by Lisa Jackson
Estelle Faraday had aged. The past nine years coupled with her grief and hours spent playing tennis under the relentless Houston sun had robbed her of the vitality Ty remembered. She’d invited him to sit outside in a wicker chair, under the overhang shading her private verandah. Fans twirled overhead, two steps down a wide pool stretched to a fence guarded by shrubbery. A statue of the Virgin Mary, her arms spread wide, was flanked by terra-cotta pots filled with petunias, their pink-and-white blossoms offering bright splashes of color. A maid had brought iced tea and lemon cookies, then disappeared through glass doors into the huge, two-storied stucco house in this upscale neighborhood. The cookie plate hadn’t been touched, ice was melting in tea glasses sweating in the heat.
“I think you should understand,” Estelle said, the diamonds in her tennis bracelet sparkling on her slim wrist, “that the only reason I met with you face-to-face was to ask you not to write your book about my daughter.” The lines around her mouth grooved deep. “All it would do is cause the family more pain and embarrassment, and personally, I think we’ve all suffered enough.”
“I think it’s time to write the truth.”
“Oh, save me, Tyler!” She slapped her hand onto the table. “This isn’t about the truth, and you know it. It’s about money—some trashy pulp fiction, no, I stand corrected, trashy true—and I use the term loosely, believe me—true crime novel. You and that sleazy agent of yours are only interested in titillation and innuendo. You’re going to take your own family’s tragedy and turn it into a profit, so don’t go there on that lofty, false high road of yours. You’re not here in the interests of serving the truth, you’re only trying to pad your wallet. I’m sure that Wally is in on it, too. He never gave his daughter the time of day while she was alive. I had to force him into court to pay his measly child support, so Wally only wants to find a way to make a buck.”
“If you say so.”
“We both know it.”
Ty wasn’t going to let her rile him. He’d known this wasn’t going to be a walk in the park. “I would think you’d want to know what really happened to Annie and her baby. Your grandchild.”
A dark shadow crossed those opalescent eyes, and she looked away, training her gaze on the smooth, calming surface of the pool. “It doesn’t matter,” she said in a harsh whisper. “They’re both gone, Tyler.” “I think Annie was murdered.” “Oh, God.” She shook her head. “There’s always been talk about it, of course, but that’s foolishness. The truth of the matter is that Annie was a very confused and scared girl. Too frightened to come to me.” Her voice cracked and her chin wobbled slightly. “I have to live with that, you know. That my own daughter turned to someone else, a radio psychologist who probably didn’t even have a degree…” Estelle’s fist opened and closed, manicured nails digging into her palm. “She called that…that…disk jockey instead of confiding in me.”
“I know this is difficult.”
“Difficult? Difficult?” Facing him once again, she skewered him with eyes filled with hate and self-loathing. “This isn’t difficult, Ty. Difficult is going through a divorce and facing the ostracism of church and family. Difficult is watching your parents fail and die, difficult is dealing with a child whose heart has been broken by their negligent father. Annie’s suicide wasn’t difficult. It was hell.”
“If she was killed, don’t you want her murderer found and brought to justice?”
“She wasn’t murdered.”
“I have evidence—”
“I’ve heard the theories before about some grass or dirt on the carpet and the gardening shears and…and…the way the cuts on her wrists…it’s nothing, nothing! Please, for God’s sake, Tyler, don’t do this, don’t make the family suffer any more.” She looked suddenly very old in her perfect makeup and expensive white-and-gold tennis warm-up, and for a second Ty doubted his own mission.
“Who was the father of Annie’s baby?”
“I don’t know.” Her lips pursed. “That awful boy she was dating I assume—the druggie.”
“No, Estelle. The blood types don’t work.”
Two tiny grooves appeared between her eyebrows. “Then I don’t know.”
“Sure you do.”
“I already told you my daughter didn’t confide in me. Maybe she…maybe she told that radio person.”
“No—you know. Was it your husband?” Her face turned ashen as she gasped. “No…” “Your son?”
