The House Next Door Read online

  Nobody says a word, but I can feel the judgmental glares of every officer, sergeant, and fellow detective I pass boring right through me.

  “What the hell were you thinking, man?” Gina demands before I even sit down at my desk. “You see the Tribune yet?”

  With dread, I fire up the website of San Luis Obispo’s local paper.

  Sure enough, the home page’s lead headline reads: SLO COP LOCKS UP SUSPECT, LOCKS LIPS WITH SUSPECT’S WIFE.

  And below it, in full color, is a giant picture of me and Ellen caught in the act.

  “She kissed me, okay?” I insist to my partner, who’s more pissed off than I’ve ever seen her. Not that I can blame her. “And it was on the cheek, for godsakes. You can see it right there in the photo.”

  “Tell me why, Andy,” Gina says. “Is there something going on between you two? Something I gotta know about? Are you sleeping with this woman?”

  “Christ, no,” I answer. “She’s lonely is all. Scared. Confused. And I’m the only one in this town who’s still willing to talk to her. Maybe Ellen’s developing a…a little thing for me. I don’t know. I can’t help the powerful effect I have on women sometimes.”

  Gina smirks and tosses one of her empty Red Bulls into the trash.

  “This could actually be a blessing in disguise,” I continue. “Think about it. The more she trusts me, the more she might tell me. Might be the only chance of finding those girls alive that we’ve got.”

  Gina is about to respond when her cell phone rings. She checks the ID.

  “Hmm. It’s my guy at the courthouse. Hold that depressing thought.”

  Gina picks up. She listens. She shakes her head with quiet fury. She hangs up.

  Then she shares the terrible news she’s just learned.

  Son of a bitch!

  Now it’s my turn to place a call. To Ellen Pierson.

  The line rings and rings. It goes to her voicemail, which an electronic voice informs me is completely full. I angrily hang up and dial again. This time she answers.

  “Detective McGrath, I’m glad you called. What happened earlier, I—”

  “That’s not what this is about,” I snap, struggling to control my simmering rage.

  I don’t want to push Ellen away. I need her on my side right now more than ever.

  “They just threw out all four murder charges against your husband.”

  “Wait…what?”

  “Without a murder weapon, without any eyewits, without the girls’ bodies, Judge Knier ruled that there’s not enough evidence. Michael’s only going be tried for Brittany Herbert’s abduction and attempted murder. That’s it.”

  I pause for a moment to let that sink in and to hear Ellen’s response.

  “Well…at least he’ll go to prison for something. That’s good, right?”

  “No, Mrs. Pierson, it’s not good!” I explode. “He’s a cold-blooded killer. I want justice for Claire, Samantha, Maria, and Patty. I want your husband to pay!”

  There’s an even longer pause on the line now. I use it to try to slow my sharp breathing and lower my soaring blood pressure.

  After what feels like an eternity, Ellen finally speaks again.

  “Come over again tonight,” she says. “Anytime after sunset. Use the back door. Not the front. There’s something I want to give you.”

  Chapter 26

  Ellen would be hard-pressed to name her favorite butterfly. She admires every species and type. But there are some in her vast collection that she particularly cherishes. Like her rare Kaiser-i-Hind, native to India and Nepal, with its brilliant green-and-gold coloring. Or her South American glasswing, whose delicate wings are literally translucent, like tiny panes of glass.

  But it’s her European peacock that Ellen has always felt a special kinship with. Seen from below, its wings look as boring as tree bark: speckled, rusty brown. Yet viewed from above, they are a stunning pattern of red, yellow, and blue.

  Which side is the “real” one? They both are. Which is what Ellen likes so much. It’s all a matter of perspective. The butterfly possesses some strange contradictions.

  Just like she does.

  Ellen is currently using a pair of tweezers and a magnifying loupe to inspect this beloved specimen. Outside, the sun is going down; it’s starting to get dark. So with her free hand, she flips on the lamp beside her attic workstation to get a better view.

  When suddenly, she hears a faint knocking.

  It’s coming from downstairs.

  And not from the front door, but the back.

