Read Online 15 Amityville Horrible by Kelley Armstrong - Free Book Online
Authors: Kelley Armstrong
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where Polly had gone…that’s where the connection between the girls and my ghosts fell into place.
Polly hadn’t left with a “boy.” She’d left with a man—a thirty-five-year-old chaperone at the dance. He said he was driving her home, but the investigation found they’d made a pitstop at the inn where I’d seen her ghost. He’d admitted they’d stopped there, but only because she needed to use “the facilities.” Which didn’t explain the witnesses who’d heard them arguing because Polly changed her mind about getting a room. They fought. She took off. She was never seen again. Her “date” was questioned, but it seems that after the fight, he’d gone straight to the inn’s lounge, gotten plastered and passed out. A half-dozen witnesses attested to it.
That was Polly’s connection to the inn. The other two girls had one, too. The first, Clara Davis, had been attending a wedding reception in a rival inn, a street away, now long gone. The third, Dawn Alvarez, had worked as a chambermaid in the inn, and had vanished on her way home.
Little had been made of the connection. Given the decades between the disappearances, that isn’t surprising. None of the three had actually been at the inn when they vanished. Maybe money changed hands to ensure the connection was left out of media accounts. People might like to stay in a haunted inn, but “resident serial killer” really doesn’t have the same marketing hook.
“Which is why the cases didn’t turn up the first time I searched,” Elena said. “There aren’t many references to the inn and, when there is, it’s usually just called a ‘local inn’.”
“Plus they aren’t crimes,” I said. “Just disappearances. I’d originally asked you to look for murders.”
She made a noise in her throat, as if this didn’t excuse the oversight. “Multiple missing young women is usually the first sign of a serial killer at work. Or a man-killing mutt.”
“Could that be what we have? That would explain the time frame. Werewolves live longer.”
I glanced back at Jeremy for his input. He was on the bed but didn’t hear me. He was too busy sketching. Which meant he was worried. He doesn’t only sketch when he’s stressed—that would be a hard way for an artist to make a living—but if he is, it settles his mind. It also takes him someplace not quite reachable, which is why he missed the werewolf comment.
I turned my attention back to Elena as she said, “It’s possible. A werewolf killer would explain the lack of bodies—he took them away to eat. But I can’t recall ever seeing a mutt kill with a knife. It wouldn’t satisfy the hunting instinct. They’re more…hands on. And a mutt sure as hell wouldn’t be sending notes to the papers. Again, that’s classic serial killer.”
“So what do you make of the notes?”
She paused. Clay rumbled something in the background.
“What’s his verdict?” I asked.
“He thinks they’re fakes. We only have one anonymous tipster claiming any knowledge of them, so that makes him suspicious.”
“You disagree?”
Another pause. “I would, if I could blame the TV studio. Those ghosts weren’t fake though, which makes it hard to reconcile with phony notes.”
“How does Clay reconcile it?”
“He doesn’t.” A low rumble and Elena’s voice faded as she moved the phone to speak to him. “Well, you don’t. You just say they’re obviously fake.”
He said something, again too low for me to hear.
“Yeah, yeah,” Elena said. “Get back to us when you have an actual theory.”
“Do you have a theory?” I asked.
“Nothing but the obvious. The killer sends the note. The guy who gets it is a young reporter, who decides it’s a crank and files it away. Second note comes thirty years later, and he does an ‘oh, shit.’ He can hand over both notes and take his lumps. Or he can just hide the second. He picks option B. The third note comes thirty years later again, which means our guy
Polly hadn’t left with a “boy.” She’d left with a man—a thirty-five-year-old chaperone at the dance. He said he was driving her home, but the investigation found they’d made a pitstop at the inn where I’d seen her ghost. He’d admitted they’d stopped there, but only because she needed to use “the facilities.” Which didn’t explain the witnesses who’d heard them arguing because Polly changed her mind about getting a room. They fought. She took off. She was never seen again. Her “date” was questioned, but it seems that after the fight, he’d gone straight to the inn’s lounge, gotten plastered and passed out. A half-dozen witnesses attested to it.
That was Polly’s connection to the inn. The other two girls had one, too. The first, Clara Davis, had been attending a wedding reception in a rival inn, a street away, now long gone. The third, Dawn Alvarez, had worked as a chambermaid in the inn, and had vanished on her way home.
Little had been made of the connection. Given the decades between the disappearances, that isn’t surprising. None of the three had actually been at the inn when they vanished. Maybe money changed hands to ensure the connection was left out of media accounts. People might like to stay in a haunted inn, but “resident serial killer” really doesn’t have the same marketing hook.
“Which is why the cases didn’t turn up the first time I searched,” Elena said. “There aren’t many references to the inn and, when there is, it’s usually just called a ‘local inn’.”
“Plus they aren’t crimes,” I said. “Just disappearances. I’d originally asked you to look for murders.”
She made a noise in her throat, as if this didn’t excuse the oversight. “Multiple missing young women is usually the first sign of a serial killer at work. Or a man-killing mutt.”
“Could that be what we have? That would explain the time frame. Werewolves live longer.”
I glanced back at Jeremy for his input. He was on the bed but didn’t hear me. He was too busy sketching. Which meant he was worried. He doesn’t only sketch when he’s stressed—that would be a hard way for an artist to make a living—but if he is, it settles his mind. It also takes him someplace not quite reachable, which is why he missed the werewolf comment.
I turned my attention back to Elena as she said, “It’s possible. A werewolf killer would explain the lack of bodies—he took them away to eat. But I can’t recall ever seeing a mutt kill with a knife. It wouldn’t satisfy the hunting instinct. They’re more…hands on. And a mutt sure as hell wouldn’t be sending notes to the papers. Again, that’s classic serial killer.”
“So what do you make of the notes?”
She paused. Clay rumbled something in the background.
“What’s his verdict?” I asked.
“He thinks they’re fakes. We only have one anonymous tipster claiming any knowledge of them, so that makes him suspicious.”
“You disagree?”
Another pause. “I would, if I could blame the TV studio. Those ghosts weren’t fake though, which makes it hard to reconcile with phony notes.”
“How does Clay reconcile it?”
“He doesn’t.” A low rumble and Elena’s voice faded as she moved the phone to speak to him. “Well, you don’t. You just say they’re obviously fake.”
He said something, again too low for me to hear.
“Yeah, yeah,” Elena said. “Get back to us when you have an actual theory.”
“Do you have a theory?” I asked.
“Nothing but the obvious. The killer sends the note. The guy who gets it is a young reporter, who decides it’s a crank and files it away. Second note comes thirty years later, and he does an ‘oh, shit.’ He can hand over both notes and take his lumps. Or he can just hide the second. He picks option B. The third note comes thirty years later again, which means our guy
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