Chapter 27 Surveillance (Detective Hayes POV)
Donald's text comes at four-forty AM: Taking personal day. Back tomorrow.
I'm already at my desk, third cup of coffee in, files spread across every available surface. I stare at the message, then type back: Don't do anything stupid.
No response.
I pull up his location, department-issued phone has tracking. The dot moves toward the airport. Twenty minutes later, it stops in the terminal parking lot.
"Son of a bitch," I mutter.
Murphy looks up from the front desk. "Something wrong, Detective?"
"Eric just flew somewhere."
"Personal day?"
"Supposedly."
Murphy shrugs, going back to his crossword. I watch the tracking dot for another ten minutes. It doesn't move.
I grab my jacket and keys. "I'm heading out. Call if anything comes up."
"Will do."
Doris's apartment building is on Maple Street. Two stories, pale yellow siding, parking lot in back. I've driven past it twice in the last week, just checking. Today, I park across the street, three cars down, engine off.
The morning's cold, gray clouds threatening rain. I sip lukewarm coffee from a thermos, watching the building's entrance. A few residents come and go—older woman walking a dog, young guy in scrubs heading to a car.
At eight-fifteen, the door opens. Doris steps out, purse over her shoulder, phone in hand. She's wearing jeans and a navy sweater, hair pulled back. She locks the door, then heads down the stairs.
I duck lower in my seat. She doesn't look my way. Just walks to a silver Honda parked near the corner, unlocks it, and gets in.
I wait until she pulls out, then follow.
She drives slow, stopping fully at every stop sign. Model citizen. Two blocks down, she turns into Bean & Bone's parking lot. I keep driving, circling back to park on the street with a clear view of the café entrance.
She goes inside, the bell chiming. Through the window, I see her approach the counter. The attendant and her talk for a moment, then Doris moves to a corner table by the window.
I pull out my phone, opening the camera app. Zoom in as much as I can. Snap a photo. Then another. She pulls out a laptop, opens it, starts typing.
Normal. Completely, boringly normal.
But the timing. That's what bothers me.
I check my notes. Doris moved to town just over a month ago. Robert Eric died two weeks ago. Margaret Caldwell died five days after that. The numbers line up too neatly.
I take another photo, this time a profile shot as she reaches for her coffee. Good angle, clear enough for facial recognition.
My phone buzzes. Text from Agent Johnson: Got anything new on the Eric case?
I type: Working a lead. Update later.
Make it soon. Captain's getting antsy.
I pocket my phone and watch Doris through the window. She's focused on her screen, occasionally sipping coffee. A guy walks up to her table—mid-twenties, trying too hard with his smile. She looks up, and they talk briefly. She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. He walks away after a minute.
I snap photos of him too. Just in case.
An hour passes. Doris doesn't move except to refill her coffee once. The older man reading by the other window leaves. Two teenagers come in, laughing about something on their phones.
The attendant wipes down tables, pausing at Doris's spot. They chat for a moment. The attendant gestures toward something outside, my direction. I freeze, but Doris doesn't look over. Just nods, goes back to her laptop.
At ten-thirty, Doris packs up. Laptop in her bag, phone in her pocket. She waves to the attendant and leaves.
I follow her out, keeping two cars between us. She drives back to her apartment, parks in the same spot. Goes inside without looking around.
I sit there for another fifteen minutes, waiting. No movement from her window.
Back at the precinct, I upload the photos to my computer. Run them through the facial recognition database—local, state, federal. The system churns for twenty minutes.
Zero matches.
"Damn it."
I lean back, staring at the screen. Doris's face stares back, frozen mid-sip of coffee. She looks normal. Tired, maybe, but normal.
I pull up her phone records again. The prepaid number, purchased a month ago with cash at a convenience store in Vegas.
Murphy walks past my desk, pausing. "You okay, Detective? You've been staring at that screen for ten minutes."
"Yeah. Just thinking."
"About?"
"A case."
He nods, moving on. I watch him go, then turn back to the screen.
Who are you, Dora?
My phone rings. Rivera's name flashes. I answer, already bracing.
"Hayes."
"My office. Now."
"On my way."
Rivera's office smells like stale coffee and printer toner. She's behind her desk, reading something on her computer. Doesn't look up when I enter.
"Shut the door."
I do. Sit in the uncomfortable plastic chair without being asked.
She finishes reading, then turns to face me. "What did you find on Eric's girlfriend?"
"Nothing yet."
"Nothing?" Her eyebrows raise. "You've been digging for three days."
"She's clean. No criminal record, no red flags."
"What about the prepaid phone?"
"Could be anything. Some people prefer privacy."
"Or anonymity." Rivera leans forward. "I don't buy it, Hayes. Woman shows up out of nowhere, starts dating Eric right before his family gets murdered? That's not coincidence."
"Could be."
"You don't believe that."
I don't answer.
She stands, walking to the window. "I pulled her building's security footage. Guess what? Cameras were offline the week she moved in. Maintenance issue, supposedly."
"That happens."
"Does it?" She turns, crossing her arms. "I also checked her rental agreement. Paid six months upfront in cash."
My stomach tightens. "So she's wealthy and private."
"Or she's hiding something." Rivera moves back to her desk, pulling out a file.
"Hayes." Her voice sharpens. "Stop making excuses. Something doesn't add up, and you know it."
I meet her eyes. "What do you want me to do?"
"Your job. Dig deeper. Find out who this woman really is." She taps the file. "Because if Eric's compromised, if he's involved with someone connected to these murders, I need to know. We all do."
"And if she's just a woman trying to live quietly?"
"Then prove it." She sits, opening the file. "You've got until Friday. After that, I'm bringing her in for questioning."
"That'll blow up in your face. Eric will go nuclear."
"Let him. If he's got nothing to hide, he's got nothing to worry about." She looks up. "Neither do you. Unless you're covering for him."
"I'm not covering for anyone."
"Good. Then get me answers."
I leave, closing the door harder than necessary.
At my desk, I pull up Doris's photos again. Zoom in on her face—the tired eyes, the guarded expression. She doesn't look like a killer. Doesn't look like someone who'd hire a professional to murder an entire family.
But Rivera's right. Something doesn't add up.