Deadline (Love Inspired Suspense)

by Maggie K. Black

  He followed her through the kitchen and past the remains of the brunch, pausing only to pour himself black coffee from the pot. The air in her office was cool. The space was tidy, with a small, spotless desk and two soft beige chairs with lilac throw pillows. She slid into her desk chair and opened her laptop. It hummed softly to life.

  His arm brushed against her shoulder as Jack braced his hand on the desk and leaned in toward the screen. “What kind of records do you keep?”

  “Really basic ones.” She opened her database. “Names of the wedding party. Budgets. Contact details. Nothing about their personal histories. What were the names of the victims again?”

  “Krista Hooper. She’s the one who interrupted a robbery in her dorm room three months ago. Then Eliza Penn, who died two months ago in an apparent hit-and-run. Finally Shelly Day, who was stabbed two weeks ago.”

  “I don’t recognize any of the names, but I will try them. Maybe they were in a wedding party or called me for a quote.”

  “You save those names too?”

  She glanced up at him and smiled. “I save everything.” She entered the names. No results. She tried just the last names. Still no results. She sat back. “I’m sorry, I don’t have any record of having contact with any of them.”

  He pushed both hands up through his hair, pressed his fingers into his head and sighed.

  “Hey, you okay?” She leaned toward him. “You seem disappointed. Surely the fact that none of my clients are connected to a serial killer is a good thing, right?”

  He didn’t meet her eye. “Would it be okay if I just scrolled through all the names myself? Just in case I see someone I recognize, or something jumps out at me?”

  “Sure, as long as it’s just names. Don’t go clicking through to anyone’s bank details or dress measurements.”

  He chuckled. “Deal.”

  She turned the screen toward him. He picked up her laptop, leaned back against the desk and scrolled. For several minutes, he looked through names in silence, staring at each one in turn, as if seeing the right combination of letters might unlock something locked inside memory. His brow furrowed.

  “Wesley Tens. Would be related to Carol Tens? The aunt of Chris Quay, who was in an accident with your brother?”

  She blinked. “How on earth would you know that?” She hadn’t even remembered Chris’s cousin’s last name until she’d seen Wesley in person. “Yes, Wesley is Chris’s younger cousin. He was just here a few minutes ago. You met him yesterday after we left the diner. But his mother, Carol, passed away from cancer not that long ago.”

  “Carol Tens wrote an open letter to the national press pushing for stronger helmet laws. She claimed Chris’s death caused her son to have nightmares and behavioral problems in school. Several newspapers still have it online in their archives. This was a few years ago.” He didn’t meet her eye. “I made a point of reading pretty much everything I could find online about your brother’s accident last night and this morning. Couldn’t really sleep.”

  She winced. How many articles on her brother’s crash were still floating around online, for anyone to find, with just a simple internet search? How many of those were even accurate?

  “Well, you can’t believe everything you read online. A lot of the articles they wrote after the accident were nothing but speculation and nonsense. You wouldn’t believe the utter garbage that got printed, even after the police determined that Chris was the one driving and Benji was just the passenger.”

  He set down the laptop. “I asked you yesterday if there was anyone who was on that ferry who had a reason to want to hurt you. You said there wasn’t. Now you’re telling me that you’re arranging a wedding for the cousin of the very kid who died in a wreck involving your brother.”

  “Now you sound exactly like one of them.” She spun her chair toward him so quickly her legs smacked into his. “Yes, the groom who’s getting married tomorrow is Chris’s cousin, not that he even knew my brother was in the same accident until I just told him today. He was only seven when Chris died. I get the impression the knowledge his cousin died young haunted him on an emotional level. Not that he meticulously memorized the details let alone grew up planning to avenge Chris’s death.” She could feel the words bubbling through her like a river overflowing its banks. Jack held up a finger to interject. She didn’t let him. “Wesley is nothing but a sad, lost kid who’s just doing his best to deal with the life he’s been given. Plus, he’s so scrawny. There’s no way he is strong enough to be the man who attacked me on the ferry.”