  A shiver of anticipation buzzes through Ellen’s body. She carefully sets down her European peacock and shuts its glass case. Then she goes to greet her visitor.

  Detective McGrath is standing on the rear patio, fidgeting slightly, backlit by the setting sun. The sky behind him is a blend of lavender purple and bubble-gum pink.

  Ellen takes a moment to compose herself. She smooths down her hair and flattens the imaginary wrinkles in her simple blouse. Then she opens the door.

  “Well, I’m here,” he says. “Wanna tell me what this is all about? I really don’t like surprises.”

  “Good evening, Detective,” she says. “Thank you for coming. Would you like to come inside?”

  “I don’t know, Ellen,” he huffs. “Would I?”

  Ellen smiles demurely, but on the inside she’s burning up. In all the weeks they’ve been getting to know each other, McGrath has always called her Mrs. Pierson. Ellen takes his casual use of her first name as a very good sign.

  “I think you do want to come in,” she replies. “Very much.”

  Growing hesitant, McGrath checks behind him and looks around, making sure the coast is clear. Unless a reporter is hiding in her bushes, it seems that they’re alone.

  At last McGrath steps inside. He shuts the door behind him.

  Then he turns back to face Ellen. Stares into her eyes.

  And suddenly, they’re kissing.

  It’s so much more this time than just a quick peck. It’s deep. Raw. Electric.

  Passionate.

  It goes on for quite some time, their hands clawing at each other, their breath quickening—until it becomes too much. Certainly for McGrath. Maybe Ellen, too.

  Just as suddenly, they both pull away, shocked and bashful.

  “I—I’m sorry,” McGrath says. “That was completely unprofessional.”

  “It’s all right, Detective. I don’t know what came over me, either.”

  McGrath rubs a shaking hand over his scruffy cheek.

  “At this point,” he says softly, “you can probably start calling me Andy.”

  “Okay, then…Andy,” Ellen replies a little playfully, enjoying how the name rolls off her tongue. “Here’s what I wanted to give you, Andy.”

  From her back pocket she removes a blank, sealed envelope and holds it out to him.

  “What is it?” McGrath asks.

  Ellen says nothing, so McGrath snaps on a pair of latex gloves and plucks it from her grasp. He can feel that there isn’t a letter inside, but something else. Something small. Pointy. Heavy for its size. McGrath begins to tear the envelope open when Ellen touches his gloved hands.

  “No,” she says. “Later.”

  Chapter 27

  “Don’t put that shit in my mouth—it’ll kill me!”

  “It’s applesauce, Pop, not arsenic,” I say, clenching my jaw so tight that I’m afraid my jugular is about to burst. “And I’m a homicide detective, remember? If and when the day comes that I decide to put you and Ma out of your misery, I know about a hundred better ways to do it than hiding poison in your dessert. Okay?”

  My father’s flash of anger slowly disappears and turns into dark laughter. He gives me a good-natured jab to the shoulder as I finish spooning the yellow mush into his toothless mouth.

  “Now let’s get you ready for bed, huh?”

  I lead my old man up the stairs and into the bathroom. I help him change into his pajamas, wash his face,
moisturize his skin, and take his evening pills. Then I lead him into his bedroom, where my mother—always much more of a morning person than my night-owl dad—has already been asleep for over an hour.

  I pull back the covers on my father’s side and start to guide his frail frame into bed, when he suddenly reaches out and grabs my arm.

  “Thank you, son,” he whispers. “Andy…what would we do without you?”

  “Aw, Pop. Let’s hope we never have to find out. For both our sakes. G’night.”

  I pad softly back down the stairs. In the kitchen, I load my parents’ dinner plates into the dishwasher. In the living room, I straighten up the throw pillows on the couch.

  In the entryway, I reach into my pocket and pull out the envelope Ellen gave me, which I tore open the second I got back to my car.

  Inside was a single metal key attached to a fob with the words EL TORO ~ RM 4 printed on it in faded, old-fashioned lettering.

  First I make out with her…then she slips me the key to her motel room?

  Jesus, what the hell am I doing?

