by Mary Burton
With evening traffic building, the drive over the Cumberland River to the bakery took him about thirty minutes. When he arrived, he left Tracker in the backseat, the car still running and the air- conditioning blowing out cool air.
He crossed the parking lot and pushed through the front door of the bakery. Jangling bells above his head and the scents of cookies and cakes greeted him.
Two females stood behind the counter—one a teen and the other a woman who appeared to be in her thirties. The duo waited on several customers. Rick opted to stride toward the older one. She had dark hair, skimmed back into a tight ponytail, and wore a white shirt, faded jeans, and an apron that crisscrossed around her full waist and tied in the front.
As Rick reached for his badge, the woman’s gaze rose as if she’d been expecting him. She reached for a white towel, wiped her hands, and after speaking to the teen moved around the counter toward him.
He noticed a resemblance to Diane Smith. Though their coloring was different, their eyes shared the same watery blue and each had full lips that tilted at the corners.
He showed her his badge. “Ms. Lorrie Trent?”
She nodded. “Yes. You’re here about Diane?”
“Is there somewhere we can talk in private?”
She flexed her fingers. “Why don’t we go into my office? We can talk there.”
Behind the counter and through a kitchen, they moved into a small, cramped office stocked with shelves crammed full of cookbooks and file holders. “You’ve come about Diane?”
“I have.”
She drew in a steadying breath as if reading his expression as a harbinger of bad news. “Have you found her?” She twisted the apron strings around her hands. “I tried to file a missing persons report. She missed our Monday dinner appointment. The officer said she’d only been gone a few hours and he couldn’t activate the report until today.”
Lorrie had a Monday dinner appointment with Diane. So why had Diane sent a text to her boss about an impromptu vacation and not her sister? Siblings fought. He had his own cold war going on with his brother Alex. “Ma’am, Diane was murdered.”
Blue eyes widened and filled with tears. “What?”
“We found her body in a burned-out building yesterday. We only made the identification today.”
Pressing fingertips to her temples she sat down in the lone chair in front of the desk. “She was burned alive?”
“No, ma’am.” He studied her pale face wondering how he’d react if he’d received similar news about Alex. A stabbing feeling cut, leaving him vacant and sad. Alex might be a dick but he’d never wish him ill. “We believe she was dead before the fire was set.”
Tears welled and spilled easily down her cheeks. She didn’t bother to swipe away her tears. Her hands trembled as she fingered the apron strings.
This kind of news rocked foundations. Devastated lives. Murder happened in other places, bad neighborhoods, to people who’d crossed some kind of line that divided good from bad.
Finally, Lorrie cleared her throat. “How did Diane die?”
“We aren’t releasing that information yet.” He shoved his pity aside for her. As sad as Lorrie appeared he took a mental step back. She could get comfort from a friend. What she needed from him was an objective mind. Diane deserved justice.
“I don’t understand why anyone would want to kill her? She was well liked and the sister that everyone respected. She had a super job and was making money hand over fist. She was the one that my parents had always pinned their hopes on before they died. I’m the fuck-up dreamer.”
Thoughts strayed to his brother Alex. Their dad had called him the Golden Boy. “Was she dating anyone? Was there anyone in her life that made you worry or think twice?”
“A guy in her neighborhood. And a guy at another real estate firm. I don’t remember names, but neither one liked the fact that she was smarter and wouldn’t allow them to be in charge. Diane’s a woman who knows her own mind.” She frowned. “Knew her own mind.”
He shifted his stance. “And you two got on well enough.”
“We fought sometimes. We’re sisters.” A sigh shuddered through her. “Stupid fights.”
“What did you fight about?”
She pulled at a white towel tucked in her apron string and wiped her eyes. “Lately, we argued about money.” She muttered an oath. “I asked her for a loan and she said she’d have to do a cost analysis on the bakery. I was pissed but I needed the money so I went along.”
“What happened?”
“Diane said the bakery was a losing investment. I tried to tell her it was my dream but she’d said numbers were numbers. I hadn’t spoken to her in a month. Monday’s dinner was supposed to be my chance to apologize. She was right. The bakery is losing money.”
“Why did you try to file a report? Why didn’t you just assume she just didn’t want dinner with you?”
“When I had a chance to think I realized she’s never missed an appointment in her life. She just doesn’t blow people off, even sisters who’re too emotional.”
“When was the last time you two spoke?”
“Like I said, nearly a month ago.” She swiped tears with the back of her hand. “We communicated about dinner via text.”
“What did you do after she didn’t show for dinner?”
“I called her cell. No answer. Then I called her office. They said she was taking a day off. That didn’t sound like Diane. I’ve seen her work through a raging case of the flu and another time after hip replacement surgery. Vacation days are spent working on her house. She never rests. And if she did take a day off, she’d have told me.”
Would he know if something had happened to Alex? Rick could fix just about anything but he’d been unable to push past his own anger to fix his broken relationship with his younger brother. “So you sensed trouble.”
“I went to her house. No lights. No sign of her. This isn’t Diane. We’ve our differences but I know trouble, so I went to the cops. And like I said, they weren’t convinced she was missing.” She rubbed her eyes. “Shit. To think she might’ve needed my help and I couldn’t do anything.”
