Scene of the Crime: Mystic Lake

by Carla Cassidy

  Amberly turned dark eyes to Cole as they headed for the side of the house. “I never thought about anyone trying to jimmy windows or doors,” she said worriedly. “I didn’t hear anything in the night, but I slept hard.”

  “And whoever left that on the mailbox probably didn’t get any closer to the house,” he said in an attempt to reassure her. “But I’d rather be safe than sorry.”

  “That definitely makes two of us,” she agreed.

  They walked the entire perimeter of the house, checking for any signs of tampering, but found nothing. When they reached the front yard again, a car pulled up in the driveway, and a tall, handsome man got out of the driver’s seat.

  “Amberly,” he called. “Want to let me know what’s going on?”

  Amberly quickly introduced the man to Cole as John Merriweather, her ex-husband. “Amberly has been working with me on a series of murders in Mystic Lake, and it appears some of that work has followed her home,” Cole said. He turned to look at Amberly. “And I don’t believe it’s safe for her to remain in this house.” He quickly explained about the dream catchers and the murders taking place twenty miles away.

  “Max can stay with me,” John said as he looked at Amberly. “You do what you need to do in order to clear up this mess, but until then I don’t want you anywhere near him.” His voice held a rough, angry edge but his eyes were conflicted. He still cared for her.

  “You’re absolutely right,” she agreed. “He needs to stay with you, and away from me.” Cole could hear the very heartbreak in her voice at the tough decision that had to be made.

  Cole touched her elbow. “Why don’t I go inside with you and you can gather up some clothes and whatever you need and we’ll figure things out when we get to Mystic Lake?”

  John Merriweather might have been an accomplished artist, but at the moment he was only a frightened, angry father, and his anger seemed to be directed at both Cole and Amberly.

  “This is what always worried me,” he said in a taut voice. “That, somehow, the lines between your professional life and your personal life would get blurred and put Max at risk. And now that’s happened.”

  “John, there was no way I could foresee something like this,” she protested.

  “And there’s no reason to believe that your son is in any danger. This man targets young women, not children,” Cole said firmly.

  “Just call me when you have this mess cleaned up.” John didn’t wait for her response, but got back into his car and squealed out of the driveway.

  “Whew, he’s kind of intense, isn’t he?” Cole said in an effort to break the tension.

  “Not usually, but he’s angry. He’s always hated my job. This only makes everything he believed about it seem right.”

  “I meant what I said about Max. I don’t believe he’s in any danger. There’s nothing to indicate that our killer has suddenly decided to target children. This was intended for you and nobody else.”

  She nodded and cast him a grateful smile. “Thank you. I needed to hear that.”

  “Let me collect the evidence, and then we’ll get your things.” She watched as he returned to his car and pulled out a pair of gloves, a camera and an evidence envelope.

  She took the camera from him, and while she snapped photos of the mailbox decorations, he pulled on the pair of gloves. Within minutes, the dream catcher and photo were in the envelope, and he and Amberly entered her house.

  His first impression was one of inviting warmth. Rich hardwood floors were covered by a thick Native American rug patterned in bright colors. Interesting-looking pottery sat on the fireplace mantel, and the sofa was an earth-brown and decorated with yellow, red and orange throw pillows, which matched the rug.

  The décor reflected her, not just her heritage but her warmth. There was a sense of love here, a sense of family, even though he knew it was just her and her son.

  He followed her through the living room and down the hallway. They passed what he assumed was Max’s room, painted a dark blue and with a variety of law-enforcement posters and emblems on the walls.

  He could smell her bedroom before they reached it, that exotic scent that had teased his senses since the moment he’d met her.

  Her room was not frilly, and he hadn’t expected it to be. She wasn’t a frilly kind of woman. The bedspread was deep green, and the curtains at the window were beige with a thin green stripe. The top of the dresser held an array of photographs of Max at various ages, but it was the painting hanging on the wall opposite the bed that drew him.

