Eight Classic Nora Roberts Romantic Suspense Novels

by Nora Roberts

  “I wanted to catch you before you went into your office.”

  “My office.” Burke’s lips twisted into a grimace as he held out his morning mug so that Tucker could top it up with hot coffee. “Don’t you mean Burns’s office? My butt hasn’t felt the seat of my own chair in three days.”

  “Is he getting anywhere, or is he just blowing smoke?”

  “He’s generated more paperwork than the Bank of England. Faxes, Federal Express packages, conference calls to Washington, D.C. We got us a bulletin board with pictures of all the victims tacked to it. Vital statistics, time and place of death. He’s got stuff referenced and cross-referenced till your head spins.”

  Tucker sat down. “You’re not telling me anything, Burke.”

  Burke met Tucker’s gaze. “There’s not much I’m free to tell you. We’ve got a list of suspects.”

  Nodding, Tucker took a sip of coffee. “Am I still on it?”

  “You’ve got an alibi for Edda Lou.” Burke took a spoonful of cereal, hesitated, then set it down again. “I guess you know Burns has taken a real dislike to you. He doesn’t think much of your sister saying you were up playing cards with her half the night.”

  “I’m not too worried about that.”

  “You should be.” Burke broke off when he heard someone moving around in the living room. A moment later the Looney Tunes theme warbled from the television. “Eight o’clock,” he said with a smile. “That kid’s got it down to a science.” He picked up his coffee. “I’ll tell you this, Tuck. Burns would like nothing better than to hang this whole thing around your neck. He won’t do anything that’s not straight and legal, but if he can find a way to reel you in, it would give him a lot of pleasure.”

  “What we got here’s a personality clash,” Tucker said with a thin smile. “They got a time of death on Darleen yet?”

  “Teddy’s putting it at between nine P.M. and midnight.”

  “Since I was with Caroline from about nine on, the night Darleen was killed, that ought to ease me out of the running.”

  “With a series of murders like this, it’s not just a matter of motive and opportunity. He’s got a head doctor who worked up a psychiatric profile. We’re looking for someone with a grudge against women—especially women who might be a bit free with their favors. Someone who knew each victim well enough to get them alone.”

  Burke’s flakes were getting soggy. He scooped them up more for fuel than enjoyment. “Darleen’s a puzzle,” he went on. “Maybe it was just chance that he came across her on the road that way. Could have been impulse. But chance and impulse don’t follow the pattern.”

  Tucker let that settle for a minute. There was a pattern, he mused, but he didn’t think anybody had put all the lines and checks together just yet. “I want to get back to that psychiatric stuff. You’ve got somebody with a grudge against women—maybe because they hated their mama, or some woman let them down along the way.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  “Before Darleen, you’d pretty well settled on Austin.”

  “He fit the profile,” Burke agreed. “And after he went after Caroline with a buck knife, it looked rock solid.”

  “But unless Austin came back from the dead, he couldn’t have killed Darleen.” Tucker shifted in his chair. “What do you think about heredity, Burke? About blood and genes and bad seeds?”

  “Anybody with kids thinks about it some. Anybody with parents, I should say,” he added, and shoved his bowl aside. “I spent a lot of years wondering if I’d make ail the wrong moves the way my father did, push myself into corners or let myself get pushed there, like him.”

  “I’m sorry. I should have thought before I asked.”

  “No, it was a long time ago. Almost twenty years now. It’s better to look to your own kids. That one out there.” He pointed a spoon toward the living room, where his youngest watched Bugs outwit Elmer Fudd. “He looks like me. I got pictures of myself at his age, and it’s almost spooky how much he looks like me.”

  “Vernon favors his daddy,” Tucker said. He waited while Burke set his spoon aside. “It can go deeper than coloring and the shape of a nose, Burke. It can go to personality and tendencies, gestures, habits. I’ve had reason to think on this because of my own family.” It was something he didn’t like to talk about, not even with Burke. “Dwayne’s got the same sickness that killed our father. Maybe he’s got a better disposition, but it’s there, rooted inside. All I have to do is look in the mirror, or at Dwayne and Josie, and I see our mother. She’s stamped right on our faces. And she had a love of books, poetry especially. I got that, too. I didn’t ask for it, it’s just there.”

