The Pied Piper by Ridley Pearson Read Free Book Online Page A

see this house,” she realized. “You little shit! God, I can’t believe this. This is my tax dollars at work? Are you the best we’ve got, Detective?”
    â€œSergeant,” he corrected, thinking that Boldt was the best they had, feeling inferior suddenly. “I’d like to go inside, please.”
    â€œShit,” she said, keying the door for him. “Why didn’t you just ask—” But she caught herself, realizing he had. “Cops. You guys are a different species.”
    LaMoia followed her inside, saying, “I want you to stand right here for a minute.” He took her shoulders gently and turned her toward the Shotz residence. “How many times you must have opened this door last night.” He left his hands on her shoulders, which were warm to the touch. It was dangerous ground, she could file a complaint about his misleading her, and the physical contact, if mentioned, would be difficult to justify to a review board. LaMoia had a history with the review board, and it wasn’t all rosy. “How many people came by to look at the house?”
    She stood at an angle facing the Shotz residence, down the street. He could sense her searching her memory.
    He asked, “Can you remember standing here?” She gave him a faint nod. “Can you glance over the shoulder of those people and see the street beyond?”
    â€œI’ve never done anything like this.”
    â€œThat’s okay,” he coached. “Are my hands bothering you?”
    â€œNo, not at all.”
    â€œYou can close your eyes. It helps sometimes.”
    He leaned around her to steal a peek; her eyes were pinched tightly shut.
    â€œThe house was all lit up over there. I remember that.”
    Remember more , he silently encouraged. The baby sitter had confirmed the lights. She had turned on as many as she could find. She hadn’t remembered much else: a man wearing goggles at the back door—an exterminator.
    Daech pointed, “An old-model Wagoneer, a white minivan, a black STS, my Hummer, an ancient pickup, kinda blue-gray. Driveway. Blue Toyota Camry. The STS and the Camry were mine—the open house.”
    â€œYou know your rides,” he said, somewhat disbelieving. They could check her recollections against vehicles owned by the residents of the other houses.
    â€œHonestly? Listen, this may sound crude, sweetheart, but you are what you drive. When I see someone pull up to an open house, first thing I do is look at the car. You can judge one hell of a lot by that.” She added, “A couple getting out of a foreign car? That’s got good strong legs for me. I pay attention. The STS fits that: Cadillac, you know. A guy, alone, climbing out of something American and a couple years old: probably just killing time. Free glass of wine and someone to talk to. I get a lot of that. Maybe he’s got enough for the down, but I’m not betting on it. If it’s during a weekday, and it’s a woman, maybe a young kid or two in tow, a Volvo, an Audi, out-of-state plates, I’m thinking the wife is out shopping for a home while the hubby’s at the office.”
    â€œYou check the tags?”
    â€œI’m telling you, out-of-state plates means they’re in a hurry—they’re looking to buy. Usually a little less concerned about price, more concerned about contents. Kitchen, if it’s a woman. Men are interested in the living room and the master bedroom. Women think about closets and tubs.”
    The pickup truck or the minivan made sense to him for a person posing as an exterminator. “A minivan or a panel van?” LaMoia asked, trying to keep excitement out of his voice. The woman clearly studied her clients and applied her own skewed science to what she observed. She was a good witness—someone a jury would find believable. He couldn’t help but jump ahead. Hope was a detective’s only fuel.
    â€œWhite minivan.