had a tip line set up with operators manning it twenty-four hours, and Liam said we would add more phones and staff once the sketch was released.

  We left, but several local officers stayed behind to man the house in case the killer returned. I just couldn’t think where else he could have taken Denise and Margie Moore. Where were they being held and tortured? I hoped my sister could withstand it. Finding Jake Bennett and Tiffany Clark alive made me feel optimistic.

  JUSTIN KNEW WHAT was going on in the Parkdale house. He had a camera app on his phone to spy on his guests. The police were very smart to come back to the house and find his two visitors, but they would never find the house in Town and Country. If his father hadn’t, how could they? His mother had taught him the art of hiding. Sure, it had been a little too late considering all he’d endured growing up, but it was useful to him now. She’d put the house under a new identity—Madeline Hughes—so his father could never find them. When she passed away several years ago, Justin left it that way, even after finding out his father had died in a drunk driving accident. He left the Parkdale house in his father’s name, Robert Marx, which couldn’t be tied to him either since he’d changed his last name to Sinclair when he was eighteen and then hidden all the records when he became a lawyer. It was a benefit of working in the judicial system.

  It’s like I was never even there.

  Of course, the Town and Country house wasn’t where he lived either. He had a condo in Webster Groves. He paid the property taxes and utilities for the two homes out of his parent’s estates, so nothing was traced back to him. He didn’t want the world to know the stock he’d come from.

  While on the way to Town and Country, he called Sasha. “Hi. I just wanted to check up on you. How are things progressing?” he asked with deep concern.

  “Well, believe it or not, we found two of the victims and sent them to St. Clare Hospital. It looks like they’re going to make it, but there was no sign of Denise or the other victim, Margie Moore. We are all headed back to SLCPD to figure out the next step,” she replied. “Luckily, the FBI came back to lend a hand.”

  “That’s great that you saved two people from him,” he raved. “And that probably means Denise is still alive too, so don’t lose hope.” Actually, you probably should be losing hope right about now because I don’t know that she’s going to stay alive.

  “I’m trying to stay positive. Do me a favor, will you? I need an arrest warrant for a Sean Peirick. Can you get that pushed through for me?”

  He smiled smugly to himself. “Sure, I’ll do that for you once I get back to the office. I’m on the road right now. I have to go to a deposition.”

  “Get it as soon as you can, please. I need to go, but I’ll be in touch. Bye.”
She hung up, and he laughed hysterically.

  “Sure, and while I’m at it, I’ll get one for Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny too. Your chances of finding them are just as good,” he mused aloud.

  Instead of heading to Town and Country, he made a turn and headed toward St. Clare Hospital in Fenton. He needed to check on his witnesses. Even though he always wore a hat of some kind when he was breaking the law, he couldn’t risk them giving a positive I.D. Also, he wanted to finish what he’d started.

  JUSTIN TOLD THE nurse at the nurse’s station that he was a sketch artist there to talk to Tiffany Clark and Jake Bennett. Since security would be tight, he’d glued on a false mustache and used a black temporary color spray for his hair. He was no amateur.

  “She’s down the hall in the last room on the left. An officer is watching over her, but he must be in the bathroom,” the nurse stated, and he followed her gaze to the vacant doorway. He was lucky the real sketch artist hadn’t shown up yet.

  “Thank you,” he replied with a smile and shuffled down the hallway with his sketchpad and pencil in hand. What he had in his pocket, however, was another story. He rapped on her doorframe and announced, “Hello? I’m Officer Baker here to sketch your description of the man who abducted you.”

  His outfit fooled her, and she welcomed him in. Her eyes scanned the door for her watchdog, though. “Where is Officer Kramer?”

  Justin looked over his shoulder. “He said he needed to relieve himself. Don’t worry. You’re in good hands.” He sat in the chair next to her hospital bed. Luckily for him, her I.V. was on that side. “Go ahead and describe everything you can recall about the man,” he encouraged, and his left hand quickly put the details to paper, while his right hand concealed a syringe full of potent ketamine.

  When she closed her eyes to search her memory about the details she could recall, which was mostly about the hat he’d worn, he injected the drug into her I.V. It took three seconds for her to go into cardiac arrest, and the alarms on the monitor began to blare. He jumped up to get help just as Officer Kramer ran through the doorway.

  “What happened?” he demanded.

  Justin shrugged and looked back over his shoulder. “I’m not sure. I was sketching her eyewitness account, and then her eyes rolled back, and the alarms went off.”

  Nurses and doctors ran into the room with a crash cart, so he and the officer both dove out of the way. The paddles were used on her, and epinephrine was injected into her heart, but it was too late. She was gone.

  Officer Kramer shook his head solemnly. “Did you at least get enough information?” he asked while glancing at the incomplete drawing.

  Justin looked down too. “Not really. She went into cardiac arrest right after we started. I guess the stress of reliving the ordeal was too much for her.”

  A passing nurse overheard him and reported, “I think it was the malnutrition. It weakened her heart.”

  “How horrible,” he mumbled and left the room to find Jake Bennett.

  When he got to Mr. Bennett’s room, the man was sitting up in bed and holding a pregnant woman’s hand. Damn!

