A terrified Sandra squeezed her eyes shut and whispered, “You’re going to kill me now too, aren’t you?”
He didn’t respond.
“Just do it.” She buried her head over her mother’s chest. “Get it over with. Do what you came to do. I don’t care what happens to me now.”
Sirens whined in the distance. They were coming. Coming for him. He wondered how it happened. Had a neighbor heard the shots and called the police?
Still unsure of his next move, he reached for his gun, shocked to find the counter empty, the gun no longer there. He turned his head, staring into the face of the person now holding the gun, aiming not at him, but at Sandra. Before he could do anything to stop what was about to happen next, a shot was fired. The bullet hit Sandra, slamming her body backward.
“What are you doing?” Elias yelled.
“It had to be done,” the shooter replied. “Don’t you see?”
The shooter wiped the gun down and set it back on the counter, then turned and fled out the back door. Instead of sprinting to freedom like he’d done so many times before, Elias ran to Sandra and dropped to his knees. Pulling her to his chest, he cradled her. He should have been surprised at his actions, but he wasn’t. The moment Sandra stepped foot inside the house tonight, somehow he knew it would all be over.
CHAPTER 12
Alexandra Weston
August 12, 1984
10:15 a.m.
Alexandra Weston sat on a stiff, wooden bench on the fourth row of a Louisiana courthouse, listening to the grand jury indict twenty-two-year-old Elias Pratt on several charges of first-degree murder, followed by a swift, unemotional recommendation for the death penalty.
While the verdict was read, the majority of men and women lining the seats inside the packed courtroom smiled and nodded in agreement. A woman sitting in the next row fist-pumped the air. A man in the same row clasped his hands together and looked at the ceiling, like the gateway of heaven had been opened and his prayers had been answered. In another row, an elderly couple clutched each other, both gushing exuberant tears of joy.
Justice had been served for all.
Elias wouldn’t receive a multiple life sentence; he’d be sent to Gruesome Gertie, the state’s unforgiving electric chair.
Alexandra shifted her attention from the weeping elderly couple to Elias Pratt. He’d remained stiff and still while the verdict was read, like a pole rooted in cement. His hands were in his lap, fingers interlocked, his dull, blank eyes staring at the judge, as if she were nothing more than an extra in a lackluster movie.
He didn’t seem to care whether he lived or died.
He didn’t seem to care about anything.
It didn’t surprise Alexandra.
Killers rarely did.
Dubbed the “Devil in Disguise” due to his boyish charm, middle-class upbringing, and devilishly handsome looks, most people speculated Elias was nothing more than a wolf in sheep’s clothing, a sweet-faced rich kid disguised as Lucifer himself. Devoid of emotion. A psychopath. A serial killer.
Given his crimes, Alexandra could see why the public felt this way. As to her own feelings, the jury was out. She wasn’t sure how she felt yet. Elias didn’t exhibit the traits she’d come to expect in the David Berkowitzes and the John Wayne Gacys of the world. He was different. Not innocent, but different, with a quiet reverence that shocked her. Staring at him now, she realized in some ways she almost felt sorry for him. How crazy was that?
Court was adjourned, and Alexandra stood, watching the sea of onlookers who’d come to gawk one last time, to support each other with hugs, high-fives, and smiles of satisfaction. The judge called for order. No one seemed to mind him.
To most in attendance, they’d just witnessed what would eventually lead to Elias’s end.
For Alexandra Weston, however, his end was just the beginning.
CHAPTER 13
Present Day
I woke to the sound of ice being jiggled inside a glass, just inches from my face. I pulled the covers over me, refusing to open my eyes.
“Hey,” Finch said. “It’s almost eleven. You need to get up. You’re meeting with Alexandra Weston’s agent today. Remember?”
I groaned.
He peeled back the covers, pressed the cup to my cheek.
I swatted it away. “Come on, Finch. Knock it off. I’m tired.”
“I’ll stop when you get up.”