  “I won’t argue that. Marvella’s got a way of tilting her head the same way, the same angle as Susie does. And she’s got Susie’s stubborn streak—‘I want it and I’ll find a way to get it.’ We pass things on, good and bad, whether we aim to or not.”

  “Vernon’s not gentle with his wife, any more than Austin was gentle with his.”

  “What brought this on, Tucker?”

  “You heard about the ruckus at the carnival last night?”

  “That young Cy bloodied his brother’s nose? Marvella and Bobby Lee were there. Nobody thought it was a shame.”

  “Vernon’s not a popular man. His daddy wasn’t either. They’ve got the same look about them, in the eyes, Burke.” Tucker kicked back in the chair to stretch his legs. “My mama bought me this picture book once. A Bible stories book. I remember this one picture. It was of Isaiah or Ezekiel or somebody. One of those prophets who strolled off into the wasteland for forty days to fast and meet the Lord? This was supposed to be a picture of him after he came back spouting prophesies and speaking in tongues. Whatever the hell they did when they’d cooked their brains in the desert. He had this look in his eyes, this wild, rolling look like a weasel gets when he smells chicken feathers. I always wondered why the Lord chose to speak through crazy people. I expect it was because they wouldn’t question whatever voice they heard inside their head. Seems to me they might hear something else inside there, too. Something not so full of light and good will.”

  Saying nothing, Burke rose to pour more coffee. Burns had said something about voices. About how some serial killers claim to have been told what to do and how to do it. The Son of Sam had claimed his neighbor’s dog had ordered him to kill.

  For himself, Burke didn’t go in for the mystical. He figured David Berkowitz had juggled psychiatry against the law to cop an insanity plea. But Tucker’s theory made him uneasy.

  “Are you trying to tell me you think Vernon hears voices?”

  “I don’t know what’s inside his head, but I know what I saw in his eyes last night. The same thing I saw in Austin’s when he was choking me and calling me by my father’s name. That prophet look. If he could have broken Cy in two, he would’ve done it. And I’d stake Sweetwater against the fact that he’d have considered it holy work.”

  “I don’t know that he had more than a passing acquaintance with any of the victims other than Edda Lou.”

  “This is Innocence. Nobody gets through their life without knowing what there is to know about everybody else. What’s that saying about the apple not falling far from the tree? If Austin had it in him to kill, his son might have the same.”

  “I’ll talk to him.”

  Satisfied, Tucker nodded. When the phone rang, they both ignored it. From upstairs, Susie answered it on the second ring. “You’re going to be at Sweetwater tonight, for the fireworks?”

  “Unless I want my wife and kids to leave me.”

  “Carl, too?”

  “No reason for him to stay in town when everybody’ll be out at your place. Why?”

  Tucker moved his shoulders restlessly. “A lot of people, a lot of noise and confusion. I’m worried, especially about Josie and Caroline. I’d feel better knowing you and Carl are close.”

  “Burke.” Susie came in. She was still in her robe, smelling of her shower with carnation-scent
ed soap. Studying her, Burke thought she looked no more than twenty.

  “Was that the office?” he asked her.

  “No, it was Della.” She laid her hand over Tucker’s. “Matthew Burns had Dwayne brought in for questioning.”

  If he hadn’t been so infuriated, Tucker would have been amused. The idea of Dwayne, soft-hearted, bleary-eyed Dwayne, as a murder suspect was certainly laughable. The fact that his brother had been yanked out of bed and driven into town to be questioned by some smug-faced FBI agent was not.

  Struggling with his temper, Tucker walked into the sheriff’s office with Burke. He wouldn’t lose it, he promised himself. It would suit Burns too well to kick him out. Instead, he flipped his brother a cigarette, then lighted one for himself.

  “You getting an early start today, Burns,” Tucker said mildly. “Guess you forgot today’s a national holiday.”

  “I’m aware of the date.” Burns stretched his legs behind Burke’s desk and kept his hands folded on top. “I’m also aware that you have a parade scheduled for noon. My business won’t interfere with your town’s celebrations. Sheriff, I’m told you’ll be blocking off the main drag by ten.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’d like my car moved where I’ll be able to get in and out of town as necessary.” Taking out his keys, he set them on the edge of the desk.

