You Belong To Me

by Karen Rose

  ‘My name’s Maynard. I’m a PI, searching for a man owing thousands in child support. I got a tip that he checked in here last night. I’d like to look at your tapes.’

  The concierge was annoyed, but not with Clay. Citing the search for a deadbeat dad was the best way of viewing tapes in privately owned buildings, especially if the person behind the desk was female. It was no lie. Evan was behind in his support payments, having faked his own death. And having murdered three others.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ The concierge waved over a man in a suit. The two talked and then the man in the suit took him to the security office. Within ten minutes the security chief had the footage. He turned his screen so that Clay could see it.

  ‘This your man?’

  Evan Reardon. Pure hate bubbled up within Clay and he let it simmer as he watched the tape. Standing with a scantily clad woman, Evan gave his credit card to a guy behind the counter. The woman clung to him like ivy. When the two practically ran for the elevator, Clay shook his head. Once he’d dealt with Evan, Ted Gamble’s name would not be heard again. No need to leave a loose end for anyone to trip over.

  ‘No,’ he lied. ‘That’s not him. But thank you.’ Clay left the hotel, grimly determined. Reardon was here, in Baltimore. When I find you, you will wish you’d never been born.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Tuesday, May 4, 10.55 A.M.

  ‘Lucy.’ JD slammed the door of his car and jogged to catch up with the long-legged stride that had her almost to her apartment door already. ‘Wait.’ He tugged at the duffle bag on her shoulder and she jerked away.

  ‘I’ll carry it,’ she said curtly, then drew a breath. ‘But thank you.’

  She was trembling. ‘Lucy, what’s wrong?’

  ‘I don’t want to go back there,’ she said tightly. ‘That’s what’s wrong.’

  ‘You mean to Anderson Ferry?’

  ‘No, I meant the seventh ring of hell,’ she snapped. ‘Yes, Anderson Ferry.’

  ‘Why not?’

  She gave him a look of consternation. ‘Why not?’ she repeated incredulously.

  ‘Yeah. Westcott’s a bitch and Bennett threw you under a bus. I can cut Bennett some slack because he’d just found out about his son, but he does know something. Their opinion of you doesn’t carry any weight with me. So, why not?’

  For a moment she stared at him. ‘Never mind.’ She started walking again.

  JD stood still. ‘Is it because your parents still live next door?’

  She stopped abruptly. ‘Yes,’ she hissed.

  ‘Talk to me, Lucy. Please.’ Please seemed to work when nothing else made a dent.

  ‘I know I have to go. I get that, Fitzpatrick. But it doesn’t mean I have to relish the trip.’

  ‘You wanted to go yesterday. You asked several times.’

  ‘No, I never wanted to go. I felt I owed something to the Bennetts.’

  He closed the distance between them. ‘And yet they threw you out.’

  ‘They’re grieving. We can’t blame them. Let’s just . . . get this day over with.’

  She still wouldn’t look at him. He tried to tip up her chin, but she looked away. ‘And then there’s me,’ he murmured. ‘I know we didn’t plan what happened last night, but we have to talk about it sometime. Please, don’t shut me out.’

  She sighed wearily. ‘I don’t blame you, okay?’

  ‘But?’

  She closed her eyes. ‘The truth is that most of me is embarrassed. Mortified, even. The other part is . . . thrilled and would do it again in a heartbeat. And that’s not okay. You are not good for me. I wish you’d accept that.’

  He opened his mouth, but no words came out. All the blood had rushed out of his head when she said ‘thrilled’. By ‘heartbeat’ he was hard as a rock.

  ‘Lucy!’ The voice came from above their heads and as one they looked up. There was an older woman standing on one of the second-story balconies looking upset.

  ‘What is it, Barb?’ Lucy called.

  Barb was wringing her hands. ‘He’s bad today. I almost called you.’

  ‘I’ll be right up,’ Lucy said. JD had no choice but to follow her into the building and up the stairs, still speechless and wincing. But the blood started pumping back to his brain as she unzipped the duffle bag and pulled out a violin case. Barb was standing by an open door.

  ‘I tried the recording but he broke the recorder. Threw it at the mirror on the wall.’

