“Then answer me this, Jack, if you hadn’t wanted an interview from me, would you have walked up to me on the ferry? Would you have stayed with my brother? Would you ever have stuck around in my life after we made it to shore?”
He opened his mouth, but words failed him.
Unrelenting eyes searched his face. “If I hadn’t trusted you last night, Jack, if I hadn’t opened up to you, told you my secrets, my feelings, my fears, would you still have run out of my life this morning?”
“Do you really want me to answer that?” He reached for her. His fingers brushed the back of her hand. His voice was so soft it was almost a whisper. “I care about you. You’ve got to know that. Regardless of the fact that I wanted to interview you. You’re extraordinary to me.”
Then as he watched, something broke inside her eyes. Her shoulders heaved. “But you’re leaving anyway. So it’s best we just say goodbye and not try to drag this out any further than it already has been.”
Just like that, he felt the last glimmer of hope die in his chest, leaving nothing but an empty, heavy ache. What had he hoped for actually? That she would understand? That she wouldn’t be hurt? She was right that he had to leave—he’d been fooling himself to think that she’d want him to come back someday. It’s not like he was in any position to ask her to wait for him.
“You know it’s not personal, right?” he asked. “This whole thing has just gotten too murky professionally. What else would you have me do? March into my editor’s office and tell him that I need to keep seeing you—even though this story is so explosive right now that one wrong move could end both my career and his? What reason could I give him? Because you’re my friend? Because you’re someone I’m attracted to? Because you’re someone who I’d hope to be in a real relationship with one day if you weren’t so determinedly convinced I would only end up hurting you? This Raincoat Killer is not just going to sit around waiting while we figure out how we feel. I can’t just be floating around in an uncertain relationship, a no-man’s land, with someone I’m writing about. I can’t just keep spending time with you while keeping my emotional distance either. Maybe I could pretend to on the outside, but not in how I feel.”
His phone began to ring. Simon. He pressed the button to send the call to voice mail.
She stood. “Where are you going to go?”
“Home. Back to Toronto. I’m leaving on the afternoon ferry. My boss wants to meet up for coffee tonight. The newspaper is really getting behind this story now. We’re going to dig our heels in, write a whole series of articles and really push the chief of police to seriously reexamine this case.” His phone chirped. Simon was calling back. He hit voice mail again.
“Well, congratulations, then, I guess. Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
“Please try to stay safe.”
“I will.” He gritted his teeth and stared at the clouds on the edge of the horizon, almost afraid of what he’d see if he looked in her eyes. “You too.”
“Goodbye, Jack.” She turned and walked down the boardwalk.
He breathed in a deep agonized breath as he heard a muffled sound of a sob leaving her throat. Well, Lord. It looks like I messed that up.
More ringing. The call went through to voice mail for a third time. He wasn’t sure he was ready to talk to his friend right now.
Jack had called the social worker earlier that morning to see if he’d had any luck showing around the pictures he’d sent. Simon hadn’t. But then Jack somehow ended up telling him about Meg. Everything about Meg. From what they’d survived together, to how much he admired and esteemed her. Even that he’d kissed her. He’d expected Simon to offer to pray for him or recommend a Bible verse. Instead there’d been a long pause on the other end of the phone, followed by six simple words that had knocked the air from Jack’s lungs faster than a physical blow: “Well, Jack, do you love her?”
He hadn’t known what to say. Did he? Even if he did, what could he possibly do about it? He had felt her heart turning so slowly toward his with every glance, every touch and every conversation. But it would take time for anything deeper to grow. Time he simply didn’t have.
The phone started ringing a fourth time. “Hey, Simon. What’s up?”
“Jack. We got a hit on one of the pictures. It’s not a very nice one, but it’s solid.”
Well, considering the kind of places Simon and his social-work colleagues were often called into, Jack had hardly expected “nice.” He grabbed a pen. “What’ve you got?”
