Having just finished interviewing both the girls’ parents, he intended to head back over to the crime scene, to make sure it was being processed correctly. His technicians weren’t used to dealing with the kind of violence that had taken place outside that theater last night.
There was innocent blood on the streets of Granville. He’d never have believed it possible and had to wonder if he’d been wrong about everything. Certainly he’d been stupid. He’d been lazy and a little too quick to listen to folks who didn’t believe the wild theories that turned up in the newspaper.
Only now they didn’t seem so wild.
What if there really was a serial killer lurking in Granville? What if he really had been picking off its residents one by one for the past three years while Jack Dunston kept opening up his fridge and pulling out beers and twenties?
If that was true, he’d deserve whatever scorn got heaped on his head by all those families.
Well, that was over now. There could be no more sitting on the sidelines. No more laid-back, good old boy. He was the chief of police. From here on out, he would do everything he could to find out what in the hell was going on here, and bring those responsible for it to justice.
“Can you even imagine such a thing?” a voice said, surprising Jack as he stood in a private alcove just inside the hospital entrance, finishing up his notes from the interview.
“I just heard the news,” said Mayor Lawton, joining him. Though the man was, as always, well dressed and groomed, he didn’t look his normal, happy self. Dark circles under his heavy-lidded eyes said he wasn’t sleeping well. His jaw twitched, as if he were gritting his teeth.
Nerves working on him. The supposedly kindly mayor was worried about something.
“Dark day for this town,” Jack replied.
“How’s Kirby holdin’ up?”
“About like you’d expect.”
“Bet it was some tramp passin’ through,” the mayor said, the weakness of his tone saying even he didn’t believe the bullshit excuse. “Nobody from around here would do such a thing.”
A few days ago, Jack would probably have agreed with him. Not anymore.
Pasting on that fake-caring expression that had put him into office election after election, for the past twenty years, the mayor patted Jack’s shoulder. “Well, now, you be sure to let me know if there’s anything I can do to . . .”
“There is.”
“Excuse me?”
“We need to talk.”
Lawton’s smile faded. “About what?”
Staring directly into the man’s slightly bloodshot eyes, Jack replied, “About where you and all your friends were heading last night.”
Lawton’s normally pink-cheeked face went a bit pale and his eyes darted back and forth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. We had a financial planning meeting, just like every month.” He let out one of his hearty laughs, only it came out weak and phony. “Stock market isn’t being too kind, lately.”
“I saw you,” Jack replied flatly. “Saw you get in that white van. I followed you all the way down the Old Terrytown Road.”
The mayor opened his mouth, snapped it closed, looking around more frantically this time. The man didn’t know what to say if his words hadn’t been put in his mouth by someone a whole lot smarter or written by a speech writer.
“Why’d you just drive around and come back to town?” Jack asked. “You slowed down once, like you were gonna turn, then sped up like y’all were being chased by demons. And I somehow doubt it was because you suddenly spotted me a quarter-mile behind you.”
The mayor shook his head, mumbling, “No, I can’t talk right now. I have places to go.”
“Heading to church to sing nice and loud with all your friends?” Jack inched closer, staring down at the mayor, his spine a mite straighter than it had been in a whole lotta years. “I am going to find out what you’re all up to. And I’ll tell you this: If any of you had anything to do with those missing girls, I will make sure you pay for it.”
“No!” the other man insisted. “No, they’re just trashy little runaways, like you thought.”
“Including the Kirby girls?” he snapped.
“They’re not connected; they’ve got nothing to do with us. We never had them out to the club, wouldn’t do that. What kind of man would do that?” He was babbling now, scared and almost weepy. “The other ones, they’re just runaways, Jack. You gotta believe me!”
“The club? What club would that be? And where? Is it someplace on Terrytown Road?”
“No, no, forget I said anything!”