  Jack crossed his arms slowly and stood. “Anything else you think I need to know?”

  “No. Well, yes.” Her heart was racing so hard she could barely think. “If you’re going to investigate Wesley, then I might as well tell you that the best man, Duncan, is a huge bear of a man. He definitely has the right build to be the Raincoat Killer. But I don’t get the impression he and Wesley are close enough that he’d kill for him. Besides, he only got back from the Arctic a few days ago. That’s three planes and several hours of flying each direction from the previous crime scenes. So unless he somehow managed to pop down from the frozen tundra on weekends just to commit murder, then fly back again, he’s not your guy either.”

  Jack’s mouth turned up at the corner. “Well, that should be easy enough to check.”

  She watched his chest rise and fall, just inches away from her own. “I’m sorry if I sound defensive, but you just reminded me—whether you meant to or not—that all the terrible stories the press wrote about my brother are still floating around the internet, and will be for the rest of his life. Then you followed it up by speculating that same accident might have turned Chris’s little cousin into a cold-blooded killer?”

  His shoulders stiffened. “I did no such thing. I just asked a question.”

  “Just like all the other reporters who came around and asked questions about what happened after Chris and Benji’s accident. If word gets out that the Raincoat Killer is targeting me, it’s just going to happen all over again. Gossip journalists and bloggers are going to pick me apart under the microscope. Guessing what might be wrong with me. Guessing what I might have done to deserve getting attacked. Guessing how I might feel or how I might be affected. Without actually having a clue what it’s like.”

  “Then why don’t you tell them?” Jack picked up his voice recorder. It spun between his fingers. “I won’t lie to you. I think the national press is going to eventually come knocking on your door, asking about what happened to you and to Mr. McCarthy.” His voice softened. “I’m sorry, Meg, but you can’t hide from something like this. Stories like these have a way of coming out. So, isn’t it better coming from you?”

  Sudden tears pushed to the edges of her eyelids. She bit her lower lip and blinked them back. “You don’t understand, Jack.”

  “Then tell me.” He set the recorder on the table and reached for her hand. “Has it ever crossed your mind that your story could help other people?” he asked. “Every time I run an interview with someone who’s been through a major tragedy, my email is swamped with letters from readers, saying, ‘Thank you for giving a voice to how I feel! Thank you for letting me know I’m not alone!’ That’s the reason I do what I do. When you give someone the chance to tell his story, it can transform his tragedy into something that changes other people’s lives.”

  She looked down at this hand. Did he have any idea how much she wanted to take it? Did he know how desperately she wanted to just step into his chest and let him wrap his arms around her in a hug as he had done last night? But she couldn’t. This wasn’t a man looking to hold her. This was a man looking to take what she wasn’t willing to give.

  “Can you honestly tell me that if you interview me, if you write a newspaper article, telling the world that I was targeted by the Raincoat Killer, I’m not going to have brides second-guessing wh
ether they still want me as their wedding planner?”

  He pulled his hand away. “You know I can’t guarantee that.”

  He ran his hand over the back of his neck. She gripped the chair to keep from reaching for him.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Maybe I can’t control what other people are going to write about me. And maybe if I went around talking to every person who asked about my personal life, like Benji does, I’d be as confident as he is answering questions about his accident. But I’m not going to risk wrecking my life any further by accidentally blurting out something personal to a reporter who’s then going to put it in print, where people can see it and use it against me.

  “You think you know what happened that night, because you talked to my brother about the accident, and stayed up late reading a lot of newspaper articles. But I guarantee you don’t know the whole story about Benji and Chris. That’s my point. No one does.”

  * * *

  Jack stared down at the lukewarm sludge in his cup. He tried to swirl it without spilling any onto his hands. Coffee grains stuck to the side. Meg had been kind enough to drop him off at the police station without asking him why. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Officer Burne hadn’t even raised an eyebrow when Jack walked into the station, but simply ushered him into an interview room and told him to help himself to coffee.

