Murder Book

by Weber, Frank F. ;

  Tony’s salt-and-pepper hair was combed, and he wore a crisp burgundy dress shirt with his jeans and hiking boots.

  I raised an eyebrow and teased, “Is Tony in love?”

  Tony shot me a warning look. “I’m a bloodhound who’s just got a sniff of the suspect, so I’ve only got a few minutes. Mary Brennan called me and told me Jason took off during the night. He’s on the run.”

  It didn’t surprise me that Mary called Tony rather than anyone else on the case. Being married to Al, she probably felt a stronger connection to an investigator who was obnoxious. A person with little self-esteem only trusts someone who recognizes the ineptness in others.

  Tony shared, “Jason unintentionally made a comment to me about an awl being in the van.”

  “So, we need to find Jason.”

  Tony tapped me on the chest as he replied, “I need to find Jason. You’re still not back on the case. I have a bad feeling that Jason was sexually abusing his sister, and he tried to kill her to keep her from talking. And Al covered up for him by torching the van. But your BCA friends are still convinced it’s Lemor.”

  I rubbed the back of my neck, frustrated. “Jeff’s in a bad spot. I know what it’s like to be falsely accused. I wouldn’t wish that on anybody.”

  Tony dryly retorted, “Keep in mind, being persecuted doesn’t make him innocent.”

  “If the absence of innocence alone makes someone guilty, then I guess I’m guilty myself,” I said, challenging him.

  Tony chuckled. “Yeah, me too. I think this line of work does that to you.”

  I said, “I think the attack on Serena is somehow related to this. Someone wants me off this case. I’m going to go back to where I was shot. I feel like there was something there I missed.”

  “Fine,” Tony said with a grimace. “But call me when you get there, and call me when you leave.”

  Chapter

  Thirty-One

  SERENA BELL

  11:00 A.M.

  THURSDAY, APRIL 17

  WEST SIDE OF LITTLE FALLS

  AFTER THROWING MYSELF at her mercy, Camille had accepted my apology. She even reluctantly thanked me for helping bail Victor out of jail. It wasn’t in her nature to sit with anger.

  I couldn’t let go of the fact that, at this very moment, a young mother was wasting away in a meth house and nobody was doing anything about it. I got the feeling that Jon was actually more afraid of the possibility that Vicki wasn’t there, because if she had been abducted, no one was looking for her.

  I agreed with Jon that the man who assaulted me had raped before. He knew how I’d respond. While I didn’t know Vicki, Jon explained that she’d be an easy target, maybe a probable target, as he believed she had information related to the case. So while Jon and Bill sat in the other room discussing the case against Victor, I recruited Camille to pack some of her homemade bread and raspberry jam and join me on what I was calling a “Christian mission.”

  Once we were out of earshot from the guys, I gave Camille a rundown of the situation and my intention to try to save Vicki, including the fact that the meth house where we hoped to find her was being observed by the DEA. I explained that we would have to use our real names, if asked, since my license plate would likely be noted and our conversations may be recorded. As we climbed into my car, I turned to her and said, “If you don’t want to go in, I understand.”

  Camille buckled her seatbelt immediately, always the law-abiding citizen. She sat primly in the passenger seat in a red wool coat, with a black-and-white plaid scarf wound snugly around her neck. Her hands were clasped tightly together in her lap. As I pulled out of the driveway, Camille asked, “Shouldn’t we tell Jon what we’re doing?”

  I gave her a half-smile. “Not just yet. Jon’s been told to stay away from that house, but we both know he’s not going to. He’s got too big of a heart to leave Vicki wasting away in there. And if he interferes with this DEA investigation, they’ll never let Jon work as an investigator again.” I reached over and squeezed her arm. “So, we’re going to save him from himself, and beat him there.”

  “How do you know where the house is?” Camille was still trying to wrap her mind around what we were doing.

  “I heard Jon and Tony talking about it. Jon told him he wanted the address so he could be sure to avoid the house in question. As soon as he said that, I knew Jon planned to go there. I need to act now, while he’s still contemplating how to proceed.”