“Too late.” He reached out and put a steadying hand on the other man’s shoulder, sensing he wanted to bolt. Certain Lawton knew a lot more than he was ready to say, he decided to try another tactic. “Look, Mayor, we both know something bad is happening here in our town. People are being hurt. We don’t want that, do we? Neither of us.”
The older man’s chest puffed out. “No, of course we don’t!” He wagged an index finger in Jack’s face. “You find the awful man who did that to those beautiful Kirby girls last night.”
“When I do,” Jack murmured, “am I going to find out he spent the earlier part of the evening with you in that van? As I recall, you were all back in town by eight thirty. Plenty of time for anybody to stalk the twins.”
The mayor hesitated, his jowly chin trembling. “You can’t think . . .”
“I don’t know what to think,” he admitted. “But I do know there are a whole lot of people with some ugly secrets around here. If any of those secrets can help me figure out what’s been happening to all those girls, believe me, I will not stop digging until I uncover them.”
The mayor’s bushy brow drew down over his eyes as he tried to reassert some kind of authority. “You’re not paid to dig into people’s private business.”
Jack stepped closer until their faces were mere inches apart and his hand tightened on the other man’s shoulder. “And neither one of us is paid to let anybody get away with murder.”
Their stares locked. Looking at the mayor’s face, he’d swear he saw fear and cowardice. But murder? Serial murder? It seemed impossible.
“You do some thinking,” he said, stepping away, speaking in a normal tone of voice. “And I’ll be by later so we can talk some more.”
That seemed to be enough for Mayor Lawton. Without another word, he spun around and left the alcove. Hopefully, the mayor would spread the word, and one of the members of their so-called club would get nervous enough to talk.
Tucking his notebook into his pocket, Jack headed out, too, but he didn’t make it quite as far as the mayor had. Because as he turned the corner of the alcove, he saw two people standing behind a nearby column, eyeing him.
The reporter, Lexie Nolan, and her moody boyfriend. Christ almighty, just what he needed. If they hadn’t eavesdropped on his conversation with the mayor, he’d eat his own shoe.
He put a hand up, ready to tell her he had no comment, but before he could do so, the dark-haired man with those fierce, gray eyes spoke. “Chief, if you really want to get to the bottom of what’s happening around here, maybe you and I should go somewhere and talk.”
Jack hesitated.
“We heard some of what you said about the club,” Lexie admitted. Her eyes were not as hard as he was used to. “I have to admit, I wondered if you were one of them. But I guess not.”
Stung, he shot back, “I’m a member of the Granville Police Department, young lady. That’s the only group I’m a member of.”
She and the man exchanged a look, as if they weren’t sure whether they could trust an officer of the law. Jack bristled for a moment, then forced himself to calm down, knowing he hadn’t given this woman much reason to trust him. “If you have information that can help me solve this case, I’d like to hear it Ms. Nolan, and Mr. . . . ?”
“McConnell. Aidan McConnell.”
He thought for a second, then placed the name. “Oh, for God’s sake, I d
on’t have time to deal with phony psychics who play on people’s fears and superstitions.”
“We were at their clubhouse,” Lexie said. “We know what they do there; we know who they bring there. We also think we know which girl actually died there.” Her stare unwavering, she added, “I suspect some of her bones are probably locked up in your office right this minute.”
Hesitating, wondering if she was going to accuse him of something, he looked back and forth between the couple. They said nothing, merely waiting, leaving the ball in his court.
He considered it. The psychic stuff might be all hooey, but if they really had been out snooping around and had found something, he wanted to know about it. “All right,” he told them. “Let’s go talk. But fast—I want to get back out to the crime scene.”
The stranger bent to kiss Lexie’s temple. “I know you’re anxious to go find Walter and his wife. Let me do this and I’ll join you in a few minutes.”
Turning her face up to him, she nodded, which enabled Jack to get a better look at those bruises on her neck. He cleared his throat. “Sorry if I was a little gruff with you yesterday.”
“Now that I know you’re not completely corrupt, I can forgive and forget.”