  The coffee now churned inside Jack’s gut. It hadn’t felt this bad when he sat in Vince’s office two days ago and had been asked to consider taking a leave of absence. No, at that time he’d felt indignant, determined, self-righteous even.

  But now that strong grip he’d had on his emotions had gotten all muddled up somehow, into a mess of uncertainty and doubt.

  He’d found the news story that could save his career. But if he wrote it, Meg would never forgive him. Somehow the thought of upsetting her like that was as uncomfortable as a mosquito bite under his skin he didn’t know how to scratch. But if he had been willing to throw his career away and walk away from his story, what difference would it even make? He wasn’t the kind of man she’d ever want to have a future with.

  Oh, Lord, help me have my head on straight and keep my emotions in check.

  Officer Burne set a voice recorder on the table in front of Jack and sat down.

  “So, Mr. Brooks. What brings you in this morning?” He didn’t smile.

  Jack forced his best professional smile on his face. “Well, Officer, I’m guessing you heard that I was named a person of interest in a case in Toronto?”

  The officer nodded. “Yup. We did.”

  “So I’m just checking in with my closest police station and letting them know where I am, should anyone have any more questions for me. The Toronto police haven’t contacted me. I’m not sure if they’re planning on sending someone up here to question me, or if they want you to question me, or what they’re going to do.”

  A wane smile crossed the officer’s face. If Jack had to guess, he hadn’t wanted this whole mess landing in his police station any more than Jack wanted it to be there.

  Jack took a deep breath. “Would you like me to go over my story again from the beginning? How I first covered the deaths of Krista, Eliza and Shelly, and why I concluded we were looking at the work of a serial killer? How I confronted the Raincoat Killer when he tried to kill Ms. Duff on the ferry? My account of Mr. McCarthy’s murder?”

  “Would you be telling me anything significantly different from the last time you told me those stories?”

  “No, sir.”

  Burne leaned over and switched off the recorder. Then he loosened his top button, and leaned his arms on the table. “Look, Jack. Can I call you Jack?”

  He nodded. Well, so much for the formalities.

  “You seem like a nice enough guy,” Burne said. “My gut tells me you believe you’re telling the truth. Certainly the truth as you know it. So let me tell you where I’m coming from. I see Meg Duff, a girl I’ve known practically since she was born, utterly terrified because someone attacked her on the ferry, and she introduces you as her noble defender. You tell me this big story about how she’s just the latest victim of a serial killer, and I believe you.

  “Then I get home and tell the whole story to my son, Malcolm, who’s just arrived up from the Toronto force, and he laughs at me! My son tells me you’re probably the same kooky reporter who’s got his chief of police all worked up by running around telling some story in the press about a serial killer who only exists in your imagination.” He sat back. “So you can imagine how I’m feeling when my own son starts asking me questions. Like, did anyone actually see you and the Raincoat Killer together on this ferry? Is it possible you put on a raincoat, knocked Meg overboard, then jumped in to save her?” He tilted his chair back and eyed Jack. “And while my gut tells me that’s not what happened, I can’t prove it.”

  Jack couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “What about McCarthy’s murder?”

  “Which just so happens to look exactly like a suicide?”

  “Surely once you get a crime-scene investigator to examine the bruise patterns—”

  “You think a town this small is going to use up their resources to call in experts from the mainland, just in case a supposed serial killer who, by your own claims, has only ever gone after beautiful young women suddenly decided to fake a miserable old man’s suicide? Do you honestly think that’s how things work around here? You should know I did actually convince Toronto police to send up one of their detectives to consult on our investigation. But I had to stick my own neck pretty far out to make it happen. He arrives later this afternoon. I’m hoping I won’t have to sit there and listen to him tell me that we were all fooled by a hoax.”