Simon took a breath. “Someone from our community garden recognized Eliza Penn, the florist who was run over by a car. She used to drop by the project last summer to help tend plants and pull weeds. Some of the other volunteers began to suspect Eliza’s boyfriend was controlling and abusive. He’d show up and demand she leave with him. A couple of people heard him yelling insults at her. People noticed bruises that she tried to explain away with pretty unconvincing excuses. Typical signs of domestic violence.”
“This nasty piece of work got a name?”
“Duncan Kitts. My colleague recognized the picture, and the name.”
Jack sucked in a breath. The tall, bald best man. The one Meg had a bad feeling about from the start. Why wasn’t he surprised?
“Our staff and volunteers encouraged her to get help,” Simon continued. “They offered to go with her to the police and to help her get a restraining order. But Eliza kept insisting she was fine and that she was going to break up with him.”
Jack nodded. The story was heartbreaking and one he’d heard too many times before. “Guess he wasn’t ready to let her go.”
“One of my colleagues tried to keep in touch with Eliza after the project wrapped up, but she’d moved out of her apartment and changed her phone number. They figured she was just trying to get away from Duncan. After she died, my colleagues went to the police with their suspicions, obviously, but I don’t know if anyone ever questioned the guy, or even considered him a suspect in the other murders.”
“They probably realized he had an ironclad alibi, because he’d been up North in the Arctic at the time.” Jack would have almost laughed if it hadn’t been so deadly serious.
Here the police had tried to convince him the murders had been either copycat crimes or sick coincidences because witnesses couldn’t agree on how tall the Raincoat Killer was. Well, what if there hadn’t just been one? Someone had hired Kenny—if it had been Duncan, then perhaps he’d deliberately arranged for the teenager to attack at a time when Duncan himself would have an alibi. And if Duncan could have hired Kenny to pretend to be a killer, who’s to say he didn’t hire someone to kill Krista and Eliza while he was in the Arctic? If so, had he also hired someone to kill Shelly, or had Duncan done that one himself?
“Anyway, that’s all I got,” Simon said. “Hope it helps. By the way, I read your cover story in the paper today. Solid stuff. I’m praying.”
“Thanks, man. Don’t stop.”
Jack hung up and called Benji. “Hey, it’s Jack. Don’t hang up.”
“I’m listening,” Benji said.
Thank You, God. “I don’t know if we’re cool or not. But I’ve just heard that the best man from Meg’s wedding, Duncan, has a history of beating on women. Can you call her and let her know to stay away from him?”
There was a pause. “Okay,” Benji said. “I’ll tell her. She’s not doing the wedding now, so she probably won’t see him. But I have. He just left my store not ten minutes ago. He wanted to return some of the supplies they’d bought yesterday, plus get some maps of the area. Told me he’d bought out the yacht rental from the bride and groom and was off to do some solo sailing.”
Duncan was going to head off on the honeymoon yacht without the happy couple? “Why?”
“I don’t know. But I do know he was looking to fill up a jerry can with extra
gasoline.”
This picture was looking worse by the moment. Whether or not Duncan was the person who’d hired Kenny, making a quick escape from the island didn’t make him look innocent.
“I hear you and Meg talked,” Benji added.
That was one word for it. “Yeah, and I’m sorry. I didn’t want things to play out this way.”
“Then don’t. Fix it.”
Right. Fix it. And how was he supposed to do that? “Just keep her safe, okay?”
“Always.”
Jack hung up. Now what? As much as he’d love to call Vince and fill him in on the news about Duncan, there was no way he was going to let a potential killer walk the island without contacting the police first. He slid Detective Ravine’s card from the bag. It rang through to voice mail. He tried again.
“Hello?” The voice was gruff and sounded only partially awake.
“Detective Ravine. Hi. It’s Jack Brooks. You told me to call you if I had any serious leads, and I wasn’t about to trust this to a general dispatcher.”
“What have you got?”
