by Debra Webb
“Now you’ve lost your scapegoat,” Nick reminded him. “Hanover is dead.”
“Sadly, I’m afraid you’re right.”
“You have me,” Nick suggested. “You don’t need Bobbie or those other women. I can take you to Weller, then you can kill both of us. Imagine how celebrated you’ll be.”
Devine shook his head. “The other two are irrelevant and I’m afraid Bobbie can’t be spared. I’ve wanted to hurt her since the day I laid eyes on her. I might even let you watch her die.”
Nick was the one who laughed then. “Mark my word, Devine, you’re the one who’s going to die.”
Forty-Two
Old Selma Road
6:30 p.m.
Bobbie had called Nick’s phone at least a dozen times. She’d even called LeDoux and left a voice mail asking if he’d heard from Nick. Where the hell are you?
The sun had set when she parked in front of Pearl Whitley’s home. The house was one of the few grand plantation homes left in Montgomery County. The once green paint had faded to a sad gray. The slave quarters still stood in the backyard, a sad reminder of that part of the South’s history. According to Devine, his aunt’s home had been part of a huge farm at one time, but much of the land had been sold off as she grew too old to take care of things. He intended to help her manage what remained for the rest of her life.
If he was still alive.
She had called Devine almost as many times as she’d called Nick, with no luck. Coming here was a long shot and she might not have done so if Pastor Liddell hadn’t called again. She was worried about Devine’s aunt. Liddell had tried calling and dropping by to no avail. With Hanover’s murder the pastor was worried that other longtime donors to the church were being targeted. Maybe the pastor’s concern about the aunt was nothing, but considering both Devine and Nick were MIA, dropping by felt like the right thing to do. With Bauer dead, the chief gravely injured and still in surgery as well as two vics still missing, the chances of finding her partner lounging around the house were pretty slim. Wherever he was, this was definitely not the time for him to be out of reach. Something was wrong. Nick’s questions about Devine nudged her. So maybe that off feeling she’d had about him wasn’t so off.
Don’t sell him out yet, Bobbie. Devine could be dead or dying somewhere. Damn it.
She stepped up on the wide porch and closed the distance to the door. Would Nick have come here looking for Devine or his aunt? She glanced around the yard. How would Nick have gotten here? His truck was still parked a few blocks from her house. None of this made any sense.
After a couple of bangs on the towering slab of ornate painted wood, Bobbie leaned closer and held her breath so she could hear better. Beyond the door was as quiet as a tomb.
She glanced around to ensure no one was watching before gripping the ancient knob and giving it a turn. The door opened. These old houses were bad for that. Breathe on a door too hard and it creaked open.
Drawing her Glock, she stepped inside. “Ms. Whitley, are you home?”
The house was as grand as she had expected it to be. The towering three story—complete with a turret —was in need of a coat of paint inside, too, but the faded colors didn’t detract from the overall beauty. Antique furniture was interspersed among the more modern pieces, though nothing was newer than 1950, she decided. The entry hall spread into double front parlors with a grand staircase between them. Bobbie slid a finger along the graceful mahogany table standing in the center of the enormous entry hall. No one had dusted, she noted the dust bunnies parked against the baseboards, or vacuumed in months. Mrs. Whitley was well into her seventies, but Bobbie would be genuinely surprised if she didn’t have a staff, a housekeeper at least. She moved beyond the stairs, past the dining room. A silver tea service in serious need of polishing sat on the massive dining table. Could have been sitting there for months. The dust on the table around it was disturbed as if someone had recently sat there to have tea.
She moved into the kitchen and an odor made her cringe. The smell reminded her of the open grease trap at a restaurant kitchen where she and Newt had once worked a homicide. The Whitley kitchen was filthy. Dirty dishes were piled in the sink. Pots and pans were scattered over the stovetop, remains of prepared food molding inside. Cupboard doors stood open. A swarm of black flies crawled on the panes of the window above the sink.