  Shards of broken mirror littered the floor and an old man wearing orthopedic shoes paced and muttered angrily. A tape recorder lay smashed at his feet.

  ‘I can’t get close enough to the glass to clean it up,’ Barb said in a loud whisper.

  Lucy handed the mostly empty duffle to JD. ‘Hold this, please.’ She cautiously approached the old man. ‘Mr Pugh, it’s Lucy.’ She touched his shoulder. ‘You sound worried. Can I help?’

  ‘Can’t find it,’ he muttered. ‘Can’t find it.’

  ‘What can’t you find?’ she asked him, so sweetly it made JD’s heart ache.

  The old man shook his head. ‘Can’t find it.’

  ‘Come,’ Lucy said, tugging the man’s arm. ‘Sit with me for a while.’

  Bewildered, Mr Pugh let himself be led to a sofa with big blue flowers. ‘Can’t find it,’ he said plaintively and Lucy smiled at him.

  ‘I know. We’ll find it. Don’t worry.’ She took the violin and bow from the case, positioning the instrument under her chin as if she’d done so a million times.

  Maybe she had. JD realized he held his breath, waiting for her to begin.

  ‘No!’ the old man shouted and jumping up, grabbed Lucy’s arm.

  JD had reflexively stepped closer, but Lucy stopped him with a glance. ‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘There’s a little box inside the duffle. Can you give it to Barb?’

  Apparently Barb knew what to expect because she shook a silver charm bracelet from the box and fastened it to Lucy’s wrist. Lucy showed it to Mr Pugh.

  ‘See, here it is. Now let’s sit down.’ The old man sat and Lucy stood, the bracelet dangling from the wrist that curved around the instrument’s neck. A moment later the music flowed and JD simply listened, speechless once more.

  It was nothing like the music she’d made the night before. That had been pounding energy. Searingly hot. This . . . this was sheer beauty. Rich and full and pure, he knew he’d heard the piece played a hundred different times. But never like this.

  It was haunting and lovely and stirred something deep within him.

  Mr Pugh’s eyes closed, a contentment settling his features where there had been agitation before. A tear slid down his wrinkled face as he clasped his hands together. Lucy’s gaze became unfixed and JD knew she’d gone somewhere else in her mind.

  His own eyes stung. She stood there wearing no makeup and a pair of scrubs, her red-gold hair pulled back in a plain ponytail. She was as beautiful as the music she created. I want her. The thought hit him like a brick. He wanted her, of course. That was an already established fact. But this was different. I want her for myself.

  You don’t know her. She won’t let you. That would have to change.

  ‘It’s Albinoni’s Adagio,’ Barb whispered beside him. ‘She performed this for her senior recital, the last time she played as his student.’

  ‘It’s . . .’ He gave up. There wasn’t a word.

  ‘I know.’ Barb patted his arm. ‘She has a gift.’

  A movement at the edge of his vision caught his eye and he looked over his shoulder. Doors in the apartment building were opening on every floor, residents coming out of their units to stand in the halls, listening. He imagined the look on his face mirrored theirs. Sheer bliss.

  Too soon the piece was finished and Mr Pugh lifted his face expectantly. Lucy seamlessly launched into another piece, equally haunting and moody. Broody. Wonderful.

  Barb Pugh started to kneel on the floor to pick up the shards of mirror, but JD shook his head and did the ta
sk himself. Lucy had nearly completed her third piece by the time he finished and had carted the now-empty frame into the hall.

  ‘Thank you,’ Barb whispered. ‘She’s almost done. You are the detective from yesterday morning, aren’t you? The one who called me at my sister’s.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ JD motioned her into the hall so they could talk undisturbed. ‘I’m Detective Fitzpatrick. Did you and Mr Pugh live in Anderson Ferry?’

  ‘Oh no. We’ve always lived here in Baltimore,’ Barb said.

  JD frowned. ‘I thought your husband was Lucy’s music teacher in high school.’

  ‘He was. He taught at a residential school for girls here in town.’

  ‘Residential? You mean a boarding school?’

  ‘For some, yes. Lucy lived too far away to commute so she lived in the dorm.’

  ‘Was it a music school?’ he asked and she hesitated, then nodded.

  ‘Yes, among other things. There was painting and chorus and dance and music.’

