by Bush, Nancy
“Hello, September,” he said, his gaze shooting to Jake, brows bunching together.
“Hello,” she responded as she entered, turning back to Jake. “I brought a friend with me.”
“Braden Rafferty,” her father said, trying on a smile as he extended his hand.
“Jake Westerly,” Jake responded, clasping his hand in return.
Braden actually jerked as if waking up. His hard gaze turned to September, who countered it with a careful, waiting look in her own eyes. “Nigel’s son?” he rasped.
“It’s been a long time,” Jake said congenially. “I don’t know when I was here last. Maybe I was . . . ten? A while ago, anyway.”
“September . . . a moment,” her father grated out.
She threw Jake a look, and said, “Why don’t you head on into the living room. I’ll be right with you,” then followed after her father into his den.
He stalked behind the massive mahogany desk and braced his hands on its surface, glaring at her. “What are you trying to do?”
September was counting the books on the shelves behind his head. Books that looked good in a library. Books not meant to be read. She’d counted them many times as a girl, whenever she was called in for a talking-to by, as Auggie said, dear old Dad.
“I’m looking for my grade school artwork and Jake—”
“What are you doing with him? In my house!” he interrupted.
September said coolly, “I was getting to that. Jake was in my class, as was Auggie. Do you want to know the reason I’m here looking for my old schoolwork?”
“His father . . .” Braden paused, gathering himself. “Nigel Westerly is the reason your mother died.”
September regarded him silently for a few seconds. “You had me believing that for a lot of years, but it’s not true. It was an accident, and Nigel would have done anything to save Mom. He liked her. From what I remember, and from what he saw, she was a good person, nice to everyone. I miss her. You miss her. But it’s not Nigel Westerly’s fault.”
“That’s why you brought him here? To make a point?”
There was some truth in there somewhere, but September only said, “I came to search through the attic.”
“Well, he can’t go with you.” Braden straightened, his face flushed.
“Really.”
“What’s your relationship with him?”
“My business,” September stated flatly.
“What does your brother think about this?”
“You’re going to have to ask Auggie yourself.”
His nostrils flared. He really struggled with insubordination, and from his point of view, that’s all September and Auggie ever gave him. “I think I’m going to ask you to leave.”
“Someone sent me a ‘bloody’ warning on a piece of my actual second grade artwork,” she told him. “Came to the station. The words ‘Do Unto Others As She Did To Me’ were scrawled across the face of it in red ketchup, mostly. The same message that was carved into Emmy Decatur, whose homicide I discussed on air with Channel Seven’s Pauline Kirby. Just hours after that interview was aired, another body with markings was discovered, and we believe it could be the work of the same killer. That’s why I want to find the rest of my schoolwork. That’s why I’m starting here.”
Braden stood in stony silence for the space of five seconds, then he said softly, “This is exactly why I didn’t want you and your brother in law enforcement. It’s dangerous. You have constant contact with the scum of society. We lost May to a sick criminal. I don’t want to lose you and August, too.”
“May’s death was random,” September said.
“He targeted her,” Braden enlightened her. “He went to that burger place when May and Erin were the only ones there. He took them into a back room and tortured them and killed them. I lost one daughter that night. I don’t want to lose two.”
September’s heart was pounding. She knew some things about her sister’s death, but it was one of those taboo topics that the Raffertys never discussed. Was it one of the reasons she’d gone into law enforcement? Definitely. Was it the main reason she had? Probably.
“I can’t live my life to your blueprint, Dad.”
“Do you have to go out of your way to thwart it?” he shot right back.
“Maybe,” she said, after a moment.
A long period of silence fell between them and then Braden sank into the office chair and waved a hand at her. “Do what you have to.”
This was about as much capitulation as Braden Rafferty would ever muster, so September nodded and left the den, retracing her steps to the living room where Jake was standing beneath Rosamund’s picture and Rosamund herself, the skin of her face blushing prettily, was talking animatedly to him.
“Can’t believe we’ve never met?” she was enthusing. “I’ve been past Westerly Vale so many times!”
“I’m not there on a daily basis,” Jake answered casually. Seeing September, he moved her way, but Rosamund wasn’t letting him off the hook so easily.
“Are you staying for dinner?” she asked, sliding a quick look September’s way before her focus returned to Jake.
“No, thanks. We just . . . dined together,” September told her.
“That’s a shame. Suma put together a beef stew with Asian flavors that’s to die for. You have to try some,” Rosamund pressed.
The corner of Jake’s mouth lifted. “I’m afraid there’s just no room. We’re just off a four-course meal.”
“Really? Where did you go?” Her face was turned up to his, bright and avid.
Oh, if Braden could see her now, she thought, then figured her father probably knew his wife better than anyone.
“Sorry, Rosamund. Thanks,” September answered for Jake. “We’re kind of on a tight schedule.”
“Oh, you’re not both going up to the attic?”
“’Fraid so. I still haven’t found my old schoolwork,” September said.
“Well, there’s nothing up there.”
“Guess we’ll find out.” She met Jake’s gaze and said, “Ready?”
