It was nearly an hour’s drive to Bellingham. Addy had a Kishi Bashi album queued up that suited the mood, but when she asked Rick what he wanted to listen to, he rattled off facts about an audiobook he had calledMindhunter: Inside the FBI’s Elite Serial Crime Unit.
“It’s by John Douglas, an old FBI guy,” Rick said as he pulled up chapter five. “It’s a crazy story of how he and his unit at the FBI started looking into the psychology behind serial killers. Interviewing them.”
Addy raised her eyebrows. “Not the most soothing listening for this trip.”
Rick laughed. “I don’t think we’re up against serial killers. Probably just common criminals, but it’s important to understand how they think. He always stresses that criminals don’t think like regular people.”
He was probably right, but she didn’t like thinking like a criminal. The guys she was looking for, however, very well could be.
Mia had sent pictures of the two men who had gone door-to-door, along with a picture of their calling card. There were no names, but an address was listed.
Addy confirmed with her mom that those were the men she’d talked to when she’d signed paperwork and handed over a bag of money. She didn’t recall their names, either. Anonymity seemed important at this company.
It would’ve scared the old Addy off, but not the new Addy. She was going to figure this out if it was the last thing she did.
They arrived at the address and pulled into a slim parking lot for a strip mall. Rick navigated around a runaway shopping cart in the middle of the driving lane, then cringed as the car plunged into a pothole.
“This place looks nice,” he said evenly, pulling into a parking spot. The paint was faded and chipped.
Addy groaned. “It’s even worse than the motel.”
“I wish Lawrence was here.”
She shot him a look. There was a half-smile on his lips. “Don’t you wish this horrible place on sweet old Lawrence.”
Rick grinned, popping open his door. There were four businesses in the strip mall, plus a space that saidFOR RENT, with a phone number scrawled in black marker.
The address Mia had given them pointed to the space wedged between a nail salon and a place called uHealth Labs. They got out of the car and walked toward the building. The air smelled of acetone and fried food.
Two doors stood in front of them; one unmarked, and one with a metal box hanging from it that readDO NOT LEAVE BLOOD SAMPLES OVERNIGHT.
“Ew,” Addy whispered.
Rick shrugged, pulling the other door open.
It was dark inside. Her eyes struggled to adjust, scanning the wood paneling walls and the single cubicle divider, a desk on either side.
A man sat behind one of the desks, watching them as they walked closer. His round belly touched the tabletop, his greased combover reflecting the fluorescent lighting.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“Yes,” Addy said slowly. “I’m here to talk to someone from Flex Knock.”
He nodded, flipping a folder closed. “This about a house?”
“It is.”
“Have a seat.” He gestured, his hands like paddles, the thick, meaty fingers strangled by a flurry of gold rings.
Two chairs sat in front of the desk. Rick motioned for her to sit first.
“I’m so very sorry that you are having trouble with your house,” he said flatly, as though reading each word from a giant teleprompter. “We are here to help.”
“I was actually hoping to talk to the guys I talked to before,” Addy said. She pulled out her phone, holding up a grainy shot of the two men. “I don’t remember their names.”
“Don’t worry about them.” He waved a paddle. “I can help you.”
“I’d prefer to talk to them,” Addy said. “My mom signed a contract with them. Her name is Marilyn Osborne.”