  Jack clenched his jaw so tightly the muscles ached. He should probably be thankful Officer Burne was being honest with him, and still taking things this seriously. But it didn’t take away the sting of being called a liar. “Both Meg and I saw someone at McCarthy’s farm.”

  Burne nodded. “Yup, you both say you did. But unfortunately all she saw was the shadowy figure in a hood. Hardly credible.”

  “There’s the scrap of orange fabric....”

  “Which is so generic it could’ve come from anywhere.”

  “There was a handwritten sign, on the man’s body, with Meg’s name on it! You’re trying to tell me that doesn’t count as some pretty heavy-duty evidence?”

  “We couldn’t find it, Jack!” The officer leaned forward. His eyes were as unflinching as steel. “There was no note. Not when we got there. Am I supposed to believe someone stuck a note on that body just for you and Meg to see, and then took it down after you left the crime scene but before we got there? Trust me, we went over every inch of that place and every inch of that body. Not a single one of my officers saw any evidence of that sign.”

  TWELVE

  Benji was waiting outside the police station, leaning up against his pickup truck with a take-away coffee cup in each hand, when Jack finally emerged. “Hey.” He nodded to Jack, then walked over and handed him a cup. “When I heard you were hanging out here, I figured you could use one of these.”

  Jack took a sip. The coffee was still hot. “Thank you.”

  “No problem. The stuff they give you in there is swill.”

  That wasn’t a half-bad word for it. “Hey, you don’t happen to know of any criminal masterminds who hang out on the island, do you?”

  Benji snorted so hard he nearly spit coffee. “Nah. Just a few drunken idiots. Meg tell you about Kenny and Stuart Smythe?”

  “Teenaged brothers? Yeah, I already had the privilege of meeting them.”

  “Well, sorry, I think that’s the worst we’ve got.” Benji chuckled to himself. “Okay, now I’ve got to head back to the store. Harry probably thinks I left him in charge. You want a ride?”

  “Yeah
. Thanks.” Not that Jack had any clue what he was going to do next, just that it didn’t involve hanging around the police station. He took another sip of coffee. Tasted like a “double double.” Two cream and two sugar. Whole lot heartier than his usual straight black. His gut was thankful for it. “You been waiting long?”

  “Not long.” Benji got into his truck. Jack followed. The vehicle was huge, black and purred like a kitten. He couldn’t help noticing Benji waited until Jack had done up his seat belt before putting it into drive.

  “How’d you know I was—”

  “A ‘person of interest’ in a dastardly crime?” He eyed Jack’s face, then guffawed. “A buddy of mine who’s a cop dropped in this morning and told me.”

  “Does Meg know?”

  “Nope.” He turned his eyes back to the road. “’Cause I haven’t heard from her today, and I’m pretty sure if she found out, she’d call me first. But take my advice, and make sure she hears it from you. If she gets the news from someone else, it won’t go down so well.”

  “And you’re okay with it?”

  “Let’s say I’m willing to listen. As you know, I was once a person of interest in the unlawful vehicular manslaughter of Chris Quay. Or some such. Don’t really remember the details of what they wanted to charge me with. I was still in a coma at the time.” He eased the truck onto the rural highway. “We got about twenty minutes till I reach the shop. So, how about you tell me what I need to know?”

  Fair enough. Jack started way back at the beginning. Over twelve years of crime reporting, developing the instincts that made him look for possible connections. Three murders within three months. All young women. All by someone with an orange raincoat.

  “I’m not the only one who thought this was the work of a serial killer. A lot of ordinary cops do too.” Jack drained his coffee. “You should have heard some of the crime-scene theories and gossip I was privy to. It’s not like I was just making up a story off the top of my head. But I can’t ethically report anything I see or hear off the record. As a journalist, I can report nothing but the facts of the cases, and the statements made by the official spokespeople. And the official spokespeople keep saying I’m nuts.