For an answer he squeezed past Rosamund and followed September down the hallway and up the narrow steps to the attic. Pulling the chain for the light, she was gratified to see the switch lit another light nearer to the pile of furniture and other flotsam and jetsam that had discouraged September last time she was here. That was the area she planned to tackle first.
“You want to move this stuff?” Jake asked, catching on to her plan.
“Can you help me?”
“Sure.”
It was hot in the attic, the day’s residual heat thick enough to eat. For the first fifteen minutes they shoved junk aside, concentrating on the unopened boxes behind the junk. Jake grabbed a couple of cartons and slid them out from behind the furniture. When they had all of the boxes, a pile of about twenty, they brought them to the old chair September had sat in before, and Jake found a folding chair that he set up beside the threadbare one with the tufts of stuffing trying to escape.
They systematically went through the boxes without having to speak to each other about it. There were only three that held papers and booklets and files. Of those three, none pertained to September’s schoolwork, or any of her siblings’, but one held some papers and books that had belonged to September’s mother, and September pulled out a book of poems by Yeats.
“I remember she liked Yeats, especially one poem where Yeats wrote about not wanting his daughter to be too beautiful because he felt too much beauty in a woman would be her ruination, I believe. Something like that.”
“Your mother was beautiful. I remember.”
She was touched by his words but strived not to let him see it. “Yes, she was,” she said, flipping through the book. A slip of paper fell out, a scratched out note, really.
September read: “‘K at Willows til 7? Can meet you at 3.’ It’s signed with a heart.”
Jake reached a hand out to it. “A clandestine meeting?” When September
didn’t make a sound, he gave her a quick look. “What?”
“That’s Verna’s handwriting.”
He glanced at the note again. “You sure?”
“Oh, yeah. And she always sticks hearts on everything.” Her voice was cold, then she inhaled sharply. “My God. It was the day Mom died.”
“What do you mean?” Jake asked, regarding her with concern.
“I remember! I remember that day. Mom was at The Willows. She was supposed to be there till seven because of the charity auction. I know because there was this whole thing about her leaving way earlier, and we all kind of wished she’d stayed so maybe then she wouldn’t have charged down the drive and into that truck. They always said she was driving too fast. Your dad said so, too, and I hated him for that. I wanted to scream at him, and blame him, like my father did. It couldn’t be her fault. It had to be somebody else’s. Had to be.”
“September, slow down,” Jake said, for once not using her nickname. “There’s no date on the note. You don’t know.”
“I know.” She gazed at him, her eyes hard. “I’ve thought about this so much. It makes sense. Verna wrote that note to my father. She was seeing him before my mother died. Mom found the note and stuck it in this book, her favorite. She kept it on the shelf in her bedroom and I bet Verna boxed it up with this other stuff. Her stuff.”
Jake shook his head, concerned, but September wasn’t having it. “Mom was supposed to be there all day. She had to stay till seven to make certain everything was set up. But then she tore out really early. She must have found the note in the morning, then went to The Willows, but then she thought about it, and it ate at her until she just couldn’t stand it.”
“I don’t want to say you’re wrong, but you’re not thinking like a cop. You’re thinking like a daughter,” Jake tried.
“She was going to catch them together. That’s why she left early.”
“That’s a lot of reading between the lines. You know that, right?”
“Your dad tried to save her, but he couldn’t. But he told the truth. She was speeding and she lost control.” September closed her eyes. “I guess I should be grateful no one else was hurt.”
A long silence ensued and then Jake got up from his folding chair and pulled September out of the armchair. He held her at arm’s length for a moment, just looking at her, then to her ultimate surprise he leaned in and kissed her, a searching kiss that offered comfort and understanding.
When he pulled back to look at her again and see how she’d taken the kiss, she said flatly, “You don’t believe me.”
He exhaled slowly. “There’s something there. I don’t know exactly what. I just don’t want you to start making accusations so fast. We came here looking for your schoolwork, which doesn’t seem to be here, and now you’ve found this note and I think you want to confront your father.”
“I do. I want to blast him. My father was never faithful to my mother. That’s a fact, and we all understood it over time. But I really thought Verna came after my mother’s death. I—I needed to think that to have any kind of relationship with my father.
“But now . . . their affair contributed to her death!” She sucked air between her teeth.
“Okay. Just . . .” She looked at him in anger, daring him to go on. “Okay,” was all he said.
They were standing very close to each other and September could still feel the impression of his lips on hers. She flicked a glance at his mouth, thinking about him, thinking about her father, emotions colliding inside her.
She wanted him to kiss her again. To wipe it all away. Everything that had happened in her family, and at work, and everywhere. She wanted to disappear into the warmth of loving someone, or lusting after them, or maybe a combination of both. It didn’t matter.
She looked into his eyes to find he was staring back at her. Wordlessly, he lifted a hand to her chin, raising it up and then he leaned over and kissed her again, his arms sliding around her back, pulling her tightly to him.
The kiss deepened and her lips parted, inviting his tongue. For someone whose experience with sex had been fairly limited, she could feel her body going liquid with need and she welcomed it. Finally, she thought, though other thoughts pinged around in her brain like tiny alarms, warning her to be careful, questioning her motivation. She tried to shut her mind down, but she wasn’t good at that.