“Duncan Kitts used to date Eliza Penn, the Raincoat Killer’s second victim. He also used to beat her. Kitts was on the ferry when Meg was attacked and is also the best man in the wedding she was planning for this weekend.”
There was a long pause. “I’m sorry, the name doesn’t ring a bell. Which I must admit is worrying. While I wasn’t lead investigator on Penn’s hit-and-run, I’d like to think I’d remember if she had a boyfriend.”
“They’d apparently broken up and he had a solid alibi at the time, so the police may not have looked into it too deeply. But once I realized someone hired Kenny to pretend to be the Raincoat Killer, it wasn’t that big a stretch to realize he could have hired someone to kill Eliza Penn too.”
“Do you have evidence of any of this? Any hard proof he committed any kind of crime?”
“No, sir. Just secondhand news from someone I trust plus a really solid hunch.”
“Sadly, I can’t just bring him in for questioning based purely on your hunch.” Ravine paused. “Is there any evidence he has even committed a crime? Anything I can charge him with? Let me guess. No?” Another sigh. Longer and louder, like a southerly wind trying to decide whether to whip up into a storm. “I’ll check with my team back in Toronto and see whether they did bother to investigate Duncan Kitts when the case first broke. He might have a record, something I can use as an excuse to have him brought in for questioning. In the meantime, we can use his name to press Kenny Smythe hard and see if that’s enough to bluff him into thinking we have something more. It might work.”
“With all due respect,” Jack said, “there might not be time for that. He’s got a boat in the marina, fully stocked with extra fuel, and apparently he’s going to head off sailing. If he does, he’ll disappear before Kenny Smythe can tell you anything, and I’m guessing that once it leaves, island police are hardly going to dispatch a fleet of boats to search the Great Lakes and Saint Lawrence for him.”
“Probably not.” Another pause, longer this time. “But please realize, Mr. Brooks, the police have procedures for things like this. While your instincts may be strong about this guy, the actual hard evidence I could present to a judge in order to get a warrant for his arrest is pretty flimsy. The police can’t charge down the beach to stop this guy, just because I heard through the grapevine he used to beat his girlfriend.”
“Maybe not.” Jack slung his bag over his shoulder and started down the boardwalk. “But I can.”
* * *
Thick plywood covered the broken glass window where Meg had watched a boy nearly lose his life. But the second-story door to the pavilion was open, and she could see someone moving inside. Alyssa setting up for the wedding, probably. Or the deliverymen dropping off Rachel’s flower fountain. She climbed the wrought-iron stairs.
Her phone rang with Benji’s ring tone. She pulled the phone from her pocket and accidentally knocked it to voice mail.
It was only then she realized she’d also somehow missed two texts from Rachel.
You around? Can you talk?
Call me. It’s important.
Really? What did the self-important bride want to talk to her about now? If it was complaining about Alyssa, she wasn’t interested in hearing it. The wedding had been so well organized it would run without a planner at this point.
Torn and twisted police tape lay discarded at the top of the stairs. Shards of broken glass still clung to the very edges of the window frame. She pushed the door open. The pavilion was empty. Her feet echoed across the wooden floor. Whoever she thought she’d spotted in the window earlier was now nowhere to be seen.
She ignored Rachel’s texts and called Benji.
He answered even before it could ring once. “Hey. Where are you?”
“At the pavilion.” The tables and chairs had been pushed back against the wall. Under the far window sat the ornate, flowered fountain Rachel had insisted on. It was even larger in person than she’d expected. “I just needed a walk. You ready for lunch?”
“Are you with anyone right now?” There was a protective edge to her brother’s voice, as though he was concerned but trying not to let it show.
“No, I’m alone.” She crossed over to the kitchen and stepped inside. Catering trays were already laid out for the reception. “Why? Everything okay?”
“I’m on my way over. I’ll meet you there in fifteen.”
She heard a door slam shut. She spun. A chill ran down her spine. There was no one there.
