Before She Dies

by Mary Burton

  And when her lungs could be denied no longer, she opened her mouth and on reflex inhaled. Water rushed into her mouth and lungs. Her eyes popped open and through the inches of water separating her from life, she saw his face. He studied her features closely. No humor. No joy. Just watching.

  She tried to cough and gag, but it drew more water into her lungs. Her heart skipped a beat. Her vision blurred and then turned gray.

  She could only think that this was a foolish way to die. So stupid. She’d always been so careful.

  And then the blackness came, and her hold on life slipped. Maya drifted toward death.

  Her next impression was of sucking in a lungful of air. She lay on her side and someone was patting her on the back. Water drained from her mouth. She breathed in long deep breaths and blinked.

  She was alive. She was alive!

  When the coughing ended, she rolled on her back, savoring a sense of relief that she’d never known before. Someone had stopped this madman and saved her. Saved her.

  She blinked and focused, ready to thank her savior. But when her gaze sharpened, she didn’t see a White Knight. She saw the Hunter, whose blue eyes still held a mixture of curiosity and determination.

  The elation vanished as quick as a balloon pricked by a sharp needle.

  “Why?” she whispered. Her throat felt raw and her chest ached. She suspected she had a broken rib because each breath now hurt. He’d drowned her, and then he’d brought her back to life. She pictured him pumping on her chest and then blowing air into her lungs, performing CPR until he’d forced the air and life back in her.

  “Are you evil? Are you a witch?” he said.

  “What? I don’t understand.”

  “Are you a witch?”

  He wanted a confession. But as much as she wanted to give him one to make this nightmare end, she sensed if she told him, he’d kill her. And she knew, despite the horrors of this room, she wanted to live.

  “I am not a witch.”

  He shook his head. “The strong ones never admit to the evil at first.” He released the knob on the gurney again. “But in the end, they all do confess.”

  Terror burned through her body. She glanced over at her shoulder and he slowly tipped her toward the water. “I am not a witch! I am good! I don’t des—”

  Rushing water into her mouth cut off the last of her words.

  Chapter 15

  Tuesday, October 26, 10 a. m.

  Rokov was called into court for a pretrial hearing, but the prosecution and defense has settled on a plea agreement. He hated the time spent in courthouses waiting to testify and doubted he’d ever fully accept it. Today, however, the summons to court had not bothered him as much because he’d half expected to see Charlotte. The White case was finished, but she was in the courthouse often enough that a chance meeting was possible.

  He rubbed the back of his neck, wondering when he’d begun anticipating seeing Charlotte, not just in bed but also in public. They’d been intimate a half-dozen times and he’d learned things about her he suspected few knew. He knew makeup hid freckles on her nose. Knew her scent and the brand of her silk undergarments. Knew which touches made her coo. But beyond that, he knew little more than her public profile.

  As he moved down the courthouse steps toward his car, the dark edges of his black suit flapping in the breeze, the cell in his pocket vibrated. He dug it out and paused on the sidewalk. “Rokov.”

  “I didn’t think I’d get you.”

  “Sinclair. They released me. Plea agreement.”

  “This the stabbing on Van Dorn?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What was the deal?”

  “Manslaughter. Ten years.”

  She snorted. “I don’t agree, but no one asked me.”

  He laughed. “Me either.”

  Papers rustled in the background. “So now maybe we can get some real work done.”

  “Would be a welcome change.” He wanted to forget about the stabbing on Van Dorn, which in his mind was premeditated murder, and he wanted to forget about Charlotte. “What do you have?”

  “I have a line on another one of Diane Young’s more active clients.”

  They’d spent the last week slowly going through the list. Diane Young had hundreds of clients, but most were out of state. They’d decided to narrow the field by interviewing anyone in a fifty-mile radius. That had shrunk the list to thirty, and so far members of the homicide team had talked to twenty-eight of those. The remaining two had taken more legwork to find.

  Most had been infrequent customers who’d hired Diane on a lark or for pure entertainment. A handful were hardcore believers in her psychic talents and consulted her on everything from new jobs, lovers, or trivial crap such as the best time to take out the trash. Sad cases, as far as he was concerned.

