Keller stops at the choke point that leads into the lot. A uniformed officer stationed in front of a sawhorse approaches.
“Good crime scene control,” Keller says, more to herself than to Atticus.
“The CSU team’s solid,” Atticus replies.
The officer peers into the car. Before Keller displays her badge, the officer seems to recognize Atticus and moves aside the sawhorse.
Keller drives slowly, her eyes sweeping the area for security cameras. The Dairy Creamery is a stand-alone structure. To the west, at the far end of the large lot, is a strip of businesses. A State Farm insurance office, a pet store, a sandwich place.
“I gotta warn you,” Atticus says, “the lead detective, Joe Arpeggio, can be a bit, ah, difficult.”
Keller makes no reply. She’s been dealing with difficult men—a nice way of saying condescending jackasses—her whole life, starting with her father.
The pair make their way past the police tape. Before entering, they sign a log and slip on surgical booties, latex gloves, and hair covers. Inside they’re met by a tall man with a mustache in a polo tucked into his jeans. He has dark crescents under his eyes.
Keller approaches, sticks out her hand. “I’m Sarah Keller.” She deliberately uses her first name, not her title, and smiles. Always best to start out friendly.
“We’re glad to have you on board,” Arpeggio says, as he squeezes her hand too tight. Why did they always feel the need to squeeze so tight? Arpeggio nods at Atticus.
“Walk you through the scene?”
Keller prefers to take things in without commentary, but again, better to play nice.
“That would be great.”
Arpeggio steps carefully in his foot coverings along the checkered floor past the small circular tables and behind the glass case containing tubs of ice cream.
“The three employees, two high school girls and their eighteen-year-old manager, were marched into the back room. There’s a panic button, a silent alarm, in case of a robbery or emergency.” He gestures to a small button mounted under the register. “None of them set off the alarm.”
“They knew the perp,” Keller says, a statement, not a question.
Arpeggio gives a one-shouldered shrug. “Or it all happened too fast.”
He turns to the back room. The door has a sign that reads, ICE CREAM MAKERS ONLY. Inside is a small space with commercial freezers and shelves packed with supplies. Stacks of napkins, cartons of plastic spoons, boxes of straws.
“All three employees were lined up facedown on the floor.”
Keller studies the area. No items seem out of place. No signs of a struggle. But three pools of blood stain the carpet. Atticus stares at the ugly red blots for a long time.
Arpeggio pushes through a side door that leads to a narrow hall with a single bathroom at the end. “Our survivor was in the bathroom. She didn’t see or hear anything and was knocked in the head the moment she came out. No clue why she was spared.”
“Were any knives missing from the shop?”
“We don’t think so,” Arpeggio says, his tone loaded with This has nothing to do with Blockbuster. Unlike the video store, the killer came prepared.
“Cell phones?”
Arpeggio shakes his head. “The unsub took them. Money was left in the register. Nothing else of value taken, as far as we can tell.”
Taking the phones suggests that there was something on them the killer didn’t want the authorities to see.
Arpeggio continues, “Cell company says all the phones went dark a few minutes after ten, just after closing. They’re pulling together detailed reports for all the phones, and should get them to us today, tomorrow at the latest.”
Keller nods approvingly.
Arpeggio looks at his watch. “I’ve gotta get over to the high school. Talk to the girls’ friends.”
“Mind if we tag along?” Keller asks. “It’s on my list. Vince Whitaker went to school there…”
Arpeggio eyes her suspiciously, then shrugs his reluctant assent.
CHAPTER 9
ELLA
Ella is surprised when she opens the apartment door and Brad is there. He’s supposed to be on a business trip.
“Oh, thank God, I was worried about you.” He’s standing, like he’s been pacing circles around their small living room. His suitcase sits by the door. He gives her a long, bewildered look. Clearly, her outfit isn’t helping things. “Where have you—”
“Work.” Ella tries to appear nonchalant as she throws her keys on the table. “You’re back early?” she says. “I thought you weren’t coming home until—”