by Karen Rose
‘Did Russ Bennett play on the team?’
‘No, although I imagine he wanted to. It was the big thing in Anderson Ferry. It was a way to get out, if you were a boy.’
‘And the girls? How did they “get out”?’
‘Some married. I went to college. Gwyn joined the—’ She stopped abruptly, then continued. ‘A sorority.’
He glanced over at her. That wasn’t what she’d been about to say. ‘I see. So, how did your brother die? If you don’t mind my asking.’
She clutched his jacket around her more tightly. ‘In an accident,’ she said stiffly.
‘I guess you do mind my asking,’ he said ruefully and she sighed.
‘I’m sorry. It was twenty-one years ago and I’m long over it, but . . .’
‘Sometimes old hurts don’t die.’ Of this he was well aware.
She nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘And I imagine going back to your old neighborhood didn’t help.’
She grimaced. ‘No, it didn’t.’
‘Were your brother and Russ Bennett the same age?’
She turned to study his profile. ‘Yes, they were in the same grade. So was Malcolm Edwards. Why did you ask me about Malcolm to begin with?’
‘I told you. Westcott brought him up.’
‘She also called me an “undesirable”. I would have thought you’d be more worried about that instead of some seemingly coincidental death, especially after . . . well, after what happened earlier today.’
‘You mean when I kissed you? And you kissed me back?’
Her cheeks heated. ‘Yes. Maybe you shouldn’t have. Maybe I am an undesirable.’ She said it in a defiant way, as if challenging him to agree.
‘I know you’re not.’
Her brows lifted. ‘And how could you possibly know that?’
He shrugged. ‘Because I desire you.’
She started to smile, then shook her head hard. ‘No, I’m serious. How do you know Westcott wasn’t right? I could be . . . just plain bad. You can’t know.’
‘I don’t think so. If you were bad, you wouldn’t have cared for an old man’s feet.’ He hesitated, then shrugged again. ‘Or cried over the body of a girl you didn’t know.’
‘So did you,’ she murmured.
He kept his eyes straight ahead. ‘I know. And I’ve wondered how many others you cried over when no one was watching.’
‘A lot,’ she said, so quietly that he almost didn’t hear. ‘Why did you ask about Malcolm?’
The topic change was intentional. He’d ventured too close, again. He decided to venture even closer. ‘Because when Westcott said his name, Mr Bennett reacted.’
She frowned. ‘Reacted exactly how?’
‘He froze. Looked guilty.’ He met her gaze. ‘And then he ushered you out.’
‘You think there’s a connection between Russ’s murder and Malcolm’s death? And that Mr B knows what it is?’ She shook her head. ‘No. Just . . . no.’
‘Okay,’ he said quietly, refocusing on the road.
‘Okay,’ she repeated forcefully. ‘So what are you going to do next?’
Check into Malcolm Edwards and Russ Bennett’s father, he thought. ‘Check out the old girlfriends,’ he said, ‘find any food processing plants with huge freezers, and hope Drew finds a usable print on that shipping box and/or your car.’
‘You really think this guy left his prints?’ she asked dourly.
‘No. Hopefully by the time I get back I’ll have Bennett’s LUDs.’ Hopefully the phone company’s Local Utilization Detail would offer up a clue. ‘I need to find out who he was meeting the Sunday he disappeared. Hopefully you find something more on Bennett’s body tomorrow.’
‘Drop me off at the morgue. I’ve got some time yet tonight I can work on him.’
‘No. I don’t want you there alone.’
‘I won’t be. Alan and Ruby are on duty and we have a security guard. You have to leave me alone sometimes.’ She lifted a brow. ‘Unless you want to stand next to me while I cut up dead bodies. Mulhauser says he has four in the freezer with my name on them. You can hold the bowl when I remove their brains. They kind of go . . . plop.’
He tossed her a wry glare, swallowing hard. ‘That was for tricking you earlier.’
‘Pretty much,’ she agreed magnanimously.
‘Are we even now?’
She smiled at him and he took heart. ‘Pretty much.’
‘Fine. I’ll leave you to your bone saws. I’ve got LUDs to check.’
