Leverage?
Or security?
A guy with a passion for history as big as Burke’s, plus his deep pockets, could’ve easily gotten wind of Sammons’s plans for the new stadium and simply purchased enough land to block it. Mel had mentioned imminent domain, but no way would the city of Richmond take land from Richard Burke.
So what flipped it?
I scrolled more.
About eighteen months back, the loans started.
Every property on their books had at least three mortgages and a line of credit. And there were a lot of them.
“Holy shit. They’re broke,” I mumbled.
Being poor was a rich man’s worst nightmare. I’d even buy it as a reason for a guy like Richard to suddenly hop into bed with Sammons on this ballpark thing.
I went back to the top of the list, scanning addresses. None of them remote, or even what you’d call out of the way. We couldn’t search all these places.
I tapped two fingers on the edge of the keyboard.
What next?
I ran Richard’s name.
His personal home, plus two vacation houses. Each with two mortgages and a credit line.
Annabeth?
No property listings.
I tried Mitch.
Two hits.
A condo in an expensive high rise down at Rockett’s Landing, and a single-family home built in 1874. On River Road. I clicked.
Tax records showed the house was previously owned by a bank, and Burke bought it twelve years ago for a quarter million dollars. Five thousand square feet, lovely part of town. Paid for. Free and clear.
What had a twenty-one-year-old pitcher with a weakness for women and booze wanted with a century-old mansion?
Time to go find out.
I copied the address and slapped the computer shut, looking around for the first time in an hour. Troy was watching me with a grin.
“I’m not sure what you just found, but I’m glad you’re excited,” he said.
I pulled out my phone and dialed Kyle, shooting Troy a grin. “I’m not sure what it is either, but I’d like to go have a look. Little bit of personal advice: Avoid snooping alone.”
Voicemail. Damn.
I hung up and tried Aaron. Same result.
Landers. No dice.
Joey. Voicemail.
The third time I rang Kyle’s phone, I got a text that said Can’t talk now, I’ll call you later.
“He’s auto-messaging me? Now?” I dropped my phone on the desk and stared at the Generals poster on Parker’s closed door.
Kyle knew I wanted something life and death, because I didn’t pester him unless that was the case. Which meant he had an equally important reason for ignoring me at the moment. I crossed every appendage I could manage without falling that his reason had to do with finding Parker.
But I had no time to wait around and hope I was right. My friend’s life might very well depend on my next move, in fact.
“Anything I can help with?” Troy asked.
I tipped my head to one side. “As a matter of fact, yeah. Do you have a car I can borrow?”
“What happened to no snooping alone?” he asked.
I glanced at the address I’d scribbled, then copied it onto a Post-it, along with phone numbers for Kyle, Aaron, and Landers.
“I can’t just sit here.” I handed him the little yellow square. “Do me a favor: Keep calling these numbers, and when you get someone to pick up, tell them I went to this address and to come meet me.”
“What is this place?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.” I stood and he tossed me a set of Prius keys that had seen better days.
“Be careful, Miss Clarke,” he said.
“I will. Get ahold of one of my cops and get them over there.”
Probably overkill, because the odds were stacked in favor of an abandoned house no one could sell, a money pit, or a hundred other things. Just because it was close to where we’d found Parker’s car didn’t mean anything. Not by itself.
But my gut said it might. And maybe was better than the dead end I faced staying put.
38.
In Memoriam
Darkness seeped through the trees surrounding the old house, the headlights on Troy’s battered Prius not making much headway as I shut off the engine a half-block away. I stood next to the car for a second and blinked, letting my eyes adjust to the inky black so I didn’t have to use a flashlight. The less attention called to my presence, the better. Just in case my gut was right.
I tucked my phone and a mace canister into my pocket and picked my way along the side of the road. If I didn’t know I was still in the city, I wouldn’t have believed it—the quiet night almost pulsed with a life of its own, overgrown brush and trees reaching through it to pick at my sleeve and scratch my bare legs. Ahead, shades of indigo outlined hulking pieces of construction equipment at the end of the cul-de-sac.
