Terri Austin - Diners, Dives & Dead Ends

I took the hall to the left. I flashed my light over the bare walls. The first door I came to, on the right side of the hallway, was closed. I opened it and swung my penlight over the furniture. A pool table sat in the middle of the room with a small bar to one side, barstools in front of it, and a jukebox on the other side of the room. No Axton. I moved on. The only other room in the hallway was a set of double doors directly in front of me.

My heart began to pound. I wasn’t positive until I turned one of the knobs, but then I knew. Sullivan’s library. The books, the fireplace, the massive desk, it was all familiar. I’d picked the right house. Yay for me.

I shut the door and dabbed at the sweat on my brow. The laptop was gone. I went behind the desk and tried the drawers. They were locked. Damn, where was Roxy and her mad skills when I needed them?

I hastily looked around for anything else that might be of use to me, but found nothing. Feeling defeated, I opened the door a crack and peeked out before slipping back into the hallway.

I retraced my steps and made my way down the hall to the right of the kitchen. Only one door in this hallway. Easing it open, I darted in, closing it quietly behind me.

Sullivan’s bedroom smelled like him: oranges, sandalwood, and hot male. I took a deep breath, inhaling his fragrance, and hoped it was lingering cologne not a lingering Sullivan.

But his California King was neatly made and took up most of this part of the room. Small bedside tables sat on either side of the enormous carved headboard. I wondered what he looked like, lying there at night. Did he wear pajamas or go commando?

Opposite the bed was a stone fireplace, a replica of the fireplace in the library, but instead of windows flanking it, there were bookcases. A sofa and coffee table sat in front of it.

To the left of the bed was a door. I opened it and shined my flashlight around, which reflected on a mirror, and I got a quick view of myself. I looked startled. I gazed around, taking in the largest, most opulent marble-covered bathroom I’d ever seen. The Jacuzzi bathtub was big enough for two. Without letting my mind wander down that road, I stepped further into the bathroom and opened the door next to the large steam shower.

It led to a walk-in closet. Row after row of suits, shirts, slacks, coats — divided by length and color — and shoes stretched out before me. My mother would kill for this room.

Built-in wood cabinets stood along one side, filled with shallow drawers on the top half, deeper drawers on the bottom. I pulled each drawer out, one by one. Time for payback. I was rifling through his shit for a change. One drawer held rolled ties in little cubby holes. Others contained watches, socks, underwear. Sullivan was a boxer-brief man.

None of the clothes belonged to a woman. That didn’t mean anything, of course, and it wasn’t why I was there, but still, duly noted.

I shut the drawers and the cabinet and walked out of the closet, through the bathroom, back into the bedroom.

In the sitting area I ran my penlight over the fireplace and bookcases. A few books and knickknacks decorated the shelves. I stepped closer, shining the light over the titles, when I noticed a small space between the hearth and the left bookcase. At first I tried pushing the back of the shelf and wound up knocking a stack of books onto the floor.

“Damn,” I muttered, then stopped to listen. My clumsiness went unnoticed, thank God. I picked up the books and put them back.

Well, pushing the shelves didn’t do anything. I took a hold of a shelf and pulled. When the bookcase opened outward, I landed on my butt. Hard. Mentally cursing, I picked myself up and crept into the secret room. It was approximately the same size as the walk-in closet

As I looked around, my pulse began to race, but this time out of excitement, not fear. Turns out the large library where I met with Sullivan was a fake. This room, this windowless, hidden room, was the real study.

A small desk stood front and center. No books, no tchotchkes, no smooth clean surface. This desktop held neat stacks of papers and folders. Which I quickly began leafing through.

They contained mostly spreadsheets and cost projections — thank you, accounting class. I searched the drawers, starting with the shallow center one and found an old photo. A boy who looked very much like a young Sullivan with a boy-band haircut stood next to a smiling woman with gold eyes. His mom? I ran my finger over the picture. Next to it was an old school ladies Timex, the kind you have to wind. The black imitation leather band was creased and the watch had stopped at eleven forty-seven. These were the only personal items I found in the house. I pulled the drawer out further. There were USB drives. Four of them. I snatched them and stuck them in my utility belt.

The second drawer held three files neatly stacked. I flipped through them. They were labeled Packard Graystone, Axton Graystone, and Rosalyn Strickland. Without taking the time to read them, I shrugged the backpack off my shoulders and stuck the files inside.

I looked in the lowest drawers, which contained hanging file folders. I quickly sorted through them, pulling out files of the most notable people in Huntingford, including Councilman Beaumont and Martin Mathers, the Chief of Police. I shoved those into the backpack as well, zipped it up, and slung it back on my shoulders before stepping out of the study.

Click . I jumped at the sound, my hand flying to my throat. I froze, waiting for more but it was only the heater kicking on. Warm air blew over my head. Crap on a cracker, now I suddenly needed to pee. With shaky hands I opened the door and eased back into the hallway. I paused to listen, but all I heard was the laugh track from the television.

I had no idea how long I had been searching the downstairs. It felt like hours. Roxy should be waiting for me by now.

I snuck back to the kitchen, the backpack weighing on me as if filled with rocks. Every sound magnified. The clink of the USB drives in my belt, the squeak of my left shoe on the tile. I sucked at this. Roxy wasn’t there. I opened the basement door and listened, but it was dark and I didn’t hear anything.

Panic crept up and the sweat and the heat made me lightheaded. I quickly ran down my options. Go upstairs and keep searching for Axton or stay in the kitchen and wait for a henchman to pop in for a snack. I spoke into the mike on my headset. “I’m in the kitchen and Roxy isn’t here. I’m going upstairs now.”

I crept back out into the foyer. The television blared from the living room, but I didn’t dare peek into the room to see who, if anyone, was there.

Keeping as close to the wall as I could, I tiptoed up the stairs. Once I reached the top, I looked back down to reassure myself no one followed. With my gaze still on the bottom step, I walked forward and ran into Roxy. Literally. We knocked our heads so hard it made an audible thud.

She gasped. “Shit, Rose, that hurt.”

“You were supposed to meet me downstairs,” I whispered.

“I’ve already checked this side of the house.” She jerked her thumb over her shoulder.

We crept down the other hall, me in front, Roxy right behind. Muffled voices sounded from a room up ahead. I stopped dead and Roxy slammed into me.

“What the hell?” she mouthed.

“Voices,” I mouthed back. “Could be Ax.”

“Might be Henry.”

The door was ten feet away. I couldn’t make out words, but it sounded like two men. Henry? Axton? Henry torturing Axton? I’d already come this far. I motioned with my head, and as quietly as I could manage, I walked toward the voices.

I turned off my flashlight and tucked it back into my belt, then pulled out my Sparky. I looked at Roxy and nodded.