The Showhouse Killer by Katy Pierce

Author:Katy Pierce [Pierce, Katy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-01-25T13:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fifteen

Carlee slid the key into the lock and opened the door to her office, armed with her customary greeting for Eleanor, but when she popped her head in, the desk was empty.

Right. Saturday.

Carlee may have been a workaholic, but that did not extend to her support staff. She stepped aside to allow Zack in, and he went to work checking the doors, tables, corners—even the plants—like every shadow might be concealing someone lying in wait.

“No, please, make yourself at home,” she said dryly. The messed-up rat had shaken them both, more than she was willing to admit even to herself, but it hardly meant Zack needed to appoint himself her bodyguard.

He sprung up from behind Eleanor’s desk, having ascertained the killer was not, in fact, scrunched up in its alcove, and promptly moved on to inspect her personal office. The clanging of drawers and cabinets opening and closing filtered out of the next room as she locked up the suite’s door.

“There are some sensitive electronics in there!” she called out. “If you break anything, I will be billing CPD!”

She’d wanted to drive straight to Castle Carlee, lock the doors, set the alarms and alerts to maximum, and hole up until she caught her breath, but Zack had insisted on accompanying her out of some old-fashioned principle of chivalry, so she’d beelined for the office instead. Despite their recent trauma bond, she didn’t know him even half well enough to invite him into her home.

Carlee startled at the distinct clangs and beeps of high-priced electronics hitting the floor. “Careful! That better not have been what I think it was,” she growled, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I told you not to touch anything, didn’t I? What did you break?”

“Uh, everything’s fine!” Zack called back as she plopped onto the couch, willing herself to relax.

She tried lying flat, like she usually did when talking over cases with Eleanor, but that didn’t work. Nothing was going to work, not after she’d been the lucky recipient of yet another message in as many days.

On the drive over, Zack had updated her on yesterday’s smiley-face letter. The red, gooey substance hadn’t been blood after all, but paint mixed with dirt, and the old, distressed photo of Joel Barclay was a reprint, most likely accessible in any public archive. None of it was authentic. It all screamed copycat.

Unfortunately, whoever left the message had taken great pains to ensure they hadn’t left any physical evidence. Not a single print or hair follicle—nothing. The sender was at the very least familiar with criminal investigations, which Zack had seen as reason enough to strip her of any personal space.

“All clear,” Zack reported, marching back into the waiting room. He hitched his thumb back toward her office. “But there has to be, what… a dozen drones in there?”

“Nine.”

“And you need them all?”

“I love them all the same, if that’s what you’re asking. Though, if you must know, Mocha’s by far the best model. Don’t tell the others.”

He squinted in confusion.

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