She nodded, amused. ‘I thought so.’
Monday, May 3, 8.00 P.M.
He rolled onto his back, breathing hard. He’d been wrong. Susie was much better at sex than she was at lying.
‘Incredible,’ Susie purred and he almost believed she meant it. ‘Both times.’
‘So did you get back at him?’ he asked.
‘At who?’
‘Your boyfriend. The one who cheated on you.’
She huffed a chuckle. ‘Yeah, I did.’
‘How will he know?’
She sat up, looking down at him with a confused frown. ‘What?’
‘How will he know you’ve gotten your revenge?’
‘Why do you care?’
He shrugged. ‘Call it a hobby.’
‘You’re cute, but strange,’ she said. She pulled her hair back and touched the rapidly darkening bruise on her neck lightly. ‘Feels like a decent hickey.’
‘Decent enough,’ he drawled. ‘That’s your proof?’
‘It’ll do,’ she said, then rolled over, hanging halfway off the bed and giving him a very nice view of primo ass. He heard the jingle of keys and pushed himself up on one elbow to peer over the bed to see what she was up to.
And none too soon. She was riffling through his pants pockets. His temper exploded and he grabbed the bitch by the arm, dragging her onto her back. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he snarled and her eyes widened in fear.
She brought her arm up, revealing the pack of Marlboros clutched in her hand. ‘Looking for a smoke.’ She jerked her arm away. ‘What are you, some kind of psycho?’
If you only knew, baby. He drew a breath and pried the squashed pack of cigarettes from her hand. ‘No, but you shouldn’t go searching a man’s pockets.’
She nodded, inching away from him. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whined. ‘I smelled smoke on your jacket earlier. I figured you’d have some smokes.’
‘You can’t smoke these.’ The Marlboros he’d bought especially for Ryan, for when the man came to claim his mother’s body. He hoped Ryan would appreciate the symbolism. Marlboros for a man who worked a ranch.
They’d burn the next letter into Ryan’s back. And I’ll make sure it hurts. A lot. Susie was looking at him suspiciously and he realized he’d spoken too urgently.
‘It’s a non-smoking room,’ he added, more quietly. He rolled to his feet, gathering his clothing from where it lay strewn across the room. ‘I’m going to take a shower.’
She looked away. ‘Can I use the bathroom first?’ she asked stiffly.
He blew out an annoyed breath. ‘Hurry. I’ve got places to go.’ Bodies to deliver.
She picked up her miniskirt and the thong that had ended up under the bed. Grabbing her purse and blouse, she rushed into the bathroom. ‘I’ll hurry.’
He shoved the squashed Marlboros back in his pants pocket. He’d have to buy a new pack now. She’d bent them. He needed nice, straight cigarettes to make nice, uniform burns in Ryan’s back. He started to pull his hand out of his pocket, then froze.
Something was missing. His credit card. He’d been in such a hurry to fuck Susie that he hadn’t put it back in his wallet. Had he?
It wasn’t in his pocket. And neither was his wallet. The bitch stole my wallet.
He stared at the bathroom door, his fury cold. She must have lifted it when she was pushing his pants down in supposed sexual abandon, then hidden it with her skirt.
All the credit cards and ID he’d
taken from his victims were in that wallet. It was only a matter of time before one of their names turned up on the news. And she’d seen his Ted Gamble ID. She couldn’t be allowed to tell.
Get her out of here. Quietly. He pulled on his pants, then took two items from his jacket pocket and casually opened the bathroom door.
She was still naked, kneeling on the floor, using the lid of the toilet as a desk. She twisted, her squeal of outrage faltering when she saw what he held in his hands. Her eyes grew wide again, first with fear, then with a kind of furious acceptance.
‘Goddamn it. I can usually smell a cop a mile away.’ She lifted her brows. ‘You got a lot of other people’s cards here, Officer Pullman. I wonder why.’
He used the gun in his right hand to point to the bed. ‘Sit on the bed with your hands where I can see them.’ Sullenly she obeyed. He dropped the Newport News PD badge in his jacket pocket and retrieved his cards and the paper she’d been writing on.