He set the glass on the nightstand adjacent to the half-full glass of water from the night before. Then, in an extreme act of cruelty, he walked over to the window and yanked the curtains to the side. The room illuminated to a piercing degree, like if I looked at the window straight on, I’d see it was actually the doorway to the pearly gates. “You really hate me right now, don’t you?”
“You have forty-five minutes to get dressed and meet Barbara Berry at the pastry place.”
I flung the blanket off my body, realizing the only thing I had going on downstairs was a pair of black lace undies, and then I remembered tossing my pants after I’d refused to put them on.
Upon seeing me more naked than clothed, again, Finch jerked his head in the opposite direction.
“It’s okay,” I said. “It’s just like seeing me in bikini bottoms, if you think about it.”
“They’re not bikini bottoms though. And they’re see-through.”
I looked down. Huh. He was right.
Without looking at me, he bent down, picked my leggings off the floor, and tossed them to me. I slipped them on and stood too fast, my throbbing head a quick reminder of the destruction I’d put myself through the night before. “I want to, ahh, thank you for coming to my aid last night. I mean, I’m sure I had it under control, but still, I took it too far.”
He raised a brow. “You didn’t have it under control.”
“In any case, I’d like to just move past it. I shouldn’t have let things get that out of hand in the first place.”
When he didn’t reply, I looked at him. He was eyeing me strangely.
“What is it?” I asked. “What did I say?”
“Nothing.”
Saying “nothing” was his way of not asking me the same question I never answered when he’d first asked it. “I just had a few too many shots, that’s all. You know me, Finch. I do this, what, once or twice a year? I’m in my thirties. I’m pretty sure it’s okay to let loose once in awhile.”
“You’re not just letting loose though, are you? You’re forgetting.”
I socked him in the shoulder. “Oh, come on. Are you saying you’ve never had a few too many?”
He’d been avoiding eye contact with me since I got out of bed. At first I chocked it up to his discomfort about seeing me half naked. Now I wasn’t so sure.
“Look, I’m sorry if it was hard on you to see me like that,” I said. “It was unprofessional. I blurred the lines between employee and friend. I don’t want you to stay mad at me.”
“I’m not mad.”
“What’s eating you then?”
He wiped a hand across his face. “Last night, right before you fell asleep, you said something about a—”
He stopped midsentence, looked at the time.
“Something about a what?” I asked.
He shook his head. “You know what? It doesn’t matter right now. We need to go. Never mind.”
CHAPTER 14
I found Barbara Berry sitting at a corner table at Perfectly Pastry, nibbling on a half-eaten beignet, her eyes fixed on a cargo ship lazing along the ocean. Although her lips were coated in white powder, she was possibly the youngest sixty-eight-year-old woman I had ever seen. Her skin was milky and smooth; her sleek, platinum, shoulder-length hair was tucked behind her ears so no one would miss the gigantic diamond stud earrings declaring her obvious station in life.
I approached and she turned, aiming a pointy, ruby-colored fingernail in the direction of a chair next to her. She put the beignet on a plate, cupped a hand around a paper cup, took a s
ip, and said, “Well, this is a damned disaster, isn’t it?”
I sat in the chair and wondered if the disaster she referred to had to do with her biggest moneymaker never publishing another book again.
“I’m sorry about Alexandra,” I said. “You two have been friends for decades. I’m sure you’re still in shock. I imagine everyone is.”
She blotted her lips with a napkin. “No, no. I wasn’t talking about how she died or the fact she’s dead. I mean, Alex’s death was tragic, to be sure. The disaster is the subpar coffee they’re serving in this place.” She frowned. “It’s stale and bitter. We should have met each other at Café Beignet instead. They have the best ... well, the best everything, but certainly the best beignets.”