Family, friends, or acquaintances committed most murders. A year ago, he’d been mad enough to strike out hard against Alex. He would’ve regretted the act later but in that hot moment his combination had been dialed. “She was last seen at her office on midday Saturday. The fire was set late Sunday night.”
Lorrie’s eyes widened as she considered the statement. “That’s a thirty-six-hour gap. What happened to her during that time?”
“We don’t know. Her ATM card wasn’t used, nor were her credit cards. Somewhere between her office and her home, she went off the grid.”
She sobbed. “You mean she was taken to a house that burned to the ground.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Fresh tears filled her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. “Who would do this to her? It doesn’t make sense.”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”
The recording tape played on a small computer screen, glowing bright in the darkened room. On screen, the woman, Diane, was tied to the bed, spread-eagle. She stared past the man holding the gun toward the camera and the one she knew really directed this dark scene.
Reason sat back, disgusted at the display. Such unnecessary damage. “That should satisfy you. That should fill your belly so you can take a long slumber.”
Madness growled. “I’m still hungry and restless for more.”
Trembling fingertips reached out to the computer monitor and circled the image of the woman’s terrified face. “That moment required months of planning.”
“Yes, and it paid off with a rush so delicious, didn’t it.” Madness had howled in satisfaction.
“We need to lie low for a while. Take a break. Let the cops move onto a new murder.”
Madness stared at the computer screen. In the next picture frame, pawn looked at master, waited for permission, and when it w
as finally given, shot the woman. And like the snap of fingers, the moment was over. The energy deflated from the room as if they’d burst a balloon.
Pop.
Gone.
Madness had shivered in the wake of the orgasmic rush. It closed its eyes and lay back, searching for satisfaction. “I’m still hungry. I need more.”
“That’s why we made the recording. So you could watch whenever you wanted. Be content with that.”
This little scene had stirred Madness’s cravings, much like bread stimulated the taste buds of a starving man. The taste was just enough to remind it of what it had been missing.
“It’s not enough. I want another taste.” Raising a frustrated gaze from the computer, Madness, no longer willing to be a silent partner, studied a Peg-Board with neatly arranged images of several women. The shots were candid. One woman was leaving a gym, another was waiting for a cab, and the third was in a bar.
Extending from each woman’s image was a red string and that string extended across the board to the images of different men.
Three women. Three men. The two sets were puppets in plays yet to be staged. The players in these productions had been chosen months ago. They had been the understudies in case the Diane performance had failed.
“I want to do it again.”
“No. I won’t allow it. Sister is already worried about us.”
Sister. Worried. Allow. Madness smiled. “Do you really think Sister or you can stop me?”
“We stopped you before.”
“It had suited me to be stopped. I saw the danger around us.”
“It’s around us again!”
“We’re older. More clever. We can get away with more.”
Madness zeroed in on the image of a woman with pale white skin and long, dark hair. It had been watching her for weeks and planned to wait several months before it put her into play. Usually, just the planning, the knowing a kill was within reach, was enough. But not now. The restless energy burned with a roaring vengeance.
“Sit back and study the board. Give the game time to settle. Give the cops time to forget about the last play. Let the drama die down.”
“No.”
Reason could feel control slipping away and Madness’s desires grew stronger. “Please, wait!”
Pulsing energy tapped inside their skull. “No, I want to play again. All the loose ends on this production have been handled, so why not set up another play?”
“Not now, please!”
“Shh. It will be all right. No one will catch us,” Madness whispered. “Just one more. One more. And I will return to the shadows and leave you alone.”
“You swear?”
“I swear.”
Chapter Five
Wednesday, August 16, 12:21 A.M.
The phone rang fifteen minutes after Rick closed his eyes. The hope of three or four hours of shut-eye dashed, he groaned, rolled on his side, and flipped open his phone. “Morgan.”
“This is Officer McDonald. We’ve a body in an alley off Fourth Street. An overdose.”
He lay back on the pillow and closed his eyes. “Why’re you calling me?”
“We found Diane Smith’s photo in his pants pocket. Written across the image was the word faithless.”
Rick sat up, energy surging through his body. “You’re sure it’s Diane Smith.”
“Saw her picture at the briefing before the shift.”
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stretched his neck from side to side. Skimming his hand over his short, dark hair, he rose. “I’ll be there in sixty minutes. Have you contacted Bishop?”
“Not yet.”
“I’ll do it.”
“Sure.”
He padded toward his bathroom, past a waking Tracker, and switched on the shower. He called Bishop and relayed the information. As Bishop asked Rick to repeat details, a woman’s voice sounded in the background. The voice sounded pouty, tired. “I’ll be there in forty-five minutes.”
“Right.”
As coffee brewed, he took a quick shower and within fifteen minutes he and Tracker were headed toward Nashville. This time of night, there was no traffic so the drive was quick. When they arrived at the alley, two squad cars blocked either end, their blue lights flashing against the building’s brick walls.
Spotting Bishop by the yellow crime-scene tape, he got out of his car, stifled a groan, and moved toward the body. The smell of death was heavy and putrid. Whoever they’d found had been here a while.