Building something?
I missed the break in the bushes that marked the end of the driveway on the first pass, ducking and turning sideway to squeeze through them on the second. Just when I began to wish I’d brought a machete, I tugged free of the last prickly branch and found myself in a southern gothic secret garden.
Jasmine lay heavy on the air, my eyes barely making out the vines that grew wild up every standing surface around me. A stone fountain patchworked with dark splotches of moss stood in the center of the broken concrete circular driveway, filled to the brim from last night’s storm. A few more steps and I made out the remnants of what was once a gazebo, surrounded by roses long since left to their own devices, their spindly arms lifting dark blooms to the sky.
Any other early summer evening, the dark beauty of the abandoned garden and the palpable pull of so much history would take my breath right away.
Tonight, I barely had time to notice as I faded into the shadows of the wall, tiptoeing around the perimeter in search of the house.
Probably a quarter mile up from the street, I found it.
Damn, some light would have been nice. I rolled my eyes up, not a star to be seen behind all the clouds.
Fine.
Be that way.
I kept moving through the shadows until I spotted a stairway at the back corner of the house. Probably to the old servant’s quarters.
But it looked…
I crept closer.
It looked new. Because a lot of it was. While I felt some wood when I bent to touch it, what was left of the original material had been reinforced with metal. Metal that hadn’t had time to rust, the smooth finish said.
My heart pumped double time.
Why was this the only property the Burke family wouldn’t mortgage when they were in hock up to their aristocratic noses?
“One way to find out,” I muttered, hoping like hell something—anything—in here might tell me where to look for Parker.
I took the steps two at a time, finding a builder-grade metal exterior door at the top.
I tried the knob.
Locked. Nothing is ever simple.
There was no glass to kick in, but there was a hundred-and-fifty-year-old wooden doorjamb holding the business end of the deadbolt.
I stepped back to the edge of the little stoop, turned to one side, and let an ap’chagi fly.
The impact rushed up my leg through my hip, making my eyes fill as I lowered my leg and surveyed the door. My heel left a divot in the center, and it seemed a touch looser in the frame.
I turned again, this time aiming for just above the knob. My foot connected hard enough to let me know I might be limping for a while, but the wood squealed as it splintered on the other side of the door.
I stepped forward and shoved, and the door swung wide.
Peeking into the room, I listened for footsteps.
None.
I put one foot across the threshold, then jumped around the edge of the door.
Nobody behind it.
I pulled out my
phone and flipped on the flashlight.
To find a bedroom.
A young girl’s dream bedroom.
Pink satin covered the walls, and a white French Provencal four poster was half-buried under clouds of muslin canopy.
I spun in a slow circle.
Whatever I thought I’d find when I’d landed on the address, this was not even in the same zip code.
“What the hell?” I whispered.
Shelves full of stuffed animals and porcelain dolls. A vanity with a velvet-cushioned stool and a silver brush and comb set.
Why did Mitch Burke own a rundown mansion with a princess’s bedroom in the servant’s quarters?
I picked up the brush, tracing one finger over the monogram on the back.
His sister. My brain started down that road as my flashlight fell on a closet. I set the brush down and crossed to the carved door. The mural of cherubs and clouds swung out of sight when I pulled it open and shined the light inside.
Blood.
On the walls. On the dresses hanging in rows down both racks. On the floor.
And on Parker, still in his gym clothes, curled in the back corner like he was sleeping.
“Parker?” It was barely a whisper. I tried again. “Parker!”
I rushed forward, slipped in something (I knew what. I just didn’t want to think about it), and winced when I landed hard on my tailbone. Scrambling to my knees, I crawled to my friend, grabbing his shoulder and giving it a rough shake.
Please, God.
He didn’t stir.