  It was obviously a John Merriweather, and it was equally obvious that love had been in each brush stroke. The subject of the painting was Amberly and Max, and John had done an amazing job capturing two of the people who were obviously very important in his life.

  Amberly grabbed a large suitcase from the closet and began to fill it with clothes. He leaned against the doorjamb and watched, unsure what to say to alleviate the fear, the pain that must be roaring through her at the moment.

  She was not only having to abandon her home but also leave her son, because somebody was playing games…potentially deadly games.

  “You lied to me when you told me your bedroom was nothing more than a bed and a dresser,” he said to break the silence. “I pictured a bare mattress on the floor.”

  She flashed him a tense smile. “I still want to paint the walls in here, a nice pale green, and I’ve had that bedspread for the last ten years. This just feels like my uncompleted room in the house.”

  It didn’t take her long to fill the suitcase, then pull out an overnight bag and disappear into her bathroom. He didn’t want to think about how frightened he’d been to see that dream catcher hanging over her picture, but he knew one thing clearly—he didn’t want to let her out of his sight…not now…not until they had the killer behind bars.

  “I’d like you to drive back to Mystic Lake in my car and have you stay in my guest room until we get to the bottom of all this,” he said.

  She stuck her head out of the bathroom door, her expression one of surprise. “I just assumed I’d park myself at a motel someplace in the area.”

  “I don’t want you alone anywhere,” he replied. “I’d feel more comfortable with the buddy system, and I want my buddy under my roof.”

  She disappeared back into the bathroom without answering. Was she remembering that moment in his guest room when he’d awakened her from her nightmare?

  His desire to keep her close had nothing to do with any lust he might feel for her; it had everything to do with his need to keep her safe and sound.

  She exited the bathroom with her overnight bag. “Okay, I’m in for staying at your place.” Her gaze didn’t quite meet his, and he thought he saw a tremble possess her lower lip.

  “This shook you up pretty badly,” he said softly.

  Her gaze met his. “I’d be lying if I said anything else.” She sank down on the edge of the bed and set her bag next to her. “Seeing it right here, in the place where I live, in the place where my son sleeps and eats… I don’t think I’ve really processed it until now, while I’m packing up to leave everything.”

  He heard the emotion in her voice, thick and raw, and he wasn’t sure if it was fear or sadness or a combination of both. “It’s going to be all right,” he said as he shifted from one foot to the other. “We’re going to get this guy.”

  She nodded, her head still down. She looked broken, and he ached for her. From the moment he’d met her, he’d noticed she radiated an inner strength, a wealth of spirit that drew him to her. But he found himself equally drawn to the woman seated on the bed, who looked like she needed nothing more than a pair of strong arms around her.

  He walked over to stand directly in front of her. “Amberly,” he said softly.

  She looked up at him then, and her beautiful brown eyes were filled with tears. He opened his arms, and she shot off the bed and into them as if she’d just been waiting for him to make the offer.

  She di
dn’t cry although she relaxed completely against him and rested her head in the crook of his shoulder as if finding his arms the most peaceful place on the face of the earth.

  He tried not to notice the fragrance that wafted from her hair, the fullness of her breasts pressed against his chest and her heart beating against his own.

  The last thing he wanted was for his body to react inappropriately to the moment, but he seemed to lose control when she was around.

  She was all soft curves and sweet-scented femininity, and just before he feared he might embarrass himself, he dropped his arms from around her and stepped back. “Okay?” he asked.

  Although her eyes remained dark, she straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. “I’m fine, and the sooner we catch this bastard the better.” She picked up her purse and her overnight bag while Cole grabbed her suitcase, and together they left the house.

  Ed was still outside, pruning some of the bushes in front of his walkway. “Ed, I’m going to be gone for a little while. Would you keep an eye on the house for me?” Amberly asked.

  “Of course I will, and I’ll help John with the little guy, too,” he replied.

