Facing the Storm by David DeLee

Author:David DeLee [DeLee, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dark Road Publishing
Published: 2018-01-28T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FOUR

DETECTIVE TENNANT ASSURED Bannon there was nothing to look into. It was just a simple, albeit tragic, suicide. Nothing more. In return, Bannon assured him, if that was the case, then the detective had nothing to worry about from Bannon.

When they reached the police car blocking the access roadway to the Shepard Homeless Shelter & Rescue Center the two men shook hands.

Bannon watched Tennant head down the incline to the shelter below while he remained at his truck, leaning against the door. He crossed his arms over his chest. He couldn’t shake Tennant’s use of the term “crime scene,” in spite of the detective’s assurances to not read anything into it.

His thoughts turned to Richie. Inside. Dead. A bullet to the head. A nasty way to die.

When the chilly air seeped into his bones, he shivered. Or did that have more to do with why he was there?

Tennant feared Bannon poking around. But why?

If it truly was a straight-forward suicide as Tennant insisted, why worry about what Bannon thought or did? So what he was a private investigator? That was the sort of thing that set alarm bells off in Bannon’s head. It told him something wasn’t right. Now he’d not be able to let it go until he figured out what.

Damn it.

Bannon climbed into his truck, started it up, and turned the heater on high.

Using his phone, he connected to the Internet.

It didn’t take long for him to track down Cindy McKinnon’s address. As Tennant mentioned, she lived in Nashua, not far from where he sat, the heat blasting through the truck’s vents, slowly warming the cab. He debated whether to call first and run the risk of her refusing to see him or take the chance she was home and just show up on her doorstep in person.

He opted for the latter.

Twenty minutes later he pulled into the entrance of the Terrace Suites apartment complex. On the other side of town from the homeless shelter where Sadler died, but just a few blocks away from Nashua’s bustling commercial district, Daniel Webster Highway, a thoroughfare full of strip malls, gas stations, car dealerships, and fast food restaurants.

He drove around the complex.

There were seven clusters of two-story buildings, four apartment units per building. The buildings were gray vinyl with white trim. Each unit had either a patio or a balcony. The patios were slate tile and had low evergreen privacy bushes around them. The balcony railings were white vinyl: functional and cheap. TV satellite dishes were bolted to a number of the upper level balcony railings. The grounds were covered in snow, the piles higher along the shoveled walkways and the edge of the parking lots.

Most of the parking spaces were empty. No surprise, considering it was midday in the middle of the work week. He pulled into a space and got out.

The entrance stoop was gritty with salt and sand. The concrete stained a chalky white. Bannon pressed the intercom for unit 42.

“Who is it?” a woman’s voice asked.

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