Allison Brennan - Speak No Evil

“You don’t get along with her?”

“Hell no.”

“How long have you been neighbors?”

“Ever since she moved in six or seven years ago. Old-man Krauss croaked and his kids put the old woman in a nursing home, sold the house, and split the money, the fucking brats. She died there, don’t think those girls ever even visited.”

Carina and Nick glanced at each other. Sometimes, values weren’t evidenced by appearance.

“What about Regina Burns’s sons?”

“Sons? Oh, right, she has an older son. Don’t know his name. He goes to that college on the coast, I think. Works at a restaurant. Temper. Never comes by when she’s around. Sometimes he comes over to pick up the kid, Brandon. Last time I saw him with his mother was over a year ago. Maybe longer. They got in a huge shouting match. Thought he’d strangle her. The kid came out, everything sort of stopped, and the older kid took off.”

“Do you remember what the argument was about?”

Grimski shrugged, scratched his hefty stomach. “That was ages ago. But that woman has a temper, too.”

“Does she abuse her son?”

“Don’t know. Never saw anything like that.”

“You talk a lot to the younger boy? Brandon?”

“I hired him to fix my back fence. He’s pretty handy. I’ve paid him for odd jobs, though he doesn’t seem to have time anymore. He took a regular job working for his brother. Why? He’s not in trouble, is he?”

“Not that we know of,” Carina said carefully.

“Then why all the questions?”

“He worked with a woman who was recently murdered. We’re talking to all of her colleagues.”

Grimski frowned. “Brandon’s a good kid. A little weird, but with that bitch for a mother who wouldn’t be?”

“Weird how?”

“I dunno. When my son was in high school, this place was Grand-fucking-Central. I was glad. It kept him out of trouble if he brought his friends here. But no one visits next door. The bitch probably doesn’t allow it.”

“Have you ever seen Mrs. Burns’s husband?”

“Husband? Someone married her?” He barked out a laugh. “Never seen anyone else around. I can’t blame the guy for leaving that woman. I almost sold the house a year after they moved in, but the market wasn’t hot enough, and where would I go? I’ve been here forty years, since my wife and I bought the place, rest her soul.”

“What happened that prompted you to consider moving?”

Grimski’s face grew hard, though his eyes started to water. “My Peg was a sweetheart. She died two years ago this May, of cancer. But this was when she was still healthy. She was beautiful. Fifty-five years old and still looked terrific in a bikini.” He grew wistful for a moment, then scowled. “My Peg was sun-bathing in our backyard. Our property! In a bikini. That bitch next door yelled at her over the fence. Called her a whore and a slut and a slew of other indecent words. Peg tried to laugh it off, but she never went outside in a bikini again.”

Carina thanked Grimski. She and Nick went back to the car, but didn’t get in.

“What do you think?” she asked Nick.

Nick could too easily picture Mrs. Regina Burns and the sad homelife Kyle and Brandon Burns must have had. And, unfortunately, he could picture either of them as killers. Kyle with his anger problems; Brandon, an antisocial kid living under the overpowering presence of a woman who hated other women.

“I think we need to have another talk with Kyle Burns,” he said. “And Brandon Burns as well. Maybe watch their dynamic together.”

“We have two suspects.”

“They could be working together. A teenager might be susceptible to the influence of an older, forceful brother, especially since his father is out of the picture.”

“Or maybe the father came back, instigated the murders.” But even as Carina said it, it didn’t feel right. Rapists often escalate to murder, but she didn’t think they’d be dormant for eight years. “We need to check unsolved rapes cross-country,” Carina said. She almost laughed. There were likely thousands of such cases. “We were only looking into rape-murders.”

“But if Mitchell Burns was continuing his pattern, he may not have killed.”

“Before now.” She frowned. “Except we have no evidence that Mitchell Burns is in San Diego.”

In the car, Carina called the officers she had tailing Kyle Burns.

“Where’s Burns?”

“He went home with a waitress from the Shack.”

Carina tensed. “Did she look like she was in any distress?”

“No, but we’re sitting outside her apartment now.”

“Stay there. Watch his car. Don’t let him leave. I’m on my way.”

Then she called for backup.

When they arrived, Carina talked to the officers sitting outside the woman’s apartment.

“Where’s the suspect?”

“Still inside.”

“Do we have an ID on the woman?”

He nodded, flipped open his notepad. “Maggie Peterson, twenty-two, senior at the university and has worked for the Sand Shack for the last year.”

“Good stuff.”

“I went to talk to the manager. She lives with her younger sister, Leah Peterson, nineteen.”

“Do you know if she’s home?”

“No confirmation either way.”

Carina told her backup that there was one, possibly two potential hostages inside the apartment. “We’ll try to do this the easy way. Knock on the door and ask Kyle Burns to come down to the station for questioning.” She turned to Nick. “We should have done it earlier.”

“We didn’t have enough earlier. We need a warrant.”

“I know,” said Carina. “I’m going to try to convince him to come down and answer questions. We might be able to get his DNA that way.” There was a trick often used by law enforcement. If a suspect took a drink from the police and left the drinking container behind, they could collect it as evidence and have it DNA tested. Same principle if the suspect smoked and tossed his cigarette butt on the street. Evidence.

But if Burns didn’t voluntarily come down to the station they had no reason to hold him. They had no DNA to compare to the DNA found on Becca. And without evidence, they couldn’t get his DNA.

She looked at Nick. “Ready?”

Nick should have said no. They had been going all day and his knees were on the verge of giving out. But he’d popped extra ibuprofen and no longer felt the intense pain.

“Ready,” he said.

Maggie Peterson lived on the second floor of the four-story apartment structure. Carina directed two officers to stay with Burns’s car, and two to stake out the back and front entrance of the building. Carina rapped on the door.

No answer.

She knocked again. “Maggie Peterson? Detective Carina Kincaid with the San Diego Police Department. I need to talk to you again.”

She heard something in the back of the apartment, then nothing. She was considering ramming the door when she heard the rattle of the security chain sliding open.

“What’s wrong?” the woman asked. She was dressed in a robe.

“We’re looking for Kyle Burns.”

“Kyle? Why?”

“We know he’s here. We’d like to talk to him.”

The bedroom door opened and Kyle Burns walked out, buttoning his shirt, his face a hard mask. “I can’t believe you followed me here.”

“We have some more questions for you, Mr. Burns.”

“It’s nearly midnight. This can’t wait?”

“No, it really can’t.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Carina tamped down her own anger. It wouldn’t do her any good dealing with Burns. “Maybe you’d like to come down to the police station with us.”

“Are you arresting me?”

“No.”

“Then ask your questions here.” Kyle reached over and took Maggie’s hand.