“Just meet me outside,” Benji said. “If you see Duncan, the best-man guy, just steer clear of him. Okay?”
“Absolutely.” She walked back through into the pavilion, just in time to see a shadow disappear down the stairs. “Why? Is everything okay?”
“Not really, no.” There was the jangle of Benji’s store door closing. “We’ll talk when I see you. Just stay away from him, okay? I’m on my way now.”
“Okay.” She reached for the door handle, stepped outside and froze.
Duncan was standing on the steps in front of her.
NINETEEN
“Meg?” Her brother’s voice crackled in her ear.
Duncan’s bulk blocked the stairs. His eyes opened wide, as though he was more surprised at seeing her than she was of him. One huge fist gripped the railing. The other shoved a smartphone back into his pocket. She didn’t know why her brother had warned her to stay away from Duncan, but she wasn’t sure she needed a reason.
She forced a cheerful smile onto her lips. “Hi, Duncan!” Her tone was light and her voice was loud. “I didn’t expect to see you here today.”
“He’s there?” Benji’s voice was so loud she was certain Duncan could hear it too.
“I’m just talking to Duncan.”
“I’m on my way.”
For a second she could hear the sound of Benji running. Then the phone went dead. She slipped it back into her jeans. Then she glanced back up at Duncan. He was easily twice her size. A solid mass of muscle and aggression. His eyes narrowed.
Her smile didn’t falter. “Excuse me, Duncan. I’m just heading down the stairs.”
He didn’t exactly step back, but making herself as small as possible, she squeezed past him anyway. His weight pressed against her, nearly pushing her into the railing. She kept going. Her phone started ringing again. She didn’t answer it.
“Who were you talking to?” Duncan’s voice sounded close behind her. He was following.
“My brother.”
He was walking so closely behind her that he was nearly pushing her down the stairs. “You were talking about me, weren’t you?
She didn’t answer. Just a few more feet and she’d be out on the beach. Her foot hit the boardwalk. His hand grabbed her elbow.
“I said, were you talking to him about me?” His grip tightened. He twisted her arm behind her back, just subtly enough that no one passing by would see.
“Hey! Duncan Kitts!” Jack pelted down the boardwalk. The microphone of his voice recorder was stuck out in front of him like a weapon. “I’m Jack Brooks, reporter from Torchlight News in Toronto. Did you hire Kenny Smythe to pretend to be the Raincoat Killer?”
Duncan let go of her arm. “What is this?” His voice came out as a growl.
Jack’s eyes met hers for a fraction of a second, as solid and serious as a bullet. What on earth is he doing? He pushed the microphone deeper into Duncan’s face. His voice rose until it was almost a shout. “Did you hire Kenny Smythe to play the part to give yourself an alibi?”
Duncan snorted. “No comment.” His hand shot out, smacking Jack in the shoulder and shoving him back several feet before turning to walk away.
Meg glanced at Jack. Her hand reached out for his.
“Thank you,” she said. “I’m so grateful you were here. What’s going on?”
But Jack brushed right past her, as if she hadn’t even spoken. He followed Duncan down the boardwalk. “Mr. Kitts, how do you answer charges that you used to terrorize Eliza Penn?” His voice rang loudly through the air. “Did you pay someone to kill your former girlfriend?” Duncan stopped. He turned. His hands clenched at his side. Jack stepped up to him and stood toe-to-toe with a man almost twice his width. “Mr. Kitts, did you shoot local teenager Stuart Smythe? Did you murder Mr. McCarthy? Did you attack Meg Duff?”
“Get out of my way.” Duncan snatched the voice recorder from Jack’s hand and threw it to the ground. Then he stomped on it. But Jack stood firm. Courage blazed in his eyes with a fire that set her heart alight and stole the breath from her lungs. A crowd of spectators was forming around them now, held back in near silence by the tension that filled the air around them. Families led their children away down the beach. People were pulling out their phones to record what was taking place.
Deadline (Love Inspired Suspense) Page 15