And not just dead. Murdered.
“That first picture is of Stephanie Hooper,” Jerry said, his voice taking on a mechanical quality Sheila had never heard before. “Age twenty-four. You can see she has an uncanny resemblance to Abby Maddox, though of course nobody would have picked up on it at the time. She was found in a hotel room downtown a week ago.”
Sheila peered closer at the photo. The woman was lying atop a rumpled bed, dressed in tight jeans, naked from the waist up. “What’s that around her throat?”
“Zip tie.”
“You’re kidding.”
“If you look at the next picture, it’s a shot of her at the morgue, and you can see the carvings on her back.”
The next one was worse. Under the harsh lights of the morgue, the bruises were clearly visible, and FREE ABBY MADDOX was carved deeply, and rather neatly, into the woman’s back. The victim’s skin color was unnatural, and with her lying on the cold steel table, it was easy to forget that she had once been alive. Breathing. Vibrant. The thought pinched something deep inside Sheila, filling her with a profound sense of sadness. She looked up at Jerry. “I can’t make out the second carving beneath the name, it’s too small. What is it?”
“It’s a one, then a slash, then a ten,” Jerry said.
Sheila frowned. She didn’t get it.
“Look at the next photo. If you want to. Though you definitely seem to have a better stomach for this stuff than I do.”
Obligingly, she turned to the next picture. And felt another pang.
“Victim two was Brenda Stich.” Jerry cracked his knuckles again, something he always did when he was stressed. “This is the one they found this morning. Different hotel. Age twenty-six. As you can see, she was also a Maddox clone. She also died of asphyxiation by zip tie.”
Sheila inhaled sharply. Even though Jerry had told her what to expect only moments before, it was something else entirely to see it in full color. The words FREE ABBY MADDOX were indeed carved deeply into the woman’s back, and the blood from the wounds was smeared all over her skin.
It took her a second before she could speak. “What’s that underneath Maddox’s name? Same as the last girl?”
“Sort of. Only this one says two-slash-ten.”
It was too much to process. Taking one last look at the picture, Sheila closed the file, relieved there were no more photos. Hands trembling, she clasped them together again, trying to regain her bearings. She knew Jerry was about to explain everything. Problem was, she was no longer certain she wanted to hear it.
“Rape kits on both vics came back negative.” That distant tone again. Jerry sounded as if he were reciting. “Both women had engaged in intercourse recently, but there’s nothing specific to indicate sexual assault. The first one, Stephanie Hooper, was a student at the University of Washington. The second one was enrolled at Seattle Pacific, though she only went part-time.”
“Both college girls,” Sheila said. “And the zip ties? Any significance with those?”
“None the cops can think of. They’re cheap and impossible to trace.”
“And the knife?” Sheila said. “Was the same one used to carve both women?”
“Someone’s been watching CSI.” Jerry gave her a wan smile. “It’s not definitive, but it appears that the same knife was used in both murders, something longish, sharp, and smooth. The carving was likely done postmortem.” He paused. “The number on the first vic was never released to the media. At first they thought the one-slash-ten corresponded to a date of some sort. But with this next vic—”
It hit Sheila then.
“He’s counting them.” Horrified, she tried to wrap her mind around it. “One out of ten. Two out of ten.”
“Yes.”
“And they think there might be eight more victims?”
“They do, yes. And so I have to talk to Maddox today. At the prison. Find out what she knows.” Jerry glanced at his watch again. “I’m late.”
Sheila blinked. “That’s funny, I think I misheard you. I could have sworn you just said you were going to talk to Abby Maddox today.”
Jerry gave her a look.
“Give me a break!” Sheila felt her face grow hot. “Tell them to go to hell! Why would you—”
“It was either me or you. Maddox has been asking to speak with you for the past few months.”
Sheila sat up. “And why wasn’t I informed of that?”
“They didn’t want to upset you. You’ve been through enough.”
“That’s not for anyone to decide but me.” Aggravated, Sheila pushed her chair out from the table and stood up. “You should have told me, Jerry.”