I called his name again, kneeling next to him and pressing my fingers to the side of his throat.
His pulse was thready, but it was there.
I ran the light over him and spotted a clump of yuck about halfway back in his hair and a deep gash on his left shin, still trickling blood around his calf and onto the floor. Jesus. I snatched a sweater from the rack over my head and tied one sleeve just below his knee, pulling it tight and knotting it.
Picking the phone up, I called 911.
“I have an unconscious man with a head injury and heavy blood loss.” I glanced around, keeping my voice even. “We’re in the back of—”
I stopped talking when I felt the blade against my cheek.
“Ma’am?” the dispatcher asked. “Are you still there?”
Fingernails dug into my hand, forcing me to let go of the phone. It disappeared, and the dispatcher’s voice stopped.
I didn’t move, the steel against my cheek keeping me stock-still. Had she had time to get the location from my cell? Probably not more than the general area, and that was if I’d been on the nearest tower.
I tried to swallow the panic, praying Troy had gotten someone—anyone—on the phone.
The knife slid down my face to rest on my shoulder, point at my throat. I felt a trickle from my cheekbone to my jaw.
“Can I help you?” I asked, impressed at how blasé I sounded.
A throaty chuckle came from behind me. “Plucky little thing, aren’t you?”
Not a man’s voice.
The nails.
The room.
Parker.
Not Richard Burke.
“Annabeth.” I turned my head slowly toward the door, catching a glimpse of red as Mrs. Burke’s shiny patent Louboutin connected with the side of my head.
39.
Bodies in the closet
My head caught the side of a shoe rack and landed with a thunk on the wood floor when I fell back. I stayed still for a few seconds, the situation sinking in.
Had Annabeth Burke really killed her own son? Somehow, knowing Mitch Burke’s mother was behind this was way worse than suspecting Richard. I blinked. And how had Parker ended up half-dead in a closet full of his long-dead girlfriend’s clothes?
Nothing made sense, and not just because I was bleeding from my head in at least two places.
“Oh, come on, now,” Annabeth called. “That didn’t knock you out. Get up.”
“So you can kick me again? I think I’ll stay put.”
She chuckled before landing a swift one to my ribcage.
I brought my knees to my chest, coughing.
I heard my phone land on a shelf, and the closet lit up, the flashlight still on.
“Get.” She bent forward and grabbed a handful of my hair, dragging me to a sitting position. “Up.”
I planted one hand on the floor and used it for balance, my eyes flicking to the knife in her hand. It was beautiful in a dark way, a pattern engraved into a blade that came to an even point. Less knife and more dagger. Long and narrow, with a silver handle, sharp on both sides.
Just exactly like Bonnie said.
She’d used it to kill Mitch too.
I glanced around, the blood in the closet making more sense, my eyes flicking over Parker. She’d used it to kill Mitch here. His severed artery had made these spatters. Parker might still have a chance. If I could get us out of here.
I turned back to Annabeth.
What kind of monster was this woman?
“Why?” I croaked.
“Oh, goody, is this the part where I’m supposed to pour my crazy little heart out to you so you can write it up for the whole city to read?” She clapped her hands together. “We’ll just have a little girl-to-girl chat, is that it?” She sneered, stepping backward. “Let’s not.”
“Suit yourself.”
A cold smile spread across her face, the chill leaching into my bones. “Sad, really. I’ve been reading your work for quite a while now—something about you reminds me of myself. Smart. Resourceful.”
“Resourceful?” I blurted. “Lady, I’m thinking you killed your own son. And so far as I can tell, you’ve kidnapped a man and assaulted me. That’s not resourceful. That’s insanity.”
A snarl flashed across her face in the weird half-bright, half-shadow, and she motioned for me to put my arms forward.
“Mitchell never learned.” She grabbed a roll of duct tape off a shelf, and Kyle’s agent commando voice floated through my thoughts. Deep breath. I leaned forward, laying my elbows against each other and facing my wrists in together. I winced as she wrapped the tape around and around, pulling it tighter as she started talking again.
