"I'm going to get a warrant. So, it’s either now or later. But we're going to search your apartment.”
"I didn't do anything. Just because I went over there doesn't mean I killed her.”
"What are you hiding?”
“I’m not hiding anything,” he growled.
We stared each other down for a moment.
I sighed. "I guess we’re going to do this the hard way.” I looked at Jack. "JD, watch the apartment while I go get a warrant." I glanced back at Noah. "See you soon.”
Jack stayed on the porch and smiled at the kid.
I hustled down the steps and followed the path back to the parking lot. I hopped in the van, drove to the station, and filled out an application for a warrant. The fact that Noah owned a motorcycle and placed himself at the scene of the crime, along with his physical description matching that ofthe suspect, was enough probable cause for Judge Echols to sign off on a warrant.
Before long, I was back at the apartment with a tactical team.
Jack had waited, keeping an eye on the second-story unit. "He's still in there as far as I can tell."
We hustled up the steps, and I put a heavy fist against the door. "Coconut County! We have a warrant."
Mendoza and Robinson covered the rear in case the kid decided to jump off the balcony.
I was feeling reasonably optimistic we were going to wrap up this case in record time.
Noah marched down the foyer a moment later and peered through the peephole. He unlatched the deadbolt and pulled open the door with a defeated face.
"I told you I would be back," I said.
He stepped aside.
We marched in and advanced down the foyer, clearing the kitchen and the living room. I moved on to the bedroom, the barrel of my pistol sweeping the corners. I cleared the closet and bathroom. Erickson and Faulkner secured Noah and watched him as he sat on the couch.
We turned the place upside down, looking for his motorcycle helmet and any clothes that might match what the assailant had worn. We looked for latex gloves, rope, duct tape, and anything else that could be used to subdue a young lady.
We found nothing, not even a helmet.
Jack had kept watch, so I knew the kid didn't have time to ditch it.
We rummaged through everything, looking through cabinets, closets, you name it.
We still didn't find a motorcycle helmet.
I shared a frustrated look with Jack and told him I was heading out to the parking lot to look for the kid’s bike. Maybe it was strapped to the handlebars or the seat. But I couldn’t imagine it would stay there long, unattended. Not in this neighborhood.
I found his bike—the red CXR was a rocket. It was a nice sportbike, but there was no helmet.
Maybe he had dumped it on the way home from Abigail's apartment. Maybe he knew there would be security footage, and he would need to get rid of it. If that was the case, I don't know why he didn't let us search his apartment in the first place. Maybe he just wanted to be difficult.
I hustled back to the unit and interviewed Noah again. In a frustrated breath, I asked, "Where's the helmet?”
"I don't know.”
"You just told me you had a helmet. It's not here, it's not on your bike. Where is it?”
"I left it at a friend's apartment.”
I gave him another doubtful look. "What friend?”
