I slowed as I approached the turnoff directly to the south of where the red dot had now come to rest. By then, businesses had thinned out. Since my stopping there might have attracted unwanted attention, I motored on past. As I did so, I noticed that the building in question was a YouStoreIt facility surrounded by a stout fence and with a closed gate barring the single lane entrance.

  The idea of Constance having a storage unit—especially one located out of town—made total sense. Since the search team had found nothing of evidentiary value at her residence, it was probably all stored here, including, no doubt, the missing van itself.

  I called Scott. “Where are you?”

  “Lynnwood and heading north.”

  “Set your GPS for the YouStoreIt on 172nd in Smokey Point,” I told him. “That’s where she is. Let Sandy know she’ll most likely need another search warrant to cover the storage unit. I’m guessing Constance is about to ditch the Prius and head out in the minivan. If she does that, the AirTag will be useless.”

  “I’ll let her know,” Scott said. “We’ll be there soon. In the meantime, don’t do anything stupid.”

  “Roger that,” I replied.

  Half a mile farther down the road, I made an illegal U-turn and headed back west. Scotty’s advice was well taken, but . . . I may have been excluded from the search warrant team in Seattle, but Smokey Point is a hell of a long way outside Seattle’s city limits, and I’d be damned if I was going to miss out on this one, too.

  During my second pass of the storage facility, I paid close attention to the fence. Obviously the owner had serious concerns about possible thievery. The eight-foot-tall chain link was topped by a layer of rolled razor wire. The gate itself looked sturdy enough, but that was the facility’s sole weak point, and that’s what I targeted.

  The entrance itself was one lane wide. There were signs posted on the gate, but I was too far away to read them. Since Constance had been able to let herself onto the grounds, I suspected that the entrance was equipped with some kind of keypad arrangement that allowed customers to come and go even when no employees were present.

  Months earlier, I had been involved in a missing persons case in Alaska that had suddenly morphed into a homicide. With the perpetrator about to fly the coop in a private aircraft, my driver at the time, a memorable character named Twinkle Winkleman, had come to my rescue by smashing through an airport security gate in her aging International Travelall. Twink stopped the fleeing Cessna in a nose-to-nose standoff out on the tarmac.

  Studying the gate, I came face-to-face with my own Twinkle Winkleman moment. If I parked my Mercedes directly parallel to the gate itself, Constance would be trapped. Her only way out of the facility would be blocked. She might be able to open the gate itself, but to get away, she’d have to go through or around my aging but beloved S 550.

  Having decided on a strategy, I immediately put it into action. On my next pass, this time with headlights off, I turned into the storage facility’s entrance. It took some backing and forthing to maneuver the Mercedes into place parallel with the gate. Once it was in position, I grabbed Sandy’s phone and mine, too, and bailed. If Constance decided to try smashing her way through the barrier, I didn’t want to be anywhere inside that vehicle.

  Out of force of habit, I always carry a bulletproof vest in my trunk. I thought about grabbing it on my way past, but I was afraid the sound of the trunk opening and closing might attract unwanted attention. Besides, as far as I knew, Constance Herzog murdered people with drugs and knives. There had never been any hint of her using firearms.

  It had stopped raining, but outside the vehicle it was bitingly cold. That morning when I left home, I hadn’t anticipated being out in the weather for any length of time. Knowing I’d be riding in a heated vehicle and going in and out of heated buildings, I’d seen no need to bring along cold-weather gear. I was dressed like detectives should be—in a suit and tie—which was good for camouflage on a dark winter’s night, but didn’t do a damned thing to keep out the icy chill.

  The area around the entrance gate was well lit, so I quickly moved out of the glow of that and huddled behind the welcome barrier of a stout wooden telephone pole half a block away. I had tucked in behind it and was breathing in the odor of creosote when my phone went off. The shrill sound cutting through the stillness startled me. Afraid Constance might have heard the noise, I answered in a hoarse whisper.

  “What?”

  “According to the GPS, we’re fifteen minutes out. How are things?”

  “All’s quiet on the western front,” I assured him. “I’ll let you know if that changes.”

  I thought it best not to mention that my beloved Mercedes had suddenly been transformed into a sacrificial lamb. Call it a sin of omission. I wasn’t exactly lying to my son, because things really were quiet at that very moment, but I had no idea how long they would stay that way. Once the call ended, I switched the ringers on both phones to silent and waited for something to happen, and nothing did—for the next interminable five minutes.

  But then a light flashed on inside the facility. At the time I had been standing in the dark long enough for my eyes to readjust. I was able to make out that YouStoreIt consisted of one large multistory structure as well as four rows of single-story buildings, all of them separated by narrow strips of pavement.

  The glowing headlights appeared to be located between the third and fourth set of low-lying buildings. I caught a slight bit of movement of the lights before they stopped again. With no traffic noise, I heard a car door open and close as clear as a bell. Seconds later another set of headlights joined the first. This time there was a tiny bit of movement on my AirTag monitor. The vehicle edged forward a few feet before turning abruptly to the left and then, only a few yards later, coming to a full stop. At that point the second set of headlights vanished.

  That meant Constance was doing exactly what I had expected, ditching the Prius in the storage unit and taking the minivan on the road. In terms of my Mercedes, that wasn’t good news since the van was a much larger vehicle and could do far more damage.

  Gluing myself to the back of my sturdy phone pole, I waited, holding my breath, to see what would happen next. Moments later a pair of headlights emerged from between the buildings and came snaking toward the gate where the vehicle again came to a stop. The gate was built to swing open into the property. I’m not sure if Constance even realized the Mercedes was there until after the gate opened and the van was back in motion. At that point, she slammed on the brakes and laid on the horn. When nothing happened, she gave the horn another blast.