  Carl saw the flare in Burke’s eyes and stepped forward. “I’ll move it on down to Magnolia.” Jingling the keys in his hand, he stopped by Tucker. “I’m sorry, Tuck. I had orders to bring him in.”

  “It’s all right, Carl. It shouldn’t take long to straighten this out. Heard your girl’s going to be twirling today.”

  “She’s been practicing day and night. Her grand-pappy bought one of those video recorders so he can shoot her whole routine as she marches.”

  “I’m sure that’s fascinating, Deputy,” Burns put in, “but we have business to conduct here,” His gaze shifted to Tucker. “Official business.”

  “I’ll be sure to watch for her myself, Carl,” Tucker said. He waited until the deputy went out before taking another drag. “Dwayne, did they read you your rights?”

  “Mr. Longstreet isn’t under arrest. Yet,” Burns interrupted. “He’s merely being questioned.”

  “He’s got a right to a lawyer, doesn’t he?”

  “Naturally.” Burns spread his hands. “If you’re concerned that your rights might be abused, Mr. Longstreet, or that you may incriminate yourself, please feel free to call your attorney. We’ll be happy to wait.”

  “I’d just as soon get it done.” Dwayne looked miserably at Tucker. “Sure could use some coffee, though, and a bottle of aspirin.”

  “We’ll fix you up.” Burke patted his shoulder as he walked into the bathroom.

  “This is official business, Longstreet.” Burns inclined his head in dismissal. “You have no place here.”

  “Burke deputized me.” Tucker’s lips spread in a slow smile. Though Burke paused, lifting his brows as he came back in with the aspirin, he said nothing to contradict the statement. “He can always use some extra help on the Fourth.”

  “That’s the truth,” Burke commented as he shook tablets from the plastic bottle. “And seeing as my youngest has a birthday today on top of it, I’d be obliged if we could get things moving.”

  “Very well.” Burns punched in his recorder. “Mr. Longstreet, you reside at the property known as Sweetwater, in the county of Bolivar, Mississippi?”

  “That’s right.” Dwayne accepted the mug of coffee and the aspirin. “The Longstreets have been at Sweetwater nearly two hundred years.”

  “Yes.” History and family legacies didn’t interest Burns. “You live there with your brother and your sister.”

  “And Della. She’s been housekeeper at Sweetwater for more than thirty years. And right now Cousin Lulu’s visiting.” Dwayne singed his tongue with the hot coffee, but the aspirin went down. “She’s a cousin on my mama’s side. No telling how long she’ll stay. Cousin Lulu’s been coming and going as she pleases as long as anyone can remember. I recollect once—”

  “If you’ll save the home-boy routine,” Burns said, “I’d like to finish before the brass bands and batons.”

  Dwayne caught Tucker’s grin and shrugged. “Just answering your question. Oh, and we’ve got Cy and Caroline with us now, too. That what you want to know?”

  “Your marital status?”

  “I’m divorced. Two years come October. That’s when the papers came through, wasn’t it, Tucker?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And your ex-wife now lives where?”

  “Up in Nashville. Rosebank Avenue. She’s got a nice little house there, close enough to school that the boys can walk.”

  “And she is the former Adalaide Koons?”

  “Sissy,” Dwayne corrected him. “Her little brother never could say Adalaide, so she was Sissy.”

  “And Mrs. Longstreet was pregnant with your first son when you married?”

  Dwayne frowned into his coffee. “I don’t see that it’s any of your business, but it’s no secret, I guess.”

  “You married her to give the child a name.”

  “We got married ’cause we figured it was best.”

  With a murmur of agreement, Burns steepled his hands. “And shortly after the birth of your second child, you wife left you.”

  Dwayne drained his coffee. Over the rim, his bloodshot eyes hardened. “That’s no secret either.”

  “You’ll agree it was an unpleasant scene?” Burns shifted forward to read some notes. “Your wife locked you out of the house after a violent argument—I believe you’d been drinking heavily—and threw your belongings out of an upstairs window. She then took your children to Nashville, where she took up residence with a shoe salesman who moonlighted as a musician.”

