Page 29 of Ruthless Riches
7
Alexis
“Take a seat, Ms. Livingston.”
Detective Fernandez dipped her head in a nod toward a chair in front of her desk. I did as she said and briefly looked around the room as she pulled some files out of her top drawer. A Washington state flag hung on the wall, along with a map of Avalon Island and a few photos of Fernandez and her family.
She finally sat down behind her desk and leaned forward. “So, what did you want to tell me?”
I took a deep breath and launched into the story of Satan’s Penthouse. Then I told her how Nate and I were convinced the copycat Butcher was using it to hide his victims and make his way around the island.
We’d both decided it was a good idea to tell the police after our late lunch at the café earlier. After all, if Henrik was correct about an entrance being in a garden in Central Park, we’d need all the help we could get to find it. The park was massive—over two hundred acres of lush lawn, extensive gardens, and groves of trees right in the middle of the city—and the buried hatch could be anywhere in it.
It made sense for us to ask for help from the police. They were far more equipped and qualified than us for this kind of stuff, and it would also ensure our safety. That second part was important for Nate’s sake, because I knew how much he worried about me getting involved in the hunt for the Butcher after what happened to me at the Skulls party last month.
When I’d finished talking, Fernandez dropped her pen and put her hands in front of her in a steeple shape. “I’m a little confused,” she said slowly. “I thought you came in today to talk about what happened at the fraternity party. I thought you might’ve remembered some details about your attacker.”
“No. I still don’t remember anything except what I already told you.”
She sighed and closed the file in front of her. “Ms. Livingston—”
“You can just call me Alexis, if you want.”
“Right. Alexis.” She leaned forward again. “I understand that you and Nate are trying to help. I also know you two broke the Golden Circle case, and you both worked very hard on that and did a lot of great work. But the thing is—neither of you are detectives. You’re just college students. You really shouldn’t be looking into this stuff at all.”
“I know, but I can’t help it, and I really think the killer is using those tunnels.”
Fernandez raised a brow. “We’ve heard this theory about a second set of tunnels before, and it has no basis in reality. There isn’t a shred of evidence to suggest it was ever built. Meanwhile, the Avalon tunnels have detailed maps dating back to the nineteenth century, records at both City Hall and the Historical Society, and physical evidence.” She paused and shook her head. “We just can’t say the same for these Penthouse tunnels. It’s an urban legend.”
“There’s no evidence because they started construction on it over a hundred years ago, and the people involved in the project wanted to keep it quiet because the tunnels were meant to be private. For rich people only. So all the records and blueprints were hidden somewhere, I suppose. Or they were destroyed after the project was abandoned. But people who lived here back then saw the project being worked on. They told others. That’s where all the stories come from.”
“Yes. Stories.” Fernandez wrinkled her forehead. “Old urban legends don’t constitute evidence.”
“The people we’ve spoken to are certain that there’s a hidden entrance somewhere along Seewald Avenue. Most likely in the park there,” I said. “Isn’t it worth a shot to check it out?”
She cocked her head. “Who are your sources for this park story?”
“Nate and I spoke to a homeless man earlier. Henrik. He’s been on the street for a long time, and he’s seen and heard a lot.” I paused for a quick breath. “I really don’t think he was lying.”
Fernandez let out a sigh. “Was his full name Henrik Mueller, by any chance?”
“I didn’t get his last name.”
She raised a brow. “Tall, blondish hair, very blue eyes? Thin and pale? Usually hangs out at the old bus depot?”
I nodded. “That sounds like him.”
She nodded slowly, lips pressed together. “I actually interviewed Mr. Mueller a couple of weeks ago,” she said.
“You did?”
“Yes. We had to clear out the tunnels near the old depot so we could begin the search, and we spoke to all of the homeless people in the area to see if any of them had seen anything that might help us with our investigation. I personally spoke to Mr. Mueller while that was going on. He barely answered my questions, and he spent a good five minutes ranting about late-stage capitalism. I got the impression that he isn’t particularly stable.”
“He didn’t seem unstable to me,” I said. “He just seemed angry at the world.”
Fernandez let out a short sigh. “Listen, Alexis. A lot of the homeless population is made up of people who’ve had bad luck in life which led to them being unable to find employment or affordable housing. But there are others who end up living on the streets due to untreated mental illnesses or substance abuse issues. It’s very sad, but it’s the reality of the issue, and Henrik Mueller struck me as a man suffering from a mental illness. I don’t think he’s a reliable source of information.”
My cheeks flushed hot. “Even if he does have mental issues, it doesn’t mean he’s making stuff up. Also, he wasn’t the only person I spoke to about the private tunnels. I spoke to a man named Robert Hawksley, and he seemed perfectly stable and coherent.”