Had Devine stopped staying with his aunt? He hadn’t mentioned moving but he surely wasn’t living in this filth.
Bobbie walked back through the kitchen and into the entry hall. “Ms. Whitley?” She hesitated at the bottom of the staircase and called again.
Still no answer.
Tightening her grip on her weapon, Bobbie made the slow climb up the stairs. At the landing an octagon-shaped seating area on the left provided the turret shape. A long hall stretched in either direction. Six doors lined the hall. She went left first. The two bedrooms and bath were well appointed like the rest of the house but no sign of the elderly aunt. The larger of the two was apparently the room Devine used. Those fancy suits he wore lined the closet along with about a dozen pairs of shoes. How could he allow the house to fall into this condition? The only room that was halfway clean was his. The rest was a damned health hazard. She hesitated before exiting the room. There wasn’t a single photo on the wall or anywhere else in the room. Expensive cologne and other toiletries stood in a neat row on the dresser, but not one other thing that could be called personal.
Weird.
Bobbie moved back into the hall and toward the other end. “Ms. Whitley?” First bedroom was clear. Bath, too. “It’s Bobbie Gentry, Steven’s partner.”
She paused at the door standing at the far end of the hall. “What the hell?”
The door was covered with plastic, white duct tape sealed the edges. Bobbie pulled at the tape, it fell away fairly easy as if it had been removed and reattached repeatedly. She peeled the plastic aside far enough to open the door and the odor of rotting flesh hit her in the face. She gagged. Across the room what looked like the corpse of an elderly woman was chained to her bed. Forearm across her nose, Bobbie approached the bed. The woman’s hair was long and gray. Her eyes had sunk into her head and her lips had pulled away from her teeth, making them appear too large for her face.
Bobbie leaned closer wishing she had turned on the overhead light. A decaying cat was curled up next to the woman’s remains.
“Shit.”
Bobbie drew back. The victim had been dead a couple of weeks. Maybe three. Her body had blackened, the skin and fingernails were loose. Cracks in her skin had leaked fluids into the linens. The fabric gag that had kept the woman, presumably Ms. Whitley, from screaming was loose now as the flesh sagged away from her face.
Jesus Christ.
At some point her legs had been spread apart, her ankles secured to the bedposts with a rope. Her pelvis region was hardly more than mush. Bobbie’s stomach turned as she realized this could very well be what the creamy substance found on Venable’s thighs was.
Swallowing hard to prevent heaving, she moved around the room, taking in the discarded wigs and dresses. Sticking out from under the pile was a large pink dildo not unlike the one found at the Hanover scene, only this one was attached to a belt. Pieces of duct tape were stuck to it along with more of that creamy gunk. Oh, hell. She turned back to the bed. Fury bolted through her. Liddell had asked Devine about his aunt and he’d said she had allergy issues.
Bobbie shuddered. “Allergies, my ass.”
Where was that son of a bitch? She yanked her phone free of her belt and started to call in the scene. No service. Damn it! She hurried back through the bedrooms, no house phone. She bounded down the stairs and checked the downstairs rooms. In the kitchen a phone hung on the wall but it was dead. The line running from the baseboard had been cut. Swearing under her breath, Bobbie walked out the b
ack door and off the porch to see if she could pick up at least one signal-strength dot.
No service.
God damn it!
She moved around the yard trying to pick up enough service to at least get a text through to Holt. Nothing. She had to hand it to Nick. His hunch that the killer was connected to Hanover was on the money. Son of a bitch!
How the hell had she worked with Devine for a month and not seen what he was?
Exhaling a breath of frustration, she took a moment to calm herself. Shadows were quickly overtaking the landscape. If Devine was part of this—on some level she still resisted the idea—Nick could be here... Fern and Vanessa could be, as well. Squawking drew her gaze to the darkening sky. A flock of blackbirds circled, dipped and then disappeared into the trees.