  “I appreciate it,” she replied, emotion once again thick in her voice.

  Minutes later, they were in Cole’s car and headed to his home in Mystic Lake. “Maybe we got lucky, and we’ll find some fingerprints on the dream catcher or on the photo of you,” he said, breaking the silence that had become too long between them.

  “You don’t believe that,” she replied flatly. “He’s not about to make that kind of mistake. He hasn’t left prints at any of the other scenes. Unless he’s some kind of copycat, he won’t have screwed up this one by getting careless.”

  “Sooner or later, he’s got to make a mistake,” Cole replied, a burn in the pit of his stomach.

  “Let’s hope it’s sooner rather than later. I can’t put my life with Max on hold forever.” Her fingers laced tightly together in her lap.

  “You were right. He’s a cute kid.” He felt her curious gaze on him. “I saw the pictures of him on top of your dresser and the painting that John did of the two of you.”

  “He’ll be just fine with John,” she replied, obviously more to convince herself than him.

  “I gather John doesn’t like what you do for a living.”

  She released a dry laugh. “You think?” She relaxed against the seat and released a deep sigh. “John and I were never meant to be married.”

  “How did the two of you meet?” There was no question he was intrigued about her past. It made her the woman she was today.

  “We met in a coffee shop. He approached me to ask if he could paint me. I thought he was some kind of a creep and blew him off, but he gave me a card, and later that day I looked him up on the internet and realized he was the real deal. I was intrigued, so I agreed to be his model, and we struck up a wonderful friendship.”

  “And that friendship turned into love?”

  “Not exactly, although I wish it would have been that easy.”

  He shot her a quick glance and noted the frown that danced across her features. “One night, John sold a large painting for more money than he’d ever sold one for before. We celebrated with a bottle of champagne and before the night was over, Max was conceived. When John found out I was pregnant, he insisted we get married. Coming from a broken family, I didn’t want a baby out of wedlock. I wanted Max to have a whole family, together, so I said yes. I thought we could make it work, but it was the worst mistake I’ve ever made.”

  He glanced at her again and then focused back on the road. “Mistake, how?”

  She paused for a long moment and looked out the passenger window. “We weren’t meant to be married. I felt no passion for John. Any passion I’ve ever felt in my life was for my job and, of course, now Max. But not for John, not for anybody else.”

  “Did he feel passion toward you?” Cole couldn’t imagine a man with a beating heart who wouldn’t.

  “Sometimes, I think too much. John was in love with me. I loved John, but I wasn’t in love with him.”

  “I’m guessing he didn’t want the divorce?”

  “What John wanted more than anything in the world was for us to stay married and me to become the woman he needed in his life. He wanted me to quit my job, be mommy and wife during the day and his artistic muse and lover in the evenings. He needed me to be something I’m not, and the longer we stayed together, the more miserable we both became, and so I decided to pull the plug. He’s been trying to get me to reconsider ever since.” She released a deep sigh. “I just want him to be happy.”

  “And you wouldn’t reconsider and go back to him?” He pulled into his driveway and cut the engine.

  “Never,” she said firmly. “I don’t really believe in passion that never cools, that marriage doesn’t somehow suck the life out of one of the partners. Somebody has to give too much, become less than what they are, for it to really work.”

  He pulled his keys from the ignition and turned to look at her. “Hopefully, someday in your life, you’ll find the man to prove you wrong. Now, let’s get you unpacked, and then we have a killer to catch.”

  As he got out of the car he glanced around the area, his gun at his hip, ready to be drawn if he saw anything unusual. What worried him most about the items left on Amberly’s mailbox was the fact that he didn’t know if they’d been left there as a prank, a threat or a deadly promise.

  Chapter Eight

  Amberly felt as if the rest of the day went by in a gray fog. It didn’t take her long to unpack her things in Cole’s guest bedroom and take over the hall bathroom with her toiletries, and as she did, she remained curiously numb.

