Page 28 of Traces of Kara

“I might be a little late. What’s the scoop?”

“He’s more than tied up. You’ll never get in there if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Exactly what I thought.”

“Mark, what are you planning?”

Mark didn’t answer. There was no need to get her mixed up in his thoughts, or his next move. He’d be damned if he’d let another perp go free. Roland was up to something, and he was determined to find out what.

“Spill it.” She lowered her voice, “You know I won’t say anything.”

Mark took another sip of coffee as he mulled over his thoughts. “Aw, nothing. I was just wondering, that’s all.”

The hallway smelled of mold. The old brown carpet, darkened with stains, squished with each step, as if spills had taken purchase. Mark walked down the stairs to Roland’s basement apartment and knocked on the door. He knew there would be no answer.

He looked up the stairwell, back at the apartment across the hall. There were three UPS boxes stacked outside the door. Mark shook his head. Crack addicts. Mark had already arrested the couple that lived there twice, and the only time they’d left their apartment in between was to meet with their dealer. There was no way in hell they’d know where Roland was. He turned back to Roland’s door, leaning against it, his eyes on the stairwell. He coughed to cover the noise as he turned the knob, pushing against the door with his shoulder. Locked. Mark had always known this day would come. He’d had a bad feeling about Roland Greer since the day he’d first laid eyes on him. Sure, his PFA had lapsed, but that didn’t keep Mark from watching him. Mark knew about guys like Roland Greer. They followed the same paths: foster care, trouble in school, Juvi Hall, then PFAs or jail. Their M.O. was as lame as the day was long; they’d appear as normal as possible, set schedules, and make friends. Sure, people liked Roland. He was nice enough, and hadn’t caused any trouble. But this was Mark’s town, and he wasn’t taking any chances.

Mark thumbed through his wallet, past the photo of Carly Witherspoon to the pouch in the back, and slipped out a thin sheath of metal. His eyes shifted from side to side, then up the stairwell. He’d been in Roland’s apartment before, just once after Roland had moved into town. Mark believed in knowing what made your potential threats click. He’d only done it once before—snuck into Roland’s apartment. He’d checked out the place, just a visual scan, and found that Roland had no computer to hold creepy files of women or children, or other red flags hanging about. He took the doorknob in both hands and slid the metal into the lock, maneuvering it until he felt it click. He slipped inside, closing the door quietly behind him.

The first thing that hit him was the emptiness of the apartment. It felt cold, as if no one had lived there in a very long time. He remembered the feel from the other time he’d broken in. He moved through the sparse living room. A lone metal chair sat in front of an old television set on top of a plastic patio table. On the wall behind the television, something new had been added. A photograph was thumbtacked to the wall. A woman wearing a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt, her blond hair a wild mess. She sat on the porch of a brick building that resembled Roland’s apartment complex. The location wasn’t familiar. Mark moved to the kitchen. The countertops were empty. Two glasses sat next to the sink. Mark crouched, looking closer without touching anything. No lipstick. He pulled his leather gloves from his pocket and slid them on. He opened the cabinets above the sink. Two more glasses, two plates, and two bowls.

He left the kitchen and walked cautiously toward the bedroom in the back of the small apartment. The walls were covered in a thick film of dust and grime. Mark kept his arms pulled close to his body. He stood in the doorway to the bedroom. A queen-sized bed, perfectly made, was in the center of the room, another plastic patio table beside it. The closet door was cracked open. Mark stepped into the room and headed straight to the closet; with his gloved hands, he opened the door the rest of the way. A few button-down, gray work shirts hung from hangers. A brown box sat on top of the shelf, something else he didn’t remember seeing the last time he’d snuck in. Had he just overlooked it then? He lifted it easily, pulling it down and setting it onto the floor. The top flaps were tucked under one another. He turned his head, peering out of the bedroom doors, toward the living room. His heartbeat quickened with anticipation.

Leaning over the box, he opened the flaps. Inside, files and loose papers were stacked two inches below the top. Mark carried the box to the bed, where he set it down on the quilt. He ripped the files out of the box and spread them on the bed. The name Marissa Greer accompanied every file. His eyes lifted to the mirror above the dresser on the wall opposite from the closet. Taped to the mirror were photos of a young, blond haired woman taken with a Polaroid camera, and newspaper clippings from the Herald-Mail, a Maryland newspaper.

Mark walked around the bed, slowly registering the shrine before him. He peered at the Herald-Mail article against the wall and read about the power plant shutting down in Williamsport, Maryland. Then he moved back to the box and fingered through a series of handwritten notes. Wednesday, September 12, Depth of Darkness, death by knife. Wednesday, July 7, Into the Streets, death by blunt instrument. A TV show. Mark knew the series. True Crime. He’d watched it religiously for the past five years. In the notes were details on how each death had occurred, and steps the criminal had taken to cover his tracks, some slashed with red ink, others distinctly circled. Mark’s eyes rose to the photographs on the wall. Each was of the same beautiful, blond, bright-eyed woman. In no picture was she looking directly into the camera. All had been taken at a distance.

“You sick prick,” he mumbled under his breath.

Chapter Twenty-One

Mimi and Ted stood before the locked gate of the power plant. The leaves on the trees behind them were making lovely whooshing noises in the wind, which Mimi might have found relaxing, had she not been searching for Kara.

“Where are they?”

Ted pulled out his cell phone and dialed the plant’s main number. “Hey, Betty, it’s Ted. Can you let us in? We’re out at the gate.”

“Oh gosh, Ted, yes, sorry. The cameras are down. We’ve reported it, but you know how that goes. First it’s reported here, then to tech, where it gets stuck in the paper lane. I’m clocking out, so I’ll let you in. Just a sec.”

A few minutes later, Betty opened the gate using her security card. “Sorry,” she said. “Jackson is in there, but he may not hear you if he’s upstairs. He’s the only one on shift for the next hour, until Paige and Joe show up.”

“Thanks, Betty,” Mimi said as she turned toward the massive plant. Plumes of smoke puffed from the stack like gusts of breath. “Will you be sad to see the plant close?”

Betty stood in the parking lot, her hand on her rounded hip, and smiled. “You know, I think I will. I mean, look at this place.” She laughed, nodding toward the plant. The brick looked as if it had been painted with soot, and the windows were coated with the same dark film, several of them broken. The coal yard, one massive black pile, lay beyond the building. “It’s like the forgotten child. No one’s cared for it in years, but I love the old place.”

Mimi leaned in toward Betty, “It doesn’t creep you out, all those levels? And it’s so big.”

“Pfft,” Betty swatted the air. “Are you kidding me? It just looks creepy. There’s never been one lick of trouble.”

When she and Ted entered the building, Mimi observed, “There’s so much wasted space.” Her voice echoed against the emptiness.

They met up with Jackson and he led them across the massive first floor.

“What is that?” Mimi pointed to a wall of lights and switches.

“That’s what we call the heart of the plant. If there’s a shut down, these lights go out and all doors to the outside and the lower levels automatically lock.”

Ted pointed at a long lever that stuck out from the right side of the wall. “Will this shut it down?”