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He gave her a chilling smile.
“If you want to know the answer, come back for round two tomorrow, Zoe. I’m tired,” he said with a sly smile.
She nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said.
CHAPTER44
MITCH
The station was alive when Zoe exited the interrogation room. Mitch cradled the phone between his ear and his shoulder as he flicked through Peter’s bank statements they’d requested a few days ago.
He highlighted several Uber charges, and multiple restaurant charges in a suburb on the outskirts of Denver.
“Thoughts?” Zoe asked as she made her way over to him.
Mitch looked up at her, grinning. “Two of my officers, a psychologist from Oradale, and I have all tried to get him to talk, but only you managed to make him crack.”
“That’s because he wanted to talk to me. It was fun for him,” she said.
“Getting you in the room was fun for him, but he said more than he’d planned to and we both know it. So here’s the thing: he’s made six trips to Denver over the past five years and he goes to the same location every time,” Mitch said, pointing to his computer screen. “Now look at this...” He flicked between screens. “We’re still looking through the missing persons database for other matches, but look at these women. They all look like his other victims, and they all went missing from Denver over the past five years.”
Zoe blew out a long breath. “When I said ‘grave,’ did you note what he said? Not earth, not dark, not buried—he saidcold. I think he keeps his victims in a refrigerator until he’s ready to display them.”
Mitch nodded. Maria had already thought as much, and when they’d found Graham’s shed, they’d actually been looking for something that housed many refrigerators or cold rooms.
“Jackson, how are you doing with the phone logs?” Mitch asked.
“There’s one number he called every week on a Thursday night. It’s a landline, not a cell phone,” he said.
“Read it out to me,” Mitch said, entering the numbers on his cell phone as Jackson called them out.
The number almost went to voicemail when a female answered. “Welcome to Atlantic Refrigeration. How may I help you?”
Mitch stilled. “Hi. I have a local business that requires cold storage. May I please speak to a salesperson?”
“Of course, please hold a moment,” she said before music began playing.
“Atlantic Refrigeration,” Mitch whispered to Jackson, who nodded, rapidly typing on his keyboard.
He turned his computer monitor to show Mitch. Atlantic Refrigeration was the manufacturer of cold-storage containers.
“Hello, Atlantic Refrigeration,” a male said as he picked up the call.
“Hello, I’m inquiring about purchasing a couple of cold-storage containers for my food business. Do you manufacture in Denver?”
“Yes we do. We have a warehouse directly behind our showroom,” he said.
“Excellent. Your website says it’s a family-owned business, is that correct?” Mitch asked.
“Yes, it’s owned by David Squire—a local Denver man. What size containers are you looking for and how quickly do you need them?” he asked.
“Do you have a catalogue? I can’t see it online,” Mitch said.
“Yes, I can certainly email you one,” he said.
“If you could, that would be great. I can take measurements and come back to you with the sizes and quantities I need,” Mitch said before giving his personal email. Mitch barely heard his own words, though, because he was too busy looking at the photograph on Jackson’s screen. It was taken at some kind of awards night or fundraiser. Peter and Jonathan stood beside a slightly older man, who had his arm around a woman about the same age, along with two younger children.
David Squire, Jackson mouthed.
