Ride the Wreck (Stonewall Investigations Blue Creek 2)

Well, I’ll tell you how.

By reading the text that dinged into my phone, Ryan’s name directly above it, terrible news directly below.

17

Ryan Diaz

Today was my interview with Walter Hooper, suspect number one. I expected to have a difficult time trying to nail him down, but he answered my call on the first ring and immediately said yes when I asked if we could meet. It didn’t raise or detract from any of my suspicions—I expected that to happen during our talk—but at least it made my job a hell of a lot easier. Normally I had to find ways of confronting suspects out in public, since they regularly denied wanting to talk to a detective. It didn’t always mean someone was guilty if they didn’t want to sit down with me, but it also didn’t shine a light on their innocence either.

I didn’t have to bump into Walter at a park or grocery store. He invited me right into his home, a flipped one-story farmhouse located directly on the outskirts of the Blades, an area of Blue Creek that wasn’t exactly known for its hospitality. There were two cars parked in the garage, well-kept with a fresh sheen, implying a recent wash. An oak tree spread its shady branches over the house, making it noticeably cooler as I stepped onto the porch and rang the doorbell.

It didn’t take long for the lock to click and a pleasant, smiling woman appeared behind the screen door. She had curly red hair and soda-can-thick glasses that made her brown eyes slightly bug-like.

“Hi there, we’re all good on vacuums, sir.”

Vacuums? Are people still selling those door to door?

“Oh, uhm, no, sorry,” I said, a little taken aback by the time traveling that just happened. “I’m here to talk with Walter. I believe I got the address right. It’s—”

“Walter, yes, he’s in his room. Let me get him.” The woman, who I now assumed to be Walter’s mom, opened the door and let me in while she shouted over her shoulder for Walter. Two loud black-and-white Pomeranians turned the corner and ran at me like they wanted a blood sacrifice.

Walter’s mom expertly swung down and scooped both of the guard dogs off the floor before they had a chance to latch onto my ankles. Behind the bloodthirsty pups came Walter, looking much less animated than the dogs. He rubbed at his eyes, sliding his feet in a pair of socks that appeared to be more holes than fabric. His wrinkled white tee and plaid pajama pants completed the “just woke up from a six-feet-deep nap” look.

“Crap,” he said, squeezing the bridge of his nose. “My alarm didn’t go off.”

“That’s fine,” I said. I didn’t want anything getting in the way of this interview. I’d sit down and wait for Walter to drink two cups of coffee if that’s what it took.

“Come on.” Walter put a fist to his mouth, covering a jaw-splitting yawn. He slipped on some shoes by the door. “We can talk in the backyard.”

His mom offered to bring us a pitcher of lemonade after she got Clyde and Bonnie their lunch. I thanked her and followed Walter out of the house, stepping over the encroaching roots of the oak tree. The yard wasn’t as well cared for as the front. Patches of tall weeds grew above the already wild-looking grass. A rusty swing set sat next to a couple of buckets holding water that looked toxic enough to fuck up an entire city. I sat down on a cushion-covered bench and immediately regretted it, water soaking through the back of my pants.

I leaped up.

“Ah shit, sorry, those are always wet,” Walter said, pulling over two of the most uncomfortable-looking chairs I’d ever seen.

“That’s fine.” Again, I didn’t want anything messing up this interview, and if that meant I had to do it with my ass soaked through, then so be it. “Thanks for meeting with me.”

“Yeah, no problem.” Walter sat across from me, hands cupped in his lap. He didn’t make much eye contact, and the little he did make was broken by the hair that would fall across his forehead. “What is it you need?”

“I need some help,” I answered, deciding it was okay if Walter took the reins for right now. The more the interviewee felt like they were in control, the more they tended to divulge. “I’m sure you’ve heard the talk about there being a stalker in Blue Creek, and they’ve been targeting one of my clients, Elijah King.”

Walter looked up, surprised eyes finally making prolonged contact with mine. “No, I haven’t heard that, no. A stalker, really?”

I kept my expression neutral. “Yes, ever since Elijah started performing in drag.”

His gaze snapped back down at his feet. “Elijah… damn. I didn’t know. Is that why— that’s why he won’t ever speak to me? Oh my god, you think I’m the stalker, don’t you?” Walter got up on his feet. Not a great start to this.