Julia Spencer-Fleming - All Mortal Flesh

“You think she might have been working as a prostitute?” How would that fit in with three computers and a fleeing boyfriend? Internet dating? Meeting men and rolling them?

Ethan shrugged. “I dunno.” He rubbed his nonexistent hair. “I’m just saying, she may be my mom’s age, but she sure didn’t look nothing like my mom.”

Mark Durkee broke his own record, Millers Kill to Cossayuharie in under fifteen minutes-and that included stopping for a train rumbling its long, slow way into Fort Henry.

He swung wide around where Kevin was writing up the accident and gave the gas one last touch, surging up the hill and fishtailing into the rutted driveway of 840 Bainbridge Road. His was the first car there. Thank God.

He had been up and down so many times this morning it was a miracle he hadn’t snapped something in the process. First, elation at finding Captain Ireland had believed him, had agreed with him enough to send a top investigator to take a look at their murder case. Mark had sweated out a sleepless night after calling the state police, worried Ireland would interpret his concerns as whining from someone rightfully passed over by his superiors.

Then, disappointment, as he realized Investigator Jensen, like Deputy Chief MacAuley, had a pet theory to account for the murder of Linda Van Alstyne and was no more amenable to Mark’s suggestions they look at the priest than MacAuley had been. Only it was worse, because Jensen thought the chief had killed his wife.

Then a giddy glee as the chief came up missing, out of reach of Jensen’s questions or orders. Sly glances and swiftly hidden grins shared with his brother officers.

Followed by the uncomfortable realization that, with nothing more than what evidence they’d already gathered, Jensen was prepared to request a warrant for the chief’s arrest. And that he, or one of the others, would have no choice but to hunt the chief down, as if he were no more than some scum-sucking lowlife to be hauled in on probation violation.

The radio splash from Harlene, saying the chief had called in-up! Because he had been assaulted and his vehicle stolen-down! And that he needed a crime scene team for this house no one had ever heard of.

He got out of his car and thunked the door shut. In a matter of seconds, the chief appeared, limping across the enclosed front porch to let Mark in.

“Chief! Oh, man, am I glad to see you!” Mark glanced involuntarily over his shoulder. “Investigator Jensen is on her way. She’s really pissed.” He stepped onto the chilly porch and took a closer look at the man holding the door for him. A bruise was purpling down the side of his face, and his jeans were smeared with dirt.

“You look like hell,” Mark said.

“Yeah, but you should see the other guy.” The chief let the flimsy door drop into place and led Mark into the living room.

“What’s going on?” The living room was the definition of ordinary. It could have been his mother-in-law’s, albeit with fewer embroidered doohickeys lying around. And more computers. Way more computers. “Three desktops?” he said. “They got kids or something?”

The chief shook his head, then winced at the movement. “A witness places that Honda Civic”-he pointed toward the partially visible driveway-“at my house on Sunday afternoon. The day Linda was killed. The woman it’s registered to has no record, but when I came here to check things out, the guy she’s been living with for the past four months, according to the neighbors, jumped me. Knocked me down the stairs, stole my wife’s-my station wagon, and disappeared.”

Mark whistled. “You find anything here?”

“I haven’t had a chance to check out the upstairs yet. I got back from the accident scene right before you arrived. I want you to bust into those computers. Find out why Audrey Keane and her steroidal boyfriend need three of ’em. Somehow, I doubt they’re making their livings as Web site designers.”

“Will do.” Mark unzipped his parka and slung it over the back of the kitchen chair doing desk duty in front of the computer table. One computer was already running, its otherwise blank screen requiring a password to get any further. He rebooted it, starting it up in safe mode, and set about convincing the machine he was an administrator. The chief’s footsteps thumped about over his head.

“Mark! Get up here!”

He shoved away from the table and sprinted up the stairs. “In here, the back bedroom,” the chief said. He sounded strangely shaky.

The back bedroom was obviously used for storage. The double bed was heaped high with dresses in dry cleaner’s plastic; old magazines and worn-down shoes were piled atop cardboard boxes with WINTER SWEATERS and SUMMER PANTS scrawled on the sides in black marker. The chief was standing beside a girlish dresser whose top was cluttered with bowls and boxes of cheap jewelry. The lowest drawer was open.

“I was looking for something identifying the guy who jumped me.”

Mark stared. The chief had obviously rummaged through the colorful shirts and scarves stuffed in the drawer. Swaths of silky material fell from the edges, where he had pulled them away to reveal two snub-nosed Saturday night specials, a sap, and a large, wicked knife. Mark had seen the knife before. At yesterday’s meeting with the medical examiner. “It’s a K-Bar,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“You didn’t touch it, did you?”

“No. I hit one of the guns with the edge of my hand. That’s when I took the rest of the clothing out.”

Mark felt a fierce smile fighting its way free on his face. He tried to stifle it. The chief certainly wouldn’t be smiling, not staring at the weapon that killed his wife. But all Mark could envision was Investigator Jensen’s face, when she saw how wrong she had been about the chief. Sure, it meant he was wrong, too, about Reverend Fergusson, but that he could live with.

Yeah, he could certainly live with that.

“We’d better leave this intact for the CS unit,” the chief said. “You have the chance to develop anything on those computers?”

“C’mon downstairs,” Mark said. “I’m about to get into the first one. If they’re networked together, I’ll be able to access them all.”

Seated back at the rickety computer table, he finished reassigning himself as administrator. “I’m in,” he said to the chief, who was slowly and methodically examining each of the two dozen photos hanging above the couch.

“Whaddya see?”

“I’m going to run a search function to find all the files created or modified in the past twenty-four hours.”

“Can you do that for any date?”

“Sure.”

“Look for any action on Sunday.”

“Okay.” While the search was running, Mark clicked on the Internet connection. He called up the history to see what the computer’s users had been up to online.

The chief leaned over his shoulder. “Anything of interest?”

“Lots of foreign sites.” Mark pointed to the entries with.de and.ch designations. “These Chinese ones might be some sort of spam harvesting or robot scraping sites.”

The chief stabbed a finger toward the screen. “What about this?”

“Northcountrylist.com?”

“My wife has that bookmarked on her computer.”

Mark clicked through. The Web site sprang up instantly. Whoever used these computers wasn’t fooling around when it came to access speed. “Looks like a help-wanted and swap site,” he said.

“I know. When I checked it out, I searched for Linda. Didn’t find anything. See if you find anything for Audrey Keane.”

Mark typed in her name. In seconds, it popped up. “Here she is.” He followed the hyperlink. “She’s advertising her services as a pet sitter. Huh?” He glanced around the living room, devoid of any sign that an animal lived in the house. “You’d think a pet sitter’d have a dog or a cat or something.”