  It was only when she set a small framed picture of Max on the nightstand next to the bed that the grief and rage pierced the fog.

  How dare he come to her home, displace her and make her worry about the safety of her child? How dare he force a situation where she had to distance herself from the one person she loved more than any other on the face of the earth?

  She was seated on the edge of the bed when Cole knocked on the door and peeked in. “You want to just hang out here for the rest of the day, kind of get your feet beneath you?”

  “Absolutely not.” She stood. “I want to spend every minute of every hour that I possibly can trying to catch this creep.”

  “I thought that’s what you’d say,” he said, a hint of approval warming his blue eyes. “I’ve set up an interview at the office in about twenty minutes with Terry Banks, Casey’s boyfriend at the time of her murder. I’m assuming you’d like to be there.”

  “Absolutely,” she agreed and followed him out of the room. They were quiet on the ride to the office. The only emotion that radiated in the car was the frustration coming off both of them.

  “Do you think it’s possible that the three men are working together to commit these murders?” she asked.

  He knew immediately what three men she was asking about. “It would definitely be unusual in the world of serial killers to have three involved. But there’s no question that Raymond, Jimmy and Jeff are tight. They’re alibiing each other for two of the murders…both Gretchen’s and Barbara’s.”

  She looked at him in surprise and he continued. “After you left to go home last night I gathered the three of them into separate rooms to find out about their alibis on the nights of the other murders. They each had separate alibis for Mary’s murder but once again insisted that on the nights that Gretchen and Barbara were killed, they were all at Raymond’s house playing poker.”

  “They play poker a lot,” she said dryly. “I wonder what other games they like to play.”

  “The last thing we should do is indulge in that tunnel-vision thinking you mentioned before. Those three men are definitely at the top of our suspect list, but without any real concrete evidence to prove their involvement, we need to keep searching and keep our options open.”

  “I agree. I just wish somebody else w
ould pop up on our radar.” She was determined to stay focused on the case and not allow herself to think about what it had just taken away from her—time with Max.

  By the time they got to his office, Lana Scott, the daytime receptionist, informed them that Terry Banks had arrived and was in the small interrogation room with Deputy Black.

  Amberly followed Cole into the room and found Roger Black standing against the wall and Terry Banks seated at the small table, an open can of soda in front of him. He jumped up at the sight of them, his hazel eyes glassy and slightly wild.

  “Sheriff, I don’t understand. Why am I here?” he asked, his voice cracking with either nerves or some other emotion.

  “Sit down, Terry, I just have a few more questions for you.”

  Terry sank back down on the chair. Amberly knew he was twenty-one years old, but he looked achinglsy young. His brown hair looked as if it hadn’t seen a comb in days, and he sported a patch of acne on his chin.

  Casey had been the youngest victim. She’d been twenty years old, another anomaly in the pattern the killer had established so far.

  As Cole gave Terry his Miranda rights, Terry insisted he didn’t need a lawyer or anyone else. Suspects could be arrogantly stupid when it came to their rights, Amberly thought. If she faced an interrogation by a man like Cole, she’d definitely want a lawyer standing by her side.

  She stood against the wall next to Roger as Cole began to question the young man. Cole took the chair across from Terry, and for a few minutes, the conversation was easy as Terry talked about his grief over Casey’s death.

  They’d been dating since high school and had plans to get married as soon as they got financially on their feet. Amberly watched with interest as Cole played the role of friend and father confessor and slowly morphed into a stern figure of authority.

  He played the kid like a fiddle, with force and finesse, and within thirty minutes, Terry was sobbing like a baby and confessing that he’d killed Casey, but it had all been an accident, a horrible accident.

  “We got into a fight and I pushed her. She fell and hit her head on the coffee table. I didn’t see any blood, but when I tried to wake her, when I felt for her pulse, I realized she wasn’t breathing, that she was dead.” The words sobbed out of him, his eyes pleading with each and every one of them to understand.