Cutler's Return (The John Cutler Mysteries Book 1) by Colin Conway

Author:Colin Conway [Conway, Colin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Original Ink Press, an imprint of High Speed Creative, LLC
Published: 2021-09-27T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 30

In the morning, the repercussions of the visit to my mother remained—anger, self-loathing, and an annoying hang-over. I’d had more than a few drinks when I returned to Mickey Finn’s.

After breakfast and some aspirin, I drove to the city of Kent. With the address that Marco provided, it wasn’t hard to find Amy Mackey’s mother’s house. It was a modest, yellow home with a small lawn. Cropped shrubs stood guard at the front of the walkway.

Before exiting my truck, I considered bringing my gun. I might not have thought twice about it in another scenario, but I was about to ask a woman I’d never met about her daughter’s whereabouts. A strange man asking those questions was a tough obstacle to get beyond. A strange man with a weapon was an entirely different matter. I tucked my gun under the seat and climbed out.

The small, concrete porch appeared to have been recently painted. The curtains in the front windows were drawn. The hanging mailbox next to the front door had Mackey written on it. While the doorbell chimed, I surveyed the neighborhood.

The Mackey household stood in stark contrast to the rough area in which it resided. Homes on both sides were in considerable disrepair—missing roof shingles, peeling paint, dead grass. Older, dented cars parked along the curb—one of them was up on blocks and missing a door. Across the street, three stray dogs roamed together in a pack.

When no one responded to the bell, I opened the screen door—it squeaked—and knocked. A couple of moments passed, and I knocked a second time. Letting go of the door, it slammed shut with a loud bang.

The morning air was crisp as I wandered around to the backyard. Flowers were planted along the edge of the house. The multiple colors formed a floral moat, protecting the residence from the ugliness that had overtaken the neighborhood. The backyard of the Mackey home had the same cleanliness and order as the front.

Behind the house, parked just off the alley, was a black mid-eighties Chevy Impala. I crossed the lawn to get a closer look. There was garbage on the floorboards and seats. The filth inside the car didn’t match that of the house’s exterior. I removed a pen from my coat, then searched my pockets for a scrap of paper. The envelope I had my earlier notes on was tucked inside the glovebox of my truck.

Finding no other alternative, I wrote the license plate number on the palm of my hand.

At the backdoor, I knocked once more. It sounded as if there were footsteps inside. I leaned closer to the door to confirm. But once again, it was silent. I knocked again, harder this time.

A screen door opened with a squeak then slammed shut.

The front!

I hurried to the corner of the house just in time to see a white male running down the sidewalk. He wore a black stocking cap, a black leather jacket, and blue jeans.

“Hey!”

It was a stupid thing to yell. The man was sprinting away from the Mackey house, and my shouting wasn’t going to stop him.

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