  “Who did you find?”

  “Victor Ingram.”

  He put on his sunglasses and, glancing both ways for traffic, crossed to his black cruiser. “He’s the one that did time for robbery?”

  “One and the same. He’s been a hard one to track down, but he did check in with his parole officer today. He was sick, he said. Wasn’t real forthcoming about what made him sick but he’s back at work today.”

  He slid behind the wheel of his car. The sun had warmed the leather and the heat eased his tense back. Too many nights at his desk and not enough exercise took its toll on him. In his twenties, he never had aches and pains. Now he did. He still blamed it on college rugby, not age. “Where is he now?”

  “Works at a garage in Leesburg.”

  He fired up the engine. “I’ll be by the offices in fifteen minutes. We can head out there now.”

  “Roger that, boss.”

  He hung up, pulled into traffic, and wove through the city streets. The drive from the courthouse to the police station took twenty minutes. When he pulled up, Sinclair was waiting.

  She slid into the passenger side and rubbed her hands together. “Winter is on its way.”

  “It’s sixty-five degrees. Hardly a cold snap.”

  She shrugged. “The cold gets to me more these days.”

  “You shouldn’t have taken those two weeks in Florida. They spoiled you.”

  Sinclair shrugged. “I could get used to a life in the tropics on a beach easily.”

  He chuckled. “You’d go insane. And you know it.”

  “Maybe. Eventually. But I’d sure love to see how long it would take for the good life to bug me.”

  “One month. Max.”

  “You have little faith.”

  “You’re type A, Sinclair. You don’t rest well.”

  He maneuvered into traffic, which fed into the Beltway, the main highway artery around the Washington, D.C., Metro area. The westward drive to Leesburg took forty minutes, which in D.C. time was great. Rush-hour traffic, weather, or a fender bender could easily double or triple the drive.

  They found Randall’s Garage on Route 7 on the outskirts of Leesburg near a strip mall. Randall’s was a one-story brick building with two garage bays, an office with a large picture window, and a couple of gas pumps out front. At one point the brick had been painted white, but time and weather had dulled the gloss and chipped the finish. A fluorescent sign in the picture window blinked Randall’s Garage in bright orange.

  Rokov parked on the side of the building next to a row of cars that appeared to be in the queue for service. The detectives got out of the car and walked to the front office, where they found a tall, slim man behind the register. Of Middle Eastern descent, the man had ink black hair graying at the temples, and his shoulders had hunched in a pronounced stoop, as if he’d spent a lifetime bent over a car engine.

  When the detectives entered, the man glanced up, his gaze turning from curious to suspicious. “May I help you?” Perfect grammar blended with a thick accent, suggesting he had been in this country many years but had spent a good bit of his early life overseas.

  Rokov removed his badge from the breast pocket
of his suit. “My name is Detective Daniel Rokov. I’m with the Alexandria Police.” Sensing the man’s anxiety, he avoided using “Homicide Department.” When people realized he was investigating a murder, they immediately tensed. “This is my partner, Detective Jennifer Sinclair.”

  Sinclair pulled out her badge and offered a fleeting smile. Warm and fuzzy was not her forte, and a lukewarm smile was a good effort for Sinclair. “Hello.”

  The man nodded.

  “And you are?” Rokov tucked his badge back in his pocket.

  “I am Mr. Randall. This is my garage.” Apprehension rippled through the man’s body, but Rokov didn’t necessarily see that as a sign of guilt. This man was clearly from a country where a visit from the police could mean real trouble. How many times had his own grandmother hesitated around police?

  “We’re here to speak to an employee of yours. A Mr. Victor Ingram.”

  Mr. Randall expelled a small breath. “He is a mechanic. Is he in trouble?”

  “No, sir. We just want to ask him a few questions. Routine.”

  Mr. Randall pulled a rag from his back pocket and absently wiped his hands. “He is in the third bay working on a Ford truck. You can go through the side door in the office and you will see the truck.”