  Dwayne examined the cigarette Tucker had tossed him. “I guess that’s about right.”

  “How did it make you feel, Mr. Longstreet, when the woman you had married under duress left you, taking your children, and turned to a second-rate guitar player?”

  Dwayne took his time lighting the cigarette. “I guess she had to do what suited her best.”

  “So you were amenable to the situation?”

  “I didn’t try to stop her, if that’s what you mean. Didn’t seem like I was much good at being married anyway.”

  “The divorce suit she filed against you accused you of emotional cruelty, violence, erratic and unstable behavior, and stated you were a physical risk to both her and your children. Did that seem harsh?”

  Dwayne dragged deep on tobacco and wished desperately for whiskey. “I expect she was feeling harsh. I can’t say I did right by her, or the boys either.”

  “You don’t have to do this, Dwayne.” When his control broke, Tucker stepped forward to take his brother’s arm. “You don’t have to answer this fucker’s questions about a marriage that’s over, or your feelings about it.”

  Burns inclined his head. “Is there a reason your brother shouldn’t confirm what I already know?”

  Tucker let go of Dwayne to slap his hands on the desk. “I can’t think of one. Just like I can’t think of a reason I shouldn’t kick your skinny butt all the way back to D.C.”

  “We can discuss that on our own time, Longstreet. Right now you’re interfering with a federal investigation. If you persist, you’ll do your complaining from one of those cells.”

  Tucker grabbed Burns’s pinstriped tie and yanked upward. “Why don’t I show you how we handle things down here in the delta?”

  “Leave him alone.” Dwayne stirred himself to snag Tucker’s wrist.

  “The hell I will.”

  “I said leave him alone.” Dwayne stuck his face close to Tucker’s. “I’ve got nothing to hide. This Yankee sonofabitch can ask questions from now to doomsday and that won’t change. Leave him be so we can get it done.”

  Reluctantly, Tucker loosened his grip. “We’re going to fi
nish this, you and me.”

  Stone-faced, Burns straightened his tie. “It’ll be a pleasure.” He remained standing, turning to the bulletin board at his back. “Mr. Longstreet, were you acquainted with Arnette Gantrey?” Burns tapped a finger against the space between a photo of a smiling blond woman and a black-and-white police photo taken at Gooseneck Creek.

  “I knew Arnette. We went to school together, dated a few times.”

  “And Francie Logan?” Burns slid his finger to the next set of photos.

  “I knew Francie.” Dwayne averted his eyes. “Everybody knew Francie. She grew up here. Lived in Jackson for a while, then came back after getting divorced.”

  “And you were acquainted with Edda Lou Hatinger?”

  Dwayne forced himself to look back, but focused on the tip of Burns’s finger. “Yeah. I knew Darleen, too, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “Did you know a woman named Barbara Kinsdale?”

  “I don’t think so.” Dwayne’s brow creased as he tried out the name in his head. “Nobody around here named Kinsdale.”

  “Are you quite sure?” Burns unpinned a photo from the board. “Take a look.”

  Dwayne picked up the photo from the desk, grateful it was a shot of a live woman. She was a pretty brunette, perhaps thirty, with straight hair sweeping slight shoulders, “I’ve never seen her before.”

  “Haven’t you?” Burns picked up his notes. “Barbara Kinsdale, five foot two, a hundred three pounds, brown hair, blue eyes. Age thirty-one. Does that description sound familiar?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “You should be able to say,” Burns continued. “It’s almost a perfect description of your ex-wife. Mrs. Kinsdale was a cocktail waitress at the Stars and Bars Club in Nashville. Residence 3043 Eastland Avenue. That’s about three blocks away from your ex-wife’s home. Emmett Cotrain, your ex-wife’s fiancé, performed at the Stars and bars on weekends. An interesting coincidence, isn’t it?”

  A thin bead of sweat dripped down Dwayne’s back. “I guess it is.”

  “It’s more interesting that Mrs. Kinsdale was found floating in the Percy Priest Lake, outside of Nashville, late this spring. She was naked, her throat had been slit, and her body mutilated.”