  ‘So it was a school for the arts.’

  She hesitated again, longer this time. ‘Among other things. You should ask Lucy.’

  Among other things? Like what? ‘I’ll try. She’s not big on sharing.’

  ‘Give her time. I think you’ll find the key to unlocking those secrets of hers.’

  ‘But why does she keep so many secrets?’

  Barb’s smile was sad. ‘Sometimes our secrets are all we can keep, Detective.’

  In the living room Lucy had finished the third piece and was putting her violin back in its case when Mr Pugh rose again to grab her arm. ‘Please,’ he said and she patted his hand.

  ‘Do we have time for one more, Detective?’ Lucy asked.

  ‘Please,’ JD said simply, now understanding the power of that one word.

  She was startled, then resigned, as if he’d peeled away one of the layers she’d held onto for dear life. She fitted the violin under her chin and played the first piece again. Once again Mr Pugh’s cheeks were wet. This time JD’s were too.

  For a long moment she held his gaze and JD could hear every beat of his own heart. Then she looked away and put the violin in its case.

  ‘Will he be all right now?’ JD asked Barb as Lucy knelt at the old man’s feet and took off his shoes. Barb shook her head.

  ‘No. He’ll have another few episodes today, but that was probably the worst one.’

  ‘You know what you’re going to have to do,’ JD murmured and Barb nodded.

  ‘I know.’ Suddenly she looked so weary. ‘I know.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I know the expense is—’

  ‘Not a factor,’ Barb interrupted. ‘Lucy’s taken care of it. She started putting money away as soon as I called to tell her Jerry had been diagnosed. She quit her job and came right back, no questions asked.’

  ‘Where was she before?’

  ‘California. She’s a good person, our Lucy.’ Who had persuaded Mr Pugh to lie down and was covering him with an afghan. ‘She’s got a nice place picked out. She’s just waiting on me to . . .’ Barb swallowed hard. ‘To be ready to lose him. But she doesn’t push, not hard anyway. She knows what it’s like to be put somewhere against her will.’ She pressed her lips together. ‘And I’ve said too much.’

  ‘No, ma’am. You’ve said just enough.’ He gave her one of his cards. ‘If you need anything, just call.’

  Barb took the card. ‘Why did this killer do this?’ she asked, her voice low and urgent. ‘Set up a dead man to look like my Jerry?’

  ‘To frighten Lucy,’ JD said. ‘If you have any reason to be afraid, do not hesitate to call 911. Don’t call one of us first. Call 911, and then call me.’

  Barb paled. ‘I understand. You’ll take care of her, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said without hesitation. ‘Can you answer one more question?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Did her parents come to her final recital, when she played the Adagio?’

  Barb frowned, anger flashing in her eyes. ‘No, they never came. Not once. It was like they threw her away. It broke our hearts.’ She drew a breath. ‘And hers.’

  Tuesday, May 4, 11.25 A.M.

  Fitzpatrick was uncharacteristically quiet as he opened the door to her apartment. CSU had put their own lock on the door, so Lucy’s key no longer worked.

  ‘Maybe that’s why he put the heart in Gwyn’s place,’ she murmured. ‘He doesn’t have the key to my place anymore.’

  ‘Maybe. But I don’t think so any more than you do. He knew you were there, Lucy. And whether you want to admit it or not, the people who knew were there in your club.’

  ‘I know.’ He was right on both counts. The club’s staff had known. And she didn’t want to admit it. She went to her bedroom, thinking about the last piece she’d played for Mr Pugh.

  Fitzpatrick had cried. Mr Pugh had cried, of course. But he always had, even before the Alzheimer’s. He’d cried the first time she’d played the piece in high school. But Mr Pugh’s tears were different – he’d been an artist. A musician.

  And more of a father than the one who’d borne her.

  But Fitzpatrick . . . his tears had given her a jolt, just as they had that day in the autopsy suite. And the way he looked at me. Like he’d been trying to see . . . me.

  She opened her bedroom door tentatively, but her room looked exactly as she’d left it. ‘I’ll be quick,’ she said, proceeding to pack yet another suitcase.