A waiter walked by. Barbara reached out, depositing the coffee cup onto a tray he was carrying, even though the tray was full of fresh coffee being delivered to other patrons. He flashed her a distasteful look. She flicked her wrist in return, like he was a meddlesome gnat she couldn’t trouble herself with, and then she continued talking to me. “I just don’t understand it. I mean, for this to happen now, when she was ... you know ... it baffles me.”
All I knew was she’d just stopped herself from saying something she decided she didn’t want to say. “I’d heard Alexandra planned to retire soon,” I said. “I asked her about it, and she didn’t admit it outright. She did say she didn’t have the same passion she once did.”
Barbara leaned back in her chair, crossing one arm over the other. “Retire? Alex? You must have heard her wrong. Scale back, perhaps. But retire? I don’t believe it. She was devoted to her work. She would have gone to her grave writing.” She paused for a moment then added, “In a way, I suppose she did, didn’t she?”
I wondered if Barbara realized how heartless she sounded. Alexandra’s death seemed to bother me far more than it bothered her, and I didn’t even know her very well. I thought back to the night of the book signing, about the comment Alexandra had made. Was it possible she hadn’t told her agent about her plans to stop writing?
“What was Alexandra working on before she died?”
Barbara’s shoulders bobbed up and down. She didn’t speak.
“You’re her agent. Wouldn’t she discuss it with you?”
Barbara shook her head. “Most of the time, Alex pitches an idea and we talk about it all beforehand. We’d have a brainstorming session, make sure the person she wants to write about is relevant, will sell well, has the potential of being a bestseller.”
“Why was it different this time?”
“This time she knew what she wanted to write. She wasn’t interested in a discussion. We had a meeting set up for next week.”
“Couldn’t she have emailed the book to you so you could take a look at it?”
“Alex was paranoid about being hacked through email transmission and her books being read before they were released. Given the lengths she went to in order to secure her files, I didn’t see how it was even a remote possibility. She’d saved the book to a flash drive for me, and we were to meet next week to look it over.”
“And you were okay with not knowing anything more until the meeting?”
She raised a brow. “Do I look like a person who doesn’t care about those kinds of things? At some point, I knew I just needed to trust her. Everything Alex publishes turns to gold, Miss Jax, no matter what it is. Believe me, I still tried to weasel it out of her, but it was to no avail. She simply said she knew I’d love it and talking about it would have to wait until we were in person. So here I am, and now she’s dead.”
“Do you think it’s possible she’d already started writing a new book and that the subject of that book put her in danger or may have even been the reason she was murdered?”
“Anything’s possible. She told me she had been working on the book for a long time. It was almost finished.”
“Hmm. Who’s relevant right now? Who would make a great story, move the most books?”
“You tell me. You’re far more tuned in to criminal society than I am. Who are you writing about these days?”
Her evasive, non-committal attitude made me feel she was hiding something. Perhaps who Alexandra was writing about. I considered the most likely candidates. There was Harvey Lindon, a transient who murdered six women in Kentucky over a span of three months. There was also seventeen-year-old Steven Dent, who snuck out to the campground his parents were staying at, doused the tent in gasoline, lit it on fire, and burned them alive. Toby Barker had an affinity for luring women he met online to his cabin, and they were never seen again. And last but not least, Darla Winehouse, a classy black-widow type who finally confessed to poisoning both of her ex-husbands in the eighties after she was diagnosed with terminal cancer a few years before.
“I’d write about Harvey Lindon, Steven Dent, Toby Barker, or Darla Winehouse.”
Barbara shrugged. “I wouldn’t waste your time on any of them. There’s no motive. They’re all behind bars.”
My thoughts turned to Alexandra’s current novel, The Devil Wakes. “Maybe I shouldn’t be looking at the book she was in the process of writing, but instead should focus on the book she just released. What about Elias’s family or the victims’ survivors? It’s possible Alexandra said something in her book that offended someone.”
“Enough to kill her? Sounds like a lot of work to me. I read The Devil Wakes a few times. I didn’t see any red flags.”
“Well, someone wanted her dead,” I said.
