Page 90 of Den of Iniquity

“The money,” Sandy agreed with a nod. “This was in her van.Liberty Lake is faxing a search warrant for the storage unit here over to the Snohomish County Sheriff’s Office. I have a feeling that whatever we didn’t find at the residence is going to be here.”

Those hundred-dollar bills were exactly the confirmation I’d been waiting for. “We got her, didn’t we!”

“We sure as hell did,” Sandy replied with a smile.

At that point the YouStoreIt manager showed up and called Sandy aside. A flatbed tow truck arrived next. Once crime-scene photos had been taken, the truck driver hauled my sorry-looking S 550 away to a body shop in Everett. As that was happening, another deputy approached me.

“If you don’t mind, sir,” he said, “I’ll need to take you back to the station for an interview.”

“Fine,” I told him.

“Wait,” Scott said. “How are you going to get home? Once you finish with the interview, either I can take you, or Ben can.”

“No,” I said. “You guys head back to Seattle and don’t worry about me. I’ll handle it. If need be, I can always rent a car.”

The interview was no big deal, but it took time. Once that finished, it was three o’clock in the morning. Turns out renting cars in Everett, Washington, at that hour of the morning isn’t an option, so a young deputy named Donald Davison was dispatched to take me home to Bellingham.

“There was some kind of big deal up in Smokey Point tonight,” he commented as we pulled out of the parking lot. “Do you know what went on?”

No one had clued him in, so I did. “Your department, working in conjunction with Seattle PD, took down a serial killer.”

“No way! A real serial killer?”

Did I mention Deputy Davison was young?

“Yes,” I told him, “a real serial killer. We know of five victims so far but suspect there may be more out there.”

“How did they catch him?” Donald asked.

“It’s a her,” I corrected. “A woman named Constance Herzog who looks for all the world like the sweetest little old lady you’d ever hope to meet, which is one of the reasons she got away with doing what she did for so long. Too bad for her, she made a couple of mistakes along the way, and we were finally able to connect those dots.”

Deputy Davison was quiet for a time after that. Finally he asked, “Are you a cop, too?”

“Used to be,” I said. “Now I’m a private investigator. My client is the grandmother of one of Constance’s victims.”

“A private investigator,” he repeated. “Really? I always thought all they did was track down cheating spouses in divorce cases.”

“I always thought so, too,” I told him. “Turns out I was wrong.”

Much earlier, I had called Mel to let her know what was going on. She had offered to drive down to get me, but I told her not to bother. That was back when I still believed the car rental option would work. But when Donald pulled into our driveway and let me out at a little past four, the lights in the house were still on. She threw the door open before I ever got as far as the back porch. Not only was Mel there to greet me, so was a tail-wagging Sarah.

“You shouldn’t have waited up,” I told Mel after we’d exchanged a kiss. “You won’t be able to work on three hours’ worth of sleep.”

“I’m not going to,” she replied. “I’ve called in sick. I’m staying home so you can give me a complete debrief.”

“Fine,” I said, “but that’s going to have to wait until after I have a hot shower and a few hours of sleep.”

I was dead to the world before my head hit the pillow. When I woke up, it was 11:15a.m.on Tuesday. Mel had abandoned me, but I found Sarah snoozing on her doggie cushion on the floor next to my side of the bed. The two of us ambled into the living room together.

“It’s about time,” Mel said, greeting me without looking up from her computer. She may have been taking a sick day, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t working. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I’m not as young as I used to be,” I replied, as I headed into the kitchen to press the coffee button. It wasn’t until I was in the living room with my coffee that I got a good look at my wife’s face and realized something was wrong.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

Mel bit her lip, covered her mouth with her hand for a moment, and shook her head before answering. “George Pritchard committed suicide in his cell at the Whatcom County Jail last night,” she replied. “He hung himself with a bedsheet. They found him this morning at six. I didn’t think to ask that they place him on suicide watch, but I should have.”

Sitting down beside her, I already knew that there was no right thing to say in that moment, but I had to say something.

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