Karen had the sudden feeling she’d been duped. Had Nick been paying Mark all along? Was he some kind of honey trap? But why? Leverage in the divorce? Or to fuck with her?
She could feel tears stinging the backs of her eyes. She was such an asshole.
Karen wiped her face and told herself, no. She wasn’t the asshole. It was them. She couldn’t believe they were in this together. She gripped the wheel to stop her hands from shaking and watched as Mark got out of the car and headed for the 7-11. She could see as he walked under the lights that he was wearing a uniform.
‘Jesus,’ she muttered. Was anything he told her true? He’d told her he worked at an animal shelter. Was Mark even his real name?
She watched Nick’s car disappear and took a breath. Should she keep following him? What was the point? She needed to know who Mark really was. She saw through the window of the 7-11 as he took his place behind the counter. She assumed if his shift was just starting, he would be there for a while; six, maybe eight hours? Plenty of time to get some answers anyway.
Karen pulled away and drove back towards Mark’s house.
She parked Jamie’s car one block over and walked back. She could see lights on in the neighboring houses so made her way around the back. She tried the door, hopeful, but of course it was locked. She had no idea how to pick a lock. But looking down she saw a brick. She knew how to break a window.
Karen smashed the window and reached in, opening the back door. She paused, waiting to see if anyone would come out, but there was no sign of life.
She went in, the glass crunching under her feet, and used the light on her phone to move around. As she got to the doorway leading from the kitchen to the hall, she stopped. She had come here assuming Mark lived alone but she had no idea if that were true. What if someone was here? A wife? Kids?
She listened for any movement, any sound, but there was nothing. She moved forward, knowing she had to be quick. Someone could’ve heard the window break and called the police. She might not have much time.
She went into the living room, and holding the phone up, found mail piled up on a table. She leaned in to read who it was addressed to. Michael Fisher. Even though she already suspected he’d lied about his name, it still hit her in the gut. She couldn’t believe she’d fallen for it.
She flipped through, not sure what she was looking for. Something to connect Mark, or Michael rather, to Nick. But what? If he was paying him, it would be in cash. Nick wouldn’t want to leave a trail.
Karen turned around. She should leave. She wasn’t going to find anything. She made her way back towards the kitchen but stopped. She could see the bedroom, the door slightly ajar. It didn’t matter anymore, but she felt compelled to see if there was any trace of someone else. She thought about the blonde she’d seen him with. Was she another victim of his lies? Or was that just her?
Karen walked to the bedroom and pushed open the door. She held up the light, scanning the bed, the nightstand. There was nothing to suggest a woman had been there.
She turned to leave when something caught her eye. On the nightstand was a book. Her book. Karen almost reached out for it. Mark had actually read her book? Nick had never bothered. She shook herself. It didn’t mean anything. He’d still lied to her, hadn’t he? His name wasn’t even Mark.
She turned again, the light catching a series of photographs on the wall. Karen held up the phone to see and let out a strangled scream, the phone falling from her hand. She dropped to her knees, feeling around the floor for it.
‘Shit,’ she muttered when she couldn’t find it. She reached into her pocket and found Nick’s lighter. She flicked it on and located her phone, picking it up before slowly standing, illuminating the pictures once more. Her hands shook as she took in the familiar images, faces she’d seen on the news, and below them the pictures of what he had done to them.
She knew it would be there, knew it had to be, but when she finally reached her own picture, she felt the vomit sneak up into her throat. She wanted the truth and now she had it. She had to do something.
Still holding the lighter in one hand, she tried to dial 911 but her hands shook too much. She let the lighter go out, fumbling and dropping it on the floor with a clatter. Fuck it, she thought and focused on the phone. She’d retrieve the lighter once she’d called the police.
And then she heard the door.
67
Michael
Michael opened the door, angry that the joy and achievement he felt at the completion of the Cas project was being chipped away. First Nick Kelly showing up outside work, acting as if he had some power in this relationship. And then, getting to work, settling himself in for a few dull hours and then being told by his boss that he wasn’t needed after all, that he would cover the shift himself. Michael was furious. He knew his boss was fucking with him, trying to teach him a lesson, to show him who was boss. But Michael refused to let him know he was annoyed and left with a smile. But only after he’d done a little teaching of his own. The asshole wouldn’t be driving his car home in the morning.
As Michael unlocked the front door, he thought he heard something. Really? Nick was back for more? What else did he have to tell him? How to use the phone? How he wanted his wife murdering? Michael slammed the door and stormed through to the bedroom, turning on the light.
Empty.
A sound from behind him made Michael turn and he walked into the kitchen. A breeze caused the calendar on the wall to flutter and Michael saw the glass on the linoleum floor, the broken window.
‘Asshole,’ he said, going to the door and looking out. It had to be Nick.
Unless it wasn’t. Was it possible someone else had broken in? And if so, had they seen it?
Michael walked away from the mess and went back to the bedroom. He glanced around, looking for anything out of place. As he stepped towards the wall, his foot felt like it’d kicked something but when he looked down there was nothing.