  I hold the key in my hand, feeling the cold, hard metal against my palm—and remembering Ellen’s warm, soft lips against my own.

  There’s a chance I’m misreading this whole situation. A small one, but still. Ellen could be trying to tell me that the El Toro played some role in Pierson’s crimes. Maybe room 4 is where he took those girls and killed them. Maybe their bodies are buried under the floorboards. Maybe Pierson had an accomplice, and the guy is holed up there right now, waiting, armed and dangerous.

  Oh, come on. Who the hell am I kidding?

  This has nothing to do with the murders at all. It’s strictly personal.

  If I were smart—and if this were a more typical case—I’d ask the San Luis County SWAT team to set up a perimeter and breach the El Toro, just to be safe. At the very least, I’d tell my partner about the key. Log it into evidence.

  What I wouldn’t be doing is going to the motel alone and actually using it.

  Which is what I’m seriously considering. I know I shouldn’t…but should I?

  My cell phone suddenly rings, startling me out of my deliberations. I check the ID. Great. I can’t dodge this call any longer. I have to take it. So I do.

  “Well, shit, man, forget you have a partner?” Gina says. I can hear her sarcasm has a slight edge to it tonight. “I’ve been calling you for the past three hours.”

  “Yeah, right, sorry,” I say. “My phone died, then I had to give my folks dinner, then I—”

  “Whatever, it’s fine. Your visit with Pierson’s wife—don’t leave me hanging. What did she wanna give you? And I just ate, so if it was some kind of freaky sex act, keep it G-rated, please.”

  “Funny,” I say—with a gulp.

  I look down again at the old key in my hand. In all the years I’ve known my partner, I’ve never lied to her. Not once. Honestly, I trust this woman with my life.

  But can I trust her with this?

  “Nothing,” I finally say. “Ellen was full of it. Maybe the charges being dropped against her husband rattled her. I don’t know. She just wanted somebody to talk to.”

  “Hey, Andy, are you okay? You sound distracted or something.”

  “Me? I’m good, Gina. Just tired. Thanks. Let’s talk in the morning.”

  I hang up, feeling like a total piece of shit. But I’ve made my decision.

  Now I gotta live with the consequences.

  Chapter 28

  My Impala’s headlights illuminate the El Toro’s peach-orange facade as I pull into the parking lot. I take a spot on the far end of it, cut my engine, and pause to think.

  I still have a chance here to back out. To go home.

  To not sleep with the goddamn killer’s wife!

  Instead, as if my body is on autopilot, I get out of my car and march up to 4.

  I knock, then wait for a reply. Which never comes. So I try to turn the key—but the lock sticks. Shit. Is this the right place? The right door? The right move?

  I try the key again. This time, the lock clicks open.

  Stepping into the dark little room, I can sense it’s empty even before I flip on the lights. It’s cozy in here, but creepy, too. The nautical artwork on the walls is plenty tacky. And the maroon bedspread is plenty ugly—and the color of dried blood.

  As I wait for Ellen, my mind starts trying to work backward, posing way more questions than I can answer. When did she book this place? Last night, when she went for that crazy drive down the freeway? Or earlier? And at what point did she decide to give me the key? I called the motel from the car, but the guy at the front desk told me no one by the name of Ellen Pierson had checked in recently at all. Makes sense she’d want to use a pseudonym. But what else is she hiding from me?

  And where the hell is she, anyway? What kind of one-sided rendezvous is this?

  I pull my cell from my pocket and start to dial Ellen’s number—when I stop myself. Come on. It’s not like she forgot. If she’s coming tonight…she’ll be here.

  I wander around the room a bit, looking for any tiny details that could prove helpful, treating it like a possible crime scene, not a love nest. At least for now. This also helps occupy my mind and ease the butterflies in my stomach. But the room looks so untouched, I wonder if Ellen has even stepped foot in here before.

  I adjust the crooked whaling-ship painting near the TV. Then I check my watch. It’s nearly eleven; I’ve been waiting for almost half an hour. And I’m starting to get a little sleepy. So I sit down on the bed. Ellen could walk in any minute, and we’ll probably end up on the bed anyway…

  Jesus, this is so wrong!

