Desperate Girls (Wolfe Security #1)(46)

The lot was deep and dark and sloped down. From the Google map she’d viewed, she knew the property backed up to the utility easement she’d passed earlier, which connected homes on this side of the street to a nearby trailer park that was a hot spot for meth busts.

Lindsey stood for a moment and let her eyes adjust. She didn’t know what she was looking for, exactly. The marshals had been here already and found the place empty. Neighbors hadn’t seen Corby, and most had never even heard of him. Or so they claimed. If they did know him, they’d been unwilling to talk about it to anyone with a badge.

A shudder moved through her as she scanned the gloomy yard. She wasn’t sure why she’d come here, but after studying the crime-scene photos, she’d felt compelled to see it with her own eyes.

Another distant bark started a chorus throughout the neighborhood. Lindsey touched her front pocket, checking for her pepper spray. Picking her way through the weeds, she moved farther into the shadows until she reached the steep slope. She took out her mini-Maglite and beamed it around. She’d walked right past a fire pit, little more than a charred patch of ground surrounded by old tires and tree stumps. Bits of foil and bent spoons littered the area.

Lindsey stepped around a stump and aimed her flashlight at the place where the tangle of vines ended. It was where the fence ended, too. The lot dropped off sharply, and the stench of stagnant water was stronger here. A scrap of white caught Lindsey’s eye. It was a cigarette butt, and the white contrasted sharply with the freshly turned soil of a shallow hole. Lindsey stepped closer and crouched down, taking out her phone. The hole was about the size of a shoebox. She snapped several pictures, then stood and tucked her phone away. A breeze moved through the trees, and she caught a whiff of cigarette smoke.

“This is private property.”

She whirled, her hand instantly on her holster.

The gravelly voice belonged to a giant man holding a slender cigarette. He squinted at her as he brought it to his mouth. She aimed her light at him, checking his body for the telltale bulge of a weapon. His dingy muscle shirt showed off sausage-like arms covered in faded biker tattoos.

“Who the fuck are you?” he asked.

“Detective Leary.” She shifted her jacket to show him her badge, as well as the butt of her pistol. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Call me a concerned citizen.”

Lindsey checked his eyes to see if he was on something. “Where do you live?” she asked.

“Nearby.”

“Have you seen any unusual people in the area over the past week?”

“You’re looking for that guy. The fugitive.”

“Have you seen him?”

He gave her a crooked smile, revealing a gap in his teeth. “What’s it worth to you?”

“I don’t know. What’s it worth to you? Want me to run your name?”

The smile faded. “Nah, I haven’t seen him. Police were already here asking.”

“Any unusual cars in the neighborhood? Maybe a white pickup truck?”

“No.”

Lindsey’s phone vibrated, and she pulled it from her back pocket, still keeping an eye on the guy’s hands. She recognized the phone number.

“Nice talking to you. Let’s go.” She nodded, indicating for Sausage Arms to go ahead of her. He flicked his cigarette away before turning and tromping back to the side yard, and Lindsey had a view of his hairy shoulders.

He squeezed through the gate. Lindsey followed. He gave her a last look before sauntering across the street toward the house with the darkened porch.

Lindsey tapped her phone. “Leary.”

“This is Alec Mason, with the Star. I got your message at work.”

“Mr. Mason, hi.” She returned to her car, checking up and down the street before getting inside.

“You said something about a homicide investigation. Who are you, exactly?”

“I’m with the Sheridan Heights Police Department,” she told the reporter as she took out a notepad. “I’m investigating the murder of Judge Jennifer Ballard.”

“Then you’re looking for James Corby,” he said. “And I’ll tell you what I told the marshal who contacted me. I haven’t talked to the man in years.”

Lindsey felt a pang of disappointment. So the marshals had already tapped this lead.

“That’s not exactly why I called,” she said. “I’m interested in your interview with Corby. I understand you went to see him about nine months after he was convicted?”

“I did. My paper wanted a feature.”

“And what did you talk about?”

He didn’t answer right away, and she wondered if he was going to stonewall her. The other reporter she’d reached out to hadn’t even called her back. She figured this guy wouldn’t have bothered if he weren’t willing to talk.

“Mr. Mason?”

“We talked about his conviction, mostly. I mean, I started him with small talk to get him comfortable. But that didn’t take too long. The guy wanted to rant, and I was happy to listen.”

“What did he rant about?”

“His trial. The justice system. How everything was rigged. The police, the attorneys, the jury.”

Lindsey jotted all that down. “He thought the jury was rigged?”