Silent Victim - C. E. Lawrence [135]
“His mother.” Lee finished for him.
“So Perkins convinces him to kill Ana—why?”
“Maybe so she won’t rat him out to the authorities about their affair,” Lee reasoned. “Her diary did suggest she was going to confront someone, which fits in with what Charlotte told me.”
“But then why would this Caleb guy kill Dr. Perkins?” Officer Anderson said.
“Jealousy,” Butts answered. “Oldest motive in the book. He finds out somehow that Perkins was sleeping with Ana—”
“Maybe Charlotte told him!” Anderson suggested, making no attempt to hide his excitement.
“So if he’s abducted Charlotte,” Lee continued, “in his mind—”
This time Butts finished for him. “He’s kidnapping his mother.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
Caleb’s real identity was indeed Eric McNamara, and according to his file, he lived in Sergeantsville, one of the tiny hamlets nestled amid the rolling farmland of Hunterdon County, to the northeast of Stockton.
“Well, what are we waitin’ for?” Butts said. “Let’s go!”
They went outside to get Diesel, who was still standing guard by the front door, leaving Officer Anderson to deal with the CSI team just arriving from Trenton. The young policeman gazed out wistfully from the porch as the three of them climbed into the old Ford. Butts cranked up the engine, and they sped off in a cloud of blue smoke.
The hills of Hunterdon County were not ideal for the enormous rattrap of a car, especially not at the speed Butts was driving. Lee avoided looking at the speedometer, but held his breath each time they bounded up the crest of a blind hill or careened around a sharp curve. Lee glanced at the backseat to see how their passenger was taking it. He was irritated to see Diesel looking calmly out the window, his powerful hands folded in his lap, taking in the scenery as though they were on a leisurely Sunday drive instead of pursuing a murder suspect.
They had tried calling Lee’s cell phone periodically, with no luck. It went straight to voice mail, indicating that either the phone was turned off or the battery was dead.
Butts gunned the engine up a steep hill, zooming past stone houses with freshly painted wood fences and elaborately landscaped properties. This was where the moneyed classes moved when they retired—those who had too much class to move to Boca or Orlando, and enough money to winter in Florida and spend summers here. “What do you reckon the chances are he’ll be there?”
“Probably not very good,” Lee said. There was no question of calling ahead—the worst thing they could do was alert a suspect ahead of time. The only thing they could do was go there and hope to find him.
But Lee figured he was too smart to be anywhere near home, if he had in fact kidnapped Charlotte, and especially if he had murdered Perkins. The attack did show signs of frenzy and overkill, but the killer had been clever at hiding his tracks so far, and Lee thought it likely he had regained his wits soon after killing Perkins. He had enough presence of mind to take the murder weapon with him.
Of course, there was still a chance Charlotte had killed her brother and made a run for it, but he didn’t think so. He couldn’t see her sending a text message asking for help, then picking up a heavy object and wielding it with enough force to do the kind of damage they had seen. And he definitely didn’t see her taking Krieger in a fair fight.
They found the house at the end of a narrow street a mile or so from the center of the little town, which consisted of an upscale restaurant and a few shops. There was no car in the driveway, and no sign of life in the house. Butts parked at the end of the drive, and the three of them got out of the car quietly.
“Why don’t you stay here and be lookout?” Butts told Diesel as he and Lee started up the dirt driveway.
Lee was sorry leave him behind—if there was a struggle, the powerful Diesel would be more useful than either the pudgy little detective or himself. But they were in delicate legal territory; he and Butts were