  “Thank you,” Rokov said.

  Rokov and Sinclair moved through the door that led into a three-bay garage. On the first rack, five feet above the air, was a red Honda. The next bay was empty and, in the third, the white Ford truck that Mr. Randall mentioned. The heavy scent of oil and gas hung in the garage air, and the buzz-buzz of a pneumatic wrench blended with the rock music blaring from a radio.

  “You should have taken the time to change,” Sinclair said. “That pretty suit of yours could get trashed in a place like this.”

  “It won’t.”

  “Want to bet?”

  Rokov and Sinclair both reached to the straps on their gun holsters and unsnapped them. Neither were expecting trouble but were ready for it. “Ten bucks.”

  “You’re on.”

  As they stepped around the red Honda, Rokov spotted a midsized lean man with a spotty beard. A mechanic’s jumpsuit covered a white T-shirt and grazed the top of scuffed brown work boots. Thinning dark hair was slicked back. A spider tattoo clung to his neck.

  “Mr. Ingram,” Rokov said.

  The man looked up and immediately gray eyes narrowed as he glanced from cop to cop. Ingram dropped the wrench in his hand and bolted to the other side of the Ford and out the front bay of the garage.

  “Shit,” Rokov said. Reacting instantly, Rokov ran out the front bay.

  Sinclair, on his heels, reached for the radio on her hip and called local police, letting them know they were pursuing a suspect.

  A car pulling into the lot cut between Rokov and Ingram, forcing Rokov to stutter-step sideways around the backside of the car. The delay allowed Ingram to put several more yards between them. Ingram ran across the asphalt parking lot toward Route 7, the four-lane artery that ran into town. The traffic was light enough for him to cross the first two lanes of traffic, but the heavy flow headed west stopped him in the median strip filled with tall grass. He glanced back at Rokov, who dashed toward Route 7.

  “Mr. Ingram. Police. Stop!” Rokov shouted.

  Ingram glanced at Rokov and then at the traffic headed toward him. He seemed to weigh the dangers of the police versus being hit by oncoming traffic. He ran into traffic.

  Car horns blared. Brakes squealed. Ingram narrowly dodged an SUV and with no other choice turned on his heel and ran back toward the median. He cut right when he saw Rokov.

  “Son of a bitch,” Rokov muttered. He chased Ingram up the median.

  With each step, Rokov closed in on Ingram, and when he was within feet, he lunged forward and grabbed the guy by the collar. Fabric in his suit ripped as he yanked Ingram to the ground. He quickly rolled the guy on his belly and put his knee into the small of his back as he reached for the cuffs on his belt. When Ingram struggled, Rokov shoved his knee harder into the guy’s spine until pain forced him to still.

  “You’re fucking breaking my back!”

  “Stop resisting.”

  Sinclair arrived as Rokov clicked the handcuffs in place and hauled Ingram to his feet. “Backup is on the way.”

  Rokov nodded, his teeth gritted. “Good.”

  When traffic in the eastbound lane cleared, the trio crossed the road. Two Leesburg Police squad cars, with lights flashing, arrived just as they reached their car.

  A uniformed officer from each car got out and moved toward the detectives. The first to reach them was a short officer with broad shoulders and a thick black mustache. He appeared to be in his mid-forties. He introduced himself as Parker and the other officer, a tall slim man with auburn hair and freckles, as Adams, who couldn’t have been older than twenty-five.

  Officer Parker glanced between Sinclair and Rokov and then at Ingram. “And what has Mr. Ingram done to warrant your attention?”

  Rokov glanced at the grass stain on his jacket and swallowed an oath. “All we wanted to do was talk to him about a case we have in Alexandria. He wasn’t in trouble until now.”

  Ingram struggled with his cuffs. “These are too tight.”

  “Too bad,” Rokov said.

  Sinclair met Parker’s amused gaze. “So how is it that you know Mr. Ingram?”

  “He’s been known to get a little loud when he drinks. Since he’s been in town the last six months, we’ve had the opportunity to meet him a few times.”

