Silent Screams - C. E. Lawrence [134]
“I’m coming,” Lee whispered. “Ready or not, here I come.”
Chapter Sixty-two
By 8:30 the next morning all the members of the task force were seated around the table in the conference room, a pile of phone books scattered over the big oval table. Florette and his sergeant sat at two computer terminals, doing their search online, while the rest of them leafed through the Queens phone book.
“Not too many locksmith shops will have Web sites, I’d think,” Chuck said, peering over their shoulder.
Florette turned to look up at him. “Maybe, but you never know.”
“What are we lookin’ for, exactly?” Butts sneezed as he dialed a number. He was coming down with a cold, and his pockets bulged with tissues.
“Names and addresses of the owners,” Lee replied.
“How will we know when we find the right one?”
“We won’t,” Nelson growled from the corner, where he sat, sucking at an unlit cigarette, a phone book balanced on his lap. He was looking more cheerful than the previous day, since as it turned out, the FBI was too swamped to send anyone for at least a week.
“We’ll just start within a three-mile radius of the church, and go outward from there,” Lee said. “Assuming that he lives near his shop—”
“Which is a pretty big assumption,” Butts sniffled.
“Which, I was just going to say, is a pretty big assumption.”
“Hey,” Butts said, “do you remember the day that first girl died, and a locksmith showed up at the church? Claimed there was a broken lock in the basement?”
“Yeah,” Lee answered. “It turned out there was a broken lock, but no one seemed to know about it at the time.”
“You think that was him, coming in to check on his handiwork?”
“I think it’s likely. He’s been close to the investigation all along, it seems, in one form or another.”
“Too bad we didn’t detain him for questioning then.”
“How could we know?”
“Yeah,” Butts said. “I guess you’re right. Still, it really burns me that he was right there—”
“Never mind, Detective,” Chuck Morton said. “Let’s concentrate on the task at hand.”
They sat for about twenty minutes, dutifully collecting names and addresses of owners, when Lee chanced to put in a call to a place called Locktight Security Systems. It had a big ad splashed over half a page in the Yellow Pages.
We make sure that you stay safe—it’s our business! All the latest technology in locks and security systems
Lee dialed the number. A kid answered—unenthusiastic, bored.
“Locktight Security.”
“May I please speak with the owner?”
“Uh, he’s not here right now.”
“When will he return?”
“I dunno, really.”
“What’s his name—can you tell me that?”
“Uh, sure, I guess. It’s Sam. Sam Hughes—or Samuel, he likes to be called.”
“And he lives in…?”
“Queens. Not far from here. Can I ask who’s calling?”
“I’m an old friend. I’ll try back later—thanks.”
He hung up and sank back in his chair.
“What is it?” Chuck said, noticing him. “You got something?”
“I’m not sure. Remember how we kept seeing the name ‘Samuel Beckett’ on all those church volunteers lists?”
“Why, did it come up again?”
“Not exactly. Guy’s first name is Samuel, though. I just have a feeling. Let me try something.”
He called back, and when the boy answered, did a passable stab at an upper-class British accent.
“I say, my good man, I’m trying to get in touch with Mrs. Hughes, Samuel’s dear mother, old school chum of hers. He lives with her, I believe?”
There was a pause. Lee was afraid the kid wasn’t going to buy his act. But then he snickered.
“Yeah, sure he does. Guy’s pushing thirty, and he still lives with his mother.”
“I see. Do they still live on the same street—oh, what was it…?”
“Lourdes Street.”
“Yes, of course! Number—”
“Number 121.”
“Right. Thanks ever so much. Cheerio.”
He hung up, to find everyone staring at him.
“Cheerio?” Nelson said. “Cheerio?”
Lee made a face at him. “I was improvising.” He looked at Butts. “Want to go out to Queens and check this out?”
Butts muffled a sneeze in a wad of Kleenex. “Yep—you bet!”
Fifty minutes later, Lee and Detective Butts emerged into the diffuse glare of an