“I only just found out myself.”
Sheila started pacing the floor. “Why does she want to talk to me?”
“I don’t know,” Jerry said. “I feel like it’s a ploy. But whatever she knows, she won’t reveal it to the cops. She’ll only speak to you. I’m hoping she’ll settle for me instead. If she knows anything about what happened to that poor girl this morning . . .” His voice trailed off.
Sheila turned around to face him, and saw him tugging at the collar of his turtleneck again. He saw her watching and stuck his hand back in his lap.
“And you agreed to go?”
“Yeah. And I didn’t want you to hear about it from anyone else but me.” He sighed deeply. “Those bodies, they change everything. She’s made it clear through her lawyer that she might know something about the murders. At least, that’s the way she and her attorney are playing it.”
“I’m going with you. If she’s asking for me, then I need to see her.”
Jerry looked horrified. “Oh, hell no. And I’ll give you three good reasons.” He leaned forward. “First, I don’t trust the bitch. She’s playing games, and you don’t need to be subjected to her bullshit, not after everything you’ve been through. And second—and this is an even better reason—Morris will kill me if I let you anywhere near her.”
“Don’t be silly,” Sheila said, although she couldn’t necessarily be certain that Morris wouldn’t at least knock Jerry on his ass. “I’ll tell him tonight when he gets home that I went to see her. I don’t even have to bring you into it, really. What’s the third reason?”
“The postcards.”
Sheila fell silent, remembering. A year ago, while Abby Maddox was on the run from the police, she had sent Sheila postcards, taunting her. It was how they’d tracked her. It was how she’d gotten caught.
“I’m not worried,” Sheila said. “I can handle her.”
“She’s got a bone to pick with you,” Jerry said. “And I’m sorry, but I’m not comfortable with that.”
“It’s not up to you. Or Morris, for that matter.” Sheila stood over him and crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m not scared of her, Jerry. Toward the end, I wasn’t even scared of Ethan, really.”
“Let me repeat. Morris will kill me.” Jerry enunciated every word. “He won’t like this, Sheila. Not one bit.”
“Let me repeat. It’s not up to him. If Abby’s been asking to see me, then of course I need to go.” She gestured to the manila folder on the desk. “What happened to those young women isn’t right. They’re pawns in a sick game, and if there’s anything I can do to stop this from happening to someone else, I need to do it.”
The look on Jerry’s face told her he was choosing his words carefully. Finally he pushed his chair back and stood up. “Okay, we’ll go. But be honest with me. What do you really think, looking back on it now? You still think Ethan was telling the truth? That Abby masterminded all those killings, and that his only role was the disposal of the bodies?”
“It wasn’t his only role, remember. Let’s not forget that he hunted them and raped them, too.” Sheila’s voice was hard. “During my time with Ethan in the basement, yes, I really did believe he was telling me the truth. It all seemed entirely plausible that Abby was running the show, especially after she—” She glanced at Jerry’s throat and decided not to fin
ish the sentence. “And then she took off, and was on the run for weeks. Of course it all made her seem incredibly guilty.”
“And now?”
“You know what they say about hindsight.” Sheila shut down her computer and reached for her purse. “When I look back on it now, it’s clear Ethan would have said anything to get me to feel sorry for him. He was so manipulative and he lied about almost everything else—why not Abby? He wanted my sympathy, my understanding. He had every reason to lie about her. But that doesn’t mean she wasn’t involved somehow.”
Jerry nodded and followed her out of the office.
“So what does she want?” Sheila said as she locked the door behind her. “Obviously she couldn’t have killed these two women herself because she’s been in prison for the last year. But if it turns out she does know something about it, what does she expect in return?” They made their way toward the elevators.
Jerry looked away before answering. “I would assume she wants to cut a deal before her murder trial starts next month. And she’ll probably want immunity so she can’t be charged with the murders of the women found in Ethan’s basement.”
Sheila felt her mouth fall open. “And you’re okay with this?”