She’d been scribbling, more than writing. His Ted Gamble card had been under the paper and she’d used a pencil to make an old-fashioned tracing of the number. He tossed her clothes to the bed. ‘Get dressed,’ he said, still holding the gun.
She pulled on her thong, her jaw taut. ‘Are you going to arrest me or what?’
‘That depends on you. I’m going to check out downstairs, pay for the room in cash and get that clerk to cancel the charge on my card. If you cooperate, I’ll let you go.’
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘No record?’
He smiled. ‘No record anywhere.’
She considered it. ‘I can live with that.’
Newport News, Virginia, Monday, May 3, 8.00 P.M.
Clay sat in his car outside Mrs Klein’s condo for the second time that day, frustrated and tired. He was no closer to finding Margo Winchester than he’d been when he’d arrived hours ago. In fact, he’d taken several steps back in that department.
The last few hours had not gone well. The clerk at the morgue had, unfortunately, done her job. In other words, she’d revealed nothing of use to him. He’d gone in looking for word on his ‘brother-in-law’ who’d ‘disappeared while on vacation’. Clay told the clerk he was checking all the hospitals and morgues. He’d given Evan Reardon’s description, but the clerk had no record of any such John Doe.
The body found in the house fire had to have been brought to this morgue. That there was not even a spark of interest in the clerk’s eyes told him that either the description of Evan was so far off that they could immediately eliminate the possibility or they had an idea of who the fire victim really was.
Which meant that Evan probably wasn’t dead. Which bothered Clay more than Evan falling victim to an insane female stalker. If Evan was alive, he had much to explain. Any way Clay cut it, he was nowhere and Evan was still missing.
His cell phone began to ring. Clay grabbed it, hoping it was Nicki, but it was Alyssa. His sense of dread began to climb. Where was Nicki? And what had she done? She couldn’t have missed all these clues. Something was so very wrong.
‘Have you found her yet?’ Clay asked without greeting.
‘No, and I’ve been calling hotels for three hours. If Nicki’s in Ocean City, she’s not staying at any of her usual places or any of the major hotels.’
‘She could be staying with someone, or not checked in under her own name.’
‘What if something happened to her, Clay? She could be hurt somewhere.’
Or worse. The picture had already formed in his mind. She could be lying in a morgue, murdered by one of her one-night stands. Or by her own hand. He closed his eyes. She’d been behaving so strangely before she left. I should have known. I should have asked. I should have pried.
‘Try Nicki Triton. It was her married name, years ago. Sometimes she still uses it.’ But the last time had been when she’d been forced to leave DCPD and gone on a bender that had lasted for days. Clay had been the one to find her after her parents contacted him, frantic because they couldn’t find her. Clay had dried her out, offered her a job with his agency. A second chance. Things had gone well. Until recently.
Now everything had gone to hell. ‘We have other problems. I found Margo.’
‘How?’ Alyssa demanded.
‘I tracked her cop father. He’s on the force in the next town.’
‘So that’s good, right? You found her.’
‘No, it’s not good. Margo’s been locked up for four months, in rehab. She’s in a private facility her parents are apparently mortgaging their home to afford. One of the parents’ neighbors filled me in. The real Margo does have a record for assault and does look like the woman Nicki met here two months ago. But she is not the woman we’re looking for. And Evan’s not the man killed in the fire here last week.’
Alyssa let out a slow breath. ‘Evan played us.’
‘He played Nicki,’ he said. ‘And me. You’ve done nothing wrong here.’
‘So what next?’
‘I find the woman who Nicki actually met. She danced at a club on the beach, but they don’t open until nine. I’m going to try to find Klein’s granddaughter right now.’ He looked up at Mrs Klein’s front door and hoped this visit would go better than his first.
‘What should I do?’
‘Keep calling hotels around Ocean City. Focus on the area near the boardwalk.’
‘How do you even know she’s there, Clay?’
‘Her car is there.’
There was a moment of silence. ‘You can track her car?’
‘Yes. And she can track mine. It’s for protection, in case we run into a situation we can’t handle. We’re not tracking your car, if you’re worried.’