  Justin made eye contact with the officer standing guard and mumbled, “He needs his loved ones now, so I’ll come back in twenty minutes. If you’d just let him know, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Sure,” the man grunted and looked down the hallway in both directions. He took his job seriously, but little did he know…

  Justin wasn’t worried about the man’s account. He’d had the hat on, and then the man’s eyes were swollen shut for the most part after Justin had broken his nose. His biggest threat was out of the way.

  Whistling, he went to the parking garage and jumped into his Jeep. The Suburban was resting in the garage at the house in Town and Country. He put on his ultra-dark sunglasses as a pounding headache came on. Doctors had assured him they couldn’t do anything to remove the large tumor, and it was only a matter of months before he died.

  But you first. He headed toward Town and Country. He needed a word with Denise.

  JUST AS WE got back to SLCPD, I received a call from a nurse at St. Clare Hospital. She called to inform me that Tiffany Clark had died of a massive coronary.

  “Between the malnutrition and the torture, her body just couldn’t handle the stress,” the nurse told me.

  “That’s awful,” I cried. “Do you by chance know if the sketch artist met with her first?”

  “Actually, there were two here. I sent one to her room right before she passed away, and the other came later after she was gone.”

  My skin crawled at the implication. “I need to know what they looked like. How were they dressed, and did you see a name tag on them?”

  “Well, the first man was in a white shirt with dark slacks, but he didn’t wear a name tag. He was tall, thin, had black hair and a mustache. The second man was in a police uniform, and his name was Officer Meyers if I remember correctly,” she explained.

  The victims hadn’t said anything about the killer having a mustache, so I deduced it was a disguise. They’d also said his hair was brown, not black. Someone was going through a lot of trouble to stay hidden.

  “If Officer Meyers is still there, please provide him with the details of the first man and fax it to me at 800-555-2227. It’s very important that you do so. I have reason to believe he is the killer we are hunting, so if you see him again, alert security immediately,” I calmly advised her.

  She gasped, “Oh my Lord! I will certainly do that. I had no idea.”

  “I know you didn’t. Hiding is what he does best,” I assured her. “Please tell Jake Bennett’s officer to be extra vigilant.”

  “I’ll go talk to him right now, and I’ll get the sketch to you as soon as I can. I can always call the station and have them send another artist if the one isn’t still here with Mr. Bennett.”

  I thanked her, ended the call, and relayed the disturbing conversation to the others, who were trying to dig up information on Sean Peirick. They were unable to, though, even with the FBI’s resources. He was one step ahead of us yet again.

  An hour later, the drawing of the fictitious sketch artist came over the fax machine, and we immediately released it to the public via the news stations. We did add a notation that the man in the drawing was probably wearing a disguise.

  “We believe he is actually clean shaven and has brown hair, but he was seen with black hair and a mustache today. He often wears a hat to conceal his face, and he is using the assumed name Sean Peirick,” I told them, and they aired the captured photo from the Shell station security camera. “Anyone with any information is urged to immediately call the tip line. To our knowledge, he has two people in his custody, and we need your help to bring them safely home to their families.” I didn’t mention that my sister was one of his prisoners because that would just put her in more danger.

  Shortly after the broadcast, an interesting call came through the tip line. A woman claimed she’d just purchased a painting from Sean Peirick yesterday at an art gala.

  “He even autographed the back for me,” she said in a shaky voice. “The gala was at the City Museum. I’ll bring it in if you want me to.”

  “If you would bring it to the station, it just might help,” I told her. “Also, please provide our sketch artist with an accurate description of how he appeared at the time.”

  HE’D HEARD THE broadcast over the radio in the Jeep just as he reached his mother’s house. Nothing tied the name Sean Peirick to him, except for the check from the museum that he would shred, so he wasn’t worried about a paper trail. He’d worn a large mole on his cheek yesterday for the museum gala, and he’d used a red rinse in his brown hair.

  “You just keep ch
asing your tails,” he laughed to himself. “You’ll never figure me out.”

  His hand flew to his head; it felt like it was in a vice grip. He didn’t keep any prescription medications at this location, so he went to the bathroom and popped three aspirin. When he went home later, he’d put on a new fentanyl patch.

  After washing the color out of his hair and the mustache glue off his face, he took a meal replacement shake to the basement for the women to share. “If you scream when I uncover your mouth, I’ll plunge this knife into your chest, and then you can bleed out for the rats,” he threatened. “Do you understand?” They both nodded weakly, so he fed them the shake. Then he focused his attention on Denise. “Your sister is becoming a pain in my ass,” he seethed. “I really thought we could get back together, but now I’m not so sure.” As if she didn’t already know who he was, he took off the hat to let it really sink in. “I had to comfort her earlier because of you, and I think if you were found dead, she’d completely turn to me for solace.”

  Denise squeezed her eyes shut to block him out, but he wasn’t going to let her off that easy. He pressed a finger along the stitches in her abdomen until her eyes flew back open.

  “I want you to look at me,” he spat. “I want you to see what is coming for you.”

  He turned to Margie and brandished the knife, which then came down on her left hand, removing the pinky finger. Her face turned ghostly white while her eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. Her screams were muffled by the tape, but he heard enough of her pain and terror to give him an adrenaline rush. He took some photos to use later.

  “Now, it’s your turn, my pet,” he threatened Denise. He cocked his head at her when she seemed almost accepting of whatever torture he was about to inflict. That bothered him. “Aren’t you afraid? You should be,” he chastised. “Did your sister teach you to always be brave?”