Page 47 of Deadly Designs

Presley cracked her knuckles. “We going to pay him avisit?”

Christian chuckled at his blood-thirsty cohort.“Absolutely. Aja Blue and I will talk to him, and you two willprovide backup. I want to see how he reacts to her or if herealizes who she is.”

Since he was more familiar with the area thanChristian, Kayne drove. Presley rode shotgun while he and Aja Bluesat in the back. Christian recited the address Tyler had given him,and Presley punched it into the onboard GPS.

The neighborhood was older, with brick bungalows thatlooked similar in design. Most of the yards were well-kept, withmowed lawns and blooming flowers. Kayne parked on the street a fewdoors down so they could monitor the house while Christian and AjaBlue spoke with Zikes.

Christian slid out of the vehicle and waited for AjaBlue to come around and meet him. He almost put his hand on herlower back but refrained in deference to his coworkers. As theyneared the Zikes’s home, Christian noted the nearly perfect bloomslining the sidewalk leading to the house. When they were closer, herealized why they looked immaculate. They were fake.

“One of my pet peeves,” Aja Blue muttered. “Inside isokay, but never put them outside.”

At the corner below the porch was a shrine to theVirgin Mary, with more faux flowers. A metal cross hung above theentry. He didn’t spot a bell, so Christian rapped on the door. Itswung open to reveal a short, stout woman with a bleach-blondebeehive. She wore a green dress with a high neck decorated with astring of pearls. She looked like a stereotypical housewife from a1950s sitcom.

“We don’t allow solicitation.” She started to closethe door, but Christian blocked it with his foot.

“We’re not selling anything. We need to speak toByron Zikes.”

“My husband is out of town.”

“When did he leave?”

“Four days ago.”

He couldn’t have vandalized the building if she wastelling the truth. “Does anyone else have access to your creditcard?”

“Who are you again?”

“I work security.” He didn’t mention whichcompany.

“No. Well, my son does. Byron Junior.”

Ah, that made sense. “Can we talk to him?”

She huffed and perched her fists on her ample hips.“What did he do now?”

“We believe he’s responsible for vandalizing abuilding last night.”

They both jumped when she turned her head andscreamed, “Junior! Get down here right now.”

Christian expected a teenager. Instead, the guy wholoped down the steps looked to be in his early thirties, withstringy brown hair, thick glasses, and the beginnings of a beerbelly.

“What?” He pushed his glasses up his nose with afinger.

“Is that red spray paint?” Christian asked.

Junior’s eyes bugged, and he tried to hide his hands,but it was too late. “No,” he spat.

“Where were you last night between one and twoa.m.?”

“None of your damn business.”

“Junior, language,” his mother scolded. “Answer thequestion.”

“Asleep, probably.”

Christian hit play on the video and turned his phonearound. “I think you’re lying. This you?”

Junior barely looked at the screen. “No.”

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