Taken by Tuesday
Page 69

Judy was everywhere.
Images tacked, stapled . . . strung around the room.
“Holy hell,” he heard Raskin say behind him.
Mitch Larson had only lived in the converted garage for a few months . . . that was according to the tenants of the front house. He didn’t have parties, came at strange times but never seemed to have anyone around so the people in the front house didn’t pay him much attention.
Seeing Judy on every wall, every surface, told Rick how sick the man who had her was. It also gave him hope she was still alive. Because as much as he was beating down any possible emotion that resembled grief, it lingered above his head like a cloud. Statistically, Judy was already dead.
When his mind went there, he pushed it away.
Hold on, baby. I’m coming.
They were closer. Though she wasn’t sitting in Larson’s rented space, they were closer to knowing the man who had her.
Police filled the space, lights flashed outside the residence like white noise from rain.
Several images kept playing in his head, pictures of Judy with the word General written over them in a juvenile hand, images of her home . . . the office building where she worked. There were even a few shots of her outside of Zach and Karen’s house taken the night of the fundraiser. Pictures taken by a private camera and not something printed in the local paper or gossip magazine. So Mitch had been watching her since then.
The images of her prior to coming to California were taken off the Internet, mainly with Michael in the shot and generated by the media.
The office building shots caught his attention. They didn’t hold images of Judy, just the building. The bastard had even taken pictures of the place he attacked her the first time. Question was, did he take the shots before or after he’d attacked her?
Outside Mitch’s place, Dennis and Russell were inside the van with Neil . . . all working hard to find out any information they could about Mitch Larson.
Rick’s gaze met that of a picture taken of Judy and Mike outside the café close to her office. She wasn’t wearing what she’d left the house in today, so the picture had to have been taken long before. In his ear, he heard Neil’s voice.
“He’s wannabe military.”
The information didn’t come as a surprise. “How wannabe?” he said into the mic, ignoring the detectives around him who were swiping for prints and photographing the scene.
“Enlisted only to feel the sting of rejection six months in. Army. Had a psychotic break while on a training mission.” Neil delivered the facts without emotion.
Rick diverted his attention away from the photographs. “What kind of break?”
“Challenged a superior officer. Female. Went through a series of tests and was discharged.”
“Dishonorable.”
“Is there another way six months in without an injury?”
“What else do we know?” Rick turned back to the images, knew something was there . . . he just needed to find it. Only the pictures were floor to ceiling and many were carved into while others had dried blood smeared all over them.
“He’s crazy, not stupid. Excelled in intelligence and details. First clue he wasn’t balanced was his desire to get close to his enemy. Guns aren’t his thing.”
Rick thought of the scars on Judy’s arm. “He likes knives.”
Neil paused. “Yeah.”
Rick knew a trip to the dentist was inevitable with how much he was grinding his back teeth. “Get close to your enemy. Feel their pain, their fear.”
Neil waited a second . . . maybe it was two. “We’re going to find her, Smiley.”
More images of the office building filled the wall of Larson’s bedroom.
The sick f**k slept in here . . . imagined whatever it was he was doing to Judy right now.
He had no intention of bringing her back here.
The room was littered with Judy’s image. Some were taken at the Beverly Hills home where even now her brothers and friends waited for any word on her well-being.
It was well past three in the morning, so no one was at the office except the lingering fire department and police that would guard the place until first light. Until arson could poke around with fresh eyes and a new outlook. None of them were actually looking for a missing wife.
Only Rick. He was looking for his wife.
The woman he married and swore to protect.
The thought of telling her father he didn’t find her in time ate at him. The thought of her lying lifeless . . . finding her dead and abused.
Rick closed his eyes and blew out a slow breath.
No.
He opened his eyes again, tuned out the noise around him, and focused. The wall in Larson’s bedroom showed images of Judy everywhere. Rick looked beyond the woman he loved . . . looked at the world surrounding her.
The office building loomed in many images.
The parking garage. Empty. Dirty.
The office.
Empty halls of concrete and grime. Every tenth image was of an abandoned space. In many were pictures of Judy cut out and standing, sitting in the space.
Cut up.
Bloody.
Rick touched the device in his ear. “Is there a basement in the building Judy works in?”
Neil said one word. “Checking.”
A few second later he heard him reply. “New building. No basement.”
Raskin tapped Rick’s shoulder. He jumped.
“I owe you an apology.”
Rick glared at the man. “You owe me more than that.”
Raskin offered a nod, turned back to the images in the room. Both of them worked to find her. Rick felt that now.
Dean stood in the corner of the room, fatigue sat behind his eyes like a drug.
None of them did anything other than drink bad coffee and keep looking for something . . . anything.
“Rick?”
Neil’s voice sounded hopeful.
“What?” Those around him, including Raskin, turned to look at him.
Rick held his ear, making it clear he was talking into a mic. “What?” he asked in a calmer voice.
“The building adjacent has a basement. Two floors under the main structure.”
Rick waited for the boom.
“Abandoned . . . secluded . . . easily reached by way of the garage.”
The hope in Rick’s chest expanded. He looked around the room again, couldn’t help the half smile on his face.
Rick turned from the room, made it a few feet before Raskin stopped him. The man leveled his eyes to his. “You know something.”
The smile on Rick’s lips dropped. “And you owe me.”
The tension in the detective’s jaw was palpable.