Eerie - Crouch Blake (читать книги онлайн без .txt) 📗

An electrical box another.

These were the only things in the basement that looked to have been built in the last fifty years.

There were mouse droppings everywhere, and the cellar-temperature air reeked of must.

Grant moved past an upright piano against the wall that stood draped in cobwebs. A third of its yellowed ivory keys were missing.

They stopped at the remnants of a work bench underneath the broken window.

The right-hand side of its surface had been smashed in.

“This where you dropped down into the basement?” Grant asked.

“Yeah.”

“Lucky you didn’t break your legs.”

“It was so dark, I couldn’t tell how far the drop was.”

Grant spotted a manila folder next to a rusty vise.

He set his candle down and opened it.

The first page was a spreadsheet entitled “Prior Tenants - 1990 to Present.” It consisted of three columns (Name/Dates of Occupancy/Contact Info) and nine rows of names.

Under the spreadsheet were a number of reports, each individually stapled, and all spring-clamped together. Grant recognized Stu’s handwriting on the first one.

6 out of 9 background checks, best I could do

Under the reports, he found one last item—a Residential Seller Property Disclosure. Across the top of this form, Stu had scrawled …

you owe me for this one

“This everything you asked Stu for?” Sophie said.

“Mostly.” Grant leaned down, squinting at the poor photocopy of the property disclosure, but the light was bad. “I can’t make any of this out.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out Sophie’s phone. It still had a three-quarter charge.

“Grant?”

“Yeah?”

“I can’t believe I’m about to have a serious conversation about this, but I have an observation.”

“Shoot.”

“In thinking about Seymour and Talbert and the other men, there’s a common theme which you appear to be overlooking.”

“What’s that?”

“Your sister.”

“Meaning …”

“This is her house. It’s her bedroom they’re all walking into and coming out like zombies. Or killing themselves.”

“Point being?”

“You’ve got all this background info on the house—and that’s useful—but are you sure you’re not missing something that’s staring you right in the face?”

“My sister is as much a victim—no, more so—than anyone. She’s a wreck.”

“But you have no idea what she’s been doing for the last five years. I mean … do you really even know her?”

“You’re suggesting maybe Paige is the cause of all this?”

“I’m saying you seem to be looking everywhere but the obvious direction.”

“She wasn’t even in her room when Don went up there, Sophie. And you think she’s somehow causing me to become violently ill when I step outside?”

“Who the hell knows? Assuming everything you’ve told me is true, we’re dealing with a rulebook we’ve never seen before.”

“Yes, she’s an addict and a prostitute who has fucked her own life from every possible position, but that doesn’t mean … what are you saying exactly? That Paige has put a—for lack of a better word—curse on this house? On me? On everyone who walks in? Does this mean she’s a witch? Come on.”

“Remember what you wrote in my birthday card last month?”

“Sure.”

“Say it back to me now.”

He shook his head.

“You forgot.”

“To Sophie. You’re the best partner I’ve ever had because you see cases from angles I could never reach.”

“Still believe that?” she asked.

“I do.”

“Still want to dismiss my input so quickly?”

One of the steps creaked bloody murder.

Grant turned and stared at the shadow of his sister.

Paige stood as still as a statue halfway down the staircase.

“Everything okay?” Grant asked.

“Dinner’s ready.” Her voice was flat, void of emotion, unreadable.

“Great.” He closed the manila folder and shelved it under his arm. “We’re coming up.”

Chapter 27

They sat at one end of the dining room table which Paige had forested in candles and cleared of the stacks of bills and junk mail. The grilled cheese sandwiches had been cut into triangles, and Paige ate quietly, eyes locked on her plate.

Grant and Sophie sat side-by-side, still cuffed together, perusing the contents of the folder. While Sophie skimmed the background reports, Grant studied the seller’s property disclosure, a form required by state law to be completed by a seller of real property in a real estate transaction. The seller was obligated to disclose the presence of any structural, water, sewer/septic, common interest issues, and the like to the buyer.

Additionally, in most states, including Washington, material facts—anything that could influence a buyer’s decision to purchase a home—had to be disclosed. This included a death on the property, particularly if violent or gruesome.

Grant flipped through the five-page document to one of the final questions:

Are there any other defects affecting the property known to the seller?

The “NO” box was checked.

Sophie said, “What’s wrong? You just sighed.”

“This disclosure form doesn’t tell me anything.”

“When did the property last change hands?”

Grant traced his finger to the bottom of the final page. The signature was indistinct, but he could read the date.

“Six years ago last March. Anything of note on your end?”

“There are actually seven background checks here. The first is on the current owner.”

“What’s their story?”

“Forty-nine year-old woman named Miranda Dupree. She’s out of state. Lives in Sacramento. Nothing juicy. Just your plain-vanilla rich bitch. She owns a bunch of properties through an LLC. The tenant prior to Paige—Terry Flowers—has had two DUIs.” She kept flipping. “Nothing else pops, but then again, Stu doesn’t have access to the major league databases.” Sophie dropped the reports on the table. “I don’t even know what we’re really looking for here, Grant.”

“You and me both. That’s how these things go, remember?”

“No, I’ve never had the pleasure of investigating a real haunted house before.”

“Resume builder.”

“Can’t wait to update mine with all this new and relevant experience I’m gaining. Promotion for sure.”

Grant grinned as he pulled out her phone and punched in a number.

“Who you calling?” Sophie asked.

“Station. You know who’s on tonight?”

“Frances, I think.”

“Good. She loves me.”

Frances answered two rings later with a voice of smoke-laced apathy. “Investigations.”

“Hi, Frances, it’s your favorite detective. How are you?”

“Well, I’m here, so draw your own conclusion.”

“Sophie and I are working on something and we’re away from our laptops. Would you mind running an address through NCIC and ViCAP?”

“Sure. One second. Okay, hit me.”

Grant stared across the table at his sister, looking for some reaction to what he was about to do, some sign of reassurance or disagreement. But she just chewed a bite of sandwich with complete absence, like she wasn’t even seated at the same table.

“Grant? You there?”

Was it worth the risk? Putting the address out there?

“Grant? Did I lose you?”

He said, “Twenty-two Crockett Street.”

He heard Frances typing.

“No love from ViCAP,” she said. More typing. “No love from NCIC.”

“Anything in our database? Maybe something that didn’t get entered into NCIC?”

Frances’s laugh sounded like rocks tumbling. “Like that could ever happen. Nothing in our database either.”

“I’m going to e-mail you a photo of a spreadsheet with nine names. I want you to run them all and call me back on Sophie’s cell with anything that pops.”

“And you need this by …”

“ASAFP.”

“Oh good. I was going to spend the night playing Minesweeper, but this will be so much more fun.”