“The space nerds club.”
Lincoln raised a judgmental brow.
“Sorry, sorry, but that’s an option.”
“It is. So is my new best friend upstairs. But how do we ask her about Baxter without tipping her off as to what we’re looking for?”
Carter shrugged. “Make up some excuse for how it’s related to your research.”
Commence flailing.
It was a careless comment, born out of years of undercover work and hours of mentally taxing work today that had made Carter momentarily forget his earlier observation. He grasped Lincoln’s knees before he could roll away. “I’m sorry,” Carter said. “I realize this undercover thing is still new for you and that you’re uncomfortable lying to these people.”
Lincoln stilled. “You do?”
Carter squeezed his knees. “I do.” Outside, the elevator dinged, heavy doors clanking open, and Carter heard footsteps approaching. Probably Molly. He had to make his case now, had to be the partner Lincoln needed and reframe the problem in a way Lincoln could tackle. “But let me ask you this, L, is that bit of discomfort, the small lie you’re telling them, worth it to capture a serial killer who lives among them and who could threaten them at any time?”
“Not could. Has,” came a voice from behind them. Not Molly’s. Carter whipped around to find Agent O’Shea in the doorway. And he hadn’t come here in person to deliver good news. It was the news Carter had feared since this morning. “Barry and Trudy Cousins are officially missing.”
Fourteen
Casa Cousins was not what Lincoln had expected. It had to be one of the largest houses in all of Apex. Granted, there was still a lot of Apex he hadn’t seen, but of the parts he had, only the chancellor’s mansion on Main Street was bigger than Barry and Trudy’s place. On the other side of Lake Sardis from Lincoln and Carter’s rental, the large agro-chic farmhouse with its white-paneled walls, massive windows, and pitched slate roofs was situated on five acres of prime lakefront real estate. Most of the area was wooded, the structure hidden among the forest, except directly behind the house the trees had been thinned to provide a stunning view of the lake.
Behind Lincoln, the back door to the kitchen opened, and his partner’s footsteps thudded across the pine deck. Lincoln braced his forearms on the patio rail, staring out at the lake. “I’d say business is booming at Flour Power.”
“You’d be right,” Carter said. “Partially.”
“Barry’s pension?”
“More like his inheritance.” Carter assumed a similar position next to him. “This was the Petticoat family land.”
That made a certain amount of sense. Best piece of real estate in town owned by one of Apex’s founding families. “Why Barry? Not Larry and Harry too or instead? Harry was the eldest. Did he have it first, before his death?”
“Nope. Homestead was passed down, chief to chief, since their great-great-grandfather. I’d guess as an incentive to keep them here in Apex and on the force. Larry and Harry split the rest of the inheritance.”
Lincoln glanced back over his shoulder at the shiny modern structure. “This isn’t the original house, though.” His work required him to be familiar with architecture and architectural trends. Buildings, as the focus or backdrop of a picture, were another clue in dating photos. Like clothing, a building’s architecture was more useful as a backstop, and in this case, this sort of agro-chic had become particularly popular the past two decades. More simply even than architectural trends, the house didn’t show the wear and tear of a multigenerational structure.
“You’re right,” Carter confirmed. “That’s the Flour Power part of it. Trudy and Barry razed the old homestead and built this one ten years back.”
“How’d Harry and Larry feel about that?”
“That note in there makes me wonder.”
“You too, huh?” Lincoln straightened and turned around, leaning back on the rail and watching O’Shea direct the ERT team inside, two of them working on fingerprinting the patio door that Carter had avoided exiting out of. No disturbing the evidence.
The diagnosis—on Letter Elegant, Batch 302—had been taped to the sliding glass patio door. O’Shea had instructed it be left there for Lincoln to see when they arrived. Lincoln understood why; the positioning of the note was as important as the diagnosis itself.
“I want to hear what you think as a field agent before I tell you my theory.”
Beside him, Carter remained facing the lake, elbows braced on the rail, as he ticked off his suspicions on his fingers. “The Petticoats are a founding family. All of them have gray hair, and by the pictures I saw on the walls at FP and at the police station, they have been for a while. The lax follow-up of the missing persons reports. He’s the police chief in a position to know more about the goings-on here and who is coming and going through his town, including passers-through who happen to get into a car accident or other altercation. He’s old enough and been on the force long enough to be Dr. Fear.” All five fingers on the one hand were extended. “And then there’s the note.” He held out the other hand, five fingers wide.
Lincoln chuckled. “By he, I take it you mean Larry?”
Carter nodded, and Lincoln shifted back around, mimicking Carter this time. “Alternate theory.” He began counting off on his fingers. “The Petticoats are a founding family. All of them have gone gray prematurely. The lax follow-up of the missing persons reports. He was the police chief, and now he co-runs a bakery that’s the town hub.” Catching the divergence, Carter raised a brow. Lincoln kept going. “He’s old enough and was on the force long enough to be Dr. Fear.” All five fingers on the one hand were extended. “And then there’s the wandering.” He held out the other hand, five fingers wide.
Smiling, Carter tilted his head back toward the house. “How do you explain that scene?”
Lincoln began counting off theories anew. “Staged. He’s toying with us. He’s throwing us off, so he doesn’t get thrown off track again.”