Corrupt. Damn the woman was blunt. But she was also injured, frightened, and visibly exhausted. So he let it slide.
“I’ll see you soon,” she told her friend. “I imagine Walter and Ann-Marie are up in ICU.”
Confused, Jack tilted his head. “Why would you think that?”
“I just figured, since she’s been here all night . . . Oh God, is she still in surgery?”
The woman hadn’t heard. She’d come here thinking she would be helping a friend watch over his hospitalized child. He didn’t know Lexie Nolan well, but he did know she was very close to the Kirbys. She must have been out of touch; otherwise he felt pretty damn sure Walter would have called her and told her the whole story.
“Well? Where is she? They didn’t transfer her, did they?” she asked.
Jack couldn’t hide his sympathetic frown.
Seeing it, the boyfriend made a small sound, grasping the truth, then put a hand on Lexie’s shoulder. “Lex?” he murmured.
Her mouth trembled, and Jack could hear the quick, deep breaths the feisty young reporter was sucking in through her mouth as the possibilities began to flood her mind.
He doubted any of them were as bad as the real thing.
“Where is she?”
With genuine regret, he told her the truth. “I’m sorry, Ms. Nolan. But the little Kirby girl isn’t in ICU, or in surgery. She’s downstairs. In the morgue.”
Sunday, 10:30 a.m.
Aidan couldn’t leave her.
He wanted to talk to Chief Dunston, but there was no way he was going to send Lexie to the morgue by herself to console her friends, whose daughter had just been murdered.
Murder. It didn’t touch many lives, but when it touched yours, you never got over it. This day would never leave Lexie’s memory.
After they’d heard the awful news, she had nearly collapsed. He’d taken her into his arms and held her while she sobbed, feeling her tears soak his shoulder and her body quake with to-the-bone grief. Asking Dunston if he could come to the crime scene later, he’d pulled Lexie to a bench in the alcove and stayed there with her for the past twenty minutes, offering his support, which was all he could do.
“She was just a girl,” she kept repeating, “just a sweet, wonderful girl.” Several times she’d added, “Goddamn it, I don’t even know which girl.”
According to Dunston, nobody did. Before he’d left, he’d told them the Kirbys had been downstairs all night, refusing to leave, even after admitting they couldn’t identify the body. He didn’t know that he’d ever heard anything more brutal. A father and mother could not even tell which of their daughters was lying dead on a slab in the morgue.
Lexie had mumbled something about a birthmark, but Aidan had to assume there was some kind of problem with that, otherwise the victim would surely have been ID’d. He hadn’t questioned her about it, though, knowing Lexie needed to accept the truth of it before getting lost in the ugly, minute details. Dunston had told him a state expert was coming down later today to conduct an autopsy; perhaps that would resolve the issue.
Finally, when she seemed able to stand again, she said, “Okay. Let’s go find Walter and Ann-Marie.”
“You’re sure?” he asked.
She nodded, then pushed herself to her feet. When he did the same, she leaned in to him for a moment, taking a deep breath. Also, he knew, taking a little strength for the ordeal to come.
Putting an arm around her shoulders, he walked with her down the quiet corridors of Granville Memorial Hospital. She moved slowly, trudging, as if already in a funeral march. Her eyes were still moist, but mingled with her obvious grief was worry—for the parents, for the younger sisters. And still that hint of guilt she couldn’t push away, the fear that she had brought this hellish punishment down on her boss’s family.
He couldn’t make her believe that wasn’t true; she was smart enough that she’d accept it herself eventually. Aidan also had to wonder, though, if her boss ever would. The man was likely carrying that same cross. He’d made the decision to run Lexie’s articles in the first place. Plus, he had been the one to push Lexie into going back to the story she’d already abandoned.