You gotta hurry, Bobbie.
The yard was bordered with crepe myrtles and other shrubbery. A detached garage sat thirty or so yards away from the house. Her attention hung there even as she considered that she should go out to the road and see if she could get service there. If necessary, she would drive a mile or so down the road.
Maybe she’d check out the garage first. Her instincts were buzzing. If Devine had anything to do with these murders or those missing women she would kill him herself, by God.
If? Denial was no place to be right now. Devine’s dead and decomposing aunt was chained to a bed. The house he’d clearly been living in was in chaos. He was definitely involved.
Could he have killed Bauer?
Red-hot rage roared through her. Bobbie steadied herself. She had to focus. Had to find those women. Had to get this bastard. Stay cool.
Keeping an eye on her surroundings, she started toward the garage. How could Devine’s record be so spotless? Fury crashed through her all over again. She gritted her teeth to prevent screaming in frustration. Focus! She had to do this right for Bauer and all the others.
Muffled sounds, like pounding, echoed on her left. Bobbie jerked in that direction. Clear. She scanned the massive yard. There were too many shadows for her liking but nothing moved. With all that shrubbery a small army could be hiding from her.
Fuck!
More muffled sounds brushed her senses. Voices. Female. Bobbie moved toward the barely audible noise. She edged around a group of crepe myrtles. She squinted in the growing gloom, spotted the pipe jutting from the earth first and then she saw the heavy iron door in the ground. It wasn’t that large, maybe three feet square. Pounding echoed again. Bobbie’s heart lurched. She fell to her knees next to the rusty old door. There was no lock, just an iron rod that slid through loops of metal effectively barricading the opening. She slid the rod back and struggled to lift the door. When she threw it back against the grass, she peered into the dark hole that was likely an old storm shelter. It was as black as pitch down there. She turned on her phone’s flashlight app and looked again. Damned thing was like a big-ass grave.
A face appeared in the narrow beam of light. Vanessa Olson. She stood at the bottom of an old wooden ladder.
Suddenly another face peered up at Bobbie.
Fern Parker.
Thank God.
The women started to talk and cry at the same time.
The sound of a car engine snapped Bobbie’s attention back toward the garage. She held up her hand and then stuck her finger to her lips to quiet the women. She listened. Didn’t hear anything. She showed her badge and then gestured for them to come up and wait next to her. The crepe myrtles provided some amount of cover from the house and the garage. She peeked beyond the row, scanned the yard. The shrubbery bordered the yard all the way to the road. She turned back to the women who appeared uninjured. She imagined they were hungry and dehydrated but they were alive. Obviously they’d had some source of water and food.
“Stay down.” She gestured to the shrubs. “Stay behind those and make your way to the front of the house.” She passed Vanessa the fob to her Challenger. “Drive toward town. As soon as you have service call 9-1-1 and tell them an officer needs assistance. I have to find out who’s here.” She glanced back at the garage. “Remember to stay behind cover until you’re as close to the car as possible, understand?”
Heads nodded.
Bobbie passed her cell toward Vanessa. Fern snatched it from her. “I have to call home.”
Bobbie’s heart sank.
A car door slammed.
No time for this. Bobbie grabbed Fern by the arm. “Go,” she growled. “Someone is here and I’m betting it’s not help.” Slumping with defeat, Fern passed the phone to Vanessa. “Call for help as soon as you have service,” Bobbie repeated.
Vanessa nodded and then urged Fern toward the road.
Bobbie watched until the two were out of sight, keeping low behind the shrubs. She tightened her hold on her Glock and made her way toward the garage. The sound of a door closing had come from that general area.
The garage doors were open but it was essentially dark beyond them. The sun had set and night was coming fast. She held a position next to the doors and listened for a full minute. No sound. Weapon held in both hands, she swung around and stared into the garage. Nothing moved.
