Stealing Faces - Michael Prescott [125]
“Right.”
“I saw you here the night you collared her. My name’s Collins. I always wanted to be a cop.”
“Roy Shepherd.”
“Yeah, I know. That was nice work, what you did.”
We’ll see how nice it was, Shepherd thought grimly.
“Any idea where Dr. Cray might be?” he asked Collins.
“Oh, probably out helping to look for McMillan.” The guard shrugged. “I get stuck playing sentry at a goddamned driveway. Waste of time. She won’t come here.”
“No?”
“She’ll try to go over the fence, like she did last time. But she won’t make it. Security’s tighter than it was way back when. At least that’s what the older guys tell me.”
Shepherd figured that he himself would qualify as an older guy in Collins’ estimation. The guard must be all of twenty-two. “So you’ve been standing post for the last few minutes?”
“Yeah. No action. Maybe you can find Cray out in the yard. I can radio the boss and ask him about it.”
Shepherd didn’t want to give Cray any warning. “That’s not necessary.” He turned back toward his car.
“It’s no problem,” Collins said, eager to help. “I was going to do it anyway. I think Dr. Cray forgot something of his, which he might want.”
Shepherd looked at him. “What did he forget?”
“His black bag. His medical kit, you know. He left it on the sofa. He’ll need it if he has to subdue McMillan with a sedative.”
“You were inside the house?”
“No, saw it through the window. Shouldn’t have been peeking in, but ...”
“Which window?”
“Living room. Right there.”
Shepherd stepped to the bay window near the front door and looked in.
The sofa lay adjacent to the window, the black bag clearly visible. It had been left open, the drawstring clasp untied.
He had seen Cray’s medical kit on the night of Kaylie’s arrest. This wasn’t it. This was ...
A bag. Kaylie’s voice on tape came back to him. A satchel. It’s got all his stuff, the stuff he uses to break into places and kidnap women.
Shepherd’s heart quickened. “You have a key to this house?”
“Dr. Cray’s residence? No way. Nobody ever goes in there.”
“Until now,” Shepherd said, and with a thrust of his elbow he punched through a three-foot pane of the bay window, then swept the glass shards clear of the frame with his jacket sleeve.
“Hey, Roy—I mean, Detective—I mean ...” Panic jumped in the guard’s voice. “I mean, what the hell are you fucking doing?”
“I’m taking a look at what’s inside that bag.”
Shepherd climbed through the window, onto the couch, then grabbed the satchel and dumped its contents on a teakwood coffee table.
Duct tape, glass cutter, suction cup, locksmith tools, Glock pistol with a spare magazine ...
It was true, then—what Kaylie had said. All true.
“Roy.” Collins, at the window. “I gotta radio my boss about this. I’ll lose my damn job—”
“I thought you didn’t like this job. I thought you wanted to be a cop.”
“Well ... yeah.”
“Then get in here. I need you to find a phone and make a call.” Shepherd found Chuck Wheelihan’s name in his address book and read off the undersheriff’s home phone number. “Say I need some backup fast. All the patrol units they’ve got. But no lights and siren. They come in quietly. Okay?”
“Shit, Detective, what is going on?”
“Just do it.”
Shepherd left the living room while Collins was still scrambling through the window.
The house was large. He had no time to do a thorough inspection. But he had to check out the obvious places.
Kaylie had told him to search the house, had insisted Cray kept his trophies inside. She’d been right about the rest of it. Maybe about this part too.
He made a quick circuit of the ground floor—den, bathroom, kitchen. The freezer held no surprises.
Garage? The Lexus was parked in there. He found some tools in a cabinet, cans of paint and other innocuous items on the shelves.
He stepped back into the alcove that led to the garage, then noticed another door. He opened it. Stairs descended into the dark.
A cellar.
Shepherd knew then. He knew even before he found the wall switch just inside the doorway and switched on the single, unshaded ceiling bulb.
I steal their