Steeling himself for his meeting with a man who’d just lost his child, he reminded himself that this was far different than the last time. Walter Kirby was, according to everything he’d heard, a wonderful, loving man. Nothing like Ted Remington. Still, he couldn’t prevent himself from keeping a protective arm across Lexie’s shoulders when they reached the entrance to the morgue. He didn’t think Kirby would be the type to lash out and blame anybody else he could, but he wasn’t taking any chances and wanted to be able to hustle Lexie out of there if necessary.
When they pushed open the swinging doors into the small, stark waiting area, and a red-faced, middle-aged man looked up and saw them there, he realized it wasn’t going to be necessary. Because the man—Walter Kirby—slowly rose, tears streaming down his face, and opened his arms to her.
Lexie flew into them. “Oh God, I’m so sorry.” When Mrs. Kirby rose from where she’d been sitting and embraced Lexie as well, she said them again.
“Our baby girl, Lex, she’s gone. He hurt her . . . he hurt her so much,” Walter said, every word stumbling on a tiny sob.
Aidan remained away from them, not wanting to intrude, but he listened to the conversation, all his focus on finding out who had done this. Not having known the family, he was the only one able to separate himself from the grief of this awful thing enough to think only about the case. And on finding the other teenage girls whose lives were still at stake.
“We don’t know her, we can’t tell; our baby, and we can’t tell,” Kirby said, his voice breaking as he buried his face in a handkerchief.
Lexie, her face wet with fresh tears, asked, “Why? I don’t understand.” Her voice tentative, as if she feared upsetting them, she asked, “Taylor’s birthmark?”
Walter turned away, his big body racked with fresh sobs. It was the pale, quiet wife who explained, her voice as brittle as chipped ice. “He cut her throat, gouged at her. More than once. If there was a birthmark there, well, it isn’t there anymore.”
Lexie swayed a little and the last bit of color dropped out of her face. “Oh, no.”
Mrs. Kirby wrapped her arms around herself, shaking. “I could always tell them apart, even without that birthmark. Always, from the time they were young.” A sound that was half laugh, half sob emerged from her mouth. “By their smiles, their moods, the way they talked, the way they carried themselves.” She shook her head back and forth, again and again, muttering, “But not now. Not now. My beautiful girl, everything that made her who she was is gone and I see just a shell of my child. And I don’t even know which one.”
“It’s wrong,” Walter
said, his back still to all of them. “Wrong on every level to not know which daughter to mourn and which one to hope might still have a chance to come home.” Leaning over, he put a hand on the wall, flat, his fingers spread, as if needing to hold himself up. “I can’t even go into the chapel and pray because I don’t know which one I’m praying for.”
Lexie walked over to her friend and put a hand on his shoulder. “Taylor and Jenny were part of each other. Two halves of a whole. No matter which name you use, you’re praying for both of them.”
The man turned to look at her, his shoulders relaxing a little, though he remained unable to speak. His wife, who had lowered herself into a chair a foot from where Aidan stood, looked up at him and raised a curious eyebrow. Aidan squatted down in front of her and introduced himself, adding, “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
She nodded slowly. “You’re the psychic who has been working to find this evil man.”
“Yes,” he replied.
She reached for one of his hands, slipping her cold one into it, and squeezed. “You’ll find our other daughter.”
His breath caught in his throat and his heart seemed to pause midbeat. The room, which had felt cold when he’d entered, suddenly grew hot, stifling. Suffocating. He had the urge to tug his constricting shirt away from his throat just to get some much-needed air.
Her husband overheard and turned around, finally noticing Aidan was in the room. His eyes lit up for the first time since they’d walked through the door. And, though they didn’t say a word, Aidan knew both parents had focused every bit of their hope, every emotion they possessed, on him and his ability to save their other child.
Staying there and letting them was one of the hardest things he had ever done.
Because his first instinct was to go. To get up and walk out before he could do something insane like promise he’d find the other girl before it was too late.
Oh, he had no intention of giving up on this case, and he intended to find out who was behind this awful string of crimes. But he did not want all hopes pinned on him, couldn’t offer promises of salvation that he knew from horrible past experiences were impossible to keep.
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