“Are you out of your mind? This is my home. You have no right!”
“Was she seeing someone else?”
“I’m warning you. If you think you’re going to drag my daughter’s name through the mud, sully her reputation and destroy what’s left of the dignity of this family, you’ll be sorry.”
“I just want the truth.”
“No you don’t. You want to twist the facts to sell a book. “’ Her nostrils flared in haughty disdain. “So noble of you.”
“Jason divorced you. Moved away. Kent had a breakdown, had to be sent to a private mental hospital. Ryan sank into drugs and depression.”
“All the dirty little details for a trashy novel or a television movie of the week. I should never have talked to you, never allowed you into my house,” she said, emotion causing her voice to falter. “Don’t you understand? Annie’s dead…my baby is dead,” Estelle said softly. “Nothing is going to change that. You’re not going to bring a killer to justice…oh, no, all you’re going to do is inflict more pain and suffering on a family you’re not a part of, so don’t give me altruistic explanations, because I don’t believe them for a moment.” She gathered herself and leaned forward, resting her elbows on the glass-topped table. “If you persist in this…this witch-hunt, I will stop you in the courts. Defending yourself will cost you a fortune, one I doubt you have. No publisher will take on your project for fear of a lawsuit. I’ve already spoken to my lawyer, and he’s ready to file a suit blocking publication. He mentioned words like ‘extreme distress, emotional trauma, punitive damages, civil action and libel’ to the point that no publisher in their right minds would ever buy your trash. I think it would be best for you to leave now.”
It was Ty’s turn to lean forward. Looking over the two untouched glasses of iced tea, he asked, “You can threaten me all you want, Estelle. You can use all kinds of legal mumbo jumbo and spend thousands of dollars on the best lawyers in the country, but it’s all just thick smoke and mirrors. I’m not backing down, no matter what skeletons come dancing out of your closet. Something’s not right about your daughter’s death, and we both know it.” He stood and looked down on her, watching as her spine stiffened. “The difference is that I want to know what happened to Annie, and you don’t. Because you’re frightened of the truth. Why is that? What is it that scares you so badly?”
“Get out,” she said weakly.
“I’m going to find out, one way or another, you know.”
“Get out, or I’ll call the police,” she said. “I don’t think so, Estelle. I’m willing to bet that the police are the last people you want poking around in this. But it’s too late, because, whether you like it or not, the truth about Annie’s death is going to come out.”
“Go to hell,” she said, standing.
He flashed her a humorless smile. “Something tells me I’m on my way.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
“Does this guy look like the guy who grabbed you in the park last night?” Bentz asked.
He slid the computer-enhanced artist’s sketch across his desk to the girl, Sonja Tucker, seated on the other side. She’d filed a report early this morning that she’d been attacked late at night by a “guy in sunglasses,” and when Bentz had learned about it upon his return from the St. Pierre, he’d called and asked her to come back to the station, so here she was, looking nervous, a nineteen-year-old sophomore at Tulane University who was going to summer school and probably was lucky to be alive today.
“It could be,” she said, picking up the composite and studying it
closely. She’d told the officer downstairs that she’d been on her way to a masquerade party last night. Dressed to look like a prostitute, she was waiting for the streetcar when a man had accosted her, propositioned her and hadn’t wanted to take “no” for an answer. He’d gotten pushy, tried to grab her and she’d responded by scratching him down the side of his face, then kicking off her high heels and running like hell through Audubon Park, hiding in some bushes near the zoo and learning the valuable lesson of life in the city.
Right now she looked scared as hell.
“It was dark,” she said, chewing on her lower lip.
“But—you got a look at him?”
“Kinda. There was a streetlamp, but he was wearing dark glasses and needed a shave and…” She stared long and hard at the composite and her fingers shook enough to cause the paper to tremble in her hands. Her skin was pale as death. “This looks kinda like him, “Sonja finally said, seeming to draw strength in her convictions as she stared at the computer-generated image.
“And he was a stranger to you?”
“Yes, oh, yes. I, uh, I never saw him before. I think I would have remembered him.” “Why?”
