was after something else. Or knows something that we don’t know about the case.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Find anything interesting about the house?”
“Nada. It’s just like the rest of the places. The crew is finishing up the interiors and soon people will begin moving in.”
They reached the car and paused.
“Mr. Big Guy back there said that all the houses have been sold.”
“Really?”
Katie opened the car door. “So if they have been sold, why can’t we find anything?”
“You know how slow these things work. Maybe all the information hasn’t been entered into the system at the title company and assessor’s office.” McGaven studied his partner. “What? You’ve got that look. I don’t know whether to be happy or brace for the worst.”
Katie smiled. “Well, I know that property taxes wait for no one. There’s must be a record somewhere.”
“I saw a real estate sign down the street for MayFare Realty. I’ll dig around there.”
“We need to find out why Candace Harlan and Amy Striker are somehow connected to this house on Green Street.”
Twelve
Tuesday 1530 hours
Katie leaned over McGaven’s shoulder as he ran through several police reports for Carol Harlan. To their surprise, there were numerous reports for vandalism and trespass, but nothing else popped.
“It looks like these charges were all dropped,” McGaven said.
“All those dates are from several years ago, nothing current,” Katie said, discouraged. Reading on, she said, “Actually, it looks like Carol was kicked out of places where she was sleeping. It makes sense that she was homeless.” Reading on, she said, “What about the contact information she gave?”
“It looks like 1477 Spring Street.”
“Why does that sound familiar?” she said.
“It’s because it’s the government building downtown. It’s common for inmates to use that address when they are transient.”
“Okay, what about Amy Striker?”
“Nothing on her. And the phone number 555-2711 is not a working number—of course.”
Katie sat back in her chair feeling a bit defeated. “Why the name Amy Striker?”
“It could be a purely made-up name or a name from the past. An old childhood friend. A neighbor. A fictional character in a book. It could be just about any name that she wanted to use.”
Katie sighed. “You’re right.” She grabbed her phone. “I just can’t help but think that hooded guy is somehow tracking us.” Looking at the image, “Who are you?”
“What’s that?” asked McGaven.
“I took this photo when we entered the crime-scene area at Elm Hill just for documentation.”
“Send it to my email,” he said.
Katie sent two photos to McGaven.
With a few keystrokes, he enlarged the images. “Hmm,” he grumbled.
“What?”
“Why is it when you need to see an identity of somebody—they are standing in the perfect position with the lighting to make it next to impossible to identify who they are?”
Katie pushed her chair next to McGaven and scrutinized the screen. She let out a breath. “Maybe if I had waited another second or two, there would be a better photo. But, we’re assuming that that hooded guy is the same guy I chased at Green Street.”
“Look at the build,” he said.
Katie saw the guy had his hands in his pockets and had shifted his right shoulder to further obscure his identity. “Yeah, he appears to be like the guy I chased. But look at how he turns his body to make sure that his identity isn’t seen.”
“It’s like he knows where the potential cameras are.”
“Who would know instinctively how to do that?”
“Well, criminals, for one.”
“What about someone who understands camera angles?”
“You mean like a photographer—or a model, I suppose. Interesting.”
Katie looked at the second photo with other people. “Look at how everyone else is oblivious to anyone watching them or photographing them.” The others were leaning in and craning their necks to get a better look at the crime scene. “It’s a huge contrast between hooded guy and the others. He doesn’t seem to be curious about the scene, but cautious.”
“Well, we have plenty more information to dig through,” he said.
Katie glanced at her board and realized that they really needed a confirmation that the body at Elm Hill Mansion was Candace Harlan’s sister—Carol Harlan. She also had a sinking feeling that they were missing something—or someone.
Thirteen
Tuesday 1845 hours
Katie searched for 1188 Spreckles Lane as she slowly drove by the brightly painted houses. It was a nice older neighborhood with cottages that had been remodeled and nicely kept up. It was pretty and inviting. The sidewalks were neat and tidy, as were the grass and bushes. Green was the color of the day, after all