Mark stood up, his heart pounding in anger and frustration. He concentrated on regaining his cool. “Look, Chiefs, Mayor—I know all three of you have a ton on your shoulders because of these murders. You’re at the top of the protection chain in this town, and you have to think of the whole town, not just us.” If anger wouldn’t work, he would try flattery and charm. He didn’t want to see Allie—or any of the other wives-jeopardized just because of a clash of egos among those at the top. “I understand that you don’t want to start a panic,” and that it’s important for everything to look normal. I understand about job commitment and scheduling and public confidence. I love my job. I’ve wanted to be a firefighter since I was a kid. And I’ve given this job and this town everything I’ve had since the day I was hired, without complaining about the low pay and the toll it can take on my personal life. He glanced at Allie. She was watching him skeptically, and he knew that she wondered if this speech was sincere or just a means of manipulating her. He suddenly felt defeated—she always jumped to the wrong conclusion.
He forced himself to continue. “But I’m asking for a favor now. Let me protect my wife. Let all of us. You can’t possibly believe we should make our work schedule a priority over the lives of our wives. Not in a family-friendly town like this. Mayor?”
Pat Castor’s expression had softened during his speech, and now she looked torn. “Family-friendly” was one of the most-used phrases in her last campaign, so she couldn’t dismiss Mark’s point. “Well, I always do say that this is a family town. And of course I don’t expect you to prioritize like that. That wasn’t our intent. We do care what happens to your wives.”
He turned to Craig, his arms spread, palms up. “Chief?”
The fire chief, who had never been married, stared back for a long moment, then looked around at the grieving, frightened couples in the room. “All right,” he said, almost grudgingly. “You can have some time off. Jim, you’d better find this guy quick, because I can’t work with one crew indefinitely.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Why don’t you tell us how you plan to do that?” Pat Castor asked.
Jim nodded to Stan Shepherd. “Stan, you’re the detective working on these cases. Tell us what you know.”
Stan stood up from his front-row seat and turned to face the crowd, his back to the mayor. “Well, I hate to say it, but it does look like we got the wrong guy when we arrested Hank Keyes. We transferred him back to Bogaloosa this afternoon, where he’s being held on drug charges. But he’s no longer a suspect in the murders.”
“No!” Marty Bledsoe bellowed, and a murmur went up over the room. “Why would you go and do a thing like that?”
“Because he couldn’t have gone after Susan Ford while he was in jail.”
“But the paper said he was in a gang,” Mark argued. “Maybe his roommate did it, or another gang member.”
“These murders don’t fit that gang’s profile,” Jim Shoemaker said. “They’re known for race crimes.”
“So Susan Ford is black!”
“But Martha and Jamie aren’t,” Stan said. “Or—weren’t,” he corrected himself awkwardly. “We’re beginning to think that Jamie Larkins’s purchase of that cocaine from Hank Keyes had nothing to do with the murders. We searched his car and didn’t find the murder weapon, and while we did find some guns in his apartment, they were registered and none of them was what we were looking for.
“If it isn’t him, who is it?” Mark demanded.
“That’s where we need your help,” Stan said. “Everything is speculation at this point.”
“You don’t have any leads at all?” Craig Barnes asked.
“Few,” Stan said, and a murmur rose from the crowd. “Our killer has been pretty good at burning all the evidence. We don’t know if he’s setting the fires to do just that, or whether it’s some kind of statement or signature. And at this point, we have to consider everyone a suspect. If any of you has reason to think anyone could be connected with this, we need to know.”
The room got uncomfortably quiet as each of them tried to identify plausible suspects among their neighbors and friends.
“We’re not expecting anyone to point a finger right here, right now, but if you have any hunches we hope you’ll come to us in private and let us know as soon as possible. You don’t have to be right. But just bringing up the name could help. We’ll rule him out if he’s the wrong guy.”
“Sounds like a witch hunt to me,” Dan Nichols said.
“It’s not a witch hunt,” Jim Shoemaker piped up. “We just have to start somewhere.”
“Meanwhile, we need to talk logistics,” Stan added. “Do’s and don’ts. Listen carefully, people, because these things just might save your lives.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Mark and Allie were on their way out when Stan and Celia Shepherd stopped them. “Can I talk to you two for a minute?” Stan asked.
“Sure,” Mark said.
Celia, a pretty woman with hair so fair and blonde that it looked like baby hair, touched her husband’s arm. “I’ll just stay here and help Aunt Aggie clean up.”
Stan regarded the gurney on which Aunt Aggie had loaded the food. “I think she’s got it under control, and some of the guys are helping her. Why don’t you come with us?”
“But isn’t this police business?”
He looked uneasy at the question, then said, “Look, I’m feeling as uneasy right now as the firemen are about leaving my wife alone. Just come with me, okay?”
Celia looked from Stan, to Mark, then to Allie, and finally said, “Okay.”
“You’re worried he’s going to cross over to the police wives next?” Mark asked softly as they walked out of the courthouse and crossed the street to the police station.
