Page 41 of The Smart Killer
“Attaboy!” Zeke said, rising from his seat. “Take good care of him, Darla,” he added, leaving the room and closing the door.
As the night wore on, the thumping music in the background drowned out the nagging voice of doubt in Zeke’s mind and the conversation with Gavin. He had come a long way from the high school dropout scraping by for survival. Now, he was a kingpin in the making, a puppet master pulling the strings of an intricate web of deception.
But as he looked around at the chaos he’d orchestrated, Zeke couldn’t shake the feeling that his empire of deception was built on shaky ground. How long could he keep this façade intact before things went bad? Only time would tell, and in his world, time was always in short supply.
12
Two steps forward, one step back, it was the story of every investigation. The progress in the case was dampened by another delay. Stephen Coleman, the head of Extech, was out of state presenting at a conference in Texas.
Noah hung up the phone and squeezed the bridge of his nose.
“No luck?” Porter asked, observing from his swivel chair. Noah had put him on the task of digging into the background on Lakeridge, seeing what kind of dirt could be found, if any. Anything to justify why someone might target them.
Noah tapped a pen against the table. “His assistant says he isn’t expected back for another two days.”
“When did he leave?”
“His flight went out this morning.”
Porter nodded. “So he was around when the deaths occurred.”
Noah returned to dig through the latest annual reports created by Extech that highlighted some of the security threats and hidden dangers overlooked by homeowners. It was eye-opening to understand the security gaps, how many smartdevices weren’t engineered to be secure, and that the potential of someone hacking into the home was high.
Noah turned, his mind spinning with possibilities. “Anything interesting pulled from the video footage from inside the homes?”
“Still working on it. It’s probably going to take days if not weeks.” Porter rolled his shoulder, working out some of the aches from being crunched at a computer for hours. “It’s mostly just everyday comings and goings. Nothing notable.”
“The exterior footage didn’t show anyone entering the homes. In all three cases, there was no sign of forced entry and no violence used. What if our suspect never enters but is hacking in and controlling these homes?” Noah asked.
Porter looked at him for a second, then turned and rifled through some papers on his desk. “Like this guy,” he said, tossing a stack before Noah. Noah glanced down at it while Porter continued, “I searched all the names, past and present, of those who have worked for Lakeridge Homes. Six years ago, a home security technician who worked for them was sentenced to 53 months in federal prison for hacking into customers’ video feeds. He installed the security systems and signed himself up as an authorized user — allowing himself to log in at any time and see what was happing inside a customer’s home.”
“Takes big brother to a whole new level.” Noah thumbed through the paperwork. “Alejandro Diaz.”
“That’s him. He didn’t just target one house; he targeted them all and had access to them all for over two years before they caught him. Apparently, they caught him after he added his email to their accounts. One of the customers complained about the unauthorized email. They revoked his access; he was fired, and law enforcement got involved. All customers were notified of the breach, and the system was updated. Interestingly, Lakeridge’s PR team seemed to have squashed it.”
“Obviously not well enough, though,” Noah added. “He’s been out of the can for two years. We got an address for this peeping tom?”
“He’s based out of Elizabethtown. After being released…” Porter shifted through the paperwork. “Here we go! He went back to living at his mother’s place.” Porter handed the address to Noah.
Noah rose from his desk. “Let’s go pay him a visit.”
The neighborhoodin Elizabethtown where Melissa Diaz’s home stood was a picture of neglect. Once proud residents, the houses were now weathered and worn, like aging relics of a forgotten time. The one-story abode was no exception. Its facade was marred by peeling paint, and the front yard had succumbed to wild overgrowth.
A rusted-out Chevy truck languished on cinder blocks, a testament to halted repairs. With the weight of heavy grey clouds, the atmosphere felt abandoned, as if the entire place held its breath, waiting for better days.
Noah and Porter stepped out of the Bronco, their eyes scanning the surroundings. The distant echoes of a barking dog filled the air, yet its source remained invisible, heightening their alertness. A series of stones led up to a worn wooden porch that creaked beneath their weight as they approached the front door.
Noah pulled at his shirt, the humidity clinging to his skin, a remnant of the earlier rain that had ceased. The breeze carried the scent of damp earth, mingling with a musty odor from the house.
Porter knocked on the door, the sound reverberating through the quiet street. Silence gripped them briefly before shufflingnoises emanated from inside the house. A curtain twitched, confirming their suspicion that someone was indeed home. After moments of anticipation, Noah called out, his voice firm yet respectful.
“Alejandro Diaz? I’m Detective Sutherland from State Police.”
Inside, there was more movement.
“You want me to go around back?” Porter asked.
Noah shook his head, holding a hand up. He listened and heard footsteps approach. He backed away from the door as the distinct clinking of locks began to disengage and reach their ears. The door cracked open slightly, stopped by a security chain. A pair of wary eyes belonging to a woman with straggly grey hair peered through the narrow gap, assessing the two detectives cautiously.