  If I’d been in her situation on the wrong side of that makeshift barrier, I would have eased the van up to the rear of the parked vehicle and started pushing there. With the weight of the engine in the front, the center of gravity on most vehicles is slightly more than halfway between the front and back bumpers, causing the rear end to weigh a bit less than the front. Once I’d eased the parked car aside far enough for me to squeeze past, I’d be able to head for the hills.

  That’s what I was expecting, but it isn’t what I got. Instead, Constance Herzog rolled down the minivan’s driver’s-side window and fired six shots one after another directly into the passenger side of my once beautiful Mercedes, shattering both the front and back windows in the process. So much for her not having a gun. And so much for my not doing anything stupid since my vest was still in the trunk. Even so, my immediate response was by the book. I held up my phone, punched in Scott’s number, and announced those words every cop dreads hearing: “Shots fired.”

  “What?” he demanded.

  “You heard me,” I muttered. “Shots fired. Send backup.”

  It wasn’t exactly your standard father/son conversation, and Scott’s response wasn’t, either. “What’s your location?”

  “Outside the front entrance of YouStoreIt on the north side of 172nd Street in Smokey Point.”

  “Contacting the Snohomish County Sheriff’s Office,” he said and rang off.

  I was worried Constance might have heard that exchange, although it seemed likely that the roar of those gunshots would have temporarily disrupted her hearing. All I could hope was that the telephone pole was still providing enough cover to keep her from knowing where I was.

  For the better part of a minute, nothing happened. When the door of the minivan opened and she emerged, I could tell from the light inside the vehicle that she was still holding the handgun. That’s when I realized that she had used that short interval to reload. She stood there for several seconds, swiveling her head from side to side as if trying to locate the owner of the parked car.

  I had no idea how long it would take for reinforcements to arrive on the scene, so trusting my safety to that massive piece of Douglas fir, I attempted to engage her in conversation.

  “It’s over, Constance,” I told her. “Put down your weapon and get on your knees.”

  She didn’t do either. “That’s not a cop car,” she responded. “Who the hell are you?”

  “I’m a private investigator,” I said, “hired by the grandmother of one of your homicide victims, but I’m really working for all of them, Constance. And I’m going to take great pleasure in putting you away for the rest of your life.”

  “Like hell you are,” she replied. Then, in what must have been a blind panic, she climbed into the minivan, shoved the gas pedal to the floor, and slammed into the passenger side of my poor Mercedes, striking it directly amidships. Although the vehicle hardly budged, the alarm went off letting anyone within hearing distance know that someone had just whacked the hell out of it. But did Constance quit then? She most certainly did not! Instead, she backed up a few yards, hit the gas, and slammed into it again.

  In the meantime, I heard the welcome sound of approaching sirens wailing in the distance, but I stayed put behind my pole. Constance Herzog was still armed and dangerous, and it was a good thing she still had no idea where I was hiding.

  Moments later a bevy of cop cars rolled up on the scene. Armed officers, some of them carrying Kevlar shields, began spilling out, but none of them were able to put a stop to the pathetic bleating of my stricken Mercedes. To do that, you need a key, and the key was still in my pocket.

  I stayed right where I was, thanking my lucky stars Constance Herzog hadn’t shot me. If she had and Scotty had found my vest still in the trunk, there would have been hell to pay. I might not have died from the gunshot wounds, but someone else would have taken me out, and it would have been a footrace to see who got to me first—Scott Beaumont or Melissa Soames.

  My money is on the latter.

  Chapter 41

  Bellingham, Washington

  Monday to Tuesday, March 9–10, 2020

  What happens after the adrenaline rush wears off is like stepping out of a hot shower into a cold one. With an immediate threat handled, time slows to a crawl.

  I watched from afar as Snohomish County deputies ordered Constance to drop the gun and get on her knees. Then, without further protest from her, they put her in cuffs and walked her back to a waiting patrol car. Suddenly the missing arrest warrant from Liberty Lake no longer mattered. That night she was going to jail on charges of property damage and unlawfully discharging a firearm. By the time she got cut loose on those, she’d be facing something far more serious.

  It wasn’t until they had her in the back seat of the patrol car that I finally emerged from my hiding place into the glow of flashing red and blue lights surrounding the storage facility’s entrance. As soon as Scotty spotted me, he sprinted over to me and grabbed me into a relieved hug.

  “Thank God you’re all right,” he breathed. “When I saw all the bullet holes in your car, I thought you were a goner. What the hell happened?”

  “I was afraid she was going to get away,” I answered. “I figured blocking the gate with my car would slow her down long enough for you to get here, and it worked, but I sure as hell didn’t expect her to come out with all guns blazing and plug it full of holes.”

  We walked together as far as the Mercedes where I was able to shut down the alarm. We were standing there examining the damage when Sandy Sechrest walked up to us with Ben Weston tagging along.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “I am, thanks to my best friend over there, that telephone pole,” I told her, pointing in that direction. “But if you hadn’t gotten here when you did, and if she’d managed to figure out where I was, it wouldn’t have ended well.”

  “When I sent you after her,” Sandy said reprovingly, “I thought you’d keep tabs on her. I didn’t expect you to go up against her single-handed.”

  “Believe me,” I said, “I didn’t, either.”

  “Well, take a look at this,” she added, holding up what looked to be a briefcase. Handing it over to Ben, she clicked open the latch and raised the lid. What I saw staring back at me from inside were stacks of bound one-hundred-dollar bills.

  “The money,” I breathed.

  “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 11:15 a.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.

  “What happens in the jail isn’t your problem.”

  “But it was my arrest,” she argued. “I’m the one who initiated having my department take him into custody.”