“I don’t know what his motive is, or why he’s targeting the fire wives. The truth is, we can’t be sure that we know what his pattern is yet—he could be targeting city employees’ wives, or wives of emergency personnel. Who knows? I’m not willing to take the chance.”
Celia took in a deep breath and put her arm through Allie’s. Arm in arm, the two friends followed their husbands into the interrogation room.
When they had sat down, Allie beside Mark and Celia beside Stan, Mark asked, “So what’s this about, Stan?”
Stan rubbed his face and looked at his friends for a moment. He was tired, Mark could see, and he realized that Stan had probably gotten even less sleep than the rest of them in the past few days. He, after all, was the one on whose shoulders this whole investigation fell.
“I have a favor to ask.”
“What?”
“I want to use your house tonight. See if we can trap the killer.”
Mark sat stiffer in his chair, and gaped across the table at the detective. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“I can’t see any other way, Mark,” Stan said. “We haven’t caught him, and we don’t have any serious leads. But we might be able to trap him. Now that we can see that he has an agenda—”
“To kill our wives,” Mark added.
“Looks that way. And now that we can see his agenda, I’m thinking that maybe we can start trying to think like him. Anticipate his next move.”
Allie’s face was pale as she stared at Stan through fear-stricken eyes. “And you think I’m going to be his next move?”
“Not necessarily,” Stan said. “But so far, all of the shootings have been very close to each other. Houses just blocks from city hall, right in the heart of Newpointe. All of the other families live a little farther out. You’re the only one left who lives in the center of town. Whether that means something to him or not, I can’t say. But if it does, and he hits your house, we’ll be there.”
“No way,” Mark said, standing suddenly and pulling Allie to her feet beside him. “No way are you going to use my wife for a decoy. This guy isn’t playing. He sets fire to houses and puts bullets into defenseless women. He doesn’t wait to make sure there aren’t
cops hiding in the other room.”
“You’re getting me all wrong,” Stan said. “Sit down, okay? Sit down and let me explain what I’m suggesting.”
Allie wiped her eyes with a trembling hand. After a moment, Mark took his seat again beside her. This time he reached for her hand and held it, as if through their hands he could communicate that no one on this earth was going to endanger her. Not while he was still breathing.
Stan tried again. “What are your plans for tonight? Were you going to stay in town?”
“Nope,” Mark said, brooking no debate. “We’re leaving town, so you’d better find someone else’s house to use.”
“Fine. Go. That’s what I want you to do. Just give me the key to your house, so we can make it look like Allie is still home. Turn on some lights, leave the car in the driveway, turn the sprinkler on in the yard. All signs that someone is home. We’ll be waiting for him.”
“What if he burns down my house?” Allie asked. “What if he kills one of you?”
Celia turned her worried eyes to her husband, but said nothing.
“I’m a cop, Allie,” Stan said. “I know what I’m doing. As for your house, his MO seems to be that he shoots first and then sets fire. If we catch him before there’s a victim, there will never be a fire. Guys, it’s the only way I can think of right now to catch him quickly. We have to draw him out.”
Mark looked at Allie again. “What do you say, Allie? It’s really your house now.”
She looked down at the table. “The thought of him coming anywhere near my house…” Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard. “But he’s got to be caught, or I can never go back there myself.” She rubbed her eyes, long ago tear-washed free of any vestiges of makeup. “Oh, what he did to Susan. And Martha, and Jamie.” Her voice got higher in pitch with each word. “I want him caught, Mark. If this is the way…”
“It’s the fastest way, if it works,” Stan said. “And it may not. He may not come. Or, like the mayor said, he may not count you, Allie, since you two are separated. It’s a sick mind we’re dealing with, so we can’t know for sure. But it’s a start.”
Allie wiped her eyes again, then dried her hands on her skirt. “The thought that I might be next…” Her voice broke off. “Let’s do it.”
Stan fixed his eyes on Mark. “Are you okay with this?”
Mark didn’t like it. None of it. But if it worked…“I guess so.”
“This means that you can’t tell anyone you’re leaving town. No one. Understood?”
“Stan, I just announced in that meeting that I’m not leaving Allie’s side. So no one will expect her to be home alone.”
“Then let’s make him think you had another falling out. Allie can storm out of here with you right behind her, Mark, where everyone can see. You can say something like, ‘Okay, then protect yourself! I’ve had it!’”
“Man, they’ll think I’m such scum.”
“We’ll clear it up later, Mark. For now, I need your help. We can leave lights on at your apartment, and the television, too. If he checks, he’ll think you’re home. He’ll buy it. Everybody in town knows you’re separated.”
Mark bit his lip. The idea that the trouble in his and Allie’s marriage was apparently so widely discussed infuriated him, but he supposed he deserved it. He hadn’t made a secret of his maintaining a separate residence, or of his nightly visits to Joe’s Place.
“What do I need to do?” Allie asked.
“Nothing. Just give me the key, then fake a fight as you both run out of here, and I’ll take care of the rest,” Stan said. “You two slam into the car and screech away. They’ll think you’re taking her home, Mark, but go ahead and leave town instead. Allie, we’ll get your van home, since it’s still at your shop.”
“What about the press people out on the sidewalk?”