  Camille sighed with uncertainty, and I attempted to reassure her. “We’re simply going to stop at a couple houses on the block with our gifts, so it’s not obvious we targeted that house. When we finally get there, we’ll offer them free homemade bread and jam if they’re willing to listen to a Bible verse. The mouth-watering smell of this bread will get us in the door. I’m sorry for giving away your bread like this, but it could save Vicki’s life.”

  Camille chuckled softly, shaking her head. “I’m not worried about the bread. You sure you should do this after what you’ve been through?” I had told her, tearfully, about my attack, and she had been an amazing and comforting support to me in the absence of my own mother.

  “Yes.” I was much less confident than I let on. The truth was that, since the assault, I was more afraid than ever, so it was hard for me to accurately judge risks. Vicki was once a girl like Mandy and I needed to help her—for my sake as well as hers.

  Camille carefully looked me up and down, taking time to study my black blouse with its fine gold design. “That’s a nice top,” she said, but not with the warmth that typically comes with a compliment.

  Feeling unnerved by her tone, I asked, “Why do you say it like that, Camille?”

  “Oh, don’t get me wrong, you look lovely,” she said as she patted my arm. “I’m just thinking if a man answers the door, you should do all the talking while I look for Vicki. I guarantee he won’t even notice me.”

  THE FIRST TWO STOPS were uneventful. As we approached the drug house, I made a quick call to Jon to let him in on the truth of our mission. Despite his protests, we began our rescue.

  Camille and I stood on the steps of a rambler covered by faded blue vinyl siding. The siding was cracked in several spots and appeared to be melted in an area where I imagined a grill had once been. The windows were covered from the inside with ratty-looking quilts. We rang the doorbell, knocked, and waited. It took three tries before an unshaven, shirtless man in his early twenties finally answered the door.

  The young man had dark, greasy hair matted to one side of his head, and jutting out in all sorts of disarray on the other. He had a tattoo of a slutty nymph on his chest and wore a pair of stained gray sweatpants that had seen better days. His stare was vacant, and he looked as if he was struggling to stay upright. My dad would say he looked “rode hard and put away wet.” The boy was a trainwreck. I was disappointed when his initial reaction was to send us away, but before we moved, he was overtaken by the smell of Camille’s bread, so he told us to wait on the porch while he cleared a couple chairs. He finally invited us in after ten chilly minutes.

  Once inside, I grabbed the chair at the kitchen table facing the bedrooms, so when the young man sat, he wouldn’t be facing that direction. The space was filthy, dark, and dingy. I put my elbow on the table before I noticed the layer of grime on it, then quickly peeled my jacket free of the sticky tabletop, suppressing a shudder. Camille and I introduced ourselves, and he followed suit, telling us his name was Chris. Camille made do with a knife she found on the table, and after wiping it with a tissue she pulled out of her purse, she began to slice some bread. Her pursed lips were the only indication of her distress over the living conditions. Chris asked if I was married, and when I told him I wasn’t, he proceeded to share that he had always thought Christians were “epic.”

  Camille handed Chris a slice of bread slathered with jam, then asked if she could use the bathroom to wash the stickiness off of her hands.

  Chris said through a mouthful of bread, “Let me make
me sure it’s presentable first.” We all knew this meant he wanted to make sure there were no drugs or paraphernalia lying around. He quickly stood, swayed, then snatched another piece of bread as he ducked into the bathroom.

  Camille and I exchanged uneasy glances. She flashed me the card I’d written for her to place in Vicki’s hand, if she didn’t get a chance to talk to her. It read, “Your daughter, Hannah, has had an accident. You need to come with me. I will leave and wait for you in a black Ford Fusion, just down the block.”

  Chris returned and told Camille the bathroom was clear for her use. I thought I saw her cross herself before entering. Chris went into a long diatribe of how he was planning to eventually be a music producer, who recruited “only legit acts.” I nodded and smiled, while I watched Camille quietly exit the bathroom and sneak into a bedroom. I was concerned about Camille’s ability to get through to Vicki. It wasn’t long before she stepped out and returned to us at the table. She met my eyes and gave an almost imperceptible jerk of her head toward the bedroom. I could tell by her expression that she questioned the success of her efforts.