Again Sonja stared at the picture. “This sounds funny, I know. But he was handsome, kind of…in a dark, well, dangerous way. But then…well…then he started forcing me to go with him and he didn’t look so good.”
“Would you recognize his voice?”
“Uh—maybe. I don’t know.” Her confidence escaped her again.
Bentz was undeterred and pushed the play button on the recorder he’d positioned on his in box. Several tapes of “John” calling into Midnight Confessions had been spliced together and his low voice filled the room.
The girl shook her head, her ponytail wagging behind her, her eyebrows pulling downward. “I—I don’t know. It could be…Play it again.”
He rewound and pushed the play button.
Sonja worried her lower lip, and her features drew together as she concentrated. “It sounds a lot like him. I—I’m just not sure.”
The same response he’d gotten from Lucretia, the desk clerk at the St. Pierre. Bentz was more frustrated than ever. The picture that the artist had come up with was too generic, could be just about any white, dark-haired guy who kept himself in shape.
“Is there anything else you could tell me about him?”
“No, it was dark and over quickly. I reached for his glasses and he freaked. Like maybe he has weird eyes or something…I don’t know.” Sonja lifted a shoulder. “He tried to pull me down the street and I kicked his shin and scratched him and got away. I, um, guess I was lucky, huh?”
“Very,” Bentz said solemnly.
She cleared her throat. “He killed some other girl, didn’t he?”
“We think so, yes.”
“And he was threatening Dr. Sam, the radio psychologist on that tape.”
“Yes.”
“God, I wish I could help.”
“You already have,” he said, standing. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” She gathered up her backpack, but took one last look at his desk. “Is that, is that your daughter?” she asked, motioning toward the bifold picture of Kristi.
“Yeah.” Bentz smiled. “One was taken a long time ago, when she was just going off to school, and the other one is her graduation picture. Taken just last year.”
“She’s very pretty,” Sonja offered.
“Takes after her mother.”
“Nah.” Sonja wrinkled her pert, freckled nose. “She looks a lot like you.” And then she was gone. With one of those coiled plastic key rings wrapped around her wrist and her backpack slung over one shoulder, she clomped out of his office in platform sandals. She was right about being lucky, Bentz thought. Sonja Tucker had been just minutes short of death the night before. One girl’s luck had been another girl’s doom. Losing Sonja Tucker had forced the monster to hunt someone else. His prey had turned out to be Leanne Jaquillard. Was it a coincidence that Leanne was connected to Samantha Leeds? Sonja Tucker had sworn not to know Dr. Sam, and though she’d listened to the Midnight Confessions program a couple of times, had never called in.
Not so the victim.
Leanne and Dr. Sam knew each other well.
He rubbed the kinks from his neck and plotted his next move. First they’d make the public aware there was a killer, second they’d put a trace on any call that came into the station. Now that there was a viable link from the killer to Dr. Sam, they had to protect her. They’d watch her house night and day and go through the damned list of people who knew Dr. Sam and Annie Seger.
He gazed down at the composite picture of John Fathers, whoever he really was. Square jaw, cleft chin, high cheekbones, thick hair with a prominent widow’s peak and dark glasses covering his eyes.
And scratches running down his left cheek where Sonja’s nails had scraped off his skin. “Who are you, you bastard?” he asked, glaring at the composite they would distribute to the media. He thought of the men in Samantha’s life—David Ross, Ty Wheeler, George Hannah—all tall, in good shape, with dark hair and sharp features. The computer operator had taken off John’s three-days’ growth of beard, had removed the glasses and substituted potential eyes, had even changed the hairstyle and cut…yet it was all just a crap-shoot. “And who’s the woman who called in and pretended to be Annie?” Bentz muttered.
The picture with its hidden eyes seemed to mock him. What was with the dark glasses and the blacked-out eyes on the hundred-dollar bills? And the strange ligature around the victims’ necks? What was all this garbage about sin and redemption?