‘I was, a little. Clay.’ She hesitated. ‘Should I call the hospitals or police?’
A worry nagged at him, the knowledge that Nicki should have seen any one of the inconsistencies in Evan’s story. What did you do, Nic? ‘Not the police. Not yet. But try the hospitals.’ He made himself say the words. ‘I’ll call the morgues.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Alyssa whispered.
‘It’s nothing you’ve done,’ he said roughly. ‘I have to go. Call me if you find anything.’ Forcing the thought of the morgue from his mind, he climbed the stairs to Mrs Klein’s apartment and rapped the knocker. Inside he heard nothing. He’d seen her car parked outside, so she was probably home.
‘Mrs Klein?’ he called. ‘I don’t mean to bother you, but I’m still looking for the same woman. I really need to talk to your granddaughter. I think she knows her and I know they were both here. Your granddaughter has a cobra tattoo.’
There was no response. ‘Mrs Klein? Are you all right?’ He froze at the sound of a footstep behind him. He turned slowly to see two uniformed cops cautiously climbing the stairs. How the hell did they get here so fast? Unless the old lady had better eyes than he’d thought and saw his car in the lot below.
‘Sir?’ one of them said. ‘Is there a problem here?’
‘No. But I’m assuming I’ve frightened the resident,’ Clay said. ‘That was not my intent. I’m looking for information on her granddaughter.’
‘So we heard,’ the first cop said. ‘Would you step away from the door, please?’
Clay complied, holding his hands where they could see them. Behind him the door opened and he looked over his shoulder to see Mrs Klein peering out.
‘I told you I’d call the cops,’ she said, satisfied.
Clay sighed. ‘Fine. I’ll leave. I don’t want any trouble.’
‘It’s a little late for that, sir,’ the second uniform said. ‘You need to come with us.’
Clay took a step back. ‘Where? Why?’
‘To the precinct,’ the second cop said.
‘Am I under arrest?’ Clay asked.
‘No,’ the first cop said. He was older and, Clay hoped, wiser. ‘Mr Maynard, you match the description of a man who visited the morgue a short time ago.’
Clay’s brows lifted. His questions had gotten someone’
s attention. ‘I’ve committed no crime.’ Technically. He’d bent the truth a bit, that was all.
The older cop nodded, soberly. ‘Then you shouldn’t have any issues coming in and answering a few questions.’
Clay dropped his hands to his sides. The man had handled it just like Clay might have when he’d worn a badge. ‘Okay. I’ll follow you in, driving my own car.’
The younger cop started to protest, but the older one cut him off with a sharp glance. ‘That would be fine, Mr Maynard,’ the older man said. ‘This way, please.’
Clay sighed again. This day is really starting to suck.
Chapter Eleven
Baltimore, Monday, May 3, 9.15 P.M.
JD shook his head as he took the highway exit for the morgue. ‘You are not going to change my mind, so don’t even try.’
Lucy’s stunned discovery of a local band’s CD in his car had spurred a lively discussion on the merits of all the local bands, and for an hour she’d simply enjoyed talking with a man for the first time in a very long time.
The last hour had been . . . fun. They’d stopped at a drive-thru for dinner. Nothing fancy or pretentious. They’d listened to music and talked, about everything and nothing at all. But especially not the case or Mrs Westcott or her brother or his friends. Which she had deeply appreciated.
She also appreciated that he knew music, all types. It made her wonder what he’d think about hers. If things went well, then . . . someday I might trust him with it. Someday.
But now she shook her head at him, disagreeing with his assessment of local talent. ‘You can’t really prefer Bromo Bay to Silver Fish. Please.’
He shrugged. ‘Bromo’s lead guitar’s got superior finger control.’
She sighed. ‘You’re missing the point, JD.’
He pulled into the parking garage next to the morgue. ‘Which is what?’
‘That finger control is just technique. Any decent musician can master technique. Bromo’s missing heart, and there is a world of difference between technique and heart.’
‘I guess I’ll have to concede that point to the musician in the car.’ He found a parking place, then reached over to take her hand, running a thumb over her calloused fingertips. ‘I felt the calluses earlier. You said Mr Pugh was your music teacher.’