CHAPTER 69 - Rita

CHAPTER 69RitaAFTER BRIEFING EVERYONE ON THE CALLER’S MESSAGE, JOE AND I head to Mrs. Bradley’s house. Her sister is there and has been calling nonstop for an update. We can’t hold her off any longer.Corrine Alworth meets us on the porch. “Have you found anything?” she asks, her blond hair blowing in the frigid breeze. We follow her inside.“No. Nothing yet. But we’re pulling out all the stops,” I say with as much hopefulness as I can muster. Her parents, neatly dressed and befuddled, stand silently in the kitchen, looking to us, eyes begging for answers. Dr. Westmore leans against the counter, a cup of untouched coffee in her hand. My eyes meet hers.“Scott’s on his way,” she says, then clears her throat.“Okay, everyone, please sit.” Joe and I catch them up on all we know.Mrs. Alworth chokes out a sob. “Someone’s got her?”“We believe so.”She slams the table with her fist. “How could this have happened? You knew she was being harassed!”“I’m sorry.” I feel about two feet tall. “We’re doing everything we can to find her.”“That’s what you said about Jay’s killer, what, three weeks ago!” Tears of rage and fear tremble on her cheeks.My stomach burns. She’s right. This investigation has moved entirely too slowly for my liking, and perhaps we should’ve done more to protect Mrs. Bradley. I just don’t know what. There didn’t seem to be any reason for the killer to have his sights on her. If that is indeed who has her.Joe clears his throat. “We’ve got all of the resources of the Graybridge Police Department and the FBI looking for her.”Cold comfort, I know, when it’s your loved one, but it’s the best we’ve got.Mrs. Bradley’s parents wander into the dim living room as if they don’t want to be near us, while Mrs. Alworth paces the kitchen. Dr. Westmore murmurs words of comfort.The doorbell rings, and Hayes and Alice Branch follow Mrs. Alworth into the kitchen.“I called him,” Mrs. Alworth says. “He wanted to be here.”Mr. Branch has cleaned up a little bit from earlier. He’s wearing fresh clothes, but his hair is still wild. Alice’s hair is in two braids, making her look even younger than she is. When she hears that the dog is next door, she and her father walk over to Mrs. Murray’s to claim her.When they get back, Joe and I question Mr. Branch again. Although he doesn’t have an alibi for last night, he seems distraught and sincere in his answers and desire to help. My gut tells me we can eliminate him.Scott Westmore strides into the kitchen, his hands covered in dirt. “Sorry,” he says. “I was on a job site. Any news?” His wife walks to his side and fills him in.“We need to ask you a few questions,” I say. “Let’s step into the other room. I flip on the dining room light, and Mr. Westmore drops into a chair, perching on the edge as if afraid his dirty clothes will soil the seat. He leans over his clasped hands, his gray bangs shielding his eyes.“Where were you last night?” Joe asks.“Home with my wife.”“What about this afternoon?”He blows out a breath. “I was on a job site, like I said.”Joe leans toward him. “Anyone confirm that?”Mr. Westmore pulls his phone from his pocket and hands it to me. “My client. Bill Harris. Here’s his number.”Before I can make the call, Joe’s phone rings, and he peeks at the screen. “I need to take this,” he says. “You go ahead and take care of him.” He points his chin at Mr. Westmore.Joe wanders down the hall. In the meantime, I ring Mr. Harris, who abruptly verifies Mr. Westmore’s story while giving me an earful about the troublesome retaining wall.When Joe returns, he motions for me to follow him out of earshot of the others.“Anything?” I ask.He whispers, “My agents on Mr. Ferris can’t find him. They’re outside his house, but he’s not home, and his vehicle is gone.”“I’ll call Mrs. Ferris again.” I fish my phone out of my pocket.Her voice is husky with tears. “I told you, Detective, I have no idea where Molly is—or my husband, for that matter.”“Tell me about your husband.”She draws a deep breath. “He and I have been having trouble lately.”“How lately?”“The last year or so.”“Why? What’s been going on?”“He’s been upset over some medical stuff. He’s changed.”“Sorry to hear that.”She sniffs. “He’s not dying or anything.”“That’s good. How has that changed him?”“He’s angry, irritable. Drinking too much.” She goes quiet. “He choked me,” she whispers.“When?”“Last summer. Just one time. Our son walked in, and he stopped. I told him if he touched me again, I’d kill him. And he hasn’t. But things haven’t been the same after that. I don’t know what to do. Leave, I guess. But the boys worship him.”“Does your husband have anything against Mrs. Bradley?”“No. I don’t think so.” But there’s a tremble in her voice. “I don’t know what to think anymore, Detective. I really don’t.”“Uh huh. You sure you have no idea where he is? We just want to talk to him.” I glance up and meet Joe’s gaze.“I don’t. I’d tell you if I did. As far as I know, he’s home.”“Are you still at your parents’ house?”“Yes. I had planned to come home tomorrow.”“Are your parents there?”“No. They left this morning for Florida. It’s just me and the boys.”“Okay. Be sure to let us know if you hear from your husband.”She says that she will.Joe and I huddle as I tell him what I learned from Mrs. Ferris.“He’s our man,” Joe says. “I’d bet on it.”The kitchen is full of people and the dog, quietly tripping over one another. Afraid to speak as if it would shatter a spell. Sniffles, shoes brushing the floor are the only sounds. I break the silence and reassure Mrs. Bradley’s family and friends that we’ll keep them informed. Then Joe and I head out into the cold and drive back to the station. News vans nearly clog the road as we approach, and all the lights are on in the building. No one’s going home tonight.