O’Dell was on her knees. She had several box lids off and files scattered on the floor around her.
“Can I get you a chair?” he offered, but made no motion to leave his own.
“No, thanks. It’ll be easier this way.”
She looked as though she had found what she was looking for. She opened the file and began scanning the contents, flipping pages, then settling on one. Suddenly, her entire face went serious. Her eyes darted over the page. She sat back on her feet.
“What is it?” Nick leaned forward, trying to see what had grabbed hold of her so intensely.
“It’s Jeffreys’ original confession, right after his arrest. It’s very detailed, from the kind of tape he used to bind the hands and feet to the carvings on the hunting knife he used.” She spoke slowly, continuing to scan the document.
“Okay, and Father Francis said Jeffreys hadn’t lied. That means the details are true. So what?”
“Did you realize that Jeffreys confessed to murdering only Bobby Wilson? In fact,” she said, flipping through several more pages, “in fact, he was adamant about having nothing to do with the other two boys’ murders.”
“I don’t remember hearing any of that. They probably thought he was lying.”
“But if he wasn’t?” She looked up at him, her brown eyes haunted by something more than the file she held.
“Okay, if he wasn’t lying, and he did kill only Bobby Wilson…” Nick didn’t finish. Suddenly, he felt sick to his stomach, even before Maggie finished his sentence.
“Then the real serial killer got away, and he’s back.”
Chapter 27
Christine hoped Nick didn’t detect the relief in her voice when he called to cancel dinner. If this new lead panned out, she’d be working late to claim yet another front page on tomorrow morning’s paper.
“Can we do it tomorrow night?” he asked, almost apologetic.
“Sure, no problem. Is something big going down tonight?” she added, just to push his buttons.
“This newfound success of yours is ugly on you, Christine.” He sounded tired, drained of energy.
“Ugly or not, it feels wonderful.”
“So this number the paper gave me, it sounds like a cellular?”
“Yep, just one of the perks of my new, ugly success. Look, Nick.” She needed to change the subject before he asked where she was or where she was headed. “Can you please bring your sleeping bag tomorrow night when you come over? Remember, Timmy asked if he could borrow it for his camping trip?”
“They’re going camping on Halloween?”
“They’ll be back Friday night. Father Keller has mass. Remember, for All Saints’ Day? Will you remember the sleeping bag?”
“Yes, I will.”
“And don’t forget Agent O’Dell.”
“Right.”
She turned the corner into the parking lot as she flipped her cellular phone closed and shoved it into her purse. Nick would be furious if he knew where she was.
The four-story apartment building looked run-down. The bricks were weathered and chipped. Rusted air conditioners hung out windows, clinging to rickety brackets. The building looked out of place in an old neighborhood of small, wooden-framed houses. Despite being old, the houses were well kept. Their backyards were filled with sandboxes, swing sets and huge old maples perfect for tree houses and hammocks.
The air filled with the smell of burning wood from someone’s fireplace. A dog barked down the street, and she heard the tinkling of a wind chime. This was Danny Alverez’s neighborhood. Danny’s shiny, red bike had been found leaning against the chain-link fence that separated the apartment’s parking lot from the rest of the neighborhood. It was right here that the horrors of his last days began. Here in a place he had come to take for granted as safe.
Inside the main entrance a heavy metal trash can held open the security door. It overflowed with cigarette butts falling onto the floor. Christine stepped carefully.
The elevator smelled of stale cigarettes and dog urine, and she eyed the stained carpet. She pushed the button for the fourth floor, stabbing it two, then three times before it lit up and the doors whined shut. The elevator rattled, shook and wheezed. She started to push the open-door button when the elevator finally started up slowly. Pulleys ground and whined.
She hated elevators. Hated small places. She should have taken the stairs. Her eyes searched for the emergency phone. There wasn’t one. Seconds flew by and the light above showed only that she had reached the second floor. She punched three, hoping to cut short her trip, but the button crumbled into pieces. Frantically, she picked up the bigger pieces and began replacing them into the frame like a puzzle. Two stayed, one fell down into the hole, the others fell back to the floor. The elevator jolted to a stop, and finally its doors screeched open. Christine squeezed through before they were completely open.
She stopped in the hallway, leaning against the dirty wall, waiting to catch her breath. The light was dim, the carpeting filled with more stains. Again, the smell of dog urine mixed with the scent of old, musty newspapers and someone’s burnt dinner. How could anyone live in a hole like this?
Apartment 410 was at the end of the hallway. A hand-braided welcome mat lay outside the scratched and battered door. The mat was clean, spotless.
Christine knocked and held her breath to avoid the hallway’s suffocating odors. Several locks clicked inside, then the door opened just a crack. A pair of hooded and wrinkled blue eyes peered at her through thick glasses.
“Mrs. Krichek?” she asked as politely as possible while holding her breath.
“Are you that reporter?”
“Yes. Yes, I am. My name is Christine Hamilton.”
The door opened, and she waited for the woman to back out of the way with her walker.
“Any relation to Ned Hamilton, owns the Quick Mart on the corner?”
“No, I don’t think so. Hamilton is my ex-husband’s name, and he isn’t from around here.”
“I see.” The woman shuffled away.
Once inside, Christine was accosted by three large yellow and gray cats rubbing against her legs.
“I just fixed a pot of hot chocolate. Would you like some?”
She almost said yes, then saw the steaming pot on the coffee table where another large cat helped itself to several licks off the top.
“No, thank you.” She hoped her voice disguised her disgust.
Other than the cats, the apartment smelled much cleaner than the hallway. The ammonia of a hidden litter box was obvious but bearable. Colorful afghans and quilts were draped over the couch and a rocker. Green plants hung above the windows, and crocheted doilies dotted an antique buffet and secretary’s desk. Both tops were filled with black-and-white photos of servicemen, a young couple in front of an old Buick and three colored photos of a little girl at various stages of her life.
“Sit,” the old woman instructed, backing herself into the rocker. “Oh, the pain in this shoulder,” she said, rubbing the bony knob sticking up through her sweater. “Such pain I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Her bones did look brittle. Knobby knees stuck out from under her plain cotton housedress. Her round face twisted into a permanent scowl. Her brilliant blue eyes were magnified and distorted by the thick wire-rimmed glasses. Her white hair was twisted neatly into a bun, clasped by beautiful turquoise hair combs.
“It’s hell getting old. If it wasn’t for my cats, I think I’d call it quits.”
Christine sat and watched her navy skirt fill with cat hair. Two of the cats still circled her legs while one jumped onto the back of the couch to take a closer look.
“Rummy, get down from there,” the woman scolded, waving a bony finger at the cat. He ignored her.
“It’s okay, Mrs. Krichek. I don’t mind,” she lied. “I’d like to get right to what you saw the morning Danny Alverez disappeared. You don’t mind, do you?”