She pulled back and said on a gasp, “Fair warning. I could be using you to get back at my dad.”
“Already thought it. Don’t care,” he bit out.
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
They grabbed at each other like starving people, ripping at each other’s clothes. September laughed and then cut herself off, aware that there were other ears that could maybe hear from below. She knew this was crazy, but there was no way she was going to stop.
The sudden ring of her cell phone made her jump, however, and then she froze, listening to the tone. Not one of the ring tones she’d chosen for her personal use.
“Can you ignore it?” Jake asked. His shirt was unbuttoned and yanked from his jeans.
Her blue shirt had been pulled from her head and she stood in front of him in her bra and capris. “It could be the station. I don’t know.” Reluctantly, she pulled away from his arms and searched her messenger bag for the phone. By the time she found it the ringing had stopped. Checking her missed calls, she said, “It is the station,” then the phone rang in her hand and this time she recognized the tone she had for her partner’s cell. “Sandler,” she said to Jake, then, clicking on, answered, “Hey.”
“Two kids found another vic’s body in a field. Do Unto Others’s whole phrase was carved into her skin. Drop point was over the county line, so we just got the word. Deputy Dalton caught the 911 call and guess what? Now, we gotta deal with the fucking feds whether we like it or not.”
Chapter 12
By eleven o’clock Tuesday morning the squad room had become a makeshift task force meeting room with federal agents Donley and Bethwick, two humorless, fortysomething white males, holding court. To September’s mind, they seemed more interested in seizing control and making sure everyone at the Laurelton PD “got it” than getting down to brass tacks. But maybe that was just her inexperience showing.
However, D’Annibal was standing at the back of the room, his arms crossed, paying attention, but physically letting them know they were on his home turf, so maybe she was picking up the correct vibe. Her gaze moved from the lieutenant to George, who was silently sitting at his desk, watching, and then on to Gretchen, whose “don’t fuck with me” couldn’t have been clearer if it had been written in scarlet neon.
Deputy Dalton from Winslow County sat several desks over from September, looking uncomfortable. The agents had come to county first and Dalton had been quick to point out that Lieutenant D’Annibal had usurped his case, and that neither he, nor county, was in charge of Do Unto Others. The agents had asked him to the initial task force meeting to report on the body, which he’d done, and though he seemed eager to stay—it would certainly look good on his resume—he was being kicked back to county and the dark look on his face revealed how he felt about that.
Auggie had insisted on coming, too, and the jury was out on what the agents thought about that. He was somewhere at the back of the room, behind September. He was still working his other case jointly with the Portland PD, so he wasn’t going to be available full time, but today he’d been able to show up to hear what the agents had to say. September wished she could turn around and make eye contact, but didn’t want to appear as if she weren’t paying attention.
Agent Bethwick, who sported a short crew cut and wore a black silk shirt under a gray suit that looked expensive, was saying, “. . . fingerprints on the vic were in the system as she’s a prostitute, working name of Lulu Luxe, out of southeast Portland. She was picked up outside of Richie’s, a tavern off Powell. The bartender found a wallet on the ground Saturday night when he got off work. Belongs to the
john who was with her. David Smith. Smith swears he left Lulu in the parking lot and that she lifted his wallet. Could be true. Melanie Cooke from Portland vice confirms that she knows Lulu and that’s a definite part of her m.o. Are you with me so far?” He glanced around the room. Nobody said anything, and apparently he didn’t expect it, because he went on, “Smith says she serviced him in his car and then he left. It appears our killer was waiting for her. Maybe he saw their interplay, then after Smith left, stepped in. He strangled her with a wire or thin cord, which fits with your Do Unto Others killer—we’ve asked for more in-depth lab reports on fibers from the cord—and then he raped her and stabbed her and carved his message into her flesh, sometime late Saturday night.”
As soon as the county had found the body, they’d called the feds, and September had to admit they’d certainly jumped in feet first. When September had phoned into the station, she’d been told to call D’Annibal’s cell. He’d wanted to talk to each of his detectives directly.
“The FBI’s been circling this case ever since your television interview with Kirby,” he admitted. “They’re fast. They’ll do a good job. Just wanted you to be aware.”
She’d also heard the words behind his words: And they’ll try to take the case away from us.
Now September thought about Lulu. A prostitute? This appeared to be a departure from what they knew about Do Unto Others. They’d been working on the assumption that he knew his victims personally.
As if reading her thoughts, Gretchen said, “Could this doer be a copycat? This is the first time he’s actually killed in the field where he left her.”
“We believe he’s escalating,” Bethwick said.
“Ye . . . ess . . . but this vic is different because, from what we’ve gathered, Do Unto Others seems to have personal connections to whom he chooses,” she pointed out.
Bethwick stated flatly, “We believe it’s the same doer. You have a picture of Emmy Decatur on your board. Lulu’s message is the same as hers. Though the message was released to the press, the public never saw the lettering on the body.”
Donley broke in, “It would be highly unlikely it’s not the same doer.”