Bishop glanced up at him, nodded, and reached in his pocket for a set of black rubber gloves. Both officers donned gloves and, with the forensic tech’s approval, ducked under the tape and moved toward a dumpster. Behind the green, dented trash bin was the body, now covered with a yellow tarp.
Rick squatted, grateful his hip cooperated, and pulled back the cover. Lying facedown on the damp asphalt was a man who appeared to be in his late thirties. He had long, dark hair, a thick, muscled body, and wore tattered jeans and a black shirt. Tattoos of skulls and twisting vines snaked up each bloated arm under his shirt to his neck. Rick turned the man’s arm over and counted five needle marks. He lifted the dead man’s curled fingers. The skin had receded making the dirt-encrusted nails appear long. The skin on his face and neck were a dark blue. When the heart stopped pumping, gravity took over and drew the blood to the lowest points in the body. Called lividity, it suggesting he’d died facedown. “Where’s the photo?”
Bishop handed him a picture now sealed in a plastic bag. “Found in his right back jeans pocket.”
Rick studied the image of Diane Smith. It was a candid shot of Diane sitting in a café. The wind was blowing through her long hair and she glanced up with a wide grin that made her eyes sparkle. Scrawled in blood-red ink across the pale skin of her face was the word FAITHLESS.
He reached in the dead man’s back right pocket and pulled out a thin, worn leather wallet embossed with a skull. Inside the wallet was an expired driver’s license featuring the dead man’s frowning face. Pale and droopy-eyed, he looked half dead in the image. “His name was Jonas Tuttle, age thirty-four.”
“I’ll run the name in my computer.” Bishop raised the back of his hand to his nose. “Jesus, I can’t believe no one smelled him.”
Rick handed him the license. As Bishop returned to check the name, Rick searched more pockets. In the other back pocket he found a smashed pack of cigarettes, a handful of candy swiped from a restaurant, and a pay stub from a grocery store.
He plugged the name of the store into his phone and came up with an address that was not far from Diane’s home. A connection. Tuttle didn’t look like the kind of guy a woman like Diane would have given a second glance, but he would have noticed her. If the grocery was close to her house, she could have passed through his line, never really looking up at his face or past his clerk’s smock. He would have been invisible to her.
Bishop returned with pen in hand and his notebook open to a fresh page. “I’ve an address for Jonas Tuttle.” He rattled off the address of a motel that rented on a daily and weekly basis. When Rick had worn a uniform he’d worked a prostitution sting. While a female officer had lured johns into a room rented by the cops, he and two other officers had hid in the bathroom waiting to make an arrest.
“Let’s go have a look at his room.”
After a quick drive, they pulled up at the motel, got a key from the clerk, and opened Tuttle’s room. The heavy scent of cigarettes and mold assailed them the instant they opened the door.
“This place has always reeked.” Bishop pulled rubber gloves from his pocket and put them on.
“We’ve all run a sting at this motel at one point.” He donned gloves.
Bishop shook his head as he flipped on the light. “Good times.”
The thin, reedy overhead light cast a pale gray glow over a bed of rumpled stained sheets and a dark comforter. Empty pizza boxes and beer cans littered the floor next to a pile of soiled laundry.
Rick
moved toward the bathroom and paused to open the folding doors of a closet. The instant he glanced inside he froze. The walls of the closet were papered with pictures of Diane. Diane at the grocery store. At work. Coming from the gym. Laughing with girlfriends in a café. “Have a look.”
Bishop turned from a dresser drawer and crossed to the closet. He shook his head. “Well, if that isn’t an open-and-shut case.”
Good fortune rarely was so generous. “I don’t usually get so lucky.”
Bishop rolled his head from side to side as if working out the tightness brought on by fatigue. “I suppose it happens once every so often.”
Rick studied the images so carefully cut into neat squares and so carefully glued to the wall. All the images were straight. “Guy’s a pig and he takes the time to create a neat collage of Diane?”
“This little space gave him a sense of control over Diane. He knew so much about her and she knew nothing about him. Control like that must’ve given him one hell of a thrill.”
“Judging by the images, he’s been taking pictures of her for months. Planning to kill her all along?”
Rick studied the images, which seemed to be arranged seasonally. On the far left, backgrounds featured snow and barren trees; then came trees with green buds, and then full leaves. “He started taking pictures in the winter and he’s followed her all the way through spring and half of summer. The winter pictures are distant. He didn’t have the nerve to get too close. It’s almost as if he was afraid to take the first pictures.”
Bishop nodded. “But he got progressively closer and closer. By spring he’s within feet of her.”
Rick moved to the dresser drawers and dug through them until he found several very small cameras. He held them up. “You don’t find these at the local store.”
Bishop took one of the small cameras in his hands. “They’re also expensive.”
“Say he crosses paths with Diane at the grocery store where he worked. She passed through his line. Or smiled or glanced his way while he was unloading a truck or ringing a register. He decided she’s really into him. He starts paying more and more attention to her when she comes into the store. Can’t stop thinking about her. He begins stalking. Realizes he doesn’t have the means to get a woman like her, and he gets angry over his lack of control.”