It had to be Nick. It was too much of a coincidence for it to be a simple break-in. And despite the area being low income, there was surprisingly little crime. Not counting serial murder, of course.
Michael sat on the edge of the bed and took out the phone Nick Kelly had given him. It was stupid in his opinion, but then Nick was hardly taking precautions. And though he’d instructed Michael to let the phone ring three times, Michael was tempted to send him a text, something that could be traced later on.
It would be giving Nick some of the credit, but it would be funny too. He wondered if Nick would still bother showing up if he did that, but he knew deep down that he would. He really wanted his wife dead, but more than that, he wanted to be the hero who caught the killer. Nothing would stop him from achieving this goal, not even the possibility of being implicated. Michael had seen Nick on TV. He could talk his way out of most things. It would be interesting to see if that charm worked this time.
Michael turned the phone over in his hand, wondering if Nick had put a tracker on it or something. He had no intention of doing as Nick asked. Karen wouldn’t die until he’d had the chance to see Phoebe one last time. But then Nick had said he’d be watching him. Was that a bluff? How would he explain that to his boss?
Michael looked at the photos on the wall. Phoebe was up there for Nick to see. Was it possible he’d come back to find out who the last victim would be, to warn her? But there was nothing to identify her, just her picture.
He looked at Nick’s phone once more, before picking up the one devoted to Phoebe. It was late but that had never stopped her before. And when she answered, the tone of her voice told Michael everything he needed to know. He changed his clothes as they spoke, knowing it was on.
After fixing the window at the back of the house with a piece of plywood, Michael slipped Phoebe’s phone into his pocket, in case of any last-minute messages from her. He looked at Nick’s burner phone abandoned on the nightstand. If Nick were tracking him through the phone, it would look like he was safely tucked up in bed for
the next few hours.
But even if Nick was actually following him, Michael knew he wouldn’t follow through on his threat. Nick was desperate. Michael had him in the palm of his hand. He knew as well as Michael did that he was so close to getting what he wanted. Why would he stop him now?
68
Nick
Nick walked into the office. Only Azrah looked up. ‘Where the hell have you been?’ she asked. Nick didn’t look at her, just sunk into his chair.
‘None of your business. It was personal.’
‘Have you seen this? They’re going berserk. He shared it on the victim’s own social media. Everyone this kid knows got to see his mutilated body,’ Azrah said.
Nick didn’t really want to look but forced himself to, for appearance’s sake. The TV in the corner wasn’t showing the images of the body itself, but the thousands of online sites without such decorum were. It was everywhere.
Nick felt like he was swimming in guilt. He thought he might puke. He could’ve stopped it. He should’ve stopped it. Instead of sitting there in his car making plans with Michael Fisher, he should’ve hauled him in. Or better yet, put a bullet in his head and solved everyone’s problems. But he hadn’t. And now he couldn’t stop because he was in too deep.
He thought about everything that could come back to haunt him – Alison, Elena, the phones, the meetings. He hoped he could explain Alison away. It might not save his job, but it might keep him out of prison. A lot of guys went to hookers. It wouldn’t surprise him if half the guys in the department did it. Maybe it wasn’t right, but who could blame him for not wanting to volunteer the information? Besides, nothing about him going to that club and keeping it to himself would’ve helped catch this killer. It was irrelevant.
Elena then. She’d only be a problem if the desk officer remembered passing her on to Nick. Or if someone checked his browser history. Or if Filip from the 7-11 talked. Or if they realized Nick had called Elena. Shit. Nick felt himself sweating again, the burn of vomit in his throat.
The phones. He’d bought them at separate stores. He made sure he couldn’t be identified on security cameras when he bought them. He’d used gloves when handling them and he could easily dump the phone once he had confirmation from Fisher. Hell, he could dump it now to make sure. And if Fisher hung on to his? It’d be his word against Nick’s. There’d be nothing to prove he was telling the truth.
Except for the meetings. He’d been stupid to go to the house, especially the second and third times. Stupid to interact with Fisher’s neighbor. And then sitting outside his place of work? Nick had made sure there were no cameras before he went there, but you couldn’t always be sure. Could never tell who was watching.
He could hear Azrah talking on the phone but she sounded as though she was talking underwater. Nick knew he had to go home. He needed to sleep. Maybe things would look better in the morning. But what if Fisher was planning on doing it that night? Nick had made himself clear that it had to be done soon. And he couldn’t be in the apartment when it went down. Not for the first act at least. But he was so tired. Maybe he could go and check. Besides, he’d left Michael at work. Surely he’d be there a while longer and Karen was hardly going to invite him over that late, right?
Nick caught a glimpse of the last victim on the TV screen and turned away. He tried to think about who else was on that wall. He should’ve paid more attention. Maybe he could’ve saved them. He closed his eyes. There was a woman. An older woman, dark hair. It was hardly helpful. He had no idea who she was. If he’d been thinking clearly, he would’ve looked around. Maybe Fisher had information about his victims. Or Nick could’ve taken the picture at least. Maybe he could’ve identified her somehow.
