A Killer's Mind (Zoe Bentley Mystery #1)(97)

“Yeah, he went grocery shopping,” Tatum said. “I guess he ran out of food.”

“That’s not a bag from the supermarket,” the manager said. “It’s from the toy store next door.”

“Toy store?” Tatum frowned. “So . . . what, this guy has a child?”

“I hope so,” Zoe said in a tense voice.

“Hope so? Why?”

“Because if not, he might have decided he needs more than a woman in his life. He might have decided he needs kids.”





CHAPTER 68

He rang the doorbell. After a minute, the door opened a crack two inches wide, exposing the living room beyond. Toys were scattered on the floor. He pursed his lips. Kids required discipline. When he became their father, there wouldn’t be any toys on the floor; that much was certain.

“Yes?” A woman peered at him from beyond the crack. “Oh, hello.”

“Hi, miss.” He smiled at her. “I heard you need assistance again.”

“Really? I didn’t call. Everything is fine.”

“That’s strange.” He frowned, glancing at the clipboard in his hand. “It has your name and address here.”

“It must be a mis—”

“Mommy,” a high-pitched voice called from behind her.

“Just a minute, sweetie,” she said, glancing backward, and then smiled at him. “I’m sure it’s a mistake.”

“Oh, okay. Uh . . . would you mind just writing on the form here that you didn’t call and signing it? My boss can be a real hard-ass.”

“Of course,” she said. “Hang on.”

She closed the door, and he could hear her removing the chain bolt. Then the door opened wide.

And he lunged inside.





CHAPTER 69

Zoe shut the passenger door, trying to focus. The video footage from the store kept running through her mind. Something in the man’s stance or the small glimpse she’d had of part of his face seemed familiar, though it had been really hard to get a good look. The video quality was low, the man’s face almost constantly hidden. Still, something nagged at her, as if he were a word at the tip of her tongue.

She shook her head and looked at the small ramshackle house. It was a tiny structure, the walls all white clapboard, the color peeling to reveal the gray material underneath. Both front windows were murky with dust. The grass in front of the house was speckled with brown dirt and covered with dry leaves. It bordered the street, but there was no fence to distinguish where the street ended and the front yard, if there was one, began. The houses around it weren’t much better.

Tatum’s friend, someone from the field office in LA, had managed to extract the license plate number from the footage they had sent him. The car, according to the DMV, was registered to Bertha Alston, and this was her home. There was a small garage behind the house, its size almost the same. Its door was closed, and it was impossible to see if a car was inside.

“Wait here,” Tatum said.

“Uh . . . no.”

“It could be dangerous.”

“That’s why I’m hanging around with an FBI agent. So I’ll be safe.”

He rolled his eyes. “You’re a very annoying woman.” He began to move forward.

Zoe followed two steps behind. He signaled her to stand against the wall, and she obediently did, feeling her heart pound. Tatum leaned against the wall on the other side of the door and then knocked.

They waited. After a few seconds, he knocked again. There was no sound from within.

“FBI. Open up,” Tatum called.

The sound of a faraway airplane and the buzzing of the traffic were the only things Zoe could hear over her pounding heart.

She carefully glanced at the window. The drape was down, blocking the view into the house entirely. She wasn’t sure she could have seen beyond the dust in any case.

Tatum thumped the door again, this time with his fist.

“She’s not there!” a withered, croaky voice shouted at them from the house next door. Zoe glanced over to the speaker. A wizened walnut wearing humongous spectacles stared at them with interest. She raised one shriveled hand, thin as a broomstick, and straightened her binocular-sized glasses.

“Who’s not here?” Tatum asked.

“Well . . . who are you looking for?”

“We’re looking for Bertha.”

“Bertha’s dead. Died a few months ago.”

“Then we’re looking for whoever lives in this house,” Zoe said. “Is it her son?”

“Well, no one lives there anymore. I think her sons are trying to sell the place.”

“Do you know where they are, ma’am?”

“Well, that depends. Who are you?”

Tatum flipped his badge. “FBI, ma’am.”

She seemed far from impressed. “Well, what do you want with Bertha’s sons?”

“We just want to talk to them, ma’am.”

She nodded thoughtfully but said nothing.

“Can you tell us where we can reach them?”

“Well, I don’t really know.”

Tatum sighed.

“Are they in trouble?” the crone asked, straightening her glasses again.