"I would like to talk to one of your other family members," May said. "Is your husband here?"
"He's not here. He's out."
"Do you mind if we have a look around?" May asked. "Just to see if he's here?"
The woman's face hardened. "I'm telling you, he's not here," she repeated. "And I'm not going to let you search the house. Do I look like I want you to come inside? I don’t even want you on my doorstep."
"Are you aware that withholding information from the police is a crime?" May tried, not wanting to start bullying her, but feeling she had no choice.
"Go ahead. Arrest me. See how far you get. If you want to waste more of your time, then please do." The woman spread her hands.
She wasn't being honest, that May knew for sure. But she didn't know whether this mother was protecting a killer, or whether she just innately distrusted the police and didn't want “trouble” for her son.
She glanced to her right, wondering if Owen had any other ideas. He'd been very quiet.
To her surprise, May saw Owen wasn't standing there any longer. She had no idea where he was. Perhaps he'd gone back to the car or had to take a phone call.
That momentary inattention gave the woman the gap she needed, and she closed the door firmly in May’s face. May turned away, seething with frustration. She hadn't been able to get through to her and the mother had been unwilling to help. Now, they'd have to go back to the drawing board and look for other ways to find Dean.
At that moment, she saw Owen. He was walking up the hill from the barn's entrance, looking much more positive than she felt.
She trailed back to the car, and by the time she'd got there, Owen had joined her.
"Where did you go?" she asked.
"I went down to admire the horses," Owen said innocently. May glanced at him curiously. She'd never known Owen to have a love for horses.
"Really?"
"No, not really. I thought you weren't getting anywhere with the mother, and that she might keep stonewalling us. So, I went down and spoke to the ranch hand before she could tell him not to say anything. When I asked where Dean was, he told me that he'd moved out three or four years ago, but that he still comes here for dinner twice a month. And he gets all his mail forwarded."
"So, you have the address?"
"I do. We can go there now." Owen looked pleased with himself, as May realized he had every right to be. "It's five Finch Drive, and it should take us about fifteen minutes to get there. But the only problem is—he's ex-military."
"What?" May said in surprise.
"He joined the army after school, and he’s done two tours out of the country, according to the ranch hand. So, we might want to get backup. A guy like that might be armed and dangerous, especially since he's been obsessed by weapons in the past," Owen warned.
If confronting a weapon obsessed killer was what it took to stop these crimes, May knew that they were going to have to face the danger. But perhaps, if they made some quick plans, they could increase their chances of getting out of this situation alive.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Finch Drive was where a man obsessed with weapons lived. And he had a documented grudge, from his school days, against the three male victims who had been stabbed.
Dean Linn was a strong suspect, May knew, feeling her stomach tighten as the home came into view.
She and Owen had organized a backup car with two deputies inside, which was following them now. And she'd rummaged in the trunk of her own car and taken out her Kevlar vest. She seldom wore it, and even in the cool fall temperatures, it was too warm and uncomfortable.
But she wore it now, knowing it could save her life in a dangerous situation, and they could very well be heading into a dangerous situation.
This was a hilly, sparsely populated area, and the drive was long, winding, and uphill. She guessed that the house was built on a rise, giving the occupant a good vantage point over the land below. Perhaps Dean had looked out for a home with that wide view. It would fit in with his mindset, she thought.
Dean’s house was a large, white, ranch home, with a driveway that had been recently graveled, and shrubbery and a neat picket fence running along the front and sides of the property. It was well treed, with maples that were in the last stages of their fiery fall colors.
It was a very tidy house, with a well-maintained lawn, and the driveway was clear and free of debris. May couldn’t see so much as a fallen leaf on the grass or the drive. How had he managed that in the fall?
Dean had clearly inherited the family trait of extreme neatness.