Nick got up, waving to Azrah as he left, but she was too focused on the phone call. He would go home and sleep. Everything would be better the next day. He would think of a way to explain Elena.
But what if Fisher was out there with someone else?
Nick descended the stairs and told himself it would be fine. He’d warned him, hadn’t he? Told him what would happen if he touched anyone else. Besides, Michael was at work. There was no way anything could happen now. Everyone was safe. Everything was fine.
69
Karen
Karen stood outside the precinct building, her heart pounding so fast she thought it might never slow down. When she’d heard the door, her instinct was to run. She knew he might see her, might catch her, but she had to try. So she ran and didn’t look back until she was at Jamie’s car. She hadn’t heard him call out her name, hadn’t heard the sound of his feet slamming into the pavement behind her. Maybe he hadn’t seen her. Maybe. She knew she had to go to the police but first she had to get out of there. So she’d driven fast and headed back into the city, shaking so much she was surprised she could keep in a straight line.
She didn’t know why she’d gone there. Habit, maybe? The fact that once upon a time Nick was the one she’d run to. Or maybe because the squad was in charge of finding him. Mark. No, not Mark. Michael. Michael Fisher.
It felt strange knowing she was the only one who knew his name. That she could go in there and solve this. Except she wasn’t. She wasn’t the only one who knew him. Her husband did too. And that was why she stood there, unable to move forward.
Nick was in charge of the case. He was looking for this man. He’d found him and yet he hadn’t arrested him. It had occurred to her that Michael was a suspect and Nick was trying to catch him, that he didn’t have all the evidence yet. But detectives don’t chat with suspects in their cars. She’d seen the wall in Michael’s room. She’d seen him talking with her husband, seen Nick hand something to him. She knew what it meant. Her husband wanted her dead.
She could go in there and tell someone, but their animosity was no secret and who were they more likely to believe? The man they worked with day in, day out for years, a sworn police officer, or the bitter soon-to-be ex-wife? And what proof did she have that Michael was who she said he was? She could tell them to go and see for themselves, but it had probably been taken down by now. Michael would know someone had been in, that someone had seen.
But she couldn’t do nothing. Even if Michael fled, knowing his time was up, her husband still wanted her dead. It probably didn’t matter to him how it happened. She couldn’t wait for that time to come. Maybe she should leave. She could call the cops, leave an anonymous tip about Michael and then go. Nick could have the apartment.
She didn’t want to let him win, not after everything he’d done. Not after what he was doing now. But what else could she do? She didn’t know who she could trust inside that building. She stood there, shivering, wondering how the hell it had come to this.
And then she remembered. There was one thing she had. It wasn’t much but it was something.
Karen stepped forward, knowing she had to try. It wasn’t just about her. She thought of all those other people, the ones he’d already killed, the ones yet to come. She thought about his hands that had brushed back her hair so gently, squeezing the life from someone else. She felt ill and stopped, gripping her stomach, certain she was going to vomit.
She looked around for somewhere to go, somewhere unseen. And as she bent over to puke, a shadow fell over her and someone said her name.
70
Michael
Michael had been looking forward to this for a while and though he had a backdrop planned, it was only partially done so he was having to improvise. It wasn’t ideal having to rush through these last projects and he worried the work would be substandard because of it. But he had to admit there was a certain rush to be being rushed. He felt a tingling excitement that it was almost finished and was looking forward to what came next.
As Phoebe opened the door, ushering him in enthusiastically, Michael wondered if she would’ve batted an eyelid had he arrived with the backdrop. She was an intelligent woman, undoubtedly watched the news, but she was also desperate for company and, it seemed to him, arrogant enough t
o think that something like that would never happen to her.
‘Drink?’ Phoebe asked after kissing him on the cheek, her heavy perfume sticking in his throat. She was already moving towards the drinks cabinet, so Michael dropped his bag on the floor and took off his coat. He pulled the knife from his pocket and before she could turn, he moved behind her. With one hand he took her chin, pushing it towards the ceiling. He heard her groan and her hand went to reach around to him. But before she could touch him, the knife had torn across her throat and her hand snapped back, trying uselessly to stop the inevitable.
Phoebe’s eyes widened as she looked at him, and Michael took hold of her shoulders, guiding her to the floor. He held her until she stopped struggling, until the life had drained away. It was a kindness he wasn’t sure she deserved.
Phoebe Devereaux had a talent of sorts. She had grown up loving the ballet and theater, had dreamed of working in that area, backstage of course, she was no performer herself. But the lure of money swayed her and she took a business course instead. She was now, or had been, the CEO of a huge company. She had climbed to the top because she was good at what she did, and was in charge of a company that sponsored several arts programs as well as a major literary award. But then she’d used her talent to make the company even more money by cutting all funding to the arts. This art lover had betrayed what she loved.
Michael had read about her in the Sunday newspaper. A profile of a remarkable woman, but Michael sensed a bitterness from the writer. A few critical remarks about the cuts and even more about the fact that Phoebe had paid for her success with loneliness. She had never married, never had children. That was her punishment, according to the writer. But Michael saw it differently.
The Art of Murder Page 21