“I’ll pick the moment you leave to give them a statement, “he said. “It’ll distract them.”
Allie reached into her purse for her key chain and handed it across the table. Stan dropped the keys into his pocket, then crossed his arms on the table. “Look, a lot of people in town are praying for you,” he said. “Both of you, and all of the other families. Do me a favor, though, would you? Pray for me, too. I really want to find this guy.” He took Celia’s hand, squeezed it, and said, “He’s got to be stopped.”
“We will,” Allie said. She got up and hugged Stan tightly, then Celia. “Be careful, okay? Both of you.”
Celia clung to her, her body shaking with a renewed onslaught of tears. “I love you guys. And I know this’ll all be over soon.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Are you okay?” Mark looked at Allie as he drove. Her head leaned against the window, and she nodded mildly. Their orchestrated argument at city hall had gotten the attention of several of the firefighters and their wives, but it seemed to have taken a lot out of her.
“Yeah. I was just thinking.”
“Thinking what?”
She hesitated, and a few minutes passed. “About what George said to us at the funeral.”
“About getting back together?” he asked.
“Yeah. And I know it isn’t going to happen. But it would be nice if we didn’t have to air our dirty laundry in public the way we just did.”
“I’m not crazy about it, either, especially since I came out looking like a major-league jerk. But like Stan said, we’ll clear it all up after this is over.”
“Will we?” she asked. “As we go our separate ways, we’ll let the town know that we weren’t really at each other’s throats? We were just helping Stan? You think that’ll really change their opinion of you, Mark?”
He bristled. “You threw me out, Allie. I was in it for the long haul.”
“Till death do us part?” she asked cynically.
He started to retaliate, then stopped, watching her out of the corner of his eye as the lights of passing cars and street-lamps cast her face in light and shadow. For a long time, the silence held. Finally, Mark spoke again. “I don’t want death to part us, Allie.”
Her face had turned back to her window, and he knew she was crying. He hated it when he made her cry. “Look, we’re tense,” he said quietly. “Our nerves are frayed. Let’s just try to get along, okay?”
“You don’t have to stay with me tonight, Mark.”
“Yes, I do. You’re my wife.”
A tense silence caught them again. Finally, Allie asked, “Where are we going?”
He shrugged. “New Orleans,” he said. “We can get lost there.”
The long drive on I-10 over Lake Pontchartrain was quiet, and Allie leaned her head against the window and watched the shadows and lights dancing off of the water. Something told her that her life had taken a drastic turn, that things were never going to be the same again. She’d never go into her house without locking the door again, and she’d never feel comfortable alone. She would never take for granted any of her friends. And she’d never take her own life for granted again.
She looked at Mark and saw that he, too, was lost in his thoughts. What was he thinking? Was he wondering what he was going to do with her? It was clear that he worried about her safety, something that surprised and gratified her. But there was still Issie Mattreaux. Where was she, and was Mark worried about her, too?
The thought filled her with that familiar mixture of pain and outrage, and she looked out the window again.
“Do you have any place in particular that you’d like to stay when we get there?” Mark asked.
The only place she had ever stayed on the Southshore was the Marriott, where they’d shared their honeymoon four years ago. They’d gone back occasionally to see a Broadway traveling show or celebrate a birthday or anniversary. In fact, on previous trips, there’d never been any question of where they would stay; it was always the same.
But this time, they weren’t the same.
“I’m thinking the Marriott,” Mark said when she didn’t answer. He gave her a moment, then glanced
at her. “It’s secure and safe. At least, it feels that way. And we’re familiar with it.”
“It’s expensive,” she said.
“I think there’s a little room on our credit card. No, wait—if we check in with a credit card, we can be traced. I’ll swing by an ATM machine and get a cash advance on the card.”
“Fine,” Allie said quietly. “But Mark, get something with two double beds, instead of one king-sized.” He stared out the windshield. “We’re married, Allie.”
“Not really,” she said.
He didn’t protest, and her gaze drifted out the window again. Her eyes misted over. How sad—they would be sleeping in the same room, but yards apart. She had missed sleeping next to him, feeling his warmth when she was cold, touching him for reassurance when she woke to in the middle of the night. She would miss it even more tonight, so near and yet so far. It would be better—if she’d been brave enough—to insist that they get separate rooms. But she wasn’t that brave. There was, after all, a killer on the loose. Despite her protests, she wanted Mark to be there, in the same room, watching over and protecting her.
But they couldn’t touch—not if she was going to hold on to her sanity. They couldn’t pretend to be man and wife, love each other, cling together, then go back to their separate lives and their separate homes. She couldn’t let her heart find hope in him—not when he was sure to let her down, as he had before.
They got cash from an ATM and checked into the hotel under fake names—just in case the killer was looking for them—then rode the elevator up quietly and found their room.
“We should call home and see if Stan is there, and if he needs to know where anything is,” she said as she set her purse on one of the beds.
Mark dropped the bags. “I’ll call him. I’d like to know if anything’s happened yet, anyway. Want me to order room service first?”
She shook her head. “No, I’m not hungry. I think I’ll just get ready for bed.”
He nodded, then picked up the phone.
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