* * *There’s no news on Ferris and nothing on the search as the big wall clock in the squad room passes midnight. I pour myself a sludgy cup of breakroom coffee and head to my office.At four a.m., sitting in my office chair, I’m startled out of a light doze. My phone, clenched in my hand, is ringing and vibrating. I nearly drop it in my hurry to answer.“He’s here,” a woman whispers. “He’s got a gun.”I recognize her voice, sit up straight, instantly awake, adrenaline spiking. “Mrs. Ferris? Where is the house located?” She gives me the address before the call ends abruptly.I rocket out of my chair, reciting the address under my breath, my heart thumping wildly. I blink my eyes in the glare of the squad room light. Joe has commandeered someone’s desk and is working on his laptop. He jumps up when he sees me. “What?”“Let’s go! Ferris is at his wife’s parents’ place on the Cape.” I swing by Bob’s office and tell him what’s going on as we hurry by.Inside a cruiser, I hit the GPS while Joe pulls into the street. It’ll take about an hour and twenty minutes to get there. I call for backup from local PD. They’ll arrive a lot quicker than we will, and we head to I-495 south.* * *The huge, gray clapboard house comes into view under a fancy streetlight. It’s right on the beach and got to be worth several millions. Cop cars are parked along the sandy road, their lights strobing through the morning darkness.Joe and I exit our vehicle and are hit with damp, salty, frigid air. The crashing of waves in the distance lends an eerie backdrop to the scene. We hurry up the steps and enter through the unlocked front door. All the lights are on as we make our way to the kitchen. Several local uniformed officers are clustered there. One young female cop sits at the table with the Ferris boys, sleepy-eyed and scared, bowls of untouched cereal in front of them.A sergeant peels off the crowd and leads us into a living room filled with furniture covered in off-white canvas slipcovers. Blue and green knickknacks cover the end tables, and magazines are fanned on the coffee table.“We haven’t found them,” the sergeant says. “When we got here, the kids were still in bed, the front door was wide open.”“No Ferris or his wife?”“No. We’ve got officers combing the area, but so far no luck. We did spot tracks in the sand.”“His or hers?”“Both, we think. But they peter out pretty quick.”I glance at Joe. “They couldn’t have gotten too far on foot.” I turn back to the sergeant. “What about his vehicle?”“Gone. Hers is still here, but his isn’t.”Shit.“You think he could’ve taken her?”“Possibly.”“We’ve got a BOLO on him and his vehicle, so hopefully someone will spot him, and hopefully Mrs. Ferris is okay,” I say, my eyes sweeping the room as if clues might be hidden among the bric-a-brac. “You get anything out of the kids?”“Nope. They were asleep. Didn’t hear anything. Their bedroom is upstairs in the back, so it stands to reason. And they haven’t seen or heard from their father since Friday night is what they told us.”“Did they see their mom this morning? Her call came in just after four a.m.”“No. Last they saw her, she kissed them good night about ten.”So Ferris has an hour and a half lead on us. He could’ve gone back to Boston. He could’ve gone anywhere. I call and update the chief, and he tells me there’ve been no sightings of Ferris or Mrs. Bradley there, but they are working with the phone company, pinging his cell.But I can feel it in this quiet house, as though an evil presence has been here and gone. Mrs. Ferris’s fear is nearly palpable, and I know we’re running out of time. Joe and I get in our vehicle and head back toward Graybridge.* * *We ride in silence, each lost in the puzzle at hand. Where would Ferris go? Where would he take his wife? Where would he stash Mrs. Bradley? There are thousands of basements in and around Boston if that’s where he is. But for all we know, he’s taken both women on a twisted road trip. Or, my stomach clenches, we’re already too late. Neither woman is alive.I shake that thought from my head. Get a grip, Rita.We near Boston. The city lights blink in the gray early dawn. My phone rings. Lauren.“We’ve got it, the location of his cell phone.”“Where?”“Downtown.” She gives me the coordinates.“We’re close.” I turn to Joe and instruct him to get off two exits from where we are now.“Boston PD’s got SWAT on the way,” Lauren says.“Do we know where he is exactly?”“Just the intersection I gave you. It’s a neighborhood of old row houses, empty and slated for demolition. Should be lots of basements.”“All right. We’ll be there shortly. Good work, Lauren.”The area has been cordoned off. Police and SWAT vehicles line the deserted streets. The area is depressed and ugly as it rises through the early-morning light. Joe and I trot toward a table set up as a command center. A tall man in a SWAT jacket leans over a map that has been weighted down with cop radios, which crackle with chatter.He introduces himself quickly and outlines the search quadrants where officers are currently scouring. I look down the street. Houses that one hundred years ago would have been filled with families, children on their way to school, men and women on their way to work. The few spindly trees are winter bare and forlorn as they fight to survive in front of the abandoned homes.Joe and I join up with a team and head down the broken sidewalk. We’d rather take part than stand still and wait. There are blocks of empty houses. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover.We clear several decrepit basements, empty save for rats and debris, broken household items, and other remnants of lives lived long ago. I’m working up a sweat despite the cold temperatures and falling snow. And I’m feeling more despondent with every cleared building. Where are you, Molly Bradley?