“Yes. Someone did. I have my suspicions.”
“You have a suspect in mind?”
“Two. That’s why I asked to see you today.”
“Why me? I’m not investigating the case.”
She laughed. “You’re not, eh? That’s not what I heard.” She reached down, slipped a hand inside the front sleeve of her handbag, and pulled out a piece of plain white paper folded in half. She handed it to me. “I’ve jotted a couple of names down for you.”
I unfolded the paper, glanced at the two names listed. Both men. Neither familiar. “Why didn’t you give this to the police?”
“I did. I just came from there.”
“And?”
“They listened to what I had to say with minimal interest. Who knows if they even took me seriously? I’m not waiting around to find out they didn’t.” She stabbed the tip of her nail onto the table repeatedly. “Something must be done. Something must be done now.”
“This first name you listed, Doyle Eldridge. Who is he?”
“Alex’s stalker.”
My hand gripped the edge of the table so hard I thought I might snap the corner off. My breathing changed, staggered and rough. Restricted, like my throat was being squeezed closed.
I glanced across the crowded restaurant. Finch was still sitting alone in the same seat he’d been in since we arrived. Although he wasn’t privy to the conversation I was having with Barbara, he cracked a slight smile, almost like he knew I needed it in that moment. Seeing him there calmed me. It also kept me from rubbing the three-inch scar on the inside of my right forearm until it was inflamed.
Barbara bent her head toward me. “You all right?”
I took a breath, forced my mind out of the past, forced myself not to think of the word stalker. “Fine. Sorry. It’s just a bit warm in here today.”
She laughed. “Warm? It’s December, and I’d swear they have the air conditioning on. It’s freezing in this place.”
“Tell me about Doyle Eldridge.”
“He’s a squirrely fellow. Not much to look at. Good body for his age. Built like a linebacker. Been popping up at Alex’s events for over ten years. Her ‘most devoted fan,’ she called him. She thought he was harmless.”
“What makes you think he isn’t?”
“He reminds me of the kind of guy who’d have a sick shrine devoted to Alex in his house.”
She pulled out a cell phone, used her finger to type something, then turned the phone toward me. “This is Doyle.”
/>
She was right. He held a stack of Alexandra’s books in his Facebook profile photo. His face was bent toward the stack, sniffing, like the books were a pile of sweet nectar. Good body, homely face. He didn’t look like a killer. But then, killers didn’t always look like killers.
“I see what you mean,” I said.
She put the phone back in her pocket. “He showed up to one of her book signings a few years back with a scrapbook. The first few pages were filled with her book covers and articles about Alex he’d printed off the Internet. The last few pages were twisted. He’d clipped a bride and groom out of a magazine, replaced the heads with his and Alex’s.”
“What did Alexandra think about the scrapbook?”
“She laughed it off. They both did. He said he replaced the heads as a joke because he knew she’d like it. Seemed weird to me. Alex always said he was just a friend, that he’d been a friend of hers for years. I didn’t believe it. A fan isn’t a friend.”
“Where does this guy live?”
“Are you ready for this? He used to live in Nevada. Then several years ago, he moved here. Said he was tired of the desert. Wanted a change.”
“And you think he moved here to be closer to Alex?”
She turned her palm up. “In my opinion? Yes.”
“I didn’t see him at her book signing the other night,” I said.
“What time were you there?”
I told her.
“Doyle is usually the first person to arrive, but never the last one to leave. He always struck me as the shy, introverted type. He arrived before the crowds, got his one-on-one time, then scampered away when the line started forming.”
“You think someone as timid as Doyle is capable of killing Alexandra?”
“Miss Jax, even introverts have their limits, and quite frankly, with all the suppressed emotions they carry around, if you think about it, they’re really the most volatile of them all.”
I was an extrovert. I wouldn’t know. But I did know a little something about the mind of a murderer, and she was right. “What reason would he have to kill a woman he had been so devoted to for all this time?”
The Perfect Lie Page 6