  Suddenly, a thin, red-headed woman, who met Jon’s description of Vicki, rushed in a t-shirt and underwear to the bathroom, from where we heard her vomiting violently. I immediately offered to check on her.

  When I got to Vicki, she was still hunched over the toilet, spitting into it and shivering. She looked up at me with trails of black eye make-up etched on her cheeks. Purple bruises were visible on the back of her neck and her lower back. I remembered what Jon had told me of the forensic pathologist’s report on Mandy: severe blunt force trauma, resulting in a broken C4 vertebrae. Vicki had a bruise on the same area of her neck; I also had the same bruise. I found myself speechless and gasping for air as I relived being struck hard and high between the shoulder blades during the assault. That punch knocked the life out of me for a moment.

  When it seemed Vicki had depleted her stomach contents, she slowly sat back against the grimy bathroom wall. She looked close to death with her smudged make-up and pale skin. She wiped her mouth with the back of her arm and tonelessly asked, “Did he get Hannah?”

  I could see from the fear in her eyes we shared life-threatening trauma. I took some toilet paper off the roll, then bent over Vicki and dabbed the sweat from her forehead. “No, he didn’t get Hannah, but he got me.”

  “You?” Vicki looked me up and down skeptically, as if thinking I didn’t seem the type.

  I slowly pushed out the words, searching her watery eyes. “Who are you talking about?”

  Vicki’s eyes narrowed. “Shouldn’t you know?” She grabbed a handful of toilet paper and weakly blew her nose.

  I turned and lifted up the back of my blouse to show her the bruising that was still on my back. Then I turned back and told her, “It was dark, so I couldn’t see him.”

  Obviously lying, Vicki said, “Same thing with me.” Confused, she asked, “What happened to Hannah?”

  “There’s been an accident on the farm.” I crouched down and gently held her shoulders until she met my eyes. “You need to come with me to the hospital. I’ll leave and wait for you just down the block. Can you dress yourself?”

  It was sad to see that Vicki wasn’t sure if I was someone she could trust. Seeing my bruises hadn’t comforted her. Instead, she appeared to be considering if I was sent here by a psychopath. She sniffed, “Who are you?”

  Knowing we might have had eavesdroppers, I didn’t want to say Jon’s name. I thought I’d take advantage of the fact that everybody from Pierz knew Camille, due to her involvement in every charitable event. “Camille Frederick asked me to help deliver this message to you. She’s here with me in the other room,” I ticked my head in the direction of the living room. “Your grandparents called her.” Using my gentlest tone, I asked, “Will they let you leave?”

  She nodded and I helped her up. Vicki warned me, “I’m going to call my grandparents first, before I leave with you.”

  I told her, “Okay, good. I’ll be waiting for you outside.” I signaled Camille when I left the bathroom and she gathered her things, anxious to leave. We quickly said our goodbyes and left Chris with the bread and jam, which he continued to eat absently as he watched us depart.

  WHEN CAMILLE AND I WERE safely in the car, I explained to her what had transpired.

  Camille said, worried, “Vicki was lying in bed with some guy who was passed out. What if they would have assaulted you?”

  Trying to sound tough, I said, “I’m packin’.” I reached in my coat pocket and slid out a handgun—my dad’s—then slid it back. Camille’s concern was obvious, so I added, “Ever since the assault. I don’t carry all the time.” As a matter of fact, I would be leaving it home when I flew to Jacksonville tomorrow. I knew I’d never get it through security at the airport.

  We grew quiet, staring intently at the door of the meth house, willing Vicki to appear. We both sagged in relief when she finally staggered out.

  Camille humorously conceded, “You are epic.”

  I had planned to bring Vicki to the hospital and have her placed in detox. Following my instructions, Jon had called her grandparents as soon as my phone call with him ended, and told them to insist that Vicki go to the hospital. Wanting to get her help, they were eager to go along with the deception.