“He just skated through life, screwing up and letting us bail him out. He was good at two things: charming women into bed and charming people out of their money. I wish I could say he got that from his father, but Richard’s luck with money has never been great, and this stupid history obsession of his has finally bled us dry.”
Journalism even before the age of the internet 101: No matter how much they try to pretend, most people really do like to talk. Knowing how to listen to the homicidal ones without dying is the tricky part.
She ripped the tape, sticking the end down, and stepped backward. I fought to breathe, every nerve ending aware of the creepy dagger she waved in big arcs as she spoke.
“All the money he’s pissed away, and he wouldn’t buy this house for my Mari. She walked by here almost every day. Fell in love with it. Begged Richard to buy it for years. But he refused, and then it was too late. When Mitchell turned twenty-one and got full access to his trust fund—he gave me the keys on Mari’s birthday that year.” She smiled. “It was perfect: Richard wanted Mari’s things out of her room in my home, and I couldn’t put my baby’s things in storage. But Mitchell tired of indulging his mother when Sammons got him all gung ho about a new stadium. Richard spent the last dime we had to our name trying to keep them out of the slip, but then the economy went to hell, and he couldn’t get a project off the ground to save his soul. Mitch started MariBu, and Richard eventually fell in behind his ballpark project. They stayed busy chasing politicians and contractors. And throwing away what money we could beg or borrow.”
She straightened a stack of sweaters on a shelf. I shuffled puzzle pieces. Mitch wanted into the ballpark project. Sammons liked him and seemed to want his father’s approval.
Parker said his company had no
reputation. He’d need respect.
And money.
“He was going to sell this place,” I breathed.
“No.” She shook her head. “He wanted to demolish it.”
The construction equipment.
“Tear it all down and rebuild a restoration hardware faux mansion in its place for that little backwoods trollop he knocked up. I cried. Begged. Screamed.”
She fingered the sleeve of a dress.
“But why kill him here? You kept your daughter’s things so nice for so long…” I blurted.
Annabeth shook her head. “I picked up this ridiculous thing,” she brandished the dagger, “Richard gave to Mari because it was his mother’s. I swung it, and Mitchell leaned to grab my hand. It hit him. I didn’t mean for him to get hurt. I really didn’t.” I didn’t know who she was trying to convince, but it wasn’t working on me.
I gave her a onceover, another piece clicking. She was five foot nothing and probably not a hundred pounds soaking wet.
“You didn’t put him in the barrel though. You couldn’t. Not by yourself.”
“You don’t miss a detail, do you?” The baritone came from behind the closet door. “Bob Jeffers always did know a good reporter at thirty paces.” Richard Burke stepped into the light, nodding my way. “I helped Bob with some history for a piece he did on the Klan many years ago. And then he refused to hire my son.” He shook his head. “Not that anyone could really blame him. Like I said: He knew a good reporter when he saw one. It’ll hurt old Bob to lose you.” He turned to his wife. “I told you to hurry.”
“I didn’t expect her to be here. I was just seeing if he was dead yet.”
Richard sighed like he was the only smart person he knew. “Why does that matter?”
Annabeth’s jaw dropped into a horrified gape. “Richard! We can’t bury him alive. It’s barbaric.”
I couldn’t help the eye roll.
Neither could Richard. “So complicated. And now I have to find a place to put them both.”
“Just dig a bigger hole, for Heaven’s sake,” she snapped. “We’re not doing formal services.”
“I’m aware of how to handle this,” Richard said. “All I do lately is clean up your messes. I had this under control until you saw Grant down on the trail this morning, didn’t I? For that matter, haven’t I handled that too?” He got louder with every question, and her face was the same scarlet as her nails.
Lethal Lifestyles (A Headlines in High Heels Mystery Book 6) Page 27