  A few more minutes pass. I lean back against the headboard, propping myself up with a few pillows. My eyelids are getting heavier, so I rest them for just a moment.

  Next thing I know, I’m startled awake by my ringing cell phone. I fumble to answer it—noticing some predawn sunlight peeking in through the curtains.

  “Gina, hey,” I say groggily. “Everything okay? What time is it? You’re calling so early.”

  “It’s me, Detective. I mean…Andy.”

  Ellen’s voice hits me like a shot of espresso. I’m instantly wide awake.

  “Where are you?” she asks. “I need to see you. Right away.”

  I can’t help but scoff, feeling stood up.

  “I thought that was the plan last night,” I answer.

  “I’m sorry. I lost track of the time. I never—”

  “And I think you know exactly where I am. Where I still am.”

  I can tell that Ellen is trying to stifle a big smile.

  “You…you really waited for me? The whole night?”

  I don’t tell her that most of the night I was fast asleep.

  “Look, it’s probably for the best this way. What’s up now?”

  Ellen takes a deep breath. “I have something else I need to give you.”

  This freaking woman! Messing with my head. Toying with my heart.

  “Tough shit, Ellen. You had your chance. I’m not falling for that again.”

  “Please, Andy,” she begs. “This is different. I was up all night going through my husband’s things. I think it might be important for your case. Very important. I swear.”

  I hate these kinds of games. And I’m quickly running out of patience.

  But I need this woman. To put Pierson away.

  And I want this woman. And Ellen knows it, too.

  “Tell me what it is first. Then I’ll decide.”

  “I would, Andy,” Ellen replies. “But you wouldn’t believe me.”

  Chapter 29

  Heritage Oaks Bank: a squat, redbrick building in the middle of downtown San Luis Obispo. If Ellen’s hunch is right, this unassuming spot might be where this whole case is finally blown wide open.

  I swung by her house again after we hung up. Like she asked, I didn’t bother getting out or even turning off my engine. She hopped right into my car and said, “Just dri
ve,” hoping to throw the press off our tail.

  Once we were a few blocks away, she handed me what she’d found.

  Another key.

  “For crying out loud, Ellen!” I snapped. “I thought we were past this.”

  “Look closer,” she said. “It’s not a motel room. It’s a safe-deposit box.”

  Ellen explained that right after they got married, she and Pierson rented a box together at Heritage Oaks to store their marriage license, various other documents, and a couple pieces of jewelry she’d received as wedding presents. A few years later, after they bought a locked filing cabinet for the house, she and her husband gave the box up.

  At least, Pierson told her they gave it up.

  Ellen was moving a pair of her husband’s shoes that night when she heard something rattling around. She grabbed a screwdriver, pried off the sole, and hidden inside the hollowed-out heel was the old, familiar key.

  I have no way of verifying a word of that story, of course. And after last night, I don’t exactly trust Ellen much anymore. But an opportunity like this—I can’t pass it up.

  We’re sitting in silence together, parked across the street, waiting for 9:00 a.m. to strike and the bank to open up. From the corner of my eye, I watch as Ellen takes a dainty sip of the steaming cup of coffee I bought her. Stood up or not, I’m still a gentleman.

  “That looks like the manager,” I say, noticing a comely middle-aged woman with jet-black hair unlock the front door and roll up the metal gate. “They’re open. Let’s go.”

  Ellen and I head into the bank so fast, the manager has barely had time to sit down at her desk. Noticing a name placard on it—ALEXANDRA GARCIA—I hold up my badge and call out: “Excuse me, Ms. Garcia? Urgent police business, please.”

  I bring her up to speed on our situation. But this lady is smart. The moment I mention Pierson’s safe-deposit box, she shrugs apologetically and says, “I’m afraid you’ll need a warrant to access it, Detective.”

  “Not if I’ve got the consent of one of the box’s co-lessees,” I reply, gesturing to Ellen. Reluctantly, Garcia looks up the agreement on her computer. Sure enough, it’s still in both Michael Pierson’s and Ellen Pierson’s names. Bingo.