Page 18 of The Smart Killer (High Peaks Murder, Mystery and Crime Thrillers #4)

T wo 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 smart devices 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 neighborhood in 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 shuffling noises 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.

“Mrs. Diaz?”

“Yes?” she replied, her voice full of apprehension.

“Is your son Alejandro home?”

“No, he’s at work. Though he should be home shortly,” she said, glancing at her wristwatch. “Is he in trouble?”

Noah shook his head gently. “No.”

Relieved, Melissa unlocked the chain and opened the door wider, inviting them in with a hesitant but welcoming smile. “Come on in. You can wait for him,” she said, her voice carrying curiosity. They stepped over the threshold, entering a dimly lit interior where time seemed to stand still.

Once inside, they were led into a living room with furniture from another era. The wallpaper, faded and peeling, told a story of years gone by. An antique clock on the wall ticked away the seconds, resonating in the room with a steady rhythm.

“Can I get you a drink?”

Porter nodded.

Amidst the dated décor, shelves were lined with ornaments and trinkets, each seemingly holding a cherished memory. Overgrown plants occupied corners, their leaves reaching out as if seeking light, giving the room an air of neglect.

A prominent cross hung on the wall, symbolizing faith that contrasted the worn surroundings. Nearby on a table was a Bible, its pages open, weathered and well-read.

Noah crossed to a shelf and picked up a framed photo.

It had a younger Melissa smiling alongside her husband and much younger son.

The family exuded happiness, frozen in a moment.

It always baffled Noah how those raised in good families could go off the rails.

There really was no way to determine who would, though that hadn’t stopped experts from trying to study the minds of killers.

Noah’s eyes lingered on another image of Alejandro, dressed in a security uniform, a stark reminder of his past. The contrast between the proud family and the reality of their visit was palpable.

“That’s my late husband. He looks a lot like Alejandro, doesn’t he.”

“I thought it was your son.”

“Yes, friends of ours always comment that they look alike.”

“How long ago did your husband pass?”

“Three years, two months, and four days ago. Tumor. Ate away at him. He died while Alejandro was inside. Alejandro couldn’t be there for the funeral. Destroyed him.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Death comes for us all. We all have a death sentence; just most of us want to ignore it.”

Melissa, her face etched with sadness and resilience, went out of the room and returned carrying a tray. On it were tall glasses, beads of condensation trickling down the sides, and a decanter of iced tea. “Please, have a seat,” she said, her voice carrying a note of hospitality.

“Like a breath of fresh air,” Porter replied, accepting his drink with gratitude. Noah also nodded his thanks, taking the glass and settling into an old armchair. As they sipped, Noah ventured gently.

“You mind me asking what Alejandro does for a living now?”

Melissa’s eyes softened with maternal pride.

“He works at a bar, in the kitchen, cleaning dishes. Not very glamorous, but there aren’t many jobs available to someone with his record,” she said, her gaze drifting toward the cross on her neck.

“But he’s trying.” She took a sip of her drink.

“He comes to church with me, works hard, and stays out of trouble now. I want you to know that I don’t make excuses for what my boy did; it was wrong; no two ways about that, but he’s served his time.

He was lost, detective, not bad.” She looked up at the cross on the wall.

“We’re all lost in some ways. Some of us are willing to admit it; others acknowledge it at the eleventh hour. ”

The room fell into a contemplative silence, the ticking of the clock the only sound permeating the air.

In that moment, surrounded by the relics of the past and the palpable faith in the room, Noah couldn’t help but consider the complexity of the human experience, the struggle for redemption, and the enduring power of hope.

“You never had another child?” Noah asked.

“Only the one. I wanted more, but Martinez. My husband. He felt that one was enough.” She took another sip. “I often wonder if Alejandro had a brother or sister, whether that would have prevented things from happening.”

“I imagine that was very hard on you.”

“Humiliating would be the word, detective. But like everything in life, eventually, in time, it passes. People forget. People get distracted by the next titillating headline in the paper, shootings, war, all of it distracts.”

Noah nodded.

Porter chimed in. “So, when Alejandro is not working or going to church with you, how does he spend his time?”

“He has friends. People in the community that he spends time with.”

“Doing what?”

“Sports. Basketball. It was something he did while inside. Kept his mind occupied. That, and working on his father’s truck out there. He’s hoping to get it going soon.”

Right then, they heard a voice.

Alejandro’s voice bellowed from outside the house, sharp with alarm, as he called out to his mother. “Hey Ma! Ma, whose car is that outside?” He entered the front door and caught sight of everyone seated.

“Alejandro, these men are here to see you…”

Before she could finish, his eyes widened in panic, and instinct took over. Instantly, he turned and bolted out the door, his footsteps thundering against the worn wooden porch.

Without a second thought, Noah dashed after him, his experienced legs propelling him forward with determination.

Porter followed suit, his younger frame agile.

“Get the vehicle!” Noah shouted over his shoulder, tossing the Bronco keys to Porter.

The situation’s urgency hung in the air as he sprinted after Alejandro, now scaling a fence with surprising agility.

“Oh, c’mon!” Noah muttered, knowing this wasn’t going to be easy.

The chase led them through the neighborhood, a maze of narrow alleys and overgrown yards.

Noah pursued Alejandro relentlessly, his breaths coming out in ragged gasps as he pushed his body to its limits.

“Stop!” he shouted, but Alejandro refused to listen.

Fueled by fear, he displayed impressive speed, leaping over fences, darting through gaps between houses, and maneuvering past obstacles with uncanny precision.

As they ran, they passed a chained-up dog barking furiously, adding to the cacophony of the chase. As he looked back, Alejandro’s desperation was evident, but his every move was a bid for freedom. The question was, from what? They had nothing on him.

He knocked over a garbage can, hoping to slow Noah down, but the seasoned detective pressed on, jumping over it.

Alejandro made a daring move, darting through someone’s house and out the front door, feet pounding against the pavement.

But his escape was short-lived. Porter, with swift maneuvering, came screeching across a sidewalk.

He cut him off in the Bronco, bringing the vehicle straight into him, and knocking him into someone’s yard.

Noah was on him in an instant, his voice sharp with authority. “What are you running for, huh?” he demanded, his grip firm as he cuffed his hands behind his back.

“I’ve done nothing,” he protested.

“Then why run?” Noah asked, his words stern, frustration and adrenaline pumping through him. He led him back to the Bronco and sat him in the back, slamming the door tight.