She entered the garage and checked all sides of the vehicle parked there to ensure no one was hiding behind it. Then she opened the driver’s-side door and the interior light came on. There was no one inside. The car was old, from the ’80s or ’90s. It smelled bad, like the aunt’s bedroom. She couldn’t decide if the odor was just that moldy, musty smell or if it was something dead. The upholstery was stained but the dark color of the fabric made it impossible to tell in the dim light if the stains were blood. There could be a body in the trunk.
As she straightened away from the door the emblem on the hood snagged her attention. Lincoln. A black Lincoln Town Car, older model, like this one, had been seen outside the Parker home. A man with dark hair had been behind the wheel.
He looked like that.
Sage Parker’s words slammed into her brain.
“Put down your weapon, Bobbie.”
Devine. She’d had plenty of clues and she hadn’t wanted to see it. She’d chalked every damned one up to coincidence. What a fool she’d been.
She turned around slowly. She could barely see him in the dim glow coming from the interior of the car but she knew his voice. “You.”
He smiled. “Me.”
“Why?”
He laughed. “I’ve studied Weller and all the other greats. I even visited him once when I was in college. Of course I used an alias. We kept in touch over the years. You’ll never know just how much leeway the feds give the old bastard. We became great friends. It made me enormously happy to impress the famed Picasso Killer. When this opportunity presented itself, I saw a way to capitalize on it. What better way to show the master who’s best than by killing his enigmatic son, and you, of course?”
Her fingers tightened on her Glock. “Where’s Nick?”
“Not to worry. I’ll take you to him.” He gave her a pointed look. “As long as you behave, partner.”
Renewed agony welled so fast inside her that she trembled with the force of it. “You killed Bauer.”
“Drop the weapon, Bobbie.”
She would not. She would die first.
“Unless you do exactly as I say Nick will die. I’m sure you don’t want that, do you?”
Like he wouldn’t kill them both anyway. She repeated her question. She wanted to hear him admit what he’d done. “Did you kill Bauer?”
He eased a step closer. “Drop the weapon now. I will not tell you again.”
“What’s to keep you from shooting me either way?”
“I have very specific plans for you. Now, be a good girl, Bobbie. Your friend is waiting. If I have to tell you again he’s dead.”
She tossed her Glock on the gro
und.
“The cell phone and the backup piece.”
She would kill him right now except then she might never know where Nick was. He could be locked away someplace the way Fern and Vanessa had been. If she didn’t find him he would die. This was the only way. “I dropped my cell in the yard.”
She prayed he would buy the story as she lowered into a crouch and removed the backup piece, leaving it on the ground. If she could keep him talking just a few minutes maybe help would arrive in time.
Devine smiled. “I’ll bet you tried to call for backup, didn’t you? Cell service out here sucks.”
“You’re a sick piece of shit, Devine. How could you do that to your aunt?”
His laughter boomed in the small building. “She was an insane old bitch who should have died a long time ago. Her own housekeeper and gardener hated her. They were only too happy to retire last month. With a hefty bonus, of course. The only living thing that was loyal to her was that fucking cat.” He gestured to the open door. “Let’s go.”
Bobbie stepped out of the garage and into the yard. It was completely dark now. She hoped Fern and Vanessa had made the call for help.
“Behind the garage,” Devine prompted.
Bobbie rounded the building. The bastard’s Porsche was parked in the grass. So this was the engine and the slamming door she had heard.
He opened the trunk. “Get in.”
“I thought we were going to Nick.”
“Not unless you cooperate!” He jerked his head toward the car.
She didn’t move. “Why did you kill Bauer?” The loss was like a knife twisting inside her.
His sigh was audible. “I knew he didn’t like me when I first arrived. So I worked extra hard to make friends. I told him stories that I’ve never told anyone else. I went out of my way to be a buddy to him. I actually think it was working. Until he caught me taking the video clip from your desk and though he seemed to buy my explanation he went to the chief. I knew it was only a matter of time before the two of them recognized the real me. There. Now you know.”