He stared at me for several seconds before replying, “The school needs to take better records.”
He was lying.
Rivera knew that; the team listening to this conversation knew that.
A stranger off the fucking street would know that.
Little could have used an alias, so nothing could be traced back to him, or he’d never attended the class in the first place.
“Mr. Little, what class was it that you took with Miss Mills?”
There was another pause and then, “A business course.”
“Mills was enrolled in Communications II and Basic Algebra,” the team member said in my ear.
Now, I knew this entire story was a facade.
While Rivera began another trip around the living room, I asked, “Where was that photo taken?”
Little scratched his arm, his stare on Rivera, eventually saying, “Some house she took me to in Dorchester. I don’t know where it was.”
“So, your relationship extended beyond sex?”
“We went there to fuck. So, no, it was just sex.”
Rivera stood next to the end table, only a foot from Little, and said, “Where were you on the evening of September twenty-seventh?”
Little laughed, his head falling back against the pillow, the movement causing his glasses to slip toward the tip of his nose. Interestingly, he didn’t lift them. “You honestly want me to remember that? I can hardly recall yesterday. I certainly can’t remember a date that long ago.”
There was something about this man that rubbed me the wrong way, like the needle of a mosquito inserting into your skin. It wasn’t just his voice. It was his entire demeanor. I had this throbbing feeling that every word that came out of his mouth was a goddamn lie.
But I knew from experience, if we just kept him talking, those lies would eventually unravel.
Men like him could only hide in the dark for so long before the sun revealed their integrity.
That was what Rivera, my team, and myself were today.
The fucking sun.
“So, you don’t know where you were on the evening of September twenty-seventh,” I began, feeding his dishonesty. “How about we ask you something simpler, like, are you enrolled in any classes this semester?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I’m taking the semester off. Work has become extremely busy, and I want to relax at night.”
“You mean … to redecorate?” Rivera said, now standing by the wall that lined the staircase to the second floor.
“Excuse me?” Little inquired.
Rivera knelt down, looking around the bookcase that was against the wall. “Do you move your furniture around a lot?” He looked at me and then to Little. “You know, move the couch here”—he pointed at the wall on the right side of us—“and switch the bookcase to over there.” He used his finger to aim at the spot where the couch was presently placed.
I had no idea where Rivera was going with this, so my gaze was focused on Little.
“No. I don’t move anything.”
“Your hardwood floor says otherwise,” Rivera said. “In fact, it appears that this bookcase has been moved quite frequently from the amount of wear you have underneath.”
Little’s foot started to bounce. The heel that was on the floor now making a noise. Once he noticed, he stopped. But his breathing still increased, his chest rising and falling.
The same floor was throughout the entire room, and I reached down to feel its texture. The material was quality, durable. It would certainly hold up unless there was a constant grinding or movement, like Rivera had suggested.
“These scratches are significant, Mr. Little,” Rivera continued. “And I see that this bookcase is on wheels, which is an odd addition to a piece of furniture like this.”
Rivera gave a slight push against the side of the shelves, and the bookcase rolled forward, slowly revealing a metal door behind it.
One that was large enough to fit through and was deadbolted shut with three padlocks hanging from the side.
“Sit the fuck back down!” I shouted at Little as he stood and tried to take a step, my gun out of its holster and pointed at him. “Put your fucking hands in the air.”
“We’re on our way in,” the team member said in my ear.
Little returned his ass to the couch, his hands raised.
“Where does the door lead to?” I pressed him.
The team came charging inside, guns pointed at Little.
“Answer the question,” I barked.
He was quiet, looking at every person in the room.
All of us waiting for an answer.
“The county records show this home has no basement, that your house is sitting on solid dirt,” I said. “So, for the third time, tell us where the door leads to, Mr. Little.”
He took several breaths, his eyes darting from the front door to the metal one, like any of us in here was stupid enough to let him escape. “I want my lawyer.”
The words every guilty motherfucker declared the moment they were caught.
I looked at the team and shouted, “Get him cuffed and get him out of here, and let’s get that metal door open!”
While one of the team members put handcuffs on Little and brought him outside, the others were working on the metal locks. Cutters eventually snapped them off one at a time, and Rivera was standing in front of the door when it was opened.
“What’s down there?” I asked from behind him.
“I can’t see anything aside from a set of wooden stairs.” He shifted a few inches to the side, handing me a flashlight. “You do the honors, Flynn.”
I shone the light into the hole and crouched through the small opening. I was careful when I stepped down, not sure of the stability of the steps. Something told me Little had used his engineering background to construct this staircase along with whatever was below. That meant, I didn’t trust it. There could be traps, false stairs—anything was possible.
I slowly descended, checking the stability of each stair, and halfway down was when I saw the shape of a woman, huddled in a corner, making it difficult to distinguish more than just the outline of her body.
“Someone is down here,” I yelled up.
Rivera was already on the top step, using the same speed as me, an officer behind him waiting to climb down as well.
Still cautious about the remaining stairs, I finally reached the bottom and did a quick scan of the small space. Slightly larger than a typical dorm room, there were no windows, a single bulb dangling from the ceiling providing the only light.
The girl’s knees were tucked against her chest, face buried beneath her arms. Her eyes, the single part of her that showed, were glued to me.
“Kerry Mills?” I asked as I took a few steps closer.
As her arms loosened, a doll appeared that she’d been hugging to her chest.
Her forearms dropped even lower, her whole face now revealed. Even though there was dirt and muck on her cheeks, her body much frailer than her photos, there was no question who I was looking at.
“Yes,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “That’s me.”
I took out my wallet, showing her my badge, hoping that would give her a piece of comfort. “I’m Detective Flynn.” I turned, pointing to my partner, who had just reached the bottom of the stairs. “That’s Detective Rivera. Kerry, we’re here to take you home.”