Find Her (Detective D.D. Warren #8)(77)

Chapter 30


TEN THIRTY MONDAY MORNING, D.D. finally arrived at HQ. She felt slightly breathless, mind still whirling from her conversation with the Atlanta FBI agent and the circumstances surrounding Flora Dane’s rescue from Jacob Ness. D.D. was also acutely aware of how behind she was in her supervisor duties. Actually working the case, check. Processing paperwork and managing leads, on the other hand . . .

She would be good today, she promised herself as she hammered up the stairs, coffee in one hand, leather messenger bag in the other. She would sit. She would focus. She would behave like an actual supervisor of homicide, butt glued to her chair, eyes on the stack of files on her desk. She would skim reports, dot i’s, cross t’s, and, you never know, make a groundbreaking discovery that would blow the case wide-open. Who said desk jobs didn’t matter?

Her resolution lasted as long as it took to round the corner to her office, where she found BPD’s newest detective, Carol Manley, waiting for her. The petite blonde was wearing yesterday’s clothes and was nearly bouncing in place, hair standing on end.

“Have you been here all night?” D.D. asked with a frown. Then: “Wait a second. You were going through the videotapes. Did you find footage of Flora’s abduction?”

“No. I found the building inspector.”

“You mean the kidnapper disguised as a building inspector?”

“No, the actual building inspector. Turns out, he’s for real!”


*

DETECTIVE CAROL MANLEY had definitely not slept the night before, and apparently she’d compensated with many, if not dozens, of cups of coffee. D.D., who prided herself on speaking caffeine, had to ask her to slow down several times to get the story out.

Carol had reviewed the footage pulled from various cameras in the vicinity of Flora’s apartment. But she hadn’t made any significant discoveries.

“There’s too many images,” she explained in a rush. “Too many locals, too many cars, too much foot traffic. Each frame, each camera, there are dozens and dozens of people. And since I don’t know who I’m looking for, how do I sort that out?”

“You start by looking for Flora,” D.D. interrupted.

“Sure. Flora. Except what Flora? She was gone Friday night, Saturday morning. I think I found a traffic cam clip of Dr. Keynes’s car turning down her street, but that’s it. No Flora walking the streets after that, and it’s not like I have direct video of her building. Best I can do is check traffic cam footage of cars passing through the intersection near her apartment to see if she’s in any of them. But again, so much traffic, so many cars, and so many windows.”

D.D. rubbed her forehead, conceding the point. Pulling local video always seemed like an excellent idea until, of course, you were the detective wading through it.

“So I got to thinking,” Carol continued in a rush. “What I needed was more information, another visual clue. Then it occurred to me, the landlords, Mary and James Reichter, had said the building inspector had visited on Tuesday.”

“Except the Housing Inspection Division has no record of that.”

“Exactly! But why not start with traffic cams from Tuesday, right? Generally speaking, there’s less traffic midmorning on a Tuesday than, say, a Saturday night. Plus, we know the suspect is a big guy, which would make him easier to see on camera. I figure maybe I can get us a video shot of the actual kidnapper or, if I’m really lucky, his vehicle and license plate.”

D.D. couldn’t help herself: She was impressed. Searching for images of the suspect from his visit to the apartment on Tuesday did make more sense as a starting point. And, yeah, a license plate . . .

“But you didn’t find him?” she asked Manley now.

“Oh, I found him. Riley Hayes. Except he’s not some guy pretending to be a building inspector. He’s an actual subcontractor who inspects buildings.”

“What? But the department—”

“Hasn’t seen his report yet. Hayes is still writing it up, that’s why there’s no record. But the traffic cam captured a vehicle passing through the intersection on Tuesday with a logo on the side: Hayes Inspections. I copied down the plate, made some calls, and voilà. Inspector Riley Hayes, who did visit the Reichters’ building on Tuesday.”

“But . . .” D.D. frowned, took a slug of coffee, frowned again. “I want to speak to him.”

Manley beamed, bounced up and down on her toes again. “I know. Which is why I have him waiting for you in room six.”


*

D.D. HAD TO TAKE A MINUTE. She stashed her messenger bag beneath her desk, shrugged out of her jacket, took a few more hits of caffeine. Her mind was whirling again, and not in a good way. The building inspector couldn’t be an actual inspector. Because that wouldn’t make any sense. A suspect checking out the building as a ruse to access keys would explain how the same person was able to enter Flora’s locked-tight apartment. But a real building inspector actually doing his job . . .

What were the odds?

Carol was waiting for her outside the meeting room. The detective was armed with a fresh cup of coffee, apparently oblivious to the twitch developing in her right eye. An experienced overcaffeinator, D.D. recognized the symptoms of a dark-roasted high, soon to be followed by an excruciating ice pick to the temple, low. Good luck with that, she thought, then opened the door to the interview room.