  As we made our way into the hospital, I told Vicki the truth about our visit. She furiously leaned toward me, ready to strike, but Camille quickly intervened. Camille reminded her that even though Hannah was physically okay, her daughter was still hurting. Nothing could be harder on a little girl than being abandoned by her only active parent. Vicki immediately called her grandparents again, and her tone softened as the conversation progressed. When we arrived at the hospital, she reluctantly thanked me and made her way toward the entrance. She glanced back for a moment before entering the building. I saw a mixture of terror and resolve in her eyes. She knew what she was about to go through. She straightened her shoulders and pushed through the doors of the clinic, prepared to begin her battle.

  When the door closed behind her, I groaned in relief, looked up and said, “Thank you, God.”

  Camille was still a bit shaky, but smiled, “Listen now. Just because I forgave you for wearing the wire, young lady, it doesn’t mean I want to go all Thelma and Louise with you. My goodness, I feel like I’ve been holding my breath since we left Pierz!”

  I gave her a brief hug and said, “I’m sorry, but I needed your help—and baking—to pull it off.”

  Camille was feeling good, too, and piously proud of her baking, said, “No apology is necessary.”

  It felt good to act like a Christian, instead of a victim.

  Chapter

  Thirty-Two

  SERENA BELL

  FRIDAY, APRIL 18

  SANDERSON, FLORIDA

  I HAD RETURNED TO ST. PAUL and spent last night with my parents, as they needed to be certain I was okay. I was, sort of. I discovered that when my anxiety spiked, focusing on deep, calming breathing helped to bring my heart rate down to something manageable. I was focusing on just that as my rental car approached the Baker Correctional Institution in Sanderson, Florida. I was about to have my first visit with Say Hey Ray. I was still a bit jittery from luring Vicki out of the meth house the day before.

  It was warm and sunny when I arrived in Florida. Any other time, I’d be greedily basking in the Florida heat after another long Minnesota winter, but I was too preoccupied to appreciate it. I didn’t know that I’d ever felt more alone—there was no one there to greet me or support me. It had to be easier for Jon, because he obsessed on the task. I, on the other hand, obsessed on the potential dangers. In an effort to turn negative thoughts to positive, I indulged myself and obsessed on Jon for just a moment. Two nights ago, lying in front of the fire, tiny beads of sweat forming on our skin . . . that was heaven. I wished we were there right now.

  BAKER CORRECTIONAL INSTITUTION was generally referred to as the Florida State Prison.
It was initially a juvenile facility, which was modified to take medium-security adult offenders. The visitor’s area was made up of white, painted cement blocks, with bulletproof glass between the inmate and visitor and a landline phone mounted on the wall by which to converse. I was thankful for the solid walls, once I saw the outline of Ray’s prison-orange clad form filling the doorway. He was six-foot-four, with a shaved head and Fu Manchu moustache. His neck was lost in his bulk, so his head seemed to sit directly on top of straight, muscular shoulders. I was reassured he indeed had a neck when he turned to ask the guard something before he sat down. The word “NOTORIOUS” was tattooed in cheap blue ink on the back of it.

  I was wearing a conservative navy-blue blouse and dress jeans, but soon found myself wishing I was in traditional Muslim dress. What am I doing here? I asked myself. My skin crawled as he looked me over like a vulture that had just discovered a fresh carcass. It was horrifying to think that at least two women with teenaged daughters had invited this man into their homes—and both had paid a terrible price for that concession. This man oozed malevolence through his pores like yesterday’s booze. He picked up the phone and with a booming, bass timbre, simply said, “Hey.”

  I didn’t bother with pleasantries. I jumped right in and nervously stated that I was looking into Mandy Baker’s murder, and was trying to understand what had happened to her. I told him I knew he hadn’t killed her, but I wanted to know if he had any information that could guide me in the right direction. If I could put up with the unease of sitting across from him, I could likely get some useful information, simply because he desired conversation with a woman. He pressed his hand on the glass in some gesture of friendship, but I couldn’t get myself to respond in kind. He scared the hell out of me, and was too much like the rapist who attacked me. I would sooner have put my hand up to a rabid dog. Say Hey Ray carefully studied me, and then referred to me as Investigator Bell. When I told him I wasn’t an investigator, he dismissed my truth as insignificant.