Bentz made a note to go over the whereabouts of any man associated with Samantha Leeds who had been in the area since she’d returned from that trip to Mexico…the trip where she’d lost her ID, her purse, her keys. The trip where she’d decided to call it off for good with David Ross.
He was missing something, he knew it. Something obvious. Think, Bentz, think! Who was in Houston nine years ago? Who was here now? Why did anyone want the Annie Seger suicide dredged up again?
He considered Ty Wheeler, who had inserted himself into Samantha Leeds’s life after the Mexico trip. From all reports, he and Samantha were now lovers. That stuck in Bentz’s craw. He didn’t like the guy. Didn’t trust him. Wheeler had admitted to writing a tell-all book about Annie Seger’s death, had even come up with a theory that she’d been murdered rather than committed suicide, but in Bentz’s estimation, it was all hype. The Houston PD had ruled suicide and that was good enough for him. Wheeler was just out to make a quick buck.
He took a couple of calls, received a fax of crime-scene evidence and wasn’t surprised the hairs from a red wig had been found in the hotel room. A few minutes later Melinda Jaskiel appeared in his doorway.
“Tell me what you think about the murders,” she suggested, folding her arms over her chest and leaning a shoulder against the doorjamb. From the outer office the sound of voices, phones and clicking of computer keys could be heard.
“I think we’ve got one sick sumbitch on our hands, possibly two.”
“So I’ve heard.”
Bentz expanded on his theory and brought up Norm Stowell’s report, which Melinda had already perused. They talked in generalities for a while, then came back to the murder of Leanne Jaquillard.
“So the girl’s mother has been notified?” Bentz asked as he glanced at pictures of the latest victim strewn upon his desk.
Melinda Jaskiel nodded, picked up one of the shots, and scowled at the death scene. “I’m talking to the press in an hour. It’ll be short and sweet, but I’m going to confirm that we have a serial killer on our hands, warn women to lock their doors and stay inside or only go out at night in large groups. We’ll distribute the composite drawing and tell the public that they need to be wary, that the killer is escalating and that anyone close to him, a girlfriend or a wife, could be in danger. You know, the same old drill. We’ll hold back key evidence, information that only th
e killer knows so that any nutcase who comes in and confesses will have to prove that he’s legit. Otherwise, we’ll get any idiot who wants a chance to claim a little infamy in here spilling his guts. I’ve talked to the FBI. Everyone on the task force agrees.”
“You’re not going to mention the link to Dr. Sam and Midnight Confessions?”
“Not yet. Have you spoken to her?”
“I’m on my way out there. Just waiting for Montoya. I thought it would be better if we do it in person, at her place. From what I understand she was pretty close to Leanne Jaquillard. The kid was part of a weekly group session for troubled teens that Samantha Leeds holds at the Boucher Center.” Bentz rolled back in his chair, and it creaked in protest. “I guess she had some family trouble. No dad and a mom who’s a real piece of work.”
“I talked to Marletta Vaughn,” Melinda said flatly. “Not exactly June Cleaver.”
Bentz smiled grimly at the comparison. “You know, the last time the creep called Samantha Leeds at the station, he threatened her. He told her…wait a minute I want to get this right.” He rolled back to the desk and held up the finger of one hand while he flipped through pages in his notebook. “Oh, here we go…he said, and I quote, “All you need to know is that what happens tonight is because of you. Because of your sins. You need to repent, Sam. Beg forgiveness.’
He pushed the notebook aside. “Even though we found the other victim—Cathy Adams—on the night of Annie Seger’s birthday, it seemed to be coincidence, not related. Another perp altogether, so I was hoping the birthday cake left at the station was all that would happen. But I was wrong. Turns out this girl”—he thumped a finger on the picture of the latest victim—“Leanne Jaquillard was murdered by the guy who registered as John Fathers, who, I believe is the ‘John’ who calls Dr. Sam at the station. It all fits, Melinda.”
“Okay, so if you’re right, and this is all tied together, that ‘John’ and our killer are one and the same,” Melinda said, “how do you explain the call from the woman who claimed she was ‘Annie’?”