  Fitzpatrick’s gaze roamed the room, coming to rest on Lucy for a long moment before sliding toward the bed against the wall. It was as if all the air had been sucked out of the room and her heart suddenly pounded in her throat.

  ‘I didn’t expect pink . . . or lace,’ he said gruffly.

  Her bedspread was frothy, lacy and very girly. It was the bed she’d always dreamed of having all those nights she’d slept in a plain dorm bed.

  ‘Not everything can be black leather,’ she said, intending for the words to come out light and airy. Instead they were as deep and gruff as Fitzpatrick’s had been. His dark eyes flashed dangerously, his hands flexing before curling into fists at his sides.

  With a great effort she made herself turn around and march into the closet.

  Her closet was nearly empty. ‘I can’t have any more clothes become part of a crime scene,’ she grumbled. She gathered the few work outfits she had left and stood staring at the black dresses that remained. ‘How long will our club will stay closed?’ she called.

  ‘Another day at least,’ he said from right behind her.

  Startled, she spun around. He stood inches away in the closet doorway. His face had taken on a sharp edge. Stubble already dusted his jaw. He looked like a pirate eyeing his booty. Which would be me. She should tell him to step back. I should.

  ‘Maybe more than a day,’ he added, leaning closer until the lapels of his coat brushed her breasts. He stretched, reaching his arm over her head to her closet shelf and she had to concentrate on not ducking. But she stood her ground and when he straightened, he held a pair of stiletto heels in his hand. ‘Better take a dress or two,’ he said. ‘Just to be sure.’

  She closed her eyes, her body pulsing in all the places it shouldn’t. ‘You are so bad for me,’ she whispered.

  His chuckle was dark, sending shivers down her back. ‘I think you were bad long before I arrived.’ Reaching over her shoulder, he pushed at hangers. ‘Hm. A shame.’

  When she opened her eyes, he had several leather dresses hanging from his crooked finger. ‘What’s a shame?’

  He grinned wickedly, his dimple coming into full view, making her want to reach up and touch it. ‘No outfits like the one Gwyn had on last night.’

  Gwyn’s bustiers were the stuff of legend. ‘There’s only so far my bad goes.’

  His brows rose. ‘And how far is that?’

  She looked away, remembering his motorcycle helmet. And the alley. Can’t forget about that. As if. ‘Let me change my clothes. I’ll meet you in the l
iving room.’

  With a frown he laid the black dresses and the shoes across her bed. ‘All right.’

  She changed from the scrubs into a plain navy sheath and jacket, then packed the rest of the clothes into a suitcase. Pausing, she stared at the black dresses on the bed and swore before putting them on top. ‘Just in case,’ she muttered. In case of what, she wasn’t sure.

  Tuesday, May 4, 11.40 A.M.

  He looked up from the photo he’d been studying when Lucy dragged her suitcase into her living room, the duffle that he now knew held her violin over one shoulder. She’d changed into a dress with another skinny skirt. He eyed the suitcase, hoping she’d packed the black dresses.

  Her eyes narrowed slightly at the frame in his hand. She was annoyed that he’d intruded into her personal life, but he didn’t care. This case revolved around Lucy. The more he understood about her and the faster he understood it, the better. They needed to catch a killer before he could burn letters into any more backs or slit any more throats.

  Especially Lucy’s. The very thought made his blood run cold.

  He turned the frame so she could see. ‘It’s you and Mr Pugh.’

  She took it, brushing at non-existent dust. In the photo was a young Lucy wearing a school uniform. She sat in a chair, a violin under her chin, her bow at her side. Her very serious eyes were fixed on Mr Pugh who was playing his own violin, his expression one of great joy.

  ‘I remember this day,’ she said wistfully. ‘It’s hard to remember him like he was, then see him like he is today.’

  ‘You love him.’

  Her eyes flashed up to his, filled with pain. ‘He’s been . . . like a father to me.’

  While hers peeked at her from behind window blinds. ‘You were young in this picture.’

  ‘Fifteen.’

  ‘Barb said it was a residential school.’

  Lucy’s cheeks flushed. ‘Barb sometimes talks too much.’

  ‘Why were you in a residential school?’ he asked intently. ‘Please tell me.’

  She lifted her chin. ‘You could ask Mrs Westcott. She’d be happy to tell you.’