Pulling down the collar of his turtleneck, Jerry showed her his scar. In the fluorescent light of the hallway, it was raw and fat and purple, and much worse than Sheila imagined. She’d only seen it once before, shortly after he’d left the hospital a year earlier, and it pained her to see it didn’t look much better now. He must pick at it twice a day, she thought.
“I know how it looks.” Jerry’s voice was strangled. “I know how it looks because I live with it every day. I sound like Marlon Brando when I talk because she permanently damaged my vocal cords.” He let go of his collar. The knit material bounced back, but not all the way. “So in answer to your question, no, I am not okay with any of this. But it’s not about me now, is it? It’s about the women who are turning up dead with her name carved into them.”
He was angry, but Sheila understood it wasn’t directed toward her. She pushed the down button for the elevator.
“Listen,” Jerry said. “Are you really sure about this? Because if Morris—”
“It’s not up for discussion, Jerry.”
He opened his mouth to respond, then a second later snapped it shut.
They stepped into the elevator, Jerry not saying another word, as Sheila knew he wouldn’t. After fifteen years of marriage, he had to know damn well you couldn’t argue with a woman once she’d made up her mind.
chapter 7
ROSEDALE PENITENTIARY WAS just outside Gig Harbor, about an hour south of Seattle. Sheila and Jerry made the drive in record time, but the stress of facing Abby Maddox had caused Jerry to scratch his throat the entire way. When they finally arrived at the prison, his scar was bleeding and his collar was sagging.
They sat in the parking lot as Jerry changed into a fresh turtleneck he’d been keeping in the backseat. It was hard not to notice how skinny he’d become, all bones and ribs jutting out from his dark skin.
She looked out through the rain-spattered windshield of the Jeep at the building sprawled out before them. She’d never been to a prison before, and Jerry had mentioned it had been a while since he’d had cause to step inside one himself. It wasn’t anything close to what she’d been expecting. Unlike the prisons in The Shawshank Redemption and Escape from Alcatraz—which were the only prison movies she’d seen—there was nothing theatrical about Rosedale. It might have passed for a high school, if not for the twenty-foot-high fence topped with coiled razor wire surrounding the premises and the guard tower that overlooked the recreation yard.
Was she up for this? Sheila had only been face-to-face with Abby Maddox once, and that was a long time ago. Abby had come by the psychology building at the university to visit her boyfriend, and Ethan had introduced them briefly. She remembered being struck by the younger woman’s beauty.
Sheila flipped down the visor mirror and dug through her purse for her signature red lipstick. Maybe it was silly, but the lipstick brightened her face, instantly making her feel more empowered. She didn’t want to see Abby Maddox feeling anything less than her best.
They left the Jeep and made their way toward a set of thick double doors painted a gaudy bright blue. The prison lobby, if that’s what it was called, was large and empty. Dark tile on the floors, beige walls, benches, lockers, and vending machines were on one side, and a long counter sat right in the middle with a metal detector beside it. A stern-looking corrections officer, dressed in a starched white uniform shirt with epaulets at the shoulders, nodded as they approached. Her name tag read SGT. E. BRISCOE. She didn’t look surprised—or particularly happy—to see them, but Sheila suspected it might just be her face, which seemed stamped with a permanent scowl.
“Good afternoon. What can I do for you?”
“We’re here to see Abby Maddox,” Jerry said, sounding like a cop. Sheila had to smile.
The CO didn’t blink. “Identification, please.”
Jerry slid his driver’s license across the counter, along with another card Sheila didn’t recognize. Fishing in her oversize purse, Sheila pulled out her driver’s license as well. The corrections officer looked everything over, typed something into the computer, then checked something off on a clipboard sitting next to the monitor.
“Detective Isaac, welcome. I’m Sergeant Briscoe.” The CO stuck her hand out and Jerry shook it. Sheila noticed he didn’t bother to let the woman know he was technically retired from PD, and therefore no longer a police detective. “Got a weapon on you, sir?”
“Nope.”
“Just to let you know, no cigarettes, no chewing gum, and no cell phones allowed.”
“Didn’t bring any of those, either.”