  “I ain’t never been arrested,” Ingram said.

  Parker shrugged. “Looks like you managed it now. Parole board is going to love you.”

  “I didn’t do nothing!” Ingram tried to twist free.

  Rokov jerked up on the cuffs until Ingram stilled.

  “So Mr. Ingram is involved in one of your cases,” Parker said.

  “A homicide,” Rokov said.

  “Shit!” Ingram’s head jerked around. “I didn’t kill nobody.”

  “Why’d you run?” Rokov said.

  Ingram grunted as he strained against his handcuffs. “Because you look like the fucking Mafia.”

  Sinclair glanced at Rokov. She often joked that he looked like a wise guy when he wore his dark suit. “We are investigating the murder of a woman named

  Diane Young. She was tortured and then drowned. She ran an Internet site called Beyond, and Mr. Ingram was one of her biggest customers.”

  “What was she selling?” Parker said.

  “Horoscopes and tarot reading,” Rokov said.

  Parker chuckled. “What do you need to know from the great beyond, Ingram?”

  Ingram frowned. “I was getting picks on the horse races. I tried her the first time just for fun, and when I won, I kept coming back. Turns out she was right more than she was wrong so I kept coming back.”

  Sinclair arched a brow. “So how much did you end up losing?”

  Ingram scowled. “I’m down six grand. I had to hock my watch and sell my car. But that’s only because she didn’t answer my e-mail, and I was on my own for the last race.”

  “Where were you last week?” Rokov said.

  “I was down south at Colonial Downs near Richmond most of the week. Ask Mr. Randall. He nearly fired me for lost work. And I got stubs all over my apartment that shows I placed bets that day.”

  “We will check it all.”

  “We can hold him while you check his story,” Parker said.

  “I ain’t done nothing,” Ingram said.

  “You ran, pal,” Parker said as he took hold of the guy’s cuffs. “Should not have done that.”

  “But he looks like the fucking mob!” Ingram complained. “He’s got collection written all over him.”

  “I identified myself as police,” Rokov said.

  Parker shrugged. “Should have listened to him.”

  “Like the mob never lies?” Ingram complained.

  Rokov waited as Parker switched a set of his c
uffs for Rokov’s. “Where do you live, Mr. Ingram?”

  “On Route 15. I share an apartment with a few guys.”

  “Will you give us permission to search your place?” Sinclair pulled a notebook from her pocket.

  “Shit, yeah. I didn’t kill nobody. My keys are in my back pocket.”

  Parker fished out the keys and handed them to Rokov. Ingram supplied the address, and after a quick update with Mr. Randall, the detectives went to Ingram’s apartment.

  The apartment was located in a beige cookie-cutter complex within a three-story building. They found Ingram’s apartment easily and opened the front door with the key he’d provided. The stench of old pizza and garbage greeted them.

  “Damn,” Sinclair said, raising her hand to her mouth. “It smells like something died in here.”

  Rokov had removed his suit jacket when they’d gotten out of the car and rolled up the sleeves of his white dress shirt to his forearms. He flipped on the light, and they surveyed the main living room, furnished with a third-hand green couch, a couple of folding chairs, and a wide-screen television resting on box crates. Trash, pizza boxes, dirty clothes, and beer cans littered the room. “Ingram said he shares with two other men. Likely, we’re just smelling filth.”

  “It amazes me how people live.”

  Rokov jingled Ingram’s keys in his hands. “I thought you said you never met an iron you liked.”

  “Hey, I might have a few wrinkles, but an extra spin in the dryer takes care of that, and my stuff and my apartment are clean. This is gross.”

  “We’ve seen worse.” They moved toward the center hallway to the back bedroom that Ingram said was his. A flip of another light switch revealed a mattress, no box spring, a rumpled quilt, and a pillow. “Ingram said to look for his black jeans.”

  “His lucky jeans. Shit.” Sinclair slipped on rubber gloves and then moved to a pile of clothes. With thumb and index finger, she lifted a pair of jeans. “Maybe his luck would be better if he washed them once in a while.”