To Catch a Killer(82)

“Answer it.” The tension is about to explode the car.

“I’m trying,” she shrieks, contorting in her seat. First her hand and then her arm disappear into the narrow space. The phone continues be-booping.

Spam manages to retrieve it with two fingers. “It’s Lysa,” she says. “She’s FaceTiming.” Spam pushes the button, revealing Lysa’s face on the screen.

Without even a hello, Lysa launches into a stern diatribe. “It’s after eight, so I’m doing this from my iPad. You know if I get caught I’ll lose my phone and my car for a month, so shut up and listen.”

Spam starts to speak, “I know—”

“I got an urgent e-mail from Erin. I know you’re upset with her—”

“Hey—” Spam tries to interject a second time.

“Shut up and let me finish, this is important,” scolds Lysa. “I called her but she didn’t pick up. Go to her house right now and make sure she’s okay.”

I pull my phone from my pocket. The ringer was turned off.

“But—” Spam says.

“No buts,” Lysa orders. “Just do it. That’s the deal with friends. We’ll patch this up later. And send me an e-mail once you know she’s okay, I’ll check back with my iPad.” With that, Lysa signs off and the screen goes blank.

“Lysa!” Both Spam and I scream her name at the same time. But we’re too late. She’s already gone. Spam tries to call back. No answer.

Spam half smiles. “You’ve got to give her credit, she tried.”

I chuckle. “Yep. She did.”

“What are you thinking?” she asks.

“That I’m glad you’re here,” I say.

“Of course you are, you idiot.” Spam gives me a light smack. “That’s the deal with friends. But I’m talking about this. Did Principal Roberts fry some circuits or what? What’s going on here?”

“I know it’s hard to believe, but I think he did some bad things and now he’s looking for a scapegoat. He tried to pin this on Journey once at Miss P’s house and it didn’t work. I think he’s in there right now figuring out how to make it look like Journey is responsible for her murder.”

I slip the car into gear but leave the headlights off and turn onto the road. Within a few minutes, the creepy abandoned building looms ahead in the dark.

“Do you have a plan?” Spam asks. “Because we’re going to need one.”

“We’ll leave the car out here on the road so we can get away fast. We’ll find a break in the fence. Sneak in and see what’s up. Maybe take a photo or two, then sneak out and call the cops.”

“Works for me.” She shudders and uses her phone to shoot a random photo of the dark, hulking cannery, barely outlined in moonlight.

I crawl down the pitch-dark road at a superslow speed, looking for a good place to park the car. Just as I pull over, my phone vibrates. I take it out of my pocket and stare at the name.

Spam looks at the screen. “It’s Journey. Answer it.”

“It’s not Journey.” I click the button but I don’t know what to say.

“Erin? This is Mr. Roberts.” The calm has returned to his voice. I flick the button to put it on speaker so Spam can hear. She and I share an ominous look. I put my finger to my lips.

“What’s up, Mr. Roberts?” I purposely try to sound light and bright.

“I know you followed us, dear.”

“What are you talking about?” Playing dumb wasn’t my plan but it’s all I’ve got.

“Cut the crap. I left the gate open. Bring the car and join us at the cannery loading dock. You have five minutes before I start piling up the bodies.”

Bodies, plural? Now I know he has Victor, too.

“See you in three.” I flip my phone into Spam’s lap and mash the accelerator.

Rachel’s car skids sideways as we rocket through the gate and thunder over the wooden boards. I glance at Spam. Her extreme-roller-coaster-fear face is in place. Her left hand is braced against the roof of the car and her right has a death grip on the door handle. The bad news is I’m pretty sure we’re not getting off this ride anytime soon.

“Hang on,” I say.

She flashes devil’s horns with both hands, shouting, “Go big or go home.” Then she grabs the door handle and braces against the roof again. God, I love her, because I know she’s just as terrified as I am but she’d rather spit than admit it.

I slow down as we round the corner of the building. At first I don’t see anything.

“Over there.” Spam points to the farthest cannery building, next to the water. I can just barely make out the shape of a dark figure standing near the gaping maw of the decrepit old building.

I roll slowly up to the building. When I’m no more than ten feet away, Principal Roberts steps into the beam of our headlights.

He’s holding a gun.

Journey’s van is parked just inside the loading-bay door.

“Turn off the engine. Leave the lights on and the keys in the ignition,” he orders.





40

When processing a crime scene you’ll pick up a lot of things. The trick is determining what is crime … and what is scene.