“Please sign here.” The CO pushed the clipboard toward him and Jerry scrawled his name in the designated spot. Sheila did the same. Passing them a small plastic bin, she said, “Keys, coins, anything with metal. Belt, too.” She glanced at Sheila’s purse and frowned. “Bags go in the lockers, right behind you.”
Sheila headed for the row of metal lockers that resembled the kind you’d find in a train station. Most were already taken, but she found one at the bottom that was free. Extracting the key, she returned to the desk. Jerry was already waiting for her on the other side of the metal detector.
“Go ahead and step through,” the guard said, and Sheila did as she was told. Nothing beeped.
The CO led them down a long, brightly lit hallway. Toward the end were several doors marked CONFERENCE 1, CONFERENCE 2, and CONFERENCE 3. The guard unlocked Conference 2 and gestured them inside.
“We’re doing it here?” Jerry looked around dubiously. The room was small, no bigger than ten feet by fifteen feet, with a table and chairs in the middle.
“It’s what Seattle PD requested when they called.” The CO pointed to the walls, which were bare. “It’s a conference room, no mikes and no cameras.” She made as if to leave, then paused and turned back. “When they bring Maddox in, do you want her kept in handcuffs?”
Jerry and Sheila exchanged a look. Sheila hadn’t thought about that at all. She personally didn’t feel any fear where Abby Maddox was concerned—anxiety, yes, but not fear—but who knew what Jerry was thinking? The woman had attacked him, after all.
“No, I suppose that won’t be necessary,” Jerry said, but the rasp in his voice was more pronounced.
The guard nodded. “It’ll be a few minutes. She’s in the Close Custody Unit, which is on the other side of the property.”
The CO closed the door and they were alone. There were no windows in this room and it didn’t take long for Sheila to feel claustrophobic.
“Not quite what I expected,” she said.
“Nothing like Alcatraz,” Jerry agreed, and they exchanged a smile.
“What was that other card you handed the guard?” Sheila asked. “Along with your driver’s license?”
�
�Temporary police consultant ID.” Jerry pulled it out of his pocket so she could look at it. It was a plain, laminated white card with his name and photo, with the Seattle PD logo prominently displayed. She noticed it was set to expire in exactly thirty days. “It’s my all-access pass.” He rubbed his collar again.
“There’s nothing they can give you for the itch?” she said softly.
“Nothing that works,” Jerry said, aggravated. He softened his tone. “It’s usually not that bad. It’s worse when I’m stressed. Like now.” His hand went to his collar and he rubbed against the material gently.
“I’m nervous, too.” Sheila wrung her hands together, feeling warm though the room was cool. “This is definitely not something I planned on doing today. Or ever, for that matter.”
“Sure you’re ready for this?” Jerry was watching her. “It’s not too late to wait outside if you want to change your mind.”
But it was too late. Because as soon as the words were out of his mouth, the door unlocked and opened.
And just like that, there she was. Abby Maddox, in the flesh.
The young woman stood just inside the doorway to the conference room, expression serene, eyes a deeper blue than they looked on TV, hair longer. She seemed thinner in her loose-fitting prison-issue uniform, and also older than her twenty-four years, but not for any physical reason. It was the way she carried herself, the way she stood there.
The corrections officer who escorted Abby from her cell—a very handsome man in his early thirties, Sheila couldn’t help but notice—removed her handcuffs.
“I’ll be right outside, sir.” The corrections officer was addressing Jerry. The name on his gold tag read OFFICER M. CAVANAUGH. “Just bang on the door when you’re finished.”
“No problem,” Jerry said.
“You’re all right here?” the CO said to Abby.
“I’m good, Mark. Thanks.”
First-name basis with the corrections officer? Was that allowed? Sheila watched the two of them closely. It was subtle, but anybody really looking could see there was a familiarity between them that extended beyond the inmate/guard relationship. Obviously Abby wasn’t shy about making friends, and Sheila wondered just how deep that friendship went. The CO nodded once more and left the room, shutting the door behind him. It locked automatically.
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